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Stuffies has moved! From now on I'll be posting my thoughts on feederism and real-life sexcapades on Tumblr:

http://molly-ren.tumblr.com/

As far as I know, I'm the only sexblogger in my circle to start over with their blog completely on Tumblr, but if it works for Katie West I think I'll get by. I've hated Blogger's templates and interface for a long time now, and I think the change will help me write more and better. If you already have a Tumblr, go ahead and friend me--if you don't, you can add me to your RSS feed. I've set it up with the Disqus commenting system, so even people who don't have Tumblr accounts can comment!

Tummy and Dick

via Derekisme

Chocolate Gloves

Want Some? from Tony Love Heart

I don't need to blog any more. Whenever someone asks me why I like feederism, I'll just show them this picture. 

Vintage Sex

Me: There's a half naked man on Star Trek...
Me: ...with a fencing sword.
Me: A half naked ASIAN man with abs!

Cee: :D are you trying to climb through the screen?

Me: I'm stopped by the fact that I know he's gay.

For me, a fetish is when you not only kink for specific body parts or objects. It's when you kink for stuff that doesn't even exist. Which is why I feel able to admit to you that I'm starting to kink hard for Star Trek. 

My dad's a Trekkie from way back, but I never quite got it. He used to watch Babylon 5 every night, and when I had nothing else to do I'd join him. There was some episode that was a homage to Trouble With Tribbles, which somehow led to my dad realizing I had never seen the first version. He popped in a grainy VHS tape of it, and I saw William Shatner for the first time. Dear old dad no doubt thought this was a geek right of passage. I was only midly interested, but this was before I'd reached puberty.

* * *
"So who did you like better?" asked Q. when I told her I had seen the newly airbrushed movie version that weekend, "Kirk or Spock?"

Oh, Kirk is ok, I said, he's all manly and brash and stuff. But Zachary Quinto just makes me melt. (So much so, in fact, that I'd gone back to the orginal series to see more Vulcan goodness and found that the wonderful people at CBS had put up the entire thing on YouTube. It's in great condition and you don't have to feel bad for stealing anything!)

It was with a sense of satisfaction that Q. told me that her first ever crush had been for the original Spock. Since she's a distant relation, I guess it's genetic. And, watching the old series, I'm amazed at how much it does work. I tend to think of my parent's TV as something asexual. But even the chicks on the original Enterprize want to get into Spock's pants, and there are outfits that wouldn't look out of place on a Beyonce video. And even with all these made-for-male planets that just happen to have at least one hot woman on them, there are an awful lot of shirtless men. 

This doesn't mean there aren't a lot of things wrong with the Original Series. It's got cheap sets, clunky plots, and shitty dialogue, but I don't care: my hormones have me once again surfing the internet's waves of utter crap in search of a little flicker of that special something that's obsessed me once again. I'm not thinking of my dignity, but of sweet, sweet Vulcan mind loving (What other pressure points do you know about, Mr. Spock?) Some girls want to devour pints of chocolate ice cream during their period: I just want some attention from an alien life form.

You know where this is going, don't you? Oh, yes, I went there: Kirk/Spock slash. With bondage. And someone set it to "Closer".

I have no shame.



Guys and gals, if I'm ever topping you and I grab you by the face like Spock does in the first few seconds of the video, just roll with it. I promise I'll snap out of it momentarily.

Do you know about how they take the two names of famous couples and contract them? The "technical" term for Kirk/Spock slash is, apparently, "Spork" I shit you not.



The above video was given to me as a response to my comment about how no movie could be as good as Bitchy Jones' libido.  Jayunderscorezero, I have no idea who you are, but if we meet in real life, can we make out? I think we'd have a lot in common.

And the last video should be of that moment in Star Trek when Zachary Quinto is choking Kirk for what seems like ages. But sadly I cannot find one on YouTube, so y'all will have to be content with using it as wallpaper.

Sundae

Via And Death Smiled...

