inappropriate office boner

I noticed a bunch of comments about my blog over at "Hot Chicks with Douchebags" (link here) the other day.

User Pfah wrote "Warning: I just read the latest entry of HyperSexualGirl's blog, and now I have an Inappropriate Office Boner (IOB). So thanks HyperSexualGirl. I have a meeting in 15 minutes. Here's hoping I don't look like a walking towel rack. Read it, but read it with a bag of ice on your crotch if you're still at work. Yeesh!"

Given the time of his comment, I suspect this post was the one that caused his IOB. I have a mental picture of Pfah as a sort of cute John Krasinski type, sitting in a meeting with a dictionary on his lap while some hot female coworker is yammering away in front of a phallic-looking bar graph, talking about rapidly rising projections for 2011.

Other users chimed in with their opinions, including one who said "screw Penthouse forum. I'll just read HyperSexualGirl's blog and save money." Another wrote "the HyperSexualGirl blog actually made me blush. And I am a shameless pig. High five, HSG." Still another wrote, "HyperSexualGirl's blog will force me to get a back-up air pump in case air pump one breaks down from the banging I'm gonna give my Real Doll while reading her blog again later tonight."

Several of the comments were nice compliments, including this one from Baron von Douchehausen, who said "that little fellationic post by HyperSexualGirl was very well written." And I'm really crushin on Pfah now, who wrote "you're a very solid writer. Nice work."

Update: I now see I'm mentioned in another comment thread because of yesterday's HNT picture. One guy said: "Thanks to HyperSexualGirl, I'll be spending what's left of my Thursday in the handicap stall of our executive restroom." And BCS, who's commented here on my blog also, said "I spent a large part of my work day yesterday reading through her archives. After I was done I had to hose myself down for 10 minutes. It's not just like Hustler letters though. She's a damn fine writer."

I wuv you guys!

To celebrate the occasion, I found some "inappropriate office boner" artwork...

two months and counting

Yesterday I went into the bathroom and noticed a little note tucked into the mirror frame. I opened it and read:

2 months ago 2day I met the most wonderful girl in the world - I love u 1000 times bigger than the whole wide world

It feels like we've been together much more than two months now. August 30, the day I met James, seems like a lifetime ago. Yet my love for him continues to grow exponentially. Sometimes I feel like I could burst.

This just goes to show you that your life can change in a heartbeat. Be prepared. One chance encounter can bring you the person beyond your wildest dreams straight into your arms. I hope every reader of this blog experiences such happiness in his or her lifetime. And it can happen, I know, when you least expect it.

I'm trying to limit my girly-girl posts here, but sometime I just can't help myself. A regular reader suggested interspersing the mushy ones with sexy ones. I have been trying to do that. So, tomorrow, something steamy.

half-nekkid thursday smile

Here's this week's Half-Nekkid Thursday post (more background here). I'll leave it to your imagination to wonder what he's doing that makes me smile like that.

Sorry, the contrast is a little blasted in this image, but the photographer was a bit distracted and otherwise occupied. He promises to try harder next time.

halloween ménage à trois

Aussies are not really into Halloween because celebrating a harvest festival in the middle of spring seems sort of silly. The flowers are blooming and trees are budding, so it's difficult for people to feel ghoulish here. I passed a variety store today in Sydney and noticed two Halloween costumes in the window, but the display was nothing substantial like you'd see in the States.

Thinking about Halloween today brought back memories of a couple I knew, who I'll call Tim and Hannah.

I met them one of the times I lived in New York. It was a few days before Halloween, and I was at the laundromat doing a load of wash, which included the cat costume I made and planned to wear on October 31 to a party. You know how it is at those sort of places -- you don't pay much attention to other people because you have your own things to do and it's a good time to catch up on mental wool-gathering.

I was in the middle of folding my clothes when I heard a male voice say "hello" behind me. I turned to see an attractive, well-scrubbed couple standing close behind me with beatific smiles.

I immediately thought they were either some kind of evangelist missionaries or wanted me to come to a free personality test at the local storefront cult.

As I tried to think of what to say for the expected hard-sell pitch, the woman said in a pronounced New York accent, "we couldn't help notice how cute you are."

That was unexpected. I looked more closely at the couple. She was very slim and petite with a dancer's body. He was tall with a sort of a doofus face but had a very nice build and strong shoulders. The bright hard-sell smiles, however, were a bit unnerving.

"Do you like to have fun?" he asked.

Now I thought maybe they were selling some kind of dope. Never having taken drugs, let alone bought them, I sometimes have confused what people mean when they say things like "do you want to party?"

So I responded with something about how I lived a clean lifestyle and didn't drink or smoke yada yada yada.

"Oh, no, he didn't mean that," she said. "Do you ever have fun with a couple?"

Where they asking what I think they were asking? Were they talking about a threeway?

I responded with something stupid like: "You mean bedroom stuff?"

The smiles widened, and they both nodded "yes."

Ah. So they were promoting a whole different religion.

Nobody else was near us, and I thought a moment. At that point, I had never been involved in a ménage à trois, but it had been one of my unfulfilled fantasies.

"How about we go for coffee down the block?" he suggested. After a moment, I agreed and, together, we collected our respective laundry and walked outside.

A few minutes later, we were sitting in a small booth at a little cafe down the street. He introduced himself as Tim, and she said she was his wife Hannah. They didn't crowd me, and I have to admit I was getting turned on by the way both of them were looking at me. Their desire of me was palpable. He had nice muscular arms, and I remember being sort of mesmerized by watching her slowly and gently rubbing her hand up and down his skin. I wanted to touch him, too, but restrained myself.

I told them the truth: I liked the idea of a threeway, but I wasn't really into women.

"Neither am I," Hannah explained. "I just like to watch Tim perform with the girl and maybe share him a little at the end."

"You like this idea," I remember him saying. "I can see it in your face."

I admitted that I did, because from the neck down, he was very easy on the eyes. I remember he was wearing a snug black polo shirt that emphasized his muscular build and Levi's that let you know he was well equipped.

"So like when do you think this might happen?" I asked.

"We're not doing anything all afternoon," she answered. "How about you? You could come over today."

I thought a moment. Well, what if they were some kind of sickos who lured gullible women back to their place and then tortured them for six weeks in their basement? I could end up in a shallow grave out in the Meadowlands.

But, like seriously, how often did that kind of thing happen? I'd more likely be killed negotiating a crosswalk.

"Why don't I come by about two?" I said, and they gave me their address.

I went home, thought about it some more, then left a note on my kitchen table for my roommate, who was out of town for several days. If I didn't show up by the time she got back, she would have their address and could notify the police.

I then walked to Tim and Hannah's, about ten blocks from where I was living. They had a outer-borough sort of loft, with the exposed brick walls, the big window filled with plants, the bookshelves of planks and cinderblocks filled with progressive paperbacks, and a floppy mutt sprawled on the couch.

Tim gave me a hug and a very soulful kiss while she sort of hugged us both. "This will be fun," he promised.

He took me by the hand into their adjacent bedroom, and she shut the door. She flopped down in a large easy chair near the bed and began removing her clothes. He pulled off his polo shirt and started kissing me while running his hands down my back. I liked he feel of him and responded with tactile explorations.

"Turn this way so I can see more," Hannah said from her chair. She had a typical nasally New York accent, and I found her loudness in the intimate bedroom unnerving. I wasn't expecting a running play-by-play from Fran Drescher's kid sister.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she was now naked with her legs spread wide and was fingering herself rather boisterously. I tried to ignore that as I focused on Tim. He was pulling off my clothes while kissing me. He was a good kisser and, pressed up against me, I could also feel he was hard. I dropped to my knees, opened his jeans, and took out his cock.

"That's it, honey, suck on him, such him good," the Drescheresque voice commanded in a tone that sounded like she was ordering pizza over the phone.

While normally I get increasingly wet when sex is unfolding like this, I was pretty dry and not really turned on. I wanted this to be fun, so I thought it best to nip Miss Nasal New York in the bud.

