Madeline in the Mirror

Today. While Jerking Off.

2009-07-03T21:21:00.002-05:00

It's one of the most common questions asked of me: What do you think of when you're masturbating?

Generally, the answer is "Nothing."

I don't fantasize about a particular person or persons, boyfriend or celebrity. Mostly I focus on myself. It may seem narcissistic, but I prefer to think of it as practical: The more I can relax and hone in on my orgasm, the better/stronger/more raucous it will be. That's why today's wank session was so unusual.

For some reason, which may never become clear to me, in the middle of my bed, silver bullet on my clit and Orchid G on my G-spot, this thought became lodged in my brain:

I wonder if Ma and Pa Ingalls ever decided to slick things up a bit and bring the crock of lard into the bedroom.

I am not proud of this revelation, but at least now you're thinking about Charles pumping his rod into Caroline's ass under that huge nightgown, too.

I love you!

*ducks*

Fist Me Baby, One More Time.

2009-01-26T16:18:00.006-05:00

That's me the other night while Jeff was fisting me. I mean, okay, that's not really me; I'm a white girl and I have bigger tits, but that's exactly the way I react when four, then five fingers and then a fist are inserted into my girlhole: Back arched, hips pushed up, knees spread to take as much as I can.

First time. For him, not me.

He seemed a little shocked that his entire hand was inside me and then I rubbed my clit and came and it was crazygood, and when it got too much I whispered, "Baby, have you ever taken your fist out of a girl?"

He shook his head.

"Do it really, really slowly."

Roundups & Reflections

2009-01-02T16:44:00.003-05:00

This week's Friday Sex Blog Roundup features some hot bloggers reminiscing about the past. Which got me thinking about The Year of yOur Lord, 2008.

I'm not normally a Best Of... kind of girl, but occasionally, especially since I'm so self-actualized (Thanks, therapy!), I wax nostalgic. Things you can learn from your past, and all that.

So.

You know the feeling you get when you can't remember when you spoke with someone last, and you're kind of okay with it? And you realize that, well, maybe you don't miss them quite as much as you always thought you might?

I've had a few of those this year.

It's sort of like the relationship that ended even though--or maybe because--you needed the other person like oxygen--like air. The aching and longing, the torturous suffering and heart-rending seems to last forever until you realize, one day, that you haven't thought about him at all. And you feel a little stronger for it.

The latter is pretty self-affirming. It's a Gloria Gaynor kind of feeling. A dance-around-the-house-pumping-fists kind of feeling. An I don't need you, check my shit out, I Am Sasha Fierce, Bitch kind of feeling. The former just leaves you hollow and sad, wishing you cared more than you do, and sort of ambivalent about picking up the phone because, hey, you've made it this many days/weeks/months without involving yourselves in each others lives, and things are mostly fine.

And dealing just takes so much effort.

You live your life, because that's what people do. And eventually, when a boy holds back telling you that he loves you--and you actually want him to say it, and would probably return the sentiment even though it freaks your shit out--you understand that the person you thought you needed like air would have likely suffocated you in the end.

I wish you all a Happy New Year. May all your wishes become horses. Do the work if you wanna ride.

Speaking of Pussy...

2008-12-12T12:05:00.003-05:00

Last night I went to an office holiday party with a friend. It's a small office, a personal training facility, actually, and the party was at this bar I'd never been to.

Cool. So I take off my coat, get introduced to the "big boss" (who's like, 23 years old), shake his hand and compliment him on his choice of venue.

"I've actually never been here before, so this is great," I said, in a friendly, outgoing way.

His response: "Yeah, it's usually a much younger crowd in here, so that's not surprising."

Um.

What?

The dude totally insulted me and the best bit was, he didn't even know it.

He was nicer to me later, when I was talking to his septuagenarian employee, Dick. Dick, who stood well over six feet. Dick, with his boiled wool striped Santa Fe vest. Dick, whose lank body leaned in toward mine while we talked, his kind eyes shining like a boy's. Dick, who was pretty taken with me, and with whom, truth be told, I was pretty taken.

It's nice being appreciated for your wits and your tits.

Boss Boy came up to Dick and me and tried to get in on our conversation, but his remarks were flat. Dumb. Inexperienced. Green, and not in the Ed Begley, Jr. way.

When I encounter boys like Boss Boy, I'm always relieved that I don't have to teach them about how to treat a girl. His stupid remark might have taken me by surprise, but it offered me an insight into his insensitivity and self-centeredness: He probably has no idea where to find a G-spot, and he probably has never made his girlfriend come by licking her pussy.

Speaking of pussy, here's my latest Sex Blog Roundup, courtesy of Fleshbot.

If.

2008-11-10T16:14:00.000-05:00

A couple weeks ago I had a phone conversation with Aaron, my Californian Friend-in-Fornication (That's so much nicer than Fuckbuddy, don't you think?). He'd told me about a girl he was seeing, and I asked about their date the night before. He told me all about her: she's smart, funny, enthusiastic with the blowjobs and a tad clingy. I understood immediately. I know that type.

I also know this: I can't tell Aaron about anyone I'm seeing, or he'll get jealous. We both know this, and I've gotten accustomed to not bringing up sex I've had with other people. It's not like I see him more than a couple times a year anyway, so why bother with/worry about all that? We've known each other forever. I've had sex with him now for more years than I was married, but I can count the number of movies we've seen together on two fingers. Our relationship pretty much defines the "It's Complicated" status on Facebook.

But I started to wonder, what would happen to that relationship if he got serious and exclusive with someone? What would happen if I did? It seems wrong that we would just not ever see each other again.

So I, in a premenstrual funk and against my better judgment, started that conversation.

In the midst of my mediating arguments between kids, taking special requests for dinner, and removing a splinter from the foot of an eight-year-old, I asked what might happen if we found ourselves in that solution.

And somewhat to my surprise, he came up with a great solution: If either of us decides to be monogamous, we'll have a last fling in Vegas.

Nice, right?

He said this: He doesn't see himself becoming exclusive with anyone, any time soon (me, neither, except I find myself thinking about that more and more); he thinks I'm hilarious and fucking smart and we have incredible sexual chemistry.

I don't see a future with him, seriously, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of just tossing him aside like yesterday's crossword.

I am not comfortable tossing people aside.

Which is why, last week, I got a little freaked out when my friend (with whom I have not had sex) Luke put his arms around me and said, "I like you a lot."

And I like him. But I don't think I like him "a lot." So now what?

There are people I like a lot, but here I go, getting emotional and forgetting to live in the moment. Thinking about what ifs.

I like my life just fine, at present, but I think I could enjoy it a whole lot more.

And, you know, I've never been to Vegas.

Best. Trailers. Ever.

2008-09-07T22:32:00.003-05:00

Got a case of the Mondays? Bet I can turn that frown upside down!

Seriously. I think I've been clear on my stance that certain porn has the power to cheer even the dreariest of days (and it certainly is dreary out there today; hey, Hurricane Ike, what's up?)

I've seen a lot of Internet porn--low to highbrow--and I have to say that the trailers on FuckingMachines.com are probably my favorite appetite-whetting (I said whetting) tidbits ever.

In fact, I own several video shoots that I keep on my external hard drive for, you know, days like this.

Nothing says Happy Monday like white cotton and a Sybian. Enjoy!

Wednesday Wank: The Flex A Pleasure

2008-09-03T19:35:00.000-05:00

My, oh, my.

When I saw the Flex A Pleasure, I thought, "Well, this should be interesting."

I was right.

Given my love for bullet vibes and simultaneous G-Spot + clit stimulation, it seemed a perfect match. The Flex A Pleasure, made by that renowned institution of sex toy manufacturers, Doc Johnson, is basically two bullet vibes connected by a small, flexible piece of plastic tubing. Each bullet obviously has its own motor, but the pair are controlled by a single dial.

See? Simple.

Did I mention it's waterproof? Um, it's waterproof.

Now, I don't really NEED another bullet vibrator, but I'd like to find ONE that actually fits my particular shape. I've yet to find a rabbit (or beaver or dolphin) vibe that lines up with my parts, and that's what impressed me about the Flex A Pleasure: The customization factor.

I whipped out the Flex A when Kelly and I met for an afternoon rendezvous last week. He looked suitably impressed and not at all threatened, as sometimes happens with those huge vibrators that tend to make men feel smallish. Nope, he whistled, flashed me a grin and took hold of the connecting tube.

I'm more of a sensation gal than a size queen, so the fact that there was no discernible shaft wasn't an issue; if you like to be filled and stretched by your vibes, this is probably not for you. But here's what got me: Kelly was holding it inside me, pushed up against my g-spot, and I took the other end and bent it up to my clit.

Yeah, it was like Tag-Team Coming.

THEN, we discovered the most impressive (in my opinion, natch) use of the Flex A Pleasure: Kelly pulled it out of me and fucked me while I held the other end on my clit...from seven inches away. Think about it: when you're banging and you need a little extra bump, you reach for your little bullet vibe, right? Except that you've got to hold your hand and wrist there--in the space where your sweetie is slamming into you--or else you don't get off. That can get a little tricky, especially when you try to reposition your legs.

So, by holding the Flex A Pleasure by one bullet and straightening the connector, you can stimulate your clit with the other and not have any impediments to good old-fashioned banging.

Overall, I give the Flex A Pleasure three out of five stars, purely for personal, subjective reasons: 1. It uses a size N battery. Who has those on hand when stuff runs down? 2. It's made of plastic and jelly. It's a very thin coating of jelly, which makes me wonder why it's there in the first place, and my uber-sensitive nose could smell it. Unforch.

I love that it's waterproof, though, and the control knob is studded with little rubber grips so you don't lose control completely mid-wank. That's a nice touch. Also, it's pretty powerful, and comes in pretty colors, too. Naturally, mine is pink.

Maybe better suited to me would be the Slimline G Twin; it's made of hard plastic, with no smelly jelly.

I think I will still use the Flex A Pleasure, though, because I totally want to use it as a butt toy, and tossing a condom on the plastic bullet and warming up pre-buttseks sounds like a hole lotta fun.

Order at VibeReview through November 4 and save 10% with this coupon!

Wednesday Wank: The Screaming Octopus

2008-08-27T21:29:00.002-05:00

You know, I'm not much for the whole tentacle sex thing.

I mean, I dig that there are folks who get off on having their orifices penetrated by real or simulated cephalopods, I'm just not one of them.

The Screaming Octopus from VibeReview might have changed my mind about the use of invertebrates as pervertables. I mean, look at it! It's so cute! And who can resist a toy with that name? Not me, and that's why I tried it out last week with Kelly.

The idea is simple enough: a smallish bullet that runs on two watch batteries and is covered in a soft rubber octopus body, complete with eight splaying arms. Press the button on top et voila--a superfast buzz that sounds a bit like a mosquito. The shape of the octopus is perfect for surrounding a nipple, which is what I ended up doing a lot with Kelly while he was jerking off for me.

Another "I'm so glad someone thought of this" feature is the handy strap up top (Not pictured, but it's there), which allows the user to control where the vibe goes, without touching the motor with his or her fingers, thus keeping the vibrations strong and right where they should be. I dragged that thing across Kelly's nipples, balls and perineum, and he called it "nice." This is high praise, since when he totally wants to jump my bones he says he "wouldn't mind" fucking.

The Screaming Octopus is, as you might expect, waterproof. (Thank goodness, or its little arms would get all shriveled having to stay dry all the time!) Naturally, I took it for a leisurely swim dans le bain later that night.

Me likey.

The Screaming Octopus has, I think, found a home in my shower; to be produced at regular intervals when making out or making looove. The soft rubber is easy to clean, and the hummingbird-fast vibrations are a nice change from deeper, more intense frequencies you'll find in larger products. This is not an "if you must buy only one vibrator, buy this one" toy; the vibrations are, in my opinion, less than ideal for pure wankage, you can't put it inside your body, and it's only got one speed.

But as an accessory? As a nipple/clit/bum stimulator? It's sweet and lovely and I totally want to give one to all my girlfriends.

Order at VibeReview through November 4 and save 10% with this coupon!

What Men Do

2008-08-23T07:37:00.004-05:00

Some men break your heart without even knowing it.

This week's Sex Blog Roundup over at Fleshbot is dedicated to boy bloggers. These gents have the whole "get her wet with words" thing down pat, and I, for one, am saddened that one of my favorite male bloggers is bidding us "Adieu." Easily Aroused, I'mma miss you, baby.

Speaking of babies, I was babbling like one the other day, during a marathon lunchtime fuck. Not talking, really, but the occasional AhGodddddd did pour forth from my throat, possibly reaching the ears of my neighbor who likes to sit on his porch not far from my bedroom and smoke cigarettes.

Tell you what, I felt like joining him after Kelly left, but I had things to do.

Seems unfair that work should follow two hours of naked abandon, but I managed to breeze through the rest of the day. And everywhere I went that afternoon seemed clear and bright through my freshly fucked eyes.
----------------
Now playing: Cat Stevens - The First Cut Is The Deepest
via FoxyTunes
(If it's got a tambourine and is melancholic I will love it. Thanks a whole fucking lot, Yusuf.)

Wednesday Wank: The VibeReview Silver Bullet

2008-08-20T11:33:00.005-05:00

When I’m stressed out, when I don’t want to work too hard, or when straight-up banging with a partner just isn’t quite getting me there, there’s one toy I’ve been reaching for consistently for years: The Silver Bullet.

I’ve gone through several incarnations, from double bullets to cyberskin-coated flicky bullets, to bullets whose controllers glowed in the dark, but one fact has remained: The bullet is one of the least expensive, most sure-fire masturbatory aids I’ve ever had the pleasure of convulsing around.

The design is simple; straightforward. There are no variable pulsation patterns or glowy switches, just a simple bullet connected to a slim plastic controller with an easy-to-work-even-if-you’re-having-issues-focusing heart-shaped slider. The best feature of the Silver Bullet, in my opinion, is the fully adjustable speed. I like not being stuck with one or the other, and the easy, one-handed operation means no fuss when I need a little less buzz.

Use it on its own for a leisurely, cliterrific roll in bed, or pair it with an insertable dong or vibe for fully adjustable, mind-blowing stimulation likely to result in a well-deserved nap.

In my other role as a sex advisor for all my friends and countless others on the innerwebs, I recommend this toy over and again. There are no worries about parts lining up, as some of us have experienced with rabbit-type vibes, and you can use it on girls and boys alike. Technically, you’re not supposed to put it up your butt, but I’ve been known to throw a condom on one and stick it into a boy while I’m blowing him. Two tips: Keep a hold on the condom, and never pull it out by the cord. You don’t want to expose the copper wire that runs into the motor end of the bullet.

At least, um, that’s what I’ve heard. Zing!

Also, since it is so reliable and simple and easy to keep inside a pillowcase, I tend to use this toy for long periods of wanking and I’ve found that I need to switch the bullet from left to right and back to avoid the dreaded Clawhand. You know what I’m talking about.

The Silver Bullet is a pretty universal accoutrement, and as such will get you virtually NO stares (let alone bag searches) at airport security. Just remember to turn the batteries around, or your carry-on might give the dude sitting in front of you the Best. Plane. Ride. Ever.

Say Nice Things About Me When I'm Gone

2008-08-19T22:47:00.002-05:00

If you don't believe in karma--if the notion that you'll get what you need if you're open to receiving it makes you roll your eyes--don't read this.

I have had a startlingly unpleasant week, and without going into details (sorry, internets), suffice it to say that the world wasn't looking so rosy to my pale blue eyes.

Then, today I found two (TWO!) really nice things written about me on Amazon, of all places. The first is by Maui Dude, who reviewed Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica and writes:

My favorite lead paragraph was provided by Madeline Glass in "Laser Tag":

"The first time he spanked me, I thought he was a pervert. The second time he did it, I wondered if I was. By the third time, I was certain that we both were."

Readers of this book might undergo a similar progression:

"After the first story, I thought Rachel was a pervert. Reading the second story, I wondered if I was. By the third story, I was certain that we both were."

Aw, thanks, Maui Dude!

This next one was just a totally random Googling of my name, which I don't do that often and, truth be told, but this time I was pleasantly surprised with, not idle gossip, but with praise for a grammar-Nazi post I wrote last year. HankMoody waxes about the use of superfluous and mutilated language:

While we're at it, I'm thinking we can also dispense with "anyway" and my particular pet peeve, the perverse "anyways."

My favorite blogger Madeline Glass had a great entry about this called "Heads Up, Folks: Politika Grammatika" and you can read about it here.

I love Madeline Glass!
Sources: Madeline Glass and my brain

Now, see? That was so nice! Random? Maybe. Effective? Very.

No more feeling blue for me. Two people who don't know me are (Gasp! Shock!) not concerned with my private life. I think they kind of maybe think I'm smart. And they favorited me. That's really nice.

So, thanks, gents. Even though one of you wrote what you did six months ago, I just found it, and it made me smile.

Beautiful. Agony.

2008-08-18T11:37:00.003-05:00

play windows media

play quicktime

beautifulagony.com

Words

2008-08-15T20:50:00.004-05:00

This week at Fleshbot looks at the words we use when we’re naked. Raw, amorous and filthy language somehow becomes more meaningful when we’re naked and getting dirty. I don’t mean to say that I’m such a nasty talking girl, because I’m not. Frankly, I feel a little silly when someone wants me to talk dirty and say things like, “yeah, baby, fuck me with your big thick rod.”

I mean, I just can’t. As much as I talk in regular life--and it’s a lot--during sex I’m not a big conversationalist.

But what I do say—what I am during sex—is honest.

Whether it’s telling someone how I really feel about them, or hissing, “If you keep doing that, I’m going to come,” or saying everything with only the expression on my face, communication just seems deeper and more significant when there’s fucking attached.

The other day, Kelly was lying on his stomach across my bed. I was kneeling next to him and massaging his lower back and then, because they were there, his asscheeks. Kelly’s ass is smooth and firm (Thanks, swimming!) and as I was kneading his glutes my fingers accidentally slipped down toward his balls and stroked the soft, downy blond hair there.

I couldn’t help it. I said it. “Baby, I love the hair on your butt.”

“Aw, stop making fun...”

“No, I mean, technically it’s the hair at the top of your inner thighs; is that better?” I raked my fingers lightly across it, right where his balls hang.

Then, to prove I was serious, I kissed it. Then I licked it. Then he flipped me onto my back and pinned me down and I don’t think he cared about semantics anymore.

But I do. I love that boy's downysoft butt hair.

Wednesday Wank: The Iris Pleasure Object by Lelo

2008-08-13T16:09:00.002-05:00

Let me start by saying that I’m a pretty no-nonsense girl when it comes to jacking off: Fancy features like Internet connectivity on sex toys basically serve to annoy and frustrate me. I want to know that the object I choose is going to be simple enough to use, yet stand up to a) rigorous use and b) my elitist snobbery regarding things I put into my vagina.

For years my favorite G-Spot vibe was my trusty Celebrity/Slimline/Orchid G. It’s a ball on a stick, folks, nothing fancy, and yet very consistent in producing some very intense orgasms. So imagine my chagrin when, not only would I burn through vibrator motors every two months or so, batteries were constantly being changed and I started to think of ways to be able to afford my wanking habit. Should I brown bag it? Keep the thermostat at 78 degrees in the summer?

Well, I already do those things, so a rechargeable G-Spot vibe seemed the next most economical solution. So I went to Vibreview.com and ordered the Iris vibe by Lelo.

The Iris is, firstly, an attractive vibrator. It looks like a flower coming into bud, and has a lovely curved body, which puts the business tip of the shaft right in contact with my G-Spot tissue. I liked that I didn’t have to fiddle with the placement much: The Iris just slides into my body and stays right where I need it. My version is pale blue and white, and when I charged it for the first time, I left it out on my dresser because it looked so pretty.

It wins points on the snobbery side as well. Iris is non-porous hard plastic, and its insertable shaft is covered by silicone material. No smelly jelly or sticky cyberskin. Smooth, substantial and ergonomic, this is a beautiful piece of machinery. Art meets engineering. Porn meets innovation. Madeline meets Iris. How do you do?

Iris has variable speeds, which I like, since often I like to slow down when I’m about to come, and sometimes the jump from HIGH to LOW leaves me frustrated and confused. There’s an intuitive toggle button in the plastic handle portion of the vibe that adjusts the speed and controls the vibration patterns. It took a little getting used to, but a few minutes into my wank I had it down pat. My favorite pattern for clitoral stimulation is the constant buzz, at varying speeds. Once I inserted it, though, I definitely liked the short bursts vibration pattern, which my sexy assistant Kelly dubbed “Spin Cycle.”

Another feature I love is the dual motors on the Iris. One is up at the tip (makes sense), and the second is right at labia level when the toy is inserted. Finally, I can have labial stimulation without having to use a second or third toy because, frankly, I was running out of hands.

The only issue I had—and it’s a very small issue—is that the little silicone tab on the handle that covers the charging port kept popping up while I was wanking. I’m sure the chance of juices or lube running into the port and frying the inner works is slim; still, I’d prefer if the tab were more secure.

Iris is considered a “high end” toy, being a little on the spendy side. But look: I’ve spent $90.00 on six G-spotters in the past year, none of which lasted longer than two months and all of which required massive quantities of alkaline batteries, putting my annual investment in my G-Spot over $120.00. Put in those terms, if you're wanting reliable orgasms, this vibrator just makes good financial sense.

The Iris made me come, and it did it well. Not too quickly (it could; I’m just not into that), easily and with enough variability that I think I’ll have a lot of fun cracking new combinations with it.

And I’ll never resort to stealing batteries from my kids’ walkie-talkies again.

Power Couple (Sex and Submission)

2008-08-11T08:15:00.005-05:00

For when you're feeling blah and you need a little cheering up, I present to you: Sex and Submission.

I love how she's the one collared and tied up, and he can't help being sorta mesmerized by her. And yeah, he's going to flog her, or maybe he just did, but clearly she's wielding her own power and, um, influence.

Also, I sort of have a thing for bald guys. Bald guys who could pick me up with one arm and toss me around if they wanted.

Mark Davis and Annette Schwarz

Her ponytail and high collar remind me of that video for the Tubes' She's a Beauty. Ahem.

But let's say you like the rougher stuff. Get Kink on Demand and download footage from actual Sex and Submission shoots, ball gags, butt hooks, spreader bars and all.

I'm feeling better already.

Want.

2008-08-06T06:52:00.002-05:00

Oh, if I had these, I would be such a happy girl.

I was never one to splurge on lingerie. I needed to wrangle the girls and guard against inadvertent exposure of my business should a brisk wind pick up my skirt, but in my twenties, those were the extent of my thoughts on intimates. Bras and panties were necessary evils which were just going to be tossed off in seconds by my boyfriends, I reasoned. I bought nylon stockings and stocked up on satin and lycra and polyester blend bras and panties from department stores or the Victoria's Secret Summer Sale.

But this was the late 80's and I was turned off by silk, big time. Silk blouses with big bows at the neck and puffy sleeves and tightly buttoned wristbands. Worn under jackets as part of a corporate Cagney & Lacey-cum-LA Law ensemble. Worn by my grandmother at Junior League functions. Silk blouses gave me nightmares.

Then, about five years ago, I kind of fell in love with my body again: My tits are still a boingy 34D (Shocking, considering they've fed two babies), and the rest of me is generally a pleasing sight. I was gifted with my first pair of silk stockings. And I loved them.

