does he exploit me?

We were doing the dishes the other night after dinner (he washed while I dried). My sweetie was quiet as he often is. I had a sense something was on his mind, however, that something was troubling him. When he finished rinsing off the last saucepan and handed it to me, I could see a cumulus of anxiety in his face.

The conversation went something like this:

"What's wrong baby?" I asked.

He thought a moment and then looked me in the eye. "Do I exploit you?" he said softly.

I was taken aback. "Exploit me? What do you mean?"

"Maybe 'exploit' isn't the right word," he said. "Let me see if I can explain. You've told me about the men in your past. You've told me about Ron. About Ivan. About the others. And I noticed some things in common."

He began counting with his fingers. "One, they're all quite a bit older than you. As I am. Two, they were very dominant lovers. As I am. Three, they were all physically much larger and more powerful than you. As I am. Four, you moved in very quickly with most of them. Do you see where I'm going here?"

I pondered that a moment. "I think I know what you're asking," I answered. "You're asking if I'm attracted to you as a person or as a persona. Am I in love with you, James, or just the sort of role you fill, because you have certain things in common with other men from my past?"

"Yes, exactly," he responded. "And so am I exploiting what you need? Am I using you, taking advantage of you, simply because you need someone to fill that role?"

"But you're worried that anyone could fill that spot?" I said. "Any big, dominant, older guy could come along and easily slip into your place? That I just need someone to fill that spot, but a lot of guys could do it?"

He nodded. His eyes were filled with a quiet intensity, as if this might be the most important question he would ever ask me. He tried to say something, then stopped himself, then managed just barely: "Because if I am doing that, I don't want to exploit you. You don't deserve that. That would be horrendously selfish of me."

I knew, at that moment, I could not say "but I love you." Even though that is true, it would not be responsive.

"James, you are like those other men in some ways, yes," I said after a moment. "You even look a bit like Ron in the face, as I've told you before. But in the most important ways you are so completely and fundamentally different. They could never have asked me what you're asking right now. Those men exploited me; you do not. They put their needs first; you do not. They were controlling, as if I was their possession, their toy; you do not treat me that way at all."

"There are some men who, I think, have a certain power to make women fall for them while making them feel shitty at the same time," he said. "They were guys like that."

"Precisely," I responded. "But you're so unlike that kind of man. I never feel shitty with you. I was not happy with those other men most of the time. But you make me happier than I ever have been. You don't scream at me. You don't call me a whore. You don't storm out the door and leave me in a lurch. You don't disappear for days on end. So don't you see how fundamentally different you really are?"

He shrugged, as if only half-conceding the point and not entirely convinced.

"Those men were physically powerful but not strong men," I said. "And that is the vast difference between you and them. You are a strong man in spirit and in heart. You are strong where it counts. That is why I love you so." After a moment, I added, "Does that answer your question now?"

He nodded then smiled, and I could see the doubt lifting from his face like sun chased by a cloud.

And then, once again, I began to wonder: what did I ever do to deserve this man?

I'm tumblring

Like 42,908,372 other people, I've started a Tumblr page. You can find my site here, and it's also linked on the sidebar to the right under my profile.

Tumblr is to an online scrapbook what a blog is to an online journal. For the most part I'm putting up interesting and erotic photographs that I'm not using to illustrate posts here. Some people are really into Tumblr and put up dozens of things every day. For now, I'm just doing one or two. Check it out if you want to see some quality smut.

If you're interested in starting your own free Tumblr site, you can start by clicking here.

expatriate lust

Thanksgiving is an entirely North American holiday, so it's just an ordinary Thursday here in Australia. I was in England one year during Thanksgiving, and it's sort of surreal knowing there's a major national holiday going on back in the States when it's just an ordinary day where you are. Perhaps for that reason, expatriate Americans living abroad sometimes cobble together a Thanksgiving get-together with whatever Yanks they happen to know.

One of our neighbors is an older American woman, Susan, married to an Australian urologist. Although our modest little cottage is tiny and quite unassuming, we live in a bucolic, upper-middle class neighborhood populated mostly by professionals, where people are very friendly but respect your privacy. I've chatted with Susan on a few occasions before but don't really know her that well. She's lived Down Under for more than thirty years since meeting her husband in California and has raised a family here. Nonetheless, she's still occasionally homesick for the States.

Last week, Susan invited us to her annual Thanksgiving get-together for expatriate American friends and their significant others. James is indifferent about these sorts of things, but I thought we should make an effort, considering they're our neighbors, so he agreed to go. He was glad we went because we both had a very nice time, and he made a few contacts that will be good for business. Neither he nor I drink, but most of the other attendees were feeling no pain by the end of the evening, which made for a lively gathering.

The couples were a mixture of American men/Australian women and vice versa, plus a few expatriate Brit/American couples, and one Swiss/American husband-and-wife. The unspoken entrance requirement obviously was that one of the pair had to be a Yank. A total of fourteen couples attended, so it was more like a buffet dinner party than a sit-down Thanksgiving event, although Susan had a wonderful turkey and ham with all the traditional fixings and fantastic chestnut stuffing.

At some point after everyone was done eating, as often happens at these sort of things, the women congregated in the kitchen while the men went outside on a deck to talk about whatever men talk about when they're alone. This must be some sort of international maxim, because the same thing happens in both North America and Europe. James tends to stick to me like glue in social settings, but he recognized the kitchen was sort of girls-only and went outside to talk footy with some Aussies.

After I had been in there for a while, during a lull in the conversation, thirtysomething Vi, a Brit married to an Australian, asked somewhat loudly in a gossipy voice, "so, tell us how you met James. He certainly is a looker." Some other women quieted at this and turned with inquisitive smiles to hear my response.

I have to confess I love moments like this, when I know other women have been admiring my man. I could tell by their faces they found him very alluring. He was wearing gray slacks with a black dress shirt, which very nicely set off his tanned skin, dark eyes, and muscular build. I was the youngest woman in the gathering; James was probably one of the youngest men and, by far, the most handsome. My sweetie is a very big man, particularly in the chest and shoulders, but he moves with a natural athletic grace that gives him a sort of striking prowess, so I know exactly why women find him captivating. He is so damn nice to watch.

I told the five-minute version of how we met and ended up coming to Australia together. A few women exchanged looks with each other as I spoke, and I had a sense some had been talking about James and me before I went into the kitchen.

"He just adores you; I'm sure you know that," Vi interjected. "He hardly takes his eyes off you when you're in the room together."

"So tell us," another woman asked with something like a leer, "what's he like in action?" This was punctuated by giggles from a few others.

I was caught a little off-guard at that and felt myself flush as I grasped for words. How could I respond? My hesitancy set off a wave of laughter. By not answering, I had answered.

"He runs on our road with her, wearing nothing but a pair of snug little shorts," Susan said with a knowing smile and raised eyebrows. "He is quite something to watch."

I felt silly and on the spot but, at the same time, I wouldn't trade that moment for the world. Most of the women in that kitchen were happily committed to men of their own, but the little narcissistic boost was wonderful that I got from knowing they lusted after James. What only they could dream about I had all for myself. Okay, maybe that sounds vain or greedy, but that's who I am.

The conversation started to turn to something else, about some woman they knew who had left her husband for a younger Australian himbo. A little later, James came into the kitchen looking for me. Suddenly, all of the women quieted and turned to him with expectant smiles. That caused him to seem a little awkward, as if he realized he had interrupted a moment of female intimacy.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt," he said, then he discretely tapped his watch and left the room. We had agreed ahead of time to leave at ten because we both had an early day Friday. I told Susan we had to hit the road, so she walked out of the kitchen with me to say her goodbyes.

