deep dark secret

I have a deep, dark secret that I've managed to keep completely confidential for close to 18 months. It's not a bad secret, actually a very nice one, and has nothing to do with sex or men. It's a G-rated secret.

I've only shared this secret with a very small circle of people, namely my brother, my husband, and one close friend I've known a long time. (Some people, who don't know me personally, do know about the secret because of its nature, but people who know me by name do not know, except the three I mentioned.)

I made this revelation because this is the last day of the year, a time to look back over the year to see what I've accomplished as well as look forward to the next one. I never used to be very goal oriented, but now I find myself becoming more that sort of person. Deep, dark secret was something I set out to do, a rather significant endeavor; one of my goals for 2008 was to make deep, dark secret happen. And it has. That's one of the things that I'm so thankful for in this most remarkable year in my life -- I set my sights on a difficult task and saw it through.

Some things I planned to do, like deep, dark secret. Other things were entirely serendipitous, like falling in love and getting married to the most wonderful man I have ever met. Such is life, a grand adventure full of surprises. I met some wonderful new people this past year and built a foundation for lasting friendships. All in all, 2008 certainly was a "thumbs up" year for me.

I hope all my friends and readers here have a fantastic 2009. Don't be afraid to reach for the stars, because sometimes you'll grab what you've wished for. I used to be something of a pessimist, but now I'm such a sunny optimist most of the time.

(And, yes, I'll reveal deep, dark secret at some point soon. I think some of you might be very surprised.)

his vows

These are the vows my sweetie wrote and read aloud at our wedding:

I stand before you a humbled man
humbled by your love, by your beauty, by your sweetness
you are the one I searched for so long
and then suddenly you were there

that of all the men in the world, you have chosen me
I will honor you always for this commitment of love
I will do whatever I can to make you happy and fulfilled
I welcome you into my heart
where you will always find a comforting home
for you are my one and only, now and forever
my special, my sacred, my beloved
and now my darling wife

my vows

These are the vows I wrote and recited at our wedding:

you came calling when I least expected
you shine warm light into my darkness

you sing sweet melodies in my wilderness
you bring unbounded joy to my heart
you breathe ecstasy into my soul
you teach with your patient strength
you inspire with your great wisdom
you soothe with your sweet smile
you stir passion with your gentle touch
you touch my heaven with all your love
you and I are now we, today, tomorrow, for all time
I love you

cancer scare

As I wrote in this post, my then-boyfriend/now-husband had a minor outpatient surgical procedure recently. What I haven't revealed, until now, is this unexpectedly came with a cancer scare. James was supposed to have benign somethings removed that shouldn't be there, but in the process the surgeon found a small additional growth which had not been revealed during earlier examinations. This worried her because it was formed and colored just like a malignant tumor.

When we asked what she thought the chances were it was cancerous, she said she wanted to prepare us for the worst. Based on her experience, three out of four tumors of these sort she had seen were cancerous.

While that sent me into a barely controlled panic, the ever-brave stoic James took the news very calmly. As I've said before in this blog, I've had a nagging fear in the back of my mind on occasion that "another shoe" would drop sometime like a grim second act on our whirlwind romance.

Suddenly this had manifested itself as a much darker fear, much more fatalistic. I envisioned our relationship would end young and tragic as in A Farewell to Arms. We would be only together a few months before I was nursing him on his deathbed. Okay, maybe I am a drama queen, but there are times of self-doubt and low self-esteem where I still torment myself about whether I deserve him. This scare sent all sorts of dark scenarios scampering around in my brain.

So I endured a certain degree of hell for the next six days. Every time my sweetie's mobile rang my heart began to race. Late one evening, shortly before Christmas, his doctor called. James was in the bathroom when the phone rang, so I answered.

"I'm calling with the best possible news," she said. She went on to say the biopsy and recheck had come back 100 percent negative as did all his blood markers. After she hung up, I barged into the bathroom, told him everything was okay, and burst into tears. As I wrote in messages to some friends, I cried for like ten minutes after the doctor called, the most I think I've ever cried in my life since I wore diapers.

Not too long ago, I lost a grandfather very suddenly to a rare form of cancer as well as a brilliant cousin not much older than me now to brain cancer. It's a terrible scourge that inflicts pain and grief and misery on nearly every family, rich or poor, of every race and ethnicity. That's why early cancer testing and sufficient research funding is so critical, both of which now are still sorely insufficient.

No one should have to endure pain when it could be avoided. Thankful, our short-lived scare had a happy ending, but for so many others, the opposite is true.

he confesses about dingo girl

My sweetie is normally pretty quiet and laconic, the perfect complement to chattery, bubbly me. Not that he's moody or broody, but he does tend to be on the serious side. Since we've gotten married, however, he's constantly smiling, and I've heard him humming on more than one occasion.

Now I do expect much of this has to do with new husband happiness. There have also been two interesting developments in our life in the past ten days or so that I'll detail in forthcoming posts here; these have had us both very up in addition to getting married.

This morning in the kitchen I caught him just staring at me and beaming, so I mentioned I found his buoyant mood to be incredibly cute. Of course as a new bride I imagine I find him nauseatingly adorable most of the time so I'll spare my readers too much froth.

"I worried you would slip away," he confessed, his face growing serious. "I worried I would lose you."

"What, you didn't think I wanted to marry you, that I would just take off?" I asked.

He said, yes, he had seen it happen to some of his "mates," that they find one who seems like the perfect girl, but then she gets spooked when things grow too close and just slips away. "She's like a wild dingo," he continued. "She'll get a little bit tame, bond with you a little bit, but then when you try to take her in, she just disappears."

I should probably digress to say that dingoes here in parts of Australia are much like coyotes in the Western United States. They're wild canines that live on the periphery of human habitation that will bond with you slightly but only on their terms. Although common in some parts of the continent, they're not widely seen in metro Sydney except in the area where we live. We have a few regulars that hang near the house here, waiting patiently at a distance for handouts we leave for them. If you try to get too close to them, however, they just vanish into the dusk.

I asked James if he really thought that, because he seemed so laid back about my cold feet before we were married. He confessed he thought it about one-third likely I would split and two-thirds likely I would stay. That's why he was so careful never to apply any pressure. I had also told him before about how I had pretty much bolted on a few boyfriends, including Ivan, with no notice.

So he had pegged me as a probable dingo girl, as his friends call the type. He also remarked about how intrigued I was by both coyotes in Nevada and dingoes here in Australia. When I lived in Vegas, I used to drive out sometimes with him to the desert where I'd howl with the wild packs. Here, I'm always looking out the windows to see if our locals crew is snooting around.

"That spooked me more than anything," he confided. "You see something of yourself in them."

I imagine he's right. His confession touches me so much because he seemed so infinitely patient with me, never rushing me, all the while hiding his anxiety so he would not appear selfish.

What makes his analogy all the more intriguing is that I've told my sweetie a number of times that he reminds me of a rottweiler. He's sometimes overly serious and concerned, powerful and protective, thick in the shoulders and neck with big, soulful brown eyes -- just like a rottweiler.

The curious thing about dingoes is that, unlike coyotes, they sometimes befriend domesticated dogs and will interbreed. One of our neighbors has a big lovable golden retriever mix that pals around in the scrub with a lone dingo.

And now James the rottweiler has captured the heart of dingo girl.

the big day

I wrote yesterday that I had decided quite a while ago that I would tell James on Christmas that I wished to get married that day. I wanted to select a date tied to a holiday so, in future years, as the season rolled around, the anniversary would be extra special. I had thought about various holidays -- New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day -- but I always came back to Christmas.

As I detailed in this post, Australia requires a thirty-day waiting period to marry except in extraordinary circumstances. I picked a date in advance without telling anyone so, if I decided when the day approached I wasn't quite ready, no one would know. I didn't like the idea of being pressured into an arbitrary date. I've seen too many frazzled nerves and misgivings on the eve of a long-planned wedding. I slightly know someone, for example, who's already planning a 2011 wedding.