I started appreciating silk for its understated allure, its rich--not garish--luster, its, well, silkiness. So, I reasoned to myself, If I'm going to be something other than naked, I would prefer to wear something a) pretty and b) soft and which makes me feel c) beautiful.

Something like this:

Ç'est si sexy, non?

I'm not sure how it'll happen, but I am surrendering this post to the universe, in the hopes that this ensemble becomes my own. I get all flustered just looking at it.

I can't think of many things hotter than sliding around atop a naked Kelly wearing this set, and then using the bra ties for, um, other things. Now that would be a good story.

Skin

2008-08-04T15:00:00.001-05:00

Sometimes when I'm bored or grumpy (usually both), I like to turn the teevee on and laugh at porn titles. This is well-documented in my Twitter feed. Recent favorites include "Filthy Hitchhikin' Sluts," "Who's That Slut? (5)" and "I'm a Cheerleader, So Bang Me!"

You should try it; it really works to lift the blues away!

Something else you should try is searching for videos on SkinVideo.com. This morning I was feeling very warm and gooey and making out sounded like a lot of fun. So I went to the website, which I really like, because it's so organized and typed "kiss" in the search box.

Whoa.

Aside from the titles of the clips, which are great, SkinVideo's content is (awesomely) downloadable to your computer, iPod or PSP. It's Porno to Go!

Give it a shot: Their prices are damn low, there's tons of content in lots of categories--from Homemade to Unusual Insertions--and best of all, no flashy pop-ups.

Search 2,000,000+ Videos!

Little Miss Creamypants Wears Cotton for Jesus

2008-08-01T19:43:00.003-05:00

You know those t-shirts that are so thin you can see through them?

I have one that’s heather grey. It’s been washed so many times that my freckles show through its fabric. It’s also super-stretchy and it makes my boobs look particularly bouncy when I wear it braless.

Which is how I was on Monday afternoon when Kelly was above me on the bed, rubbing his cock against my white cotton panties and kissing my mouth and neck.

There’s this desperateness when Kelly and I fuck, like we’ve been apart for months and we don’t know when we’ll see each other again. Every time. He is instantly hard, I want to suck his dick for hours and we consistently manage to go from blowjob to sex to other activities involving toys or my ass or c) all of the above—while his cock remains erect. For at least two orgasms. His, not mine. I get more, because I’m drawn that way. He grabs my ass, I grab the back of his neck and it’s always impressive, usually resulting in us congratulating ourselves on an amazing fuck.

I adore fucking Kelly.

And when he was rubbing my clit through my panties with his cock, he looked down at me and pinched a nipple through my t-shirt. Then he licked it and sucked it and bit it and I yelped. He said, “Is this okay?” in this fakey, worried sort of tone that he uses when we’re doing it. So I play along.

“It feels so good…but I’ve never done this before…but we should stop…I made a Purity Pledge,” I barely say, before cracking up and tugging on his balls.

“As long as your panties stay on, baby, you won’t break your pledge,” he said, hips pushing his cock directly over my clit. I swear, it was the hottest thing ever. As soon as he said it, I could smell my scent between us, the tangycreamysaltiness of it and the cotton went wet and immediately cold in the air conditioning.

So of course, I came in my panties. Creamed myself. Soaked to his boner.

Kelly reached down and pulled the elastic aside and slid his dick partway into me.

“It’s okay, your panties are still on,”

“Shut the fuck up,” I said, and grabbed his ass and pulled him completely inside.

After we'd showered and I was getting dressed, I picked up the panties that had been flung at some point across the room, dashing any remaining shreds of virginal purity I might have had. They were still damp. And cold. I held them to my face and inhaled.

I think I never want to wash them.

Bisou (I Shot Myself)

2008-07-11T08:19:00.004-05:00

First, let me say that the line between "porn" and "art" for me is pretty fuzzy. I mean, if "porn" is designed to titillate, and "art" to inspire, what is a girl supposed to do when Guernica makes her all warm and tingly--I mean, inspired and titillated down there? Can't it be both? For that matter, why does it have to "be" anything?

Frankly, I make few distinctions in the realm of the visual when it comes to images like this:

Aw, look at that. The contrast between light and shadow. The fine detail of wispy tummy hairs. That's some sweet brush work, Bisou.

My Ass

2008-06-24T06:50:00.003-05:00

. . . is over at Rachel Kramer Bussel's Spanked site, which is a lovely little place where she's promoting her new anthology Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica, out this summer from Cleis Press. She's also got spanking links and information for aficionados and newbies alike.

Why is my ass there?

Because I wrote a story for the anthology, duh!

Also because Lolita Wolf does such a good job of spanking (and tying), and I really felt this photo should be circulated again:

Unfortunately, the Spanked site is syndicated on Amazon, and this photo's a little much over there.

But over here, I think it's juuust right.

Add Spanked to your feeds; there'll be more photos, excerpts and interviews with contributors to the antho.

Thanks, bye!

Hah!

2008-06-04T06:47:00.001-05:00

Product Review: Babeland Massage Candle

2008-04-21T16:25:00.000-05:00

I lit the candle as a joke, actually.

If you know me, you know how much I like the hot wax play (none as much as the extreme and awesome time I had with Lolita on my birthday back in February). I like the feeling of being captive by my wax wielder, prevented from escaping the drips and splats and raining ooze of melted wax. How it runs down my sides, into the hollow of my throat, and liquidly pours itself into the folds of my labia. The way it feels when layer upon layer of wax piles up, holding my body's heat, keeping me still. I like the feeling of peeling the hardened wax from my body once it's over; the way the cool air feels light and feathery on my skin, which feels like it's just been born.

The thing about soy wax is that it melts at a lower temperature than paraffin, making the ladles of wax from Lolita's fondue pot and paraffin candles much hotter and more likely to burn if she hadn't known what she was doing. Soy wax can be poured/dripped/drizzled with much less concern (making the wax play, in my mind, far less fun and interesting), and can be massaged into the skin, making it nice for sensual massages, if you're into that sort of thing.

So, when a recent package from Babeland was revealed to contain a small square box holding a Mojito Peppermint soy wax candle and a tiny box of +/- matches, the most I could muster was, "Aw, that's so cute." I knew immediately that this was the perfect gift for Kelly, who'd seen photos of my birthday waxing, and while intrigued by the whole thing, he was not quite ready to break out the pots and ladles.

I lit the candle while waiting for him to come over. It had a nice, fresh, pepperminty smell. It smelled like Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Castile Soap, I thought, and so I liked it. I use that soap for everything, including showers in the summertime. It is interesting to me now, how I failed to consider that the tingly nature of that peppermint soap might also translate to this innocuous looking candle. I suppose I assumed that the fragrance was just fragrance, not essential oil of peppermint. Ahem, but I get ahead of myself.

When Kelly got here I sort of jumped him immediately, leaving the candle to burn for about 40 minutes while we fucked. When he asked if I'd like him to massage my back I practically fell off the bed to get to the candle. I blew out the flame, showed him how high up to hold the cup, and turned onto my belly so he could straddle my legs and drizzle the soy wax along the length of my spine.

It did feel great–the oil already warm and his hands gliding up my back–but when Kelly massages my back things turn pretty fucky pretty quickly. He moved up and rubbed the length of his hardened cock from the top of my asscrack to the small of my back and down again.

I sighed–not only was it physically awesome, but the whole room smelled really good.

I think we felt it at the same time, because we both said, "Uh..." then "Whuh?" then "Ahjeez!" He jumped off me and hopped from leg to leg next to the bed. My entire back and his cock and balls were lit UP with minty flaming action so intense I grabbed a bottle of lotion to spread over the areas, thinking in terms of a salsa analogy: water intensifies the burn, and I didn't have any bread.

Once things had calmed down and we were showered and dressing, Kelly began to laugh at the lingering tingle in his shorts.

"I'm sorry!" I said, "I never used this before!"

"I just think it's great that usually, I'm the inexperienced one and here you are, all skilled in wax and this is what happens."

I am glad to be the butt of jokes about this for a very long time, if he'll be as open to new things as ever.

On the whole, I like the massage candle's design: the glass votive holder has a flared lip so wax pours easily, it's not too large for a smaller hand to manage, and if the Mojito Peppermint is any indication, the fragrances are going to blow you away: in addition to the one I tried, there are Chocolate Hazelnut, Mango Vanilla, Rice Flower and Jasmine Ginger. I'm thinking that chocolate may be the way to go next time. My (used once) candle is now sitting under the seat in my car and goodness, it smells nice in there.

My Naked Bits

2008-04-14T23:15:00.001-05:00

...are on NakedCity.com.

It's a daily post, like a Twitter feed of sorts, but a collected digest, and it's all sex-related things I'm not posting on my actual Twitter. This is good news for my real-life friends who probably don't appreciate my naked-life friends being thrust into their faces and onto their handhelds all the time.

Short little bursts of naughty themed goodness every day, that's what I'm talking about.

You can still follow me on Twitter here, but for a look at what goes through my head (and into my orifices) on any given day, check out Naked Bits on the Village Voice's Naked City blog, edited by Audacia Ray. It's smart, it's social and it's delicious.

Honeysuckle (I Shot Myself)

2008-03-27T08:25:00.000-05:00

Yesterday it was really nice here. I was at my friend's for coffee and we started talking about gardens, namely mine, which is a blank slate at the moment. Oh, and my friend is a Master Gardener. Like, no bullshit. So, she'll come over and help me lay out a plan for my flowers and plants and she'll even give me some of hers.

When she took me to her basement to show me all the plants she had wintered over, a wide, shallow pot of succulents caught my eye. They were so lush and beautiful and I kind of wanted to squeeze into one until its juice started dripping out.

How many things in this photo make you want to do that?

More Pretty Things (Device Bondage)

2008-03-18T08:34:00.002-05:00

There are so many things that I like about the hi-resolution photos and mpegs at DeviceBondage.com. For one, I like the before and after photos of each model. I like the classy fetish wear (see toe boots below) that some of the girls wear, and I especially like that I never know whether a shoot is going to have me wincing and making my pukey face (hello, nostril hooks), or dreamily staring at the screen going, "My goodness, that looks pretty."

This is Ariel X. Say hi to Ariel.

Luck O' The Irish (I Shot Myself)

2008-03-17T06:38:00.000-05:00

Others may post flaming redheads today, but I like Curiosity here. I mean, really, could you pick a better Irish girl? How do you know she's Irish? Well, the shamrock necklace helps, but check out her pale naked self laying across a chilly stone countertop. Strong bunch, those Celts. Pretty, too.

Curiosity

Sex Toy Review: Hitachi Magic Wand/G-Whiz Attachment

2008-03-07T23:06:00.006-05:00

Last year I finally got a Hitachi Magic Wand. After years of covetous longing, of wishing for a surefire, ultra-fast ticket to orgasm, I was gifted with the Cadillac of vibrators. I have to say, though, I'm not its biggest fan. Apparently my clitoris needs a bit more concentrated attention, rather than the generalized bumble and shake and all-around numbness I've experienced with my noisy, corded super-vibe. Well, that, and the fact that I really like being under covers while I masturbate. The Hitachi isn't supposed to be snuffed under blankets for fear of overheating the motor, plus it's really hard to maneuver its length while the cord end is constantly pressing up into the blankets to form a tent. Well, that, and I sort of feel like I'm making a smoothie with one of those handheld blender sticks when I hold it by its plastic casing.

So, while I was really excited to get the Hitachi, I had yet to use it to much avail. I am not, however, one to give up easily. I decided I'd not given the Magic Wand a fair chance to prove its mettle. Friends gave me various techniques to make using the wand awesome, like putting a (dry) folded washcloth over the duvet and my pussy to diffuse some of the intensity. That would mean having my arms outside the duvet, which in my house means cold arms in the winter. I couldn't do it. But in a moment of desperation, I dug the Wand out of its Chuck Taylor shoebox storage next to my bed and plugged it in behind the couch to soothe my neck muscles as I watched TV.

Yes, I actually used the "Personal Massager" as a Personal Massager. How disgraceful. How could I show my face at all those sex gatherings I frequent, when I feel like a total poseur? How could I consider myself "worldly" in the realm of teh sex when a consistent "Best Seller" fails to raise my O flag? The worried insecurity mounted. Then a box from Babeland arrived at my door, filled with all sorts of fun things–filled with tissue paper and promise and sweet-smelling naughtiness.

Last week I auditioned the G-Whiz attachment, which I'd been thinking about for some time. It fits right over the tennis-ball-sized head of the Magic Wand and sports a curved–if not overly girthy–cock-shaped insertable. Maybe this was what I needed to open up the Hitachi's special purpose. I come so easily, I reasoned, and am so sensitive that my tender circuits are quickly overloaded. For this to work, I will need to take things very slowly.

Before I started, I made sure my bedroom was very warm. I washed the attachment in warm, soapy water and shook it off. I stretched it over the head of the HMW and set it aside. I know what I need to get off, and I need a more gradual warmup than the Hitachi can manage, even on its lowest setting. Once I'd drizzled lube over my clit and slit and got myself going with my Babeland Silver Bullet and once my hips started pressing themselves forward and upward, I picked up the HMW, left the switch at OFF and slid the cock into my pussy, pressing the tip up against my G-spot.

The G-Whiz is silicone, which I like, not only because I am a toy snob, but because I like to share my toys. It is decidedly less firm than some of my favorite dildos, like the Buzz. This turned out to be not so bad a thing, since once I turned the Hitachi on "low" the vibrations really caused the silicock to wiggle around inside me. Unfortunately, while the sensation was pretty neat-o, it wasn't firm enough to get my rocks off.

I think it would be much easier to use the Hitachi on others, like the way Lolita did to me once when Jefferson was massaging my G-Spot and the added clitterificness made me come and ejaculate multiple times. When you're holding it on another person's body, it's probably much easier to control, even if you have to use both hands. Think back to the cake mixing analogy. For me, masturbation is tough to manage if I have to work at holding the vibrator in place, and wanking with the G-Whiz proved to be a two-handed job. I'm just not willing to work that hard when there are other, less unwieldy toys out there which suit my style and sensitivities just fine.

I am definitely keeping the Hitachi (you know, for my neck), and using it and its attachments (more reviews to come) on other people. I've got some lucky ladies and fellows in mind for that.

Oh, I think you know who you are.

Thanks,
Babeland!

Jane's Guide, Yay!

2008-02-25T12:44:00.004-05:00

Just when I thought today was going to be one to drown in the swirling pools of liquor which will be my companions once my super grumpy and still-sick children finally are bedded this evening, along comes an email from JanesGuide.com telling me that my site has been reviewed as "Original" and "Quality."

For whatever reason, I sort of thought they didn't like me over there, since I'd submitted my site to them a couple of years ago and never heard back. No biggie, I thought, it's cool. I don't waste time and energy with cattiness or jealousy or worrying about whether people like me or not, you know that. And I can't remember the last time I checked my reader stats, anyway. (Bad blogger! Bad!)

So, what a pleasant surprise to read the nice things that Shay said about me in the New Reviews section:

Madeline's blog just recently celebrated its third anniversary, quite a feat for a sex blogger. She also writes a second, slightly less sexy blog called Mad Words and contributes to Viviane's Sex Carnival and the Perverts' Cookbook - so she's obviously quite the busy sex blogger and a well established member of the community. Madeline has a great writing style: she's fun, engaging, sexy, and at times poignant. You're going to want to bookmark her site. -Shay

Aw, you like me! You really like me! Thanks very much.

Happy Happy

2008-02-16T10:50:00.004-05:00

I am ridiculously happy.

Last night I was my own birthday cake, as Lolita got me to take off my clothes in a roomful of Lesbian Sex Mafiosas and dripped, drizzled and poured hot wax over my torso. From clavicle to clit. Holy shit.

Lolita at Work. My perky nipples. Photos by Viviane.

Lolita told stories and answered questions from the audience while making the beautiful mess above. It was gooey and warm and I felt like the filling in one of those molten chocolate cakes. And a very. lucky. girl.

Then someone turned out the lights and then everyone sang Happy Birthday to me and Wendy, whose birthday was also yesterday (Go, Aquarians!), and who came up and blew out the candles.

Happy Birthday, indeed. And that was just the dimming of the day.

Runnin' With the Devil

2008-02-15T11:28:00.002-05:00

It's my birthday, and I get to do what I want.

So I'm sharing another of my favorite things: the lead vocal track to Van Halen's Runnin' with the Devil.

When I'm bored or in a funk, I just listen to this and remind myself that David Lee Roth is damn old and looks like a leathery, boozy, strung-out Sting. But once upon a time, unbuttoned satin shirts over furry chests and air fucking while tossing your hair seemed like the best. idea. ever.

David Lee Roth!

I think he, like, plays weddings in Jersey City now or something. Here's the original video, just for fun.

Eat Cake

2008-02-09T15:04:00.000-05:00

For the third anniversary of Madeline in the Mirror I'll be giving you some of my favorite things.

First up, Cake's Short Skirt, Long Jacket, one of my favorite songs. As Miles points out, there's no real "singing" in the "song." Doesn't matter. Listen to the MP3 here.

I've been dancing around my house to these guys since, well, since roughly 1996. But this morning I had a serious Cake itch to scratch. The bass, the horns and the cabasa (THE CABASA!) are awesome, but dig the lyrics:

I want a girl who gets up early
I want a girl who stays up late
I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity
Who uses a machete to cut through red tape
With fingernails that shine like justice
And a voice that is dark like tinted glass
She is fast and thorough
And sharp as a tack
She's touring the facility
And picking up slack

"Uses a machete to cut through red tape." Hells, yeah.

Damn Sony BMG and their DRM, but you have to see the video; linkable but not embeddable. So click on the cabasa (THE CABASA!) to watch. Hah.

What?

2008-02-08T15:18:00.000-05:00

Apparently it's my third birthday. Or blogversary, as Viviane put it.

What?

When?

Wow.

Three. As in, three years. Three-cheese. Three-part harmony. You get the point.

Fourth years seem a bit daunting. Like, you have to do big kid things like share and help out around the house and be more responsible for yourself. My fourth year will have me sharing myself in various guises on the interwebs and in print-like fashion. I'll help out some friends in their quests for greatness, all the while taking extra-good care of myself and my children.

Hey, guess what? My kids are fucking awesome and (thank god) none of their awesomeness has to do with their father. I mean, they could be total jerks and act out and be little assholes like some kids I know whose parents are divorced. When the first thing your new sitter says about your kids is, "Your boys are so well-mannered and polite," you know you're not totally fucking up as a parent.

So, anyway, three years have passed.

The hell?

Drink, Drink (Wink, Wink)!

2008-02-01T21:04:00.000-05:00

I decided not to drink alcohol for the month of January.

Not a problem, semi-surprisingly.

Happy February!

Site Review: Tony's Adult Cam Reviews

2008-01-18T13:05:00.000-05:00

Several weeks ago Tony emailed me asking if I'd be interested in reviewing his webcam site, Tony's Adult Cam Reviews. Always on the lookout for fresh porn, I said I'd be happy to.

Hmmm, reviewing a review site?

Yes, as it happens.

TACR gives the novice and the seasoned cam voyeur a ton of information, from getting started as a voyeur, what to expect in a session, to how much (typically) you'll spend getting a quality lady. He'll lead the camshow virgin step by step through the process of free previews, signups and payment. He's clearly done his research (Tough job, eh, Tony?), and the comparison chart of some of the most popular sites is very useful. There's also a blog, which is nice for me, since I like to spy on people.

Tony is a sweetie and a giver. I believe he truly gets off on helping people in their quest for the ultimate camgirl. He's amassed a sizeable collection of cam sites and organized his reviews according to category and price for the discerning voyeur. There are fetish sites, straight-up live shows, and Tony's not shy about dishing exactly what's offered on each. There may be too much of a good thing, as there is so much information on the site which might be organized more efficiently, but if you're a Firefox user (and really, you should be, especially if you're surfing porn), it's manageable, if a bit cumbersome.

The one real qualm I have with webcamreports.com is language-related, and truth be told, isn't confined to this site alone. I'm not talking grammar; since Tony's first language isn't English, I don't fault him for misspellings and the like (though I am tempted to offer my mad editing skillz to the lad). No, the issue I'm talking about is the way porn sites speak to the lowest common denominator of porn connoisseur.

I have an issue with calling female entertainers "bitches." There, I said it. "Bitch" in reference to a performer is just tough for me to swallow. These ladies (and I do like the terms "lady, "girl" and even "Sheila" for you Aussies) work hard at what they do, and they do it for the most part because they enjoy it. I mean, I can call myself a bitch, or say it to my friend in a friendly, girly way, but never to someone I haven't met. "Bitch" to me is like any other sociologically categorical term (take your pick, really). If we say it to each other, it's either mean or funny. If a dude says it to or about us, it's degrading. We ladies own that word. If it's part of the play, fine, but telling your readers to "check out horny bitches sucking giant cock" just rubs me the wrong way.

Hey, my review, my opinion. And I don't think most porn is degrading to women. I <3>the porn!

By the same token, I as a reader, take umbrage at being called an "asshole" or a "dumbshit" or a "dickhead." People who pay for porn help support the industry, which is getting smarter and more mainstream all the time. Online porn isn't cheap, and I think its viewers (myself included) deserve a little respect and appreciation. In my opinion, a little tongue-in-cheek "Gentlemen, I highly recommend the ribaldry of CollegeCamSluts" gives a site that provides entry into places where ladies rub their bits and suck on really big dildos a little extra class. Yeah, I said "class."

I mean,

You know how it is when you're sitting, all glazey-eyed at your computer, drinking your Mountain Dew and pulling on a Camel and all you want to do is find a hot cam site where you can yank on yer stiffie rod while some sweet-assed cumslut bitch rubs her swollen pink snatch and tugs on her humongous titties while looking into ~~her cam~~ your eyes and licking her lips as your spunk just misses the keyboard?

Heh.

If you do, and you need a little help deciding which among the thousands of cam sites is the right fit for you, take a stop over at Tony's. His "Fetish Webcam Reports" link is also over there under Sex.

Oh, Hello!

2008-01-18T12:47:00.000-05:00

I'm back! Know how the holidays can get a person down? Yeah, me, too. Here's to 2008, for which I've chosen "The Underdog" by Spoon as my theme song. It's appropriate, I think, because you just never know when this sleepy little girl is going to surprise you by doing something awesome. Always fear the underdog, my friends, or you will not survive. And buy Spoon's album, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, would you? They're my pals and they are great.

Good things are happening this year, and I'll share them when I can. Thing number one is that I've been bitten by the blogging bug, roused from its hibernation, pressing me to rock this bitch of a blog into spectacular greatness.

So, without further ado, let's get to it.

Happy 2008, people. Make it great, make it count, or just make it through.

Wink (I Shot Myself)

2007-12-10T07:02:00.000-05:00

It is so cold where I live that I'm committing a fashion faux-pas that would mortify my friend Katy (who, let's be clear, lives in TEXAS): I'm wearing a sweater-on-sweater ensemble. In the house. If it gets much colder I'll go for the scarf and hat and fingerless gloves look. I'm thinking ski lodge in Vermont, mmmkay?

I like my bedroom to be cool to avoid that "omg, I'm fucking in a sauna" thing that happens when Kelly and I have sex, and I don't mind the rest of the house at 73 64 degrees, unless I'm sitting at the computer writing. Because, even looking at pictures like this one, my toes are cold.