When we were standing in the foyer, ready to go, I saw several of the women watching us out of the other kitchen door with knowing smiles on their faces. After the front door opened, one of them called half-drunkenly, "good night James" and a few others followed suit, which was followed by a huge peal of giggly laughter.

As we went down the walk, James asked me with a quizzical face, "what was all that about in the kitchen?"

"You have quite a fan club," I answered.

"Well," he said with a mischievous smile. "You should hear what the blokes were saying about you."

"You can imagine why they all think we had to get home in such a hurry," I said as he drew me close to him.

"Then we'll have to be sure not to disappoint them," he responded.

half-nekkid thanksgiving buns

My sweetie baby honey bunny. Yummy all over inside and out, he is my sexy beast who helps me soar to new heights. I love him for his heart, for his mind, for his brilliance, for his guidance, for his body, for his strength, for his tenderness, for his touch, for how he loves me in ways I never thought possible. I am so thankful he is part of my life and that I am part of his.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the States!

a nymphomania history

I recently read an interesting book about hypersexualism titled Nymphomania: A History by Carol Groneman. (I should also note I checked out this book at the same time as an erotica anthology, and the geeky-hunky library clerk blushed a deep crimson when he saw the titles while scanning them for me.)

The book, which explores attitudes about and treatments of nymphomaniacs over the last 200 years, made me glad I live in the 21st century. By and large, hypersexual women throughout history were considered either immoral harlots and/or mentally diseased. (As I discussed in this post, nymphomania and hypersexuality are the same thing; the first term is favored by laypeople whereas the latter is more commonly used today by medical types.) Women were either madonnas or whores, so if you liked sex or sought it out, that made you a whore.

Invariably, people in previous centuries thought nymphomaniacs needed to be either "cured" or at least locked away. I thought one 19th century anecdote in the book was particularly telling: when an alienist (as shrinks were then called) realized the best treatment for one nympho was to send her to a brothel to get fucked silly, he immediately rejected that approach because no proper woman would even consider an idea.

Victorians seems to have been particularly harsh on hypersexual women. The objective, when a doctor discovered a nymphomaniac, was to convert her from craving a good fuck to someone who not only completely abstained but had no desire for sex whatsoever. Otherwise, if you didn't stop her from wanting sex, her lust would overwhelm her and drive her into madness, causing her to troll taverns and docks for men.

Doctors of yesteryear would often diagnose a woman as a nymphomaniac when an examination revealed a moist vagina and swollen clitoris. Her genitals were then treated by bleeding, cold-water douches, and weeks of ice packs in the groin. If this didn't achieve the desired result of making the woman abhor sex and shrinking the clit until it was almost impossible to find, she was often shipped off to an insane asylum.

Some doctors, however, particularly in the later 19th century, proscribed a more "progressive" treatment for some nymphomaniacs: they should be "manually stimulated" until they achieved the "necessary relief." Yes, good old Dr. Brown visited the ladies and finger-fucked them until they had an orgasm. I have this mental picture of a tweedy guy with a monocle staring into the chandelier while he diddled a proper Victorian lady moaning on her chaise.

I can imagine how those ladies looked forward to the good doctor's visit, particularly if he was handsome and broad-shouldered with a gentle touch. And I wonder how many of the doctors offered any additional services they never managed to discuss with their colleagues, or if they ever brought along an associate to help?

Ivan the terrible

Those of my regular readers who know me well have probably noticed the narrative in this blog seems to be avoiding a particular topic, specifically a particular man.

For our purposes here, I will call him Ivan. Ivan the terrible.

From the first day I met him, until the last day I saw him, I knew Ivan about a year and a half. We had a relationship, a very tumultuous one, but it certainly didn't endure that entire eighteen months. He was not monogamous. Neither was I. That, however, was not the root of our problems.

I met Ivan when I was twenty. He was thirty-six.

These are some truths: Ivan was a fantastic lover. Ivan abused drugs. Ivan played mind games. Ivan manipulated and bullied. Ivan was psychologically and emotionally abusive but not physically so. Ivan had an explosive temper that suddenly appeared like a thunderstorm on a sultry summer day and disappeared as fast. Ivan was probably mentally ill. Ivan was a bad man.

But, most of all, Ivan lied to me. All the time.

These are some things I believe but did not know for certain: Ivan had connections to organized crime. Ivan was a pimp. Ivan sold drugs. Ivan sold illegal weapons. Ivan engaged in human trafficking for prostitution.

Ivan was born in what was then the Soviet Union but left the country when he was in his early teens. He had that sort of striking Arctic beauty seen in some Russian men and, at times, the accompanying froideur. He was tall with piercing eyes and a strong physique. He was brilliant and widely read. His biography was full of holes and obvious half-truths which he would explain away with an annoyed flick of his hand.

When it was ongoing, I would have said our relationship was a story of passion. In hindsight I am no longer that foolish.

Ivan said many times he loved me. I believe, sometimes, that was true. I told him I loved him. I now know I was wrong. A dependency is not love. Nor is delusion.

The first time I broke up with Ivan, I moved from Los Angeles to New York. I know I did this because I thought distance was the only way to dissipate the toxicity between us. I was wrong. He found me and begged me to come back. I did.

The second time I broke up with him, I moved from Los Angeles to New York once more. I was determined he not find me, but he did and turned up outside my door. He begged me to come back, but I said no. He refused to leave, and the police had to be summoned. I was determined to stand my ground.

He started calling me. I did not take his calls. I erased the messages as soon as I heard his voice.

Until he threatened suicide.

Then I talked to him. I told him I was not coming back. He said if he didn't, he would kill himself. He even set a date when he would do it. I told him I didn't believe him. He said he would prove me wrong. I laughed and hung up.

That day came. I received an emergency call in New York from his assistant: Ivan was in the hospital. He had tried to kill himself. He was begging to see me in his scattered moments of lucidity. He might not live.

I went.

When he was discharged from the hospital, I was there to take him home. He seemed, surprisingly, in rather good condition for a man who recently had embraced death. He promised me we would start afresh. He would not be the way he was before. He would be tender and loving.

He lied. Again.

Then I discovered serendipitously the suicide attempt was entirely bogus. An anesthesiologist who owed him money had helped him fake the whole thing. He had lived it up for four days in Cedars Sinai until I turned up.

I left him the final time. I was determined not to flee once more to a distant city. I would stay in Los Angeles.

Foolish me.

He quickly found me and would not leave me alone. The police were summoned. Repeatedly. But, unlike the NYPD, the LAPD was rather indifferent to a woman being stalked unless she had a marquee name or was being physically abused. Never mind that Ivan stood outside my place and screamed at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night. He did all kinds of things to annoy me, including posting videos of him fucking me on the internet.

I hired a lawyer and obtained a restraining order. Ivan ignored that. The LAPD took too long to respond when he reappeared. I moved to another city within Los Angeles County that had a better police force. Ivan was arrested and threatened with jail.

That stopped him for a few weeks, but then the calls and visits started again. He said he really would commit suicide this time. I told him to go ahead. I encouraged him to jump from a tall building because then there would be no turning back.

I began losing work because of him. I realized I had to leave Los Angeles for a while. I consulted an expert about how I could move to a nearby city without Ivan finding me. I followed her recommendations diligently.

I headed to Las Vegas and started a new life. The city paled in comparison to Los Angeles, but I found the people more welcoming and convivial. For the first time in a long while, I didn't cringe when the phone rang or look over my shoulder before I went outside. He was gone. I got him out of my system. I moved on.

Or so I thought.

