Sunday, December 28, 2008

Bang, Bang! BBW Monday Rides Again!


Photo of thisprairielife from nekkidbbw. You can see the rest of her set here if you join the group.


The last time I put out the call for pics of awesome looking fat girls, Thursday's Child said she wasn't sure what I was looking for. It's true, I wasn't terrifically clear on that. So I gave it some thought, what I wanted BBW Monday to look like, and surfed around on the internet a bit. And now I know.

I want it to look like nekkidbbw.

Remember how a long time ago I was surprised to actually find sex (*gasp!*) on LJ? (You can go ahead and make fun of me, it's ok.) Nekkidbbw is another one of those awesome groups. What I wanted was to find well-shot, semi-artsy pics of well-dressed fat girls...that weren't necessarily from a porn site. ('Cuz at that time that's most of what I was finding, fat girls on porn sites.) Nekkidbbw shows all that, and more.

It's just regular girls taking off their clothes and taking pics of themselves, and that's exactly what I find so fascinating about it. Some of the pics are shot with artistic intent, some chicks just want to show off their new tats. The pics are self-portraits taken with blurry cams in the privacy of the bathroom, or in studio lighting with the help of a friend. The size of the girls range from slightly plump to SSBBWS. It's all very raw: you get to see other people's boobs, stretchmarked bellies, or sometimes even full vaginas (once with a tampon string peaking out). And since this is a private LJ group (you have to join to see many of the pictures), it's intimate. We get to see a little slice of these girls' personalities and lives. Of what their bedrooms are like. Of what they look like to their lovers. Of their style in underthings (and really, a lot of these girls have really rockin' underwear.) And at the end all the boys leave comments telling 'em how hot they are. Which, really, is what the world needs more of. :)

So really, I'd just like to steal nekkidbbw's feed and make it my BBW Monday every week. But really, why do that when you can send me your own rockin' pics? Email me at missmollyren@gmail.com, and you could find yourself being next week's pretty BBW!

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Awkward Things

"Aftershave," my housemate says. He's puzzled at the scent because he's the only male in the house, and he doesn't wear any.

"Yep," I deadpan. He can smell it coming from my room because I've just shaved my pussy and I put too much on afterwards to combat razor burn.

* * *

"I see you have tights on today," one of my co-workers comments. "What happened, someone try to look up your skirt?"

"Um," I say, "I always wear tights to work. Only difference is that these are black and the others have been peach."

I still have no idea what inspired her to make this remark.

* * *

Moving in to my new place, a book fell out of one of my boxes and my landlord stooped to pick it up. It was my copy of Marquis de Sade's Philosophy in the Bedroom. Which might have been ok if it was one of the old versions with a bland cover, but recently I had splurged on the new Penguin translation. The cover looks like this:



The inner back flap shows a brilliant red horse's ass.

He looked it, then shoved it back in the box. I kept walking, pretending I hadn't noticed, but wondering what would happen. I was counting in my head: 3, 2, 1...

"Have your ever read the Karma Sutra?" my landlord asked.

Monday, December 8, 2008

Sex Blogging and Getting Older

You ever hear that saying about how young people think they will live forever? That they are invincible?

It's bullshit.

It may just be because I have spent the last 3.5 years hanging out with scruffy philosophy majors for my late night-conversations, but I've never known anyone my age who didn't know that they were getting older and be scared shitless by it. Actually, we all think we'll die at 30.

It's true. For the longest time, I have had the vague, unformed idea in my mind that some form of annihilation would come over me before I reached my 30th year. Or maybe not anything that dramatic, maybe it was something else that felt like dying. It put an edge of desperation into everything I thought, if not everything I did--I wasn't sure what the hell to do half of the time. I never really talked to anyone about it, because a part of me felt it was stupid. Just my own private not-quite quarter-life crisis which could never be resolved.

I don't feel like this any more. But lately I've been talking to the Hipster Feedee (more about him later) and he talks about how he does all he can to "fake it" now. To make it seem like he's 29 or younger. About how he had a star-studded birthday so that if anyone looked him up on the internet they wouldn't see his true age right away. He tells me stories about people who write about music and art getting fired when they reach a certain age and then I get riled up and angry. No one knows why me and my peers have to think like this.

Well, Ok, I, personally, don't know. I just know that up until recently when I contemplated reaching that age my mind would reach such a wall of shining nothingness that I was sure it could only be The End of All Things. Maybe it's because I know deep down that Napoleon and Alexander the Great and Mozart all did their thing by 20 or so.

Really, I was a failure out of the womb.

When I make a little more effort to imagine it, I think we're all more afraid of our sprits dying than our bodies. At 30 we imagine we will all be old and fat* and boring. No more parties. No more drinking. No more late nights at Kino 41st street when some stranger would put their hand in my twat**. At 30 all would magically dissolve and I would be left entirely alone in a dead end job, maybe at Starbucks.

A young gay man I know is also depressed at getting older. According to him, a 30 year old gay man is practically at death's door. A minute after midnight on his last day at 29 he will wither, turn grey, and start looking at twinkies that are hardly in their teens with the sick smile of a pedophile. (Come to think of it, wasn't this whole concept a major plot point in Queer As Folk, how Brian Kinney was terrified of hitting 30?)

However, I now find myself almost unique among my generation in that I am not afraid of getting older. And I owe it all to reading sex blogs.

It's true. All the best sex blogs are written by old people***. According to my favorites--the ones I first found almost a year ago and kept reading up until this very day--us 20 year olds know absolutely nothing about sex. We are just mouthing our "date"'s twat and fumbling at our "boyfriend"'s ball sacks. At 20 and with a fair number of partners behind me, I can still yearn for a golden age of sex--which seems to come around 40 after a divorce****. While the thought might worry some of you, I adore you people. Your exploits put my adolescent groupings to shame and I want to be just like you when I grow up.

And as for the younger bloggers--i.e., those who have actually reached 30 without keeling over at midnight on their last day as 29ers--you're just like me, only cooler. You're still drinking and wenching pretty girls. You're still figuring out who you are and what you want. And you embrace the exploration boldly.

It would seem, then (at least out here on the fringes of sex and gender and tech and god knows what else) that age no longer matters when you fuck. With the knowledge that I will probably still be getting tail--and lots of it--when I reach the tender age of 40, all the other problems of aging seem more manageable.

Botox? AAG don't need no stinkin' Botox.

Really, it's wonderful. I feel like I can breathe. I feel like I can plan ahead, not just for the next ten or so years, but for the next thirty or forty. It's like being released from a beheading, only instead of running out and seeing everything with hyperkinetic joy and thankfulness I can actually slow down a little. Theoretically.

But maybe it's not just us on the insulated fringy-fringes. Maybe it's actually becoming more mainstream. Did you ever hear those stories about people getting it on in nursing homes? One of my fav stories I read in I think Reader's Digest, about two people who met in a nursing home that would stop the elevator between floors just so they could get some necking privacy. I say good for them.

But I still see it in every day conversations: "Old people having sex, ew." And I used to think that. And sometimes I look at old people and still think that. To my eyes, people who have gotten really up there have a strange topography to their bodies. Which, unless I improve my diet, make plans to undergo several cosmetic surgeries in the coming years, and lose all the fat that some of my fans find so attractive, will probably be just like how I look someday. Hell, someday my boobs might be down to my knees.

Thinking of it that way, you can't say "ew" anymore really. Every time you say "ew", you lose a little bit of your future leeway to fuck when you too are old people. When I'm 40 I expect to be at least 1,000 times more horny than I am now and the last thing I need while making out in the park with my silver-haired beau is a bunch of young twits going "Ew, old people making out! How disgusting!"

Cee says when I'm sixty I'm probably going to be an old pervy lady with a boy toy, but we'll ignore that part. Hell, maybe by that age I will have gotten brave enough to finally buy a vibrator.

____________________________________

*not even the sexy fat that happens in Feederism. In 30-year-old life projections that never happens.