So I said something like: "I'm feeling kind of shy and nervous right now, so talking to me is sort of turning me off. Can you maybe not do that?"

"Okay," she responded matter-of-factly and went back to pleasing herself.

I took Tim back in my mouth and soon we were into it. A few minutes later, he eased me onto the bed, spread my legs, and started eating my pussy. He did a good job, got me off, then climbed on top of me and went to work.

They had a waterbed, and as he started building up some momentum, I heard this sort of strange slurping sound. I didn't know if the bed was leaking or if the dog had come into the room and was licking itself. I turned my head slightly and saw Hannah in the chair, fingering herself with a frenzy and making this sort of soft porcine noise.

I looked away and tried to focus on Tim. He apparently really liked missionary and showed no interest in changing to something else. And, he did not alter his pace one iota. I also noticed he barely looked at me and spent most of his time watching Hannah in the chair.

I remember clearly the idea crystalized in my head that, if I was going to have fun in a threeway, Tim and Hannah were not the ideal candidates.

After some minutes, Hannah joined us on the bed and began rubbing one hand on Tim's back and ass while continuing to diddle herself. At this point, I was about as far from orgasm as I was from Saturn, so I just made little noises and let Tim finish his work. After a few more minutes, he shot his load.

And then he kissed her while still sprawled over me like I was some kind of inflatable sex doll.

He rolled off of me and started helping her finger herself. She came to a climax a few minutes later and they started kissing and caressing each other. After a while, they fell back into each other's arms and cuddled up by the headboard. And there I lay, staring into space, like a discarded piece of clothing. I distinctly remember wondering, what the hell am I doing here?

"Hey, want something to eat?" Hannah asked me suddenly from the depths of her adenoids.

"Uh, no, I think I better get going," I responded.

"We'll have to do this again sometime," Tim said cheerily.

"Maybe," I said while getting dressed.

Needless to say, I never saw them again. They didn't call me. I didn't call them.

I never could figure out what the kink was for them in that whole scene. Why didn't he just fuck her? Did she have some sort of physical problem rendering her incapable of intercourse? He obviously cared for her and was into her. Didn't they fuck by themselves?

I did have some other threeway adventures after that with different couples that I'll write about in future entries here. But every Halloween since this happened, I think about Tim and Hannah and wonder what they're doing and whether they're still looking for surrogate love in the laundromat.

please cum in my mouth

"I want to suck you until you cum in my mouth," I say.

"You know I can't get off that way, angel," he says. While, yes, most red-blooded males love a good blowjob, some can't reach orgasm in a girl's mouth. They need the in-and-out friction of a tight pussy.

"Can I please try?" I ask. "Pretty please?"

"Well, there's no harm in trying," he says with a salacious grin. "No harm at all."

He walks over to me. I want it now, and his eyes tell me he wants it now, too. Then he is standing before me, his crotch thrust forward a few inches. I ease down to my knees, and he widens his stance a bit for ideal access. I look up into his face as my fingers reach for his belt. He is smiling sweetly, but his dark eyes betray a more animal desire.

I open his belt, then the button at the fly, then ease down his zipper. He is not wearing underwear today, and his dark curly hairs begin to appear like a play unfolding on the stage. I carefully ease the zipper to the end, and the root of his thick cock appears. I take hold of his jeans at his hips and slide them down to his thighs until his penis springs free. He is not yet hard, but he is not completely flaccid, either.

I touch just the tip of my tongue to his foreskin and probe inside the loose opening. My tongue is met by the bulb of his cock as he begins to harden more. I swirl around slowly, then in further, probing, fucking his foreskin with my tongue. I keep my eyes locked on his face, and I see him draw in a sharp breath while he emits a low, involuntary rumble deep in his chest.

His cock is hardening quickly now, the bulb sliding away from the foreskin, the shaft thickening and lengthening like an exotic orchid coming into bloom. I open my lips and receive his cockhead in my mouth, allowing it to ease back down my tongue as he moves his hips toward me with a languid syncopation. I use no hands, because I know that's the way he likes it best, but keep my eyes locked on his. He begins to hump my mouth as I close my lips around his now-hard shaft. His face expands into a wide smile.

"Oh, yes, baby, that's so nice," he says in a low voice.

I reach my hands behind him and take hold of his firm, muscular buttocks as I begin a steady rhythm on him, taking him all the way in now, feeling his cockhead violate my throat. His hand moves to the top of my head, and his fingers caress my hair. He is thrusting more now, and I feel the wool of his pubic hair rubbing my lips and his nuts against my chin each time I reach the root of his cock.

His hands move to the side of my head, holding on more firmly, as he thrusts more vigorously into me. I keep staring into his eyes, but I am having some difficulty focusing now. He is losing control, I am controlling him now, and that excites me. I feel the wetness in my crotch. This continues for many minutes as we both lose ourselves in the steady rhythm of his thrusts. Every minute or so, he makes a little involuntary groan which makes me all the more excited.

Suddenly, he pulls out of my mouth, pushing my head away gently with the palm of his hand. "I have to fuck you now, baby," he says through ragged breaths, reaching down to pull me to my feet. "You just got me going so. Let me take you, honey."

"No," I insist. "You said you would let me try. Now let me." I take hold of his stiff cock and force it back into my mouth, then attempt to resume the rhythm we had moments ago. After a moment, he relents with a sigh and lowers his stance as he takes hold of my head once more. Soon he is fucking my face again, more forcefully now, so I have to hold on tight to his buttocks to keep from losing my balance.

His cock is covered with my saliva, and I hear loud, wet, sucking noises as he slides quickly in and out of my mouth. My pussy is now so wet I feel my juices trickling down my thigh.

I am in control, but he is in control, too. I insisted I suck him, but now his strength has taken over, and he's using my face as a cunt, thrusting in and out, in and out. His face is a blur of lust and desire as he makes my mouth his pleasure hole. How that electrifies me.

I gag slightly and, a moment later, he pulls his cock free and backs up a step.

"No, kitten, stop, I'm hurting you," he says. This excites me so much because, in this moment of wanton lust, he still thinks of me. He still wants to protect me as he rams his cock in and out of my mouth.

"You're not hurting me," I nearly shout. "Fuck my face!"

He looks at me a moment, uncertain, at some private threshold between kindness and lust, his slick, hard cock bobbing in front of him, but then the animal takes over and he slides his cock back into my mouth. I take hold of his buttocks once again, and he clamps his hands around my head. He starts more gently, but as I force my tongue against his rigid phallus sliding in and out of my mouth, he reciprocates and begins thrusting faster and harder.

This continues for untold minutes. His face is only a blurry smear now. My own face is covered with spit and sweat, and my eyes are tearing because I'm trying to focus. He is making noises, perhaps words, but I can only hear the liquid susurrous of his cock thrusting in and out, in and out.

Subtly at first, then more suddenly, I feel the muscles in his buttocks begin to clench.

He's going to cum, bless him.

He's making louder noises between his groans, and then I hear it is "oh baby oh baby oh baby" over and over, half chant, half moan. His trusting slows, and now he pulls his cock all the way to my lips then thrusts back in again at a much slower pace. There isn't time to tell him what I want, that I want him to cum so I can taste him. I just have to trust him at this moment.

He is now sliding very slowly, taking long seconds between thrusts. Then, when his cockhead is just inside my lips, I feel the first hot spurt. I part my lips as he begins to pump his sweet, salty load on my tongue. Some flies to the back of my throat, where I feel it begin to trickle down to my gut, while some dribbles down my chin.

"Oh baby," he is saying now, louder. "Oh baby. Oh baby."

His hips twist and grip as he pumps the last of his warm seed into my mouth. I slowly close my lips around his member and slide his cockhead around on the sticky mess he's made inside my mouth. I want to savor this taste, to swirl it around like an elixir, to make it last as long as I can. He makes helpless little grunting noises as I do this while bending slightly at the waist. This is when a man is most vulnerable, I know. He has taken me by fucking my mouth, but I have taken him, too. He is my conquest.