Sequoia

Aw, lookit Sequoia! She's like a little nymph on the mossy forest floor with her winky eye and grin. See, this is the stuff I like: cute girls with normal bodies and sass. Did I just say "sass?" I think I did. Anyway, this girl makes me hot. Also, hello, Freckles.

More incentive to go back to bed and warm things up under the covers, yeah?

How 'Bout You Suck My Dick

2007-12-06T12:03:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I was chatting with Audacia about blowjobs and I'd like your opinions on something.

Do you think cocksucking is a more intimate act than fucking?

I'm not talking about if you're in seventh grade and you're sucking some kid's dick in the back of the auditorium after school in an effort to preserve your virginity. In fact, what are you doing here if you're in seventh grade? Get out! Go to a Hannah Montana concert or something.

But if you're an adult, who has adult relationships, do you consider giving head to be a big deal or not? Personally, I do. When I'm going down on a guy, I want him to feel lucky because I've chosen to be there. Let's be honest, sucking dick is not only an art, done well, it is serious work. Work that I absolutely enjoy, and could do for a very very very long time, but only because I am good at it and confident in my abilities and certain about the cock I am about to stick down my throat.

I'm much more likely to sleep with a guy before putting his cock into my mouth, burying my face in his pubes and tonguing his balls. First off, if you're a guy and you have a gnarly smell in the genital region, I will walk. I can't ignore it, and even if my gag reflex is trained to withstand the ever-earnest advances of a dickhead rubbing past it, a gnarly pube smell will set it off and cause me to hurl. All over your fine self.

Secondly, I like to know how a guy gets off: preferred speed and rhythm and stroke length and such. The only way for me to know for sure is either to fuck you or watch while you jerk off. And let's face it, some of you have serious performance anxiety when a girl says she wants to watch you wank. Oh, you say it's hot, but not many of you can unabashedly get yourselves off under the unwavering (Judging! Measuring! Comparing!) eyes of a girl you're trying hard to impress.

For whatever reason, fellatio is more intimate to me than straight-up intercourse. There is a definite discrepancy in the division of labor, and I must really like you if I'm spending time researching your fucking and masturbatory skills, because I must want to blow your freaking mind when I finally blow your meat.

Sure, fucking can be very intimate--with intent stares and unspoken oaths uniting partners in a magical love for all eternity--but it can also be just fucking. Cocksucking (or pussylicking, for that matter) isn't as flexible. It's your head and your partner's bits, with occasional "hey, I really love doing this" eye contact and petite, appreciative moans. Some of that you can fake. But you can't fake nice-smelling pubes or uncooperative gag reflexes. Giving head is about giving: hard to do when you're feeling uncharitable toward someone, but so rewarding when you've done it well. So cocksucking done well, at the proper time and with the proper penis, can be even more satisfying to me than inserting Cock A into Cunt B.

Just an observation. Feel free to commiserate, chastise and deride in the comments.

Turning Japanese (FuckingMachines)

2007-11-30T18:01:00.000-05:00

There's been a fair amount of it around here lately: Quickie Masturbation.

Used to be that I'd take an hour or more to bathe, oil myself up, slide between the sheets and stroke, knead and caress my way to a few orgasms. These days, though, I just haven't the time. More than once I've turned my head to look at whichever Automatic Lover has been whirring away in my hand and said, "Thank dog for fucking machines."

Recently the crew at FuckingMachines.com made a trip to Japan, to introduce some pretty ladies to the machines. Being a fan of machines that fuck, I took a peek. Um, konichiwa like, whoa.

Me and Lulu

2007-11-26T01:05:00.000-05:00

I got a haircut on Friday. That is, my friend Vix let me come over to her house so I could tell her how I wanted her to cut my hair.

"You know," I started on the phone Wednesday evening, "I've been giving this a lot of thought."

I can say stuff like that to Vix because she's been known to phone me saying, "So, I was thinking about your hair on my drive to work today..."

My problem was that my hair was too normal: a standard chin-length razor-cut bob with soft bangs that to me screamed "low maintenance." And while I am fairly low maintenance emotionally, I don't wish for my hair to yell out "soccer mom" in its wash-and-wear, falls-perfectly-into-place utilitarian functionality.

I also recognize my follicular limitations: my hair does not bend, so anything requiring wrapping it around a heated implement would go horribly awry. Also, I am in that lucky minority of the non-curlyheaded: a hairdryer does not make my hair straighter or smoother; it merely dries my hair in two minutes. Therefore, I don't really need it. Good thing, because I am damn lazy about "fixing up."

While presenting my case to Vix, I told her that 1) I don't want to look like a low-maintenance soccer mom. 2) My hair's going to do what it does anyway, so why fight it? and 3) In my opinion we should "give me more bangs, Louise Brooks the fuck out of my hair and see what happens."

So here's what happened.

Turns out we look a lot alike, me and Lulu.

Slut Appeal

2007-11-18T08:54:00.000-05:00

Remember Meg? Of course you do.

She let her sex blog, Tales of a Teacher (and Slut) go dark a few months ago, but that doesn't mean she's disappeared. Or is less kinky, or less of a pain slut. No, mainly it means that she's not writing about the stuff she's doing. For you.

For the rest of us, she's still visiting, entertaining, and letting us do dirty things to her.

Last April she came to visit me. We hung out, ate bologna and cheese sandwiches with chocolate milk for lunch, she met my ladies and my kids, and I fucked her but good with my Njoy Pure Wand.

So yesterday I got an email from Miss Meg:

do we know anyone with airline miles they wish to donate to a noble cause?

i took the monday after thanksgiving off, as jefferson and i were tossing around the idea of going up there, but he's gonna have the kids. so anyway, i've got this random four day weekend now and i don't know what to do with it and i checked and i'm not really able to afford the $350 for a last minute flight out to YOU.

oh wait, hi. are you busy that weekend? ha.

i miss you. see what happens when i don't get enough of you? i start with the crazy travel plans.

Now, $350 for an unplanned flight on a teacher's salary is pretty much up there in the Luxury category: it's a nice thought until you snap to your senses and realize that you need to do things like pay rent and buy groceries. And since my car just underwent repairs which set me back $650.00, I'm not exactly fit, either.

Donations of frequent flier miles are not exactly practical, since Meg's not keen on revealing her legal name or frequent flier account numbers to generous sorts with miles to burn. But I'll bet that if a handful of you decided to donate to the cause, we could get Meg here for the holiday weekend, giving us both a nice respite from our crazy lives, and provide you, the reader, with salacity and titillations.

Win/win, really.

Let's do this! It'll be fun! I'm gonna start by kicking $50.00 into the pot. You can donate either by clicking the "Send Money" button in the right sidebar, or if you prefer, use that pariah of online commerce, PayPal.

From your PayPal account, you can send money to madelineinthemirror[at]gmail[dot]com, and attach a note referencing Meg's Thanksgiving Trip. That's all! If you'd like, suggestions for naughty activities can be left in the comments, and if we choose yours, I'll write about them. I may even make her write a guest post here. I may even post photos.

But let's get her here first, shall we?

$50.00 from my PayPal account just got earmarked for the Meg's Thanksgiving Weekend fund. Huzzah! Only $300 left! Go! Please?!

Plumbing (I Feel Myself)

2007-11-15T13:23:00.000-05:00

There's a plumber in my bathroom right now, tools and caulk and little chrome pieces littering the floor around my tub. This is a little bit good, and a little bit bad. Good, because the leaky faucet will be fixed. Bad, because the water is turned off and I have to pee.

Tom the plumber just told me that the bathtub really should be replaced, since there is water damage behind the tile. It's an old house, this stuff happens. That would be a large project, but I wouldn't mind so much because I just had a vision of the entire bathroom being redone. I would re-plaster and re-tile the walls and replace the ugly vanity and of course, add a big clawfoot tub from the architectural salvage place.

Then I could invite a friend over for a bath.

Lillie and Strawberry

I Shot Myself: Rollermama

2007-11-05T14:31:00.000-05:00

Actually, I feel like I shot myself, or someone else did: in the mouth. I just got back from an hour and a half at the periodontist. Suffice it to say that I'm eating a smoothie with a spoon, holding it on the left side of my oral cavity for as long as I can, and feeling the beginnings of a monsterfuck of a headache. If you want to be nosy and look up crown lengthening, make sure to do an image search. I'm sure it's full of good, bloody stuff.

Me, I'd rather look at cute things. Like Marena here. Aw, check out the rollerskates and stripey socks!

Marena

Uh, okay, now I'm starting to throb, and not in the good way. Maybe I should have taken the drugs Dr. Jeff gave me. Dumbass.

Smut! Turntable!

2007-10-26T21:08:00.000-05:00

This weekend I have the pleasure of being Jefferson's guest DJ over at the Smut Turntable. A couple of weeks ago, we were commiserating on how much work we both had piled up and how our regular blog posts were becoming less frequent, when he remarked that his Smut Turntable had gained a considerable readership.

"You know," I said, "it might be fun to have guest bloggers there every now and then, to like, keep things fresh."

"That's a great idea," he said, "you want to be the first?"

Well, alright.

I've put together a lineup of songs which I think are hot, or which shaped my adolescence in one form or another. Some are quirky, others so schlocky they'll make you cringe, and not just because of the shoulder pads and huge hair. It was, after all, the Eighties.

So open up the doors on your Mom's Reliant K and turn up the Hit Radio station of your choice while you and your friends sit on the hood and watch the skate punks while drinking your Bartles & Jaymes.

Unless you're like I was and Southern Comfort & Mountain Dew is more your speed.

You get drunker faster if you drink it through a straw.

Dig the Tretorns, man. Me at 13.

Time Out!

2007-10-03T20:28:00.000-05:00

Welcome to all you Time Out New York readers who sauntered over after (or while?) reading my pal Audacia Ray's piece about me fucking her pussy with a strap-on while her best boyfriend (and ruggedly handsome dude) Bobby D did her in the bum.

It's the Porntastic Double P, man. And Dacia writes about it so well, I don't have a lot to add. Other than how awesome and normal it seemed that Dacia and I should have smoothies and bikini waxes together that afternoon, and that she and Bob D are hilarious together, like when I was blowing her bf, Dacia said, "Dude, check out her ass in the mirror."

Appropriate, right?

Also, though I packed my harness, we ended up using a Nexus double dildo instead. And that's what made me squirt and stuff. While fucking. And Bobby D rubbing my clit. So, in the interest of facilitating your naughty threesomes, I present you with a
direct link to the Babeland online store for your own Nexus or Nexus Jr. Get your (and your partner's) rocks off and strengthen your PC muscles at the same time, ladies. This dildo rules.

I don't have one yet, but if some nice person would like to bestow an early holiday gift upon me, please email me at [madeline.glass at gmail dot com] and I'll tell you how you can. Not only am I anxious to use a Nexus again with a partner, I'm totally stoked to jerk off with it solo. Nothing like putting the short end inside and stroking your own cock while stimulating your g-spot, eh?

I mean, I imagine it would be awesome.

At any rate, welcome TONY. Welcome world.

These Cucumber Eyes

2007-09-26T23:52:00.000-05:00

Imogen Heap tells me "it's good to be in love."

I'm not so sure.

It's hard to be in love. Like this, when things are so easy and honest, and the only real obstacles are money and geography.

Those are big obstacles, but in the scheme of things, less troubling than never being less than 2500 miles apart.

I walk in New York, which is becoming more mine with every visit, and I am happy. I walk with Jefferson and Lillie to shop for new speakers for his new computer. We walk side by side in the supermarket and unanimously veto Lillie's request for Cocoa Krispies cereal.

I walk by myself, never get lost in the subway, and feel sweet autumn evening breezes on my skin. The lady in front of me at Filene's Basement passes me her coupon to use, the shoe salesman at TipTop professes his love at first sight and flirts, saying that, for someone with a face like mine, he'd make the shoes if they didn't have my size.

I tell Jefferson that story when I return to his apartment with my new shoes. I love that he thinks it's as funny as I do, and then we dress up and go to a swanky dinner with tables and a seating chart and later the man I'm seated next to, clearly smitten, tells Jefferson that he should really bring me back to the city more often. I love that my boyfriend doesn't hesitate to tell me things like that and that we can be high on knowing how good we obviously are together.

And it at once amuses and depresses me that one of his colleagues introduces us to her husband as "Jefferson and his wife, Madeline."

Afterwards she says she's sure she'll see me around the school that, as it turns out, her son and ~~our~~ Jefferson's son Jason both attend. Um.

Walking in New York I see kids riding in those strollers with room for two or three–kids shelved underneath and behind each other and standing on little platforms above the wheels–or running around with their nannies at playgrounds and I wonder whether mine would totally hate it. I try to imagine us living in the city, and sometimes I can. It excites me to think about the opportunities they'd have here. I want to bring them for a visit. And I secretly hope they'd think that living here would be awesome.

I know how difficult the city can be. Unfortunately, I am also in love with it. I have to figure out a way to rectify those things, because you can't just forget about something that's become part of who you are. Just because it's hard. Just because there are easier ways to live. Because this tears-streaming-as-my-flight-takes-off thing? So upsetting.

As it turns out, the tears-streaming-mid-flight thing isn't so great, either.

I don't like it.

Bot of the Flesh

2007-09-21T16:27:00.001-05:00

In the midst of my recent projects and deadlines, Jefferson called to ask me a favor.

His computer, she was broken. Could I possibly round up some titillating stories for loyal Fleshbot readers?

Of course I said yes, because he asked nicely.

Here's the thing: When one has lots of sex, and writes about sex a lot, one usually chooses quieter, more mundane activities than reading sex blogs. Like knitting or playing Sudden Death Clue, if you must know. Of course I read my friends' blogs, in my feed reader, but I don't spend the hours that some do reading every sex blog out there. Turns out that it's a lot of work, and not as easy as it seems. For me.

But it turned out alright, I think, and I was happy to lend a hand to the fine folks at Fleshbot. It's cool, too, that I found a few more feeds to plug into my reader.

This Friday's Roundup (typos in the intro not mine, I can assure you) is all about the buttfucking. Probably it's because I've got anal violation on my mind. Probably because somebody really needs me to give it to them nice and slow with a bloopy silicone dildo in their bum.

Read the Roundup here. Make sure to tell them how you like it.

(Aw, I know you like it sweet and slow, baby.)

Principal's Office

2007-08-27T21:21:00.001-05:00

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?"

"Nope."

"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.

Inertia Creeps

2007-08-18T01:42:00.001-05:00

(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!"

"ETA?"

"35 minutes. OK?"

"Perfect."

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.

Readers of this Blog, Lend me Your Ears.

2007-08-13T20:44:00.000-05:00

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 madeline.glass (at) gmail.com. 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.

Wax On, Wax Off

2007-08-12T21:59:00.001-05:00

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

2007-08-12T15:04:00.000-05:00

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.

Nightie

2007-08-07T23:12:00.000-05:00

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.

Pour Some Sugar on Me

2007-07-30T20:59:00.000-05:00

Okay, pour it on the Sugarbutch herself. I mean, you could pour it on me, and I'd like that, but she's actually invited it for herself.

See, Sinclair at Sugarbutch Chronicles has this nifty contest going on called Be The Next Sugarbutch Star which involves collecting scenarios from readers suggesting an erotic encounter, with the five winning submissions being featured on her site. From the five, a winner will be chosen by readers, with the winning participant, um, winning something.

Because everyone wants to be a star.

The rules are simple: Sketch out a rough (heh heh) outline of a scene you'd like Sin to write. And if you read her blog, you know that lady can write one hot fuck. She offers a sample submission (heh heh) for the contest here. The best part is that you don't have to write anything particularly hot or lyrical; that's her job. Though, that didn't stop me from going full-on crazy with the details when I started writing mine.

Sinclair just gets me hot like that.

Not to worry, I pared it down to essential info and I'm all aflutter wondering what she'll do with it if she chooses to use it.

So, come on! You've got until the calendar turns (That's midnight Tuesday, sweeties.) to get yours in. Read the details, jot off a few sentences and send them to Sin at aspiringstud(at)gmail.com.

Man, now I have the Mary Katherine Gallagher "Superstar!" thing in my head.

*Update: Sinclair's extended the deadline until August 7th. Whee!

Oh, So Quiet

2007-07-18T13:26:00.000-05:00

I'm home from vacation.

While I was gone a set of transformations took place at my house. My friend Lisa the Lesbian Landscaper removed overgrown crap from my yard and put in shiny new baby shrubs and flowers. Red and purple. I have no idea what they are, but they look nice, and I am watering them now. My mom planted pumpkins in the back garden. If I don't kill them, we will have homegrown jack-o'lanterns in October. I bought a hose at the hardware store today. Whoa.

The most significant transformation was my bedroom and bathroom floors, which were refinished and replaced, respectively. Rad. They are lovely and make me smile when I walk into the room. Except that now, I have to replace everything that I'd shoved into the dining room and the kids' bedroom before leaving.

Basically, I'm moving back in.

The boys are with their father for two weeks, so it's the perfect time for organizing a home and refinishing a table, but it's also strange. I am alone, after three weeks of wonderful chaos and togetherness with fifteen other people. I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. Lovers call, write and breeze into town, but I need time to process this trip and its meaning and implications. We are family now–Jefferson, his kin and mine–and it complicates things in the sweetest of ways.

I mean, his father kissed me and said, "You take good care of my boy."

I cried when we left, adding to the tears being shed by his mother and grandmother, who hugged me tight and said, "Love you, honey." Ach, it's so like that.

Joe picked me up from the airport and drove to his place where he seared tuna steaks on the grill, fed me, put me to bed and held me. I was happy to be there, but not quite ready to reenter life. When he drove me home in the morning I brightened, seeing the new life in the garden and the floors so new they shone like mirrors.

'S Wonderful

2007-07-10T23:19:00.000-05:00

I've officially entered vacation mode. I have no idea what day it is, or whether we went fruit and vegetable shopping yesterday or the day before.

My children are brown, despite regularly scheduled applications of spf 45.

Sunday, while wearing my long white skirt I noticed that my feet are tan. The rest of me, too, but there's something about looking down and seeing the light brown tops of my feet lashed into triptychs by Old Navy flip flops.

That says summer to me.

My sunglasses are sludging along at the bottom of the lake.

Tonight, after midnight or pre-dawn tomorrow morning, or possibly both, I will nuzzle the neck of a blond southern fellow as we fit our bodies quietly together, the way we have done every late night/early morning since arriving here last week.

'S awful nice.

Jayzus!

2007-06-25T20:53:00.000-05:00

It's been a while. I know. I'm crazy-busy and stuff, and I've had wonky Internet service for the last three weeks, so chill out, yeah? I'm preparing to leave on vacation: the longest vacation I've ever taken, evah. Also, I moved to a new place, also my kids are out of school, also my floors are being refinished while I'm away, so don't be all concerned, folks (You know who you are: emailing and calling to check whether I'm okay or have succumbed to the latest endemic). It's nice that you're like that. I'm just busy, is all.

I will be less busy soon, with nothing to fret over but whether the kids are slathered in sunscreen every two hours, how to keep my bikini top from flying off my head while free-falling from a rope swing into cool, cool water and how to go about having virtually silent sex as the family is sleeping all over the joint. Those, my friends, are good problems to have. Don't think I don't know it.

But that's not why I'm writing.

Today, with reliable Internet service allowing me to catch up on my reading, I read Amy Guth's blog, Bigmouth Indeed Strikes Again. Amy, in her beautiful, bespectacled brilliance has posted her answer to a meme which I think y'all should see: What Would You Do if Jesus Came to Your House? So, full disclosure, Amy's muh sistuh, being a yid and all. Also, she like, goes to shul and stuff, so she's a kickass Jew. Also, she's hell damn hilarious.

I'm not even going to post an excerpt; you have to go there and read it yoselfs, bitches.

All I will say is that Amy's deft use (invention?) of the word "cockfuck" makes me like her even more, and I didn't think that was possible.

Audacia Ray's Virtual Book Tour of Awesomeness

2007-06-01T08:22:00.000-05:00

Time was when the mere mention of internet dating was made in hushed, mumbled tones over cocktails with one's best friend, trying to explain what it was, never mind the questions, judgmental comments and valid concerns about axe murderers and crazies.

There are those who still shy away from the online world, still those whose dating repertoire doesn't include at least one Yahoo, Match, Nerve or AFF date, but they are apparently fewer and farther between. Women account for an increasing percentage of Internet users, and since the Internet is for porn (okay, maybe that's just MY Internet) and ladies like the shopping, it stands to reason that more and more women are using their PCs to shop for dates.

I've had my fair share of Internet dating, which coincided with blogging about sex and eventually working for a porn site. Couple that with inadvertent networking and you have the birth of a community of women bloggers connected not by geography or even life experiences, but by the mere fact that we are comfortable sharing private details of our lives online. It is a unique phenomenon, this community of writerly women.

Audacia Ray, my friend and self-proclaimed "intrepid pervert and smutmonger" wrote a book about ladies getting online called Naked on the Internet: Hookups, Downloads and Cashing in on Internet Sexploration. I read this book (hell, I'm in this book), and now I'm going to tell you why you should, if you haven't already, run out and buy the thing.

If you read either of my blogs with any regularity, you already know that I heart Audacia Ray. She is one of my closest friends in this community of online ladies, and someone whom I admire greatly. If you read Dacia's blog, you also know that she is damn smart and usually manages to sound cool even when she's juggling many deadlines and running on no sleep. Really, what's not to love? She's hot, clearly smart, emotionally open in that bloggy way, and incredibly busy. I don't know any other grad students who manage school, thesis writing, book deadlines, porno productions and self-promotion, let alone blogging, while managing some semblance of a personal life.

My personal life–and therefore leisure time–is spare these days, so my reading list takes a hit. I only read things which truly interest me and from which I might learn new things. I AM a woman on the Internet. You might think that a book about women and the Internet would fall into the "I'll read it when I get around to it" camp, but here's the great thing: I learned a ton while reading this book.

Topics range from online dating to lady sex bloggers, the Internet as a resource for sexual health information to cyberdildonics. It's a lot of information–perhaps too much for some–but organized in such a way that the reader could skip around if they wanted, instead of reading it straight through. I like that in a book.

Ray, as intimidatingly smart as she is, is so deft at relating to her readers on a personal level, making the seasoned Waking Vixen reader smile and nod at her use of parenthetical asides which serve to clarify and amuse. Some of the topics covered are complicated and require trust on the part of the reader that Ray will guide them through the twisty-turns and out the other end of the chapter. Chapters 4 and 5, about female-produced independent porn and sex workers, respectively, are such chapters. As a former sex worker, Editor in Chief of $pread Magazine and a porno writer and director, she brings forth a lot of information and manages to make it interesting and accessible to the reader who's had virtually no exposure to the ins and outs of sex work and porn.

Reading NOTI (I know, it's a great acronym, right?), I tried to imagine myself a first year Women's Studies major, encountering an academic discussion of women-produced Internet porn for the first time and I was struck by the sheer volume of knowledge. It's this, combined with the fact that Ray doesn't interject many of her own opinions about the content, letting the women's experiences speak for themselves which puts her, I think, in the company of Women Who Affect Change. My sophomore-at-Bennigton self wants to host a coffee shop reading and have this book title tattooed on her inner forearm.

