In Vino Veritas: Lord Help Me

So, I'm doing my hump day in brilliant fashion. I'm drunk. Like, flat-out, I'm a 1/2 glass from the bottom of my bottle of Sicilian red wine. Mm, mm, good. Yeah.

What can I say? I was working on a tv show about red wine this afternoon, and I thought, "That sounds good. Sure." So, that and a 440-calorie deluxe mini-pizza and I'm just as happy as can be. Albeit somewhat wobbly.

Because I'm drunk, heh heh, and happy about it, and in vino veritas, and all that, I'm going to take a moment to not really apologize, but maybe clear the air or something here.

I have been short-tempered of late, probably pretty much clear throughout my life. It has been odd and strange to be on my end of it, because I'm not sure where it comes from. One word springs to mind: hormones.

Two weeks ago, I visited my doctor and said, "You know, I think it's time I got off the meds."

If you're new to this blog, fuck, well, the story's too long to indoctrinate ya now, but suffice to say my longtime readers know I've been on quite the ride the last couple of years, but given that I heavily edit this blog and temper it from my real life, all y'all don't know jack. Really.

So, long story short, I lost my nut two years ago when birth control pills fucked me up more than I ever could have dreamed. I still think birth control pills are an important tool, and that my experience is probably the exception to the rule, but that, if you do decide to use the pill (and I'd approve that choice, with condoms), you got to monitor your moods and tell those closest to you to help keep you objective about how you're reacting to life, because I tripped the wire, man. I really tripped the wire.

I am telling you this: I have lost my mother, who was THE most important person to me, after caring for her before her death; I have survived nearly a decade of chronic pain; I have survived nearly dying on a severely injuring motorbike accident... and I have never, ever endured the darkness I endured two summers ago. I couldn't have written about the darkness I was in. You didn't want to read that, I certainly didn't want to actualize it on the page. I couldn't talk about it. I kept trying to talk myself out of it; intellectually I knew my life wasn't that bad, so what was it?

The further I get from it, the more I realize it had to be the pills.

So, back to the present. I've lost almost 50 pounds, the good old-fashioned way. I've not used trainers or clubs or organizations, and I haven't even had a gym membership. But I've gotten it done. I've redecorated my place, tackled my debt...

But then in the last couple of months, though I've intellectually felt like I'm going someplace awesome, my emotions were just always a little too much on edge for all I KNOW I have accomplished.

So, I chatted with the doc. Because, you know, us women and hormones, man, it's a delicate dance. I started wondering if maybe it was time to end the anti-depressants, since they'd clearly done their job.

Now, the doc only found out about 3 weeks ago I'd lost 35 pounds, so this 40-pushing-50 thing is news all the better. So, I show up for the appointment, tell him maybe it's time I move on. He looks at me and goes, "Steff, depressed people don't lose 40 pounds, and they're not really into redecorating much. I think maybe, yeah, it's time."

But truth be told, I hadn't really thought I'd been that off-kilter until the last couple days. Coincidentally, I just got off the meds Sunday. A couple days and that stuff starts to clear up, like a long fog in the winter. (Though, ironically, I'm all a-tipsy now. :)

In the not too distant past, I've written a rant about comments, chewed a few people out, you know. Kinda not-too-fuzzy stuff. It's out of character for me to throw it out there -- politically, I'm as shrewd as the fuckin' day is long, baby, so I don't tend to put my foot in my mouth all that often.

But it seems of late I have. I think I was expressing my true feelings, but I normally would've put a cork in it and just dismissed it as people spouting off when maybe they should've done a little self-editing. Then, ironically, I too failed to self-edit. Funny how that works.

Anyhow. This is me saying I'll behave more. I'm not saying I'm sorry, 'cos maybe we all should blow a fuse now and then and get that shit off our chests... heh, after four years of blogging, it was about time I ranted about comments. Hah. It's like parental advice -- sooner or later you just gotta speak your piece.

But I could have done it better. I could have been nicer. Hell, I should have. One thing I've never claimed to be is perfect. And I've always loathed hormones. Damn estrogenies. So, you know, older, wiser, and on it rolls. Will. Behave. Better.

All right, so I was a bit of an ass. Yes. True. But I wasn't entirely incorrect. :)

(My theory is, with enough time passing for the birth control pills to finally be irrelevant, my weight loss success, my improved diet, a more relaxing job situation, and improved finances, that my body chemistry has become correct all by itself, but by continuing to be medicated, it's actually been causing a new imbalance. Strange, huh? But it makes sense to me. Ay yi yi.)

Psst!

In case you didn't know, you can follow me on Twitter now. I'm not that exciting, but hey. :)

Sextoy Review! The GIGI "Pleasure Object" by LELO

My good friends at Vibe Review sent me some pretty toys earlier this month, and the one I couldn't wait to get playing with first was this beautiful toy pictured here.

The Gigi Pleasure Object could also have another name: "Your New Best Friend."

This thing is to sex toys what the iPOD is to music. No, really.

Sure, you could go for the so-called five-speed turn-the-dial vibrators out there, or you could cross the threshold into the 21st century and try a vibrator powered by a microchip, that offers five incredible sensations, and each of those come in five different speeds. Oh, you have no idea.

But that's only part of what I love, love, love about this toy. So, let's slow down and break it down for a second:

Pluses:

Wow! What a beautiful thing to open. It comes in a simple wine-coloured box, and you slide that open and there's a beautiful black box (no markings) in which sits this sophisticated, original "pleasure object". Not only that, it comes with a gorgeous little white satin bag to keep it in. But the thing looks like art. Why put it away? (Because you want to protect it from dust and cooties, of course, silly.)

It's rechargable. In fact, it has no removable batteries. It will charge completely in two hours and will give you 90 minutes of continuous playtime. This, and plenty of other great information comes in the User's Manual. Like how speed #5 is for "before and after". Yes, it's a five-speed. And we love our five speeds, don't we? But five SENSATIONS with five speeds each? Like, ohmigod!