I slide his cock out of my mouth and kiss the tip of it while looking into his face. He is flush and smiling now, and his hand gently caresses my cheek.

"Baby, you are so good to me," he says. "So good. So good."

get your hot amateur porn

Yes, I know, most amateur porn is wretched, but sometimes you stumble on something noteworthy. The production values are usually pretty crappy in the homemade stuff, but there's a genuine quality you just can't find in the pro stuff. The amateurs are so into each other they just have to share it with the world. The pros are doing it primarily for the paycheck.

Hot bodies and amateur porn are not mutually inclusive, however. Sometimes the people are not bad, usually they're just so-so, but sometimes they're downright gross.

A lot of so-called amateur porn is just pro stuff dressed down to look like homemade sex tapes. Those are easily spotted. When you have different camera angles or the camera actually moves during the bonking, that's a dead giveaway. Anything with too sharp of focus or too well lit is suspect, too.

A fun amateur production, primarily because of its originality, is the trampoline sex tape (link here). I seriously want to try this. Wouldn't you? The couple is young but she, unfortunately, is already starting to go flabby in her midsection. Skinny but packing a nice cock, he's utterly clueless about foreplay. He doesn't kiss her or go anywhere near her snatch except with his dick. He's also typical of a young male; his whole aim is to cum. He blows his load only 2.5 minutes after first insertion. With his little mugging for the camera at the very end, you know he showed this to his buddies a few hours after production wrapped. And the snow in the background is a curious feature. I wonder why they didn't wait until warmer weather? Nonetheless, I love watching this vid.

I've enjoyed tattooed man's morning romp (link here) a bunch of times, too. He's hot; she's really not and has something weird going on with her midsection. Again, this is a guy who seems clueless about foreplay. I love the look of him, however, when he really gets going. He is clearly dominant, which I often find exciting in a man. It's because of guys like this that girls have mirrors over their beds and are willing to make homemade porn. There's no money shot at the end because, as the do-it-yourself auteur explains on his profile page, something happened to the camera. I'm wondering why he didn't try to make another tape?

I also like the mister sleepy homemade sex video (link here), but why I don't exactly know. Some of the reason may be because the idea to make the tape was apparently hers. She wakes him up in the beginning, and I don't think he's "acting," so she seems to be the Scorsese on this production. He does get up toward the end and adjust the camera, a trademark clumsy but endearing feature of amateur vids. The cumshot on her back is a nice touch. Do people include cumshots in their amateur tapes because the "pros" do it? If so, then Porn Valley truly has affected how people fuck.

perhaps love is like a window

I was a bridesmaid in my friend Celeste's wedding last Saturday in Canberra. I roomed with her and her twin sister Ally for a while when the three of us lived in Los Angeles. I missed them both terribly when they moved back to Australia; I'm glad now I'll be able to see them both regularly.

Following a rehearsal a few days before the wedding, various friends and relatives of the bride and groom gathered for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Afterwards, some of us went across the street to a karaoke place.

I was the only person in the bunch whom James knew, and when he's in a group of strangers, he's usually pretty quiet. I had a sense at first he didn't want to be there, because he only sat beside me and held my hand without saying anything. I have a fairly decent voice and am usually game for karaoke, but that night I was tired and decided to pass. People in our group at times got up to sing and, like often happens at karaoke, most of them weren't very good but had lots of giggly fun.

At one point, when no one was singing, my sweetie suddenly squeezed my hand and headed to the little stage with an urgency like he had been fighting with himself whether or not to make this move. The place had a live DJ who plugged in the songs, so James conferred with her a minute before the music began to play. I was sort of surprised -- he didn't seem like a karaoke kind of guy.

I had never heard him sing up to that moment, so I had no idea what to expect. Needless to say, I was astounded when I heard him: he has a beautiful singing voice. He's solidly in the bass range, so he could never be a belter, but his tone is rich and melodious.

He chose "Perhaps Love," the old John Denver song, which I had always thought was sort of schmaltzy, but my opinion has now been completely changed. The entire time he sang, he never took his eyes off me. And as the whole experience began to wash over me, as I heard his voice and really listened to the lyrics, I had to clamp both hands over my mouth just to keep my emotions in check. I've never considered myself particularly weepy, but I find myself getting that way more often these days. Perhaps love does that to you.

I asked him later why he never sang when I was around. He said he did sometimes while driving alone or in the shower, but he has a hard time remembering lyrics, so he often just sings a few bars and then stops. I also realized I'm such a chatterbox that he would never have much chance to sing. (We usually shower together, so he hasn't had much chance for music there lately, either.)

On the drive back to Sydney, I got him to sing again and joined in. We've done it a bunch more times since then. Now I'm tempted to go out and get one of those home karaoke machines.

I'm still amazed at how, just when I think I know this man, I learn something new and surprising. Maybe this passage from "Perhaps Love" is telling for this moment in my life:

perhaps love is like a window,
perhaps an open door,
it invites you to come closer,
it wants to show you more,
and even if you lose yourself,
and don't know what to do,
the memory of love will see you through.

sticky fingers

We take a break from moving into the new place to explore the scrubby woodlands behind our cottage. After a few minutes of walking hand-and-hand down a trail, we come into a small clearing and stop to look across the open space.

"So quiet," I say. "Peaceful."

"Mmm," he says, folding me into his arms from behind and nuzzling at my neck.

"What's that?" I say, pointing to something in the distance.

"Stump probably," he says after kissing me below my ear. He takes me by the hand and leads me toward it. We see, indeed, it is a large, old stump. "Probably cut down years ago for fencing," he concludes.

I see a mischievous smile slide across his face. He abruptly sits on the stump and pulls me sideways onto his lap. "I reserved this seat," he whispers in my ear. "Just for us."

He kisses me on the lips, snaking his tongue to meet mine, then lifts me up slightly so he can kiss my throat. His fingers begin lightly caressing my shoulders as he nuzzles my flesh. I feel my sex begin to moisten involuntarily and my body to push up against his.

"Yes," he whispers. "That's my girl."

I feel like asking if he wants to go back to our cottage, but then I hold my tongue. If he wants me here, right now, in this place where we could be seen by a hiker in the park, I will let him take me. I am his.

His kissing becomes hungrier and more intense. I am beginning to lose myself as his eyes find mine at random moments. His powerful hands move under my T-shirt, and he gently kneads my breasts. I am becoming putty for him to mold as he wishes to satisfy his carnal desires.

"Mmm mmm," I hear him murmur between the liquid noises of his kisses. I can feel his wet, rough tongue against my flesh. Then he pushes me away slightly for a moment. "Turn this way a little, kitten," he says, his voice now a husky growl. "So I can have at you."

I let him pivot me as he wants, for I am now his completely. He is so strong, he could force me to do anything he wanted, but he is always so gentle. I trust him completely, for he is strength in a gentle package.

His thick fingers, rough with callouses, slide into my waistband. I feel my own heat rising to meet his fingers. Quickly, almost roughly, he lifts me above his thighs and opens my shorts, pulling them down to my knees. I'm feeling a little dizzy now, more unfocused, as his warm palm traces along my inner thighs. I can feel my panties clinging to my wetness, and I hope he sees this, too. I want him to know how badly I want him.

"Somebody's wet," he says with a low throaty laugh. "Somebody's really wet." I feel his fingers trace slightly on my panties, outlining my lips through the fabric. "Better get these off straight away," he says, and I feel a sudden cool breeze in my crotch as he swiftly pulls them all the way down my legs, with my shorts, to my ankles. He moves me around a quarter turn, then pulls me back down to his lap.

"Come here, you," he says with a grin, his eyes again locking on mine. "I have something for you." He languidly eases his index finger into my mouth, sliding it slowly in all the way until the last knuckle. He slides it out again, then in, then out, mimicking coitus. Then it's two fingers, both sliding in and out with a rhythm. "Get them good and wet," he whispers. "Thatta girl. That's my good girl."