I lived in two different places in Las Vegas, the first for a few months and the other for a year. About ten months after I moved to the latter, my former roommate called to tell me there was a guy around the house a lot. He had come to the door looking for me. He waited outside in his car sometimes. I asked her to describe him. Tall, strapping, scruffy, a real hunk, looks like a model, but the blue eyes are very cold, soulless even. I still remember the chill I felt when she said that.

It was definitely Ivan.

She got such a bad vibe from him that she, very wisely (thank you), said she had no idea where I lived. Her house was fairly close to the place I shared, however, and knowing Ivan's tastes and habits, I was afraid he would encounter me accidentally.

I had met him while I was working in a Los Angeles strip club. And I was working at a "gentleman's club" in Las Vegas. I would not be that difficult to find. He might go for a drink, to find some pretty girls, and then he'd see me.

I consulted another attorney who determined Ivan had found me by illegally acquiring a copy of my credit report. The lawyer obtained another restraining order. Ivan was served sitting in his car outside the place where I used to live. When he reappeared the next day, the LVPD promptly arrested him. Unlike their California counterparts, law enforcement in Nevada doesn't screw around. After he was bailed out, Ivan went back to Los Angeles, either defeated or determined to try again.

Truthfully, part of the reason I left the United States a few months back was because I felt safer putting both time and distance between Ivan and me. I debated sending him a letter before I left, telling him I was leaving the country, at least for several years, and would be impossible to trace. I decided not to. I think that was a wise decision. No sense baiting a rabid animal.

I do feel safe now, but not because of the distance. I am with a strong, stable man I truly love who will protect me if need be.

There's an old adage that you have to endure a really horrible relationship to appreciate a really wonderful one. I don't know if that's true.

But I still count myself lucky. Not that Ivan was my lover. But that Ivan was the catalyst for me to change. To grow into a stronger and more independent woman. To find a fantastic man I would never otherwise have found. Had I not fled to Las Vegas, I would never have met James.

That's why I'm still an eternal optimist. Because terrible shit happens for a reason. Like Ivan the terrible.

That what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

losing her virginity

I've received a lot of interesting emails from people whom I don't know since I began writing this blog. Sometimes folks write and ask me for my advice about sex. I don't know that I'm any kind of expert, but I guess I convey a certain knowledge through my posts.

A girl I'll call Ashley wrote to me recently. She's 20 and a student at a prestigious East Coast university. She sent me her picture, and she's a very pretty girl, with a wonderful voluptuous figure, narrow waist, and sweet face. She looks like a Vermeer painting come to life.

She's also a virgin.

Ashley badly wants to lose her virginity, but she doesn't want just any guy to do it. She would like the event to be special and memorable. Ideally, she wants multiple sessions with the guy so he can be something of her teacher. For that reason, she's hoping the man would be somewhat older and sexually very experienced. As she wrote in one email to me, "I don't want some clumsy boy doing this." (I should also add here that I obtained Ashley's permission to write this entry.)

During her summer break, she set a goal for herself to lose her cherry by the end of the year. How to go about this, however, has been something of a challenge. She contemplated placing a personals ad explaining exactly what she wanted, but quickly concluded that would probably attract the wrong kind of men. She also read on the internet about how a woman arranged with a Nevada brothel to lose her virginity -- for quite a lot of money -- but decided that was not for her, either. This was a personal quest for her, not a publicity stunt.

She did end up placing a listing on several free online sites stating that she was looking for a somewhat older, experienced man to educate her about sexuality, but she did not go into any details about losing her virginity. Needless to say, she received a flood of responses and, as she wrote me, "99 percent had their fate quickly sealed with the delete key."

She was very intrigued, however, by two guys who responded with their pictures. Both are very well educated, very good looking, articulate, and not at all pushy. She wrote back and decided to tell them the truth -- that she's a virgin and is looking for a special man to awaken her sexually. Both responded with interest, although one was somewhat avuncular and questioned whether this was something she really wanted to do.

Ashley and the two guys emailed each other back and forth a few times, then progressed to IM chats, then on to phone calls. She really likes both of them but has yet to meet either in person. She said that neither has been pushy about "the event" or setting up any kind of face-to-face. Her instinct is to arrange a meeting in a very public place so she can get a sense of each guy and then decide what to do.

She asked my advice about this, and I told her I thought it sounded like a good plan. I also suggested that, if she ends up selecting one of these guys, the deflowering should happen in a hotel room so he won't know where she lives; I don't think going to his place is a good idea. I also recommended she tell a friend where she'll be, and that friend can contact the authorities if she doesn't report back at a predetermined time. I also suggested she provide her friend with the guy's telephone numbers and home address.

Ashley has also discussed her quest with a married graduate student who serves as a teaching assistant at her university. As it turned out, unbeknownst to Ashley, this married woman is a sometimes swinger and thus offered her law student husband to perform the service. Ashley described the husband as very attractive and sweet; she's met him a few times. The wife also offered to join in to make sure all went well if Ashley wanted.

Ashley asked my advice about this, too, and my instinct was not to go down that path. I've known a few swingers, and they generally have quite open attitudes about sex because they're involving themselves with people who have the same mindset. Swingers, however, generally do not form attachments with their sexual partners. But Ashley is not a swinger. What would happen if she became attached to the husband? What if he became attracted because he knew she was?

I just think this is a dangerous place to go. Not physically dangerous, of course, but emotionally dangerous. She could end up hurting their marriage and her friendship with the wife.

Ashley concurred this was probably wise and had already come to something of the same conclusion on her own. She was asking my opinion more for validation, which I was happy to provide.

So for now she's progressing slowly with the two guys she met online. She says she likes both and may have a hard time choosing which one. I think once she meets them face-to-face, though, she may have a different sense. Sometimes a guy seems one way on the phone, but when you meet him, he's not the guy you thought he might be.

Ashley has promised to keep me up to date with what happens and, if anything memorable goes down, I'll report it here. So stay tuned!

spontaneity versus red tape

What's that cliche? Even the best-laid plans can go awry? Something like that.

As I detailed in this post, I planned to wake up one morning and say to James, "let's get married today." He would, I already know, say okay. We'd drive down to city hall, get a license, and have a clerk marry us on the spot. That's easily done in places I've lived like California and Nevada.

Except you can't do that in Australia.

Down Under, you must file an official "Notice of Intended Marriage" at least one month before a scheduled wedding date.

Which means you cannot elope here. You can not give in to spontaneity. You can not drop by city hall on a whim. You must plan in advance.

Damn.

You can dash over to New Zealand to do it, where there's a three-day wait. New Zealand, however, is three hours away by plane, so buying tickets on a whim is close to impossible, not to mention the other last-minute arrangements that would have to be made, like hotels, a rental car, someone to marry us.

People are just not impetuous here.

I want a spontaneous wedding because then there's no pressure before the event. I know he wants to marry me, so when I feel ready and comfortable, I'll just tell him. I don't want a ceremony of any kind. I just want, boom, to be married one day.

So I came up with a sort of semi-spontaneous plan. We filed the "Notice of Intended Marriage" during the second week of November. That allowed me to apply for a six-month extension of my visa, which has been granted. So that means we can get married any time between the middle of December and July of 2009, when my visa will expire.

I've already lined up a "marriage celebrant," what Australian law calls the person who marries you. She is extremely cool and has agreed to my plan. I have selected a day we will be married. I will tell James that morning. We will drive over and get married.

If that day comes and I'm not ready to go through with it, I'll simply call the celebrant and postpone. She's done this sort of thing before and is perfectly fine with the "no pressure" approach.

I can live with this. Because, after all, marriage is about compromises.

take your sex kitten to work day

I usually have modeling gigs only once or twice a week, so that gives me a lot of free time. My sweetie is managing a gym owned by his brother and has been going into work six days a week because there's much to do.

