Sunday, 30 March 2008
"I can't move my arm."
I shifted forward a little, releasing his arm from where it had been trapped between my back and the sofa.
"Oh yes," he murmured as the pins and needles subsided. He flexed his digits, experimentally. It was good movement. I liked it. I hoped he would flex them again, only nearer my bosoms.
"Now, where were we?" he smiled, as he leaned in close again.
"We were looking for the remote control for the TV. Then somehow we began canoodling. You know how I like a canoodle."
"I'm beginning to. Should we continue?"
"Please. Only this time, to avoid circulatory problems, I think you should put that hand here and this one here."
He flexed his digits, experimentally. The experiment was an unmitigated success. All the blood went to my bosoms.
"Are you smuggling peanuts in your bra?" he asked, feeling the hard nub pressing against his hand.
"I did have a packet of M&Ms earlier..." I mused.
"Well, I'd better investigate," he said.
He unbuttoned my fitted blouse with a swift dexterity. All the digit flexing was clearly paying off.
I shrugged the silky garment off my shoulders, revealing my black lacy bra, the dark fabric contrasting beautifully with the creamy skin of my full, rounded breasts. He gazed upon my décolletage, his eyes lingering on the pulse beating frantically at the base of my throat, betraying my desire.
"Oh, you're in trouble now." He fell upon me like a pre-menstrual woman upon a packet of chocolate hobnobs.
He briefly surfaced for air. There was a crumb on his lip. His tongue lazily retrieved it.
"You've got crumbs down your cleavage," he informed me.
"I know. I usually do. That's the problem with a big cleavage."
"I shall follow the trail and see where it leads me," he announced, heading back in. "Fuck me, it really was an M&M!" He held up the errant sweet for me to see. It was a red one. I like those.
"One day," I told him, "I took off my bra at bedtime and a cornflake fell out of it. It had been there since breakfast!"
"You are my very own pick and mix counter. I shall gorge myself upon you."
I sighed, happily. It was nice to have a man get there before the seagulls.
I shifted position.
"It's this bloody thong," I explained, trying to tug it back out from where it had become uncomfortably wedged. "It's gone right up my - oh!"
"I think I've found the remote control."
Friday, 28 March 2008
It ticks all my boxes. It was painfully honest, yet arousing. The orange-sheathed cock did it for me. Possibly due to the hilarious repositioning of the carrot on the snowmen of my past.
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
The basque is very pretty but comes with suspenders. I can manage to attach the ones at the front, no problem, but the ones at the back are nigh on impossible. I twist round, awkwardly, as far as my back will allow and stretch the suspender down as far as I can. Simultaneously I pull up on the stocking, and try to marry the two together. This is not a simple process. The attachment is small and plastic and filled with a pathological desire to be anywhere but attached to my stocking. The strain on the elastic is immense, and I sense another bungee-in-miniature moment approaching. The fucking thing twangs out of my fingers and pings me on the arse for the 37th time and I wonder if it's worth the effort. There's a reason tights were invented.
I persevere, with much cursing, until finally everything is attached to what it should be and I am ready. I regard my reflection. My thighs spill out over the tops of the stockings, like dough rising. My hips look massive, flaring out from beneath the cut off point of the basque. I am not sure about the parts of my belly that can be seen due to the high cut of the knickers. I peer into the mirror, turning back and forth, trying to find the best possible viewing angle. Then I give up and reach for my black satin robe. Much better.
Such self criticism, and so ridiculous. He knows what I look like. He is not going to be surprised or dismayed by my flesh. When he sees my new underwear, and my heaving bosoms doing their best to escape from their lacy confines, he will not be giving me the harsh appraisal to which I subject myself. He will be too busy determining whether I taste as good as I look and writing silvery runes of approval all over my stockings as his cock drools his unfakeable response.
I have learned a lot about body acceptance through reading and viewing those who participate in HNT. Despite my teasing, and spoof Half Mental Thursdays, I am actually very fond of it (as I am with most of that which I lampoon.) It is heartening to see that diversity really is the norm.
So, in that spirit, here I am, Half Nekkid and Half Mental, merging my unsexy can't-get-my-suspenders-to-work side with my actually-I'm-a-bit-of-all-right side. Which ties in with my own sex blogging challenge to a degree.