Suddenly, he withdraws his fingers and drops his hand between my legs. He knows me so well now that, without even taking his eyes off mine, his fingers find my labia, where they just slightly trace the exposed lips. "Hold on to me now," he commands gently, then eases down his other hand to my crotch. The wet fingers begin sliding into my hole while he begins to work on my clit with his other hand.

He is careful but insistent as his fingers begin fucking me, sometimes straight in and out, sometimes twisting as he inserts them. I am now so wet I can hear a slight liquid noise as his hands violate me, finding my G-spot without effort. I clutch hold of his oaken shoulder to keep my balance as he shamelessly fucks me with his digits. I lean my forehead against his, so delirious now with lust that I can barely just register that his face has a broad, satisfied smile. He moves his face closer, and I feel his tender kisses on my cheek, my lips. I know it pleases him so to please me.

"You like that, baby?" he asks in a hushed voice. "You like getting fucked like this?"

I am not able to respond beyond a whimper. He is moving his hands now so quickly, so expertly, I struggle to hold on to him. If anyone has stumbled into view of our woodland tryst, I am completely unaware.

I begin to feel the wave of first orgasm approach. He seems to realize this, too, perhaps from some subtle signal I have sent. He knows me so well now. He slows his pace somewhat but the thrusting is more intense, deeper, just this side of pain. I begin to orgasm intensely as he fingers me hard now, all but fucking my pussy with his whole hand. I arch my back involuntarily, and he encircles me more with his upper arms to keep me from falling.

As my orgasm begins to subside, I feel as if I am floating above the ground, watching us like a near-death experience. I see in my own face that I appear disoriented and unfocused, while he seems so steady and calm. How he can bring me to the edge of the precipice without losing control himself, I do not understand.

His hands move gently again now, coaxing the last strains of my orgasm from me. He takes one away and slides his fingers into his own mouth, sucking hungrily on my juices. Then he kisses me, and I can taste my cunt on his lips.

The only sound I hear is my ragged breath struggling to find an equilibrium. I lean against his chest, and I hear a second rhythm, the steady timpani of his heart. His pulse is calm while, I am sure, mine races madly. I marvel at his self-control in moments like this. He plays me so expertly, like a gifted musician, all the while remaining at such a tranquil equilibrium.

"I think I better take you home now angel," he says in a sweet whisper. "And give you a good and proper fucking. You think you'd like that baby?"

"Oh yes," I answer. "So much."

am I an unfit mother?

My sweetie has close to two dozen nieces and nephews, starting at age four up to some who are older than me. I'm still trying to remember most of their names.

You only have to watch him for a few minutes to see how great he is with kids, who in turn absolutely adore him. He has a wonderful manner with children, treating them like real people and not patronizing them like so many adults do.

He is kind, gentle, nurturing, and infinitely patient. He will stand in the pool for hours on end while the littlest ones jump off the edge toward him, and then he hoists them out of the water to do it again. And again. And again.

I was watching him and thinking this is a man who must have his own children -- he is a natural father. I feel some tugging on my heartstrings when I watch him with his youngest nephew. The little guy just glows in his presence and looks so much like him that you'd think he was his own son. Last night, he fell asleep in my sweetie's lap when we were eating dinner, curled around his arm like a little koala.

So James would make a fantastic dad. But what kind of mother would I be?

I titled this post in the present tense -- am I an unfit mother? -- because I think a lot of parenting potential is built into your character. You don't learn to be a good parent, I don't think. I believe you are inherently either a fit parent or an unfit one.

I think I could be a better parent to boys than to girls. I've always had a much better rapport with the male gender. I'm very close to my brother but not at all close to my sisters. I'm close to male cousins but not female ones. My childhood friends were primarily boys. As an adult, I prefer the company of men (although more of my friends are female now, notwithstanding that I have some great platonic male friends).

I imagine I would defer on a lot of decisions about raising sons to their father. I wouldn't be competitive with them. I don't believe I would be judgmental or over-protective. I would probably let them run wild and let their father rein them in as necessary.

Girls, however, might be a different story. I worry I would be competitive with them. Would I try to be too intrusive in their lives, to prevent them from making some of the same kinds of mistakes I did?

I think if a 16-year-old son wanted to have sex, I would have a much different reaction than if my daughter did at the same age. I think the teenage years would be the most challenging for me. I know I certainly was a trial for my parents in my mid-teens. I don't know if I would have the patience for the sort of crap I dished out.

People learn a lot about parenting from their growing years, I suppose. My own parents were not terrible people -- they never hit us, we never wanted for material possessions -- but I don't think they were particularly good parents. Both are highly accomplished professionals. They treated their children like little versions of themselves. Three of the four followed in their footsteps. I decidedly did not. My parents never really knew how to deal with me and just fobbed me off on various therapists when I got into trouble. The only reprimands I got were, "don't forget your appointment with Dr. Smith after school" or "did you remember to take your Ritalin?"

Girls often pattern their parenting behavior on their own mothers. My mother was certainly no Joan Crawford. She never raised her voice. She never struck me. But she just didn't connect. The woman has an MD and a PhD and is on the faculty of a major medical school. She has a great rapport with her colleagues and students and patients but can't seem to communicate with her own children, at least not with me. She never played with me. Never did girly things. Never read me bedtime stories. Never took me to the movies or girl scouts. Never baked cookies with me. I was closer to whatever housekeeper my parents happened to employ.

My father was not much different. My two sisters, who are older and both driven professionals (one is an MD, the other a JD), are not married and have always seemed like cloned versions of my mother. I suspect one is a closeted lesbian. My brother, the oldest in the family, was quite rebellious as a youth, but not nearly as much as I was. He managed to be both an honor student and extremely promiscuous when he was in high school. I was only the latter. He's twelve years older than me, so I don't remember too much about his teenage years except that I didn't see much of him. He is a recent father, and we have both shared concerns about whether we are fit parent material.

It also helps to know there's a big gap between my three siblings and me. My parents never said I was unwanted, but the span of years is sort of telling.

So I'm sort of a wild card when it comes to parenting, I think. I joke with my sweetie that if we had a girl, maybe we could stand in the front of a supermarket and give her away like people do with puppies and kittens. He assures me I would be a great mother, but I'm not so certain.

A couple of years ago, I bought a car that I turned out to be a mistake. The dealer had a no-questions-asked return guarantee, so I brought the car back two days later for a refund.

Unfortunately, there's no such deal with parenthood.

half-nekkid thursday guest star

My sweetie appears as the special guest star today to celebrate "Half-Nekkid Thursday." When we couldn't be together back in Las Vegas, he used to email teases like this to me from his cellphone camera.

There's a subtext to this picture I have to explain: sometimes he stands at parade rest like this, and then I go to work on him without him ever touching me, leaving his hands behind his back. If he can't help but touch me while I'm doing my thing, then he has to reward me with something later. So when he sent me a photo like this, I knew exactly what he was thinking. . .and wanting.

A picture really is worth a thousand words.

sex in a small bed

My sweetie and I are staying in a little guesthouse at the back of his brother's property near Sydney. It's an adorable, cozy little place with great views, beautiful decor, and a fantastic large bathroom.

And a rather tiny bed.

It's like what we would call a "daybed" in the States, sort of a couch-sized bed that seems to be about the width of a single mattress. Supposedly the thing is large enough for two people, but apparently only if they're the size of Verne Troyer. I'm 5'6" but my sweetie is 6'2" at 245 pounds with huge shoulders, so the bed would be small for him even alone. We cannot lie side by side on our backs the mattress is that narrow, but we usually cuddle face-to-face while sleeping, which we're fortunately still able to do. Both he and I had queen-sized mattresses back in Vegas, and that's what we've had on the road since then.

Sex, accordingly, has been something of a challenge in the guesthouse.