That leaves me with the choice of either spending much of the day alone on my own or heading to the gym with James. I decided to do the latter because I couldn't stand the idea of being away from him for so much time.

Now some of my friends have teased me about this. They say I'm like a high school girl who takes classes she hates just to be in the same ones as her boyfriend. They question whether I'm losing my sanity because I'm so smitten with him. You used to be so independent, girl! Wake up!

But that's what I want to do now. I love being with him, and I know it makes him much happier, too. Actually, when I go into his work, it's not like I'm with him every minute. I often don't see him for several hours at a stretch, but then he can steal a few minutes away to be with me, and that's just wonderful.

The gym is part of a small chain that should be doing very well because of its prime location. It has not been successful recently, however, due to a string of inept managers, so my baby's job is to turn it around and quick. Part of the problem is finding good staff willing to work cheap. I can't legally work, but I can help out for free, so that's what I've been doing. That keeps overhead costs down, and now he has an organizational whiz in the office -- me.

I'm fascinated to watch James in a work environment because he's something of a different man than when around me -- he's much more "macho." He was a NCO in the Royal Australian Navy for twenty years, so he has a lot of experience leading others. He's firm but fair with the staff, who are all men, and entirely no-nonsense. They clearly respect him and follow his lead without question. The results are amazing, because the gym has really turned around within a month with a lot of new members and is back in the black.

It's a real musclehead place with about a 95 percent male membership. A long-term goal is to try to attract more women and families, but that's not easy once a gym has a certain aura. When potential members tour a place, they often want to see people who are like themselves. When all they see are men with cantaloupe-sized biceps grunting like oxen while lifting what look like boxcar axles, they move on, unless they look like that, too.

I got the idea to teach yoga a few days a week in a front studio with large plate-glass windows on the street side as a sort of living billboard. Unfortunately, not a single woman has signed up for the class. Men and women stop to watch us in the window, but only men have come in to inquire about the free week-long trial gym membership, another of James's ideas that has been quite a success.

My friend Bee back in the States, who often writes teasing comments on this blog, remarked to me that I must be in seventh heaven surrounded by big sweaty men all day. Well, of course I don't mind. I have found, however, that Australian men tend to be more respectful of women, and I don't think that's just because they know James and I are an item. They flirt, but in a sweat, endearing way. I can't say that I don't love the attention. Okay, I love the attention.

The most important thing is that I enjoy "going to work" every day because I'm doing something much different than jobs I've had in the past. I may have spent most of my working life taking my clothes off for a living, but I have a real knack for organizing files and keeping an office running smoothly. It's fun to sort of master a little corner of the world and watch it flourish.

Doing this with someone you love makes it all the much better.

the two of us have a three-way conversation

We were riding on the train back home to our little town for dinner. The car was almost empty, and we sat together in the last seat, where no one could see us. He was leaning against the window, and I was wrapped in his big arms.

The conversation went something like this:

"I read what that bloke wrote on your blog," he said softly after a long silence. "About a three-way. I'm with him. I could never do that, bring another man into our bed. I would go berserk watching a guy put his hands on you. And watching him fuck you?" He couldn't even continue and puffed out his cheeks, flushing at the mere thought.

"I know," I responded. "I would never suggest that. In all honesty, I don't think I could do that. I used to love three-ways with two men, but sharing you with another guy now would be creepy."

He smiled at that and nuzzled my cheek. "So you're all mine," he cooed.

"But what about another girl?" I asked after a moment.

His face was non-committal. "Eh," he said. "I don't think she'd have a good time. I'd be too much into you."

"It would be so hot to watch you fuck another woman," I said, feeling a slight little jolt just at the thought of that.

"Really?" he answered, his face registering genuine surprise. "That wouldn't bother you? You wouldn't be jealous?"

"Not in the slightest," I said. "That would be such an incredible turn-on for me. To touch you and feel you and rub my hands all over your skin while you were pounding into her. And I think you'd be more dominant with another woman than you are with me, maybe even a little rough, which would excite me to no end."

He sort of shrugged, uncertain.

"What about if I was really dominant with her?" I asked. "What if I made her get down and watch your cock sliding slowly in and out of me while I made her beg to be able just to touch you? What if I pulled her hair and forced her to teabag you while you fucked me, all the while she's madly fingering herself? What if I paddled her while she sucked your cock?"

His eyes flashed as I described this. "Okay kitten, that's pretty hot," he admitted, and then his voice dropped to a whisper. "What if you tied her up?"

"I would love that," I confessed, thrilled that he was liking this idea. "Maybe blindfold her, too. I want to do this. Would you be willing?"

He smiled a little. I moved in for the close.

"Describe the girl to me we're going to fuck," I said. "What does she look like?"

"Not like you," he said with a serious face. "And it can't be one of your friends. She would have to be just for sex." He let out a long, slow breath and thought a few minutes more. "Probably smaller than you, a real tiny little thing, and darker."

He pondered something for a moment then smiled a bit sheepishly. "Would you make her eat your pussy?" he asked.

"Absolutely," I answered unequivocally. "Or you could 'teach' her how to do it, then maybe punish her for falling below standard. Or you could fuck her while she did it, in rough doggy while forcing her head into my crotch."

"I think I could get into that," he said after a long moment's silence. "If I knew it was really getting you hot."

"It would," I said. "Absolutely. Trust me."

"So how do we find this imaginary girl?" he asked.

"I don't think she'd be hard to find," I answered. "I've watched how women look at you. Remember how I told you a girl was watching us at your friend's party last Friday?"

His face grew serious again. "I think I could only do this if we were married," he said. "And that's not meant to put any pressure on you. But I think if she knew we were committed, and she was only there for a little occasional play, then that would make it all a lot smoother."

"I would have no problem with that," I answered.

"So something to look forward to in the new year," he said while smiling and raising his eyebrows.

"You know what?" I said after a moment, then let my voice drop to a whisper. "I am so wet right now just thinking about this."

In answer, he smiled, took my hand, and pressed my palm in his crotch. I could feel his cock was partly hard beneath his sweatpants. I kissed him and squeezed his junk. Just then, the loudspeaker crackled and a voice announced our stop.

That meant we were only minutes from home. And I knew what he would do to me the moment we were in the door.

half-nekkid thursday bustier

I think sometimes you just gotta be a little slutty. I have to be careful not to lace my bustier too tightly, however, because then I have some difficulty breathing if my sweetie has at me while I'm wearing this. That's pretty much of a given when he sees me because he has this thing about black unmentionables. Of course, forgetting to wear my panties helps to attract his attention, too.

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday. And remember, sometimes it's not about what you take off. It's about what you leave on.

Click on the image for a larger version.

spontaneous handjob

A man can jerk himself off. But a woman can do it so much better for him.

It is still early in the evening. He lounges on the couch, reading a book, wearing only sweatshorts. I can see the outline of his dormant cock under the soft fabric on his thigh. I silently admire his strong, supple body, the play of shadows on his muscled torso. Turning away from my computer, I rise from the desk and move toward him. That catches his eye and he looks up toward me, smiling, his face a question.

"Want to go somewhere babe?" he asks.

"I want to give you a present," I answer.

His expression registers that as a riddle. I step over him on the couch and sidle down into the space between him and the back. He eases over to give me more room.

"What kind of present?" he inquires. One eyebrow tilts up.

To answer, I tuck two fingers into the elastic of his waistband and slowly draw down his shorts, revealing his cock, still slumbering against his thigh.

But then it moves ever so slightly, rolling a bit to one side, as the testicles begin to stretch and awaken.

