My blog is one year old today.
Any anniversary calls for some summations and conclusions, and I've been thinking for the past week about what to say here---a brief summation of what I've done here, an evaluation of whether I've remained true to my goals, an open invitation to readers to throw brickbats or shout hoorah. And none of it coalesced into meaningful paragraphs, so I'm left with doing what the Boy's middle school head used to do when she had to make a speech---random thoughts and musings, in the hope that some of it will draw a smile or a deep thought from someone.
I've made some true friendships with fellow bloggers, and kept more than I've lost. Most are women, many are subs, and I'm still always astonished when someone comments, or when I write to a blogger outside the blog and actually get an answer. I've had im conversations that have lasted over an hour, and not because it was all sex talk. I've missed bloggers who've gone on vacation, and I feel disappointed and left behind when bloggers just stop blogging or take their blogs private without any warning. Thank you to those who have invited me along when they've become "by invitation only". You know who you are, and I'm just thanking you a second time.
I've learned about myself, both from writing things down and from reading what others have written. I've told the truth, I've told stories, I've almost lost a childhood friend because of the blog, and I've learned the desperately bitter truth that I need to remember that I'm the star of my own movie, and that there's tons of room for others. I know that I don't have to act my age, that I never want to grow up, that I'll always want to wear short pants no matter what, that I will always need another mountain to climb, that friends can and will provide help when things are darkest
I've learned to communicate more with Her, even though we talk about things that neither one of us wants to talk about, although the basic problems between us remained unresolved, and cannot perhaps ever be fixed. I still need to figure out whether I can live the rest of my life within that scenario, but I'm dealing with it, and so is She, in Her own way.
Technologically I'm still as backwards as ever. I still shy away from all things that would make this a better blog technically, and I apologize almost weekly to bloggers who ask to link up with me...I know this, and I'm vowing to make amends and do better...I'll figure it out, and update my blogroll before the summer is over.
Thank you to engrailed, who first told me to start this blog (although sadly she is no longer blogging, at least in this context), thank you to lynsey who blew smoke in my ear about my writing and encouraged me to write more, and to the other bloggers who've had the courage and patience to establish a relationship, whether in email or at lunch. Thanks to those who kept checking back when I was travelling, and who wished me godspeed and a good return while I was gone.
And now back to our regularly scheduled programming......
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Outing
We all of us sexbloggers live behind various masks, and we do so for a variety of reasons.
We use aliases or screen names, omit our last names, most of us don't post full face pictures, we are careful about revealing details of personal life outside the subjects that we blog about, we set up duplicate websites and personalities. My friend Buddy has even set up a totally separate desktop (or something like that) on his Apple computer, in the hopes that his teenage son won't find out about his various ventures into jdate, other dating websites, porn locations and sex blogs. Before I started blogging, I had a lengthy correspondence with engrailed about being outed and discovered.
We do so because we fear disapproval and/or retribution...from friends, family, neighbors, the work environment. We think that because we think differently from the people that we're hiding from, they'll disapprove, retaliate, punish, not speak to us, fire us from work, disassociate themselves from us, make us targets for stalking or abuse, change our lives forever from what they are to what we don't want them to be. The very first blog I ever read with consistency, by a woman named Rose, a wonderful sub who wrote about her life in general and her time with Jefferson in particular, was outed and seemed to watch her whole world collapse. Other bloggers that I know have had to take their blogs offline at certain points and delete any and all personal details, because there was somewhere a scintilla of doubt as to whether they had been discovered.
Perhaps we reveal ourselves slowly to other bloggers that we become friendly and intimate with, first telling our non blogger names, then perhaps where we live, and then sharing other deemed important details of life. Through forces of geography we rarely meet face to face, although for me living in NYC there are perhaps stronger possibilites here than for others, like the hopeful sub blogger who lives in Alberta and struggles just to find people to interact with.
The first time I was discovered was by a fellow blogger whom I have known for over ten years, although neither of us knew about the other. I may have written about how we discovered each other, but she is the most discreet person I know in the circle of non-blogger friends we mutually have, and we've discussed who among those friends knows who we are. They are few, and they surprise me with their silence, being yentas of the highest order. It is a testament to her that they know and don't say anything. And they're sworn to secrecy about me as well.