This photo's just for you, Laken. ;)

Of the many unlikely fantasies boys have told me during the year and change I've been online dating, turning me into an ice cream sundae gets mentioned the most often. It's always fun to see a "male version" of sexual fantasies that are usually directed at women, and, as a switch, it's even more fun to turn a guy's desires back on himself.

I don't think I'd want to eat this ice cream, tho. Perhaps I'd bring in another boy to lick it off him while I watched? 

The Perfect Man

Almost Divine, from Tony Love Heart's collection of Cute Boys

One of the side effects of being into feederism is the ability to guess someone's weight just by looking at them. FA*s, like tailors, learn through looking at hundreds of profiles listing height and weight what to expect, and after a while certain numbers become more important than others. There is a kind of man who will begin to stiffen and leak upon reading the stats "5' 5", 200 lbs." before he's even seen a picture, and I myself am not immune to this phenomenon. 

For me, the magic number is 170 lbs. (My ideal height for a man is a little shorter than myself--say 5' 8".) I'm unusual in wanting something so low, but much over 170 lbs. and a boy's frame will begin to look overloaded. The fat will begin to fold over and bloat him out, overbalance him. Under 170, all his muscles will stand out and his belly will be flat. But at 170, the extremes are perfectly in balance. If he has muscle definition it will still be visible, perhaps slightly softened, but the main difference will be in his belly. The extra flesh will have a round, tight look to it: he'll still fit in his clothes but form-fitting t-shirts will pull across his tummy like a slut's dress. This, in feederism parlance, is called a "ball belly", and I zero in on it the way an ass man looks at pictures of Beyonce. 

It is this set of parameters, as unforgivingly specific as the demands of height and weight for a Vogue model, that seem to set me apart even in what is already an unimaginably rare fetish. I am forever trying to get my cyber-beaus to slow down when they want to speed up--when boys talk lustfully about reaching 200, 300 lbs. I'm urging them to stop right where they are. I want them to be gluttonous, but also go to the gym, maintain. If I could just freeze them in time I absolutely would. 

And, thus, I jinx myself. Most boys I've talked to just want to give their gluttony and lust free reign. What I want is much harder. I want soft hardness and restrained indulgences, I want their bodies to be everything to me, all at once. When I told Cee that I was going to stop looking so hard for a feedee and start trying other things because if I didn't I would be very, very lonely, he said, "Don't you want to create your ideal man?"

And that's the intoxication for every feeder's heart: the ability to mold someone into exactly what you want. Every modern retelling of Pygmalion makes him out to be a shallow, silly cunt, but really, who wouldn't want this power? When our robot overlords get good enough to marry I'm not so much going to want to program a boyfriend to do whatever I want (because who wants something as unchallenging as that?) but mix and match billions of skin and hair and bone structures so he looks exactly how I want. High cheekbones. Skin like marble. Black hair and blue eyes and a round porn star's ass and long fingered hands and a small, perfectly rounded belly. If there was any personality programming going on I'd install a desire to maintain his body that rivaled any starlet's (or would he be a Real Doll-like model that was stuck looking exactly one way?)

But the thing that keeps me from becoming a shining example of how women can have as insanely specific desires as men is that I'd can't imagine how I'd have the right to impose my standards on a real live human male, one that I'd sleep next to and make dinner with. Do I have the right to demand that my lovers shave and wax themselves when I hate doing it myself? Should they always look perfect when I seldom care to put any work into my appearance at all? It's a long and detailed list that would stress anyone out, and if they weren't naturally endowed with the "proper" bone structure it could drive them to despair**.