This is not a "you've read the blog, now read the book" phenomenon. Ray uses her academic prowess to amass the real life experiences of women across the Internet and then makes them accessible to the reader. Naked on the Internet is not the personal story of Audacia Ray, though in a way, it is. She has the fortune of being present at this stage of the Internet and the shifting paradigm of sexuality in America, and of having been involved in so many aspects of Internet sexuality. As I write this, Dacia is in Amsterdam, a keynote speaker at the C*lick Me Netporn Festival, the initial inquiry for which she received via her MySpace.

Buy the book. Bring it with you to one (or all) of Dacia's upcoming promo events, listed on the front page of Waking Vixen. Tattooing yourself is optional.

Sushi

2007-05-21T16:58:00.000-05:00

You know how sometimes you go to a potluck and taste something amazing and you can't get it out of your mind? I gravitate to the vegetarian selections. It's like saying, "I'm cool with this, I love vegetables, too," and I can share in the secret society of non-flesh-eaters.

She brought sushi.

I was there when she rang the bell, and we shook hands when I opened the door. I don't think we kissed cheeks. Yet. But hers were there, fresh-scrubbed and full and flushed from the walk in the cold. Her dark hair was cropped close and accentuated her huge eyes and natural brows. I may actually have sighed. She carried her sushi to the kitchen and I turned and said, to no one in particular, "She is the most handsome seventeen-year-old boy ever."

I flirted, talked, joked and escaped for a smoke with some of the other attendees. I was, I realized, distracted. I ate sushi.

I watched her, sitting in the low chair, leaning forward and listening to some other person going on about some other thing which couldn't possibly have been as interesting as the things I wanted to tell her; she smiled at them and nodded, encouraging.

She's quiet, but sure of herself, I noted. I am built similarly, being undemanding, yet consistent in my desires. I know what I want, and I am patient.

I was glad when she started and looked at me, come upon her from behind, my hand just touching her shoulder, bending over to speak into her ear, our faces close. She smiled and said, "that sounds promising" when I suggested she come home with us.

Seven months hence and I can't shake the strength of her body pressing down on me or the feel of her torso behind my legs as she held my ankles up to her shoulders and rocked into me with my own strap-on. Her voice coming out of space encouraging me, relaxing me.

But that thing that I want to taste again–the recipe I forgot to get–is the all-encompasing, never-letting-me-go embrace she kept me in for a very long time after the slow withdrawal of her fist from my body.

I'm No Diva, I'm a Visual Aid.

2007-05-10T16:08:00.000-05:00

No, it's not a new Panic! At the Disco song, it's a new blog by my sweet friend Lolita.

100 Divas is Lolita's chronicle of her quest to spank 100 divas. I'm not on the list.

Because I'm not a diva.

But may I just say, Lolita's expert swatting on my tender bits and Jefferson's eye for detail and well-wielded camera make for one fuck of a photo.

Nice work, friends.

Sounds From the Top

2007-04-29T10:52:00.000-05:00

I was chatting with a friend the other day, talking about our favorite kinds of sex sounds. His opinion was that the best sound from a girl is the almost-whispering, very personal, intense-in-his-ear-and-only-for-him orgasm.

My response, as teasing and titillating as it was, was honest: "You mean the kind where my legs go rigid and my shoulders and chest are lifted off the mattress, my muscles contract through their waves and I can't catch my breath and it's 'oh, oh, oh' and it goes on for like, a minute? And then you think it's over and I whisper 'I'm not finished,' and it finally subsides with me hoarse, raspy and whimpering? That kind?"

Because that is one of my favorite sounds.

But there are other, baser sounds that I like very much.

There is a sound that I make when I'm with a girl and her hand is inside me, up to her wrist, and she is pumping and twisting inside me and saying, "damn, girl, damn!" It is a gutteral sound, deep and primal. It comes from my toes and reaches past my open mouth to whatever is in front of me and sustains its sound for what seems like an hour.

There is a sound I make when a girl has tied me up and has her gloved fingers inside me while a vibrator buzzes on my clit. It is a gulping sound, searching and probing. Encouraging and hoping and waiting inside my throat for my breath to catch as she hits the perfect spot.

There is a sound I make when that same girl is spanking, then caning me, bent on all fours, head resting on my forearms, perched on the side of the bed. It is a yowl, followed by a sigh. Pain blossoming into pleasure. White heat exploding behind my eyes as I wait, jaw slack, exhaling, for the next blow.

Then there is the sound I make when my fingers are inside a girl and she is writhing beneath me, whimpering and mmm-hmmming. It is a growl, low and appreciative, like the best bite of food my tongue has tasted, connected directly to a flinch of my clit as the sight and feel of her body doing my bidding overwhelms me and I am aroused by the power I have assumed.

It is the sound I made while reading many of the stories in She's on Top: Erotic Stories of Female Dominance and Male Submission, edited by my pal Rachel Kramer Bussel. You've surely seen this Virtual Kinky Book Tour she's put together, with the creme de la creme of the sexy bloggers pointing readers to RKB's pair of anthologies.

She's on Top contains dominant ladies and their submissives in many guises: From a young woman trying out domination for hire in Amsterdam's red light district to a husband who loves when his wife uses him as a footstool, these stories are hot. Some even gave me ideas, like the one where a lady sits in her garden, innocuously reading a book while her slave husband tongues her to orgasm in full view of the neighbors. Of course he is hidden underneath her skirt at the time:

She would say nothing until Robert's tongue left her no choice and she clenched her thighs against his face and came loudly enough that it would hush her neighbors and leave Robert flustered with embarrassment. She did not know if he blushed--she did not let him up from between her legs--and if her neighbors stole a peek from over their privacy shield, they'd spy him sprawled there, naked and half-hidden. They'd see Judith immersed in a good book, poised as if there was nothing unusual in this backyard scenario.
Smiling, Judith read on, in full control and loving every minute of it.

Hee hee. So dirty.

Check out the rest of the tour, buy the books here, and see what sounds these stories elicit from you.

Handy

2007-03-29T10:33:00.000-05:00

"I want you to turn toward me," I said, my voice husky with sleep, "I'm cold."

I buried my face in his chest, and scissored our legs. Our arms thrown over each others' hips, my fingers running lightly along his spine.

I traced up and down, swirling fingertips in lazy circles. I'm tactile, I touch--sometimes without even realizing it. His breathing changed and became deeper as my fingers stroked absentmindedly. That's when my breath caught in my throat and I felt the heat rush to my cunt.

I shifted, letting him roll onto his back and slid my hand down to his dick which was, as I surmised by his involuntary grunts, already hard.

"Nice," I said, running my fingers from behind his balls to the tip of his cock. I rolled over to the night stand, flipped the lid on the massage oil and poured a bit into my palm, grinning as I returned to my place. He hadn't moved and he had a goofy smile on his face.

Last night I had come to bed, crawling toward him in my bra and boyshorts. "What's all this?" he smiled.

"This is me, and this is what I've been wearing under my game day shirt all afternoon."

"Goddamn, baby. You look gorgeous," he was staring at me, looking me up and down. "This is all for me?"

"Of course, it's for you. But these panties aren't coming off."

I was sitting above him, his hands were on my hips and he sat up halfway, tracing the top of my black demi cups with the crocheted lace. I put my hand behind his neck and kissed him.

"Why not?"

"Girl thing," I whispered. I kissed his mouth, sliding my thigh between his legs.

We don't have sex, Joe and I. I mean, we have sex, but there's no penetration. Okay, his hands and tongue penetrate my cunt, but his penis has ever only been inside my mouth. We have dates, we go out, we stay in, cook and watch movies, I always sleep over, sandwiched between him and his cat. We like each other a lot.

But for whatever reason, we don't ride the wild pony.

It's cool. It's great, actually. So many people think that fucking is essential. I happen to find it very hot that we don't. Fucking can get boring, and my standards are very high. It's rare to find a person who's good at it all. And Joe's good at making me come without his dick.

He lifted each of my tits out of their cups--"like dessert cups," I'd laughed--licked and sucked and bit them in turn. I moaned loudly, that direct connection between my nipples and my clit brutal and excellent.

He threw me onto my back and kneeled above my chest. I raised my head and sucked while his hips thrust into my face and he came on my belly.

He washed me. I let him. I smiled at how much fun I was having, but it was 4 AM and I needed to sleep.

"That was awesome," I said.

"You are an amazing woman," he sighed.

The next morning as I massaged his hardening cock I thought about that comment. Am I "amazing" because I enjoy blowing him? Because I don't expect anything from him emotionally? Because I come like a flood? Because I like smoking his cigars? Last night my focus was him. The last thing I'd wanted was to be concerned about myself or how I could get off. I'd had an insanely busy day, been awake for 24 hours by the time we went to sleep and all I really wanted was to do something nice. To me, that's hot.

I was grinding my panty-covered pussy against his thigh, hot and swollen as I jerked him. The harder he got, the wetter I got. He would come soon, and I wanted his dick in my mouth before he did, wanted to close my lips around it and pull on its hard smoothness with the spongy strength of my tongue.

He came, silently this time.

I showered. He made coffee.

We watched SportsCenter. I drove home.

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"...I'm From Buffalo" on Playboy Radio

2007-03-12T13:39:00.000-05:00

Meme of Dirtyspoke read an excerpt from this post on Playboy Radio this morning. When she emailed me last night and mentioned she was planning on reading that post I thanked her and thought, "Good luck with that!"

It's not the easiest prose to read aloud, especially when you're not the author. Meme feels badly that the reading went less than smoothly. I haven't heard it, and I'm wondering if she'll post the audio at all.

Not easily discouraged, I saw a chance to rectify the situation: I could record the post myself. Click below to listen. Yeah, that's my voice. You like?

Nah, That Ain't Me, Man, I'm From Buffalo

My fingers reached for his right nipple and gave it a tweak. He growled and threw my legs up over my head, diving in with his tongue. He doesn’t give the best head in the world, but he is earnest. He is, I think, a little obsessed with making me squirt, and I need more than two minutes of stimulation before that pulling and milking becomes a fun thing to do.

I kept his face there, showing him how I liked my clit played with–how the flicker-fast, barely touching hits of myfingerhistongue make my eyes roll back and my hips push up.

Finally I let him put his fingers in me. Just two. Or maybe three.

“God, I love that sound.”

He was up to the third knuckles on his huge fingers and I was growling, opening.

“Rub my. . . my. . . my clit. . . with your. . . uh. . . tongue”

I meant to say “thumb.”

He plunged his face down excitedly.

“No, no, no, I meant your thumb. Like this.”

He got it. Hallelujah.

“Shit, baby.”

I spread my knees wider and grabbed my tits as my back arched. His hand, wet with me, slid up my thigh, over my hipbone and all the way to my mouth. I took the fingers, one by one, sucking them clean.

“You do that so well.”

I was on my side. He was on his knees. It only followed that I curl underneath him and suck on something else.

I took his cock between my lips. I nursed on it like a baby. I slid it to the back of my throat and licked the underside up to his balls. I gurgled and he sighed. I looked up at him, blissfully watching his cock slide into my mouth as I grinned.

I think that often people misinterpret what constitutes a good blow job. I think people worry that they don’t suck cock fast enough or deep enough or porny enough. I’ll fess to head-shaking, ass-fingering, spit-sucking face fucks and gagging on a certain cock while its owner holds my skull flush with his groin until I pound the mattress and blow snot. But here’s the thing: I like long, slow, deep, soft wet blowjobs that last for three days. Enjoy that reference if you got it.

That’s when I’m in control. I let him fuck my face, but I made him do it slowly. I put his cock down my throat. I made his breath shake and his dick throb and his balls pull up and his mouth gasp, “Unnh, baby, I’m gonna come.”

“You’re going to come on my face,” I hissed, my hand on his shaft, thumb milking his dickhead as he covered my cheeks and hair.

Peep Show

2007-03-09T08:02:00.000-05:00

You always knew I was sweet and gooey and virtually imperishable, now here's proof.

I'm on 25peeps.com

Go check it out, and click on my photo:

The more clicks that photo gets, the longer this peep stays on the front page.

Come on, it's dorky but fun and marshmallow-y good.

Just in time for Easter.

(Peeps image via Poplicks.com)

That One Thing

2007-03-08T10:28:00.000-05:00

That afternoon--our last afternoon--was hot.

We sat in our lounge chairs reading, our fingers brushing occasionally on their paths between our lips and the beer cans between us.

Jefferson's kids and their cousins had gone shopping with their grandparents. My children were taking a break from the water and watching television.

As I sat and read I felt his eyes on me. I looked up, smirking.

"So, what do you want to do now?" I asked, half-chiding.

Then, without pause, as if he'd been waiting for an invitation, "Nap and a blowjob. Not necessarily in that order."

I stood and held out my hand, "Come on, then."

I checked on the children when we got to the top of the steps. They were out cold in the main house, SpongeBob in the background. I used the restroom and went out to the porch. It was late afternoon and the sun was brutal. I carried bottles of water and opened the door to the guest house.

He was lying on top of the quilt.

"I thought you might be thirsty," I locked the door behind me and set the bottles on the nightstand.

"Aren't you thoughtful?"

I smiled down at him, glancing down at the hem of my suit, which he was absentmindedly tracing with a finger. The light was dim, making his skin look almost tan. I looked at my thighs as I straddled his hips and adjusted myself above him. This was going to last a nice, long while.

The room was silent.

I'd taken my top off, letting my nipples graze his as I gently kissed his eyelids, forehead, cheeks, mouth. He was relaxed and had closed his eyes, his slight smile amusing me, goading me on, inexplicably making me want to take a bite of his face and swallow it.

I moved my body down, tracing his nipples with soft fingertips and my tongue, smiling when an involuntary gasp jumped out from behind his teeth, causing his cock to jump up from behind his trunks. I slid my finger inside the waistband and pulled them down, my forearms dragging along his thighs.

My skin was much darker than his and still radiating heat from the day's boating and swimming. The freckles on my arms made me think of chocolate, when a stray fleck lands on your skin unnoticed until it melts and you lick it off. The contrast of my tan with his rosy tint was pretty. His creamsicle freckles. My chocolate ones.

I nuzzled my face between his legs and for once, he just let me. Gave me control. Let me do what I wanted and didn't rush me. I did notice that he kept his trunks within arm's reach, just in case we were interrupted.

His hands were in my hair, sliding down to my jaw and around to my neck. I wanted to stay there, rooting in his hair like a newborn, inhaling the salty musk, my mouth watering. By then his cock was stiff and insistent and getting in the way.

When I finally took it in my mouth we both moaned.

I looked at his face. He was watching me, head cocked to the side, a finger on my temple.

There was that moment of telepathy that happens between lovers, when you want to speak but you don't because you'll never be able to phrase things properly and anyway, you both know what it means.

It was one of the times in my life that I'd like to have been watching us--seeing how we fit together, the way his body writhed under mine, his legs thrown over my shoulders and my hands pressing into his pelvis and chest as my head moved slowly up and down his cock--I'd like to know what that looks like.

I know he's had faster blowjobs, louder blowjobs and pornier blowjobs (I've seen them and given them), but this one was different.

What do I look like swallowing the dick of a person who adores me and whom I adore? When I am focused on his pleasure and receive so much of my own; is an adoring blowjob different from any other blowjob? Of course it is. It feels different. It must look different.

It may even end differently, but the cocksucking is the thing.

We put our clothes back on and unlocked the door, napping together on top of the covers until Lillie rushed in to show us her booty from "the Wal-Mark."

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Bon Anniversaire à Moi

2007-02-15T00:11:00.000-05:00

Today is my real-life birthday. Also the birthday of my late grandmother. Also of my cousin Dan, who was born two hours before me.

I will be baking cupcakes for my party this weekend and opening the giftbag my boys tied shut this morning, making me promise not to open it until dinnertime. It's something from Bath & Body Works; I heard Miles reading the package to Jack in the bedroom just after they asked me to cut them a length of ribbon.

Rather than beg for gifts (Ahem!Hitachimagicwand!Ahem!) from you, dear readers, I thought it would be nice to give you something nice to gaze upon.

You like?

I like.

Since I decided to accept advertising, I've wanted to change the layout a bit to give the people who pay me to link to them a better choice of space. I also wanted to keep the text and ads balanced, pretty, and you know, uncomplicated. The three-column template was designed by Pam Blackstone, modified from the original Minima by Doug Bowman. I took my own liberties and voilà!

You'll notice some additions, and a few tweaks which will happen in the coming days.

See those two grey spots with entreaties to place Your Ad Here on Madeline in the Mirror? Click on the links and submit your ad for products or services via BlogAds. Or, if you'd rather, take a cue from FetishFish.com and become a sponsor. Email me and I'll tell you how.

If you don't have anything to sell, but still would like to help support this site and pad my masturbation and travel funds, you can always donate via the Send Money button.

Oh, and there's a new profile pic.

Now, to commence with my birthday celebrations! There will be snow, cupcakes, fancy panties and a French bistro. Black boots, cigars, bourbon and, well, spankings.

Of course, Lolita gave me my first round of birthday spankings earlier this month, as seen in this photo. She's the "lucky sod holding the switch" as my friend Mon so eloquently put it. I happen to think that I was the lucky one. Well, me and the Fanboy.

I want to thank my friends for being consistently awesome; I promise to write about you soon. I especially want to ~~spank~~ thank Miss Meg, who held my hand as I entered the scary world of hand-coding templates and CSS and said, effectively, "Mads, just get it up already."

She's the sweetest, most fabulous friend and painslut ever.

Speaking of getting things up, I believe I'd like to take you back to the lake--lo, these many months ago--for some fine kissing and the most languorous of blowjobs.

They don't call it the Deep South for nothing.

For Miles

2007-02-14T17:54:00.000-05:00

...And I dont know how I survived those days
Before I held your hand
Well I never thought that I would be the one
To admit that the moon and the sun
Shine so much more brighter when
Seen through two pairs of eyes than
When seen through just one

Have you ever seen a sight as beautiful
As a face in a crowd of people
That lights up just for you?

Have you ever felt more fresh or wonderful
As when you wake
By the side of that boy or girl
Who has pledged their love to you?

Well I have known all these things
And the joys that they can bring
And now every morning there's a cup of coffee
And I wear your ring

~Cowboy Junkies, Anniversary Song

Non Li Amo

2007-02-11T17:16:00.000-05:00

You call and ask if I’m free tonight, “…a long shot, I know.”

I’ve just been fucked like a bitch by my love as three others watched and came, their come swirling together, homogenizing in a pool at the small of my back.

I do not return your call.

I return to our bed where life is still and time is heavy haze, where cunt swallows cock. I breathe the air from his mouth, making it mine. When he dies I will pull his last breath deep inside me, imprisoning his soul within my ribcage.

He fits me. Loves me.

Quietly rocking, writhing, bending, pulling, stretching, gasping, squirming. Content. Senza voce.

I do not love you, because when we fuck, I am discontented. Impatient. Growling.

When we fuck, my hand does not move to your cheek, tracing its thumb across your brow. You do not shut your eyes and turn into it, kissing my palm.

Because you do not love me.

Spank Me

2007-02-08T15:24:00.000-05:00

You know how it is with two-year-olds.

People call them the Terrible Twos, but I think that's just dumb. I think that two year-olds rock.

No longer babies, two year-olds crave independence and take chances, figuring out how things work and how they fit in.

Twos build their confidence by making mistakes. Trying new things. Making shit up as they go along and faking it 'til they get it right. Making messes. Negotiating.

Biting. Being bitten.

How appropriate. Today is my blogoversary.

Today I am two.

Pete & Repeat

2007-01-26T17:03:00.000-05:00

This morning as I walked Miles into school he asked me again when his father was coming for the weekend.

"Exactly one week," I said.

"Aw, that's so looonnng! I really miss him!"

"I know, it's hard to wait. But we've got playdates with Max and Elijah this weekend, so you're booked up, man! Next weekend will be here before you know it." I pushed the hair back from his eyes. His beautiful almond eyes.

I'd spoken with the school nurse last week about Miles' weight fixation. She spoke with the school counselor, who suggested that Miles was feeling alienated from his father.

Not that I couldn't have told you that.

She suggested we try to involve Daniel more in Miles' daily life. This is, I think, a great plan. Miles can call his dad on our way home from school. We had been trying to get him on the phone for a week and had heard nothing. Miles, ever diligent, called every evening and left halting, six-year-old dreamy-voice messages. He never complained that Daniel didn't answer, but this morning he had a pure frustration meltdown so intense that I had to walk away and count to ten.

Okay, maybe thirty.

After the morning assembly I walked home and texted Daniel on the way. I'd have called, but after a week of orphaned voicemails, my gut told me he was not merely busy, but was avoiding me.

D: Can you pls send your itin 4 next weekend? Miles has been calling. Can you pls call back?

I went out to my clients and returned home to an email from Daniel.

Oh, I think you can guess.

He wrote that due to "challenges in the last couple weeks, both good and not," he would not be coming next weekend. However, he has decided to come the following weekend.

This he informs me.

I hit the table and "Unnnnnh!-ed" in frustration and anger and general seething hate for a person who, despite my continued benefit-of-doubt giving and inner wounded soul-hushing because this is not about me...despite all that, he has remained true to form.

And left me hanging with a weekend full of plans which include travel and event attendance, including tickets which cannot be refunded. Of course I will keep my plans. I will also let him be the one to tell Miles and Jack that he won't be showing up.

Of course my parents will take care of the boys. Of course my family will clean up yet another mess left by the person who sends checks two weeks late with no warning or explanation. Who is convinced that a weight-loss contest with a six year old is a good idea.

Who seems determined to disappoint his children at every turn.

Who writes me unfathomably inconsiderate emails and signs them "Yours."

Nah, That Ain't Me, Man, I'm From Buffalo.

2007-01-20T07:35:00.000-05:00

He has huge hands, no wonder I was so sore last time.

His hand wrapped around my own, bringing it down to his dick. I jerked my fingers away and slapped his wrist. What is this, high school?

Listen, seriously. If I've had your cock in my mouth, and you know I enjoy it, and I've told you I plan on giving you head, please let me do it my way. Or ask me nicely. Don't push me down there wordlessly--expectantly. Admonishment rose in my throat.

However, I am gracious, and he was stoned.

"I was getting you water," I said. He'd taken my hand as I walked past him on my way to the kitchen and pulled me into his chest and shoulders and kisses. That's when the hand-to-dick manouevre was executed.

"Hmmm, you were getting me water. Yes."

I patted his cheek and met him in the bedroom, waters in hand. He was already in my bed, naked under the covers. He sipped his water, "What, no bourbon?"

"Do you want bourbon?"

"I want you."

"Well, you've got me."

"Naked."

I dropped my jeans and pulled off the top. I tossed the black bra onto the chair, leaving me clad in cheeky black boyshorts.

"Naked."

"But these are nice, yes?"

"Nakednakednaked."

"Oh, all right."

I inched them down and over my hips, wiggling them from side to side, squirming out of them, turning and kicking them over my shoulder with my foot. Of course I caught them.

I slid in beside him. He's a big man. I feel so little when he wraps around me. My feet were cold. My shoulders were cold.

"Your ass is cold."

"I know. . .sorry."

"You have such a nice ass."

"You think? Thank you."

"Yes. Yes. Your skin. Smooth, god, so smooth..."