Doggy is out because the thing has too soft and spongy of a mattress and the frame squeaks outrageously. The same problem with missionary. Spooning is almost out because, if things get too boisterous, he either hits his ass on the wall or I start sliding off the bed. We're devotees of sitting cowgirl, where he sits with his back against the headboard and I squat over him, resting my weight on my knees and calves, but when we do that the little bed starts to push away from the wall once we get a good rhythm and we slide off the end. The smallish room's decor also doesn't allow for a good-old standing fuck because we'll hit the ceiling fan (which happened), knock over a lamp (which happened), or smack a picture off the wall (which happened). Further, there are no sturdy-enough chairs to support sitting naughty business.

The only position that has really worked is a variation of the woman on top, with him lying on his back on the little bed and me completely supine above him. Oral foreplay, fortunately, has not been so challenging, because either I do him kneeling while he's standing or he does me by lying on his back and having me squat over his face.

I'm guessing this is a good way to keep houseguests from staying too long: buy a small, uncomfortable bed. (I should add here that sweetie's brother Bill and sister-in-law Lara are lavishly gracious to us and originally offered their own bedroom, which we turned down.) Fortunately, we start moving into our new place tomorrow, and the first piece of furniture in the house will be our big, brand-new bed with an extra-firm mattress.

We can't wait.

(The graphic below really has nothing to do with this post, but I thought it was humorous.)

rewinding my life

I'm new to blogging, so I haven't really paid much attention yet to the whole meme thing. This website offers a ton of links to other blogs that offer meme prompts. Unfortunately, however, most seem to be done by Americans, and being that I'm now 15 hours ahead of the Eastern US, the day is nearly over here before the theme-of-the-day is made available.

This meme blog poses various questions on the theme of "yesterday," in light of the 43rd anniversary of the The Beatles being awarded a gold record for their hit single "Yesterday."

One of the questions offered was, "If you could start your life over, would you change anything?"

A bunch of answers immediately came to mind that I could write about: I wish I had behaved myself so I didn't get kicked out of school, I wish I hadn't moved to New York in 2004 only to move back to California four months later, I wish I hadn't done "the thing" I will write about in some future blog post. . .

Then I had sort of a "snap out of it" moment.

Wait a minute. . .I don't want to change a damn bit of it. If I hadn't done all those crazy, stupid things, I would not have been standing in a Nevada desert on blazing hot morning this summer, where I met the man who has changed my life.

I started listening to the Beatles lyrics to "Yesterday," which I sort of vaguely remembered: Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they're here to stay, oh, I believe in yesterday.

Talk about a downer. Those lyrics belong to someone who's regretting moving forward in life, exactly the opposite of me. I feel like my past was some sort of ugly but necessary ecdysis to get me to where I am today. I believe in today, baby, and tomorrow, not yesterday.

I remember reading an interview with Bette Midler where she said something like, "don't ever regret what you've done in your life because that's made you the person you are today."

Damn right Bette. Damn right.

trapped in a dial-up timewarp

We're back in Sydney after the week in Canberra for my friend's wedding. A bunch of blogworthy things happened there that I'll post about in the near future. I'm rather wiped tonight so this will be a short post, but I did want to put up something live for a change.

We planned to spend this whole week looking for somewhere to live, but we already nailed down a place today. One of my sweetie's relatives had a lead on some folks who were renting out a cottage. It's further out from Sydney than we wanted, but the place sits on a little piece of land right next to a big national park and looks like heaven.

I said to my sweetie, "What do you think?"

He said something like, "Not the location or size I wanted but the setting is perfect. I really like it." He looked at me with an unguarded hopeful expression.

"I love it," I answered. "Let's take it."

So we snapped it up right away.

The house is quite small, maybe about 400 square feet, with one rather tiny bedroom that literally only has room for a bed and nothing else, not even an end table or you'd block the door to the bathroom. The water heater is pretty small, too, which means we'll probably have to take mostly baths. The main room is quite large, though, as is the admittedly old-fashioned kitchen. There's also a sort of outbuilding/garage/shed that's at least twice the size of the cottage. The rent is dirt cheap, and the place has wonderful privacy. It feels like we're living on ten thousand of our own acres, courtesy of the government of Australia, because we have an unobstructed view of the park on two sides, and the other two sides are brushy woodland hiding the neighbors.

The one downside is no DSL. We can get a phone line in, but we'll have to make do with dialup internet access. I did notice a little cafe in town with wifi, which the local public library is also supposed to have. We're only a few minutes from the train station into Sydney so we can go big city as need be.

This week will be spent getting the place cleaned up, scouting out some furniture, and moving everything in.

After we signed the lease and went out to look at the place again to plan, my sweetie stopped me at the door, picked me up in his arms, and carried me over the threshhold.

I giggled when he did that, then kissed him and thought, "I will remember this moment always."

A snapshot in the heart.

I am such a bad girl

Since I've arrived in Australia, I'm mostly on unsecure hotel servers when I go online, so I use my Facebook account to message friends.

I signed on to Facebook recently and there were like 195 guys asking to be friends with me.

Now I know why this happens. I'm in groups there like "I've Had Sex With Someone On Facebook." When you join things like that, you have to expect men you don't know will approach you and want to be friends.

Now here's the thing: I know at some point, when I have free time, I'll approve them all as friends. Then some will message me and ask me for my IM ID. I'll give it to them.

And then I will never chat with them.

Why do I do things like this? I know one reason is because I have a difficult time saying "no" to people. I don't want to hurt their feelings. Better to let them think they'll chat with me sometime than to blow them off and hurt them. If they send me another message on Facebook, I'll reply with something like "sorry I've just been so busy -- will watch for you when I'm online -- how have you been?" And, of course, I won't tell them I'm already involved with someone.

But I think there's also a deeper explanation. I believe it was Marilyn Monroe who said she "adored being adored." I think that's part of the reason I do things like this. I danced naked on a stage because I knew guys loved to see me do that. I smiled and waved and blew kisses when they whistled at me. They tipped big. They lusted after me. They adored me.

But, of course, just like on Facebook, it was "look but don't touch." I never came closer to them than a fantasy.

I asked my sweetie if he gets jealous when I do things like this. His response went something like: "Not at all. I love that guys lust after you. They fantasize about what only I can have."

Does this make me a narcissist? In classic terms, no. I don't derive any erotic gratification from this kind of behavior. (See, it helps being the child of two shrinks so you can know crap like this.)

I think I do this somewhat for the same reason Marilyn Monroe did. I never received much love at home. So I crave being adored. I need attention to boost my somewhat fragile ego.

Does this make me a bad person?

(A reminder that this post was written in advance and that I'm currently traveling, so I may not be able to respond to comments and email until I'm back online regularly.)

what if he wasn't a sex maniac like me?

My friend Bee wrote recently in a comment to an earlier blog post: "what if James had about a third of your sex drive, what would happen?"

Well...

I think one of the big reasons he and I hit it off from the beginning was that we both really like fucking and a whole lot of it. I think sex is to a relationship what water is to a flower. Without that critical element, both will wither pretty quickly. But too much or too little water, for most plants, can be quite dangerous.

Just as plants need the right amount of water, the same can be said for sex in a relationship. If one party has a high sex drive but the other a much lower one, then you'll have problems sooner or later. I'll bet you know, dear reader, of an unhappy couple or two with exactly this dilemma.

I knew, the first time my sweetie and I had sex, that he was on the same wavelength as me. I'll write about that encounter in greater detail in a future post. In short, it was a sweaty, intense, hours-long, furniture-thumping event. We went at it for about two hours, took a break, then went for another three hours. He came six times; I came so many times I lost count. Then we went at it again for another three hours the following morning.

It was only uphill from there. Our next encounter came a few days later, which was pretty much a 48-hour sexfest, although it started very gently, as I wrote about in detail here.

Now if I had a third of the sex drive he did, or vice-versa, those first encounters would not have been magical. One would have said "enough already" after an hour, and the other would have been disappointed. The relationship would have begun to starve and wither. Like a plant without the right amount of water, it would soon die or, at best, suffer along in slow agony.