Nevertheless, I think of this description as the core of my desires. Sometimes it influences my sexual choices, sometimes not. It's true I've had several partners of the dark and delicate-boned variety, and all the feedees I currently cyber with fit that mold. But it's also true that their charms can lose their power over me if they're inarticulate, needy, or just plain mean: the ones I've kept in contact with for over a year are all smart, interesting, and mostly happy boys with their own style of language. And sometimes I just want someone completely different: my first love was a conservative with a body that made one think more of WWF wrestlers than dancers or jockeys, and when I look at the endless parade of boys on my Tumblr I'm constantly surprised how one physical attribute will look quite different on one boy than on another. (I've told Jefferson he'd be more attractive if he shaved his kiwis, but have found myself buried in DC Boy's far hairier crotch and loved every minute of it.) And there's a whole other as-yet-unwritten branch of my sexual desires where the men always come in pairs, with matching appetites but exactly opposite bodies. Perhaps the key to my desires isn't hungry brunettes, but  contrast?

So at the end of this long rambling post about my ultimate desires I've come to the conclusion that there are some things I like a lot, and some things I almost like, and some things I like that I had no idea I liked before I saw them. The fact that hardly anyone has all these things or none of these things guarantees that even if you don't fit my core desires exactly, you don't have to worry I'm "settling" for you. (And neither, thank God, do I.)

Which doesn't erase the fact that if a boy came along who was mostly sane and had the right bone structure I wouldn't go absolutely mad for him. The six weeks or six months it took to change his almost perfect body into my ideal perfect body would be the most intensely sexual of my life. Even if we didn't fuck I might be able to cum just from watching him eat, or work out, or whatever else I had demanded he do to mold himself. If he was slightly dumb I would put up with it, if he was really dumb I'd feel humiliated, if he was a sub I'd push him around and if he was a domineering asshole I don't know what I would do, but no matter what personality he had a part of me wouldn't be able to say no to him. He'd have more power over me than I'm comfortable thinking about, and if he were wired the way he'd have to be wired for this to be in any way consensual, I'd have the same power over him.

There's a movie called Original Sin. It's been many years since I've seen it, so it may in fact be horrible. But it's redeemed in my memory because it has Antonio Banderas and Angelina Jolie in it. They were two of my favorite actors for a long time. I have no idea what's happened to Mr. Banderas, and this was long before Miss Jolie became the woman every straight girl wanted to fuck. I just had an innocent awe of the fact that such alien lips were part of a real human being.

But to cut to the chase: Mr. Banderas sends away for a mail order bride, and gets Jolie in return. After he meets her, falls for her, and fucks her she leaves him (something about her really being a thief who posed as a mail-order bride in order to steal his fortune.) Apparently, she didn't really care for him at all. There's a few minutes of montage where it shows Banderas going into many different brothels, with many different types of women. But they all have the same physical characteristics, the slender build and the long dark hair, and he makes them smoke cigars as she did. 

I know what that's like. I know all too well. 

_____________________________________

*FAs: "Fat Admirers". It's feederism speak for chubby chasers. If you're a female chubby chaser you're supposedly an FFA, but why do we need another F in front of it telling people the admirer is female? 

** Or drive him to get very expensive and painful plastic surgery just for me, but that's another post altogether.

Strawberry Crepes

Via pornotumble

God, I love this photo. 

It's so strange I have no idea what is going on (he's getting a...fruit injection?) but I love the sleepy, lazy, addicted look he's got. And the cherries are so delightfully messy in the bowl.  

I Feel Vagely Offended...

[Via] And Death Smiled...

Cheng Fei

I've seen a lot of reviews of this work, but I think Coilhouse said it best:

Like cherubs stuffed to their breaking point, Cheng Fei’s figures revel in vice. Their corpulent bodies, drenched in lust and gluttony, roil and roll on the canvas. Faceless, save for collagen plumped pornstar lips, their appendages have ballooned and bloated so that they are nigh unrecognizable. Incapable of seeing, hearing, or smelling they can only imbibe and consume, feeding their own, selfish desires. Some, their skins forced beyond the confines of their elasticity, split asunder, revealing a beautiful and ghastly store of jeweled offal; strings of pearly entrails; the digested result of their hedonism which, even in death, they claw at.

In other words, creepy as hell. 