The five "sensations" include: 1) your basic steady-ready solid vibrating found on every other vibe in the world -- but that's where the similarities end -- 2) short but radiating and expanding pulses, 3) short and quick staccato pulses on rapid-fire, 4) steady vibrating with a rhythmic pounding throb overlapping it, and, my favourite, 5) a steady vibrating with radiating climaxing built in on a three-second repeating pattern (and it'll blow your mind). Each of these five "sensations" can be ramped from from "merely there" vibrating to "shaking your knees" vibrating, because it's seemingly powered by the same kind of microchip that makes your cellphone get so happy.

This is a seriously powerful, seriously smart sex toy. The touch control is one four-direction tab you can move up and down through the sensations, and side-to-side for the power/speed options.

One thing I love about the Gigi, too, is, when the battery's still not charged, and you're charging it, the touch control is illuminated with an LED light, and flashes once every second. Once it's fully charged, it lights up solid. So, you'll be able to walk back to the living room from the washroom and notice through your dark bedroom that your Gigi's fully charged, and one thought about its vibing power, you'll probably skip the rest of So You Think You Can Dance and spend a little girl time with Your New Best Friend.

The look of it, too, is awesome. It's sleek, clean, pretty to look at, not too large, and if you did happen to leave it out, it's not the kind of toy a friend'll spot and you'll have to cringe when they point it out. It's tasteful looking. It's modern design, modern art.

And this thing is light, girls. Once you take the batteries out of a toy like this, it is very, very light and easy to maneuver.

Negatives:

It's small. It's designed to look sleek and modern, so there are no "pleasure enhancing" ridges on it that have become standard on so many vibes. I'm waiting for the sex toy that is easier to handle controls on with lubed-up fingers slipping and sliding off it, but the Gigi's not yet that toy.

It's very solid, ie: hard, but because it's a smaller toy, that's not so much of a problem, plus it's easier to clean as a result.

But... I had to think about this. Really.

Overall:

Can I tell you how much the environmentalist in me LOVES that no batteries are needed yet there are no annoying cords? It's rechargeable, operated by a microprocessor, and so you can tell from across a dark room when it's fully charged. It has stunning vibing options, five of 'em, and they all come with five speeds.

This is amongst one of the most powerful vibes I've ever, ever seen, but its five speeds really do offer everything from merely there to damn-that-thing's-quakin' speeds that'll get you melting.

This is one cool little toy to have, and absolutely worth a night in. If you spend only around $100 on sex toys this year? Spend it on Gigi. She'll make sure you're properly spent, in more ways than one.

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

You can't get to where you're goin' if you don't know where you're leavin' from. That's one of those truisms said a million ways by a million voices. It's true of every one of us. Whatever our differences, that's our commonality.

Knowing from whence you've come versus where it is you're headed is one thing, but knowing how the hell that trip came about is quite another.

Last new year's eve I finally had a night to myself after several days of being with family and friends non-stop, and I spent some time thinking on the year I wanted to have ahead of me. I wanted to lose at least 50 pounds. I wanted to get a grasp of my finances. I wanted to take writing seriously again. But most of all, I just wanted to become a better self.

I'd spent two years going through one hell of a ringer, as if life was some game show that decided I had a two-year contract of Running The Gauntlet.

"Will she make it out alive? Good golly! Make sure you tune in to see more of the exciting antics as life doles out doozy after doozy to our fair heroine! What a ride this one's gonna be, Billy! Hoo, boy!"

I decided last fall, in a swirl of overtime and craziness at work, that I'd take serious stock of life over Christmas. I'd had my brother staying with me for a few days over the holidays, for what was completely an exercise in excess. A cousin had heard we were hanging together for the festive week, with no other family nearby, and sent a massive food basket with $200-worth of gourmet regional goodies. We drank and ate and smoked dope and watched half the movies in my extensive library, but we spent a lot of time talking also about where my brother wanted his life to go, and where I knew I had to take mine.

When New Year's Eve rolled around and my house fell silent, I found myself doing some heavy mental lifting as I took stock of just how displeased I was with where my life had gone in '07, and how happy I was to have reconfigured my priorities, quit a job I hated, and took serious steps in gaining some security in my life again. But I knew I'd barely begun.

And here it is, seven months later, and I'm down about 40-45 pounds, my finances are sorting out nicely, and everything's moving in the right direction, but lord how far there is yet to go. While I might've done some mental heavy lifting at the new year, I certainly haven't been hoisting much of late. I've been avoiding the "how" I got to be that person I was last year. Where did it all begin? Where'd the weight start to become something I used to protect myself from others? How'd I let myself fall so freely into the life of excess and ignorance? How'd I let it continue unabated for so long?

Long story short? I got hurt. A lot. In every way. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Hurt after hurt after hurt after hurt, year after year after year after year. Hurt and pain is like a snowball. Once you get it rolling, once it gets momentum, if it keeps moving that way, it builds up layer after layer until you can't believe the size it suddenly amasses.

A pretty apt analogy for my weight problem, too. The further I get in my journey to self this year, the more I realize how much my weight is tangibly linked to all the hurts I took on over my years.

It's taken me my lifetime to learn that hurt isn't personal. Tragedies landing on my doorstep weren't life's way of telling me I wasn't welcome. It's not about me. It's just the ebb and flow of life, and it was just my turn. Just like this has now become my turn to shine, then it was my turn to hurt. And I took it the wrong way. I thought about the hurt rather than thinking on the learn. What could I learn from it? How could I grow? How else could I look at it? Was my point of view self-indulgent, or was I being objective?

And the funny thing is, is just how long it's taken me to learn a lesson I could have learned in just a single day 13 years ago. I spent a whole day doing a ceremonial sweat lodge with a few folks from the Tlingit native tribe up in the Yukon when I was 22, in February, 1995. Chief Phil explained the most important principle to keep in mind: It would be hard, it would be long, it would sometimes hurt, but it would be worth it. The whole point of suffering, he said, was surviving it.

And, right there, I guess, is pretty much the secret to life in a nutshell. It's long, it's hard, it hurts sometimes, but it's ultimately worth it. The whole point, it seems, is surviving. And some, of course, do it better than others. Others, of course, have it easier than some. And that's just how it rolls.