I still can't do those back suspenders though.
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
The one doing the rounds at the moment is a Six Word Memoir, where you attempt to sum up the essence of yourself in just those few words.
Reading the results has been entertaining. I like the pretentious efforts from the intellectual, literary wannabes who have used phrases like "dark maelstrom lost in the abyss". Which tickled me.
I also enjoyed seeing how many ways people could cheat. There were those who pondered several versions before settling on a final one, thereby effectively writing a 24 word memoir, rather than the required 6. There were others who wrote word-bustin', meme-lovin', hyphen-abusing, 12 word memoirs instead, and still others who did the meme twice, on different blogs. It says something about the swollen egos of bloggers that they just cannot whittle themselves down to a meagre six words. They have to bloat themselves somehow. Most amusing.
So, when Bittersweet Me tagged me to see what I would do to a Six Word Memoir meme I knew I would be hard pressed to make it any funnier than those.
So in the end I decided to just flick the Vs to the whole thing and fuck everyone off with:
"Better than you in every way".
Oh, and I tag...er... everyone.
Monday, 24 March 2008
Well, I am pleased to announce that the first to accept and meet this challenge has been the lovely Juno, who has written a most amusing piece here on a tryst which did not live up to expectations.
Shortly afterwards came this piece, here, which I remember commenting upon and praising fulsomely first time round for its honesty.
I don't know if there really is now a "vogue" for sex bloggers to prove it isn't all erotic acrobatics and empty ballsacks, but if there is* I must admit to a frisson of pleasure at having had some influence upon that.
*If anyone spots any other posts which fall into the (cue American voiceover) "When Sex Goes Wrong" category could they give me a heads up? I like to give credit where it's due.
Saturday, 22 March 2008
|Herd Mentality:||Very High|
|Self Obssession:||Very High|
Wow, who'd have expected a result like that? How amazing!
Friday, 21 March 2008
“Would you like a muffin?”
I must confess, I had my doubts. Could it really work? Would we all regret it in the morning? Would I be able to satisfy two glorious specimens of womanhood simultaneously without smudging my lipstick or dishevelling my hair?
Yet, as I devoured my home baked treat, fragrant crumbs spilling down my cleavage to be greedily consumed by the eager mouths at work in that voluptuous valley, I knew with certainty that this consummation was inevitable. I could worry about the logistics or I could abandon myself to pure pleasure. I cast aside the rest of my cake and tore open my blouse in one swift movement. After all, my hair is a mess anyway and I always have lipstick in my bag.
My bosom heaved with pent up passion. The crumbs bobbed up and down, pleasingly.
“You make fucking good cakes,” I breathed, lustily.
“Thank you,” she replied, dabbing up the remaining fragments of muffin with a dampened fingertip and feeding them to me with digit sucking sauciness.
“And you,” I said, turning slightly to accept the proffered glass, “have exquisite taste in wine.”
“Thanks,” she smiled, her tongue capturing an errant drop of spilled alcohol from my wrist with delicate lasciviousness.
“And you both,” I continued, sprawling beneath a vaulted ceiling of skin, satin and lace, “smell so delicious I could eat you.”
“It’s looking that way, yes.”
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
A cock in the hand
May be quite stimulating
But dildos are a girl's best friend.
A cock may be grand
But when you're masturbating
You don't want to stop
Because of unexpected flop.
Cocks go soft
Can't stay aloft,
And they all need to rest in the end.
But bullet or foot-long ,
Fake cocks keep their hard-on
Dildos are a girl's best friend.
Monday, 17 March 2008
That feeling of inadequacy you can get when reading Cosmopolitan, or other women's magazines of that ilk.
After flicking through those glossy pages you can find yourself falling for the bullshit, gazing at the fashion pages and wondering how long you have to starve yourself so that your knees are the widest point of your legs. The articles are just as unsettling. Is my hairstyle adding years to me? Should I really be spending a huge chunk of my meagre wages on skincare products? Will the lady on the make up counter laugh me out of the shop when she discovers my soap and water secret? Do I exfoliate enough? Too much? At all? Do I know 101 ways to please my man in bed? Are they the right 101 ways? Is that normal? Oh God.