P.S.: I forgot to queue up the photos for Tuesday, so today you get two posts for the price of one!

My Birthday and Dances of Vice

Photo of Rococo rockstar Prince Poppycock by P. S. Zollo

So my birthday is coming up soon.

How soon? Supposedly, the closer you were born to November 1st, the more perverted you are.

Now, I've always wanted a huge birthday. Elephants, naked slaves, the works. And I think I've finally found the right venue: Dances of Vice. This November they're having A Grand Shipwreck Ball, where apparently hundreds of people dress up like 19th century noble(wo)men and dance and drink the night away. I'd come to NYC, crash on my long-suffering friend's sofa and stay out until dawn wearing out shoes. However, I currently have neither mermaid costume nor extra cash, and I wonder if any Grand Ball, no matter how large or resplendant, will live up to my own dreams of Sadian splendor. 

Which brings us to the slightly cheaper option, which differs not at all from the first plan except that instead of going to a dance, I have a party involving sex. Perhaps a birthday orgy involving some of my favorite NYC perverts? It's been a long time since I've been in the City of Sex, and I'm not sure if anyone will want to come. ;)

 What do you think, peeps? Should I buy the tickets to the Ball now, giving the finger to any future work schedule I might have and hoping I'll find a costume in the next month? Should I instead make plans with my fellow perverts to have wild sex? Or is there a third option I have not considered?

Nice View

[Via] Chagrin

There's a link to who took this photo, one Mireia, but that's not enough for once, because she doesn't have any more information as to why she took it. I'd like to know, though, 'cuz I'm curious if she had the same motive for taking it as I do for posting it here. 

Plus Size Erotica: You're Doing It Wrong

Boobies and cupcakes done much better by corkaborka77.

If you like to read or write about sex on the internet, there's a good chance you've heard about Ravenous Romance. I don't actually know much about their performance as a company, but when I heard they had put out a new novel featuring food and a plus size woman I was all "yay!!!"--until I realized I was reading about it on weepingcock. It's an LJ community where people post the best worst porn they can find.

Ravenous Romance's description for Handsome and Petal sounds like the next hot show on the Food Network, but in reality it's some of the stickiest, schmoopiest stuff I've ever seen. It might even give you a yeast infection:

“Lily, my Petal,” Brody said.

She caressed his cheek, which showed a wonderfully scruffy layer of five o’clock shadow.

“Yes, Handsome?”

“You’re more beautiful than a plate of homemade brownies, hotter than hot fudge, more sinful than cinnamon.” Lily blushed. His cock ached in response to the redness on her cheeks. Brody imagined similar color rising on other destinations across her gloriously sexy plus-size form."

The poster, arionhunter, comments, And now, it's time for sex. Food sex. Involving what else but whipped cream? (Once, just once, I want to see a man's "meat" covered in A1 sauce.)

As he watched her movements, feeling like he was floating on a giant cake, she raised a candy cane to her plump lips and teasingly performed oral sex on it. Then Lily hooked the cane around Brody’s straining cock and pulled his thickness into her mouth.

'Hunter explains the symbolism behind this gesture: Y'see, the really fun part about this is that as a kid, every Christmas I was told the story of how the candy cane symbolizes Jesus. I can't wait for my Sunday School teachers to add the part about how "the hard end of the cane symbolizes Jesus's erect penis, ready to be fellatiated, then perform frottage."

I have nothing more to say.

“A woman’s appetite is twice that of a man’s; her sexual desire, four times; her intelligence, eight times.”

Those Sanskrits were on to something, though not everyone agrees.

Turn Ons

bad twin, originally uploaded by Photos Parfait.

Pretty much this whole area is what I dream about.

Beth Ditto

Probably from Love magazine, though The Code doesn't say where he found it.

Hipster Guts & Male Swagger

I haven't a clue where Nina Gapinski found this photo of Pete Doherty, but from the scarf's print I am guessing it may have actually been some kind of fashion spread. 