**This really happened, folks. If enough people make inquiries I might even trot down memory lane to post about it.

***Dear everyone who finds this through their blog stats that is incensed at the use of the word "old people": By "old", I mean only "older than I am". Which really isn't very, because I am in my very early 20s. I just think it's fun to poke fun at you because I can. ;)

****It's a trend I see! You can't deny it!

Friday, December 5, 2008

Chat of the Week: Cee has an answer for everything

Cee! I moaned over IM one night, I met this new boy and he's too wonderful for me to talk to, what shall I do?

Cee: Stuff him and fuck him and hang him on the wall.

Cee: Then fuck him again.

Me: Of course. Why didn't I think of that?

Keeping Live Journal Sexy

I spiffied up my old Live Journal. Go friend me if you prefer a dose of pervery with your regular LJ feeds.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Trigger

You know when you're on the top of the stairs and you can hear all the people at the bottom coming up? That happened all the time at the Manor. We had like three long staircases, so it always took a while, and if people were talking you always had a pretty good idea of who was coming up before you actually saw them.

So I'm on my way out of my room, buttoning up my cuffs, and I hear the usual gaggle of voices. And then a new one which nails me to the floor.

My thoughts start racing. Not her--hallucination--oh, God, it is, how--? Wait, they know each other from school, they must have invited her over--why, don't they know how she--me--

But it is inevitable. I can hear her voice coming up the stairs. So I stayed there, a sickly smile on my face, as they all reached the landing. Face the music.

Once on the landing, I could see who was actually there. Four people. One of my housemates moved aside and it wasn't her. Wasn't Constantine's short-lived girlfriend, and my useless desire. It was another girl altogether, with an eerily similar voice.

"Hi!" I said, too loudly, and offered my hand. Shake. The poor girl, she must think I hate her--she must think the sight of her makes me ill!

After introductions were made they all had something to see in Avril's room, so I let them go on. I stood outside my door and took deep breaths, trying to calm my heart. I thought again, This has got to end, sometime. This can't go on forever.

For a long time, the two of them were my own personal ghosts. My eyes would linger over people I saw that reminded me of them in public places. I would see things that reminded me of them, and my whole body and mind would twang with addictive and shameful memory, leaving me hardly able to work afterwards. A great distraction.

But now it's ended--or has almost ended, finally. I haven't had such a trigger in a long time, I've sought out new people, pleasures, faces, voices. But every now and then I will wonder what crack there was in my personality to let them take such hold...and how I can keep it from happening again.

Are you the next Pretty BBW?



Image via Little Extra's Myspace collection of hot curvy babes


Peeps, I have been remiss.

When I first began this blog, I had a weekly pic of a Pretty BBW, sometimes on a Friday, sometimes on a Monday. Then came a housemate oversight...and, well, we won't go into that. Safe to say, I haven't put one up for a while.

But now I want to make it a weekly thing again. Problem is, I'm still having trouble finding that Ideal Curvy Chick Photo. Not so much BBW porn, but hot and challenging pics of larger bodies--not necessarily nekkid. Pics that show real knowledge of how to use a camera. Pics that might even have been taken by the girls themselves.

I need your help! The internet is way to big, even for me. ;) If you have a Flickr account*, you can post your hot tummy pics (stuffed or unstuffed) under the tag "stuffiesblog"--currently, of which there are none. (You know, I didn't get one Thanksgiving pic? Not one! I must be too perverted for my own good...) Or you can email me with links at missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com. If it's of you, tell me something about yourself and why you like your body...and if it's of someone else, tell me where you got it. That's really all you need.

And as always, if I ever post a photo that you don't want up here (i.e., it's of you and you would rather not be the unwitting participant in some pervert's fetish blog) I'll take it down right away. 'Cuz I'm nice like that.

______________________________________

*I first saw this method used on Sinclair's blog and on Genderfork. I don't know which of them thought of it first, but it's brilliant, so I'm using it too. ;)

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

This is Only Temporary



Image via EW.com



I doubt this blog will last a year.

It's not because I feel my particular desires will ever go away. It's that every aspect of my life is in limbo. Almost every day has an aspect of waiting about it. Waiting to hear from a job I applied for. Waiting to see if that new boy wrote back or not. Waiting for the Colt to tell me he has enough time off that he can visit. I tell myself that I am making plans, laying groundwork, in hopes that this unsatisfied feeling will eventually culminate in the stuffing of a boy. I'm a nut, I tell my friend Cee, on a mission. I am obsessed. I cannot move on with my life until I do it.

But at the same time, I'm not such a slave to it that I don't realize a thousand other things might happen. I've given myself a year to do this--too long, perhaps--to try writing, to try working on my own with the degree I have, to try fetish. And once the year is up, if it has resulted in nothing that is conductive to my happiness, I will put it all away and try something else.

Or I might wake up one morning and discover that one of my cover letters has suddenly been answered, and I will be off to a new job and a new life, and not have time for any of this. As unlikely as that seems right now to me, everyone I know tells me that it is a possibility.

So, my peeps, this is all temporary. Comment now or forever hold your peace. Like The Princess Bride, I'm gonna tell you how it's gonna end before it properly starts. I hope you'll still find it interesting enough to come along for the ride.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Pervertables: If Halloween is Goth Christmas, then Thanksgiving is Feederism Christmas

It's true. It's the only time feeders/feedees in the US are allowed--and allowed to encourage other people--to overeat in public. It's like having a holiday where, for an entirely innocent reason, we're all told it's ok to gently rub our dicks or our pussies.

I used to hate Thanksgiving (relatives are boring, and I'm not too fond of turkey, stuffing, cranberries, or green beans). But thanks to several of the Belly Brigade* telling me that they'll think of me today as they push their capacities to the utmost, it's become the dirtiest holiday of the year.

What are my plans to celebrate? Well, since I'm a bit displaced at the moment (Q. is having a much-needed holiday with her BF) I'll be attending a dinner party with Avril that's being hosted by the BHM around 3pm today. If anything dramatic happens I'll probably blog about it later, since technically I'm crashing it. (I'd Tweet it, but I can't seem to get Twitter to acknowledge my phone. Maybe I need a new one for Christmas...)

Also, if you're a feedee in the US who's celebrating today, why don't you send me a photo of the results for the special Stuffies After Thanksgiving Edition? If you're a perv on Flickr, you can post your hot tummy pics (stuffed or unstuffed) under the tag "stuffiesblog"--currently, of which there are none. Or you can email me at missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com. I'll post the best ones right here during the rest of this week.

* * *
The "Belly Brigade", BTW, isn't a club or something with a paid membership, as some people seem to think. Even though I've jokingly put it on a few photos I found on Flickr, it's really turned into the name for the few feedee boys I talk with online on a regular basis, such as Cee, the Colt, and BBB. They're the ones I care about the most.

Also:

◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Normal Sex: The Last Part


Image via Delta Sigma Phi.

1. Desire
2. Fetish


He took me to his house, saying something about all his housemates, how they were in a rock band. He wasn't, tho. The rock band may have also been daylight house painters, but I'm no longer too sure about the facts.

"You're nice," I had told him on the subway. There was something about him that let me know he wasn't going to use me or play with me, that all he wanted was the human warmth.

He said it was because he was from Littletown, the same small town I had gone to college in. "Nothing bad ever came from there."

I found myself peacefully remembering a question I'd read once: Why don't all women who play around get in trouble? The answer was that they're lucky. That night, I thought, I was lucky. His house was still decorated with month-late Halloween decorations--which struck me as appropriate, because I think all rock bands are Goth. There were prayer flags and christmas lights tacked around his window. It was like any room in college, with a copy of the Brother's K. on the dresser. He could have been any of the few boys I had fumbled with on cramped mattresses in messy dorm rooms. I was in a strange house, with a boy I only knew by his first name, but he was already known, familiar.

I asked to use the bathroom, then he took a turn. While he was gone I took off my shoes, lay on the bed. It was all so normal it pleased me.

The only thing that almost ruined it was the quotation. Someone had scrawled a philosophic quote on the wooden frame of his bed. I can't remember exactly what it was now, but it was something about you should make sure you were doing what you really wanted before you died. It bothered me particularly, but then he came in again and I was able to forget about it.

"Take off your shirt and shoes," I told him, "and get into bed."