It is much the same for me when I read sex blogs. Should I be meeting more people in hotel rooms for kinky sex? Should I stick more things up my arse? Is one good orgasm a session no longer acceptable? Should I have had 3, 13, 30? Should I have gushed, squirted, shrieked, exploded? (I remember when having an orgasm at all was something of an achievement and a goal in itself. At times sex blogs are almost indistinguishable from mainstream porn, with their shaven minges, endless climaxing and squirting quims. Yet the authors of this derivative drivel genuinely believe they are creating something fresh and true, perhaps even empowering).
These blogs give such a one sided view of sex that you really do need a reality check now and then to prevent Cosmo Complex from setting in. Is anyone writing about real sex anywhere? (And I mean the actual jiggy jiggy stuff, not pages and pages of theoretical pseudo-feminist boring toss). Much as the models in magazines bear little relation to the majority of women in real life, most sexual escapades, as recounted in blog land, bear only a passing resemblance to the actuality of the event. Give me something I can truly relate to! I want to hear about inappropriate farting, elbows on wobbly bits or hair and the ensuing "owees", needing a wee at the worst possible moment, or being savaged by an over exuberant cat at the point of no return. I want to know I am not the only one who has a bad back and gets locked into position if not careful.
Thinking about it, my aims may be very different from others who read sex blogs. I am not reading to be titillated, I suppose. Now, there is a challenge. Is it possible to write an absolutely honest account of sex and still be arousing? Anyone up to it?
Saturday, 15 March 2008
To me, their apologies are unnecessary. I like it when the veil of fiction is dropped and a glimpse of human being is seen. As I have said before, the problem with sex blogging is that sooner or later you will run out of new ways to describe being fucked. Sex blogs inevitably become repetitive, the initial red-hot-sex-post-a-day slowly dwindling to maybe one or two a week. Or fewer. Correspondingly, the comments start to tail off as readers run out of anything new to say, other than "hawt".
So, the sex blogger can choose one of a number of routes. They can become ever more extreme in their recountings of fantastical adventures, they can accept that the only way to have fresh material to write about is to cover all of life's facets, not just the bumping uglies stuff, or they can close down and start anew, elsewhere, and regurgitate all their old material again.
I like it when they start to write about the rest of their lives. It interests me, making them more real, more three dimensional.
I was musing upon the plight of the one trick pony as I read a particularly lurid piece of prose earlier. My thought was this: what they would have to write about in ten years time?
There are many sex bloggers in that 40+ age bracket. They have reached the fabled mid-life crisis, have paid their dues being dutiful spouses, and now want to explore, to grab life with both hands and shag the arse off it before it's all too late. They want to share it all with an audience, to prove it's really happening, to be able to crow a little. "Look, look at me! I look like a normal frumpy forty year old, don't I? But I spent the night in a budget hotel room fucking people I met online, with a hunk of plastic up my arse! I am special! I am! Comment and tell me I am!"
Which is all well and good but what happens when being 40+ slides into 50+ and beyond? Are we to expect a great deal of geriatric sex blogging in the future? Beautiful and evocative tales of how slipping out your false teeth leads to a smoother blow job? How the anal play is trickier when working around hemorrhoids? How bending over for a flogging is great but it's a bugger straightening up again afterwards, what with having a dicky back and all?
I would read such posts avidly, actually, as they would be real and therefore interesting. However, I doubt they would fit with the hyper-perfection filter most sex bloggers use when they post their experiences. No one wants to read about the embarrassing bits, the unattractive bits. They want the fantasy fuck. And - leaving gerontophiles aside - geriatric sex ain't that.
So, where will today's sex bloggers be in a decade or two? Posting elsewhere about knitting or gardening? Or still flogging that one trick pony?
Thursday, 13 March 2008
"Why are you so bitter and cynical? Why can't you just be nice about other people's beautiful and evocative experiences instead of being a spiteful old ratbag?"
And I say to them "Do you know how long it is since anyone tried to get my bra off and take these beauties for a spin? I have a colony of bats roosting in there now. But they have eaten all the moths. Which is nice."
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
In general, women tend to be far harsher toward fat than their male counterparts. They not only want to eradicate it from their own bodies but from those around them too. It's that Gillian McKeith mindset again. Ban Big Bums! If you're fat you're unhealthy! (Pah, feh, and bollocks.) If you are fat you will die! (Newsflash - we're all going to die. I'd rather die with a full belly and strong bones, so fuck off.)