But though I knew what Chief Phil meant that day, knowing and understanding are two very different things. Now here I am, 13 years later, and I get it. I understand it. I even love it. Because I know I've survived it. I know what I'm made of. I know what I can overcome. But I have more to prove.

I've had a hard year this year in a lot of respects, but I also feel like I've ended the darkest part of my life, and this year of trial has been hard only because it's the physical labour of building a whole new life. It's the trial and the fatigue and hurt of a hard year's work, not from the adversity posed of a life of difficulty. I run my life now, it no longer runs me.

The hurts of my past, the hurts from my youth, they don't hurt me anymore. They bother me some when I think on them, but my thinking has to do with taking stock, owning it, and then consciously moving past it. I'm, in a sense, undertaking a reckoning of my life thus far, and I'm staring it in the eyes and saying "You don't bother me no more" and closing the door on it, hurt by hurt, year by year.

It's a slow and difficult process at times, but that's why I told myself last new year's that it'd be at least a year before I was anywhere close to on track for that proverbial destination I ache to reach. Seven months in, I was more right than I knew, because, although I'm further than I expected to be this far into my year, I also recognize that my distance I must travel is far greater than I could've realized.

But it's a hell of a trip, baby.

My First Time (with a Home Pregnancy Test)

There I was, desperately locking and re-locking the bathroom door in the back of a Subway sandwich shop, panicking that I might be heard, or maybe the Catholic in me felt the location was just morally wrong for that sort of thing, but I didn't give a shit. The time was nigh, now or never, or at least now-sooner-than-later, as fate might have it anyhow, so I was doin' it.

I tore the pregnancy test open, pulled out the stupid stick, lowered my pants and panties, and peed on that thingy, with my Chicken Caesar sub a couple feet away in that plastic bag, mocking my efforts.

Three loooonng minutes later, I learned I wasn't pregnant. So, naturally, I did another test. A second opinion on some matters is the only way to go.

Yes! Again, no bun in the oven! No baby on the way! No mini-me! No eternal hellfire for my still-too-Catholic soul! (That is, if I didn't count the pre-marital sex I'd been enjoying again of late).

I exited that dingy bathroom to find a line-up of three people glowering at me for my eight-minute visit to the only washroom for the whole joint. I shrugged, "Hey, it was labourious", and shuffled obliviously to a booth nearby.

I swear, I've never had a better Chicken Caesar sub in my life.

That's actually the only time I've ever been noticeably "late" for a period, since I'm the irregular type anyhow, so I've never done a "home" pregnancy test since. There's been a couple morning-after pills, but that's another story.

But I don't get this whole Hollywood thing, how any woman who buys a preggers test has the wherewithal to finish her shopping, walk around the block, get home, and then do it in the sanctity of her own bathroom. Like that's the only place a "home" pregnancy test works.

Hey, when there's the potentiality of being knocked up, some of us are consumed by the TELL ME NOW, MOTHERFUCKER urge to, you know, cross the fucking street and go into the first cafe or fast-food joint with a private door-locking bathroom to do the three-minute test then and there, and ease our mind.

Or maybe I'm alone in the universe, but I really don't think so, even if patience certainly ain't my strong suit.

So, consider this a fun-filled not-so-scientific study in which you can help me shatter yet another myth out there.

Where have you taken your pregnancy tests? C'mon, most of us have done one. Was it at home? Work? A friend's? What was the outcome? How'd you deal?

Now, if you've never done this before, commenting is really easy. You can do it anonymously, or with any name you choose, or under your Blogger or Live ID. Look at the bottom of this post. You'll see the word "thoughts?" and if you click on that, you're rockin'! Have your say, and preview or publish your comment with the appropriate buttons below the comment fill-in field. Have at 'er, and thanks.

Sugasm 141

Hey, Minions. :)

I'm still sick. Yes, poor me. But I'm better enough to go to work today. Which isn't necessarily a good thing, since I've grown attached to my lumpy spot on the couch, but hey. Life's rough, get a helmet.

This is what I get for thinking "Oh, hey, I should increase the amount of milk I'm drinking... and soy's so expensive". I know I'm very sensitive to ice cream and big yogurt shakes and stuff, as I've had nasty illnesses hit me after those, but I figured skim milk might be safe. So instead of gradually bumping up my intake, I started making myself a couple lattes each morning.

Yeah, so that was dumb, and now I know. :P Time to bump up the calcium supplements, and back to soy I go. Shit happens, baby.

But I'm still somewhat congested, not right in the head, and not into writing, so I'll just use this as a chance to pimp the Sugasm and wish all y'all a fine and dandy hump day.

So, without ado, Sugasm. Eat some, you'll feel better.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks
Comedy vs. Tragedy “Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”

Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious “In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”

A Wish “I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice Road Rage

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Forgetting
How Do You Flirt With Milk?
The Hunt
I Don’t Usually Date, but…
I have huge tits.
Men on Pointe
My Femme Cock
Nibbles and Bits: Vegetarian? Really? Doh!
Present and first love making

Sex Advice
How to Make Her Want Anal Sex
Play Safe
The Power of Suggestion- And How It Helps You Meet Women

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Gisele Bundchen Topless and Nipple Slip Pictures
HNT - Purple Lace Part Two
Lady Sascha Does HHNT
Marta - Professional
Once upon a time HNT
Pornsaint Tara Tainton
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet -HNT
Sam Bound

Sex Humor
It did not work
When your mother has more sex than you do…

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Can’t Get Enough
Fiction - The Wrong Smith Girl
Getting to fuck the neighbor 15
Harder…
In any language,…
Le Cadeaux
Nine: of nasty names
Oh Honey, Make Yourself Cum for Me
The Parking Garage
Pointless
The Ride.
Rub a Dub Dub
The Second Time Around
Slow.Soft.Hot.Perfect
Spin the bottle-the conclusion
Tits~n~Teets 2
TNT - Part 2
The Wanting
Writhe

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Can A Film Prostitute In 1930’s Shanghai Fare Any Better Than One Of The 100,000 Prostitutes Working The Streets In The City?
Donate To Satine Phoenix’s Tantric Exploration
Escort X: Find great escorts
Spanking erotica interview with Alison Tyler
The value of erotic blogging
Wanted: Your Orgasms Caught on Tape

BDSM & Fetish
Auction of a Slave
Changing Cravings For Pain: A Survey
A Beautifully Cruel Predicament Bondage Scene
Cuntwriting
Fitting Punishment
The house in Vienna
July MVK: Play piercing
Leather Retreat 2008 – The Toll Booth
Mz Berlin Gets The Bastinado And Rack Torture On Hogtied
Necessary Roughness
Routine Maintenance, pt. 2
A Scene in Three Parts … (part III)
Taken and Collared as a Sex Slave while her husband sleeps
Telegraph
Trying on new shoes, Friday night edition

Wah! Sick! Fuck Sick!