I take both his cock and balls in my hand and, at once, feel their metamorphosis as he begins to thicken and harden. I don't stroke him but, instead, simply massage his package, pulling, pressing, kneading, like I am testing him for strength and durability, like he is something for sale in a shop and I am a discriminating shopper.

This, of course, makes him harder, and I can no longer contain his expanding organ in my hand. The bulb has not yet appeared from where it hides in the foreskin, however, so I begin teasing that with my fingers.

I hear a noise from deep within him, a sigh perhaps, a shade of a groan. He moves his hips slightly toward my hand, involuntarily perhaps, in response to my stimuli.

I could say filthy things to him now, about how I love to play with his thick cock, about how badly I want him to ram it in me, but I desist. I will fuck him only with my hand. He, too, remains silent, as if knowing how this will proceed.

I move my hand down to his balls and begin lightly caressing the skin between my fingers like I was sampling fine velvet. I take one testicle in my hand, then both of them, then release them, only to repeat this process.

I can see that he likes this, because his cock is now lengthening and thickening on his belly. The foreskin parts, and his cockhead appears.

In response, I move my hand to the middle of his shaft and grip it between my fingers. I begin to stroke him in classic handjob fashion, pistoning the now-hard cock in its prison of skin and my fingers.

I lie my head back next to his, using his thick bicep as my pillow. I turn toward him, and our eyes meet. He smiles, and I see his nostrils flair as he draws in a sharp breath in response to what I am doing with my hand.

I savor his cock with my touch, tugging, pulling, fast, slow, rolling it like dough between my fingers. I concentrate on the head a few moments, then slide down to the root and squeeze that like a creature I'm trying to massage to life. The creature responds.

His eyelids widen involuntarily at random intervals as I fuck him with my hand and, on occasion, he exhales or inhales suddenly as I do this, like the sensation is almost too much to bear. I sense he is pushing upward with his hips, and that his belly tightens and contracts at random moments when I take him to a pinnacle of pleasure.

Then I stroke him faster, suspecting I can take him over the top now. His handsome face breaks into a wide smile as he, too, seems to know I know he's almost there.

But, as he gets closer, he begins to lose focus, his eyes rolling slightly as his lips part to emit a faint gasp. His breathing is faster now, I notice, and I have brought him somewhere near the threshold.

Suddenly, before I expect it, he opens his mouth fully and sucks in a breath of air. I had wanted to tease him a bit, to stretch out a few more minutes, but alas I was too hasty.

I look down and see the first geyser of his seed erupt between my fingers. The juice lands above his navel. I relax my grip and, by themselves, his testicles throw forth his cum. A second spurt erupts, this time striking his pectoral. Then the main cataclysm comes, with jets of liquid spewing from him so copiously it's no longer possible to count the spurts.

I take him back into my hand and milk him to a finish. His rippled belly is now covered with his cum, which steams ever so slightly in the weak evening light. And the air is filled with the wonderful saline stench of his juices.

He turns my head toward his and tenderly kisses my forehead, still not saying a word. But he need not do so, because I know he how much he has appreciated this gift, and how much I have enjoyed giving it to him.

His thanks is splattered all over his belly.

the taliban would not approve

I love this picture. It's brilliantly creative and says so much at once with such simplicity. No matter how much you try to suppress someone, she will always be free in her mind if she wants to be.

women are from pluto, men are from uranus

A few weeks ago, blogger Benny wrote about the best first date he's ever had which, unfortunately, never led to another and, in fact, resulted in a cruel rejection (post link here). She brought up the idea of a second date, but after the first one was over, she just strung him along and then gave him a bogus excuse as to why she didn't want to see him again. There's no question what the woman did to him was absolutely shitty.

Benny, understandably, was hurt. He wrote: "Men who face constant and continuous rejection without courtesy or explanation become the Hitlers, Kilmer Rouge, and Ted Bundys of the world. Yes, women, believe it or not you do have that much power. Please use it wisely, and just be honest with men."

Amanda, who also occasionally comments on my blog, wrote the following response to Benny: "These women treated you horribly but females alone don't have a corner on this kind of behavior." Benny responded, "You're probably right, men can be even worse than women."

I have heard stories like this from both women and men about the opposite sex. This seems to be a universal truth: some people are just total assholes when it comes to dating and relationships. And there's no way you can tell they are until after it happens and you have to deal with the wreckage.

A friend of mine whom I'll call Tess was involved in a long relationship that ended very badly earlier this year. As a result, she did not get herself back into circulation right away. She was at the gym one day, however, on an exercise bike when a very hot guy I'll call Rick climbed on the one next to her. Because Tess is gorgeous with blond hair and blue eyes, Rick understandably took notice of her and started chatting.

As these things happen, before she left the gym, Rick asked her out. She was honest and said she had just gotten out of a bad relationship and wasn't dating at the moment. He said that he, too, just had a long relationship end badly and understood her pain, but if she ever wanted to just grab a bite to eat or see a movie with a platonic friend, she could call him. Tess emailed me a few days after this happened and said "he seemed like the sweetest guy." She was tempted by his offer.

Tess saw Rick a few more times at the gym and, eventually, they did have lunch. That led to another lunch, and then that led to a movie date, and then another evening date with dinner, after which she ended up back at his apartment and in his bed.

Things happened pretty quickly, and they saw each other almost every other night for about two months. Sex was great, Tess said, and she enjoyed being with him because he was funny and liked to do interesting things. He seemed to really like her, too.

One day, they made plans on a Wednesday to do something that weekend and decided to finalize things on Friday. So she called him as agreed and left a message.

And he never called her back. Ever.

Rick is a criminal prosecutor, so she thought he might have gotten heavily involved in a case. She called again Saturday, left another message to that effect, and said if he still wanted to do something that weekend, to let her know when he had a chance, but if he was tied up with work, she would understand.

The weekend came and went. The next week came and went. Still no word from Rick. She was starting to get worried, so she stopped by his office that Friday and asked if he was in. He was, she was told, and was asked to wait. The receptionist called back to his office, however, and received word that he could not be interrupted. Nonetheless, Tess was at least relieved he wasn't buried in a shallow grave somewhere.

So she emailed him. Was something wrong? Had she said something? Did she offend him in any way? She couldn't figure out how or why, because their last encounter the Wednesday before had ended so positively. They had planned their first weekend away together.

He never responded to her email.

A month has gone by since his mysterious silence, but she has not heard a peep from him.

Tess, wisely, is moving on. But this has hurt. He knew she was vulnerable and spoke with her at length about the pain of broken relationships. And then he goes and does this. All the worse, he prosecutes criminals, so you'd think he'd have a sense of right and wrong. But no.

He obviously has a problem with commitment. But they weren't anywhere near that phase; they were just dating. The idea of a weekend together, however, apparently set him on a panic. Maybe he feared moving in would come next. So, like the wolf that gnaws off its own paw to get out of a trap, he did something incredibly destructive.

The sad part is that Tess is one of the sweetest girls I've ever known. She'd be a real catch for him -- for any guy -- but he'll never come to discover that. He's probably already busy breaking another girl's heart.

man candy

I still look at man candy, but not nearly as much as I used to. This doesn't make my sweetie jealous, particularly when I say something like, "he's hot but nowhere near as hot as you." James tends to look at such pictures clinically, saying stuff like "his v-taper is pretty good with a defined adonis belt, but it could be better. He needs to squat more weight."

I do know that what strikes my fancy has changed since falling under my sweetie's spell. I used to favor leaner men who were sort of diver types. But now those guys look too dinky to me in comparison with my sweetie. James is not bodybuilder big but almost, as you can see from his HNT guest appearance. He's been passed over for some fitness modeling gigs because the photographer thought he was "too large." I think he's just perfect, but then I'm rather biased.