I had never told a man to do something like that, and it gave me a little thrill. He lay down beside me, just in his blue jeans and leather belt, and we began to explore one another.

I've found that you can never tell much about someone's body until they have their clothes off. With his t-shirt and scruffy beard, he looked like any lit grad, but once he had his shirt off I discovered the kind of body I had never been with. If every one of the men in that club had lined up with their shirts off, I would have chosen him for myself. "Large nipples," I said with pleasure, working my way down his body, "tattooed biceps, prominent hip bones..." He was lean, flat-bellied, and I ran my eyes with pleasure over the subtle curves of his muscles underneath the skin.

"I like your body," I told him when he was on top of me.

"It's not a great body," he said.

"It's a good start," I said, or something like that. I think it was the potential that caught me, the idea that with a few months of work he could look like this. As if I were seeing an X-ray vision of his future life.

I took off my clothes piece by piece, until I was in my corset teddy. He fumbled at the bra-like hooks that held it closed. I laughed at him as I began rubbing myself between my legs: "I have all my clothing off except this one piece, and you still can't get to my pussy!"

I took pity on him and undid the hooks. He fingered me for a while. That was nice. I slid my hand in his jeans

We had a brief discussion of why condoms are uncomfortable, but I can leave that out. He wasn't unwlling to wear one, it going with "the whole thing about having sex with strangers and all."

He started thrusting--not in my pussy yet, just in the groove where my thigh joined my body. With each thrust the head of his dick smacked into my palm, hard and hot through the slick wrapping of the condom. I breathed in as I felt the power in his thrusts.

It hurt when he first put it in, the ache sharp but not unexpected. I knew I wasn't aroused enough. But after the first few thrusts let my pussy know he wasn't there to hurt me it began to get wet like it was supposed to. I loosened up, wrapped my legs around him. I realized it had been a while since I'd done that, it had been impossible with the BHM. I remembered that with the BHM there had always been the strange thrill of his size, his excess of flesh pressing up against my mound and sometimes, a little, on my clit. This boy, though, still made my thighs ache because I was holding him so hard.

I realized, as I lay there under him, focused on his movements as I tried to figure out when he was going to orgasm, that this was normal sex. It didn't hurt, but I didn't feel pleasure. I just rested underneath him, as he did the main work, and it was my job to make it easier by tilting my pelvis up, kissing him, playing with his nipples. There were no strap ons. No leather chaps or handcuffs. He didn't even want anal sex. Just a boy and a girl, doing the thing that a year ago I never thought I'd be comfortable enough with to simply take in. His thrust were going faster and faster.

Suddenly he stopped. He must have cum, I thought, but instead he started whistling.

"What the hell!" I laughed.

"Tantric," he told me.

He did this a couple more times, stopping at the peak of his thrusts to hold himself for me, moving his hips in a figure eight to touch different places inside me. It wasn't his fault I couldn't cum. I only came when I shut my eyes, sucked my stomach muscles in and out, and thought of stuffer boys. I had gone home with him knowing this.

He allowed himself to cum at last. I admired the sperm in the transparent condom, he told me it would be hot if I swallowed it, then added, "No, not really." He was teasing.

It was so late I was a little afraid to go back home. It would take me an hour, and I was deep in the darkened wilds of Brooklyn. He let me stay the night, tho, wanted me to so we could curl up together naked on the bed, snuggle together. That was nice too.

He might not like what I have written. The next morning I wrote my blogger name and email down on an envelope, in case he wanted to see me again. I don't want him to think it was awful, he was funny and smart and I liked his body a lot, I really did. But being with him only made me realize, once more, that my body and my mind don't work like other people's do.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Normal Sex: Fetish


One in a series of David LaChapelle photos that I tagged "Holy Fuck".


1. Desire


"Let me say goodbye to people," I said, trying to gain more time to decide what I really wanted. And I really did wanna talk to Sinclair and Diva and Natt Nightly one more time.

I found Natt on the dance floor peeling of his shirt to show us his new tattoo. He was wearing a wife beater underneath.

Might I mention that Natt and Sinclair are the first two butches I have met in real life?

I totally forgot what I had come there to do and stared. This was how it had always been: me staring bug-eyed, tongueless with the kind of full-body surprise that comes over me at seeing these things, and ashamed of myself because of it. Stop staring! I think, and I can't. After an awkward second I came to myself enough to make my goodbyes and went back to the bar to find that the boy who had wanted to fuck me had disappeared.

I was both really pissed and kinda happy. Mostly embarrassed. But then it dawned on me: He might be waiting outside.

And he was.


He took me to Brooklyn. We cuddled up next to one another on the subway seat and I put my head on his shoulder. We looked at the Sugarbutch Star chapbook, read a few lines of The Diner on the Corner. At some point I started rubbing his thigh and he grinned at me like it was the best thing in the world.

We talked about Littletown, where I live now. I guess that's why I felt safe enough to go home with him, we were both from the same place. He was struggling to pay the rent, doing work for non-profits. I told him I wanted to try and live in NYC, someday. He told me that eventually I would tire of it. I felt a part of myself relaxing, eased after the stress of the party. It was nice just to lean my head on his shoulder...

Brooklyn. We got off, still talking, and I stopped for a moment to look over the railing before going down the stairs to the street. "Why does all of Brooklyn look the same?" I wanted to know. Those "Unisex" hair salons. That awning in the colors of the Italian flag. The outdoor produce...

"You want to get anything?" he asked, winking. He meant to feed him with. I looked at the rainbow array of fruits and vegetables and realized the prospect hadn't even dawned on me, the feeder. But then again, the kinds of things laid out weren't usually what people stuffed with. "We use soda, usually," I had told him, trying to act cool, like this was something I did every day.

"Soda?"

"Yes, or milk." This was all new to him.

"Do you like watermelon?" I asked. He said he did. Watermelon was good, but could he eat half a one...

I looked at him and suddenly I couldn't imagine doing it to him, what I thought of as my fetish. He wasn't a feedee, really. I had known that, when I picked him up, because of his confusion. This wasn't a fantasy of his, he just wanted to get with me.

And I didn't want to force it on him, all that excess and strangeness and physical stress. Forget about it, I told him, we don't have to do that. Let's just do it the usual way....

More to come.

Normal Sex: Desire


DCP_6089, originally uploaded by molly.ren.

Writing about the NYC Sex Bloggers' party gives me the same problem I have writing about any sex: I want to put in everything, and there's no way you can get all of Proust into a single blog post.

It happens every time. Even thought I don't always remember names (who was that chick in the polka dot dress?), I remember a million other things. And I want to describe everything, from each peak and dip of my mood to the drink in my hand to the color of the lights and the color of Diva's corset...and that doesn't even begin to describe all that happened there. There were burlesque dancers and a raffle that was so rigged one woman got a dozen things and awkward conversations with famous sex educators and sudden conversations with people I had never met before but were as easy as if I had known them for days. How did something that lasted only four hours have so many things packed into it?

I might not even write about this at all, except that he wanted me to. He told me so as we walked back to the subway the next morning: "I wanna be Mister Something."

I can't call you Mister X., I told him, there's already an X. on here and people might get confused.

One of the most amazing things about the sex blogger party wasn't the fact that I got to meet lots of people whose words had inspired me...or that people who I'd never heard of knew who I was from the comments I'd left on other people's blogs. (OK, that was at least equally amazing. When Tess asked me if she could introduce me to Diva I got so overwhelmed by all the cyber people suddenly becoming real I had to excuse myself and checked in my coat to gain time to recover from my attack of shyness.)

But in hindsight, the most amazing thing was that I got hit on.

See, outside of the internet, I NEVER get hit on. In the course of a week I probably IM, email, and webcam as many as five feedee boys, but I've pretty much crossed parties and bars off my list as places to meet people. The last time I was in NYC, me and my friends went out to bars for several weeks. I don't think I got hit on once, though I made advances toward maybe five guys. I finally got horny enough to solve the problem with my first and last Craigslist experiment, but still, whenever I get laid, it's usually because I make the advances.