Your beloved blogger has been sick all weekend and is home sick from work today, too. Missed my party Saturday, felt like death-warmed over Sunday. She is none too pleased, either.

Smack-dab in the middle of the nicest July I remember in some time, and here I am, hacking and coughing and groaning about headaches and stuck with vertigo.

As a result, you get nothing from me today. Hack, hack, cough, cough.

I left this voicemail for my boss on her cellphone. "Hi! Welcome back from three weeks in Europe! I feel awful. Sick as a dog. WHO GETS FLIPPIN' SICK IN JULY?! GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! Call me back at home."

She calls back, cracking up. I'm glad someone is amused. And I'm at home, miserable. But, there you have it: best bosses ever.

Ahh, well, it had to happen sooner or later. I haven't really been sick since last September and god knows I've been pushing it this year. Bah. Have a better day than me, minions. Time to catch up on some daytime telly, methinks.

Thoughts on Clothes Shopping, and Sugasm 140.

Have you ever had one of those days where you just wake up apprehensive and slightly disturbed, and you're not sure why, other than the restless sleep filled with unsettling dreams you can't remember?

Yeah. I had one of those sleeps last night. Fraught with the unsettled, but completely in the dark as to remembering any of my dreams last night. Except for a snippet where I was having this hellish clothes-shopping experience where, every item I tried on, I'd look in the mirror and it'd suddenly distort and I'd have this hideous thing looking back at me. I woke up, smoked some pot, and tried to sleep again.

Hours later, I've woken up uncomfortable in my own skin, and I can't really shake it off, but I'm about to give it a good shot.

I went to bed last night thinking all these outlandish thoughts about how exciting it was going to be to go shopping for new shorts at Old Navy today. Now I'm all apprehensive about it. I'm sitting here in the XXL shorts I bought two years ago that I now have to yank the ropes as tight as possible and roll down at the waist just to keep 'em from falling down over my hips. I've lost more than 40 pounds, but there are times I still feel like the girl of old.

It's a little nerve-wracking facing the demons of Mass Produced Clothing in the post-weight-loss world. Boo, hiss, mass production. In a world without regulated sizing, it can be a pretty psychologically cruel journey for someone looking to find a sense of self in a new size. As if that's where we'll ever find ourselves anyhow. But once we do find our self, wherever it's found, it can always be enhanced by a great pair of jeans, no?

Naturally, I can't afford to buy much today. A little. Not much. The broke state of Steff will come to an end in Aug/Sept, but I can find a few pennies, and that's okay. Anything is good, right? I've been wearing my three new shirts this week and my new jeans I bought, and I got an awesome email from a coworker yesterday morning, an afterthought kind of thing. "Hey, I've been meaning to tell you, you're looking amazing! Those jeans you've been wearing really, really show it off. Way to go!"

So, now I'm about to take off and have the first reckoning with what, exactly, is my new size after all? Sure, I'm nervous, but I'm also excited. Nothing like buying new clothes to reinvent our image. It's the single most important decision we make daily on how we want our world to perceive us, isn't it?

Living two years without the opportunity to reinvent my image thanks to such bad financial straights for so long, and having made so many changes in who I am, and knowing who I was 2 years ago versus this wicked chick I've become, well, this is the beginning of a radical re"branding" of the self of Steff.

For instance, I bought this terrific slightly butch shirt that I just think rocks. It's sad that I want to have shrunk out of it by Thanksgiving, but I'll love it in the meantime. It's almost like a cute little tailored mechanic's shirt with cap sleeves and darting at the waist, and it's red and blue stripes on white, but the back has a massive 10" embroidered flower patch offset to the left, and it's just perfect. Feminine, yet not. Looks great with my tan. It strikes the perfect balance I want my whole wardrobe to have.

I'm no girlie girl, and I never will be. I've had an assortment of Doc Martens over the years and love some good boots, right? I long for a new leather jacket, I dig my short hair. But I don't want to be butch. I'm so done with butch. I want femininity without selling out completely. I want balance. Cute but hot, tough but soft.

But who we see ourselves in our mind's eye versus who we're able to produce as a result of the clothing we buy, the images we craft, is wildly different. We can have an idea of where we want to go, but until we find the right things on the rack, who's to say where we actually wind up?

So, here I go. Off to see if mass production really has a "self" I'm willing to project. And what self will it be, anyhow? Ahh, the wonders of materialism.

Here, eat some Sugasm. It'll all be better in the morning.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks
“Are you a sex blogger or a sexy blogger?” “It builds a community that I am so proud to be part of.”

The J Word “And while you’re with her, I’ll be with him.”