The jury is still out on the second time I've been discovered. This blog is not a highly trafficked blog, averaging about 20-30 visits a day, and my sense is that some of them stumble here not from the few people kind enough to blogroll me but by people surfing the web and finding this blog because it has the word SWORDFISH in the name of the blog. While sitting on the beach this week, the brother of a friend (the brother who was visiting from Malibu) let me know in the most oblique and discreet way that he had stumble across the blog, put two and two together, and figured out who the blogger was.
He told me all this sotto voce, in a private conversation, just the two of us at the edge of the ocean. He's a lawyer, prominent in Los Angeles circles, lives three thousand miles away, and would have nothing to gain by outing me to friends and family, and in fact has told me that he won't say anything...ever.
And yet it's very scary for me, very frightening to think that with one conversation that would ripple through my world, he could bring tumbling down everything, and like Rose, my world as I know it would cease to exist.
Earworm-Simon and Garfunkel, Sounds of Silence
We use aliases or screen names, omit our last names, most of us don't post full face pictures, we are careful about revealing details of personal life outside the subjects that we blog about, we set up duplicate websites and personalities. My friend Buddy has even set up a totally separate desktop (or something like that) on his Apple computer, in the hopes that his teenage son won't find out about his various ventures into jdate, other dating websites, porn locations and sex blogs. Before I started blogging, I had a lengthy correspondence with engrailed about being outed and discovered.
We do so because we fear disapproval and/or retribution...from friends, family, neighbors, the work environment. We think that because we think differently from the people that we're hiding from, they'll disapprove, retaliate, punish, not speak to us, fire us from work, disassociate themselves from us, make us targets for stalking or abuse, change our lives forever from what they are to what we don't want them to be. The very first blog I ever read with consistency, by a woman named Rose, a wonderful sub who wrote about her life in general and her time with Jefferson in particular, was outed and seemed to watch her whole world collapse. Other bloggers that I know have had to take their blogs offline at certain points and delete any and all personal details, because there was somewhere a scintilla of doubt as to whether they had been discovered.
Perhaps we reveal ourselves slowly to other bloggers that we become friendly and intimate with, first telling our non blogger names, then perhaps where we live, and then sharing other deemed important details of life. Through forces of geography we rarely meet face to face, although for me living in NYC there are perhaps stronger possibilites here than for others, like the hopeful sub blogger who lives in Alberta and struggles just to find people to interact with.
The first time I was discovered was by a fellow blogger whom I have known for over ten years, although neither of us knew about the other. I may have written about how we discovered each other, but she is the most discreet person I know in the circle of non-blogger friends we mutually have, and we've discussed who among those friends knows who we are. They are few, and they surprise me with their silence, being yentas of the highest order. It is a testament to her that they know and don't say anything. And they're sworn to secrecy about me as well.
The jury is still out on the second time I've been discovered. This blog is not a highly trafficked blog, averaging about 20-30 visits a day, and my sense is that some of them stumble here not from the few people kind enough to blogroll me but by people surfing the web and finding this blog because it has the word SWORDFISH in the name of the blog. While sitting on the beach this week, the brother of a friend (the brother who was visiting from Malibu) let me know in the most oblique and discreet way that he had stumble across the blog, put two and two together, and figured out who the blogger was.
He told me all this sotto voce, in a private conversation, just the two of us at the edge of the ocean. He's a lawyer, prominent in Los Angeles circles, lives three thousand miles away, and would have nothing to gain by outing me to friends and family, and in fact has told me that he won't say anything...ever.
And yet it's very scary for me, very frightening to think that with one conversation that would ripple through my world, he could bring tumbling down everything, and like Rose, my world as I know it would cease to exist.
Earworm-Simon and Garfunkel, Sounds of Silence
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Playing With Old Friends-Part IV
She slid behind me and gently pushed my back, directing me down the hallway to the master bedroom, leaving Franny kneeling on the floor, struggling with the head of Tom's clublike penis. I made my way into the bedroom, Gayle now placing both her hands on my ass to move me forward, closing the distance between us until I could feel her warm skin pressed against my back, every little curve and groove indented against me. She took tiny little steps so that she could stay as close as possible, walking so close her feet almost slid under mine, forcing me to stride slightly wider than I was used to. When we got to the bedroom she knelt down before me to help me step out of my shorts, but instead of standing back up, she crouched even lower, sliding forward between my now wide spread legs, past the midpoint of my crotch, and she tilted her head back at almost a 90 degree angle, taking my balls in her wet mouth and holding them there, then moving her tongue laterally in the limited space that she was able, licking the under side of my ball sac.