But in the crush of the partygoers, as crowded as in any rave club where I'd danced alone, something was different. I dunno if it was the fact that I was at a party filled with some of the kinkiest people in NYC, but suddenly I could feel eyes on me. As many boys as I had hit on during those few weeks in NYC were looking at me over their drinks as if they were devouring me. They weren't ugly scary guys either. I think they were all in their mid-20s to 30s, which was gratifying, to say the least. But none were quite what I was looking for. Even though I'd been drinking water all night, I felt a kind of haze grow around me. Different boys would dip down towards me, to exchange a few words, but none were caught up in it the same as I was. Who would it be? A boy, a girl, or something I'd never had before, a creature I'd only caught glimpses of in the flickering light of a computer screen?

I came out of the bar for a breath of air. Two boys were looking at magazines, but the minute I showed up shoved them back in their pockets. I laughed and said something like, "Don't hide the porn! It's a sex blogger party!"

They were looking at a Njoy magazine, it turned out. We began talking, and one of the boys excused himself, so I was left alone with the other. I used the line that I had been using on everyone that night with such success, "Do you have a blog?"

"A secret one," he said, lighting a cigarette and grinning at me.

He asked me if I blogged, and I said yes with great pleasure--I belonged to the secret sexy organization of bloggers of smut! He wanted to know what my blog was about, and I cautiously explained feederism to him: "It's like, you think eating is sexy. But it's also extremely rare, so the blog is more about me looking for one. I haven't actually found one!"

He perked up when he heard that. "Where did you go to school?" he asked me.

I knew he was flirting with me. A year ago I wouldn't have been able to figure it out, would have been asking myself Is he/isn't he omg what if he is? But now I was getting the signal loud and clear. With him it was easy, he was like the scruffy philosophy majors I knew from college. And because he was known, I was able to relax and regain my confidence.

"You don't really have a blog!" I said, gleefully piercing though his joke, "you just say that to get girls!"

I decided to go back inside, try again. I was able to do the thing I had always been told to do but hadn't been able to: turn a boy down.

But after that I think nothing happened. I certainly don't remember anything happening. The party had begun to thin out by then, I circled around trying to find the few people I hadn't introduced myself to yet. I drank another glass of water.

I saw him again on one of my circuits of the room, he put himself in my line of sight and said, "Have you found any guys to like, feed yet?"

"No..." I wasn't sure where this was going.

"I'm kind of curious..."

"Ooooh," I said, acting stupid to gain time. He wasn't who I had expected to go home with. I had been expecting someone with feathers or sequins or extra sillicone parts. I suddenly remembered that before leaving my apt. that night I had finally decided I wasn't going to try and hit on anyone at this party, that I had left my "emergency kit" of condoms and lube at home.


But he was so nice I didn't want to say no.

* * *

More to come.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Facelift: UPDATE


Molly's going to be messing around with the code on this here blog this weekend. If it doesn't work, we will return to your regular blog (and it's pervy posts) by Monday*.

*Or even in an hour or two, depending on how big a mess she makes.


UPDATE:

Sadly, I am currently lacking in enough coding skills to turn a template with a good idea into a useable blog interface. So it's back to the old style...for now. I'm sure I'll be goofing with it again next weekend, this time with a how-to book in hand.

All I want for christmas is some CSS skills...

Friday, November 21, 2008

Honestly, for us this is just foreplay...


A Fox in the Woods II, originally uploaded by VisioLuxus.

I honestly couldn't make up my mind this week as to who sent me the most outrageous message. I mean, when I wouldn't get back to his txt about taking him to a lingerie shop to try on girly undies, the Colt did this:

The Colt: *bites onto the tip of your tail*

Me: Owowow!

The Colt: *sways around and keeps locked onto the little fluff at the end of your tail* grrr!

I can assure you, I admonished him severly! But just when I thought it was all over:

The Colt: I gun' eat you tail first!



* * *

But wait! Cee's relationship advice was even better! Stay tuned!

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

In Which I Become Intoxicated With World Domination



18 followers? My mind goes into overdrive: goddesses have followers! Where's the "deploy followers" button? Like zombies? ! More friends! More blog hits! More followers!!! *omnomnomnomnom!* *Destroys half of Tokyo.*

Also:

*Some real Godzilla girl porn that might just burn your eyes out with teh weirdness. Welcome to my world.

A Conversation About Fetishes


Sploshing image via Time Out New York.


The four of us were sitting in the living room, editing a comedy skit about fat acceptance, when the topic of fetishes came up. And, naturally, everyone began to name the strangest fetishes they had ever heard of for fun. Since we'd already been talking about fat chicks, the first girl told with wonder how she'd heard about a fetish where big women would jump on top of little tiny men. "Not big like we are, I mean these 400 pound women jumping on top of these 150 pound men in a bed!"

"Squashing," I said. There was a whole forum dedicated to it on my favorite pervy website, though it wasn't my thing.

"And there's this other one with food," said my theatre friend who had so kindly let me stay at her house.

"Sploshing," I said. "It's British."

Crap. Thank you for visiting the Museum of Sex.
About this time a little voice in the back of my mind was going Shut up, shut up, shut up! Any minute now one of them would turn to me and demand to know how I knew all this stuff and my cover as a normal person would be blown.

"And there's this other fetish", the first girl went on in hushed tones, "where they tie the woman to a chair or something, she can't even walk, and the man will feed her to make her fatter."

"Feederism," I said, unable to resist getting in the last word. "Sometimes it goes the other way too," I added, in interests of gender equality. "Sometimes the girl feeds the man."

There was an awed silence from the other girls as they contemplated this, the most impressively strange of all fetishes yet named. My theatre friend said, in a tone of confusion, that she didn't know how the world kept going when it was full of people that were like this. And yet it does.

"Yeah, then you learn it's always been like this," one of the other girls said in a tone of worldly wisdom.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

That naked chick clutching a photo of Obama



Photo of Darlinda Just Darlinda.


Here you go, peeps, as promised. More on the party after I recover from 6 hours of bus travel... *zzzzzzzz*

Monday, November 17, 2008

Who is Constantine?

Constantine ain't a real person no more. He's fucking historical.

See, that's the thing about history, literature, celebrities, anything you study to write a paper on so you can sum it up in all it's parts and get at, you know, the truth. But in the very act of you looking at it, it fragments. People gathering up every little bead off a dress a woman left on the sunken Titanic, every chicken bone in the trash heap left by Viking crusaders, are killing the thing they love through their own desire to hold every precious fragment all at once. Instead of it making a clearer picture, it pixelates into eight million tiny details. And the big mist of details that begins to surround something, that's myth. When people come up with six or seven theories over one celebrity car crash, then you know it's a goner, no matter how many times you try to nail down the truth.

From the time Constantine said, "I'm ready for that bottle of wine" to the time when my fist met his head a week later, that's the font of everything. All my cybersex and fetish sex and one night stands and barebacking and gender experimentation and thinking BDSM is fucking normal...all of that, it started right there. And yet during our one night together (some eight hours), we did none of these things. By most people's standards, by internet sex blog standards, what we did was boring. If I took you back to campus and I took you out on the quad and pointed and said, "There, that's Constantine," you wouldn't think it was anything special.

You live in a little town, you get to know everybody. You go to a little tiny boarding school, you get to know everybody's clothes. I know all of Constantine's wardrobe: the tartan scarf. The pinstripe suit. The baggy green sweater he wore over dress pants. Shiny shoes. Gold toe socks. Black leather gloves. A leather briefcase.

All these tiny details that I store up, rediscover, creating their own web and spawning new symbols and histories. His clothes are why I now see every Versache ad as porn. The high narrow bones of his cheeks, the reason I love the Colt. His fingers between my legs are the reason I would fuck A. two months later. The reason I'll fuck anyone, anywhere, for the entire rest of my life.

Even know, two years after that one short night, the sight of a man in a long coat holding a briefcase will make my heart rate zoom up to a trillion beats a second.

When Valerie Solanas shot Andy Warhol, she used only one bullet. But that one bullet ricocheted in his insides until it cut open his liver and lungs and spleen and stomach and it took six doctors five hours to put him back together again. And according to Gerard Malanga, my peeps, that was the end of the Sixties.