When I decided on Christmas Day, I suspected it wouldn't be easy finding what's called a "celebrant" here in Australia to marry us. They're easy to find at city halls and courts, but as I rightly suspected all of those would be closed on Christmas. Clergy, of course, will marry you on any day, but they tend to be busy on Christmas and, since neither James nor I are regular churchgoers, I imagined it would not be easy to find a minister willing to marry two non-members in a non-religious ceremony on a major holiday.

So hopefully this won't sound anti-Semitic, but I got a list of licensed celebrants and started looking for names that "sounded" Jewish: Feinstein, Weinstein, Steinberg, you get the idea. I knew that some Jews do celebrate Christmas but others do not, so I started calling names on the list. I chose women because I thought they'd less likely be rabbis, and I was correct. I hit gold -- or should I say Goldberg -- on the fourth call. I explained my whole plan, and she readily agreed.

I called her two more times thereafter to re-confirm the date. By the time Christmas Eve arrived, I was getting sort of nervous and excited. James said I seemed restless, but I dismissed that as being anxious about some non-wedding related things happening right now in our lives. I was tempted to just come out and tell him, but I wanted "the announcement" to be a Christmas present for my sweetie.

James and I had planned to spend Christmas afternoon with his brother and family, so that left the entire morning open for getting married. We awoke at our usual time, breakfasted, and exchanged Christmas gifts. Then we set off for the health club so he could check on things; the place is open every day of the year, so he always stops by to give things the once-over if he's not working that day.

When we were in his office at the club, as we were readying to leave, he asked what I wanted to do before we went over to his brother's. He suggested we might catch a movie.

I replied something like, "well, I actually have another Christmas present for you."

"We agreed only one gift each kitten," he responded.

"I know, but this is sort of a special once-in-a-lifetime bonus," I answered. "Remember when I said one day I'd say this is the morning we're getting married?"

"Of course I do," he answered with a smile.

And then the most delightful look crossed his face. His huge soulful eyes grew even bigger as his mouth opened in wondrous amazement. "Do you mean?" he said softly.

"Today is that day," I said. "The celebrant is expecting us anytime before one."

He stared at me for a few seconds, folded me in his big arms and held me close for a long moment, then he kissed me slowly and gently. He let go and looked me in the eye.

"You just made me the happiest man in the world," he whispered. "But there's something I have to ask you first."

He started taking off his belt. I must have had a dumbfounded look on my face because he laughed out loud. "You'll see," he said. It turned out his favorite belt, which he always wears, is actually one of those travelers models with a little zipped compartment for keys and currency.

Inside was an engagement ring.

He went into the classic down-on-one-knee proposal pose, took my hand, and asked if I would marry him. I answered that I absolutely, positively would. He slipped the ring on my finger, which fit perfectly, then stood and kissed me again.

As he later explained, some weeks before, without me knowing it, he had borrowed a costume jewelry ring of mine and taken it to a jeweler to determine my size so he could buy me a ring in advance of my announcement. While I was scheming, he was scheming too -- he had told me he had to visit some RAN office on a restricted base to straighten out a pension problem when, in fact, he was going to the jeweler.

We called the celebrant to tell her we were on our way. Both of us were dressed casually in T-shirts and jeans, but we had both agreed long ago that we would make the ceremony as simpple and informal as possible, so we never even discussed going home to change into something dressier. The drive over took about fifteen minutes, and neither James nor I said much on the way. He just kept squeezing my hand and smiling. He found her address easily and turned off the ignition.

James asked something like, "so how exactly does this happen?"

I told him it would be very simple and should take no more than about two minutes. She would read a set of standard "do you take this" questions to all of which, hopefully, we would both answer in the affirmative.

"So no reading of vows to each other or anything like that?" he inquired.

Now I had written out vows in advance to read to him and had them in my purse, but on the way over I thought that was unfair for me to be so prepared while sweetie wouldn't be. I explained this to him.

James then said he had already written out vows and had them with him in the event they were needed. He opened his wallet and pulled out a neatly printed card. I was not entirely surprised, because he is always very organized and prepared. So we decided to add the vows after the celebrant read the opening statement and before the final interrogatory vows. I told him I had two inexpensive wedding rings with me, but his would probably have to be resized later because I had only guessed as to what would fit. Mr. Prepared also revealed he had a wedding ring for me, so of course we would use that instead.

We were quickly ushered inside the house by the celebrant's lovely daughter while her mother was on the phone. After she was finished, the celebrant introduced herself, shook our hands, and said there was a small hitch, that her son was supposed to be home and would have served as the necessary second witness, but he had been held up so a neighbor's son was coming over in a few minutes to stand in for him. While we waited for him to arrive, James and I reviewed with her how things would go down. The doorbell rang a moment later, and the neighbor was ushered inside.

Everything really seemed to be happening quickly then, and I had a sense of giddy hyperactivity I'm sure many brides experience on their wedding days. The celebrant read the opening statement, James said his lovely vows (which he had almost entirely memorized), and then I read mine, albeit a little shakily. I will publish them both here in the near future. We answered the requisite questions as we exchanged rings, and she declared us husband and wife. You can see my matching engagement ring and wedding band in the photo below, which James has had tucked in his belt for weeks; we must've had about the shortest period between engagement and marriage as is humanly possible.

And then it was done. James and I kissed. The daughter and the neighbor (both of whom I'll also write about at a future date) applauded, and the celebrant took us into the kitchen for coffee and light refreshments. We left a few minutes later, drove over to see his family, and broke the news. They, of course, couldn't be happier although some expressed amazement that the once-wild James had finally settled down and gotten himself married.

it's all over

Well, suddenly and without warning, it's all over.

I no longer have a boyfriend.

I no longer have a fiance.

As of ten o'clock this morning Sydney time, I have a husband.

This was the day I had long planned to get married, but I managed to keep it entirely a secret. Only the officiator knew. I caught darling James by surprise, because while he expected the morning was coming soon when I told him this was the day we were getting married, he didn't think it would be today. I'll write more here later this week with further details because there were some pleasant surprises. Right now, I am exhausted!

Merry Christmas to all of my friends and readers. May you have a Happy New Year filled with much love and great joy and countless blessings.

christmas in sydney

I grew up in the Midwest, where Christmases were almost always white. "Dashing through the snow" and "let it snow, let it snow" had context. My brother sent me an email the other day detailing how they had to climb out a window because snowdrifts had blocked the storm doors.

When I lived in Los Angeles and later Las Vegas, I always found the holidays to be somewhat absurd because it just wasn't Christmas with out cold and snow. A ridiculously cheery Rosemary Clooney insisting over a loudspeaker that we could call a snowman Parson Brown, while everyone around me wore shorts and tanktops, had an element of surreality. There is a sort of desperate pretense in the Sun Belt where fake snow and decorative plastic sleds are meant to be taken seriously notwithstanding the blazing hot sun and balmy breezes. If you don't, you're a Scrooge.

Australians pretty much seem to ignore such nonsense. Christmas is a summer holiday here and always has been. I've seen very little fake snow, fake icicles, or fake arctic gimcrack. You have a barbecue on Christmas with friends and family, maybe go for a swim, and celebrate that you're not in some miserably cold corner of the world. It's warm and sunny so why should anyone pretend it isn't behind a barricade of polystyrene snowdrifts and plastic reindeer? The only wintry Christmas decorations I've noticed here are on expatriate American and Brits' houses.

There's also a refreshing lack of commercial Christmas hype here. The whole American retail economy slides over a cliff if people don't shop themselves into exhaustion buying tacky junk no one really needs. The Australians seem much more subdued. No one is nattering away about how behind they are on their shopping. You buy a few gifts and that's it, end of discussion.