I giggled and kissed him, "I moisturize daily."

It was stupid banter; we both know I have a nice ass. I like the banter, though. I like the purposeful extension of the moments before we start putting things into each other.

My fingers reached for his right nipple and gave it a tweak. He growled and threw my legs up over my head, diving in with his tongue. He doesn't give the best head in the world, but he is earnest. He is, I think, a little obsessed with making me squirt, and I need more than two minutes of stimulation before that pulling and milking becomes a fun thing to do.

I kept his face there, showing him how I liked my clit played with--how the flicker-fast, barely touching hits of myfingerhistongue make my eyes roll back and my hips push up.

Finally I let him put his fingers in me. Just two. Or maybe three.

"God, I love that sound."

He was up to the third knuckles on his huge fingers and I was growling, opening.

"Rub my. . . my. . . my clit. . . with your. . . uh. . . tongue"

I meant to say "thumb."

He plunged his face down excitedly.

"No, no, no, I meant your thumb. Like this."

He got it. Hallelujah.

"Shit, baby."

I spread my knees wider and grabbed my tits as my back arched. His hand, wet with me, slid up my thigh, over my hipbone and all the way to my mouth. I took the fingers, one by one, sucking them clean.

"You do that so well."

I was on my side. He was on his knees. It only followed that I curl underneath him and suck on something else.

I took his cock between my lips. I nursed on it like a baby. I slid it to the back of my throat and licked the underside up to his balls. I gurgled and he sighed. I looked up at him, blissfully watching his cock slide into my mouth as I grinned.

I think that often people misinterpret what constitutes a good blow job. I think people worry that they don't suck cock fast enough or deep enough or porny enough. I'll fess to head-shaking, ass-fingering, spit-sucking face fucks and gagging on a certain cock while its owner holds my skull flush with his groin until I pound the mattress and blow snot. But here's the thing: I like long, slow, deep, soft wet blowjobs that last for three days. Enjoy that reference if you got it.

That's when I'm in control. I let him fuck my face, but I made him do it slowly. I put his cock down my throat. I made his breath shake and his dick throb and his balls pull up and his mouth gasp, "Unnh, baby, I'm gonna come."

"You're going to come on my face," I hissed, my hand on his shaft, thumb milking his dickhead as he covered my cheeks and hair.

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Hook, Line & Sinker

2007-01-18T15:21:00.001-05:00

See, there's an ad over there. One lady submitting to another lady and, well, her tongue.

I've been meaning to write about FetishFish.com for a while, because it is one of the first fetish sites I checked when I was writing about porn at TGP.com. FetishFish reviews fetish porn sites and rates them, on a scale of 1-100 for content, updates and wankability.

What I like is that there's nothing kept back; if there's a fetish you thought was too strange to exist, you'll probably find it there.

Here's a sampling of the latest list of reviews:

There's good variety there, yeah? The site is updated daily, and extremely well organized, too, which is a huge factor for me when I'm looking for online smut. No pages and pages of galleries, no annoying popups for "Lesbian Sorority Girls Kissing!"

Though, I'm sure you could find them in the easily navigable index. If you're into that sort of thing.

Click through and visit. I'll bet you find something interesting.

Allusions

2007-01-17T12:21:00.000-05:00

I alluded to it last week, when you (you know who you are) bailed me out of a jam.

I'll be making some changes over the next couple of weeks, so I ask for your bear-with-me-ness.

I wanted to give you a heads-up about a couple of things, in the month leading up to the second birthday of this site:

1. Madeline in the Mirror very quietly crossed over the 400,000 visitor mark sometime this morning. Thanks to all of you who read at the site. I know there are also lots of you checking your RSS feeds and I thank you, too. It's been two years of very little promotion on my part, so I'm flattered and humbled that you keep coming back.

2. That said, I am determined to not rely on my former spouse in terms of financial support. Oh, I'll still accept his child support, I just don't want to need it so much. So, here goes. I've decided to open Madeline in the Mirror to advertising.

(She cringes a little)

I'm a fundamentally lazy person when it comes to self-promotion and a bit in a quandary when it comes to selling space on this site which reaches upwards of 1000 of you a day, as I sort of hate the whole naked-pictures-in-my-sidebar thing on a site which really began and continues to exist for the stories.

I promise not to clutter up your reading experience, and plan to promote products I use, sites and people I like and things I would recommend to my friends, whether they're perverts or parents or both.

I've joined Blogads, which will allow advertisers and you to buy up space on my site by clicking the Advertise Here link in the sidebar.

Again, just know, I've anguished about this a bit, and I hope it works out, because I am of the opinion that stasis is deleterious and that things should change and shift.

And if that isn't a damn fine allusion, I don't know what is.

Dearest Readers,

2007-01-10T09:54:00.000-05:00

"I know it is trite, but you are rich in other ways. Those just don't pay the rent"

This comment from laurent just appeared in my inbox, and drove the final nail into what I've been thinking and feeling over the past three days.

I am rich. I am healthy and smart and I'm doing a good job as a mother. I know I am.

I have two gorgeous and brilliant children. I have dear friends who make me laugh. I have people in my life whom I love beyond words.

My profession, while it may never make me rich on paper, fulfils me mentally and spiritually. I love what I do. I can't imagine not doing it. For that alone, I am richer than most people I know.

I thank you, all of you sweet people who took the time to help me. I've got Jack back in school part-time and, apparently, a check in the mail from his father.

Speaking of whom.

This has never happened before--that he's not sent the boys' support check on time--but I'm not naive enough to imagine that it will never happen again. I've decided to implement safeguards against something like this catching me unprepared in the future. More on that later.

Telling me that I "need a sugar daddy" doesn't help, now, does it? No, and as I commented in response to that comment on the last post, what I need is for my children's daddy to be a stand-up guy.

Even more than that, I need to take steps to ensure that I can continue being a good mother while doing what I love and setting a good example for my boys.

It sucks that I can't count on Daniel. It is worse that his sons can't.

But I am lucky that I can count on many of you to be sympathetic and understanding with emails and concerned IMs. I am grateful for your generosity, both of pocket and of love.

Thank you.
Madeline

Problems

2007-01-08T08:46:00.000-05:00

You're here. And you're expecting, maybe, a sex story or review of my new fabulous toys. But I can't post them right now, because I'm totally stressed out.

Did you know that child support isn't late until midnight on the the last day of the month? I sure as fuck didn't.

Now I do.

And I had a choice between paying rent and daycare for Jack. Rent won, and he's home with me until I can cough up five hundred bucks. This will, of course, make seeing clients difficult, but I really have no choice but to hope he'll sit quietly (Yeah, right,) and watch a video while I massage naked people in the other room.

You know, I hate being dependent on the money their dad is supposed to send. Hate. It. I hate feeling vulnerable. I know things will turn around and that this is just a bump in the road, but it feels like a fucking mountain.

I hate asking for help, it just seems weak. But I'm going to, because I'm doing everything else I can think of and getting nowhere.

There's a button on the side for "Mad's Mattress Fund." Usually I just leave it over there and don't think about it too much, but today I'm going to use it. I thought of changing the button to "Send Madeline's Kid to School," but that seemed inappropriate and weird, so I'm leaving it as is. Anything you could send would be hugely appreciated. Really. Even if it's a couple of dollars. Even if half of the people who read this blog in a day donated a dollar.

I know I sound like that guy from the Christian Children's Fund. But it's true. Sad, but true.

Feh, I apologize for this, and I know that you all are sweet and loyal readers who don't come here for stuff like this. Sometimes real life takes over. Hopefully it won't last too long.

Thanks to you all.

Shiny

2006-12-27T08:19:00.000-05:00

Sex toys become more numerous in my home around the holidays.

Sure, I replace the bullet vibes and Orchid G when needed, and I’ll pick up a pair of SmartBalls on a mid-July whim, but as I noticed this morning, my collection grows considerably in late December.

Last year at Christmastime I bought a few silicone dildos from Blowfish, ecstatic at the way they worked with my badass harness. The year before, it was my ever-loving Rock Chick and the aforementioned Dynamic Duo double bullet vibe. Maybe it’s because I’m online anyway, shopping for gifts and ogling the goodness I’d like to be gifted with.

And while I like fuzzy sweaters and sparkly jewelry on other people, my personal taste runs to technology and sex accoutrements.

Oddly enough, my love for gadgets and tech doesn’t transfer to my love for body-stiffening orgasms. I thought I’d be wild over the Internet-Enabled Rabbit vibrator I got last summer and, well, meh. I loved the flashing, swirling lights and the idea that my friend Meg was controlling the piece of plastic in my cunt from a thousand miles away was pretty awesome, but alas, it was unwieldy and the bunny and I are not anatomically suited. So, it sits in the bottom drawer of my sex cabinet. I don’t know what to do with it.

The rabbit experience taught me what I already knew: that sometimes simplicity is best. If you’ve been in my home you know my affinity for clean design and minimalism. There are no afghans or doilies or silk flower arrangements. I like it simple, slick and maybe a little bit hard.

Quelle surprise, eh?

On Friday, December 22, I was finishing some work and preparing for a date. It was one of those easy, day-long preps: getting smooth, polished, trimmed and moisturized accomplished at a languorous pace as I answered emails and holiday phone calls. My skin was still dewy and my toenails still wet when I heard a heavy rumble outside. I threw on a robe and skipped to the window.

A brown cargo van of deliverance was parked in front of my building. Of course it was there for me. On December 22, who else would be receiving a package? I smoothed my hair and waited by the door.

The exchange—my signature for a five-pound box the size of a loaf of bread—went smoothly enough, and I nearly slammed the door in my excitement to get it in the house. I even hurriedly echoed my driver’s “Merry Christmas!” which I never do.

After tearing open the box and reading the Very Sweet Handwritten Note I set my three heavy, satin lined boxes on the futon and snapped a photo.

So simple. So slick. So hard.

So…cold!

I looked at my clock and decided that I had time to try one of them. It was, after all, Global Orgasm Day and I’d be spending the night elsewhere. Besides, after reading the Very Sweet Handwritten Note and noticing that the one of the Njoy boys has the same last name as my own Jeffrey, the boy who taught me to suck my very first cock, I was feeling sweet and wistful and not a little bit horny.

I hefted the steely, cold Pure Wand from its satin lined case and went to the bathroom to clean it.

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Skinny

2006-12-19T08:15:00.000-05:00

The lake was crowded Saturday and Sunday, but now the working folks had vacated their lakefront houses for the week. It was midnight and we were alone. We held hands and walked down to the dock.

The night air was cool on my skin as he tugged off my shirt. My hands pulled at his shorts as I stepped out of the skirt he’d pushed down to my ankles.

Our hands traveled over our bodies in clichéd, slow motion. I felt the smooth skin on his shoulders as one of his hands weighed a breast and the other gripped my ass. We kissed.

We were nighttime kissers. During the day our affections were limited to casual brushes of fingers as one of us handed the other a drink, or suggestive smirks behind sunglasses as we sat on the boat with the five younger kids tubing behind us. Nanny always sat nearby, and along with Lynn the Girl, Rachel and Jefferson’s brother Jesse, flashed knowing looks.

Only when the kids were out of eyesight did we steal kisses or even glances which might suggest a level of intimacy above fond friendship. The tension had a way of building over the course of a day. Something about being so close, wearing next to nothing, unable to do anything about it. Something about being so casual and normal together.

And so, come nighttime, once children were bedded, we were more than anxious to be naked together.

Except that, instead of rending garments in ravenous response to our daytime denial, there was a comfort and languid ease in our after-dark couplings. The self-imposed chastity took its toll, but it was a reminder of the reality of our relationship. Our visits to each other most often do not include our children and it's easy to sink into "let's lie in bed all day." And we do that a lot.

That we were vacationing with family meant that life would revolve around the kids. We would have extremely limited privacy and be up with the sun. I sort of loved it.

I smiled into his mouth as we kissed, naked on the dock, and imagined his mother, Honey, watching from her bedroom above. She could totally hate me. She could totally disapprove of my relationship with her firstborn. But she didn’t.

I have the advantage of coming into Jefferson’s life after his divorce from Lucy. I hadn’t realized just how vitriolic Honey’s feelings ran toward his ex. On our first evening I found out.

I had come out of the guest house to join Jefferson, Honey and Nanny on the porch. They were talking about Jason’s outburst earlier, when one of Frank’s kids had said something about “Maddie, Uncle TJ’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, looking at Jefferson, “is Jason okay?”

“He’s fine, I talked to him, and it’s my fault, for not telling him sooner that you were coming,” said Jefferson. “We talked about it, and he’s fine.”

I made a note to be extra sensitive to Jason.

“Maddie,” Honey began, her head cocked to the side, “d’you know Lucy?"

“No, ma’am, we haven’t met,” I admitted.

“Well, y’ain’t missin’ much,” she said, rolling her eyes and turning away.

It was uncomfortable because I’m uncomfortable talking about someone I’ve never met and about whom I am incapable of drawing my own conclusion. I smiled and changed the subject. Jefferson nodded slightly to me, smiling as Honey's focus was redirected. I wasn't ready to hear her opinion on the mother of his children. It would have been embarrassing.

My face was in his hands now, our bodies pressed together. He started walking me backwards to the end of the dock. He bent down and got a foam noodle. He tossed it out and lowered himself into the lake, pushing off the dock and out to the green cylinder floating in the water.

I smiled. It had been years since I went skinny dipping in a lake.

I sat on the edge of the dock and pushed off, dropping in feet first with hardly a splash.

The water was cool underneath, warmer on the surface. I made my way to him as he waited with his arms folded over the noodle in front of his chest. I swam up and draped my arms over his, facing him. Our faces were wet. I kissed him.

Sometimes when we’re together I forget the circumstances of our relationship. I forget how hard it is to be so far apart. And because we are so similar in so many things, I forget the absolute serendipity of having struck up a conversation with someone whose writing I admired and, six weeks later, flying twelve hundred miles to meet. And then to have things be so easy and normal and then to discover that we are so much the same.

I forget to mark the time when we’re physically together as different from the time we spend apart, because to me, we’re never really apart.

But tonight as I write about the night when Jefferson slowly and silently frog-kicked his way across the inlet with Madeline’s legs wrapped around his body, their faces together, their lips touching, I think, “That was something. That is a memory I want to have forever.”

In the few minutes it took to reach the other side I realized that I got it. I understood him. I understood us. It was so simple.

The back of my head hit metal. The ladder on the dock opposite ours. I giggled and climbed up, being careful not to splash. The rungs were slimy and I made sure to move slowly so as not to lose my footing.

The moon was just past full, and bright. I stepped up onto the dock. There was a wrought-iron table with four chairs and a football, left behind by someone who’d been there over the weekend. Jefferson climbed out and walked toward me, smiling.

Hands were on the backs of necks, pulling lips to lips.

I shivered.

“Cold?”

“Li’l bit,” I whispered, my teeth on the verge of chattering.

He pulled me close, wrapping his arms around my back and waist. I could feel his heart beating.

“Come here, baby,”

He lowered us to the slats and I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to. I wanted to tell him that I understood. That I wasn’t worried about what his family might think. That I don’t care what anyone on the goddamned Internet thinks. That we are something.

He straddled my left leg as I lay on my back, my shoulder blades pressed against the soft, rough wood. His mouth was on my breast and his hand between my legs. I gasped as he bit down. Hot pain seared from behind my eyes and I exhaled, sighing. I could feel the warm wetness of my cunt spreading, slicking his fingers within the folds of my lips.

A kiss, and he pulled back to look me in the eyes.

I knew that look.

He moved his body further down mine.

“No. . . baby . . . you . . .”

My clit fairly jumped at the greeting of his mouth, his tongue flicking across it as his fingers sunk deeper into my body. I turned my head and looked back at the house where our six children slept. One of my hands was on his head as the other cupped my breast and squeezed as his thrusting got deeper and more insistent. My legs extended, back arched, lips pursed together. My breath was forced through my nostrils as my throat tightened and I let out a muffled shriek.

I was about to come. Hard.

He sat back on his haunches and pumped his hand inside my cunt and swirled his thumb on my clit as my feet struggled to brace themselves on the wood, driving my knees up and forward. My eyes closed and rolled back as I gave into his fingers. My hips writhed and I kept my mouth shut, so that I think the only sound coming from me was an epiglottal hiccup each time my body convulsed.

His hand pulled on my G-spot and my voice was a deep "ohhhhhh" vibrato with his rhythm. Then the growl which only happens then: when things are about to get very wet. I couldn’t keep it in.

My come gushed down his arm and between the slats, raining onto the water below us. I could hear it splashing.

He mumbled something about God.

My orgasm subsided; he retrieved his hand from my cunt.

I lay still, lips parted, eyes still closed, and a tear running along my temple towards my ear. I let my knees drop to the side and lay there spiraled.

I looked up at him. He was lying on his side and stroking my cheek.

"Look at you. You are so fucking beautiful.”

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Where's My Gin and Tonica?

2006-12-15T09:21:00.000-05:00

Happy Chanukah.
**Update: More photos here.

Interviewed at Chilli Vanilla

2006-12-05T16:56:00.000-05:00

Well, if there was ever a week to get to know Madeline Glass, this would be the week--on the internet, anyway.

While my smart ass has been hanging out over at Tom's house, my smart brain's been rubbing up against Para at Chilli Vanilla. We finally coordinated our schedules a couple weeks ago for an interview and I let him ask me anything he wanted.

Then I asked him a couple of things.

Mostly I behaved.

You can go read the entire interview here, but here's a bit to whet your appetite:

PK: And what has you motivated now?
M: Well, I got bored just detailing my encounters. I like approaching the writing as writing, which happens to have a lot to do with some very hot sex. Anyone can write about sex I wanted to do it well, and see how that went

PK: More often than not. Much like your sex life, your writing is both fun and varied. You’ve shown a lot of freedom to write in that world between poetry and prose. How do you view your style?

M: My writing style, like my personal style, I guess is eclectic. Verbose, but stripped down when it needs to be I like playing with language and seeing where it goes

PK: You have a certain fatalistic sense of humor in your writing, that a lot of times comes out at the peak of a lot of your stories. What brings that out?

M: What do you mean?

PK: For instance, in your recent stories about William/Billy, you never quite seem to take it completely seriously, in spite of the unbelievable intensity of what is actually happening.

M: Well, I don’t believe in taking fucking so seriously. It’s fun, it’s enjoyable. William was fun, because he, like most people I’m attracted to sexually, didn’t take himself too seriously. It was intensely charged, but a whole lot of fun. Plus, I have a great sense of irony. (more)

So, yeah, it was a good time. Para was super-duper and dorked around with me, which I appreciate. I think it reads very well, and gives you a pretty accurate sense of how it is to have a conversation with me.

I'm coming up on two years of writing this blog, and I'm so glad that Para requested this interview. It seems a fitting way to go into the holidays and to approach the second anniversary of Madeline in the Mirror.

I love that many of you have become my friends. I love that some of you have become much more. Thank you for your concern when things have been rough, and for backing me up when I'm feeling all incensed and broken and shit. But mostly, thank you for reading.

Seriously, y'all, my heart is swelling.

I said my heart.

The B-Word

2006-12-03T22:10:00.000-05:00

At the lake, breakfast was consumed in roughly three shifts: The early bird adults and children, the natural rhythm kids and their parents and finally the teenage stragglers.

Papa and Nanny were always up first, around 5, followed shortly by Jack, who needs less sleep than any child in the history of children, and then slowly, the rest of the younger kids and us.

The teenagers slept until at least 10.

The bacon needed to last through all three shifts. Pancakes could be mixed and cooked on the griddle, eggs could be scrambled, grits would keep on the stove, but bacon was cooked first and saved between paper towels on a plate to be distributed evenly amongst the breakfasters.

Have I mentioned how Jack eats bacon?

If he could have but one food in this life, Jack would choose bacon. Closely followed by cheese. He would eat it for every meal and snacks. If they made a bacon lollipop Jack would have one every day.

When breakfast was over one morning we prepared to go down to the water.

The smaller three were finishing up breakfast as Honey played Solitaire on her computer in teh dining area off the kitchen and Nanny washed up. I'd gone to change into my suit and Jefferson was filling the cooler with ice and beer.

It was 9:30 AM. We'd be on the water until dusk.

Usually, the kids would swim and play around the dock, Jefferson and I would read our books and jump in occasionally to cool off. Around lunchtime someone would go upstairs to make sandwiches and bring them down to everyone else. On that particular day Jefferson was the Kitchen Man. He asked who would like to help him make lunch for everyone. Collie jumped up.

Jack scowled. He'd been crushing on Collie all morning and was not happy to see his new friend desert him.

"Jack, you can come help us, too, baby," Jefferson said.

"No! I don't like Honey!"

A collective gasp rose from the dock. Everyone fell silent.

"What do you mean, you don't like Honey? Everybody likes Honey."

"Nuh-uh, she's mean."

"Why on earth do you say that, baby?"

"Because she told me I couldn't have more bacon this morning and I wanted some! She said we had to save some for the big kids. She's mean!"

We laughed, knowing that he'd had more bacon than anyone at the breakfast table. Jefferson tried convincing Jack, to no avail, of Honey's merits. Collie tried plying him with promises of Fla-Vor-Ice from the freezer while his dad made sandwiches, but nothing would convince Jack to go.

Jefferson flashed me a knowing glance and announced their ascent up the steps.

Lynn The Girl shouted, "Y'all, don't forget the chips!"

I sat back in my chair and watched her and her cousin Rachel in their bikinis, lounging on their floating chaises in the water.

In my book, Roosevelt and Churchill were on their way to the historical meeting of the "Big Three" in Yalta. Churchill insisted on meeting Roosevelt's ship when it docked en route in Malta. He joked to the President that Stalin had sent a cable which read, "I said Yalta, not Malta."

I smirked in recognition. I love how Churchill was constantly impressed with himself and certain of his opinions concerning right and wrong. I love how he could turn such elegant phrases in his essays and speeches and letters and then be unable to resist making such an obvious pun. It is what most delights me about him--this love of language--because I share it.

Miles and Jack were playing in the shallow water with Lillie, looking for mollusks, while Jason read Catcher in the Rye on the boat.

The day before I flew down, I'd asked Jefferson if there was anything I should bring. He asked if I had a copy of Catcher in the Rye.

"Of course I do. Why, did you finish your book already?"

"No, but i thought Jason might enjoy it."

"Oooh, teenaged angst. Yeah, let's give it to him," I tossed the trade paperback into my suitcase.

Normally I'd have thought that a boy of twelve might be too young to comprehend, much less handle J.D. Salinger, but this was Jason, who is extremely sensitive and gentle and smart as hell.

He devoured it in a day and a half.

The beads of sweat were becoming annoying on my forehead and between my breasts. I stood and stretched, walking over to the diving board, grabbing a foam noodle on the way.

I tossed the noodle out toward where the girls were floating and dove in.

The water was cool and my cheeks burned as I surfaced, wiping my eyes with my fingertips.

"Hey, Maddie!"

"Hey, ladies," I smiled as I swam over, "what's all the whispering about?"

"Oh, we're just talking about you and my dad. You guys are so cute together."

"Aw, thanks! That's sweet of you to say. . ." I glanced over at the boat. Jason leaned against his hand, lost in his book. The youngest kids were speaking to each other with bossy authority about something or other as they waded shin-deep near the reeds. I turned back to Lynn The Girl.

