I've been laid low since last Friday with a wicked stomach virus, and am just now surfacing, and I'll try to post more frequently.
I hate like hell buying new things. It's almost always true that I can never get what I really want, but rather only what's on the market. A year ago, I had to go car shopping, and wound up with a compromise that I'll have for the next ten years (I live in NYC, use a car sparingly, i.e. ten thousand miles a year, and am gentle). It wasn't what I really wanted, but I couldn't test drive the car for a month or two to really find out---bad turning radius, no trunk passthrough, city gas mileage overstated. It's not unpleasant to drive, just so vanilla, and it does have those problems.
Last week I went to my local branch of Babeland to buy toys, and came away just as disappointed. I had gone in to buy something called an Aneros, something to please and pleasure myself with, but was struck by an item on the counter, colored bright blue, called Pandora, which had multi vibrating speeds. Looked very jazzy, went in really easy (made of silicone I think) but didn't quite hit the right spots for me I'm not cumming all over the place...and this always leads to mild paranoia. Are my parts in the wrong places? Am I doing it wrong? I understand that you can't take the toys home, try them out, and then bring them back...it's not Bloomingdales, but I wish there were some other vetting possibilities, other than consumer comments on the Babeland website. Not Babeland's fault, but I wish there were some other way to find out what worked and what didn't.
Earworm-Gerald Wilson Orchestra-In My Time
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Summertime
I'm trying hard to understand how women and clothing works, but for the life of me I sometimes just don't get it.
In New York City during the spring and summer months, there's more and more skin showing, more cleavage, more boobs coming out of the tops of low cut tanks and camis, more nipples outlined as women of all ages slip from hot subway platforms to iced subway cars, skimpy sweaters come on and off. I long ago stopped understanding how bras worked, but even I understand that the basic function now is no longer just support, it's push up and display, or it seems to be, it's showoff time now.
I've always been a watcher, sometimes choosing to look rather than participate (more about that another time), but I can't figure out if I'm supposed to stare or not. Is the whole exposure thing an "I'm proud ofwhat I've got here, celebrate me" sort of thing, or is it a "Look at me, I've got great boobs" thing? Am I supposed to look or not?
Very confusing....
Earworm-Mahler, Symphony #10
In New York City during the spring and summer months, there's more and more skin showing, more cleavage, more boobs coming out of the tops of low cut tanks and camis, more nipples outlined as women of all ages slip from hot subway platforms to iced subway cars, skimpy sweaters come on and off. I long ago stopped understanding how bras worked, but even I understand that the basic function now is no longer just support, it's push up and display, or it seems to be, it's showoff time now.
I've always been a watcher, sometimes choosing to look rather than participate (more about that another time), but I can't figure out if I'm supposed to stare or not. Is the whole exposure thing an "I'm proud ofwhat I've got here, celebrate me" sort of thing, or is it a "Look at me, I've got great boobs" thing? Am I supposed to look or not?
Very confusing....
Earworm-Mahler, Symphony #10
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Surrender
We all are looking for some form of surrender. Eminem puts it right in his song Lose Yourself, if that's the correct title. It's all about giving in to the feeling, the losing control of everything in the quest for surrender, about doing things to and for yourself or having them done to you that go far outside whatever boundaries might exist in everyday life, of loosing the bonds so that they fall by the wayside and disintegrate. I think that hardcore substance abusers understand this best, at least at the very start of their abuse, that initial burst of feeling that nothing else matters except what they're feeling right then.
I've been struggling with writing this for almost a week, ever since reading a post by Toy in her blog. The post was about being a slut, totally surrendering to feelings, and doing this to and by herself. (This sometimes leads to a discussion of how "nobody does you like you do you", but that's for another day and another time.) The post put down in words what I had thought about for a long time, and I salute her for that organizational capability.
Two things continually come to mind here that have appeared elsewhere in print. The first was a scene in that discredited autobiography A Hundred Million Pieces, in which the author describes a female friend of his, so smitten with her dealer crackhead boyfriend, that she allows him to whore her out for all comers, and then throws her out on the street totally naked, dressed only in a cardboard box. The total debasement and embarrassment practically make me stop breathing.
The second was an article in Tristan Taormino's Pucker Up column that appeared about two years ago. She wrote it from a convention, although which one I'm not sure. It was about a woman who totally surrendered to being dominated by anyone in the audience. Again, the concept and ability to give in so fully to whatever puts you over edge makes my throat close in the course of being aroused.