There are times I've been here when I have missed being back in the States. I felt that way around the election. But I'm not feeling that way now.

why marriage?

I want to thank those who left comments and sent emails about my cold feet post. Thinking about those messages has pretty much cured me of those frosty toes!

I used to be one of those people who thought "marriage is just a formality" and that you really don't need a certificate from city hall to tell someone you love him. But my thinking has changed on this point. That's not to say those people who believe in the Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell approach are wrong. You do what you're comfortable doing. You do what feels right to you.

For me, however, the idea of marriage has become very important. To take that step, to say "I do," means I will forsake all men for him, now and forevere. It means I want him to be a part of my life evermore, that I want to cleave him to me with an inseparable, unbreakable bond. It is a commitment I have never made before and will never make again. He is my only one now and always.

I feel right now as if we're in something of a limbo, just treading water in a vague otherland between being lovers and something more. So why not just move the piece on the gameboard to finalize completely our relationship? We will become more than a couple; two will become one for all time.

I once never thought I could love a man like this. I am so happy to realize I was wrong.

sex strike settled

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true love is like a kidney stone

A bizarre thought struck me the other day -- true love is like a kidney stone. (I had one when I was nineteen, a good thirty years before most people do, so I'm writing from experience here.)

Here's why I made this strange comparison:

You really have no idea what it's like until you experience it. You have a very vague sense of what it might be on an intellectual level, if it ever happens, because of maybe something you read. And you know you can't predict when or if it will strike, so you don't think about it too much. Maybe someday, you imagine, when you're older.

But then when it happens, you'll know instantly this is it. It will be one of those "that was then, this is now" moments. A boundary in your life you cannot traverse voluntarily.

And, yes, it can be very painful. I love him so much, even when he's with me, it can still be agonizing. Just when I think I may catch my breath, he overwhelms me with his presence and intensity and passion. I'm left gasping and dizzy.

I wonder if childbirth is like this. A heart-attack. Or death.

quiet days

Thanks to everyone who emailed or commented to ask about my sweetie. He's doing great now. He had a minor but uncomfortable outpatient surgical procedure on Wednesday and, per doctor's orders, has been taking it easy since then. I have to confess I've been surprised he's not gotten cabin fever from just lying around the house.

These past few lazy days, however, have been some of the best yet that we've spent together. We've read some to each other, sang a little, played a lot of cards, watched a few DVDs, and had some long, wonderful conversations. James would best be described as laconic whereas I'm loquacious. So I always have to remind myself to talk less and hear more when we're together, or it'll just be me chattering away while he listens with a sweet smile on his face.

He can, however, be drawn out in quiet conversation, and I love when he's that way. He told me some more fascinating stories about when he was in the Royal Australian Navy. He has such a succinct, vivid power of recollection. I've told him I think he'd make a fantastic writer if he would commit some of his ideas to paper, but he says he freezes up whenever he tries to do that. He is, I've realized, a man of action, not words.

We are -- as I'm sure some of you will ask -- still on our sexy-time hiatus. It's still too painful for him right now. We've been cuddling quite a lot but, fortunately, because he has such good self-control, he can keep himself from getting too excited. I can't say the same about me. It's all I can do sometimes to keep from ravaging him. I went into the bedroom the other day to rouse him from his nap for some lunch, and he was sprawled on the bed in just his underwear in the same pose as the guy below. I just about went berserk.

why some guys score & others don't

A recent email from another blogger got me to thinking about what went through my mind when I first enountered a guy. What was it about him that made me want to go home with him...or not?

Ultimately I think it boiled down to this:

confidence 
+ attention
+ animal attraction 
+ vulnerability 
- desperation 
= chance of success.

Let's boil down each variable in this equation:

Confidence -- I know speaking for both myself and other women with whom I've discussed this issue, the degree of self-confidence a man projects is very important. If a guy seems cool, at ease, comfortable in his own skin, that's really sexy. Watch George Clooney in a candid interview. The boy just oozes self-confidence. Don't, however, confuse self-confidence with cockiness. Men who are strident and arrogant are not sexy. I've encountered guys who dish out that "I'm the one you were looking for so let's go now" crap. That's not self-confidence. That's self-obsession. Big turnoff.

I think it almost goes without saying that you can't learn self-confidence. It's just something that comes with being happy with your place in life and your own successes. You can achieve self-confidence if you meet your goals and have a well-balanced life. But this isn't something you can force on yourself.

Attention -- This is all about paying attention to me, not you. When you make me feel like I'm the best thing you've experienced all week, without coming out and saying that, I'll probably respond. This has to be done artfully, however. If you pour it on too strong and it rings false, I'll know it right away. Some guys are like little horny poodles; they're practically humping my leg. That's just such a turn-off.

Lines like "I hope you know CPR because you just took my breath away" or "you're so hot you must be the one causing global warming" are just laughable. Attention is showing that he can figure out something about me, that he can pick up subtle signals and understand a little of what makes me tick. He gets me in a glance, even if that's only a partial picture, and responds accordingly. That attention seems fine-tuned and specific to me. I'm the one he's been looking for, not anyone else.

Animal attraction -- This is one of those things, unfortunately, that's entirely unpredictable. Yes, if you're in decent physical shape and well groomed, that helps. But you just can't splash on animal attraction. Humans are like many pack animal species -- there are a few alphas but most are not. Members of the opposite sex naturally gravitate toward the alphas.

How can you tell if you're an alpha male? If you have to ask that question, the answer is probably that you're not. Now that doesn't mean non-alphas should throw in the proverbial towel. After the alphas cull the herd, there are still plenty to go around. Yes, it's not fair that some guys have an edge, but then who ever said life was fair?

I will say that men who are both very confident and attentive in the right way seem to have a lot more animal attraction. Maybe that alpha nature gives them the inherent confidence and focus.

Vulnerability -- or what sometimes is called the "wounded bird syndrome." A man who exudes a certain vulnerability or a hint of painful damage brings out the protective instinct in some women, and I know that's certainly true about me. If he's just too fucking happy or chipper, if it never seems he's had some hardship in his life, then that's just not as appealing. If he's smiling but the eyes show a little pain, I want him more. I want to take him home to bed and make it all better for him.

Consider, for example, Jason Statham. The man, for some reason, seems to have such a sexy vulnerability about him. Yes, he laughs and smiles, but when he doesn't, there's something more happening there. He lets down his guard a little and you can see the tender, wounded soul beneath.

Desperation -- This is the deal killer. It also tends to exist in inverse proportion to a guy's self-confidence. The less confident he is, the more desperate he is to land you, and it shows painfully. This is much different, take note, than vulnerability.

A desperate guy doesn't want to take you home; he wants to take any girl home, and this urge is obvious. You get an immediate sense he'd settle for just about anyone. He needs to get laid. He hasn't been laid in a while. And he wears that desperation like an ill-fitting suit.

I once remember a piece of advice from someone I really respect: you will get what you need from other people if it doesn't seem like you need it at all. So if you can rise above desperation, you'll go a long way.

Now I realize my analysis here might seem ridiculously simplistic and formulaic to some. And it's not like I tallied up this equation for a guy upon first encounter. There was no "let's see, he seems 67 percent self-confident but 38 percent desperate and 12 percent vulnerable." I just know that these factors made the difference in some respect between success and failure for guys who wanted a piece of me.

I think back to the first time I met James, and he hit every one of these points more than any man I've encountered: he's very self-confident, he's effortlessly attentive, he exudes animal attraction, he has something of the wounded-bird syndrome, but he doesn't have a shred of desperation about him.

I just could not say "no" when the subject was broached. Because I had already made up my mind long before it came to that.

half-nekkid thursday knickers check

Often when I'm wearing sweatpants or shorts, my sweetie will suddenly yank the waistband with his fingers and look down inside while pronouncing in an authoritarian voice, "official knickers check miss." If he has his camera and I'm not paying attention, he'll often conduct a surprise OKC and record the evidence.