Adequate body fat on women gives us our feminine curves, produces oestrogen and makes us fertile. This basic biological fact is what triggers desire in most men. Hardly surprising then, that our unskinny forms have long been an inspiration to artists from the stone age onwards. (Yeah, it wasn't just Ruebens, you know).
Then, as I bopped about doing the ironing, with my Ipod Shuffle on, I suddenly noticed how many songs also sing the praises of the fuller female form.
There are the obvious ones like Sir Mix-a-lot and his I Like Big Butts:
So Cosmo says you're fat
Well I ain't down with that!
'Cause your waist is small and your curves are kickin'
And I'm thinkin' bout stickin'
To the beanpole dames in the magazines:
You ain't it, Miss Thing!
Or Queen and their Fat Bottomed Girls:
Oh wont you take me home tonight?
Oh down beside your red firelight
Oh and you give it all you got
Fat bottomed girls you make the rockin world go round
Then there's Mika and Big Girl (You Are Beautiful):
You take your skinny girl
Feel like I'm gonna die
'Cause a real woman
Needs a real man here's why
You take your girl
And multiply her by four
Now a whole lot of woman
Needs a whole lot more
And Shaggy growling It Soon Be Done:
I'm gonna lay down beside my big thing
Lay down and love her till the morning,
Lay down beside my fat thing, oh my
Lay down and love her all night
There's even the lovely Kate Bush, and The Warm Room just to prove it isn't only men who sing praise to the plump:
In the warm room
You'll fall into her like a pillow.
Her thighs are soft as marshmallows.
Say hello to the soft musk of her hollows.
Now, I could be wrong, and I am relying on you guys to point out where I am, but there just don't seem to be any songs that sing the praises of possessing hip bones you can slice bacon on and having tiny tits.
Sunday, 9 March 2008
I love my big fat arse. It does everything you'd expect from a posterior, and more!
Not only does it provide comfortable seating no matter how hard the ground, it also proudly fills out a pair of enormous knickers in a grandiose manner that smaller, skinnier arses just can't match.
Whereas other, more pert behinds, can cheekily display a four or five word message on novelty pants, mine can boast a 700 word count capacity and still have room for an accompanying image and a free gift.
The ensuing quivers and ripples that undulate after a good slap provide an exotic de-stressor for those without a lava lamp.
Why on earth would anyone want to ban that that?
Thursday, 6 March 2008
I’m lurking in your bushes
Watching in the dark
I know what you are wearing
I’ve seen your small birthmark
I know what you had for tea
I went through your bin
I licked out your yogurt pot
And sniffed your cat food tin
“This is no relationship”
They all said to me
“It’s what gets termed as stalking
You’re bonkers, do you see?”
But is it really mental
Hiding in your shed?
Sifting through your rubbish sack
For each hair from your head?
I call it dedication
I call it real love
Who else would get such pleasure
From your soiled rubber glove?
I liked it in the shadows
I found inner peace
I wish that you had found me
Instead of the police
Monday, 3 March 2008
Having read my witty, intelligent and insightful post on smell they contacted me with details of their forays into pheromone fetishism. The first step is learning to recognise and love your own scent, and here we see Mystery Blogger X sporting a saucy little number which enables him to truly enjoy the pungent aromas of his own body.
This arouses him greatly and has led to some of his most stimulating blog posts. "I am never so creative," he informs me, "as when I am sat naked at my laptop with my face mask on, preferably after a good session at the gym, breathing in the intoxicating smell of my sweaty gonads. It conjures up those romantic backseat encounters like nothing else."
While this is all well and good, like so much in life, it is even more exciting with another person and luckily Mystery Sex Blogger Y was happy to volunteer her services. I shan't go into too much detail here as she is writing her own post about it ("Smell Sucking Nose Fuck" - look out for it in next week's Shitasm!) but suffice it to say that pheromones are much underrated.
"I came three times just adjusting the straps!" she gushed, damply. "I just wish our readers could smell what we're smelling, as it adds a whole extra dimension to our beautiful and evocative fuck posts."
"Yes," chimed in Blogger X. "I mean, at the moment our readers know there's a cunt -"
"- or prick behind our words, sure, but if they could smell them too... Oh, wow."