She moved backwards even further, her mouth releasing my balls from their captivity, her tongue raking back and forth in the space between my balls and the edge of my ass, back and forth, over and over, long strokes back and forth, stopping at the very same place each and every time, the pressure feathery at first and then increasing, becoming more and more pronounced, as her head moved slower and slower, compressing the space she had been concentrating on, my cock bobbing up and down in front of me as I became harder than I thought possible.
"That's enough of that", she said, as she scooted forward and stood up behind me, edging closer to the bed. "My turn now", and she flopped down on the bed, her legs dangling forward, still wearing the little girl panties, now wet and even more translucent than before. I wondered who had enjoyed her licking more, her or me? She tugged the panties impatiently to one side, and I could see her moisture glistening before me.
"Stick your fingers inside and fingerfuck me for a minute or two" she commanded, and I was quick to jam two fingers deep inside her, sliding them forward and back. "Another one, and if you've trimmed your nails, slide your pinky into my asshole." The wetness had slid down the crack of her ass in just the few minutes that she was lying there, and my littlest finger slid in effortlessly, her round sphincter clutching at me as I pumped away, her hips beginning to gyrate with my motion, her hand reaching down to find her clit, her index and middle finger moving up and down, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
"Harder, dammit, I'm not made of china, ya know. I want to be pounded." And so my hand moved harder back and forth, trying hard to match her rhythm, listening hard for her exhale as she pushed down with her pelvis, hearing her grunt with the effort, knowing that she was jerking off against my hand, faster and faster now, until at last I heard a sustained moan, her asshole contracting several times around my little finger, her cunt awash in every kind of fluid imaginable, her excitement palpable and real. She stopped moving, and I held my hand still, waiting to see what else she wanted. She slowed her breathing until she was able to speak coherently.
"You wanna see what the others are doing, don't you? You're a watcher, and you'd love to watch Tommy fuck the shit out of your little wife, wouldn't you?" she almost sneered, and my face reddened, knowing that she had caught me in a secret that nobody else knew. "Let's go find them."
She moved backwards even further, her mouth releasing my balls from their captivity, her tongue raking back and forth in the space between my balls and the edge of my ass, back and forth, over and over, long strokes back and forth, stopping at the very same place each and every time, the pressure feathery at first and then increasing, becoming more and more pronounced, as her head moved slower and slower, compressing the space she had been concentrating on, my cock bobbing up and down in front of me as I became harder than I thought possible.
"That's enough of that", she said, as she scooted forward and stood up behind me, edging closer to the bed. "My turn now", and she flopped down on the bed, her legs dangling forward, still wearing the little girl panties, now wet and even more translucent than before. I wondered who had enjoyed her licking more, her or me? She tugged the panties impatiently to one side, and I could see her moisture glistening before me.
"Stick your fingers inside and fingerfuck me for a minute or two" she commanded, and I was quick to jam two fingers deep inside her, sliding them forward and back. "Another one, and if you've trimmed your nails, slide your pinky into my asshole." The wetness had slid down the crack of her ass in just the few minutes that she was lying there, and my littlest finger slid in effortlessly, her round sphincter clutching at me as I pumped away, her hips beginning to gyrate with my motion, her hand reaching down to find her clit, her index and middle finger moving up and down, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
"Harder, dammit, I'm not made of china, ya know. I want to be pounded." And so my hand moved harder back and forth, trying hard to match her rhythm, listening hard for her exhale as she pushed down with her pelvis, hearing her grunt with the effort, knowing that she was jerking off against my hand, faster and faster now, until at last I heard a sustained moan, her asshole contracting several times around my little finger, her cunt awash in every kind of fluid imaginable, her excitement palpable and real. She stopped moving, and I held my hand still, waiting to see what else she wanted. She slowed her breathing until she was able to speak coherently.
"You wanna see what the others are doing, don't you? You're a watcher, and you'd love to watch Tommy fuck the shit out of your little wife, wouldn't you?" she almost sneered, and my face reddened, knowing that she had caught me in a secret that nobody else knew. "Let's go find them."