I went through my photo folders recently and deleted some pictures I used to think were hot. The ones below were sort of borderline. I kept them, but they might not make the next cut. What do you think?

The first one reminds me of a guy I dated briefly, who was great for miniature golf or fun lunch outings but lousy in bed.

nine 1/2 weeks

Chances are you've seen Nine 1/2 Weeks, the Kim Basinger/Mickey Rourke lustfest that came out about twenty years ago. And chances are you saw it at 2:00 a.m. when you had insomnia and it was the only thing on cable, but that's another story.

Here's the plot in a nutshell: two hypersexual Manhattanites have a torrid affair and do all sorts of kinky things involving phone booths, blindfolds, and ice cubes. Notwithstanding the many warning signs beforehand, the relationship implodes at the end of nine and a half weeks.

The cheesiness of the movie notwithstanding, I've come to appreciate the idea that a period of nine and a half weeks is a good barometer to measure how a relationship is faring. Are your feelings growing stronger? Or is he starting to grate on you? Do you feel like you're gasping for air when you're not with him? Or do you feel like you're suffocating in his presence?

I've had relationships go beyond the nine and a half week stage that should have ended much sooner. And, in the case of one, way far beyond when all sorts of warning signs that I stupidly ignored were flashing in my face. After that fiasco, I decided to establish a ballpark rule that if the relationship was faltering as it went into the third month, it was time to bail.

My sweetie and I crossed the nine and a half weeks threshold the other day, and I told him about my litmus test. His face grew into a worried scowl, and he asked if we had passed.

I answered that if it hadn't, we wouldn't be having the conversation. And he would be looking at the empty side of my closet.

I definitely try to learn from my mistakes.

pornstar blues

One of my favorite blogs is "Christian Sings the Blues" (link here), a daily online missive kept by leading pornhunk Christian. (Like Sting and Madonna, he uses no surname professionally.)

While many pornstar blogs are exercises in narcissism or clumsy self-promotion replete with horrid prose, "Blues" is a refreshing exception. Christian writes very well and quite frankly about whatever is on his mind that day. He's not afraid to reveal some of his most personal feelings and opinions in candid, unvarnished posts. His daily entries are usually very detailed; some run as long as 3,000 or 4,000 words. And for the more prurient readers, he provides explicit outtakes featuring whatever vixens he happened to bang that day (sample link here and here), plus numerous candid shots of him about town with other adult entertainers, some of whom thoughtfully provide boob-flashes. He also includes occasional shots of his pet hedgehogs.

He has caught flack from some XXX industry divas because of his online candor, but you sense from his writing that he values honesty above all and just has to get it out on the page. As he wrote recently, "I have a gift, my friends, for pushing people's buttons..." He has embraced the idea that a blog is a diary, and he's not afraid to let his soul spill onto the pages at times, no matter who's reading. That's what makes the blog addictive for me and other women I know who are regular readers -- he's letting you get inside in a way few men can or will allow you.

One recent entry, for example, began "it's hard to shake the feeling of angst I have (and probably many other performers as well) about my future in this business." Another started as follows: "the phrase 'no man is an island,' quoted from John Donne, is probably correct, but there comes a time in everyone's life in which they have to understand that there will be times when they are in fact out on an island by themselves. This is where I find myself tonight."

Still another: "I just don't understand my life sometimes; I really don't. Today should have been a good day that started well and ended well, but for some reason it didn't. It rarely does actually. And I can't put my finger on why that is. Is it all me?"

That kind of candor is almost exclusively the domain of anonymous blogs, not public figures who post openly for tens of thousands of daily readers.

It's clear from reading "Blues" that Christian is very intelligent and has an excellent head for business. He will let you know exactly how many times he's fucked any particular girl onscreen, how many scenes he's shot in a given month, how that compares to last year, and so forth. But more telling, he demonstrates a keen understanding of why the porn business is in such a rut and what the industry could do to improve its future. I sense there's an entrepreneur in him begging to come out to play.

The nice cap on all this is that Christian is very easy on the eyes (that's his picture at the end of this entry). He's an extremely fit 6'5", 240 pounds, and a seasoned triathalete. Unlike many male porn actors who have that sort of prettyboy gym-bunny look but don't look like they'd be much help on moving day, he has the natural musculature and strength of a professional athlete. He was, before his porn days, both a college basketball player and coach. His blog will often include details on how much he ran that particular day, what he lifted, what cute girls he saw at the gym, and the like.

Unfortunately for his loyal readers, Christian plans to end his daily entries on December 31. He obviously puts a lot of work into his blog and that takes considerable time, for which he receives almost no compensation (he has some affiliate links on the site but that generates only a few hundred a month; the site is free for readers). You have to hope, however, that the blogging bug might bite him on occasion, and he'll reappear in the future to make occasional entries.

Although a blog lacks the narrative structure necessary for a book, you can easily see how he might adapt a great deal of what he's written into a memoir. I've caught a little subtext on his site about that, so perhaps it's something in the works. Let's hope so. I also think he would make an excellent monthly columnist for a major men's magazine.

Whatever he does in the future, however, I have a sense Christian will land solidly on his feet no matter where. Most porn actors disappear by their forties, if not long before that, and he's made clear he knows he can't be a performer forever. I would not be at all surprised if he reappeared behind the camera in a directing and/or producing capacity and a very successful one at that.

That may be the ultimate reason why he and his blog have caught some flack: he has his eye on both the present and the future, in a business where few seem to have that level of awareness. So perhaps it's not anger being directed at Christian at times; it's envy.

half-nekkid thursday shoulders

I absolutely love this dress. It shows off my shoulders, which I think are one of my best features, and makes me look a little bigger in the boobs than I really am. It's so comfortable to wear and makes me feel fabulous every time I have it on. I usually wear it with dressy black velvet Anne Klein sling-back heels or, in colder weather, a black cashmere bolero jacket and black suede boots.

I remember the first time my sweetie saw me wearing this. His mouth actually dropped open a bit. He embraced me, ran his hand over the slightly nubbly fabric, and declared it the hottest thing he'd ever seen. As a result, I thought this was a good choice for Half-Nekkid Thursday, because while I'm dressed, it might cause your mind to wander into amatory territories. I know from the looks I've garnered while wearing it that guys really like this dress.

I played around with Photoshop a bit to give the picture a sort of film noir look. I converted to black-and-white but didn't like that look nearly as well. I also like my pose on the unmade hotel bed, which adds a little lascivious flavor.

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday and remember, if you can't be good, be careful.

motorcycle sex

I hold tight to his abdomen as his motorcycle negotiates the rough gravel road, hardly more than a trail, into the wilderness. The bouncing bike gives me a sense of vertigo, so I close my eyes and rest my head against his wide shoulders. I have no idea where we're going, but he has promised me a memorable outing.

After a few minutes, I feel the motorcycle slowing and open my eyes. We've reached a small lake with a stillness like a mirror in a silent room. He cuts the engine, and it takes a moment for the quiet to fully unfurl. He steps off the bike, removes his helmet, and holds out his hand to help me dismount as I pull my own head free.

Neither of us say anything as the silence envelops us for a while. He wraps his arms around me and kisses the side of my forehead.

"One of my favorite places in all Australia," he finally says in a mere whisper.

"You used to come here a lot?" I ask.

"Yes and no," he says, turning me to face him. He has a mysterious smile and traces his finger down my nose. "Only on special occasions."

I think I know what he means by that. My eyes glance around, however, but I see no shelter, no table, no benches. We have brought nothing with us.