"Maddie, it's true! Uncle TJ is like, totally in love with you! It's so obvious!"

"Seriously, Maddie, I've known my dad a long time, and he is way into you."

I smiled. It was nice to hear. I knew how we felt about each other and it was nice to know that others saw it, too. I also knew that there were other people to consider. Jason had balked when someone used the term "girlfriend" to refer to me the night before, and had gone off by himself.

Jefferson had followed, and got him to talk about what was troubling him. I don't know exactly what he said, and it really doesn't matter. I know what it's like to have a sensitive oldest child. Miles' advantage is that he was two and a half when his father and I separated. Jason, poor baby, was nine.

My boys were totally in love with Jefferson as my friend, but they are very young and have no memory of a life with two parents.

Lillie and I were pals. Collie and I traded Star Wars trivia and shared a crush on Han Solo. Jason was sweet to me and polite, but we'd met once, very briefly, before now, and it was unfair to expect anything from him but tolerance of my children's and my presence at his family's vacation home.

I looked at the girls, so carefree: Lynn paddled absentmindedly forward and back, Rachel shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted, her braces glinting, smiling at me.

"You know, it's so awesome being here and meeting you all finally," I said, "but can I ask you two to do me a favor?"

"Sure! What?"

"Could you keep the boyfriend/girlfriend talk to a minimum around the younger kids? It's a lot for them to digest, and we're really okay with being 'friends' around them."

"Oh, totally, yeah," quipped Lynn The Girl.

"Absolutely," added Rachel, "but you two are totally sneaking off and skinny dipping sometime, aren't you?"

I rolled my eyes, grinned and swam back to the ladder at the end of the dock, hoisting myself out of the water, creating cool puddles on the wooden slats as I walked across to my chair, water streaming down my legs.

Jefferson and Collie were nearly to the bottom of the steps when they called out to us, "Lunchtime!"

The girls paddled in, and Lillie and the boys chose the land route back to the dock. Jason put his book aside and came over to the table, which Jefferson and I were clearing of hats, sunscreen and BUST magazines.

"What's for lunch?" asked Jack.

"Peanut butter and jelly, potato chips and watermelon and--hey, Jack, come here!"

Jefferson bent down and grinned conspiratorially at Jack, hiding something behind his back.

Jack advanced, curious as a kid at Christmas.

Jefferson produced the hidden booty: A Ziploc bag containing six strips of bacon.

"Honey asked me to give this to you," Jefferson said, very seriously.

Jack's eyes lit up, "Bacon! Yay! Honey gave me a bag of bacon!"

"Now, do you still think Honey's mean?" asked Collie, winking at me.

Jack shook his head, the bag in one hand, the other holding a bacon strip to his lips, "She gave me a bag of bacon," he whispered, grinning.

"Hey, Miles! Honey gave me a bag of bacon!"

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Want a Piece?

2006-12-01T20:31:00.000-05:00

So, Tom Paine (How I love that pseudonym) has posted a Virtual Top Ten of sex bloggers and well, there's no delicate way to put this: My ass is up there.

Tom wrote to tell me he'd posted my profile photo over at Polyamorously Perverse as Nicest Ass, along with his nine other favorite sex blog categories.

I much prefer admiring my legs and my tits to my ass, but if the sight of my thong'd and garter'd derriere makes you smile, please to enjoy.

Thanks, Tom.

Hot Chocolate

2006-11-30T12:56:00.000-05:00

Snowstorms ideally mean snuggling all naked under a warm duvet with someone you love.

That's my favorite type of snowstorm.

That's not what I'm having today, though. While a massive storm blankets the center of the country with ice and snow, I'll be snuggling naked under the duvet with a device I dearly love. My children have a Snow Day today, which doesn't preclude my wanking, it just means I get to be creative about it.

I'm bribing the children with lots of movies, outside play and my famous Mexican Hot Chocolate. I'm hoping that the warm milk will cause them great sleepiness. I'll let you know how it goes.

Parts

2006-11-14T04:40:00.000-05:00

His fingers in my hair were electric, tiny little shocks from their tips to my scalp, my spine. Kisses burned over eyelids, lips, throats.

His tongue on my clit was delicious, swirling and flicking and tugging and pressing that wave of pleasurepain into my core.

His cock in my mouth was insistent, hips driving up, hands on my head, sighs from his mouth. My name.

His hand in my cunt was merciless, twisting and coaxing and releasing a flood of wetness, a gutterral roar from my belly.

His cheek against mine was gentle, cool, holding me steady in the swirling, sparkly bliss, leading me up the steps.

His eyes on my body were adoring, watching from the bed as I undressed and fitted myself beside him.

His arm over my torso was warm, shielding my bare shoulders from the cool air.

His voice in my ear was smooth, yanking at my heart, quieting my breathing, curling my lips into a smile.

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Swing

2006-11-14T04:34:00.000-05:00

"Another one bites the dust," I whispered as I carried Jack into the guest house. Miles had gone to bed an hour earlier in their room on his own accord. Lillie and Collie had gone upstairs in the main house and Jason was still up watching cartoons with his cousin.

For the duration of our stay the television was on Nickelodeon and Disney rotation: SpongeBob, Jimmy Neutron, FairlyOdd Parents and occasionally, The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. My kids were in television heaven. Back home they never see any of this, as I am a fiendishly strict mother and we don't have cable. But this was vacation, and Miles and Jack had spent the last two weeks adhering to a tight schedule of vacation activities with their dad: Day camp at 8 AM, amusement parks, aquariums, botanical gardens and major league baseball games the rest of the time. I figured they could stand to veg out.

The presence of so many other kids was a welcome change for the boys; they could blend in and when adults were around it wasn't just the two of them under surveillance. We were a big group, and they thought that was really cool.

The children also served to deflect attention from Jefferson and me. So far, during the afternoon swim, photo shoot, dinner and evening boat outing for 15, we'd managed to avoid nosy questions about our relationship. It helped that there were so many kids to keep track of. It also helped that Honey wasn't on the boat.

Papa, Honey and Nanny had turned in by 9 PM and kids were dropping off one by one.

Jefferson poured our bourbons and met me on the big back porch overlooking the lake. Frank was sitting outside, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette.

"Porch swings?"

"Hell, yes."

Jefferson led the way down the wooden steps

We sat on the swing, on a deck halfway down the 53 steps to the water, just far enough from the house to muffle our voices. Frank had was sitting on the swing opposite ours. He stayed and talked until it became clear (my feet tucked under Jefferson's thighs, his fingers toying with the fringe of my cutoff skirt, my hand stroking the hair on the back of his neck) that he should leave us alone. He joined Rachel, Lynn the Girl and Tracy the Boy for smuggled beer and cigarettes.

Frank and the teenagers were sitting on the roof of the boathouse behind us. Occasionally their laughter would carry over and I'd be distracted from our discussion of the book I was reading on Roosevelt and Churchill. That discussion gave way to our making out, which ended abruptly when Frank's loud "Well, I guess we'll go upSTAIRS now," warned us that the group was on its way toward the swing.

We sat back and continued our talk about Franklin and Winston.

"Y'all comin' up, Uncle TJ?" asked Lynn the Girl.

"Eventually, sugar. We're still catching up," said Jefferson.

"Alright, well, see you in the morning!" sang Rachel.

"'Night, baby girl. Love you."

"Love you, too."

"Love you, Uncle TJ! 'Night, Maddie!"

"Don't stay up too late, TJ, these babies are sleeping above you tonight and you know how easy it is to wake them," Frank chided.

"Yeah, yeah. Go to bed, pervert. Love you."

"'Night, Frank," I called.

We sat on the swing, pushing back and forth with the balls of our feet, talking about our kids and listening to the serenading frogs. I looked around at the outlines of trees that surrounded us, almost indistinguishable against the dark sky. It was a quiet Saturday night. Tomorrow would be a crowded day on the lake.

He took my face in his hands and kissed me.

"I adore you."

We stood and walked down the rest of the steps to the boat and stood in the center of it, hidden from the people upstairs.

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Honey

2006-11-07T01:09:00.000-05:00

Jefferson's mother, "Honey," as she is called by her grandchildren (and everyone else, near as I can tell), was more reserved than anyone when we were introduced. She politely shook my hand and welcomed me, asking how my flight was.

To be fair, Jefferson hadn't given her much to go on, as heavily as he guards his privacy when his mother is around. I know she had very little knowledge of me--just that I was a girlfriend of his, divorced with two small children who would all be extremely close geographically on that particular weekend. Since our paths were coming so close to crossing, he'd invited us to join them.

From the first mention of the invitation his mother was interested in my children and, by extension, me. She forwarded a photo of the three of us to family members, smugly challenging them to guess who we were:

"I bet y'all are wondering who this is. These little boys look a lot like Jason and Collie to me. Hummm, I do wonder who this is."

It's true that Miles has dark, shaggy hair like Jason, and that Jack and Collie are blonds. I found the immediate insertion of my children in the family tree sweet, if a bit silly. I was also aware of Honey's nosiness and her mother-need to know intimate details about her children's lives. I was prepared to reveal only what was necessary and to deftly change the subject to her new litter of puppies should a tricky topic come up.

I worried that she'd press me for specifics.

In Jefferson's life his mother had met two of his girlfriends, one of whom he married and who Honey refers to as "The Bitch" when children are not present. That's not daunting or anything.

Divorce is painful for the couple. It's painful for their children. It's also painful for their parents and siblings. Honey is protective of her son. I got that. I thought about how I would feel in her position.

She was being guarded and careful. I would be careful, too.

Jason, Collie and Lillie had been watching TV when we arrived. They came out to the porch and I introduced the kids around, eventually throwing up my hands saying, "Oh, they'll sort each other out."

Jack quickly befriended Jefferson's niece, Abby, who couldn't remember his name and kept referring to him as "Little Boy" and insisting that he call her "Miss Abby." Within an hour they were in four-year-old love.

Miles hung back, half hiding behind my skirt shyly saying hello.

Our bags had been brought to the guest house by Frank and Jesse. Someone suggested we hit the water. In five minutes we were in our suits and heading downstairs to the dock. Introductions continued to be made on the way. I could tell by the glances that Jefferson had been talking with his brothers about me.

Awesome.

I should mention that I have even more brothers than Jefferson, and that I am the lone girl. I can hold my own with boys. Especially boys who like to show off.

Jesse and Frank were in Impress The Guest mode: Offering me beer, chatting me up, testing my ability to bullshit with the best. Each of their questions was answered rapid-fire. Each facetious remark was met with one of my own. I teased and cajoled them as they did each other and Jefferson.

I lost track of how many times I heard the phrase, "TJ, does Maddie know about the time you (fill in the blank)? Aw, now! Hey, Maddie, you'll never believe this!"

I liked them. A lot. It was just like being home.

More family arrived. Rachel, Jefferson's oldest, came sauntering down to the water in her bikini.

"Ray-chullllllll! Hey, y'all! Rachel's here!"

The calls rose up from the dock in unison. Wolf whistles from her uncles and my "Good Lord, she's gorgeous," met with a nod and a "Told you so," from Jefferson.

I'd had an online friendship with Rachel for several months, ever since she'd requested a webcam introduction while visiting Jefferson last winter. She had taken it on herself to vet me out as a good match for her dad, one of the criteria being my shoe size. I have no idea why.

I walked over and hugged her hello. She was a hotter, girl version of Jefferson. Bullseye. She made herself at home with her cousins and siblings. She spoke to my kids like adults. She was so in with me.

Rachel was joined by her cousins Lynn The Girl and Tracy The Boy-- teenage siblings and more combined hotness than I wanted to think about. I hoped my mouth didn't hang open much.

Papa, Jefferson's father, cut open a watermelon and kids dove for wedges. This would become a daily happening: Watermelon on the dock.

Once everyone had arrived it was time to take the family picture. I'd volunteered as photographer and stood off to the side with Miles as the twenty family members chose positions on the stairs.

"Jack! Come on, baby," My accent was growing twangier by the minute, "come over here and stand by Momma. You don't get to be in this picture, honey."

Except that he did.

Because Honey said that he could.

Twenty people sitting on the stairs. Twenty-one counting the tiny blond boy in the front row. The one who knows that grown-ups will totally cave when he smiles. You know, the one sitting in front of the grown-up blond they all call TJ.

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In.Fek.Shun.

2006-11-03T12:56:00.000-05:00

I ache in all my muscles, my head feels like it weighs about 20 pounds (which it may, given the quantities of tissues I'm using up), there is that tightness in my chest and the rattly "oh, fuck, don't let me cough now because it's going to hurt like a bitch" sound and sensation when I inhale.

When I cough, I spit brown into the toilet.

(I didn't tell you this would be pretty.)

But this morning, while navigating the tisues which had missed the basket on the floor beside my bed, I caught a glimpse of my Dynamic Duo on my nightstand. I seriously thought about wanking.

I didn't, thinking that an orgasm might very well lead to spontaneous combustion or, at the very least, my head would explode. I worried that I might not be able to breathe if I were to achieve bliss. Because sometimes that happens. And my nose doesn't really work anyway.

Also, my skin hurts. Like, it's extraordinarily sensitive to pressure. I was putting on lotion after my shower and it hurt to smooth it over my body. My body, which is swollen and sensitive because, along with my upper respiratory infection, I also have my period.

I thought about fucking this morning. I've been writing about it and reading about it and so I had a brief thought interlude about me fucking. About me being fucked well: Slowly, and with great tenderness and love. Let me just say that the thought of this left me feeling a not a little scared. The aching muscles are not just in my neck and back. Envisioning a cock invading my pussy makes me shudder. Which is weird.

It's because I'm sick. Because I feel like ass. I want someone to take care of me. That's why I was having disturbing thoughts about wanking and fucking. I don't want sex. I want closeness--that closeness that happens when someone knows what you need and you don't have to tell them. The closeness that lets you exist together easily. That is what's missing. That is what I need today.

I drink tea and blow my nose and feebly fold little-boy-underwear and write and help my friends with their projects. I fantasize about sleeping.

I want to lie on my new mattress (I don't have one yet, this is my dream, folks.) propped into the most comfortable position and be lulled to sleep by the warmth of a hand on my head and the sound of even breaths going in, going out.

I want to fall asleep knowing that someone is here to care for me, making soup from my kitchen and holding the cup for me later as I drink it, steaming hot and salty.

Southern Cross

2006-10-21T07:54:00.000-05:00

"You look gorgeous. Look at your hair!"

I vamped. "You like?"

"I like the bangs. Grrowl..."

He was standing at the curb as I walked toward him with bags in both hands. He stepped off and opened the rear cargo door. I met him behind the car and set my bags down. Despite the heavy heat, we held each other close.

He smelled like sunscreen.

His arms encircled my waist and he let his fingers brush across my linen sundress, dropping to rest on my hips, bunching the fabric in his fists. We kissed.

I'd missed this--how a good kiss from him tugs at my lips, my heart and my sex all at once. I sighed into his mouth and smiled as we stood with our foreheads tilted together.

"Damn, honey, you smell good."

"Aw, thank you. Glad you like it."

"I give it two days, tops. Soon you'll smell of lake water and sweat like the rest of us."

"Me? Never. I have a PhD in smelling good."

He reached down and picked up my small suitcase, flipping it into the back and setting my tote next to it.

We climbed into the front seats.

"I can't believe I'm here!"

"Oh, it'll hit you at about the fourteenth introduction to another member of my family. Let's go pick up the rest of yours."

We pulled out and followed the traffic to the airport exit.

We pulled into the Waffle House parking lot and spotted Daniel and Deiondra walking out the door with Miles and Jack.

"There they are," I said, smiling.

"Oh, honey, you're way hotter than she is."

"Right? And I'm thinner, too. That's for sure."

We got out of the car and my heart did a flip when Miles started running toward me shouting, "Momma!"

Was it me, or had he gotten more gorgeous since I'd last seen him, with his tan skin, freckles and dark brown hair falling into his coffee-colored eyes?

I scooped him up and swung him around. Jack jumped up onto my arm and held on like a monkey. My tiny blond monkey. I set them both down and squeezed them. I'd had total freedom in the preceding two weeks, but I'd missed them too much.

Suddenly I had been free to do whatever I pleased, yet there were evenings when I found myself sitting on the floor of my living room wondering what I should do. Like, "I could go to dinner, I could call a friend, I could see a movie...what do people without spouses or children do on nights like this?"

Back in the parking lot introductions were made and Deiondra and I exchanged pleasantries, conveniently avoiding the topic of her very pregnant belly. The four of us got the kids loaded and buckled and their bags transfered very quickly.

I had been warned that we'd best not tarry en route to meet them, as Daniel had a schedule to keep. Apparently my arrival conflicted with his plans to watch the World Cup Soccer final that afternoon. You know.

We waved goodbye to Daniel and Deiondra and pulled onto the highway. The boys were exhausted and soon were begging to watch a DVD. I loaded Chicken Little into the fancy built-in DVD player and within minutes they were asleep for the two-hour drive.

In the quiet of the car we talked--my eyes traveling to his profile as he drove--about the last two weeks, his escapades and mine. I laid my head in his lap, stroking the skin of his thigh, looking back at the sleeping boys and then up at his neck thinking how happy I was to be there.

My reminder of where I was spending the next week came a moment later: A gigantic Confederate flag flew on a very tall flagpole which had been erected next to the federal highway. I shook my head in disbelief. He echoed my sentiments: "Wow."

When we neared our destination I roused Miles and Jack, who rallied and pretended that they'd never even been asleep.

"We're almost there," I cheered, "wake up, sleepyheads!"

As cotton fields and double-wide trailers gave way to densely wooded roads I could tell we were getting close. I looked at him and smiled. This was big.

We pulled into a very steep circle drive overlooking the lake, about eighty feet below.

"There's Jesse," he smiled, "of course he'd be the first to greet you."

I stepped out of the car, looking back at the boys who were still a little out of it, and came face to face with brother Jesse. His expression was vaguely familiar. I extended my hand.

"Hi, Jesse. Madeline. Nice to meet you," I said, smiling.

"Aw, now, we don't shake hands here," came his reply.

Well, you don't have to tell me twice. I kissed that boy's cheek and hugged him close.

Frank was next, his cigarette finished, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and flip flops with long dark hair and piercing eyes. He kissed my cheek and held on for a while before he went to help carry bags. Total flirt. I could tell we would get on well.

"Damn," I thought, "this is a good looking family."

We unloaded the boys and walked down the steps around to the side of the house where I was greeted by the most awesome thing.

A slight woman in her eighties with sparkling blue eyes and a spirit which would not be contained came around the side of the house.

She walked straight over, looked up at me and sang, "Hai! I'm Nanny!" and gave me the sweetest hug ever.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am, I'm Madeline" I gushed. I had never met her, but I knew the significance of this, "and these are my boys, Miles and Jack." I pulled away and smiled at her.

"Jefferson's told me so much about you."

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Played Out

2006-10-16T20:56:00.000-05:00

The nice thing about having a dirty old pervert disguised as a church deacon for my landlord is that when he asks whether I'm renewing my lease I can say, "Yes, if you replace the carpet in my apartment with hardwood floors."

And actually get it.

See, he'd been creepy and pervy a couple of years ago and I'd called him on it. I can only assume that his extreme willingness to do my bidding stems from the fear that I'll tell his wife that he skeeves me out and why.

I could have moved, but this arrangement isn't so bad. Leverage is nice in situations such as the one in which I found myself that day in June. The carpet in my apartment was nasty. And Creepy Landlord Guy removed it and installed new floors.

See how my life works?

At 11 PM I walked into my dark apartment. It smelled of sawdust and echoed when I walked across the room. I still had to put everything back in its place before I left for vacation in 36 hours.

I got right to work moving furniture. I needed a distraction after saying goodnight to my dinner date.

I met the Rugby Player via his ad on Craigslist. He was looking for a woman who would fuck him with a strap-on.

What is it with that, anyway? Suddenly all these guys want to be plowed with girlcock? Whatever; I'd had a great time with Billy (I mean, William), and I was looking forward to seeing my kids and having a vacation together, but I had time for one more distraction before I took off.

He'd called on his way to pick me up and I carted the trash out and stood outside a different building watching for a BMW SUV.

Really, that should have been my first clue.

I waved as the car/machine pulled up and climbed in. As he backed out of the space I took stock: His ad read 43, blond hair, athletic build. The dude was 50 if he was a day, with hair that used to be blond and a body that used to be athletic. Oh, and the mullet-with-sideburns thing?

Yeah, you see where this is going.

But, appearances can be deceiving, and we'd spoken on the phone in a somewhat normal fashion, so I decided dinner wouldn't kill me.

We parked at the steakhouse and got out of the car. For the first time I stood next to him. Freaking great. He'd lied about his height, too. He was maybe 5'7" (explains the BMW), when his ad had said 5'11".

Then he looked me up and down in my clingy wrap dress and said, "Ooh, you're a hot little number, aren't you?"

I swear to god. A Hot Little Number. What?

No way could I get naked with this guy. But I would most definitely order bourbon and a filet mignon, thank you.

We were shown to our booth where he proceeded to slide in next to me asking, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Actually, I'd prefer to look at you while we talk."

Not to mention that I know people in this town. A lot of people.

Not to mention that he'd have been groping me all through dinner, which he'd already done in the parking lot, loudly noting the absence of panties across my ass.

Charming.

The waiter, an ebullient gay boy came to take our drink orders.

"The lady will have a glass of red wine and . . ."

"Excuse me, Rugby Player, I can order for myself," I turned to the boy very seriously, "Maker's Mark. Rocks. Double, please."

The waiter looked at me with a mix of fear and pity and scampered off to get our drinks.

Rugby Player rolled his eyes, apparently at the gayness of it all and apologized, "Sorry, Maddie, but I'm just used to ordering for my lady."

I smiled to lighten the mood, "Well, sir, I'm nobody's lady."

"You're smart! I like that!"

Christ, next he was going to call me feisty. I changed the subject. He changed it back. What books did I like? Did I listen to Steely Dan?

By the time we ordered dinner, I'd finished my drink and ordered another.

During a lull he looked straight at my chest and said, "You really have some beautiful breastages there."

Breastages.

I'm completely serious.

Needless to say, the only inhibitions lowered by my bourbon consumption that evening were verbal ones.

On the drive back to my complex he put his hand on my leg and told me he'd felt chemistry between us and that he didn't want the evening to end so soon.

I thanked him for dinner, removed his hand and replied politely that I was flattered, but I couldn't echo his sentiments.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not attracted to you sexually."

"Will you still bend me over?"

"Um, no."

God, I needed a fucking vacation. I couldn't get out of town quickly enough.

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Once Upon a Mattress

2006-09-25T23:37:00.000-05:00

I woke up at 2 AM a couple months ago. Jack had crawled into bed with me and had an accident. He wears Pull-Ups to bed, but he's so tiny that sometimes they gape at the legs. Ergo, pee on my sheets. Ergo, pee on my egg crate foam mattress topper.

I stripped the sheets after changing Jack and redirecting him to his own bed. The mattress topper was ruined. There is no way to clean pee from foam rubber. I rolled it up and set it by the front door to go to the trash in the morning and got back into bed between clean sheets.

I couldn't fall asleep. I kept tossing and turning and flopping back and forth, the springs of my mattress groaning with each movement.