Sometimes I fool him, however, and don't wear any knickers at all.

He's doing much better day but still is in some visible pain. He conducted a sudden OKC when he came into the kitchen this morning so I know he's on the road to recovery. No sexy time yet, though. We're trying to follow doctor's orders.

playing nursemaid

My sweetie had a minor outpatient surgical procedure this morning so I'll be playing nursemaid for a while. He's supposed to rest quietly for the next three days. I'll believe that when I see it.

He is, not surprising to me, being very macho about the whole thing. I've only seen a little wincing when he moves, but he has spent most of the day lounging on the couch. After we got home, he watched a little TV, napped, and I read to him for a while. I can tell he's in some discomfort because he's not moving around much nor eating anything substantial. He's not normally restless, but he's certainly not sedate either.

The doctor gave him some pain medication, but of course James would have none of that because he's Mr. Tough Guy. He did finally take a little Panadol after supper, which is what they call Tylenol here, and is sleeping quietly now.

As we were getting ready to leave the outpatient facility today, the doctor said to refrain from sexual activity for a week and not to do any strenuous exercise for six weeks. As she turned away, the still-groggy James shot me a look which seemed to suggest he wouldn't necessarily be following doctor's orders.

Several weeks ago I had a pretty serious ear infection so I was too zonked from the medication to want any sex for two days. I do know, however, as I was recovering my libido seemed to suddenly reawaken without warning, and I was outrageously horny all of a sudden. Knowing James as I do, I wouldn't be surprised if the same thing happened to him. So I'll be ready and waiting.
Somebody should tell this poor thing if she holds the stethescope there, she's not likely to hear anything at all. I wonder how the ditzy nurse stereotype originated, considering I've never met a RN who wasn't very intelligent.

I just don't get bukkake

I have never understood why anyone would think bukkake was erotic. (For those not in the know, bukkake is a practice, seen almost entirely in porn, where many men ejaculate on a woman, often on her face.)

The whole phenomenon of bukkake in adult films emerged as a way to skirt Japanese censorship laws because actual penetration could not be shown, so a sub-industry evolved where a passive, expressionless woman sat as the camera whirred and scores of men turned her face into the cinematic equivalent of a glazed doughnut.

Porn sometimes involves a certain amount of female degradation. That sets certain feminists on edge, but others say it's a harmless and perhaps necessary outlet for men. Bukkake is obviously appealing to those intrigued by degradation; it's an extension of the standard cum shot, where the male actor blasts a load on his compliant costar.

For me, however, bukkake is just so ridiculously unrealistic that I can't see how it would excite a guy. Who besides a porn actress getting paid would be interested in a massive sperm dump on her face? I've never heard a woman say she wanted to experience bukkake. So how can you get turned on by something that almost never happens in the real world?

I'm not saying bukkake should be banned. If people are willing to do it on camera, and other people are interested in paying for it, then that's their business. They should be free to pursue their kink as long as no one is harmed and no children or animals are exploited.

It's just that it seems so abjectly silly and about as erotic to me as watching two people go at it while wearing chicken suits.

Perhaps some of my male readers who like bukkake will explain why in the comment section.

foot fetish

I rarely keep in any kind of touch with guys after I've dated them. A guy I'll call Ed is one of the rare exceptions whom I dated and still email regularly.

I knew Ed when I lived in LA. He's quite a successful screenwriter, and we dated sporadically over the course of several months. He fit the bill for some of my important litmus tests: older (check), funny (check), handsome (check), muscular (check), sexually uninhibited (check), brilliant (check). Like many people who work in the entertainment business, he was well paid -- an old joke in Hollywood is that nobody makes a decent living there, so you either earn nothing or a ridiculous amount.

Ed also had a foot fetish. Big time. Huge time.

Ed loved to look at my feet, to touch my feet, to lick my feet. He adored giving me lengthy foot massages. He loved when I rubbed the bottom of my feet on his hard cock and when I caressed his balls with the top of my feet. His absolutely favorite thing was cumming on my feet exactly like what you see in the photo below (although that's not me nor him, or at least I don't think it's him, but he was thick and uncut).

He was a skilled lover and a good pussy eater, but he spent too much bedroom time on my feet so my other parts often felt neglected. He knew he did this, apologized profusely for it, and would promise to attend to me after, say, he just sucked my toes for a few more minutes, which would end up being a half hour.

Outside of the bedroom, I had a great time with Ed because he was witty and funny and had a very twisted view of the world. I met some famous people through him. He didn't care, either, that I stepped out with other guys. He freely admitted it was hard to find a woman who would indulge his raging foot fetish, so when he found one, he spoiled her rotten and overlooked almost anything.

One thing that Ed loved to do was take me shopping for shoes, which he happily bought. He wasn't into weird shoes with nine-inch heels or lucite platforms. He liked classically styled high-heels, which was fine with me. He bought me nearly a dozen pairs of Manolo Blahniks, and I still have all of them. If you know how much Blahniks cost, you'll know why I brought them with me to Australia.

With time, however, I realized the more I indulged Ed, the kinkier he got. He no longer wanted to cum in me but on me. Finally, I said that I felt that we should stop seeing each other or at least having sex because, frankly, I was not being satisfied at akk. He was crushed but, because he was such a nice guy, he was understanding. He'd say things like "I know I'm sick about feet, and I'm sorry."

Kinks are a problem when they completely dominate someone's sex life. I've told Ed that quite a number of times. He knows it but doesn't want to give up his foot fetish. He's so sweet that he still bought me shoes after I stopped sleeping with him as long as I let him take pictures of them. I said thanks but no thanks. On Ed's hard drive, he has something like 10,000 pictures of girls and their shoes, all carefully cataloged and cross-referenced.

I don't mind when a guy has a little kink, as long as it doesn't get too in the way of the sex. My sweetie has a little thing for boots and loves it when I sometimes wear a pair when we go at it. But that's only an occasional thing. He doesn't beg me to wear them or make them any part of our sexplay. He just likes to see me wearing a pair from time to time, although it's getting too warm here now for that.

I still hear regularly from Ed, and he's one of my friends who I've told about my blog. He wrote me recently that he had a pitch meeting at a studio and became so obsessed with the executive's feet that he completely forgot the story he was trying to sell, only Ed told the story ten times better in his professional comedy writer way. He nonetheless sold the pitch and also asked her out to boot. She said yes and has since admitted she has a huge weakness for Manolo Blahniks. I can just imagine Ed's handsome face lighting up when he heard that.

Somewhere in Beverly Hills a shoe salesman in smiling.

and now for something completely gratuitous

cold feet

I am nearly 100 percent certain I will marry James. I say that without equivocation.

And several times a day, I get cold feet. The thought of marriage suddenly sends me into a paroxysm of uncertainty. I worry I'm getting married too soon, I'm rushing into something. I've known my sweetie less than four months. People usually wait a year or two to get married. Am I out of my mind?

Because we have a no-secrets pact, I have told James this, although I don't bother telling him every time I'm gripped by anxiety. He is not offended or hurt when I admit this. He says he understands my equivocation. He, however, has no trepidation. He is ready at a moment's notice. He is sure.

Why is this happening? I love this man dearly. I cannot imagine I could ever love anyone like I love him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I am terrified of ever losing him. I cannot even imagine a future without him. If something were to happen to him, I can't imagine not slashing my wrists.

So why the hell are my feet blue and shivering like this? What's wrong with me? Why these retrogressions?

When I've asked married girlfriends about this, I get cozy reassurances like, "you'll get over it -- everybody goes through this." Uh, okay. That helped lots. (Sorry, I know you mean well, but...)