Transcending moment ”It’s that place between fear and arousal, and they are so very closely related.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself -- Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice-- Chill Pleasure

BDSM & Fetish
Bathroom bang
Bros Not Hoes - F/m Spanking Video Clip
Cock training
Galerías de spanking: Spanking Server
Games Grown Ups Play
The Most Amazing Sex (and I didn’t come)
Mr. and Mrs. Kink Have Great Sex (Again)
My First Ever Fetish Photography Shoot & Other Wonderful Things
New spanking gallerie - Two girls spanked
Religion and BDSM
Rope
TES Fest 2008 was fabulous!
Your Slut

Sex Advice
Ask Miss Bliss-How Do I Know If A Girl Likes Me?
Fetish Safety - Branding
The Kivin Method: Guaranteed Orgasm for Women

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Advanced Exhibitionism
Autobiography of a Masturbator: Porn O’Graphicus, Part 2
Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged
Distraction
Fucking no foreplay
Getting to fuck the neighbor 9
Him
HNT - Peach
Insanity never felt so good
Interludes - part 1
Memoir Of A Married Woman
Popping His Cherry
Re: Dinner Last Night
“Red Bottoms” (Complete)
Sloppy Seconds, Then Thirds
That Time of the Month
Whiskey Kisses (unedited)

Sex Work
Sex Worker Solidarity: Catalina
Happy Thoughts on Being a Phonesex Op…
Stamp on my forehead saying “ask me about your fetish”

Sex & Politics
Natalia Antonova on Objectification and Desire
Teen Sex: The New After-School Special?
Women Enjoy Relative Sexual Freedom this 4th of July

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Bedroom Radio #18: Artemis Hunter and the Silver Bullet
Calstar Spanking - Severe deep stripe marks
Cheerleader is tired in gangbang video
Free video audition of Amsterdam sex performer
Half-Nekkid and Getting Shaved
HNT - A bit cheeky
HNT - Purple Lace
Making Love to the Camera
Mz Berlin Took This Picture Of Herself In Her New Wasp Creation Corset

Sex Humor
Top 6 Reasons for Not Shaving Your Beaver

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Catalina loves Lochai
Comstock Films
Drink Semen for Better Health
Interview about spanking erotica with Spanked contributor Teresa Noelle Roberts
January Seraph Is A Hot Femdom Dominating Jade Indica In Lesbian Latex Role Play
The Monday Buzz: The Bandito
Penny Flame Fucks A Handyman With A Strap-On and Feeds Him His Own Cum
Product Research: Blow Job Dildo
Yes! Yes! Yes! Personal Lubricant

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Be nice… until it is time to not be nice…
Finding out your good friends are swingers
Naughty Text Messages and Perverted Friends Makes Life Fun
Sex Advice Review: “Tips to Better Sex and Sleep”
Silence

When to feel like a moron:

You've bought a great bottle of wine. After you've looked for the corkscrew for 10 minutes, start trying to peel the cover off, in prep for removing the cork, you notice it's a screw-top cap.

Duh. I think I'll unscrew this now...

RANT: Just Another Stupid Comment

I've been torn about posting it here. I got bitter and decided to rant on my other blog. But a reader's comment makes me think other bloggers might also relate. And, hey. I've wanted to say this for four years. About fucking time. Please read the comments for further clarification -- I DO LIKE COMMENTS!

First off: When someone gets into a big long treatise or essay all provoked by what I've written, I'm flattered. When readers get into arguments with each other over something I've said, I'm flattered. When people take the time to write me to say why they identify with something I've written, I'm flattered.

THAT is why I love to write. All of those comments. They're so awesome to get. I love them.

BUT...

This might be totally cunty of me, but I've got to say I'm getting really tired of people commenting and leaving me unsolicited advice when all I'm doing is blogging for the fuck of it.

Like I'm complaining on the other blog about my mild hangover after too much tequila on Saturday night and I get the whole "You're probably dehydrated, you should drink more water" brilliance thing happening in the comments.

Yeah, thanks, Sherlock. You fuckin' think so? God, how did I ever get to age 35 without knowing being dehydrated is a major component of hangovers? Wow, why do I never get these memos?

Holy overstating the fuckin' obvious, Batman. Thanks for that pearl.

I know people mean well, but it's really fucking irritating as a blogger, when you work hard trying to keep a blog with new stuff for people to read all the time, and instead of getting a comment that's the equivalent of a pat on the back or something, we get emails telling us what we're wrong about or some obvious stupid thing that the reader seems to think we need to do.

Obviously I'm dehydrated after drinking tequila. I thought I'd spare you from the obvious and write about the funny part of it rather than the what-every-person-with-a-brain knows, that one should drink water after getting drunk.

A week or two ago someone left me a comment about how to make an em-dash. See the assumption is that I give a shit. In fact, I don't. I feel kind of badly for writing that reader back privately and telling him to stop with the fucking "helpful" advice that, instead of being helpful makes me feel like I'm being condescended to, not appreciated on the basis of the CONTENT of my blog rather than just its grammar, or any other number of feelings.

These guys are not exceptions. Sadly, this shit happens pretty regularly for any blogger.

Fuck, people. I work hard enough, working 40 hours a week, exercising up to 10 hours a week, writing and editing another 10 hours a week on top of that, doing the basic caring-for-myself eating/washing/shopping/house-cleaning that takes another 25 or 30 hours of my week. The last thing I need to start giving a shit about is putting a proper em-dash into motherfucking Blogger, for whom alt-characters don't work. Life's too short. A double dash works fine for me.

Besides, my job uses double dashes because of its 1980s software, so I may as well stay in a frame of mind more conducive to getting my job done faster. But does the reader take any of this into consideration before saying what I SHOULD do as opposed to what's been working fine for me? No. Does the reader assume I even KNOW what an em-dash is? No, they condescend to explain what it is. I'm an EDITOR for a LIVING. I get PAID to understand the constructs of the English language. Like I say, this guy isn't the first dude to jump to ignorant conclusions.

I don't get PAID to write this blog. I do it for the LOVE of it. So I take shortcuts. So fucking what? Don't make the assumption that I'm somehow unhappy with what I'm putting out there, because that's an insult, as if I'm somehow settling for something crappier, when all I'm doing is choosing my priorities.

There's the whole "Oh, just ignore it" mentality that someone else may want to suggest I have about those comments. You know, sail through life in "ignore" mode. Or I could just tell people to fuck off and have it done with.

So, let me say this on behalf of any serious bloggers out there:

When we WRITE blogs -- not just throw up four links and call it a fucking post, or use some easy picture as filler with a 15-word wisecrack and call that a day's content, but we really, really WRITE blogs -- and we put our fucking hearts and souls into it, COMMENTS are the juice that get us energized and keep us going. So, when the only comment you get after, say, two days of no comments or a week of no comments, is something about grammar or punctuation or "drink water", the first reaction is, "Have I got a bitch-slap for you!"