EDIT: I might write more about Constantine, or I might not. I find it difficult...and it might even need a whole other blog. But for now I'll post a few bits and peices when the mood strikes me.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

I now have a pic of a hot naked girl clutching a photo of Obama

"Thank god you're alive," my friend told me when I walked in the door at 9am this morning. I had left at 6:30 yesterday evening. I am now laden with a Sugarbutch Star chapbook, a bottle of Sliquid lube, and more stickers and postcards and scribbled notes of blog addresses than I know what to do with. I also have sex hair.

Yes, the NYC Bloggers Calendar release party was made of awesome. Unfortunately you won't be able to see the few photos I took until Monday, for I foolishly packed the wrong cord for my camera (that's the kinda genius I am.) But in the meantime, here's a couple of the highlights:

1. No one looked the way I had imagined them. Actually, this is a good thing, because I usually imagined them as being totally naked all the time with their faces pixilated out.

2. Tess' tits really are that big.

3. Unspeakable Axe, I still think you got laid at least once, even tho I haven't read all your blog yet. And I still think you're cool. :)

4. Avah's corset rocked.

5. I met a charming androgyny named Natt. He says no one ever reads his blog, so you should change that!

Friday, November 14, 2008

I am going to be at the NYC Sex Bloggers Calendar Release Party TONIGHT!

This, by the way, is what I'm talking about. Just in case you've never heard of it. :)

I really should have planned this better.

If I was a good blogger, I would have hinted I was going a week ago. I would have written a post about my hopes, dreams, fears, and topped it off with an nice boob pic. I would have notified every boy that's within driving distance of NYC that I was coming a week in advance and started sorting though answers to my Craigslist ads. I would have bought a corset.

The reason that I didn't do any of these things was that my life wasn't together enough that I felt financially able to come. Then, 72 hours ago, two things happened:

1. I got another part time job.

2. I found out about the Dragon Coach, which can take me to NYC and back for a total of $40.

Now I am sitting in the same friend's apt. where I first read Working Stiff, with a view of the Empire State Building outside the window.

Just like old times.

So, yeah, I'm gonna be at this party in, like...an hour or so. And Sinclair will be there, who I've never so much as emailed, even though I've been reading the Sugarbutch Chronicles for, oh, about six months now. I don't know whether to squeal with fangirl glee or treat it like a sexy business meeting so all the bloggers there will treat me seriously. (I actually had some business cards made but left them at home.) I wanna have a famous blog someday too, ya know, and it's all about the networking!

Instead I'm a little scared. It's the odd feeling that comes from knowing someone only from what they've written over the internet, where you know as much about them as if you've read their minds...and yet they know absolutely nothing about you. Makes for social awkwardness, at the very least.

And then there's another part that feels like I'm finally starting to live the adventures I used to read about in books. I've never known anyone quite like these people whose blogs I've been following all these months, and, fetish or not, their lives seem to happen in a climate as exotic as India. For example, even though I've tried to be active in the local gay groups back home, I've never met anyone as openly genderqueer as Sinclair...and that's why I became so galvanized when I realized there was a small chance I could attend. Because a part of me doesn't quite believe that these people are true, and what I'm actually going to be attending is a party where some of my favorite fantasy characters have inexplicably come to life.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Barebacking and Umbrellas

The BHM is enforcing the rule of silence, so we are officially done. Over. Finished.

Usually, the quickest way to get to the top of my shit list is to start fucking me, then stop. We've been screwing each other off and on since July, which is really the longest time I've ever had a casual relationship. Usually, right about now I would be getting into hissy fits over his refusals to answer my requests for Facebook chat, or maudlin over the fact that I really shouldn't have told him about Constantine last time we fucked.

But actually, I'm kinda relieved.

Why? It's because of the anal. The BHM, despite his size, has nothing to do with my particular fetish. He's an ass and pussy man, all the way. And he particularly likes giving a girl anal sex.

Now, I've nothing against anal. Read this blog--it's one of my favorites--and you will find reams in praise of anal. My hero, Marquis de Sade, declared that all women should only practice anal and would never go back to pussy once they had had a dick in their ass. I once had a one night stand with a boy we'll call the Jackrabbit which consisted of nothing but anal: a delirious romp where he pounded my ass so hard I had to brace myself against the headboard to keep from being concussed. The effect I experienced when squatting on the toilet the next day is one of my stranger fond memories.

So I like anal. Except with the BHM.

I couldn't quite pin the reason for this down until the first and last time we tried barebacking*. The BHM has a dick which matches himself: solid, squat, with a head on it like a mushroom. Really, there's quite a big lip of flesh between the head of his dick and the shaft of his dick. When you don't have a condom you can feel everything, especially when the flaring base of the head gets squashed down and streamlined on the inward thrust, then how it opens up again when it's pulled back on the backward thrust.

In short, when the BHM gave me anal, the feeling was akin to having a small umbrella opened and shut in my ass.

*This is anal fucking without a condom, kids. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NEVER, NEVER DO THIS! You will get AIDS or something equally bad.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Pervertables: Big and Chunky

Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa Big and Chunky Video


It's a Disney movie, people. And they've written the next BBW lover's anthem.

I Want You To Be A Little Fucked Up

As wonderful as all the hype has been for Fetlife, it sucks for meeting up with stuffer boys. To be exact, the only male feedee I've seen so far is Cee, and that's because I asked him to join soon after I did.

I guess I really do belong to one of the rarest fetishes in the world.

But just because I'm a feeder doesn't mean I don't have an insatiable appetite for a good old fashioned shag. In fact, one could say I'm perpetually horny because I'm perpetually unsatisfied. So tonight, between searching for a better job and a bigger city to move to, I've rewritten a couple of my profiles. I think they cater more to the type of man I've usually ended up with anyway:

You're more beautiful than I am. I want your ass to look better in women's underware than mine does, I want you to taunt me with the narrowness of your waist. I want you to outdrink me, outfuck me (well, you can try), have a sharper tongue and a randier wit. I want you to smoke endless cigarettes and have cheekbones like knives. I want you to look pale, consumptive, like you only come out at night. I want you to be a little fucked up... Read the rest.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Insensitive Dicks

Whether by luck or by chance, I've had both lovers and acquaintances whose cocks didn't work they way they were "supposed" to.

We all have an idea of how a dick works, right? That is, it gets hard, you give him a blow job, and then he squirts. I expect the comments to soon be filled with exceptions to this rule, but I believe this is the general idea.

Or perhaps I have this idea simply because X., my first lover, set a pattern of expectation. I'd come in, we'd fling ourselves on one another for about ten minutes of making out, and then we'd get down to the business of sucking or fucking. It was inevitable that within an hour of my stepping in the front door he would have cum. In other words, his penis always worked the way I expected a penis to work: it was his main erogenous zone, and no matter which way you sucked it or stroked it, he was bound to come within a relatively short amount of time. (He also liked to put things up his penis and getting fucked in the ass, but we'll ignore that for the sake of argument.)

But in several of the boys I've known since then, it doesn't work that way.

The first experience I ever had with a penis that defied my expectations was with a blind date we'll call C. This was many years ago: I'd just entered college, I think I'd had sex once, and I thought the internet was where you looked stuff up on Wikipedia. You know, stuff like where Iraq was or the profile of Virginia Woolf.

But anyway, I'd had a few conversations over IM with this boy before I actually met him in the flesh. Somehow it came up that his penis was extraordinarily large, and he told me that it was also curiously insensitive. He claimed that he could squeeze it "until my knuckles turn white" and he wouldn't feel a thing. When I mentioned this to one of his guy friends, deploring C. for lying, the mutual friend exclaimed that it was entirely true. "I've seen C. hit people with it!" he told me.

The further confirmation that C. wasn't lying about his dick's cartoonish size came when I saw its outline through his pants leg later on the night of our first date, and this probably contributed to it also being our last. I had a irrational fear of big dicks, sex with X.'s normal dick still being an uncomfortable proposition at the best of times. But even though we never fucked, I never forgot C.'s truly gigantic dick and his admission of insensitivity.