Part of the reason I'm equivocating may be that I've never taken a step this monumentally important. Yes, I've moved in with guys before. I've journeyed from continent to continent and recently from America to Australia. Big changes but not irreversible. But marriage is forever. It's discarding a lifestyle, the single girl, albeit a lot of that was irresponsibly lived in my case. Ahead is marriage and children and responsibility and mortgages and middle age and grandchildren and old age.

Ah, there I'm on to something. Maybe it's about growing older.

Maybe it's about growing up.

Shit. Maybe it's time I have to do some of that.

I have a friend in Los Angeles, a woman I'll call Alexis, who is in her mid-forties, once a dancer, now a restauranteur and playgirl with a new man every season, many of them far younger and every one gorgeous. I once thought of Alexis as something of a mentor and role model. I wanted to be like her when I got older. When you asked Alexis whether she would ever get married, you'd get a wry face and a "you can't possibly be serious, girl."

So getting married is not only about setting a boundary between who I was and who I will become, it means closing certain doors forever to possible futures. That means I can't be like Alexis. So I'm also setting a boundary between who I will be and who I once thought I might be. The future is about limitations.

I don't often feel any age difference with James. He is wiser, more reasoned, much more rational than I am, but those are not necessarily attributes brought only by time. His age, however, gives him a certain perspective and confidence. He was once something like the male equivalent of Alexis, carefree and fun-loving with a long parade of women through his bedroom, but at 38, he's ready to put all that behind him. That's why he knows, without a doubt, he wants to marry me.

That may be the biggest reason I'm feeling these cold feet. I think age brings a certain perspective I do not yet have. He's been to the top of the mountain and has seen what he wanted. I feel like I've yet to finish that trek. At the same time, I certainly don't want to wait until I'm 38 to settle down. I may not have known that last year, but I know that now.

But I'm at this crossroads sooner than I ever thought I might be until very recently.

My sweetie is not pressuring me in any way. He does not bring up the subject unless I do. But yesterday was December 12, the first day we could legally marry (this post explained the importance of that date). So the calendar is staring me in the face. I have tentatively picked a day, but that can be easily changed...or moved up...or abandoned. James does not yet know that day; only I and the possible marriage officiator do

Marriage is a big leap of faith that involves a scary flight of hope and confidence with a dash of dreams. I imagine I'm freaking needlessly. I imagine, not too long in the future, I'll look back on this gibberish and laugh at my anxiety. I'll be the one dishing out those cheery "don't worry, everybody goes through it" bon mots to some other quavering girl in my place.

I showed this entry to James for his opinion and insight, as he does before I post each one. He smiled while reading it, then kissed me on the crown of my head and said, "Don't eat yourself up over this kitten. If and when you're ready, I'm ready. I'll wait as long as you want."

shvitzing about Pieter

A woman I'll call Annette is one of my friends from what I think of as "the yoga mob" -- smart, sexy, single women I met in a great yoga class I took when I lived in Los Angeles. She's originally from New York, in her later 20s, with sultry, dark Sephardic looks. If Sandra Bullock had a prettier younger sister, that would be Annette.

She and I hit it off almost immediately after we met, because she has bawdy, frank attitudes about men and sex that she's always happy to share. I still miss our long lunches.

Annette's nominally Jewish but rarely attends religious services. She is what, in the movie business, is often called a Holiday Jew. She does Rosh Hashanah in respect to her family, and that's about it.

She has this thing about big, strapping, Aryan-looking men and, given she's so svelte and gorgeous, has never been at a loss for quality male attention. She's also attracted to the classic alpha male, the sort of badass guy who has an exotic motorcycle, who drives way too fast, who adeptly handles a gun yet knows exactly the right wine to order with any meal and is a tender and attentive lover who can last for hours. You get the picture.

Annette has been working on assignment in a major European city for the past year. She occasionally emails updates about her life and various adventures with whatever Nordic god she happens to be bedding at the moment.

About a month ago, she met a particularly striking guy I'll call Pieter from a central European country who has some sort of hush-hush government job he can't discuss. He travels quite a bit and has a lot of free time because of his vague work, and they have had many wonderful adventures in their dazzling adopted country. She's shared some details about him -- he has a blackbelt in karate and sleeps with a gun on the nightstand, for example -- and he sounds like he walked out of a spy novel.

She also emailed a picture of her with Pieter, and she was not exaggerating when she said he was breathtaking -- strong jaw, striking blue eyes, light blond hair, powerful physique, the works. Both seem quite smitten with each other, and she had been wondering in emails whether he was "the one," that hypothetical soulmate most girls look for who brings a whole different future into perspective.

The other week, Pieter told her he had to go out of the country for a few days to visit his ailing grandmother in Tel Aviv. Annette wondered what in the world his grandmother was doing in Israel.

"She lives there," he responded.

"Why?" she answered. "She's not Jewish."

"Actually, she is. My mother is Jewish. My father is Roman Catholic."

Now, to me, this makes Pieter the ideal man for her. Although he's actually agnostic, he is technically Jewish (if your mother is a Jew, most Jews will consider you Jewish). Annette is nominally Jewish. So this seems a perfect match for both and would keep their relatives happy.

Annette, however, has a problem. She is one of those Jewish women who aren't attracted to Jewish men. She has spent all of her romantic life refusing to date Jews. His revelation has seriously dampened her feelings for him. Now I can understand a woman not wanting to date gawky Schmul the yeshiva scholar, but Pieter is on the opposite end of that spectrum. She even described him, before she found out about his heritage, as "a poster boy for the Aryan Youth."

I'm not Jewish, but I've known some Jews who can be the most anti-Semitic about the silliest things. A few years back, I briefly dated a Jewish film producer who refused to make any movie with a Judaic theme.

Who cares if Pieter is technically Jewish, particularly considering she's one herself? What does that matter? He's a wonderful guy, an attentive lover, and a hell of a lot of fun. He is her ideal man.

Other friends beside me have told her she's being silly to dump him because of his tenuous connection to a faith she happens to share. "But he's Jewish!" came one lamenting email and all sorts of shvitzing about how that ruins him for her. He's also not circumcised, which she now considers "deceptive."

I emailed her back and told her to snap out of it. I hope she takes my advice. She'd be a fool to let him go.

The picture above is not Pieter but professional baseball player Gabe Kapler, who happens to be Jewish. Any woman who would throw Gabe out of her bed would have to be nuts. But unfortunately ladies, he's happily married. Look at those kissable lips. Oy!

half-nekkid hotel tryst

My sweetie takes a lot of pictures of me, and about 98 of the time it's when we're doing something together in bed. (Hint, we're not playing cards.) Unfortunately, about 99.98 percent of that 98 percent are far too insalubrious for Half-Nekkid Thursday.

We went away for a three-day weekend recently, but it rained much of the time, so that meant Mister Weegee could brush up on his indoor photography skills. If you notice where his hand and knee are and then extrapolate, you might imagine what was happening in the uncropped photo.

Funny I didn't notice when we were in the hotel how the drapes clashed with the bedspread.

what about Marla?

The last several weekends, my sweetie and I have gone dancing at a large nightclub here in Sydney. I was burned out on clubs for a while, given that was my livelihood until recently, but then I was starting to miss just getting out there and letting loose. James is a very good dancer, having once danced in a club himself, so he's always good to go.

Last Saturday we hit our usual place, which was packed to the rafters as is typical. We danced for about an hour until we were both hot and thirsty, then found a table and just people-watched for a while. So as not to lose our spot, we took turns going to the loo.

When I was in the ladies, which was jammed, I had to ask another girl to hand me a tissue from the counter because there were so many people using the mirror. While I was waiting, I heard another girl behind me declaim in an American accent, "you're American too! Where are you from?"

I turned and saw a very pretty dark brunette in her twenties smiling at me. As we struggled out of the loo together, I gave her the thirty-second rundown about having originally been from the Midwest but most recently lived in Las Vegas and came to Sydney with my Australian boyfriend.

"That was him dancing with you?" she asked.