Like, have the respect to write about the content or saying hi or patting us on the back, rather than just throwing advice or grammar tweaks at us, or don't write at all. We don't need it. Really. It's a big world full of "shoulds" and criticism. We can do without yours.

If our writing provokes a thought with ya, comment. If you liked what was said, comment. If you take issue with what was said, comment. Absolutely. It's a dialogue. So let's do that.

If, however, all you want to do is patronize the blogger by assuming they're not smart enough to know anything outside of the 600 words they've just written, then put a cork in it.

I know I'm getting really fucking tired of the condescending advice emails that make the assumption I'm just some stupid chick who needs a little extra hand-holding to get across the street. Seriously.

"Drink water" after waking up from passing out from tequila? Gee, YOU THINK? Sigh. Fuck, man. Wanna tie my shoes for me, too?

Nibbles and Bits: Vegetarian? Really? Doh!

I'm sorry. The minute I find out a guy doesn't like meat, or worse, is a vegetarian, my sex drive just goes out the fucking window. I don't know what it is.

I know, I'm so backwater hick, right? I apologize to all vegetarians. It's not you, it's me.

I need me a man who's gonna tear into my flesh, or something, but there you have it. And a vegetarian with his carrots and hummous? Yeah. I'll let the hippie girls hog 'im. There's no fucking way my kitchen's going veggie any time soon. Gardenburger my ass.

Christ, half the point of dirty all-night "clear the surfaces!" sex, sometimes, seems to be the plate of eggs and bacon you know you're gonna have at the end of it all, isn't it? God. Vegetarian... If only I'd known before the half-dozen emails.

Fuck. That should be on the list of immediate disclosures, like "I club seals" or "I'll let weeks pass before I get in the mood to fuck you again, so be prepared to wait" or "remind me to take my meds".

I mean, "you'll have to totally change how you eat if you're ever going to cook for me" is kinda need-to-know, isn't it?

I'm a FOODIE. There's a REASON I don't invite vegetarians in for dinner. You got custom food needs? Dine out or eat at home, but sure as hell don't show up to my house. You get what I'm fuckin' cookin', and you're gonna like it.

And, hey. I believe that what you cook together in the kitchen tends to take a relationship to a new place. Making excellent meals together and enjoying them together? Wow! I love cookin' with lovers. Shit, I love cooking with anyone!

But with a vegetarian? Nah, Veggie's ridin' the highway to nada, baby. Take the hat, leave the hummous.

It's not them. It's me. And I'm all right with that. Man, now I want a juicy burger.

[Speaking of juicy burgers, The New York Times says they're all the rage in Paris now. And on my patio. Barbecue at Steff's! BYoB!]

Damn You, Online Dating!

WHAT the HELL am I doing?

Are you like me, you do the whole "I'm SO happy I'm single!" and then you get bored on the weekend, so you figure "What the fuck? I'll go browse..." and you log onto your dating site of choice. A day or so later you've managed to get yourself into, like, eight possible scenarios that may or may not wind up with a date? Most likely no date, because you're going to come to your senses and think "I so can do better than that"?

Because, somewhere along the lines you think, "Wait. How the fuck did HE get in this mix? Did my standards take a 20-minute leave of absence and somehow he magically made the cut? What the FUCK? What is WRONG with me?"

Yeah. All right. And what a waste of my time, too. Most of this online shit deserves to be hurled out of a 40th-floor window, because, while we like to delude ourselves that this way, online, we somehow get through the crowds of people who are woefully inappropriate for us by, instead, zeroing in on the people who have all the same stuff in common with us.

"You like stuff? I LOVE STUFF! Wow, we're so awesome for each other! Let's go get STUFF!"

The reality is, it's a fucking crock. As if it's all about the stupid shit we have in common? As if that elusive "chemistry" thing doesn't apply? Psst, a little secret: Chemistry never, ever translates over the internet. It just doesn't. You gotta do the in-the-flesh thing and see if it even works.

Shit, man, I'm gonna leave my door unlocked tonight, just in case my common sense is late getting home to me.

I was supposed to have a date with someone this past Saturday. THAT would have been pretty good. Too bad for life and its drama. To be continued at a later time and date? We'll see what lady fate has to say about that. We'll see if I'm even so inclined when the dust settles. Who knows?

Everyone else I've been in touch with is just completely pointless. Well, except one the jury is yet out on. Hell, even Saturday Drama Man may be completely pointless, but at least he's in my league and my tastes.

You know what it is, though, don't you? Just hormones. I think the problem is, when you get a great big box of sex toys plunked on your doorstep, as I did on Thursday, it's not about WAITING for the mood to strike. It's about getting the mood to strike and ASAP so you can play with your fancy-ass new orgasm-producing goods.

It's about rummaging for erotica or porn, leafing through DVDs to find something hot, channel-surfing till you land on some verboten sex scene, WHATEVER IT TAKES to make those toys of use and get the hummin' goin'.

Somewhere along the lines, the "Mm, well, that's nice... but penises are nice too" thought occurs, and suddenly sex toys become the problem, not the solution. "I could go online, maybe even get LAID!"

Here's where I throw my hands up at the skies and wail, "Why won't you just let me be satisfied with what I have for a week? Why are dating sites so disgustingly entertaining to surf through? Why?"

Oh. Right. Hormones. Yeah, well. I'd say my hormones can go fuck themselves, but that appears to be part of the problem.

Am I completely alone in this endlessly irritating cycle of "I love being alone and single and empowered! Oh, hmm, who's online anyhow?" Or do you also relate?

Who Killed Chandra Levy?

Sure, Mondays sometimes suck because they're the start to the week. But that's sometimes exactly why they rock, too. I'm taking my Monday the easy way -- slept in, having some lattes, and then I'll casually amble in by bike around noon. Why end the weekend sooner than necessary, hey?

But let's talk about what I'm reading. The Washington Post is running what should be a terrific 12-part story on the unsolved death of Chandra Levy, an intern to Congressman Gary Condit, from back in 2000.