I've known, too, males who couldn't come right away. Now, I understand lots of women will wonder why the hell I am complaining, but in my early days of cock sucking, when I wanted like mad to meet X.'s exacting standards (he himself claimed he had learned how to deep throat with popsicles), if a boy didn't come within twenty minutes or less I would worry that I was doing something wrong. That I am still prey to this fear might also have something to do with my one night stand with Constantine, but more about him later.

I don't know why, but it took me a while to realize that men could hold back their orgasms. Jaime calls it being "tantric", used as a verb. ("I'm still tantric", he'll say, if I ask him if he's cum.) The BHM is another one with unbelievable stamina. He gets hard and stays hard for the two to four hours we're usually at play, but hardly ever shoots. He has told me that he's always been this way, no tantric practice required. Usually we'll bang away, go to sleep, and then I'll suck him off the next morning, when I'll finally have the pleasure of watching his sperm flow onto his big belly with its peach-colored stretch marks. (Which is really quite a pretty sight, in my opinion).

And then there is Constantine, the Ur-boy of insensitive dicks.

I don't, oddly enough, remember much about his dick except that it was white and smaller than X.'s--quite natural, since I didn't get a very good look at it. The the whole time we were fucking, and that went for several hours, it was either in me or in my mouth.

In my mouth.

(I still remember this with anger.)

He couldn't get off when I had it in my mouth.

I sucked him until my jaw hurt, but he didn't even moan. I had mastered, I thought, my technique with X., even though I couldn't quite deep throat him. I don't think I quite knew all the niceties of using my hands and pirouetting all around the shaft with my tongue, but he should have come by now. He had moaned and writhed in the first few minutes when I had started, but now he was just lying there. Suddenly I felt my first empathy with X., who, despite his best efforts at fingering me, would often feel my vagina go bone dry. One time he had sat back on his heels and exclaimed, "What am I doing wrong?"

It's only sensitive on the very end, Constantine told me at last. I was supposed to just rub it on the head. All my painstaking deep throating techniques were worse than useless.

That's where the anger comes from. How long was he going to go on laying there, hands behind his head, while I worked and worked for no result? I felt like he'd been holding back deliberately, keeping from me the liquid I so craved (for even though I didn't yet enjoy normal intercourse, I loved swallowing sperm). I had the sneaking suspicion that he was enjoying watching me failing at the one technique I had.

He got up, we switched places. I lay on my back, watched him work his own cock. He came at last mounted atop my chest. It was awkward to stretch my neck to get my lips around the head of his cock before he came, but I had to, for my own pleasure. I swallowed.

That's usually how it is, he told me. The only way to get yourself off is to do it yourself. No one else knew the exact inner workings of your genitalia except you.

I read a lot of articles about the difference between men and women getting off. The conventional wisdom now is that men are more straightforward, just unzip and plunge in, while a female's sexuality must be coaxed and teased out...that her mind must be aroused before her the place between her legs can be.

But I have yet to find an article about a man's dick the way I envision it now: numb here and exquisitely fine there, piebald with sensation. And what must Constantine have envisioned all that time to keep himself hard, if my own technique, my very self and physical body, was not near enough to stroke him to his peak? Perhaps the way men and women get off isn't so very different after all.

Related:

◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Better Late Than Never: Sugasm #151



Sublime Nudes courtesy of Badgirls Hotbox.



The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #152? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.


This Week’s Picks

Help, My Friend Says I Have an Ugly Vagina!

“Say no to vagina prejudice!”


“Kiss My Boots.”

“One of the more unexpected hairpin turns I navigated in my “Coming Out” into BDSM involved a series of moments that were deceptively simple, perhaps even innocent, in a way.”


Yours, Sir

“I felt and then heard a low rumble of a slightly sadistic chuckle from him.”


Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank


Editor’s Choice

Sass And The Sadist


More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm


See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.


(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)


Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

The Crying Game

Cute animals don’t belong in my pussy

HNT - Shaking that Arse

Searching for something as yet unknown

Shame on you, part 2 [podcasturbation]


Sex & Politics

But People Don’t See My Fetish As Sexy! How Do I Write About It?

Red is the New Black


BDSM & Fetish

BDSM, S&M and Sex And The City

Girl On Top

Got to Love Subby Friends

“He Calls me”SLUT”" ~I call him MASTER!

I know you

My Muse-15th entry

A Quiet Night In

Sweet VS Saucy

That’s a great way to spend an afternoon


NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio

HNT Lucky Heather 3

HNT: Shut me up…

Half-Nekkid Queyntes

New York Leather Weekend - Sunday

Sublime Nudes


Sex News, Reviews, & Interviews

A Cocktease Session with a Leg Harness and Dildo

FAQs on Jefferson’s Custody Case

Recession Sex Toys

Top Five Tuesday - Bisexual Movies

VibeReview Fantasy: Bendybeads


Sex Work

Humiliation with a Tiny-dicklet Caller

Sex Work And Compassion: I Show No Compassion


Erotic Writing and Experiences

14 Days, 14 Girls Part 4: Kim

Duties of The Admired Fuck

First Day on the Job

The First Squirt

Intoxication

Let me introduce you to my special talent….

Neighbor’s Hot Tub

Possession

Privacy Please

Rebel in the Wild

A Return to Form

Seductive Sin

She can take more.

Someplace I’ve never been, part 3

Stripper Academy

Thrill In The Woods - Chapter 2

Wanting to Be Wanted

Wet Spots

Friday, October 31, 2008

Stuffer Literotica: Warm Blood

Here's a little Halloween treat for y'all: some erotica! If you can't guess what movie they're watching, or who Mister Six is dressed up as, I'll either give up on my literary pretensions or my readers aren't the geeks I think they are.

* * *


"Did she just say "gorged to bloatation?" asked Rufus.

He felt Mister Six gently rubbing his tummy. "I think she did, yes. Funny, I've watched this five times and I was never quite able to figure out what she said there..."

"That's the worst-sounding description of it I've ever heard!" said Rufus.

A piece of popcorn appeared before his lips, pinched between two long red nails. He sighed, but obediently stuck out his tongue to receive it, knowing she would only press more on him if he refused.

"Put your right off your popcorn," Rihanna grinned, crunching a few bites herself.

The sight of a pretty BBW munching popcorn put ideas into Mister Six's head, but unfortunately he was on the other side of the couch. He bent to Rufus' ear, whispered, "See if she'll let you eat it out of her--"

Rihanna: "Oh no, he hit him with the tea kettle!"

After the brief flurry of excitement was over--he killed him and then was just drinking tea? That wasn't what they were after--they settled again in a big heap on the sofa (faintly dusted with popcorn fragments.) Rihanna sat on the left, Mister Six on the right and Rufus was snuggled between them, his head pillowed on Rihanna's ample thighs. They had been feeding him candy, popcorn, soda, and other sweets off and on all day, and he felt...not sick, exactly, but over-cloyed with sugar. Mister Six leaned up against Rufus' side, stroking his sides and belly. Rufus' slight discomfort added to the tension that always coiled inside him when they watched any kind of horror movie.

"You know," said Rihanna, taking a sip of her white wine, "I have no idea why I like this movie."

"It's got Johnny Depp in it," said Rufus, wincing as the boy sat on the trunk, crushing the fingers of the man trapped inside.

"No," said Mister Six, "everyone likes Johnny Depp," as if a universal should immediately be dismissed as an unfair advantage.

"What is it, then?" asked Rufus.

"Gives vore a whole new meaning."

"Oh, God, now that's horrible!" laughed Rihanna, and she pelted Mister Six with popcorn fragments until the barber opened the lid of the trunk and and the man that had been hit with the tea kettle rose up from inside like a zombie.

"Oh, is he going to let him go? No--look!" cried Mister Six.

Rufus sat straight up, his chest heaving. He felt his thighs and fists clench as he watched the lavish spirts of blood, the jerk and shudder. He brought his hands up--

"Don't hide your eyes, Rufus! The killing's the best part!"

Mister Six hand his hand on Rufus' biceps, and he felt the rolling of the great muscles there. Behind his emo movie-star locks and his cuddly tummy, Rufus had the arms of a prizefighter, but even Andre sometimes forgot this. He discovered his heart was hammering, transferred his hand to Rufus' hard nipples, his soft tummy, stroked him like a cat. He felt Rufus relax, and his attention was once again caught by the movie.