As an inverse to Bee's question, what if we had the same sex drive but nothing else in common? Equally, I think the relationship would be doomed, although perhaps not as quickly. I love being with James because of the times we're in bed and also the times we're off doing other things. He reads poetry and books aloud to me. He gives fantastic massages. He tells wonderful stories about his past that would make Sheherazade envious. He exercises with me. He runs with me. He has a beautiful singing voice (which I only discovered very recently). He makes me laugh. He kisses like a dream. I love being with him, no matter what we're doing, and just bask in his presence.

He is also very different than me in many ways, and that what makes our relationship interesting because we have a yin-yang balance. I'm a chatterbox; he's the strong, silent type. I'm impulsive; he's careful and reasoned. I'm impatient; he's infinitely patient. We complement each other but don't clash. I love that he's quiet, for example, and he loves that I'm not. But we each move the other toward the center: I talk less so I can hear him say more.

Someday I'll write about a guy I'll call Ivan, who I was with about 18 months. Ivan was a fantastic lover who could go for hours and hours, but outside of the bedroom, we had a lot of problems. With time, things got pretty ugly, and the ending was horrid. The relationship failed because we were never compatible when not in a bed. The sex kept us together a long time, but that was probably the reason the relationship ended up so toxic, because otherwise we ignored the ugly hostility brewing between us.

(For his part, James has told me he has never met a woman who had my kind of sex drive. That has always been his problem with past relationships. He wanted much more sex than they did.)

Ergo, sex is critical in a relationship, but it's not the be-all-and-end-all. It can be dangerous if that's the only thing holding you together. In such a scenario, good sex may actually be bad. Better that you didn't hump like crazy because you wouldn't stay together so long and otherwise torment the hell out of each other.

But what if for some medical or other reason James and I couldn't have sex for a period of time? That's not what Bee asked, but I think that's the most important question of all. While I never thought I would think this way about a man, if James could not perform for some reason or was away from me, I would just wait, as frustrated as that might make me. Because I think we have a strong enough bond now that it transcends sex.

I feel so fulfilled when he just embraces me and nuzzles me or whispers a silly nothing in my ear. If he was in a body cast, I would just kiss his fingers and be happy for that. I am pained when I am apart from him, but I could never do anything to hurt him. He has become far more important than just the sex. I have achieved a higher level of love than I ever thought possible, and I would actual endure abstinence (shocker!) if that had to be.

I'm reminded of the Emily Watson character in the movie Breaking the Waves. She would do absolutely anything for the man she loves. I never quite understood what made her character tick until now. The movie poses the question: "how far would you go if you love someone?"

My answer is: anywhere.

So this has come full circle. What if something happened and he was no longer a sex maniac like me?

The answer?

It would no longer matter.

(Wow. I never thought I could say that.)

Because I would hold on to him no matter what.

(A reminder that this post was written in advance and that I'm currently traveling, so I will not be able to respond to comments and email until I'm back online regularly.)

hot craigslist sex

I was reading a blog the other day where a woman was extolling the virtues of a hot male bootycall she found on Craigslist. That brought a smile to my face. Before I was attached, I found the "casual encounters" section of Craigslist to be a fruitful place for hunting some no-strings-attached sex when I lived in Los Angeles and in Las Vegas.

I ran my own listing several times but was mostly disappointed with the results. I would include things in my ad like "must be very fit" and "must supply pics," but most guys responded without pictures or, if they did, they looked like they last stumbled into a gym around 1994.

I had better luck responding to ads men placed, particularly if they included pictures, because you'd see what you were getting before even making contact. You'd know up-front they weren't 50 miles away or wanted to lick your feet for two hours or looked like their hobbies included donut-eating contests.

I would always insist we meet first at some safe public place, so I could see if his pictures matched his ad, he wasn't a total loser, or had some kind of bad odor. Then, if we connected, we'd adjourn to a hotel. Most guys would agree to this, and if they didn't, I wouldn't play. No sense inviting an ax murderer over to your house for cookies and sex.

Some guys I met through Craigslist were not worth a second encounter, but some definitely were.

Jules was my first successful Craigslist bootycall when I lived in Los Angeles. He was hot-looking, tall, muscular, an actor, and a complete asshole. I couldn't stand talking to the guy for more than five minutes, because all he liked to discuss was himself and his big dick. But he was great in bed, and that's all that mattered. After I moved to Las Vegas, I would still see Jules on occasion when he came to sin city. When I was no longer available, I sent him an email telling him such. He responded in typical Jules arrogance: "When you're tired of him and need some real attention, just let me know."

Chet was a great Los Angeles Craigslist bootycall. I thought for a long time he was married, but he insisted he was not. He was more often unavailable than not, but he was worth the wait. I suspected he had a bunch of other female "friends with benefits" but never pried for details. Chad wasn't the most handsome guy I've ever seen, but he was very tall, extremely muscular, in fantastic shape, and an excellent pussy hound. He was a sweet guy and fun both in and out of bed. Chad and I hooked up a few more times after I moved to Nevada. He contacted me shortly before I left for Australia, and I told him I was no longer in play. He sent back the nicest email in response, wishing me the best of luck.

Dwayne was a Vegas Craigslist find. He traveled extensively for his job and passed through town every six or seven weeks. He was from Texas, an ex-powerlifter, ex-bull rider, ex-Marine who was very easy on the eyes. He always insisted on treating me to dinner before we adjourned to his hotel room. He often said he could never be monogamous because he loved women too much. A true gentleman and an excellent pussy eater, he was otherwise not the most imaginative man in bed and made the funniest noises when he climaxed. But he was fun nonetheless. He was also very sweet when I told him I was out of circulation.

Ward was a Vegas guy I also met through Craigslist. He had a very cute face and abs to die for but not too much between the ears. Ward loved two things: sex and the gym, in that order, and spent all his free time pursuing one or the other. He told me point blank he had about ten female friends with benefits around Vegas and would hook up with the first one whom he found free. If you weren't available, he'd try you again next time, no explanations necessary. He was never good for more than about 30 minutes but was a great, boisterous fuck while he lasted. When I sent him an email telling him that I was no longer single and thus unavailable, I learned he had a reading comprehension problem. He messaged something back like, "am of work al day tursday if u wana meet." I had to call him and explain in simple, monosyllabic terms. His response was like, "okay, whatever." D'oh.

I've learned from men friends that responding to Craigslist ads by women are largely a waste of time, because most of them are placed by escorts. But ladies, if you're looking for some no-strings-attached sex, comb through the listings in your area. Yes, you'll find some weird ads -- "must be very tall asian BBW who likes giving enemas while making bird calls" -- but you might find something fun.

As a coda here, I was surfing through Craigslist to find a random guy's picture to include with this post. I found the one below for a married guy looking for some discreet action. Like, hello, you don't think your wife might recognize the picture with that pathetic attempt to obscure your face? She wouldn't recognize the clothes, the stance, the fireplace? None of your friends will recognize you, either? How about the other people in that photo whom you've blanked out? Ya think?



(A reminder that this post was written in advance and that I'm currently traveling, so I will not be able to respond to comments and email until I'm back online regularly.)

half-nekkid thursday

I recently learned about "Half-Nekkid Thursday," which has become something of a blogger tradition whereby various folks post their in dishabille photos on their blogs on any given Thursday. Considering I once took my clothes off for a living, and that this blog is about matters of the flesh, I thought I should join the movement...


To learn more about the origins of the cultural phenomenon known as Half-Nekkid Thursday, visit this page.


(A reminder that this post was written in advance and that I'm currently traveling, so I will not be able to respond to comments and email until I'm back online regularly.)

wake-up call

He has done this nearly every morning we have been together. I am a rather heavy sleeper, so he is almost always the first one awake.

He feels it's his duty to rouse me. And, oh my goodness, does he ever.

While I am lost in the Land of Nod, he gently rolls me on my back and eases my legs apart. Then, he softly traces his finger along my labia, back and forth, barely touching, stroking my lips, stopping now and then to blow on my clitoris, like he's puffing out a candle.