Just yesterday I was wondering why there wasn't a male term for plump-but-hot guys. Today, I found it in the most unusual of places: a blog about DC's Goodwill. The article's inspiration was from a NYT piece  talking about how hipsters are increasingly letting themselves go. There were the usual from-the-collarbones-down shots of fat people and the warning that "Women have almost never gotten a pass on the need to maintain their bodies, while men always have". 

But Nina Gapinski gets it:

I think most women know that attitude is everything when it comes to sexy. Belly fat held no appeal to me whatsoever when I was a teenager, but by my mid-twenties I’d turned the corner on that point. There was something to a man having some weight on him if he were going to be at all up to throwing it around, as I saw it... and most of the men I fancied tended to do that. Pitied in fitness magazines and the butt of so many Hollywood movie gags… belly fat, in my mind, held its own tacit countercultural standard; with the right swagger, it was its own brand of hot.

An unapologetic gut is very… gutsy, if you will. It’s take-it-or-leave-it; it isn’t trying too hard. And it subtly implies that this is a man with priorities that have nothing at all to do with some external standards, Greek gods or no Greek gods. The man makes the abs, but the abs will never make the man. It works for me. What, may I ask, is sexier than swagger?

Softie

[Via] Male

A "softie" is what I call a male who isn't what people would consider fat, but just a little plump around the tummy. Oddly, though there are BBWs, plumpers, and BHMs, there doesn't seem to be a popular phrase for boys like this. Perhaps we should call them BWAs (Boys Without Abs)?

Why I Don't Google My Fetish Very Much

You'd think that in my endless quest for porn, acceptance, and a local feedee, I'd be constantly typing "feederism" into Google. You might understand why I don't when I show you some highlights from my last foray into the search results:

The idea of feederism disgusts me.

-- from Fattie Gossip

It's remarkably similar to chronic domestic violence, where someone attempting to escape the clutches of the abuser often winds up back in the same situation -- to be abused again.

--from here.

This is actually one of the most well-written articles I have found about my fetish in general, and it often turns up in the first few pages of any web search involving feederism. It neatly outlines all my problems with the way feederism is usually portrayed--it seems too bound up with shame about body image and has little concern for reality--but then ends with the extrapolation that the only ending of any feeder/feedee relationship is for the feedee to die. People, I just want to feed a nice boy an ice cream sundae every now and then, OK? I have limits.

My intention is not merely to inform, but to foster mockery, derision, and disgust.

-- from a fitness forum(!)

Again, this article highlights a lot of the things I don't like about feederism (what is the deal with immobility?) but it uses some of the nastiest fat-hating, anti-kink language I've ever seen to get the point across. It's very long, and even I didn't read the whole thing. To get the gist of it, you really just need to read the title. 

He probably thinks it is a no0rmal way for a man to behave.

-- from here

Even in the absence of a phallus, men are central to the eroticized dominance and submission that’s performed in feeding pornography.

-- from Bitch Magazine

I think this is article is pretty awesome, actually, but if you don't understand why that quote makes me hot under the collar, you haven't been reading this blog very long.

The thing is, often I agree with the opinions expressed here. Feederism on the web is nothing but extremes, and like most mainstream porn, it's almost entirely male-oriented. I hardly ever see what I personally think of as hot, responsible, or even slightly realistic...but nevertheless, this is what most reliably turns me on. Unless I'm writing my own porn, the result of this paradox is that while trying to get off, I'm more often pissed off.

Long story short, I'm tired of being thought of as insane, irresponsible, disgusting, or incapable of being attracted to anyone under 300 lbs. What can I do to change this?

_____

Oh, and just for the hell of it: "Feederism has nothing to do with birds."

Placeholder

I'm not dead!