This has taken me almost a week to write, because it forces me organize things best left unorganized, and to say things best left unsaid. Once you put structure to something diaphanous, it establishes a form and structure that diminish the thing you're dealing with.
Earworm: Eminem-Lose Yourself
I've been struggling with writing this for almost a week, ever since reading a post by Toy in her blog. The post was about being a slut, totally surrendering to feelings, and doing this to and by herself. (This sometimes leads to a discussion of how "nobody does you like you do you", but that's for another day and another time.) The post put down in words what I had thought about for a long time, and I salute her for that organizational capability.
Two things continually come to mind here that have appeared elsewhere in print. The first was a scene in that discredited autobiography A Hundred Million Pieces, in which the author describes a female friend of his, so smitten with her dealer crackhead boyfriend, that she allows him to whore her out for all comers, and then throws her out on the street totally naked, dressed only in a cardboard box. The total debasement and embarrassment practically make me stop breathing.
The second was an article in Tristan Taormino's Pucker Up column that appeared about two years ago. She wrote it from a convention, although which one I'm not sure. It was about a woman who totally surrendered to being dominated by anyone in the audience. Again, the concept and ability to give in so fully to whatever puts you over edge makes my throat close in the course of being aroused.
This has taken me almost a week to write, because it forces me organize things best left unorganized, and to say things best left unsaid. Once you put structure to something diaphanous, it establishes a form and structure that diminish the thing you're dealing with.
Earworm: Eminem-Lose Yourself
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Dreams: 2 + 1
We're on an island somewhere in the Caribbean, on our annual vacation. It's always a smaller island with relatively few resorts or hotels, and usually relatively little night life except some dancing to a local band. But for some reason, tonight it seems a whole lot more lively, much more dancehall than usual, and everybody is out on the floor dancing. We all have arms up in the air, and She's dancing next to a beautiful woman, seemingly unattached, their movements mimicing one another side by side. The woman has dark hair and high cheekbones, her eyes flashing with the promise of good times, and she introduces herself to us as Lylah. We all continue dancing together, and then She whispers something into Lylah's ear, which elicits a sly smile and nod. She's invited her to come back to our room and join us.
We're suddenly back in the room, all of us damp and sweaty, in a great hurry to shed clothing. Lylah is kissing Her deeply, and I can see their tongues wrapping around one another, Her pale skin and auburn hair a sharp contrast to Lylah's suntan, Her pinkish nipples pointed forward and mashed against the darker points of the other woman. Lylah pushes her down on the bed, the king size bed, and licks a straight line down the middle of her body to her clit, twirling it around and around. Her legs are spread wide, and Lylah motions for me to join in. She's totally taken control, and we're just following her orders.
My cock is as hard as an iron bar, and I get between Her legs to put it into Her. She puts Her legs up on my shoulders, and in one motion, I'm deep into Her and pistoning away. I can tell that I'm hitting Her good spot, because Her mouth is open and She's drooling slightly, Her face flopped slightly to one side. Suddenly, I feel a cold wetness between my buttcheeks, and I know what's coming. Lylah inserts one finger, then two, and she's hitting my good spot. It feels like I'm coming continuously, as she pushes her fingers in and out, suddenly withdrawing them and leaving my anus gaping for a moment. Then I feel the sudden pressure return to my opening, and I know she's come back at me with a strap on, and in a moment she's deep inside me. I'm still pumping, now in rhythm to her lunges. She reaches up and starts to pull on my nipples, gently first, and then harder and harder, twisting them each in opposite directions, and suddenly I can't wait any longer, coming deep and long inside Her, as I watch Lylah's head hit the pillow next to Her, and She sucks her tongue deep into her bruised looking mouth, tears flowing from Her eyes.
We're suddenly back in the room, all of us damp and sweaty, in a great hurry to shed clothing. Lylah is kissing Her deeply, and I can see their tongues wrapping around one another, Her pale skin and auburn hair a sharp contrast to Lylah's suntan, Her pinkish nipples pointed forward and mashed against the darker points of the other woman. Lylah pushes her down on the bed, the king size bed, and licks a straight line down the middle of her body to her clit, twirling it around and around. Her legs are spread wide, and Lylah motions for me to join in. She's totally taken control, and we're just following her orders.