"'Haven't you had enough for one day?'" quoted Andre. "Ha! That's the best line ever!"

"It wasn't so bad," said Rufus, sounding surprised at himself. He found himself wanting to see it again, wanting the rush. The strength in those arms, the release of that blood...

"You know," said Rihanna, wrapping one of his long locks around her finger, "for someone who's stomach can take so much abuse, you're awfully sensitive!"

Rufus blushed. He was entirely unable to explain the fluttering, touchy, unbearable tension that came over him when he saw certain things in movies. It was like waiting for an explosion. "It's not my stomach that hurts when I see things like that in movies..."

"He's tender hearted," said Mister Six, ruffling Rufus' long hair.

"No...tender headed," said Rufus.

"Well," Mister Six smirked, "we all knew that!" He flicked the bulge in Rufus' pants, making Rufus blush all over again.

* * *


"Rihanna!" Mister Six called. "Did that box come in the mail today?"

His voice echoed weirdly off the harsh angles of his New York flat. Andre sighed in frustration. Even in a place less than a third the size of the Seattle Hacienda, she still managed to elude him. And here it was, almost 10-o-clock--and on All Hallows Eve!

He stopped by the darkened picture window, frowned at the elfin face reflected in the glass. He tilted his fedora onto his head, pulled up the collar. More than anything else tonight, he wished for a face people would take as a serious threat.

Mister Six let out his breath, straightened, looked deep into his reflection. He tried to assume the mental attitude of the character he had chosen, tried to draw from his tempestuous desires that cold and stoic spark...into the goat's appetite for raw eggs and sugar cubes...the kind of mind that would see a head split open in the unfolding of a pretty butterfly's wings...

Mister Six's sigh fogged the cold window--it was no good without a mask. Who knew he wouldn't be able to find the right mask?

As he drew patterns in the steam something Rufus had said a long time ago came back to him, about the mystery of darkened windows. The pressure of dark was like the pressure of water, thousands of gallons held back by a single sheet of glass...

Somewhere above him a door opened, shut.

His fedora slipped to the floor as he turned, his thin hand splayed against the icy glass. On the floor above him began a heavy, measured tread, as if the feet and legs that made them were beginning to stiffen.

A figure appeared at the top of the stairs.

He wore a button-down shirt, white, the sleeves full. It was pulled in close to his waist by a purple vest, and his black pants were snug across his rounded thighs. Over this was a dark brown apron--as simple as what would be used in a butcher's shop. But it was his face that was the best...and the worst. Years ago he had been apprenticed to a master of transformations, and his fingers had not forgotten that art. His eye-pits had been blacked, so that his blue eyes snapped and sparkled in the depths. His coal-black hair had been swept back, teased so that it made a kind of mane, and above his left eye was a bleached streak a finger's width wide. But it was the smaller touches that made Mister Six draw in his breath, the subtle lines of age tracked across the brow, pulling at the corner of his eyes. His full cheeks had developed sooty hollows. The effect was of full, firm flesh that had been drawn back to show the angle of terrible hungers.

"I need a knife," he said.

Mr. Six could only say stupidly, "a what?"

"A steak knife, an exacto knife... something. I need one." He was trying to fasten the cuffs of his spotless white shirt as he spoke.

"You don't need a knife," said Mister Six. "You need blood."

Rufus stopped what he was doing and looked at Mr. Six. He ran his eyes down the filthy brown trench coat, the bulging pockets, the purple pants with their black pinstripe, ending in a pair of very scruffy shoes. "Who were you supposed to be?"

"I was going to have Rihanna paint my face with white and black, but--" Mister Six ran a gloved hand through his red hair, and was reminded of his fedora, which was still on the floor. "Never mind." He rescued his hat, pulled it down at a rakish angle. "Come with me into the kitchen--I know just what you need."

* * *


"Here we are," said Mister Six into the fridge. He emerged with a mound of uncooked hamburger on a plate, the bloody juices pooling around it. Its ridges made Rufus think of brains.

"Salmonella," said Rufus.

"Just watch where you put your hands," said Mr. Six, taking up a handful. Then he squeezed it over Rufus' arm, the red flesh oozing through his fisted fingers. It wasn't the bright blood they were hoping for, just a clear dribble.

"Ugh," said Rufus.

"Jesus, what are you doing?"

Rihanna swept into the kitchen. She was wearing an emerald dress with loads of frills, her bodice pushed her ample breasts out and up. Rufus grinned hard when he saw her. Just the sight of her made a warmth come up from his loins and cover his sensitive belly.

He had forgotten the effect such a lecherous grin would achieve, augmented by his makeup--Rihanna stopped dead, her fan fluttering in her hand. "Rhianna," said Mister Six, "the box--"

"Oh, it came today, silly!"

She came back with a brown-paper wrapped box, which she unwrapped. Both Andre and Rufus caught their breath, for were greasepaint and brushes, lashes and gummed gems, false hair, vials of glitter, the teeth of old men and beasts. And inside the box was a still smaller box, in which were three lines of ruby capsules. Mister Six held one up to the light, and it glowed like a stone taken from the forehead of an idol.

Rufus was confused. "How do you...."

"You bite them," Rihanna said. She plucked one out and held it to her prettily made up lips like lipstick. "You bite it, tho... I don't want to get it on my dress. Don't worry, it says it's OK if you swallow it..."

Mister Six had already taken one and given it a nip. He made a face. Then he stood back from Rufus and flung it at him, slashing his waistcoat with artful sprays, the drops trickling down the curve of smooth fabric that covered his belly. He squeezed whole capsules onto his shoulders, making red pools on his dominant arm. He held his arm lightly, lifting it, feeling the hard curve of muscle underneath the soft billows of cloth. He pressed himself a little closer, his thigh meeting the curve of Rufus' thigh, a little bit of his chest meeting Rufus' side. He tugged off the fingerless gloves and made Rufus pull them on--they were too large on Mr. Six but on Rufus they fit perfectly. Rufus flexed his fingers, smiling.

"Ready to go?" asked Rihanna.

"Not yet," said Mr. Six, and disappeared into the bedroom.

"We'll be late--!"

"Just a minute!" Mister Six yelled back. Through the open door Rufus saw the trench coat go sailing across the room and heard water running.

He was looking at her dress, at the structure of the bodice. "Feels nice, doesn't it?" he said, his eyes straying to the laces.

"Like body armor," she laughed, knocking on it gently with her knuckles.

"A hardness without for the softness within," said Rufus.

Rihanna shivered. His flexible voice could mimic a hundred different people, but this one...she had heard it a hundred times, filtered through speakers, but never carried by a living breath. Instinctively, she raised her fan, dropped her eyes.

"No. No..." said Rufus. "Let me see your face." He took a step closer to her, in the tiny kitchen, and she felt his hand slip under her smooth chin, his thumb caress her smooth neck.

He raised her chin. Rihanna's red hair was artfully piled on her head, little tendrils coming down around her ears. Her large eyes, fringed with velvet and black, looked up into his in their black pits.

"I hadn't seen you yet with your makeup on," he said, and there was a kind of purr in his throat. His hand, as it raised her chin, was faintly red, and smelled of the raw meat they had been handling.

"Do you like it?" she breathed. She felt as if his hand had stretched her onto her toes, unbalanced her.

With his other hand he fingered the cameo hanging from its emerald ribbon, the lace that fringed her breasts. "You look very pretty," he said.

When he let go of her his fingers left three small red flowers on her cheek.

"Think I should shave?" asked a mocking voice at his elbow. Mister Six was standing there. He had a white shirt and white vest on, and was turning a top hat in his hands.

"Well," purred Rufus, "aren't you beautiful."

He turned to the woman at his side. "Don;t you think he's pretty?"

"Oh, very much, sir," she said, holding up her fan again but her eyes gleaming with mischief. "But I think he needs one more detail."

Mister Six held his hat by the brim, pressed against his stomach. "What could that be?"

Rufus' eyes moved to the box on the table.

Rihanna handed Rufus a capsule. "You do the honors."