This is ridiculous, I thought at 5 AM.

I rolled over to get out of bed and felt metal beneath my body.

Just to be sure, I tried it again, this time rolling to the other side of the bed. Plain as day, I could make out the web of springs under the surface of the cheap-ass mattress which had served me well for the last three years.

I needed a new mattress.

I couldn't afford a new mattress. I had medical bills from Miles' broken arms, a car in desperate need of a timing belt and other obligations.

I piled six or seven fleece blankets atop my mattress and stretched the fitted sheet over them. It is bearable, but I can still feel the metal poking me from time to time.

Especially when I am on my hands and knees.

And the noise!

My upstairs neighbor, I'm sure, now thinks I have lots more sex than I actually do, because every time I roll over my mattress groans as if it's competing in the sex olympics. Would that it could. I worry about bringing someone home for fear that they'll injure themselves on my bed, and not in the good way.

I consistently wake up aching. I am 34 years old. I should not ache when I rise each morning. Okay, some mornings, yes. When there's a good reason for it.

I need a new mattress.

My friends had an idea.

Chelsea Girl, Juno Henry and O have been so kind as to point me in the direction of the Amazon Honor System. It's a truly ingenious system whereby readers can make donations to this blog by using Amazon.com's secure site. I've decided to raise money for a New Mattress for Madeline. Because, let's face it, if I'm going to write about sex, I need to be having some. And feeling rested enough to write about it post-coitally.

So I'm asking for your help.

Click on the little button up there and you can make a donation from $1 to $50 (You can, of course, donate more, you just need to repeat the process.).

You can even check on my little fundraiser's progress while you're there. Cool, huh?

But your kindness won't go unrewarded.

To show my appreciation, if you donate $20 or more I'll send you an audio file of me reading one of my favorite posts. If you donate $50 or more, tell me your favorite post and I'll read it, record it and send it off to your inbox with my thanks.

Come on, you know you want my voice whispering things like "I took his throbbing cock down my throat" into your headphones during your morning commute.

Pegged

2006-09-25T22:59:00.000-05:00

I stood and steadied myself on his shoulder as blood rushed from my head. I took a sip of my bourbon and kissed him softly.

"I'm going to take good care of you, Billy. William."

"Why do you call me William?" he whispered.

"I like it. It's nicer than Billy. And I believe that if one is going to have one's lights fucked out, one should be addressed by one's proper name. And I fully intend to fuck your lights out." My voice was barely a whisper into his ear as my hand reached down to fondle the erection in his boxers.

He smiled and laughed nervously.

I walked him into the bedroom.

I turned and took his baseball cap, tossing it into the corner, "Take this ridiculous thing off. It makes you look twelve."

I lowered the boxers and knelt to inspect his cock.

"It's not very big. I shave it so it looks bigger." More nervous laughter.

I said nothing; just took it in.

His cock jumped and then he stood there, passively.

After a few minutes of slow and deliberate cocksucking I pulled back.

"William, you need to fuck my face. You need to hit the back of my throat with your cock. I'm serious."

He nodded, and I held my head still as he held me behind the ears and bobbed into me. My lips pursed and the sound they made as his dick slid between them made me very wet. I moaned.

"Your turn," he said, as he pulled out and helped me stand. He tossed me back onto the bed.

I laughed, a bit drunk. He pulled me to the edge of the bed and I felt vaguely like I was at the gyno's office ("Scoot your bottom to the end of the table. Good girl.").

Oh, that makes me miss my gynecologist in Detroit, Dr. Amnon. Sigh. But that's another story. Promise.

Then, as if the thought had just landed in his head he said, "Oh! Where are your toys?"

"Hah! Right here."

I flipped over and flung my body across the bed, reaching into the far nightstand. I started tossing things over my shoulder onto the mattress.

"Good lord," he said, picking up a dildo.

I'd stopped, holding the blue Buzz dildo in my hand, remembering a previous conversation. My oral sex could wait. I wanted to test his skills. I reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out the harness.

I stepped off the bed next to the nightstand and stepped into it as he watched wordlessly. I fitted the dildo through the O ring and pulled the harness down on my hips. I walked around the bed and stood in front of him.

He was breathing fast.

"Suck my cock. Now."

He went to his knees and immediately deep-throated the silicone.

"William. Look at me. Slow down and enjoy sucking my cock. Put your arms around my legs. Pinch a nipple. Use your tongue. Do you like how that feels on your tongue?"

"Mmmmmmmnhmmmmmn"

"Me, too."

He looked up, as if to protest that it wasn't a real cock, that it couldn't be affecting me.

But it was. The sight of this gingi-boy sucking my big blue cock made me giddy. And goddamn, I wanted to fuck him. I put my hand on the back of his head and began to fuck his face.

By this time the silicone had warmed up nicely and was sliding in and out and down his throat easily.

"Baby, you are a very good cocksucker."

He smiled, "Maybe you can invite me over when one of your other boyfriends is here."

"So you can suck their cocks and watch them fuck me?"

"Uh huh."

At that point I might have given him anything he asked for, but the thought of fucking my boyfriend while he watched electrified my clit and my chest pounded with ache. Damn it, I missed my boyfriend.

I needed to fuck.

Hard.

I told Billy as much and he happily got onto his back. He lubed himself as I pulled a condom onto the dildo. As he held his legs back, I pressed my cockhead against his hole. I slid right in.

I started fucking slowly, easily, remembering that he'd never been fucked in the ass. Presently, though, the thought occurred to me: He's pretty wasted, into it and this hole is more than ready for some action.

I flipped him over and started pounding him, calling him a freak who liked to have his ass fucked because he couldn't please a woman with his small dick. I called him names. I pinched his nipples until he moaned. And the more I degraded him the hotter the fucking got. He pushed back onto my cock as it sunk into him. I slapped his haunches and held him there as I came, thrusting in place deep inside.

While i was there I encircled his dick with my thumb and forefinger and stroked him once, twice, three times a lady and he shot on my sheets with a cry.

It was as if I'd actually sprouted a cock. I was shaking and felt it as an extension of myself inside him.

I replayed the scene in my head--the degradation of Billy. That was kind of a mindfuck. I don't do that. I barely talk during sex, let alone talk dirty.

I wanted a break.

I pulled out quickly and walked to the bathroom, leaving him to recover on the bed, the drunk-ass motherfucker.

As I sipped my water, I gathered my thoughts, reassured myself and relished in the feeling of a successful fuck.

I looked at the clock. Four and a half hours since he told me about his panty fetish.

I was in no rush to get rid of him. And he was in no condition to drive home. He would leave later, after dinner and several more hours of sex.

I walked back to the bedroom. He was sprawled face down on the bed.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Oh, man, that was awesome!"

"Yeah, you did great, darlin. You really took it in."

"Yeah, and now I'm starving! Let's go eat."

"Why don't we just order something?"

"No! I want to go out! My treat."

I drove.

He chose Greek.

How appropriate, I thought.

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2006-09-20T16:28:00.000-05:00

I waved goodbye to my babies, strapped into their car seats, embarking on an adventure which would take them away for two weeks. I didn’t cry, though I felt that I should.

What came next were two weeks of shameless debauchery, peppered with phone calls and webcam dates with the boys. They talked about the summer camp they were attending, the many virtues of Deiondra's cat and the fact that there was a huge piñata in the backyard for their joint birthday party at the end of their visit.

The fact that the kids were gone gave my mother the notion that I would be at a loss for things to do. I called Jackson. He agreed to call me every other day and invite me to do something with him and his girlfriend. That way, when my mother asked what my plans were for an evening or a weekend I could say, honestly, that he'd invited me out.

I never saw Jackson those two weeks.

I saw a lot of Thomas. Anthony. Curtis. And Billy.

Billy posted an ad on Craigslist which sounded innocuous enough, with the phrase "busy professional" worked in. Translation: He doesn't have time for or interest in bullshit. He was my age with strawberry blond hair and freckles and a nice build. Billy also had a keen interest in being dominated by a girl.

My heart leapt with excitement.

"I know; it's pretty freaky, right?"

"I don't think it's freaky at all," I replied, "tell me more."

He told me about a girl he'd picked up, taken to a sex shop and fucked in the dressing room where they were interrupted by another guy. Billy invited the guy to take a turn while he watched.

"I guess I'm into being cucked. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes. Tell me, do you ever participate?"

"With the dude? Sometimes."

"Giver or receiver?"

"I like to suck. I've never been pegged, but I'd like to try it. I'm a total freak. I'm freaking you out, aren't I?"

If he only knew.

"You most certainly are not. When can we get together?"

"Friday afternoon?"

"Lunch? How about a drink?"

"How about I schedule a massage? I'm really nervous about this, and that might relax me."

"We can do that. But you have to know that I'm not THAT kind of massage therapist. I mean, it's all totally ethical."

"Oh, yeah, I'll pay you and no funny business. I didn't mean to suggest..."

"That's fine. Let's schedule a massage and get comfortable with each other. One o'clock?"

He phoned at noon, saying he'd finished his meeting early and was on his way to my town, "I'm really nervous. I was going to stop at the brewpub downtown and have a beer before i came over, and I thought you might want to join me--my treat."

He picked me up on his way downtown and we sat at a corner table. We ordered our beers and talked about him. I kept to one beer. After two he loosened up and started to smile. After three he was confessing to a secret fetish he'd had for a dozen years: Tight, shiny panties.

"Oooh! Like, so tight that they cut into the hips? And you can see them digging?"

"Uh huh. And the shinier the better."

"Damn, that's hot."

He grinned.

We left and drove to my apartment.

"Are you still wanting a massage?"

"Definitely. No funny business."

I left the room and came back a few minutes later. He was under the sheet, ready for work. I kicked off my sandals.

I started with his upper back and shoulders, stretching, kneading and pulling while digging my elbow into the trigger points between his shoulderblades.

After about 20 minutes he needed a bathroom break. He grinned sheepishly and walked across the floor in his boxers. When he came back I continued the massage. We talked about his work, his divorce and baby son named Jack.

25 minutes later his hands were hanging straight down at the head of the table where I stood stroking parallel paths from his neck to his low back.

I felt his fingers graze my ankles.

"Is this allowed?"

"If you touch me like that I'll have to end this session and fire you as a client."

His hands moved up my calves.

"Wow, your legs are so muscular!"

His fingers stopped behind my knees.

"William, this session is over. I can't be your massage therapist any longer."

"Oh, that's too bad."

He raised my skirt and caressed the backs of my thighs. I pulled back.

"Now that we are no longer therapist and client I want you to get me a drink. Pour one for yourself if you'd like. You'll find the bourbon in the cabinet to the right of the sink along with the glasses. Three cubes and two fingers for me, please."

He sat up.

"Do you have any beer?"

"William. I have bourbon."

He turned and walked into the kitchen. He was a little loopy.

I stripped and climbed onto the table as the cabinet door closed, glasses were plunked onto the countertop, ice cracked and dropped into glasses. I listened to the delicious thunngg of cork pulling free from bottle, followed by the glug-glug of bourbon rushing downward.

I raised myself on my elbows and watched him.

He came back with the drinks, clearly not accustomed to the finer points of whiskey drinking: He'd poured us both glasses 3/4 full of bourbon.

"This shit is really strong."

"Easy, baby, you need to sip it. Maybe you'd like a glass of water? So you can alternate?" I asked, taking a drink and swallowing.

"Nah, I'm good. I've just never drunk bourbon before."

Uh oh.

"This is going to be fun."

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Hummer

2006-09-11T12:58:00.000-05:00

Every morning at Miles' school they "invite you to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance." Some kids recite it word for word, hands on hearts, at the tops of their voices. Other kids stand respectfully, turned toward Old Glory on the gym wall.

We parents stand, too. I imagine that the parents who choose not to recite the pledge have children who say it, and vice versa.

I never heard the pledge without the words "under God," but when I discovered that they were an addendum during the Cold War--a reactionary alteration against the threat of Communism--I stoppped saying them. For fifteen years I've hummed to myself while two words which I don't believe belong in a public institution flow past.

This morning, when Mrs. Lester said, "Today is September the Eleventh. I want you to pay special attention to the meaning of the words we say today, and I invite you to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance," my eyes started to tear.

Oh, shit, she's really doing it, isn't she?

I put my hand on my heart and just stood there, eyes burning, swallowing because I totally choked.

I still hummed when they got to the God part.

Countdown

2006-09-04T21:33:00.000-05:00

Two Weeks
Daniel, you'll recall, phoned to tell me he'd gotten married and his new wife Deiondra was with child. I got off the phone before my laughter betrayed me.

One Week
It occurred to me that I hadn't thought to find out how far along in her pregnancy Deiondra was. I inquired and learned that, yes, she was seven and a half months along. I shouldn't worry, Daniel assured me, as Deiondra was feeling great, and the pregnancy was progressing very smoothly.

Um, okay, really not my concern.

Jack had something which looked like a chigger bite in his groin which swelled up to the size of a cherry within a couple of days. I took him to the doctor, who guessed it was another infected spider bite and prescribed antibiotics. The thing came to a head and oozed yellow pus down his thigh as Jack stood naked on his tiptoes in the kitchen, hands to his sides, palms up, eyes wide, paralyzed and with a look of sheer disgust on his face.

Because it was a pustule.

Five Days
Daniel and Deiondra and I spoke on the phone about the boys' upcoming visit. They would be spending two weeks with their dad in his new house, with his new wife and her burgeoning belly. Deiondra asked a ton of questions. She has no experience with children. Mine are going to eat you for breakfast, I thought. Good, though, that she was asking; even if it was for show, I felt better sending the boys knowing she was taking notes and seemed concerned about what might happen to her should she fuck things up.

Two Days
Miles and I went to the Orthopedic office to get his cast removed. He'd been in it for six weeks and all I can say is thank dog for Gore-Tex because if he'd not been able to swim all summer I'm not sure what we'd have done. He freaked out at the sight of his pale, skinny forearm and felt better when the wrist brace was slid over it and fastened with velcro on the side.

One Day
Miles had a cough and an earache. I took him to the urgent care clinic because it was Saturday. He got a new inhaler and ear drops. Of course this would happen on their last day in town. Of course now they will be fine when they are with Daniel. We went to their favorite sandwich place to eat and I let them get second helpings of ice cream.

Four Hours
As I packed their bag earlier in the evening I'd laid out clothes for a week for each of them, along with books and a few games they'd requested. I'd washed the baby blankets my mother had knitted when they were born and used extra softener in the rinse. I'd printed out the list of everything I'd packed. I'd printed the CD label for the vacation mix I'd made them.

I turned out the lights and slid between them on the futon in the living room.

I contemplated the two weeks until I would see them: Time to work as many hours a day as I could, eat whatever I wanted, clean out their closet without any protests. Go to movies. Dinner. And sex. I could have as much sex as I decided to have. Suddenly the world seemed huge and even though I wanted to bite it, the fact that the possibilities were so great scared me a little.

We had never been apart for more than six days. In a few hours they would board an airplane with their father and fly--for the first time that either of them would remember--away from me for two weeks.

I snuggled with each in turn. I whispered that I would miss them and that I loved them very much. I fell asleep with my babies curled into my body, heads nestled in the crooks of my arms.

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III. The Dangling Conversation

2006-08-26T07:47:00.000-05:00

Friendships like ours are funny.

We’ve known each other for 18 years, more or less, and I can’t tell you his middle name. He scowls. He is cranky more often than not. He disappears for months and doesn’t explain why when he returns.

Not that I require much in the way of explanation.

We don’t talk about our feelings.

He’s said he feels sexually proprietary toward me. I’ve said that is a problem. He knows it is.

We check in on mundane things: Work, health, travel.

Occasionally we’ll talk about sex.

He regularly annoys me.

But then he is a sympathetic and realistic voice when I need to talk about my divorce or my children (usually both, actually).

Late one night I was awake, upset by something my former husband Daniel had done or said. We chatted and, because I was clearly upset he called me. He called Daniel a douchebag and that made me laugh, because I hadn’t heard that word in forever.

And aside from that one conversation a couple years ago when he told me I’d hurt him by sleeping with his roommate in college, we have never discussed anything close to a topic of “us.”

He’s known me over half my life. I like having that connecting thread.

A few days ago he phoned. He’s been working on a new project which is very exciting and he was in a talkative mood.

Me: So I wanted to just say, again, that it really was fun seeing you this summer.

Him: Indeed. What was the most fun?

Me: Besides the coming? I guess the familiarity and comfort I felt. We were cool, and it was nice to not have any performance anxiety.

Him: It felt safe.

Me: Yeah.

Him: Question:

Me: Yess?

Him: Do you do Kegel exercises?

Me: Why do you ask?

Him: Curious.

I thought about it for a second. I don’t schedule Kegel sessions on my calendar, but I do some serious pussy clenching during sex and masturbation. Hmmm…

Me: Every day.

Him: Because—(truth?)

Me: Truth.

Him: I was preparing myself for a blown-out pussy.

Me: MINE?! What? From babies?!

Him: It happens.

Me: Not to me, it doesn’t.

Him: Yours was anything but. How do you ever get fisted?

Me: Oh, you know, it stretches. Just takes a little time. But, um, thanks for the compliments; first my ‘little girl nipples’ and now this. I feel a rush of blood to my cheeks. By the way, what did you enjoy the most?

Him: Fucking you. And the blowjob. That was nice.

Me: Uh-huh!

Him: Why do you like that so much?

Me: I like the effect cocksucking has: Seeing and hearing the way your body responds, knowing it’s because of what I’m doing. It’s hot.

Him: Indeed...

I don’t ask him when he’s coming to town again.

He doesn’t ask me to come to the west coast.

There’s always a hesitation, a holding back, like we know better than to talk about those things. It's much easier to keep it superficial.

I think maybe he reads this blog.

I wonder if he does, in fact.

I’m not sure I want to know, so I don’t bring it up. I probably won’t.

I don’t think he will, either.

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II. Bookends

2006-08-18T23:04:00.000-05:00

He pushed my dress up past my breasts, his fingers pulling aside the fabric of my bathing suit and gliding over my nipples.

I slid it the rest of the way off over my head. He sat me up, back to him and untied the string between my shoulder blades. My bikini top came off.

I pushed him down onto his back and crawled up to his chest. I kissed his nipples, licked and gently bit them. His hands stroked my back, then moved to my chest, caressing my tits. I sat back on my heels next to him.

"You have the cutest nipples."

"What?"

"Yeah, they're like little girl nipples."

"Really? What makes you say that?" I said, looking down and fingering my nipples.

"They're tight and compact and the areolas are small. You don't expect nipples like those on tits as big as yours. It's hot."

"I think that may have been the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to my nipples," I said, moving lower on his body, "Thank you."

And with that I took his cock in my mouth and sucked as if I'd been starving for a month.

I had no idea what he liked in terms of blowjobs. The last time we'd been naked in a bed together was 1992 and then the only reason my mouth would have been on his dick was because he'd pushed my head down there. Then I was earnest, because I'd wanted to please him, but I never really enjoyed doing it.

That was then, before I understood the power of cocksucking.

I took my time. I took my cues from his voice and breathing and the flexing of his hips.

"That feels so good . . . " he said, as i stroked his shaft with my hand while licking his balls.

I smiled. I was having fun and I was glad he was here. It was comfortable and fun and relaxed. No pressure.

His breathing shifted. I looked up at him, questioning with my eyes.

"I thought there'd be no way you'd make me come with your mouth, but now I'm not so sure . . . you'd better stop."

I pulled off and smiled. I went to grab a condom from my drawer. I found ONE. I'd ordered a carton four days earlier, but they hadn't arrived yet. I rolled the latex onto his wet cock and suddenly realized that I needed to pee.

Better to do it now than be terribly uncomfortable fucking, I reasoned.

"I have to pee."

"Now?"

"Yes! I'm sorry, but I really have to go. I'll be quick."

When I returned he pulled me onto the bed and turned me around.

On my hands and knees, I closed my eyes. I could feel him behind me, kicking my knees apart, pushing my shoulders down. I arched my back, knowing instinctively the best angle for his cock to slip inside me.

The head of his cock pressed against my lips which were trying to suck it in. I knew this game. He would wait, poised, until I got so worked up that I'd slam myself back and he'd slice into my cunt like a knife through butter.

I was already swollen and wet from his tongue and fingers and just the thought of fucking was making me a little bit insane. I circled myself around his cock, not letting it in, feeling its hot hardness at the entrance to my pussy. He sighed and grabbed my hips. I slammed back.

As we started to fuck I tightened my cunt around his cock.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, fucking harder and faster.

And then, he came.

As soon as I figured out what was going on I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. Lucky for me, he is secure in his virility. He collapsed on top of me, his cock shaking inside me as he laughed hysterically. Neither one of us could speak, breaking only for gasps of air, only to start giggling again.

"Well," he managed, holding the condom as he pulled out, "that was unexpected."

I howled, "Dude, that was my only condom!"

We lay on my bed, our hands touching each other familiarly. We didn't talk about the past or our personal lives now.

He said he was hungry now, too, and I offered to drive us to his favorite Mexican take-out place for burritos. There's always a place like that you want to visit when you go back home. While I grabbed my jacket he went to his car and came back inside for me.

"Jeez, this place needs to air out a little," he laughed.

"What?"

"It smells like sex."

"I think it smells awesome."

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I. Old Friends

2006-08-18T22:14:00.000-05:00

He got lost on the way to my house. Everyone does.

I talked him over, closing the phone and stepping outside when he pulled up. I invited him in and offered a drink.

He set his bag down on the futon and opened his arms, "It's been a long time." I stepped into them and he pulled me close, burying his face in my neck. We stayed like that for several minutes.

He'd made an appointment for a massage and he needed it, too. I was glad, because I didn't really know what to do with myself now that he was here in my living room after 12 years.

My professional self took over and I told him to undress and lie on the table while I went to wash my hands.

I'm fastidious that way.

What followed was an ethical, professional deep tissue massage. His body was completely covered and so was mine.

Nearly two hours passed as we talked and joked. He was in town for the wedding of a classmate the next evening.

"Where is she registered?"

"Dunno; I went off-registry."

"What did you buy?"

"Blowtorch."

"Awesome."

When I'd finished working on his neck and shoulders I left him lying on the table and went to wash my hands again. He was still there when I returned and I remarked at how hungry I was.

"Do you have a snack to stave it off?"

"Well, I have a banana," I said.

"Then you should eat a banana."

He stood and wrapped himself in the sheet. I got a banana from the kitchen and ate it quickly.

I popped the last of the banana in my mouth, grinning. He opened his arms again, sheathed with the pale yellow sheet and brought me closer like some albino bat.

We stood there, rubbing heads and faces and chins and hands tracing backs and shoulders and necks and breathing but not kissing. In high school we made a habit of kissing in bathrooms at parties. I really wanted to kiss him now.

He was hard against my stomach. I pushed gently toward him.

"Can we go to your bed? I can't sit against this table."

"Of course." I went to lead him into the bedroom. He held my shoulder and kept me next to him, both of us wrapped in the sheet.

He led me to the bed, backed me up to it and followed me onto it. He was naked, I was still fully clothed.

He kissed me. I sighed. I remembered those.

His hands were on my face, touching and stroking, moving out to my shoulders and arms. His knee pressed my dress up between my legs and rested against my cunt. I couldn't move.

I put my hand behind his neck and felt his hair while our tongues hugged between our teeth. I bit his lower lip.