I said it was. At about this point I noticed the girl was either a little drunk or high or both. Her eyes seemed unnaturally bright and a little unfocused, and she seemed a bit unsteady on her feet.

"You are such a hot couple," she said with a giggle. "And you have the most gorgeous skin." I was wearing a little sleeveless black dress, and she ran her hand up my forearm to my shoulder as she said that. We had about reached our table at this point, and I saw James watching the two of us with a curious grin.

"Who's your mate?" he said when we reached the table.

"I'm Marla," she said flirtatiously and did a little sort of coy pose. She looked like she was ready to sit down in my spot next to James, so I beat her to it. She then flopped down beside me and asked, after she was already seated, "can I sit with you?" My sweetie put his arm around me so that there was no question who belonged to whom and told her she was welcome.

Unprompted, Marla then proceeded to give us something of a rambling five-minute version of why she was in Sydney. She was in the process of divorcing her Australian husband and working for an American company with a division down here. She recently broke up with her boyfriend and came to the club with a girlfriend, who had already left with some guy. So she was there alone.

While she was telling this, she sucked down one stinger and ordered another. (Neither my sweetie nor I drink, I should perhaps mention at this juncture.) James asked her how many she had drunk already and she thought about five or six. After she slugged down the next one, she leaned over me and began stroking both my arms and chattering away about how much she loved my skin and wanted to touch me. She then asked if I wanted to dance with her, so I asked James if he would like to see me dancing with Marla. He often answers questions I ask with a grin and lifted eyebrows to signal "yes," and that's just what he did.

Marla and I got up to dance together. Needless to say, she was not a very good dancer, possibly due to the fact that she was now pretty bombed. She sort of flew all over the place at times and then leaned into me in between. I struggled a bit to keep her toward the side of the dance floor closest to James, so I could watch his reaction. He smiled the whole time.

As we made our way back to the table after the second dance, Marla leaned into me and said, "can I kiss you?" Before I could answer, she took hold of my chin and planted a boozy smooch straight on my lips. I guess I recoiled a bit because she said "I'm sorry" and drew me into a clumsy embrace. James was watching all this with a knowing grin.

When we reached the table, she dumped herself ungracefully right next to James; he scooted over with her in the little booth so I could sit on the other side of him. Marla had another stinger and proceeded to manhandle the both of us together while chattering away about how hot she thought the both of us were. James just sat there, saying very little and mostly watching me with a knowing smile.

At first, I must admit I was a tiny bit annoyed watching this girl touching my man, but then I started to get really turned on. She was sort of rubbing his abdomen and trying to move her hand down lower, but then he would take hold of her wrist, gently but firmly, and ease her hand back to the table. Each time she tried to do this, he would deflect her, and the fact that he could control her while focusing on me and pretending to be interested in her chatter was beginning to really excite me.

At about this point, James leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I know exactly what you're thinking, kitten. You want to fuck her."

Of course he was right. In light of our recent conversations about a ménage à trois after we're married, I've been scouting for candidates.

"What are you two whispering about?" Marla asked drunkenly.

"Something we're going to do after we're married," James answered.

"You mean you're not doing that already?" she asked incredulously.

"Something else," I answered.

"Sounds naughty," she said with a giggle.

She then asked permission to kiss both of us, and James consented if it was all right with me. I said of course. I was very turned on watching her try to kiss him, because she tried to be assertive, but he was forceful and controlling with her, which seemed to excite her in turn.

After Marla knocked back another stinger, which I think was probably her eleventh, James and I agreed we had to call it a night and offered to give her a ride home. She happily consented but had trouble walking so James had to let her lean on him as we left the club.

A few guys shot my sweetie a "lucky mate" look as they watched the three of us leaving together, with Marla hanging on one side of him and me on the other. The fact that these strangers were thinking the three of us were going somewhere to fuck really aroused me, even though it would not actually be happening that night.

Out in the street, Marla seemed to amp up the helpless act, so James said rather firmly, "behave yourself girl." That excited me all the more to see him controlling with her. She was bringing out the dominant creature in him, but he was stern with her in a way he is not with me. The idea that he could give her a good rough fuck while I watched was exciting me to no end.

James dumped her in the back seat, and I sat up front with him as he drove to her neighborhood. He already knew the way but not her exact street, so when we got close, she tried to find her house but was unsuccessful. James asked for her purse, found her driving permit, and then located her street on a map. We helped her inside -- she truly seemed to be having difficulty walking at this point -- so James just picked her up and carried her upstairs to her bedroom. I told him later that made me a little wet watching him do this.

She was wearing a very pretty dress, so I helped her out of that because she couldn't even reach around to unfasten the back. She seemed oblivious to the fact that I was stripping her down to her bra and panties in front of a man she only barely knew. I was really getting turned on by undressing her as James watched. He looked at me with a knowing grin as if he could read every thought scampering through my mind.

Marla just collapsed into bed and rolled over on her side. I copied her number off the telephone and said we'd call her the next day to see if she was all right. She then murmured something about wanting to see us again, to go out with us again.

"Do you want to do something together?" she asked drunkenly.

"That could be arranged," James replied noncommittally.

After we left the house and got into the car, I asked, "so, what about Marla?"

James admitted that watching her all over me aroused him. He wondered, however, what she would be like sober. He also wondered if she would try to be dominant because she seemed rather assertive, but it was hard to tell if that was really Marla or the alcohol.

I replied that was what made her so interesting to me, because I could imagine her trying to dominate James, but he would then turn it around and control her completely, which would be totally hot. As well, I would not allow her to dominate me, so she would have to submit if she wanted to share our bed.

"That would be very hot, watching you dominate her," James admitted, and just the thought of that excited me to no end.

The next afternoon, I called Marla to see how she was doing. She sounded like shit but was much the same personality, at once chattery and silly and irreverent. She said she wanted to have us over for dinner sometime soon, and I said that would be fun. We tentatively agreed on a date after Christmas.

So how does one broach the big question in a situation like this? Over coffee and desert ask, "Hey, Marla, ever think about a ménage à trois?"

James said with a smile, "Tell her to read your blog. That'll sure break the ice."

why priests should not be celibate

The pictures below are all of real priests. Yes, real priests. I'm not joking. They appear in Calendario Romano (link here) which is sold to raise money for an HIV charity. (Be sure to click the link to see a lot more pictures of the saintly manflesh.)

Okay, I'll admit I had a prejudice. I thought ugly, shy guys became priests, guys who had trouble getting laid so the whole celibate thing was already under control.

I was wrong. I apologize. I seriously think I need to go to confession to atone, and I'm not even Catholic. But not just confess to any priest. One of these priests.

"Bless me father for I have sinned."

"What have you done my child?"

"I have had impure thoughts about a gorgeous, hunky unmarried man and want to ravage him."

"Have you told this gentleman?"

"Er, uh, I'm telling him now."

The one stroking the pussy is my favorite, probably because he looks a lot like James in the face.

what's wrong with cuddling?

I was reading a thread on this forum the other day where a woman wrote something like, "I hate to cuddle. Just fuck me and then leave me alone." And several other women posters agreed with her.

Huh? I just don't get that.

I love to cuddle. Love it, love it, love it. I love cuddling when no sex is involved. I love cuddling before sex with tender stroking that leads to something heavier. I love cuddling during slow sex, where he holds me in his big arms and gently fucks me.

And I absolutely must be cuddled after sex. That's a total deal breaker. If a guy fucked me and then left or rolled over, that was the last time I inhabited a bed with him.

To me, the hottest thing is to have a good prolonged fuck, then afterward he wraps me in his powerful arms, and we fall asleep together. As I sail off to the Land of Nod, he whispers wonderful nothings in my ear and nuzzles my neck while gently kissing me. I love using his chest for a pillow and listening to the steady rhythm of his strong heart as we drift off together.