It was bitter, Rufus thought as he bit into it. It had a strange, pomegranate taste, with the consistency of corn syrup... sticky and red...

Mister Six wouldn't do what he wanted. Rufus was taller, he couldn't see under Mr. Six's chin. "Not far enough," he said gruffly, and reached up to grasp Mr. 6 by the hair, tipping his head back. Mr. Six gasped slightly--pushing his chest forward, his arms limp at his sides as if he dangled in Rufus' grasp... Rufus could see the great vein pulsing in his neck.

With great precision Rufus drew a cold red line across Mr. Six's neck. The pretty boy hardly made a sound as the red blood ran down his neck and pooled in his collar.

"Don't wipe it off," growled Rufus as Mr. Six reached up to touch the wetness, "you're going to wear it like that all night."

"I won't," said Mr. Six. touching it and laughing.

Rhianna plucked a pair of fangs from the box and put them into her pretty mouth. She smiled into her compact, snapped it shut. "Well, are we all together now?" She was already heading for the door.

His hand crushed her wrist, and she found herself snapped around, chest to chest, his prisoner all in a moment. She saw the red capsule trapped in the corner of his grin, felt her tongue poking through her fangs, flimsy plastic.

"I don't think so, love," Rufus growled. He pressed her up against the counter, and she could feel the heat spreading from his crotch through her dress, felt a warm drop on her breast. "You see," he murmured, caressing soft, "you're next!"

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

BBW Monday: Along Came A Spider...



Via Wikimedia Commons


In honor of Halloween, today's Pretty BBW is the burlesque dancer I've most wanted to see live: Miss Dirty Martini! Where can I get some pasties like that in time for this Friday?

But even if I can't bejewel my tits, I think I might have a treat or two in store for y'all later in the week. Stay tuned!

Related:

Miss Dirty's Website

◆ Are YOU the next BBW? Submit a photo to missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Friday, October 24, 2008

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

BBW Monday: Butterfly



Jack Potsmoker

But People Don't See My Fetish As Sexy! How Do I Write About It?



Via riotclitshave


It all started when the BHM licked my armpit.

"Oh my god," I giggled, playing the scornful femme, "what kind of pervert licks people's armpits?"

The BHM gave me his most wicked look--the look he usually reserves for when he's about to tie my arms behind my back. "Oh yeah?" he said. "What kind of pervert likes it?"

I blushed deep. It had, in fact, been very pleasurable: a warm caress across one of my most sensitive zones. Try it some time, seriously...if you're brave enough not to let your usual experience of armpits deter you.

This why, even though I have a sex blog, so little of it has to do with sex. Even in this wacky alternative universe called sex blogging, where working for Kink.com is a legitimate career and mothers of three can have baskets of sex toys on top of their refrigerator as a matter of course, I can hardly bring myself to tell people what I'm really into. I'm never able to forget how rare my desires are--and how potentially a hard-on ruiner. What would you do if you were in the same place I was two weeks ago: a sexy boy running his hands down your breasts and crotch, breathing, "So what's this fetish you have?" into your ear.

I can't say, "I like corsets" or "being flogged." In order to avoid lying, I'd have to say: "I enjoy encouraging skinny men to overeat until their stomachs bulge out and they become helpless."

Still there, readers? I congratulate you.


Several times I've taken part in the Sugasm. It's pretty much a fancy traffic generator for new sex bloggers: submit your week's best post, vote for your favorites at the end of the week, and all they ask in return is that you post the week's winners on your own blog. Some people love it, some people hate it, but the point is that the majority of posters has to do with BDSM, gay and lesbian, or heterosexual encounters.

Which is fine, but it raises the quandary: how do you write a smart, engaging sex blog if what turns you on is seen as a turn off by the majority of people--even by ones thought of as kinky? What if you get off from fucking balloons? What if you wank to castration? Is there a famous furry blog that I've never heard of?

Case in point: imagine a curvy, busty girl giggling in bed as her arms are tied behind her by her lover. The window is open, so a cold night breeze titillates and tingles over their overheated bodies. He pulls her towards him by the hips, pressing his hard, thick cock into her ass, giving her anal for the first time...slowly...

Now add the fact that the man weighs around 300 lbs.

Hear that? That's the sound of a thousand pussies screaming in pain as I ruin their orgasm.

Which, some people say, shouldn't really matter: no one gets into sex blogging for the money, and I'll be very lucky indeed if, after a year, I have 300 readers (not even a drop in the bucket compared to the views on, say, one Lonelygirl15 video). But I am into it for the attention, comments, page views and discussions I can start in the pointless/sexy/disgusting/beautiful world which is teh internets. But there's this hang up: unless a person has their brain wired in a special way (held by how few?) they won't be able to get past the small fact that what turns me on isn't leather, high heels, and fancy sex toys but stuffing, fat sex, and large amounts of fizzy soda water.

All I knew (and all I still know) is that I hadn't seen a blog quite like mine before. (I do, at least, have a unique voice in the sea of BDSM blogs.) I wanted to celebrate and write intelligently about a fetish that, at worst, gets called anti-feminist, the biggest thing holding back the fat acceptance movement, or--as The Naked Trombonist told me when I tried to explain it once--just plain stupid and dangerous. I figured I would have the fact that almost any deviant sexual behavior has had these accusations thrown at it on my side. I was inspired by the best in the biz: Always Aroused Girl, Violet Blue, Jefferson (before it all went so very wrong) and Sinclaire Sexsmith: writers who believed in their own unusual desires, sought them out, and wrote about them in a very hot and intelligent way. I remember coming in contact with what seemed a whole new world when I read Sinclaire's blog, having never come across the terms "femme" or "packing", and I imagined I could do something similar for my own strange fetish: make it beautiful, make it more accessible and safe, and start discussions about a sexual preference I've once or twice seen described as "the new gay."

Instead (though mine is a very, very young blog and I may simply be impatient), I still feel like an outsider even in the big wide world of internet sex. The rule of "If you get off to it, someone's already done it and put up pictures about it" notwithstanding, I find myself trying to justify my likes and dislikes in such a way that they fit into the accepted language of what's sexy. I will play up the BHM's intelligence, his dominant tendencies, and his big dick, even if one of my biggest turn ons is how my thighs will ache as they are forced apart to accommodate his girth when he's on top. (*Winces at the sound of hundreds of readers skipping to another website because of that image.*) I'll struggle not to think about the undertones of eating disorders I see in most feeder erotica, and play up the fact that I am a smart, curvy, college educated woman...who just happens to have always gotten off to disgusting things. My fetish can be just a legitimate as homosexuality, I'll say, even when 90% of the emails I get are from people who are creepy...or I fall in love with men who are thousands of miles away.

But there's Lolita, right? One of the world's classics, by some measures--and it's about a rare fetish seen as either crazy or disgusting by the majority of the population. Yet somehow the author was able to tap into the universal feelings of obsession, love, and heartache that made his work mean something even to straight white hetero academics.

Though sometimes I wonder if his secret was simply admitting that Humbert Humbert was, in fact, sick.

I'm a sexual screwball, dear sexblog readers. I don't have multiple orgasms, no one sends me free sex toys, and I love having sex with a man that's obese. I encourage men to indulge in behaviors that even I see as dangerous, altering their weight, appearance, and their edge in physical sports. But they love it, my stuffer boys, do it to themselves if there's no one to "encourage" them. And I love it. Since I first learned what it meant to orgasm, I've never been able to get off to anything else.

It's a struggle to think about these things. Sometimes I swear I will never do it again, sometimes I think it's entirely legitimate. I want to be told my fetishes are as important to my happiness as your whips and glass dildoes are to yours, no matter how little they might turn you on. I want someone to tell me there was a mistake, that I can rewire my brain so that I will be able to get off to sex in the missionary position and never have to go digging through the filth of the internets ever again. I want to lose weight so I can fit in tiny clothes and boys will hit on me in bars, and I want to keep it because The Colt and Alex tell me I'm beautiful.

I want answers to all these things, but I don't have them yet. That's what this blog is for.

Related:

Erosblog has a very interesting post about how, in reality, the majority of internet erotica is less the work of sexual revolutionaries and more that of Nipples the Bear.

◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!