There is only the motorcycle.

"I see the wheels moving in there," he says as he kisses me between my eyebrows. "I think you're thinking what I'm thinking."

"But where?" I respond.

To answer, he merely pats his hand on the wide motorcycle seat. My expression must be somewhat dubious, because he then adds, "don't worry, I know what I'm doing."

He does not add "I've done it right here before" but the inference is obvious. I think for a moment about how many women there may have been, here on this bike beside this lake. It does not disturb me. In fact, it excites me -- they had him but lost him, and now he's all mine.

He pulls me a little closer to him while tilting my face so he can kiss me. His hands slide inside my jacket and gently massage my breasts. I have more questions about how this will happen, but I forgo them -- he will instruct me as need be. As he continues kissing me, with his tongue sliding between my lips to find mine, I feel his hands begin to roll up my tanktop beneath my jacket. He stops a moment to finish his task, then his mouth finds my nipple, and he sucks gently.

He straightens again and kisses me, then lifts me slightly in the air to sit me sidesaddle on the motorcycle. While locking his eyes on mine, his face expanding in a smile, his finger finds my waistband and opens the snap. He slides the zipper down and eases his hand inside my jeans and panties. His smile widens as his middle finger encounters my labia to discover my wetness.

"That's my girl," he whispers and leans into kiss me again while ever-so-slowly working his finger in my pussy. My back arches involuntarily, and I feel my exposed skin erupt into gooseflesh. After working his finger all the way in, he pulls it out slowly and, for a moment, I don't know where it's gone. But then, while still kissing me, he eases his finger between our lips so we can share the taste of my cunt. I hear a "mmm" sound from deep in his throat.

He slowly pulls away, smiling once more, then looks down at my open pants. "Better get these off now," he says as he helps me to my feet. He slides my jeans and panties below my knees, then hoists me back on the saddle. He pulls off my shoes and removes my panties and jeans the rest of the way. I notice as he moves the thickening bulge straining the tight denim in his crotch.

Now pivoting me on the motorcycle seat so that I sit astride it but face the wrong way, he slides a hand under my back. "Now lean against the petrol tank and spread your arms on the handlebars," he instructs. I do as told and find, surprisingly, it's not uncomfortable. I imagine more experienced bikers already know this.

He thus begins a slow assault on my body, kissing my breasts and sucking my nipples while sliding two fingers into my vagina. As he continues loving my tits, he slowly fucks me with his fingers, always gently, never urgently, twisting slightly one way, then the other. After a few minutes, he begins kissing his way down my torso and then takes my right leg and lifts it over his shoulders. My gash is fully exposed as his mouth finds it, and he begins sucking on my clitoris while continuing the in-and-out motion with his hand.

A soft moan escapes from my lips and, as if in response, his tongue digs harder into my clit. My free hand finds the back of his head, and I knot my fingers in his thick hair to urge him on. The motion of his fingers now becomes more variable as he swirls the tips each time he reaches my G-spot.

This has been happening for only a few minutes, but already I feel the first wave of orgasm. He clearly senses this, as the motion of both his tongue and fingers becomes more intense. As the sensation begins to grip me, he works my clitoris with more force, pulling it into his mouth with his lips.

I rise to the crescendo of pleasure and begin to drift back down again. His sucking and fingering begins to slow, then stops as he moves inside my thighs and faintly kisses the vulnerable skin. An involuntary "oh!" erupts out of me. A moment later, his head moves away, he gently eases back my leg, and he rises to stand beside the motorcycle. I turn my head to see him unbuckle his belt and open the buttons on his fly. He's not wearing any underwear, so as soon as he wiggles the jeans down past his hips, his hard, thick cock bounces free.

He slowly strokes his penis for a moment with his left hand, then reaches out his other hand to mine. He takes my left hand and puts it on his cock, and slowly we both jerk him off together.

"Nice," he says softly with a grin.

As I continue pulling gently on his cock shaft, he raises one leg to pull off his boot then repeats the action with the other. While my hand continues stroking him, he wiggles his hips so his jeans slide down his thighs and then past his knees. Once he's free of those, he moves closer to me, and I jerk him more forcefully while easing my hand further down the shaft so I can caress his balls with one finger. He makes a happy little groan under his breath.

I keep working his penis, focusing now on working the foreskin on and off the head, as he turns slightly and throws his left leg over the motorcycle seat so that he's facing me.

"Now I'm just gonna sort of lean back and then put you on top of me," he says. "Ready?"

I nod and remove my hand from his cock as he lifts me under the buttocks so I'm about a foot in the air. He positions me over his cock and slowly slides me down as I mount him. His thick cock slides easily into my still-wet cunt.

I feel him move his hips slightly under me as he positions himself. "Now just put your arms on my shoulders kitten, and I'll do all the work," he instructs.

I do as told and bury my head into his neck as he begins moving slowly in and out of me. My nostrils are filled with his scent and the smell of his leather jacket. Like a gradually building storm, his thrusts begin to move faster and stronger. Holding tight to his shoulders, I move my mouth up so it meets his, and he kisses me hungrily, then he rests his forehead against mine as his focus turns to his fucking.

He is gentle but insistent today, and I know we will both reach orgasm rather quickly. I can read his body and his movements with such familiarity now, I sometimes know the ending before it actually comes.

Soon he is slamming rapidly into me even though he lifts me up and down repeatedly so that his cock almost slides fully out of me before each thrust. He has so much strength that he can do this effortlessly, and I feel weak just thinking about his power.

Again, the familiar sensation begins to awaken in my loins. I am going to cum. I can tell by a subtle groan from deep in his chest -- which I feel more than I hear -- that he is close, too. That realization throws me toward the edge, and once more a powerful orgasm pursues me.

He obviously reads me so well, too, and knows I am close to cumming. "Fly high baby," he whispers. "Fly high."

As the sensation takes hold of me fully, I am half aware that he suddenly stops thrusting and pulls me down hard on his cock. A soft "ahhh" escapes from his lips, and I feel his warmth spread inside me. His hands jerk slightly on my skin as he thrusts out more of his seed. As he finishes, we both simultaneously hiss "yes" at exactly the same instant. A moment later, I hear him chuckle softly at that.

As we each descend, he embraces me tightly against him while slowly grinding his crotch into mine. I rest my head on his shoulder and look vaguely into the distance to an opening in the trees.

Only then do I see that we have been watched by what appears to be a man in his twenties. As soon as my eyes find him, he seems to realize that he has been discovered.

He turns and disappears into the forest.

great orgasm secret

I was reading a news item the other day that linked the quality and quantity of a woman's orgasms with her gait and style of walking.

In a nutshell, if you walk like you have a stick up your ass, without much movement in your pelvic area, you're much less likely to have quality orgasms. But if you pivot your pelvis and swing your bumper quite a bit, you probably cum fantastically.

I've been told by many men that I have a very sexy walk. On occasion, I've even had perfect strangers behind me call out about how I'm walking (and, yes, some have whistled, too). I've studied a lot of dance and yoga, plus I've danced professionally, so that probably helps. I've always had pretty intense orgasms, so the correlation seems to be true for me at least.

The study, conducted at the University of the West of Scotland, found that the sum of stride length and vertebral rotation was greater for vaginally orgasmic women. "This could reflect the free, unblocked energetic flow from the legs through the pelvis to the spine," according to the scientists conducting the experiment. "Blocked pelvic muscles, which might be associated with psychosexual impairments, could both impair vaginal orgasmic response and gait." They also suggested that vaginally orgasmic women may feel more confident about their sexuality, which might be reflected in their gait. Hence, it becomes a self-perpetuating cycle -- the better you cum, the better you walk, so then you cum even better.