The famous architect Philip Johnson once wrote, "All architecture is shelter, all great architecture is the design of space that contains, cuddles, exalts, or stimulates the persons in that space."

Perhaps great lovers are the architects of the bedroom.

public service exhibitionists

I love when guys like this cutie put their own amateur pictures on the internet. He has such a sweet smile and sexy body. It looks like this photo might have been taken at Black's Beach, a popular nudist spot in Southern California I frequented on occasion when I lived on the West Coast. Had I seen him there, I'd sure want to join his pickup volleyball game. Or maybe some other kind of game. Exhibitionists like this perform a valuable public service and should be encouraged.

skirting the law

You may have read in the news recently about how the Australian government is set to impose a strict new internet filtering system at the end of the year. (If you haven't, here's a news article here.) While such attempts have failed in the United States, they don't have our sort of First Amendment protections here Down Under, so all legal attempts to stop the filtering have failed to date.

Depending on whom you ask, the filtering will have no impact (so says the government) or completely cripple internet access throughout the country (so says the opponents).

Some say any site where the word "fuck" might be found, or pictures of naked people enjoying themselves with indoor activities, could be blocked, which means every blog on a particular service like Blogger would be off limits. Entire swaths of the cyberworld could be inaccessible, much like happens in China if one site on a host server has "objectionable" content. That means everyone who hosts webpages on something like GoDaddy or Network Solutions, no matter the content, would be off-limits to Aussies.

To compound matters, according to techy types, all of this filtering will slow down internet access to a mere crawl in Oz. Supposedly more than 10,000 domains are on the "block" list, which will require a lot of server time to crunch, hence a whopping electronic traffic jam.

Of course I'm pissed off about this; however, I'm not an Australian citizen. I don't think I have a right to impose American values on someone who isn't American. I'm here as a guest, at least for now, so I don't see myself taking to the street to protest, as is happening increasingly now here. (A very cute scruffy guy nonetheless did try to recruit me the other day for a protest when I was surfing with my laptop at a cafe.) It's their fight to fight, not mine.

At the same time I'm peeved because most of the sites I enjoy would be off limits. As well, I would no longer be able to keep up this blog.

I may not like the law, but I refuse to be silenced. I'm a guest, but not a doormat.

So, of course, the Libertarian in me investigated how to skirt this new law. I asked a techy bodybuilder who's a member at our gym how to do this. I had read about Westerners who used something called a "Freedom Stick" to subvert China's "Great Firewall" when visiting Peking during the Olympics.

Jack the Techy said that would not succeed because the Australian government already has a workaround. He suggested, however, I look into installing a wireless aircard and subscribe to an unfiltered service from New Zealand because the roaming charges are quite low. The downside, he warned, was that aircards are seriously backordered in Ozzieland because of the new law, so getting one installed and up to speed may take months.

Well I'm in luck. Before I left the United States, I had the little gizmo pictured below installed in my laptop in the event I was someplace and had problems accessing the internet, so I'm all ready to go. I signed up for service two weeks ago and got a New Zealand Plus Australia package for a small additional fee without having to leave the country to enroll. I have been assured repeatedly by everyone I spoke with that this will allow me to skirt the new law once it goes into effect. As well, New Zealand has the GSM cellular system, which means you pay as you go and don't face a ripoff monthly fee like in the United States for similar services.

This also means no more slow dialup when we're at home. I've had the new service up and running for about ten days now, and the only glitch is that sometimes there's a little gibb^|7erish in the text. A fast refresh will fix the problem.

So your daily dose of insights into my smutty life and thoughts will continue without interruption.

submissive thoughts

The always-intriguing "Bad Man," who blogs at A Bad Man in a Bad Place, put up the image that appears at the end of this post on his Tumblr recently. He captioned the photo with the comment: I never cease to be amazed at how much I like to do this, nor at how much the women I’ve taken home like to be in this position too.

Is the subtext here that he's also asking the question "why?"

I don't know Bad Man although I've read a fair bit of his very interesting blog (which he's kept for six years, by the way). Based on a few things he's written, he seems to be from a fairly conventional "vanilla" upbringing. He's an unmarried urban professional in his thirties, and his parents are still happily married. The armchair analyst in me is wondering if Bad Man might at times question why he likes to get a little kinky, why he's a sunflower blooming in a field of daisies. Perhaps no one where he's from would ever think of doing the kinds of things he likes.

So is Bad Man wondering why he's a "bad" man?

Without knowing him, I can't solve that part of the riddle nor determine if it's even one at that. He likes it because he likes it, and that's that, in my opinion. The fact that he can live out some of his fantasizes tells me he's both self-confident and communicates well with his lovers, something you can't say for a lot (most?) men. No need to analyze your naval endlessly.

However, I do have some ideas about why the women he takes home like to be in that position.

On the most elemental level, some (many?) women, including yours truly, like eye contact during sexual activity. I want to see his face, his desire, his arousal. It turns me on to see him turned on. If you're in the position illustrated, supine on your back with him kneeling over you while feeding his cock into your mouth, you'll have great eye contact. You'll see him smile, see him take a deep breath, see his eyes roll back a bit as he really gets into it.

On a more selfish level, when you're bound up and helpless like she is in the picture, your man will have to do all the work. Most men can't do that unless they're confident enough with their lovemaking prowess. So a man who wants to do this is probably a man who has better than average bedroom skills. If he asks to do this, then I want to say yes, because I know he's not going to be a passive participant. He's a take-charge kind of guy, and I like that.

As well, just as some (many?) men do, some women like taking risks. If you're willing to let a man handcuff you when you barely know him, that's like driving 125 miles an hour on an empty road in the desert without your headlights. You're submitting to him without knowing much about him. Now I like to put the pedal to the floor, and I even successfully outran a cop once doing that, but I've never risked letting a man I've just met handcuff me. I can understand, however, why some women want to. The very act of going home with a man you only met an hour before and fucking him involves a certain amount of risk, even if the handcuffs never come out of the drawer nor they weren't even in there to start.

On the most primary level, what's happening in this picture is trust. You have to trust a man implicitly before you will let him handcuff you and fuck you. You will relinquish your freedom for a time, but only to a man you trust without question (even if that trust is based entirely on risk). Because men are usually bigger and stronger, they could hurt you badly or even kill you even without restraining you. My sweetie weighs more than twice what I do and is so strong he could easily break my neck with his bare hands. Once I am bound with a soft scarf (which he prefers over handcuffs), I am utterly at his mercy. To me, that is wildly erotic. He is all-powerful but I know, without a shred of doubt, that he would never, ever hurt me.

And, finally, trust is about control. He has you bound and helpless, yet because he can restrain himself, you have, ultimately, controlled him. You are bound, but he is tamed by you. He is the beast, while you are the conquerer. The woman in the photograph is entirely submissive, but he's tender, too -- notice how her arms are relaxed and how he's almost gently feeding his cock into her mouth.

Now I suspect Bad Man knows all this. He comes across as a very smart guy. So he may just be making this comment rhetorically in the sort of "aren't I lucky to be me?" way, and I don't mean that pejoratively. You make your own luck in this life. Unfortunately, a lot of people never realize that.

So I think Bad Man may be a really good man after all.

half-nekkid thursday nude beach

What better place to model for Half-Nekkid Thursday than a nude beach? Australia has scores of them. The water is still rather cold here because the weather is the equivalent of early June in the States. The best way to warm up is run out of the water, immediately wrap yourself in your thick towel, then adjourn into the dunes so your sweetie can do things that will make you hot all over. Works every time.

sexy stubble

I know a lot of women don't like stubble, particularly when a stubbly guy goes down on them, but I'm not one of them.

Stubble is hot. Stubble is sexy. Stubble makes this kitty purr and want to rub up against something.

I think almost any guy -- even a plain, not-much-to-look-at guy -- looks better with a two- or three-day growth. It's not just the look that makes him sexy. It's a statement. He's saying, "I was too busy doing something much more fun in bed to shave this morning, and then I had to bolt out the door because I was late." He's a non-conformist who doesn't quite give a fuck. He's a lover. He takes risks.