My cock is as hard as an iron bar, and I get between Her legs to put it into Her. She puts Her legs up on my shoulders, and in one motion, I'm deep into Her and pistoning away. I can tell that I'm hitting Her good spot, because Her mouth is open and She's drooling slightly, Her face flopped slightly to one side. Suddenly, I feel a cold wetness between my buttcheeks, and I know what's coming. Lylah inserts one finger, then two, and she's hitting my good spot. It feels like I'm coming continuously, as she pushes her fingers in and out, suddenly withdrawing them and leaving my anus gaping for a moment. Then I feel the sudden pressure return to my opening, and I know she's come back at me with a strap on, and in a moment she's deep inside me. I'm still pumping, now in rhythm to her lunges. She reaches up and starts to pull on my nipples, gently first, and then harder and harder, twisting them each in opposite directions, and suddenly I can't wait any longer, coming deep and long inside Her, as I watch Lylah's head hit the pillow next to Her, and She sucks her tongue deep into her bruised looking mouth, tears flowing from Her eyes.
Monday, August 6, 2007
***Seeing Stars***
There are some actors and actresses that just seem to speak to me directly, people that light it up for me instantly, that can do no wrong on either stage or screen. It's not a sexual thing, and it doesn't have to me a woman to get that reaction, but rather some sort of instant communication.
And in the converse, some actors just leave me absolutely cold. I could never make sense of Burt Lancaster, even though I knew he was a really good actor. He just didn't speak to me. I never understood Elizabeth Taylor either, notwithstanding that she was drop dead beautiful.
And now I'm finding the same thing with Leonardo di Caprio (sp??). I know he's doing great work in Blood Diamond, but it's like watching a stick figure for me. I wish I understood why.
Earworm: Paul Simon-Graceland
And in the converse, some actors just leave me absolutely cold. I could never make sense of Burt Lancaster, even though I knew he was a really good actor. He just didn't speak to me. I never understood Elizabeth Taylor either, notwithstanding that she was drop dead beautiful.
And now I'm finding the same thing with Leonardo di Caprio (sp??). I know he's doing great work in Blood Diamond, but it's like watching a stick figure for me. I wish I understood why.
Earworm: Paul Simon-Graceland
Friday, August 3, 2007
Only Living Boy in New York
I live in New York City. I was born here, and with the exception of a summer in San Francisco (living in the basement of a Chinese laundry in the Polk Street Gulch and not really understanding why all the guys on the street were checking me out), I've never lived anywhere else. And I've come to realize that I probably don't know how to live anywhere else. I'm trying to learn the skills necessary by spending more and more time in a small town on the East End of Long Island (not the glamorous Hamptons).
I check up on about two dozen blogs on a more or less daily basis, most of them based in the bdsm or adult sexual world, and as soon as I have sufficient patience to figure out the software, I'll list them out on a blogroll. Some of them I know are written far far away (subgidget is north of San Francisco, Elodie somewhere in Scandanavia I think, the dirty couple in Virginia, Mrs. Kelly in Tokyo, others elsewhere), and I know that some of them originate in NYC or the greater metropolitan area ). Engrailed shows the city as her address, tess of urban gypsy is also from here, as is plum, I think, and designing intimacy, which I no longer read, is a college student here.)
Living here brings people up close and personal on a constant and consistent basis. We are close to one another walking on the street, in buses and subways, grocery stores and bodegas. I'm always wondering, have I seen local bloggers face to face? And how would I ever know? We are cloaked in a veil of electronic anonymity, revealing ourselves layer by layer as we write our periodic postings, and can only put a face to a name when everyone agrees to do so.
Sometimes I love the anonymity of it, as it allows me to reveal things about myself that are kept sooo private, and at other times I desperately want to know what everybody looks like. I know that tess started worked hard this spring in the gym with a trainer, and thinks she has a long, hard road to get to how she wants to look physically, and shibari, if the photos she posts are of herself, is drop dead gorgeous from the neck down, but the rest of it is a mystery.
Earworn: Rickie Lee Jones, Easy Money
I check up on about two dozen blogs on a more or less daily basis, most of them based in the bdsm or adult sexual world, and as soon as I have sufficient patience to figure out the software, I'll list them out on a blogroll. Some of them I know are written far far away (subgidget is north of San Francisco, Elodie somewhere in Scandanavia I think, the dirty couple in Virginia, Mrs. Kelly in Tokyo, others elsewhere), and I know that some of them originate in NYC or the greater metropolitan area ). Engrailed shows the city as her address, tess of urban gypsy is also from here, as is plum, I think, and designing intimacy, which I no longer read, is a college student here.)