What you maybe don't know about me is that I was addicted to true crime from about 15-25. I was a voracious reader of everything from Helter Skelter to The Stranger Beside Me. So, part of me is pretty stoked to see the Post take this topic on.

It's going to be a story of political skulduggery, methinks. Allegations have been made by some in the past against Gary Condit, who has taken offense and launched slander suits but never won.

Still, he's no longer in office and there are whispers in corners and at parties that maybe, just maybe, Gary really did do it. Maybe Levy got in his way. Maybe his silly little affair took him seriously when he promised to give up his wife and his political career for her. Maybe this charming politico had dreams of Pennsylvania Ave and this fling was getting in the way. Maybe, maybe. Fingers pointed but charges never laid. Still, it ended his career.

With the case yet unsolved, Condit's a man exiled from Washington with a cloud over his head, even if he never even harboured a thought of harming that girl. He lied about his affair with her, so any cries of "I didn't do it" get washed away with the reality that he's just another lying, cheating hack in a game full of lying, cheating hacks.

It's been eight years now, and it'll be interesting to see if a crew of journalists can make a bunch of paid investigators look like the bumbling oafs anyone in the know really suspects they were.

The Levy case should've been called Operation Bungle, the way it was mishandled from the get-go. The Post, it would seem, aims to shine a light on that. I don't find it that coincidental that the series should start running only four days after a judge has finally thrown out Condit's $11-million slander suit against writer Dominic Dunne for alleging him a murderer. Just a little too convenient to be irrelevent, that.

The timing should also tell you a lot about the point of view I suspect The Post intends to take on this notorious unsolved crime.

If, like me, you find stories of sex, politics, lies, and incompetence fascinating, then check out the read. Part one's here.

Ixnay the Equilatay, Eh?Second thought, pass the mickey.

Oh, god. I was so wrong about how my night would unfold. I think I'm still drunk.

It was 4:20 pm when I decided to just randomly text GayBoy. Our exchange went like this:

"We should get drunk this weekend."
"Should we? What do you suggest?"
"I hear alcohol works."
"People do say that. What type?"
"I'm cooking fish later, you want some? So, big btl wine?"
"I got cider and tequila at home?
"That sounds like trouble. So, you want fish then? If so, bring a baguette."

So, he brought the baguette, a bocce ball set, a mickey of good tequila, and a six-pack of cider.

"I can't drink tequila straight!" I argued. "We need to mix it with something." He dismissed this as the whining of an ignorant child, but provided orange juice in case I really "want(ed) to be a sissy".

Unbeknownst to me, it turns out that not only can I do the salt-lick/shot/suck-on-lime tequila drinking straight, but I can do it very... very... very well. Like, none of his hissing and teeth-grinding after sucking back a shot. More like, "Oh, that hit the spot. Another?"

So, so much for getting up at 4am to cycle and watch the sunrise.

Then there's the drama of my cooking up a fish-fry with some garlic bread, using all of two appliances, which then blew the fucking circuit breakers for the kitchen. I tried to reset it, to no avail. I did all the things I know how to do with circuit breakers (in a 57-year-old building? fucking right I know how) and fuse boxes, but the thing wouldn't set.

So I call the building management's 24-hour response centre, and within 30 minutes I'm talking to the drawling electrician named Bob who's condescendingly walking me through the whole breaker thing yet again. I'm explaining to him the lack of resistance on the breaker, there's no catching, no clicking, it's yielding far too easily.

Then GayBoy speaks and the guy hears a male voice. Asks to talk to "my friend" since he might know a little about electricity.

I scowl, "This is SO sexist, but hang on."

"No, I don't mean to--"

"Here's my MALE FRIEND, Bob. It's been a slice."

A few minutes later GayBoy's getting off the phone, talking about how there might be a service charge.

The guy calls back. None of this talk-to-the-man of the house bullshit. I flipped into my take-no-prisoners cool-as-a-cucumber "bitch" mode.

"SERVICE CHARGE? My ass! In 10 years of living here, I've never called for help once. I've reset the breakers dozens of times in my ten years-- The building's 57 years old and this shit happens. You want to charge me for a 57 year old building blowing a breaker? You can't even tell me how MUCH the charge will be? I can handle waiting till Monday, but I ain't paying a damn cent for this, so you're going to call whoever signs the workorders, and you're gonna get this resolved, because this ain't some dumb-ass tenant who doesn't know any better, this is a 57 year old building--" and continued for another moment or so, touching on all the smart reasons this guy who'd been treating me like a sexist dick might want to make an argument in my favour with his boss.

"Um, I'll have to call my boss," Bob meekly replies. Five minutes later, I'm listening as Bob is explaining that we'll need to wait till Monday, but there will be no service charge, and he's "profoundly sorry" to have "implied anything sexist" and that he's spoken to "many women over the years" who clearly know "far more than men" and I must be another example of this Elevated Femme-type woman.

Naturally, the tell-tale "this call is being recorded" end-of-conversation "Are you now happy with the circumstances as they stand, that we won't charge a service call, nor will your tenancy be impugned in any manner--"

Fuckin' thrilled, Bob. Seeya Monday, sweetcakes.

I'll have a new circuit breaker Monday. My fridge is plugged into my oven, yielding the black-pit of hell that has been left to fester under the fridge that hasn't been moved in nine years...

So my Sunday involves me on my hands and knees scrubbing through the grime of hell as my stomach churns and chastises me for not being wise enough to puke my guts out before I passed out at two in the morning.

This is so not the weekend I expected to have, and while I feel so hungover, I'm in a pretty amused state.

Here's some Sugasm. Eat some, you'll feel better. I won't, but you will. Word of advice? Avoid the tequila.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks
Flunking A Call
“I fell silent again and tried to think. What did he want?”