Dark-haired men look the best with stubble. But they have to be careful and not let it go too long or they end up with a sort of terrorist/homeless/deranged look. Scruffy is hot but slovenly is not. Write that down.

I love the feel of a man's stubble on my skin. Yes, it tickles, and yes, it sometimes can even hurt a little if he's not careful. I love when a stubbly man nuzzles my neck with his lips and I can feel his scratch. He shouldn't rub like sandpaper, but just the press of his stubbly flesh against mine is such an erotic feel. I love to caress a man's stubbly cheek with both the back and front of my hands. What can I say -- I'm a tactile girl.

I love the feel of a man's stubbly upper lip when he kisses me and our lips end up all over each other. The prickliness is sort of dangerous, suggesting he's something of a beast but being very careful. I love the sense of a man holding himself back, struggling to tame the animal within but just barely.

And as long as he's careful about the delicate skin on my inner thighs, I love it when a stubbly man works my pussy with his lips and tongue. Again, I think it's something about the danger factor -- you know if he's not careful, he could give you a brush burn, but he's controlling himself. He's the gentle savage.

My favorite sensation is when a man is fucking me good and hard face-first while either kissing me or moaning in my ear, and I can feel his stubble on my cheek. Or, if he's doing me doggy and then pulls me up close to him from behind and kisses my neck while pounding into me. Oh my oh my oh my.

I'd say Ireland is the best breeding ground for stubble. Irish men who are dark and stubbly, even if they're homely, still end up looking hot. Irish men are often very playful and laid back, which contributes to their stubblish charm, too.

My sweetie is Australian but 100 percent Irish ethnically, so he has those thick, dark Celtic locks and a heavy beard. He only shaves every second or third day to prevent ingrown hairs, so he's a a regular stubblefest with a great dash of salt-and-pepper. Even on days he shaves, by dinner time, he's already wonderfully stubbly. That means, during bedtime adventures, whether morning or night, I can almost always count on him to be bristly where it counts.

I have no idea who the guy is on the banner at the top of this blog, but I'm sure some of the reason I like the image so much is that I know exactly what that girl is feeling when that stubbly stud nibbles her lip. You just know he's a hot fuck. He's probably been fired from a job or two because he kissed off work to spend the day in bed with a girl.

I Googled "stubble" and picked the guy below at random from some photos at a computer conference. He's losing his hair, which he can't bother to comb, and his glasses are sort of geeky, but the stubble makes him charming and sexy. If I was single and saw this guy on the other side of the room, I would want to meet him so I'd go over and say hello. Because the stubble says he's something of a bad boy. What was he doing the morning of the conference (or the night before) that he couldn't take time to shave? It's not hard to imagine. I hope she had fun, too.

shimmer

I am brushing my hair in the bathroom at the end of the day.

"Kitten, come here a minute, would you?" he calls.

I put down my brush and walk into the adjacent bedroom, where I find him kneeling on the bed wearing only his boxer shorts. He faces a large mirror at the foot of the bed.

"Look," he says, reaching out his hand to me. "Look what I see."

I take his hand. He hoists me onto the bed in one fluid move and into his arms, facing away from him, toward the mirror. He wraps one strong arm around my waist, takes my chin with his other hand, and gently turns my head so I can see our reflection in the mirror.

"Look at that pretty girl," he whispers in my ear. "Isn't she gorgeous? And look at that lucky guy, look how he gets to touch her."

I watch in the mirror as his hand slowly traces down my abdomen, his splayed fingers playing my skin like an instrument.

"She is so hot," he says. "I bet he wants to fuck her right now. I bet he wants to slide his fingers in her pretty little panties and see if her sweet pussy is all wet."

I feel a tingle of anticipation at that, because I know mirror man will touch his lover down there. I watch as his hand inches lower, into her waistband, at the same moment I feel his fingers gliding down my skin. I shiver as they lazily stroke my skin, just above my pudendum, and a ripple of anticipation courses down my body.

I watch in the mirror as his hand moves under the fabric of her panties, holding my breath like this is a movie I am watching as I anticipate what will happen. Quickly, he slips his fingers down further and probes two of them into my cunt.

"Looks like he found something down there," he whispers in my ear as he diddles me for a moment. His hand slides out of her panties and he holds them out for us to see. His fingertips glisten in the bedroom's low light.

"Fuck, that's hot," he whispers in my ear. "She's all ready for him. I wonder what happens next?"

I feel him grinding his pelvis into me as I watch the man in the mirror move behind his lover. I can feel through his boxers that his cock is now hard. He pivots his hips in a circular motion, teasing me with his hardness. The man in the mirror smiles, almost leers, with a sort of animal hunger.

"I think he's going to fuck her right now," he whispers in my ear. "I bet that's going to happen right in front of us. Damn."

I feel one hand move away from my torso as mirror man tugs roughly at his waistband, pulling his boxers down to his knees. I see a long, dark shape move behind the girl in the mirror, and I know it's her lover's hard cock, ready to slide into her.

Then I feel a hard cock grinding into my buttock as he pivots and rubs against me, fucking me by frottage, rutting my skin. I see, in the mirror, the head of his cock appear and disappear as he humps against her.

Finally, I find my voice. "Do you think she'll take off her panties?" I manage.

"I think so," he whispers in response. "I think any second now. I don't think she can wait."

I watch myself in the mirror as I slide my panties down to my knees. In one quick motion, mirror man lifts the woman a few inches off the bed and yanks her panties the rest of the way off her.

I see in the shimmering glass that her pussy is now getting wet, that the labia is outlined with her juices, which now seem to be trickling down one of her legs. I feel the wetness now, too.

"That girl is so pretty, so wet you know he wants to take her right now," he murmurs behind me. "He can't help himself."

I feel him bending me forward slightly as the man in the mirror makes the same motion. I watch as he gently spreads her legs then seems to guide something between them. At that same exact second, I feel his hard cock find my lips and ease inside slowly until he is all the way in my cunt.

"I think he's inside her now," he whispers. "Look at her face. She loves his cock."

Indeed, her face has changed. She has the trace of a smile, but it almost seems like a faint delirium, too, as they begin to move together, coupling in the mirror. I watch in the glass as her lover watches me, our eyes meeting. Ever so subtly, his strokes begin to move a little faster and faster and faster, like he's performing for me, taunting me even.

"Damn, that's so hot," he whispers in my ear as he pulls me against him, my shoulderblades touching the hard muscles of his chest. "That is so fucking hot."

Our eyes are locked on each other in the shimmering silver as he moves quickly now, with gentle force, sliding in and out, in and out, rapidly but not desperately. In the mirror, I see the man smiling, sometimes sweetly, but sometimes with a carnal ferocity as he pounds into his girl. I can understand how he loves this so. I see him fucking her fucking me fucking her.

For her part, she seems to be losing a little focus. She's having a hard time watching with her full attention now, because something is beginning to happen inside her.

"Do you think she's coming already?" he whispers in my ear. "Fuck, that girl is so hot. She must've wanted it so bad."

That voice, his voice, starts to send me over the edge as I watch the lovers fucking before me. I half register that the girl in the mirror begins to open her mouth as if to speak -- or is she moaning? -- while her lover continues slamming into her and kissing her neck. As my orgasm takes full hold of me, I still try to maintain eye contact with her lover in the mirror. He is smiling broadly now, as if he, too, is enjoying the show, is enjoying seeing the pretty girl getting fucked. As my climax subsides, my lover slows his thrusts, allowing me to catch my breath, but he never subsides.

"I think he's just getting started," he whispers in my ear. "I think the show has only just begun. I think he's really going to give her a good hot fuck tonight."

If I could speak, I would tell him that I think he's absolutely right.