Somewhere in the far reaches of dreamland, I realize something is happening. I'm dreaming I'm at a concert hall, with everyone dressed in formal attire, while they watch me, naked on stage, about to be ravished by a muscular satyr with bewitching yellow eyes.

"You were still asleep and murmuring a bit," he will tell me later with a mischievous smile, "but already you were wet for me."

After he gently opens me wider with two fingers, he sneaks his tongue into my wet hole while tenderly kneading my clitoris between his fingers.

"You started gasping a little when I did that," he'll say later. "You made me so hard."

Meanwhile, in my dream, the satyr is between my legs, lapping at my cunt. I see a woman and man in the audience kissing passionately while the latter thrusts his hand under her satin skirt. I hear her moan. Or was that me?

My sweetie continues, now a little more forceful, and the dreamworld begins to dissolve as the mists of slumber lift. I become vaguely aware someone is tasting my pussy, that this is actually happening and not just some fantasy. I feel him lift my ass as he buries his face in my cunt, eating me hungrily now, and I can tell at once from the touch who this is. My lover, my man, my beloved.

My eyes slide open, and I realize once again he is reality, not a dream. He has his face buried in my crotch, as he does each morning when he awakens me. I try to say something, but it only comes out as a confused jumble.

He looks up, his lips and mouth smeared with my juices, and smiles happily.

"G'day angel," he says.

And then he goes right back to work on me.

Oh my.


(A reminder that this post was written in advance and that I'm currently traveling, so I will not be able to respond to comments and email until I'm back online regularly.)

my vagina as a dinner topic

Saturday night, my sweetie's brother Bill hosted a barbie for about two dozen family and friends. Bill and his wife Lara have a lovely home in an idylic Sydney suburb with a beautiful flat lawn in back, which is perfect for entertaining. Everyone sat at a long table under an awning and had a fantastic time.

At one point, I asked Lara if she had any anti-itch ointment because some kind of bug had bitten me and was driving me crazy. "It just crawled up my skirt," I said, "and bit my fanny."

Our end of the table burst out in laughter.

"It bit your what?" James's uncle Ned roared.

"My fanny."

More hilarity ensued.

Now I've learned my sweetie's family has a very raucous sense of humor, but I couldn't quite understand the great amusement at the mere mention of my butt, particularly considering I used a rather tame euphemism.

"Do you mean on your bum?" James asked quietly, his eyes dancing with merriment.

"Yes."

My sweetie then proceeded to explain to me that, in Australia, "fanny" doesn't mean one's butt.

It's slang for "vagina."

Oh. Now I get it.

Later when we were alone, I mentioned that James had never referred to my pussy as "my fanny," notwithstanding he uses a lot of Australian slang. He explained that he had found, through experience, that American women were turned off if he whispered in their ear, "I want to put it in your sweet fanny." I see his point.

I'm becoming more adept at "Strine," what Australians call Australian slang, but I still have a long way to go.

I never did see the bug that bit my fa... I mean my bum, but I have seen a whole lot of curious-looking little critters here. If a centipede and a cockroach had a lovechild...

dispatch from a parallel universe

A quick post to let everyone know we arrived Down Under safe and sound. We spent the weekend in Sydney and drove over to Canberra today. We'll be here about a week for my friend Celeste's wedding then will return to the Sydney area. I will be online only sporadically for a while still, so my pre-written entries will post in my absence when I'm not around.

I've been in country only three and a half days, but I already know I absolutely love Australia. It feels like an amalgam of California, Canada, and Great Britain, yet it's distinctly different than all three. It seems at times like I've traveled to a parallel universe, where the people speak something like English and some of their world is like mine, yet other elements are utterly alien and new.

My sweetie's family has welcomed me like I've always been a part of them. James's mother died when he was quite young, and he was partly raised by his older sisters. I was a little worried it was going to be like meet the folks times six. However, they couldn't be nicer to me. They are all extremely friendly, as I've found nearly every Australian to be.

I was also pleasantly surprised to learn of one serendipitous advantage to this journey: the value of the Australian dollar against the American dollar has dropped something like 25 percent since I left the U.S., and there's no end in sight to the projected tumble. I get an even better exchange rate if I pay in American dollars.

"What a corker!" as the Aussies say.

am I a superficial slut?

The other week, a platonic male friend said something to me like, "if we passed in a crowd, you wouldn't even give me a second look."

How could I respond to that? Yes, I am attracted to very fit, handsome, muscular men. But if I'm not drawn to an ordinary-looking guy, if I wouldn't even notice him, that's certainly not the latter's fault.

It's a reflection on me, not him.

Yes, I've found very athletic men often perform better in bed, perhaps because they're stronger, more flexible, and very physically fit. But that's certainly not a cardinal rule. I've slept with some Adonises who were terrible lovers and all-around assholes who couldn't carry a conversation in a paper bag. So I can't say, deep down, that's the primary reason I'm attracted to hot men.

And I do like the look and feel of a well-toned stud. I love running my hands all over his ripped torso. I love to hold on to him and the touch of his big, firm muscles while I gaze into his gorgeous face. But that's not the real reason, either, is it?

At the heart of the matter, I think this has to do with a sense of self worth.

If I walk into a room on the arm of a stunning man, I know other women (and some men) will be looking at me. I know some of them will feel envious. "Hey, everybody, look what I'm hitting!" I have the Ferrari; they have the Toyota, or maybe nothing at all. And the Ferrari picked me, not you.

I am, essentially, feeling better about myself at their expense. I am bragging subliminally. I am building myself up.

At a deeper level, I may not feel worthy, so I need some man-bling to boost my ego. Hence, this is no reflection on Mr. Ordinary.

It's a reflection on me. Yes, I can be a superficial slut.

Our mass-media culture emphasizes physical beauty over everything else. That's why Brad Pitt is a movie star, even though he's a pretty mediocre actor. So if you have self-esteem issues, then you're drawn to someone who's easy on the eyes. You subconsciously make that your primary litmus test over brains or personality. (At the same time, however, how does an ordinary guy in a crowd advertise he has a great personality and is brilliant, other than wearing a T-shirt that reads "My brain is well above average"?)

At the end of the day, however, if Mr. Handsome doesn't have any depth, if he's just a pretty body with nothing under the hood, I end up the loser. Mr. Ordinary could have charm and brains and wit and personality to spare, and simply because I'm attracted to shiny objects, I've missed out.

I have learned by experience that looks alone are no foundation for a relationship. Chances are Mr. Gorgeous will move on to someone else by next week. That may be why I was lonely until very recently, even though I did have some very attractive men in my life.

Don't hate me 'cause I'm shallow.


You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.

hot chicks with douchebags

Recently I stumbled on the blog "Hot Chicks With Douchebags" (link here) which is a pretty funny diversion.

The premise is simple: the author, Jay Louis, combs the internet for pictures of club-hopping, sign-throwing, over-gelled, heavily-tatted, pimp-shirted, bling-pierced, bed-tanned, roid-ripped males who are hanging all over more "normal-looking" hot young women. He posts his best finds on his blog with a biting and very amusing commentary. I've included a few photos below so you can get an idea of what's in store on the site.

Louis has also written a book on the HCWD phenomenon, which is sold on Amazon amongst other places. It's outselling Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook and Star Jones's autobiography, which I take as a small sign that God exists.

The only thing missing to complete these pictures is a pungent cloud of Drakkar Noir.





You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.

I love his stink

The other night, we were working out alone together in the little hotel gym, a rather small room on a subterranean level with only a stationary bicycle, a stairmaster, and a weight machine.

I started on the bike while my sweetie began beating the hell out of the weights. We were only there a few minutes when I noticed it.

His smell. His stink. It was filling the room. The more he grunted and thumped the weights, the stronger it got. I watched him, lost in his workout, as the perspiration began drenching his sleeveless T-shirt and shorts. The harder he worked, the more his damp clothes clung to his body, providing some nice sightseeing as I peddled madly to nowhere.

James sweats a whole lot when he works out and during sex. It's a pungent, ripe, masculine scent. He showers two or three times a day, so it's not at all offensive because he's squeaky clean. It's the natural smell of hard work, of exertion, of strength. Of him.