Living here brings people up close and personal on a constant and consistent basis. We are close to one another walking on the street, in buses and subways, grocery stores and bodegas. I'm always wondering, have I seen local bloggers face to face? And how would I ever know? We are cloaked in a veil of electronic anonymity, revealing ourselves layer by layer as we write our periodic postings, and can only put a face to a name when everyone agrees to do so.
Sometimes I love the anonymity of it, as it allows me to reveal things about myself that are kept sooo private, and at other times I desperately want to know what everybody looks like. I know that tess started worked hard this spring in the gym with a trainer, and thinks she has a long, hard road to get to how she wants to look physically, and shibari, if the photos she posts are of herself, is drop dead gorgeous from the neck down, but the rest of it is a mystery.
Earworn: Rickie Lee Jones, Easy Money
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Read All About It
When I first met her, long long ago in a galaxy far away, I immediately understood certain things about her...she came from a background far different from mine in oh so many ways, and seemed to enjoy sex on a take it or leave it basis. She had a small narrow mouth (more about this another time), and missionary sex was about the limit of her experience.
But she took my breath away, stole my heart and I never wanted it back. And so I embarked on what would be a journey of trying to expand her horizons. She learned about not being on the bottom all the time, what made her come, sex while menstruating, oral sex, how hot it was to have me masturbate her in the kitchen while guests were ringing the doorbell. We never got to anal penetration (of her), and assplay for the most part wasn't part of the picture (again, for her). Sex was almost always my idea, although She was usually an enthusiastic participant. Porn of almost any sort was out of the question. And over the years have pretty much downshifted to weekend sex, which is fine. The sex I mean, not the downshifting. And because She's a girl, it was usually at the end of a nonconfrontational, nonargumentative day. It wasn't an itch that had to be scratched for her, yet she was always happy to join in.
Tuesday, the NY Times featured an article in the Science section about why people have sex, and included discussion of the 237 reasons given by a large group of people (I'm remembering 2000). I know that She read the article, just as I know that she reads the Get Naked column in Time Out NY. It was an interesting article, although certainly not groundbreaking, not for me anyway. Yet when we got into bed, She was all over me, not interested in her own pleasure in the least, but working hard to do all the special things that exist between long time partners in bed that She would know put me over the top.
Yet I don't think She makes any connection between reading the article about sex and wanting to do it. I'll never understand this basic difference between men and most women. I can sure recognize it all the time, but maybe it's just the hardwiring...guys read about sex, get hard as a rock, and want to do it (OK, not necessarily from that article, but lots of other things). Women read about sex and seem to file it away.
I can't figure out what pushed Her buttons, but I'm not complaining.
In the background: Andrea and Giovanni Gabrieli
But she took my breath away, stole my heart and I never wanted it back. And so I embarked on what would be a journey of trying to expand her horizons. She learned about not being on the bottom all the time, what made her come, sex while menstruating, oral sex, how hot it was to have me masturbate her in the kitchen while guests were ringing the doorbell. We never got to anal penetration (of her), and assplay for the most part wasn't part of the picture (again, for her). Sex was almost always my idea, although She was usually an enthusiastic participant. Porn of almost any sort was out of the question. And over the years have pretty much downshifted to weekend sex, which is fine. The sex I mean, not the downshifting. And because She's a girl, it was usually at the end of a nonconfrontational, nonargumentative day. It wasn't an itch that had to be scratched for her, yet she was always happy to join in.
Tuesday, the NY Times featured an article in the Science section about why people have sex, and included discussion of the 237 reasons given by a large group of people (I'm remembering 2000). I know that She read the article, just as I know that she reads the Get Naked column in Time Out NY. It was an interesting article, although certainly not groundbreaking, not for me anyway. Yet when we got into bed, She was all over me, not interested in her own pleasure in the least, but working hard to do all the special things that exist between long time partners in bed that She would know put me over the top.
Yet I don't think She makes any connection between reading the article about sex and wanting to do it. I'll never understand this basic difference between men and most women. I can sure recognize it all the time, but maybe it's just the hardwiring...guys read about sex, get hard as a rock, and want to do it (OK, not necessarily from that article, but lots of other things). Women read about sex and seem to file it away.
I can't figure out what pushed Her buttons, but I'm not complaining.
In the background: Andrea and Giovanni Gabrieli
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