Friday, July 11, 2008
Left Behind
My father was a simple man, growing up on a farm, not learning to speak English until he went to school when he was six. His life never got more complicated than he could handle, he was true to his faith and religion, loved his family. He was never embarassed or ashamed of his humble roots, always believing that he brought all of himself with him wherever he went, and the farmboy was just part and parcel of that. And he taught his children the same values, to never ever forget where we started from, never to lose the common touch, never to think that we might be better than other people because of life achievements or material possessions.
I have friends who no longer remember where they came from, are no longer willing to acknowledge that they didn't always have beachfront houses and river views, who have forgotten that they didn't always summer in the Hamptons (and the very best one at that). I have friends who have moved on to other circles more prestigious, more cool, more au courant.
And so does She, and She doesn't understand why these friends cease to call, She misses them, and feels the loss mightily, until I tell her what I truly think of them, that they've forgotten who they were, and are working hard to keep on forgetting, that they're ashamed of where they started from. She marvels at the fact that I'm never embarassed by anything about myself, that I am who I am, that I'm proud of whatever I have and whatever I can do, that when we lived in a railroad flat with failing heat, it was still my home. And the Boy has grown up the same way, with the same pride in whatever he has and whatever he achieves. I see it in him all the time.
My father, if he were still alive, would be as proud of me as I am of the Boy.
Earworm-Randy Newman, Last Night
I have friends who no longer remember where they came from, are no longer willing to acknowledge that they didn't always have beachfront houses and river views, who have forgotten that they didn't always summer in the Hamptons (and the very best one at that). I have friends who have moved on to other circles more prestigious, more cool, more au courant.
And so does She, and She doesn't understand why these friends cease to call, She misses them, and feels the loss mightily, until I tell her what I truly think of them, that they've forgotten who they were, and are working hard to keep on forgetting, that they're ashamed of where they started from. She marvels at the fact that I'm never embarassed by anything about myself, that I am who I am, that I'm proud of whatever I have and whatever I can do, that when we lived in a railroad flat with failing heat, it was still my home. And the Boy has grown up the same way, with the same pride in whatever he has and whatever he achieves. I see it in him all the time.
My father, if he were still alive, would be as proud of me as I am of the Boy.
Earworm-Randy Newman, Last Night
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Playing With Old Friends-Part III
And I followed the look of her eyes, their lowered lids gaze rivetted firmly on the cock in front of her. It was longer than my 8+ inches, perhaps 10 inches, with a large knobby head, and I could see her head moving ever so slightly up and down as it bobbed free of its enclosure. "Do you think you can handle it?" he asked as he smiled at her, knowing that she was lost to the sight of it and was barely hearing him. I watched as she took one or two steps to get herself comfortable in the spacing of the kitchen, and then sank to her knees as if poleaxed with a baseball bat, staring at the cock hovering only inches from her face, her mouth slightly opened as her chest heaved to catch her breath.
I barely saw the hands move beside me, or heard the rustle of the fabric, as Gayle reached behind her head and untied the halter top of the dress she was wearing. "Hey," she breathed into my ear, "see anything you like?" and I turned to see her standing next to me, wearing only a low slung pair of white cotton panties, the crotch already translucent with wetness. She pulled the waistband up hard, forcing the panties into the crack of her crotch like a piece of string, and I could see her lower lips spread to either side of the string, partially trimmed back to outline her cunt, the rest of her hair not shaved but close cropped. She started to slide the string of her panties back and forth along her clit, and it slid easily in the juices accumulated there. Her breasts hung down pendulously, her nipples dark against her skin, the circles very round and dark, almost purple, and they looked like two plums. I bent down to suck on one of them, all reason and restraint long gone, surrendered to this couple who had obviously come to our house to seduce Franny and me.
She folded her head down until her mouth reached my ear, and then bit me, gently at first, and then harder. "I usually like it rough. And I like it in my ass...the first time, that is. But I'm thinking that the floor of this kitchen isn't the most comfortable place in this house to be on my hands and knees, is it? And I'm pretty sure that Franny's knees are starting to be sore as well. " And I looked over at my wife, her two hands wrapped around a stranger's raging cock, her delicate mouth struggling to put the head in between her lips, her mouth opened as far as it could be. I watched as just the head of Tom's cock disappeared into her mouth, the angle and his height making it difficult for her, although she showed no signs of backing off. Her hands, at first resting on his thighs, almost as if to control the rape of her mouth, now circled between his legs, grabbing his two buttcheeks, trying to will herself to swallow more of his cock.
"Why don't you show us where the bedroom is, so that we can get more comfortable and not put on any more of a show for the neighbors?"