I love that stench.

After sex, when he cuddles me, I can smell his scent all over me. I can smell it on the sheets and pillows hours later. I associate that odor with him loving me. It's both erotic and mnemonic.

When he finished a set, he stepped away from the machine and plunged his face into his towel. He then gestured "you want?" to me and the weights, so I climbed off and went over. He leaned in to adjust them for me, and his musky nimbus embraced me.

He started to help me into position, but instead I leaned into him and buried my face in his sweat-drenched T-shirt.

"Don't kitten, I'm on the nose," he said. ("On the nose" is Australian slang for stinky.)

"I know you are," I replied. "I love that smell." I pulled up his T-shirt like a hood and buried my head underneath, rubbing my cheek on his sweaty skin, smearing his salty stink all over my face.

"Sugar, you're troppo," he laughed. ("Troppo" is Australian slang with no direct translation, but it's something like "loony.")

I began kissing the wet flesh of his hard abdomen. "We have to finish our workout, baby," he said in a throaty voice half a register below normal. That's the same voice I hear when we're about to make love.

I let go of him and moved back into the weight machine. "How is me sniffing your chest any different than you smelling my panties?" I asked.

James responded with a mischievous smile, as if I had scored a tactical point. Sometimes when I'm undressing, he'll grab my dirty panties and snort them lustily or put them in his mouth and suck on them. He's just as troppo as I am.

"I confess, kitten," he said, leaning into me and kissing my neck. "I love your stink, too." He ran his tongue along my clavicle. "Now do your weight."

Later, after we finished, and were both satiated with endorphins and slick with sweat, we started back to our room. Once in the elevator, I kissed him, and he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against his chest, where I got another strong dose of his stink. A pinched-faced, middle-aged woman in business attire got on at the lobby level and looked with revulsion at us hanging all over each other.

It's at moments like that I want to gloat, to say something outrageous in a loud voice, to let this woman know, in under five minutes, this big sweaty hunk and I are going to be fucking like rabbits while she's sitting alone, looking over some dull spreadsheet.

But I behaved myself.

At least until we got to our room.

You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.

do feminists swallow?

I think I am a strong woman. I know I am an independent woman. I've been on my own and supported myself since I was sixteen, so I've had to be fairly resourceful.

I believe in complete equality for women. A woman has every right to be pope or president or pipefitter that a man does. A woman should receive the same pay as a man for the same work.

I can change my own tire. I can operate power tools. I'm not afraid of spiders.

I will not let a man push me around. If I think a guy is being a sexist pig, I will call him on it. I've ended relationships when I thought the guy was too controlling or demanding. I just walked out. Nobody gives me shit. Nobody hits me. Nobody tells me "no" when I want "yes."

With one exception. Sorta.

As I detailed briefly in this post, I prefer to be submissive in the bedroom. That's my choice. I love it when a man is firmly in control of the lovemaking. I don't mean that he can smack me around or call me a whore or piss in my face. I just mean he's in charge of the sex. I prefer that he make the selections from the menu.

Outside of the bedroom, I think I'd be called a feminist in attitude. But what about inside the bedroom? When I'm on my knees, with my hands at my sides submissively, and he's towering over me, his hands clamped behind my head while he facefucks me until he blows his load in my mouth, does that void my feminist card? Oral sex can be egalitarian, but at other times it's distinctly not, like the scenario outlined above.

I love to suck cock, and I've been told many times I have excellent skills in that department. I can deep throat a guy as long as he's not ridiculously long and/or thick. I love to watch his face as I take him up the stairway to heaven because, in a way, sucking a guy is controlling him. So why not do something I really enjoy, even if it's done in a submissive manner, in a way that might look anti-feminist if a snapshot were taken through the window?

I'm not always submissive during sex. Every now and then, I want to be in charge. Completely. Not in a femdom way, but I will rule that night. I might want to tie him up. I may want to blindfold him. I may want to make him beg. And he will do exactly what I want and what I tell him to do (with, of course, the same limitations and a "safe word" I would have if the roles were reversed).

I believe what's important is this: I will not let a man make me do something I don't want to do. I will yield to him at times, but that will always be my conscious decision. And when I say "no," he must respect that. Absolutely.

So, yes, I think a feminist can swallow. If it's 100 percent her choice.


You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.

horrible sex advice

Pseudo-columnist, wannabe celebrity, and self-appointed "dating expert" Julia Allison proffered up some pretty absurd advice to the following question on a popular website the other day: "What is a 'normal' length of time to wait before having sex with a new partner?"

Her answer was -- "My methodology (for women, of course): if you think you’ve waited long enough, wait even longer. If you like the guy at ALL, don’t think about sleeping with him until at least - AT LEAST - the sixth or seventh date, or four-five weeks in, whichever comes last."

Well, if you want to act like a frigid, manipulative, game-playing, cock-teasing bitch, then be sure to take her counsel to heart. I think it's very telling she uses the word "methodology."

While many of the reader responses on the blog where this "advice" appeared backed her up, other popular (and better) women's websites, like The Frisky, panned her strategy. On the latter, columnist Amelia Magritte opined, "you should sleep with him when you feel comfortable sleeping with him. If you feel comfortable with sleeping with him two hours in, by all means, do it...."

I agree. Sex should be by mutual consent when you both feel you're ready -- after ten minutes or ten months, whatever is right for you. You shouldn't follow some arbitrary "rule" promulgated by a woman who equates sex advice with recipe directions. (Wait twenty minutes before removing from pan; wait twenty days before sleeping with him a second time.)

Sex is very important to me and, I believe, absolutely critical in any relationship where I'm going to be a party. When I meet a new guy, I want to know up-front if he's a great lover. If not, then I don’t want to waste my time waiting four or five weeks and sitting through six or seven dates to be disappointed. Yes, I might not sleep with him on the first date -- it's not always possible -- but I want to know pretty quickly if he's sexually compatible, so by date two and no later than date three he better be ready to drop his jeans. I've met some awfully nice guys who were absolutely terrible in the sack. There's just no future for me with a guy like that. Sex is a deal-breaker, so I want an early test drive.

I imagine Julia's 1950s throwback "advice" stems from a concern that some women fear they'll be viewed as "slutty" or "a whore" if they "give in" too soon. But if you're really into sex, and he's really into sex, then I know from experience he could care less if you're "slutty." He's just damn happy he found you. Just hold on and enjoy the ride.


You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.

the mile-high club

Tomorrow we leave for Sydney, so this will be my last "live" blog post for a bit. One good thing about Blogger is that you can pre-write posts to appear at any time in the future. I already have some posts queued up for when I'm in the air and offline, so they will pop up at pre-selected times each day until I'm back live.

We're on nonstop Quantas flight 12, departing Los Angeles at 10:30 p.m. Wednesday and arriving at 7:05 a.m. in Sydney on Friday. It's a 14.5 hour flight, but because of the international dateline, almost an entire day is lost. We're in seats 58A&B, so if we end up going down like Oceanic Flight 815, please pass this information on to the necessary authorities.

I've remarked to some people that the flight will be the longest time James and I have spent together without having sex. In light of this, several friends have inquired about whether we'll be joining the mile-high club. I seriously doubt that will happen, for a variety of reasons.

For one thing, we're in bulkhead seats, across from two jump seats for flight attendants and also the center galley, so we wouldn't have much privacy. We could sneak off to the bathroom, but considering what airplane johns are like on long flights, that doesn't seem like an inviting idea. The biggest reason, however, is that neither my sweetie nor I are much for quickies. We like our lovemaking to last an hour or two.

I did find some interesting photos of the ultimate in mile-high club adventures -- a happy couple who jump out of an airplane while they're shagging and continue going at it as they fall. He even wears the requisite altimeter; hope he didn't get so distracted he forgot to check it and open their chutes in time. Wonder how they explained things when they floated to the ground stark naked?

You can always reach me here: hypersexualgirl at gmail dot com.