Revision
“He seemed… perfect. ”

Shaving, revisted.
“I don’t do it for society, for anyone who will or will not be seeing it. I do it for me.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Exploitation, objectification and breaking the law…

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Be The Man Other Men Envy, Be PullJoy
Catalina loves Her Latest BILF List
HNT - Venus and Mars
Of Pillow Fights & Panty Showing
The Way To a Man’s Heart - A Play in One Act
What is with all of the Swinging? - Truth or Fiction

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
A Hot Medical Femdom Scene With Mz Berlin, Kayla Paige, and A Dirty Sponge Gag
I Want It! I Want It! I Want It! It’s At Exquisite Restraints Corsets
The Liberator Sex Wedge: Form, Function, Fucktacular. I love it.
New Toy Alert
Not Your Regular Vibe
Sex, Drugs & Baseball
Why inviting bi-girls to brunch is the best
Will You Carry Me Over The Threshold?
Zen And The Art Of Pornographic Madness

Sex & Politics
All Wound Up and No One to Spring On

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Cheerleader is fucked hard donkey style
Happy Fourth of July -HNT
Half-Nekkid on the Road to Hell
InFocus Girls
Pornsaint Madison Young
Property of Lady Evyl
Sandy Summers in red lingerie
Sundaycore
Thank you for the flowers
Tila Tequila Totally Nude

Sex Work
Meet Lew, My CockSucking CumEating StrapOn Slut

BDSM & Fetish
Agony of Ecstasy: the Ruined Orgasm
And marie Moaned
FLOG memories
Get a Load of These Gams!
Impromptu Ravishment Play
Miss Lioness
The Piggiest Pigs at Leather Retreat
Switchy Thoughts on Spiritual Domination
Testing the New Implements

Erotic Writing and Experiences
2nd Blogiversary
Becoming
The Cam Lover pays to fist a 19 year-old Ass
Fiction: Taxicab Confessional
Four: of weeks and wantings
Friend with benefits- properly fucked
Getting to fuck the neighbor 5
Good weekend
Gustav Klimt Nachlass
I love the way you cuddle!
Kung Fu Theater
Monday’s Slut Journal
More bloody married people and doctor/patient roleplay…..
My first visit to Manbar
Night Ride: Trigger’s Bike
Permanent haze
The prize for working
Traction Bound

From Super-Crowded Weekend to... Nothing? Score!

I was supposed to have a date this evening, but that's been derailed by a trainwreck called life. Dude got pitched a curveball, and now has to go deal with the fallout. And I'm cool with that. I've opted out, since all I thought I was signing up for was some fun and companionship, not a drama.

I'm keeping that possibility open (of fun and companionship) because we all have this shit rain down on us sometimes and everyone comes with baggage. That's just reality. Some people are worth it though. But. But. But. That's a pretty select few, so I'm keeping all my options open, and I'm quite fine with saying "No, too much, buh-bye" if only because adversity + new relationships are like alcohol and cars. You could, but it's pretty fucking stupid, you know? Better to say, "Hey, you're cool. Sort your shit out and gimme a call when you're up for something, we'll see if it's a fit".

Life's that double-edged sword: too short not to take the chance, but too long to do it at the wrong time, right?

So, my Saturday night is free now. (And I have a new box of sex toys, heh heh heh.)

My day was supposed to be with my brother, picking paint colours for his new abode in our old hometown. But then his van spontaneously combusted in the heat on the highway yesterday and he got to stand by the roadside as 20+ years of CDs and DVDs and his kid's playstation and a bunch of other shit, including his $5,000 hearing aids, just exploded into a fireball, since it took almost 20 minutes for the fire department to arrive in bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic.

Needless to say, he's not really in the mood to look at paint chips.

Now I have a gaping expanse of a day open to me, and I'm hatching a plan. My place is 60 minutes from spotless, so I'll spin some music later and get dirty as I clean up in the heat wave. I plan to do some yoga, a short bike ride, and a gourmet healthy meal, followed by sex toys, and a "spa" night of pampering myself.

Yeah, I'm so bummed I don't have a date. Ha! Awesome. What a great night I have ahead of me. There's tons of good movies showing on the telly this weekend too. This is one of those "I love being single and anti-social!" weekends.

See, I have the foresight of knowing my life's about to get hectic. Volunteering at the Farmer's Market next week, hangin' with the locals on a sunny Saturday. The weekend after that, I sacrifice a whole Saturday indoors as I make my way into the second round of screenings for volunteers at Vancouver's 2010 Olympics. Like, getting to be involved in the whole Olympic experience behind the scenes? AWESOME.

I had the woman who screened me for the volunteering pool laughing so hard she said she was crying. I made her snort. Twice.

But I'd been exercising earlier before she called, had three cups of coffee, and had smoked up, so I was in this super-jovial and playful mood, totally open and honest, but full of one-liners. None of which I remember, of course, since I'd smoked up. Heh. I was lucky she was the person screening me. Someone uptight would've been soooo offended by me. I get that way. You don't need to know.

The volunteering is all part of my master plan to get a life again. Now that I've officially lost 40 pounds and found some great stuff crazy marked-down (3 shirts, jeans, shorts for $90!) I picked up some new clothes this week and have begun to feel cute again and would like to mix it up with new people. I'm getting my bubbly confidence back and I'd like to play. :)

I also have a couple social shindigs lined up and then the usual visiting with the usual suspects, so life's about to get a little out there.

So this is my last wide-open weekend for a bit, methinks, so I aim to enjoy the time I have to myself, and in proper good fashion. The BIG deal of my weekend, since I don't have to see anyone or do anything now?

I'm gonna get up at 3.45am and cycle to beach to catch the sunrise. :) All by myself. Me, my iPod, and my camera.

Because I'm single and have complete control over my schedule. Because I can go from there, grab some big breakfast, read a book, get back home by 9am, have a bath, crawl back in bed, and get up in the afternoon.

Haven't done that for four, maybe five years, man, and I've never cycled as far as I plan to cycle tomorrow morning for one of my insane sunrise rides... so I can't fucking wait. And 30 degrees/90 degree high, it'll be perfect temp at 4am!

Hope the pictures turn out, then I'll share.

But this is how you really, really enjoy the single life. Pack a lot of nice quality time to yourself into one weekend or one evening, and enjoy yourself. If you don't, who will, eh? Happy weekend, minions.