I barely saw the hands move beside me, or heard the rustle of the fabric, as Gayle reached behind her head and untied the halter top of the dress she was wearing. "Hey," she breathed into my ear, "see anything you like?" and I turned to see her standing next to me, wearing only a low slung pair of white cotton panties, the crotch already translucent with wetness. She pulled the waistband up hard, forcing the panties into the crack of her crotch like a piece of string, and I could see her lower lips spread to either side of the string, partially trimmed back to outline her cunt, the rest of her hair not shaved but close cropped. She started to slide the string of her panties back and forth along her clit, and it slid easily in the juices accumulated there. Her breasts hung down pendulously, her nipples dark against her skin, the circles very round and dark, almost purple, and they looked like two plums. I bent down to suck on one of them, all reason and restraint long gone, surrendered to this couple who had obviously come to our house to seduce Franny and me.
She folded her head down until her mouth reached my ear, and then bit me, gently at first, and then harder. "I usually like it rough. And I like it in my ass...the first time, that is. But I'm thinking that the floor of this kitchen isn't the most comfortable place in this house to be on my hands and knees, is it? And I'm pretty sure that Franny's knees are starting to be sore as well. " And I looked over at my wife, her two hands wrapped around a stranger's raging cock, her delicate mouth struggling to put the head in between her lips, her mouth opened as far as it could be. I watched as just the head of Tom's cock disappeared into her mouth, the angle and his height making it difficult for her, although she showed no signs of backing off. Her hands, at first resting on his thighs, almost as if to control the rape of her mouth, now circled between his legs, grabbing his two buttcheeks, trying to will herself to swallow more of his cock.
"Why don't you show us where the bedroom is, so that we can get more comfortable and not put on any more of a show for the neighbors?"
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Playing With Old Friends-Part II
And so the two of them stood there, silhouetted against the six o'clock sun, as Gayle continued to twist my nipple like a radio dial, and as I tried desperately to think up an explanation of what was going on that might be at all plausible. And then I watched a series of fleeting emotions wash through my wife's eyes---first a long period of disbelief, then some shock, a brief period of amazement, then a narrowing of her eyes that I took for anger, and then two final expressions that I couldn't place at first. Her mouth tightened ever so slightly, and her eyes narrowed even more, and I realized it was the grimace of revenge. And then she turned slightly sidewise to Tom, who smirked just a bit.
"I can see what's going on here, can't you, Tom? We've been left behind." And as my wife stared pointedly at the hand reaching across my chest under my shirt to grasp the other side of my chest, Gayle started her ministrations again, eliciting a sharp gasp from me. Her gaze drifted down to the tent that started to appear at my crotch, as I became hard, then harder, responding to the pain and pleasure all at once.
It was then that I recognized the last emotion on her face, the one that stayed there as she took a step or two across the kitchen floor and reached for my fly, pulling it down quickly and freeing what was now a rampant cock, loosing it for all to see. It was the throw all cares and cautions to the wind look, the damn the devil look, the I'll do anything look, the look that said please do me, please please do me, do something for me, it was lust with a capitol L.
She turned to face Tom, putting a hand in the middle of his chest, sticking her tongue out just enough to lick her lips back and forth, which she parted and then ran her tongue over the lower lip yet again, and then smiled archly at him. "Can we catch up, can we ever catch up?" she said, looking him straight in the eye.
"I can see what's going on here, can't you, Tom? We've been left behind." And as my wife stared pointedly at the hand reaching across my chest under my shirt to grasp the other side of my chest, Gayle started her ministrations again, eliciting a sharp gasp from me. Her gaze drifted down to the tent that started to appear at my crotch, as I became hard, then harder, responding to the pain and pleasure all at once.
It was then that I recognized the last emotion on her face, the one that stayed there as she took a step or two across the kitchen floor and reached for my fly, pulling it down quickly and freeing what was now a rampant cock, loosing it for all to see. It was the throw all cares and cautions to the wind look, the damn the devil look, the I'll do anything look, the look that said please do me, please please do me, do something for me, it was lust with a capitol L.
She turned to face Tom, putting a hand in the middle of his chest, sticking her tongue out just enough to lick her lips back and forth, which she parted and then ran her tongue over the lower lip yet again, and then smiled archly at him. "Can we catch up, can we ever catch up?" she said, looking him straight in the eye.
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