His hand pulled the hem of my dress up, uncovering my belly. I still had my bikini on. His fingers traced the waistband and then lowered it down past my knees, pulling it all the way off with his foot.

He sat up, looking down at my pussy. I lifted my head and shoulders to see what he saw: My freshly groomed pubic hair, silky and nearly straight in a patch above my slit.

His finger traveled from my belly button to my clit.

My tongue did that clicking thing against the roof of my mouth as I lay my head back and gave in to his touch.

Then his mouth was on my clit, his tongue working determinedly, steadily.

He put a finger inside me, massaging my g-spot, his tongue flicking over my clit. I was circling my hips down toward him, arching my back, opening my knees. He hummed "mmm-hmmm" from between my lips and inserted another finger. I writhed.

He sat up and back, strumming my clit with his thumb and lifting my pelvis with his fingers, sending sharp circles of pleasure into my body. A high-pitched moan from the back of my throat would have been a scream had my mouth been open. I turned my head into the mattress, hips raised, legs shaking, gushing into his hand and onto the sheets.

"God," he whispered, "are you okay?"

I nodded, smiling.

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Jordan Bound

2006-08-13T20:57:00.000-05:00

Jordan: Hey, girlie.

Madeline: Hi, you. How are your exams?

Jordan: Oh, you know. Stupid. I'll be so glad when I'm finished with this stupid degree and I can get out of this stupid town.

Madeline: Poor baby, I know.

Jordan: What are you doing tomorrow?

Madeline: hmmm, let me check my calendar. Three clients in the morning, but not a thing after 3:00. You?

Jordan: Free after 2:00. Want to get together? I've been craving a woman's touch like you wouldn't believe.

Madeline: Absolutely. I'm on my period, though...how about I come over and tie you up?

Jordan: Ooooh! Yes!

Madeline: Excellent. Call me when you're home.

I packed my bag: Red silk rope, safety scissors, assorted vibrators, lube, my strap-on and two dildos. I tossed my camera in as well.

I needed lots of rope, though, so the next day I left early to go to the hardware store. I bought 100 feet of cotton clothesline. As I was checking out she phoned.

"Hey, girl, I'm back from my hair appointment."

"Fantastic. I'll be there in just a bit."

I confirmed directions to her place and parked. I grabbed Patra's Scent of Attraction CD which I'd not heard in forever and tossed it into my bag.

Jordan opened the door and smiled. "Hey!" She has this singsong voice that lilts up with her smile. Her hair was straight, hitting just at her shoulders.

I stood by her sofa as we chatted, cutting rope to various lengths. I gave her the CD to put into the stereo.

"Ready?"

"Uh huh."

We went into the bedroom and I laid out the lengths of rope across the foot of her bed.

"You need to be naked now."

She undressed.

I worked slowly, explaining what I was doing as I fitted her with a corset harness and wound her torso in rope. It was her first time being bound, and we'd talked about what she was comfortable with. I didn't want to freak her out or have her feel completely powerless, just to feel the hug of rope on her flesh.

I was on my knees in front of her in the middle of her bedroom floor, reaching around to thread rope ends under the corset and then pulling them forward to her chest level.

"I'm going to bind your tits," I said, "so put your arms out to the sides."

I took one of her breasts, weighed it in my hand and lifted it forward and center as I encircled it with rope and secured it to the corset.

I was aware of the incongruity of our present situation: Jordan was completely naked and I was in my jeans and black t-shirt, motorcycle boots and Jefferson's thick black belt. I was working and she was my subject. I was active and she was passive. Occasionally the scent of her pussy filled my nose and I sighed. I couldn't help it.

"That looks so good."

"It feels good."

I finished her other breast, tied her wrists behind her back and stood up, stepping away to look.

"Oh, girl. That's so damn hot."

I took the silk rope and wound it around her eyes. I led her to the bed and helped her up onto it. I took some photos as she sat patiently in the dark. I helped her lie down and snapped some more.

"Rest there for a minute, while I take care of something."

I went into the other room and picked up a dining chair, set it in the corner of her bedroom and laid a towel on the upholstered seat. I took her hand and guided her to the chair. I tied her ankles to the legs while sitting between her knees. I caught her scent again and pushed it out of my mind.

I took my flogger from the bag and brought it up to her shoulder, letting it drag across her neck and chest and down the other arm. I traced swirling paths over her stomach, thighs and cunt, lightly slapping her legs with the straps. It was the first time she'd been flogged.

She gasped and sighed and I moved the ropes bisecting her cunt to either side of it, exposing her pussy which was practically begging me to touch it. I traced along her lips to her clit, so slick and small. I moved up a bit, above the protrusion and in towards her body, feeling for the root of her clit, behind the bud itself.

Jordan sighed and flexed her hips, pushing her pussy forward in the chair. Her head was back and turned to the side. I picked up a silver bullet and turned on the controller. I lightly circled her clit with it and slid a finger into her slickness. With my finger inside, I moved the bullet to the root of her clit, pressing a bit harder right off to the side. She squealed. A few more minutes and she came, arching her back and crying out.

She was shaking, panting and smiling.

"Are you okay, sweetie?"

"Oh, god, yeah . . . but I think I need a break."

I removed the blindfold and untied her ankles. Her wrists were next, and bit by bit I removed all the rope from her body. She had only slight indentations around her breasts and upper arms where the ropes had cut in when she strained against them.

I went to get her a drink of water while she put on her robe.

We sat at her table drinking our water and talking when it occurred to me:

"Oh, my gosh, Jordan! I totally forgot . . . I brought my strap-on! Wanna get fucked?"

"Hah! Do we have time?"

I looked at the clock. In twenty minutes I'd need to leave to pick the boys up at daycare.

"Just. Let's go."

Back to the bedroom where the light was lower, changing from afternoon to dusk I unpacked the harness and cocks

I laid the two dildos out on the bed and told her to choose one. She chose the smaller, more angled black Acute and I put the peacock Buzz back in its ziploc. I stepped out of my jeans and into the leg straps of my Terra Firma. I slipped a non-lubricated condom onto my cock and struck a pose.

"Oh my Goodness," Jordan smiled.

"This is going to be fun," I laughed.

She bent over the side of the bed and took her Pocket Rocket out of her drawer.

"Just in case."

"Hah. Use it, baby. But give me a minute before you do."

I reached around and felt her still-wet pussy lips, dipping a finger in and lubing her clit. I brought my cock to her slit and slowly moved it down to my finger. I pushed it in just past the head and then very, very slowly, entered her cunt. Her hips pushed back into me and she sighed. I moved slowly, letting the dildo warm in her pussy, taking my cues from her shoulders, back and ass, being sure to curl my hips forward at the end stroke, like a man.

We built a nice rhythm, Jordan still getting accustomed to the feel of my cock inside her, adjusting her feet and hips while bent over the bed, my hands stroking down her back and ass and thighs, taking handfuls of flesh and squeezing. Her face was turned and she reached for the vibrator, lifting her hips up and turning it on as she brought her hand down and began to work the vibrator around her clit.

Her hips started moving faster, circling, shaking. I grabbed on with both hands and slammed my cock into her, pulling her back as I thrust up. I was looking at her back, moist with the beginnings of a sweat when the clock caught my eye. As I looked at the clock my head turned and I saw the bathroom mirror. I saw myself standing in 3/4 profile, my legs long and pale, ass riding high and framed by black leather straps and silver buckles. I'd left my black t-shirt on and I watched as my muscles flexed and the sides of my ass got sucked in with the power of my thrusts.

"This is what I look like when I fuck," I thought. "That is so fucking hot."

Jordan pulled me back as her moans got insistent, "yeahyeahyeahyeahthat'sitthat'sIT . . ."

Her body shuddered and she went face down, her pussy clamped down onto my cock. I stood still for a minute, my hand on her back, sweat on my brow.

"Hmmmmm . . . " Jordan smiled.

"Yeah, baby, that was good!"

"Girl, that was NOT good. Not at ALL good."

"No?"

"That was unbelievable."

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Thomas Cleans His Plate

2006-08-02T21:57:00.000-05:00

The doorbell rang and I didn't answer it. Soon there was a knock and I heard the doorknob turn and a cautious "Hello?"

I stayed at my post, knowing he'd be crossing into view. I didn't look up, didn't say anything when he stopped in the doorway and took off his tie.

I tilted my head, lifted my ass and kept at it. I wished that I could see what he did: My back to him wearing a black corset and stockings, dangerously high heels and yellow latex gloves.

I kept washing the dishes.

I heard the faint noises of clothes coming off and then he was behind me, slipping his hands around to my front and leaning forward, putting his face next to mine.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, it's the strangest thing! I suddenly had an irresistible urge to wash dishes. Really, I can't explain it," I feigned, never looking away from my sink.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with the fantasy I mentioned to you the other day, would it?"

"Why, Thomas, do you mean the fantasy wherein you happen upon me as I'm washing dishes and then you fuck me in my kitchen?"

"That's the one," he whispered, his cock pressing against my ass, his hands traveling my body.

"I believe that may be it," I said, washing the last of the pans, "I'm glad we figured that out." I was a little breathless by then as he was running his fingers over my ass and thighs and up to my neck.

He kissed my neck and held me by my hair. I finished the pan and wiped down the counters. He allowed me to work and then spun me around to his mouth, pressing me against the counter, his hands planted on either side of my face.

A hand reached down to touch my pussy. His mouth on mine, he sighed at my wetness. He dropped to his knees, spreading my lips and teasing my clit with his tongue. I braced myself on the counter, leaning backwards onto my elbows and pushing my pelvis up.

I enjoy watching him between my legs. He is so earnest.

Thomas stood and kissed me with his pussyfresh lips. As I licked my taste from them, my tongue dancing over and between them, I felt his cock pulsing between us. I looked down. Fully erect, it stood vertically pressed back against his stomach.

He took me by the back of the neck and pushed me toward the table. My new kitchen table. He pulled off the tablecloth, dropped it to the floor and bent me over.

I fought the urge to pick up the cloth and fold it.

Thomas picked me up, set me down and fucked me on my table. It didn't flail or falter; not even the squeak of legs on the linoleum.

I wrapped my ankles behind his neck and watched as his cock slid inside me and out, thinking, "If my leg slips I could really injure him with one of these shoes."

My sacrum was starting to hurt. I put my hands, palms down, underneath my ass and slung my knees over his shoulders.

"Press down low on my tummy," I whispered, knowing how close I was to being very, very satisfied.

With his four fingers he pressed toward my pubic bone. On his next stroke his cock hit its mark and I gasped.

He looked up, a little worried, to see if I was okay.

"Do you feel your cock rubbing against your fingers?"

"Yeah . . . And the muscle between them. Fuck."

"Keep doing that."

Once I'd come, he helped me off the table while my legs were still trembling and I squatted in front of him in my heels to suck pussy juice off the condom.

We moved into the living room and I stepped out of the shoes.

He fucked me bent over the back of the futon.

He made a pretzel of my legs and torso and fucked me sitting on the futon.

While fucking me from behind, lying face down on the floor Thomas's breathing changed. He pumped faster and punctuated each stroke with a little grunt.

"Come on my face," I said, pulling away and sitting up.

Thomas tugged off the condom, jerked and spurted on my upturned face as I sat on my knees in front of him. When he'd finished, I sat smiling with his semen on my cheeks, eyes closed.

He kneeled down and cleaned every drop with his tongue.

"Madeline, I love . . . fucking you," he said, barely audibly.

I sensed for a millisecond that the "love" could have been followed by "you," and I got a little bristle in the small of my back.

"I always have so much fun when we get together," I said.

Then, "When the fuck did you start swallowing?"

"You like it when I swallow my own cum?"

"Duh."

Rabbit Run

2006-07-31T10:27:00.000-05:00

When I got the phone call from Jackson I started laughing.

“Your Bunny Rabbit is here.”

“Wheee!”

I had a sex toy sent to Jackson’s house. I work from home and it’s just not feasible sometimes to accept deliveries when someone is lying naked in my living room. Plus, you know, I’m trying to keep the amount of stuff my mail carrier knows about me to a minimum. The number of “discreetly packaged” items he’s hand delivered to my door, along with his general creepiness makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

Chatting with Meg on the phone the weekend before, she’d told me about her Rabbit. I admitted that I’d been curious, but never wanted to invest that kind of dough when there were so many different incarnations of the Original. Also, cute animals disguised sex toys are so not my fetish.

“So it’s really good, huh?” I queried, inspecting the lengths of miniblinds in WalMart and threatening my kids with ‘No swimming today if you run away from me again.’

Yeah, I’m that mom.

“Uh, yeah, it’s going to be a good review.”

“Alright, then, I’ll bite.”

I sent off for my own Rabbit that evening. I cleared the delivery with Jackson. I alerted my friends.

Madeline: so I’m waiting for my Internet-Enabled Rabbit to arrive. I’m looking for volunteers for my, um, research.
Viviane: I volunteer! I miss you! Besides, Jefferson gets too much play. How long do you have to wait before it comes?
Madeline: Priority Mail, bitches. It’ll be here in a couple days.
Mikey: I get to play with one of those in a couple of weeks. I’m trying very hard not to be intimidated.
Dacia: Oooh! Does this mean I can do you long distance?
Madeline: Yes, please.

So, a road trip on a rainy morning later, kids buckled in the back, I retrieved the bunny (discreetly packaged) from Jackson’s front steps. After stopping for some shopping we returned home. The boys were resting in their room and I was online with Meg.

Madeline: Holy Ass, this thing is heavy. Four AAs? I’m going to go broke. Or break my effing wrist.
Meg: I only use rechargeables. I’ve been using the same eight batteries forever.
Madeline: aw, man, and I only get 30 days of the Internet service with the toy. Then I have to, you know, pay for the shit.
Meg: Bah!
Madeline: Okay, I’m trying this bitch in standalone mode.

I took the bigass purple shaft with the hot pink base and all the buttons. There are three variations, and two controls: one for the shaft rotation and another for the bunny vibration. I'm a simple girl. I get distracted if I have to think too much when I'm fucking. Even if I'm fucking myself.

As horny as I was, the toy was pretty pleasant, but I wasn’t overcome with love.

Here’s why:

My girl parts don’t match up with the Rabbit’s ears or gyrating tip.

My G-spot is pretty shallow and close to the entrance of my vagina, and my clit—well, it’s higher than you’d imagine. When I stand naked in front of the mirror my clit faces forward. All this presents a slight angular challenge when faced with the eight inches of straight, unyielding Internet-Enabled Rabbit Vibrator.

I was disappointed, but not deterred. I am not a quitter. I realize that some things—sex toys included—are an acquired taste.

Over the next two days I gave the Rabbit several more chances.

I used my Dynamic Duo bullets and silicone dildo as foreplay, inserting and turning on the Rabbit only when I was good and worked up, trying to bend it a little in every direction to gain simultaneous access to my clit and G-spot.

I turned on just the clit-tickling bunny and turned it upside down so the ears were pointed toward my ass, rubbing my clit that way.

I inserted the shaft just a couple of inches and turned on the rotations, trying to get at my G-spot. Really, all I got was frustrated.

I decided to try the vibe with a partner. Because, you know, jerking off is more fun that way. Plus, I thought the technology was pretty damn awesome and I loved the idea of having my friends remotely control my sex toys.

And it is very cool.

Except:

The toy connects to the computer via serial cable. Not a problem for PCs, but, hello, my iBook doesn’t have a serial port. No problem, I could still connect the toy to my desktop PC, but I’d much rather be lying next to my laptop in my bed. Not in the middle of my living room.

The aforementioned free trial is only 30 days, both parties have to register (yes, Meg did it, and that’s why she rocks) and give credit card information and all that, which sucks because you know they’re making a killing on people who try it once and forget to cancel their memberships. Duh. Of course I set up a reminder for 29 days.

The above points notwithstanding, I pulled my futon across the living room to the computer, installed all the HighJoy software and opened a chat with Miss Meg.

Jefferson popped up from Paris.

Jefferson: Hey, lover. Looks like I’ll be free on the days we looked at for your next visit. So come on over!
Madeline: I may just! And now I’m going to put a vibrator in my cunt while Meg controls it remotely. Wanna help?
Jefferson: I’d love to help, but I think I am going back to bed for a few. Kisses, you drunk dyke of my heart.
Madeline: I am NOT drunk.

I closed the chat window and turned to Meg, who had signed into HighJoy. We opened a one-on-one session.

madeline: okay, so i'm wondering what to do with this control panel. can you open it at the bottom?
meg: i sure can
meg: ok, so purple side = shaft, pink side = tickler?
madeline: i guess. try something
madeline: oooooooo!
meg: hee
madeline: okay, thats the shaft
meg: k
madeline: it's like a drill gone berserk
meg: ha!
meg: but that should be slow, right?
meg: where it's at now
madeline: vert
madeline: y
meg: !!
madeline: awww
madeline: that’s really nice
meg: see, this is hard because i can't like, hear or see you know?
madeline: um
(turns on her webcam)
meg: aw shit
madeline: hahahahaha
madeline: i do't think you can hear me
meg: i can't
madeline: we could skype
meg: oooh
meg: ok
meg: how did that change the tickler?
madeline: dude the lights are giong all over
madeline: i'm laught
madeline: in
madeline: g
meg: HA
meg: i see you!
madeline: i can hear you
meg: really?
meg: great
madeline: yeah, talk dirty to me
madeline: kidding
madeline: please don't
madeline: i'll laugh
madeline: hang on
madeline: you can hear me with my headphones, maybe
madeline: as i search for them with a rabbit between my legs
madeline: fuck it, i'm getting the ibook
madeline: let's skype
meg: ok
madeline: one sec
meg: k
meg: do i see glasses?
madeline: cos soon i'm not going to be able to type.
madeline: yes, glasses!
meg: ha, right
meg: dude, that's hot

We messed around, Meg working the controls from her computer, me trying to get a good angle on my couch halfway across the country. My laptop was next to my head on a coffee table and suddenly the Rabbit controls just stopped working. Just. Stopped. The internet connection wasn’t working at all.

I’ve still not given up on the Rabbit, but I’m less and less convinced that this particular model by that particular sex toy manufacturer (ahem, initials D.J.) is for me. Sucks, because after all, the Internet is a series of tubes made for jerking off. That's not going to keep me from trying others, though. I am nothing if not persistent in my quest for pleasure. Maybe I'll try one like Meg's. Maybe a shorter one. Maybe one from a different manufacturer.

I was getting frustrated. I needed to get off and this was not doing it.

“Fuck this,” I said, “are you wearing your new toy?”

“Sure am. And I’ve had two Guinnesses. Feeling good.”

“Awesome. I’m gonna finish myself off with something else.”

And in the darkness of my living room, with the soft sounds of Meg’s breathing as my soundtrack, we quietly jerked off together. I brought myself to the edge and backed away, loving the sensation of my hips moving on their own, desperate for the orgasm building up inside, rooting and writhing and stretching to get to it.

“Ahmmmnnnuh Cum,” I whispered, just to let her know.

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Fleshbot and Rabbits

2006-07-28T15:24:00.000-05:00

With Jefferson hard at work on another continent, this week's Fleshbot Sex Blog Roundup was compiled by yours, truly. It's all about spanking and submission. Go ahead, you know you want some.

I've got posts lined up, but Miles (whose birthday is today, by the way) had the audacity to break his OTHER arm last weekend, so my writing has suffered a bit. Never fear, the posts are coming.

Also, stay tuned for my hard-won review of this pretty toy which is:

Wait for it . . .

Internet-Enabled.

Declaration of Independence

2006-07-21T19:23:00.000-05:00

Daniel Skyped me a few weeks ago. There was something important he needed to discuss with me. I told him I could talk for a bit, and asked what was up.

Daniel: I've got some really great news, Madeline, and I wanted to tell you before you heard it from anyone else.

Madeline: Yeah? So, tell me!

Daniel: I got married.

Madeline (stunned): Wow . . . Huh . . . Congratulations . . . Um, when?

Daniel: Two weeks ago.

Madeline: Two Weeks? But you were just here last weekend. Why didn't you tell us then? Wait . . . did you tell the boys?

Daniel: No, I wanted to tell you first but you're never available to speak with me. I didn't want to wait this long , but you left me no choice! Why didn't you agree to meet with me like I wanted last weekend so that we could talk?!

Madeline: Daniel, you told me the reason you wanted to meet last weekend was so that we could discuss the boys' college funds, first of all, and secondly, I had plans on that one weekend a month when I do not have the boys.

Daniel (winding up): You Never want to talk to me! You're Never available to me!

Madeline: I am always reachable by IM or email, which is how our mediator suggested we communicate with each other.

Daniel: That's not convenient for me. I don't want to tell you by email that I've gotten married.

Madeline: Yes, well, I'm sorry about that. But Daniel, it's not like you have all the time in the world in which to prepare the kids; they're coming to visit you in two weeks, and they need some time to get used to the idea. I really can't believe you waited to tell us. It's pretty inconsiderate.

Daniel: It's no big deal! We got married at the courthouse! It was a civil ceremony! None of our friends were there!

Madeline: I don't care if it was a Wiccan ceremony in a cornfield, Daniel, it is a big deal. It is a big deal for the boys no matter how far away you are. This affects them. They've met her once, six months ago. It's not cool to spring this on them.

Daniel: You are overreacting, Madeline, as usual. Why won't you accept responsibility for this?

Madeline (unbelievingly): Um, because it is not my responsibility.

Now I understood why, suddenly, he was able to take the boys for his full two weeks in the summer instead of the one week he'd originally said he could do. Now he had help.

I wasn't surprised, really. Daniel is a person who truly can't be alone and I knew about the girlfriend. It was only a matter of time before he married again. I was, I suppose, mostly disappointed that he was staying true to form and putting himself first. I was also angry that he waited to tell me, and when he had a chance to, he made up a story about college funds.

It was a move for control, and I didn't bite. Instead of doing what I'd do for anyone else and what I used to do for Daniel and accommodating him, I stood my ground that weekend and suggested we discuss the college funds in emails. What he'd wanted was to have control by getting me to come to him under false pretenses and then drop his news. To see my reaction in person.

Madeline (suddenly feeling ballsy): So, is she pregnant?

Daniel (pauses): Yes.

Madeline (stifling laughter): Dude, I've got to go . . . I've got another call.

I was laughing through tears of anger and disappointment. I resented that he'd kept this from us, after all his talk about wanting us to be open and honest and adult with each other. I resented that he was so cowardly and that he'd left another potentially messy situation for me to handle.

Maybe I'm overanalyzing it. I know I've had the urge to protect the boys from Daniel's inconsideration when he's cancelled a visit at the last minute or has been two hours late picking them up without a phone call. I never make excuses for him and around the kids the most I'll ever say about a frustrating situation is to identify it as such.

But who the fuck does this?

I took a day to think it over. Constantly resurfacing was the relief that I was no longer married to this person. That I'd made the right decision. I felt badly for the boys for whenever they realized what I already knew: Daniel is most concerned with himself and that can lead to disappointments. I don't speak ill of Daniel in front of the kids. My belief is that his bad behavior will catch up with him eventually and the boys will discover it on their own. They need no help from me.

I would tell the boys about their father's new wife. I would not let him wait until their plane ride to tell them. I would be calm and matter-of-fact. And two weeks later I would tell them goodbye for half a month.

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