I notice some women walk round-shouldered and sort of scoot along with baby steps. I wonder how their orgasms are? I'd guess not really fantastic. They seem more like little scurrying rodents than confident women.

I'm 5'6", so I'm not particularly tall, but I always stand and walk with my shoulders straight and my chin up. I also don't wear towering high heels, which allows me to take full, long strides, and that in turn makes my pelvis rotate thoroughly. I also learned, long ago, to walk by putting one foot in front of the other as if I'm stepping on a line; I notice some women walk more like men with their legs apart and don't hit that imaginary line.

So, girls, if you're having trouble with the big O, it might not be his fault. Consider how you're walking.

Swing it, baby, swing it. You'll both be happier for it.

happy veterans day

Well, he certainly got my attention. I have no idea who he is, just something I found on the internet, so I don't know if this is an accidental shot or he was mooning somebody.

I know a few guys in the military who are stationed overseas, and I just cannot imagine how difficult that must be to face extreme danger and be so far from friends and family. All those serving our country deserve our greatest respect and thanks, as do all those men and women who have served in the past.

unrequited lesbian love

A close friend from the States I'll call Diana sent me the following email recently:

I miss you so much and I can't stop thinking about you. I think I'm in love with you. I imagine embracing you and touching you, even kissing you like lovers with your tongue in my mouth. I fantasize about lying down next to you and both of us are naked. I masturbate sometimes when I think about you and imagine it's you touching me down there. I read your blog and I imagine I'm in bed with you, not him. I haven't slept with a man since you left Vegas. I haven't even gone out on a date. I wonder if I am really a lesbian.

Wow. How to I answer that?

I decided honesty was best. (I should also add here that Diana gave me permission to excerpt her email and also to write about this in my blog.)

After I read her message several times, I wrote her back and said that I did wonder sometimes if she had a girl-girl attraction to me when we both lived in Vegas. Diana is very petite and drop-dead beautiful, and guys constantly hit on her. But she would often opt to do something with me, or double-date with me, rather than go out with a guy on her own. She seemed to like being around me more than men.

Diana had told me in the past that she was often sexually frustrated with men, that when she slept with most guys, she did not achieve an orgasm. I regularly told her I thought that had something to do with her choice of men. She favors men a little younger than her; she's 25 and often would date college guys who were 18 to 20. While these men were usually very easy on the eyes, I think men that age are often sexually inexperienced and don't really know yet how to please a woman.

In our email exchange, she pointed to her frustration with men as further evidence that she might be a Sappho sister. I reminded her, however, that she did have some very fulfilling sexual adventures with men, including a particularly steamy affair with a hunky pilot who regularly hung up his wings on her bedpost when he was in town. She conceded that point but said, all things considered, she thinks she would rather be with me now than with any male lover.

Does that mean she's a lesbian? Or maybe she just has a crush on me. I think it might be the latter. I asked her if she felt sexually attracted to other women. Could she imagine herself having some hot girl-on-girl sex with, say, Scarlett Johansson? She replied no. That's why I think this might just be a crush. It's about me, not women in general.

That's not to dismiss, however, the pain she's now feeling. I know how wretched an unrequited crush can be. It's all-consuming like mutual love but more agonizing because all you can do is think about the other party, who in turn does not reciprocate your affection and might not even know it exists.

A few years ago, I had a maddening crush on a sweet guy named Mitch, a happily married struggling actor who waited tables at a restaurant where I worked. He was stunningly gorgeous and also worked some as a fitness model. In fact, he was the one who first got me into modeling, and I did my first shoot with him.

For a period of about two months, I thought about Mitch nearly every waking minute. I took any shitty hours at the restaurant just to be on at the same time he was. When he invited me someplace with him and his wife, I willingly went along. I still vividly remember our photo shoot together and how electrified I felt when he touched me in various poses. Oh how to have him touch me like that as my lover!

I fantasized about Mitch seducing me, but I always knew that would be unfulfilled. He was clearly in love with his wife. He used to say things like, "you're the sister I never had," which only made me crazier. I never told him how I felt for fear he would push me away or that would anger his wife. I settled for basking in his shadow.

And then one day, my feelings just sort of evaporated. I still liked being friends with Mitch, but the electricity was no longer there for some reason. It wasn't real love, I realized, but just something of a trial run. The dictionary defines a crush as "an intense but usually short-lived infatuation." I think that's exactly what it was. I still see pictures of Mitch on occasion -- he's gone on to be quite a successful model -- but there's utterly no spark any longer. He's scorching hot and very nice to look at, but I don't feel any pain.

I'm hoping this is the same for Diana. One day she'll wake up and realize I'm just a good friend and she'll move on with things. An expired crush, fortunately, is not like true unrequited love, which can have a long, lingering pain like grief. I'm hoping some hunky guy will come along, maybe a little older than Diana, and completely turn her head.

She's a wonderful, gorgeous girl, and she deserves that sort of special attention.

eros

I love good erotic photography, don't you? It has an honesty you usually don't see in porn, which is often way too objectified.

Both my sweetie and I have done erotic photo shoots, but never together. I want to find a good photographer here in Sydney who can do a fantastic erotic set of us together. Right now, however, there isn't time for that, as James is very busy with his new job. But, hopefully, soon.

Here are some erotic shots I've saved that I found to be compelling for a whole variety of reasons...






(Clicking on any image will bring up a larger version.)

dangerous love

The other night my sweetie and I were watching a murder mystery on DVD. The plot climax revealed that a seemingly normal husband had killed several people in order to prevent his now-frail wife from being exposed and sent to prison for a long-ago crime she had committed. He loved his wife so much, he was willing to do absolutely anything to protect her. And he almost got away with it, except for one small bit of nearly overlooked evidence the intrepid hero discovered, as always is the case with murder stories.

As the credits were playing and I was cuddling on the sofa with James, I asked, "would you do that? Would you commit a crime to keep me from being locked away?"

"Absolutely," he answered without hesitation. "In a heartbeat."

"Because you didn't want me to endure prison or because you didn't want us to be separated?" I inquired.

"Both reasons," he responded quickly while embracing me closer and nuzzling my neck. "I would do anything to protect you."

He didn't ask the same question of me, but I started to think about what I would do if I learned my sweetie had committed a crime and the police were on to him. I certainly could empathize with the man who killed to protect his wife. When you're crazy in love, you do crazy things sometimes. You love someone so much that clouds your judgment. Love is like an addiction.

Would I lie to the police for him if confronted with such a situation? Probably. Would I destroy evidence to protect him? I think so. Would I commit a serious crime if I was convinced that would prevent him from being caught? Um, er, um, I think I might.

But what about murder? Could I go that far?

In all honesty, I don't think so. I love him dearly, but I think killing someone to protect a person you love would sort of eat away at the bond you have. Love has a goodness about it, so if it was corrupted by bloodshed, the purity would be destroyed. Instead of cementing our bond, it would pull us apart.

As I've come to learn, however, the love between two people grows increasingly stronger. Your lover becomes more important than anything else. I have a fear of heights, but I can see myself walking on a narrow ledge fifty stories above the street to save my love. I could see myself dissembling a cop and then escaping on the road with my sweetie to protect. I could see myself robbing a bank if it meant saving him.

Love can be an all-powerful elixir. But anything powerful can also be dangerous if not handled properly.

I think the lesson for me is never to get into any kind of situation where I would have to put love on the line. Easier said than done, of course, and most people never have to make these kinds of choices anyway. But it's the sort of stuff I constantly work over in my mind for whatever reason.

Does thinking this way make me a bad person?