But my life it about to be turned upside down. My current temp. job is ending soon, and a lot is riding on when I can find another. I am still writing, but it's longer stuff, short story type things. I'm having a lot of fun doing them, but they're not ready to go out in public yet. ;)

So am I going to stop blogging? Nope. Will I be posting again soon? It'll be a while yet. In the meantime, you can always find me on Twitter, or email me at missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com. If you're in dire need of some new sexy stuff to read, check out the links I have there on the sidebar. Those are the people that *I* like to read when I want to get off, so spread the love!

Kisses,

Molly

Souvenir

Bruises courtesy of DC Boy.

I did in fact get laid this weekend, tho not at Dark Odyssey's Leather Retreat. Mainly, I ran around with very few clothes on, and did a lot of naked swimming in the pool. There were very pretty people and very ugly people. I fell in with some people my own age and made friends rather quicker than I think I had anywhere else, and they let me watch a play piercing.

You look sullen, Molly, they told me a while later as I sat in the dungeon and watched the happy pairs of people flogging each other, having threesomes in cages and setting each other on fire. You should go to the strip club. I did, and I saw a woman drink her own pee. "Oh no!" I yelled as I realized what she was about to be doing, Oh yeah! yelled everyone else in the crowd.

You should stay longer, one of the pretty girls told me. Nooo, I thought, I have to leave so I can get laid. So at an ungodly hour I got back on the train and went to DC, where a boy and I hit each other and slept next to each other, so the tale ended happily.

It seems I *can* come to Dark Odyssey this year...

...but it's for one night only!

You may have heard me Twitter about how I couldn't come to camp this year: no money, not enough time, etc. I planned to not get on Twitter that week and ignore the blogs, just so I wouldn't get too jealous of the fun everyone else was having. Instead, the kind folks at DC TNG sent out an email with a massive discount that would allow me to attend...but for one night only: Friday the 26th.

Still, one night is more than I hoped for. (And, based on the stories I've heard, may be quite enough for a camp virgin.) I may even be able to bring a friend with me, but we'll have to see about that.

With my usual immense enthusiam coupled with lack of planning, I'm not entirely positive how I'm going to *get* there yet (a MARC train/cab combination is currently the most possible). If anyone else is coming late to camp and can perhaps give me a ride, I would be much oblidged. (I understand that such a thing is quite unlikely, but thought I would ask anyway because hey, what else are blogs for?) But never fear: where there's a will, I'll find a way.

So, who else is coming?

Fan Mail

I do not really get a lot of mail. I get several misspelled emails from ardent feedees a month, but I do not quite think of that as mail. And, fortunately, I have yet to receive any hate mail, which means when I do get something it's like Christmas. Seriously, people, I love the sight of an unread email the same way I love the sight of an unopened box with a big bow on top.

Not too long ago I got this one:

i just caught myself up on your blog, its been a few months. Today i realized that i like yours best for an odd reason. Its not because of the fetishes involved, its because there is a human quality that porn and other blogs miss. I like how you doubt yourself. Most dommes are theses unattainable monstrous beauties, but you, youre unsure of yourself at times. i like it. Youre real.

Aww. Bitchy Jones would be proud.

Kablooie

In kink, there are some things that are possible, some things that should only be executed by someone who's had quite a bit of experience, and some things that you should never, ever do, but for the artistically inclined, can be drawn or written out as fantasies.

With feederism, however, things tend to get rather blurry.

Part of it is that very few people in the "scene" (if you can count the two websites and the fetish profiles on Myspace and YouTube a "scene") has ever watched a real live person stuffing themselves. I don't mean just a boy licking peanut butter off a spoon for my enjoyment, but the "hardcore" stuff where they drink a gallon of ice cream or swallow so many sodas the shape of their bodies changes. You know, the weird stuff. If someone had told me a year ago that there were boys who won prizes to eat 75 hot dogs at a go or shoved air pumps up their asses*, I most likely wouldn't have believed it either.

Thus, when I first heard cyberwhispers of boys drinking coke and then swallowing a mentos, I was positive it was some kind of feedee urban legend. After all, if that combination does this in the outside air



what the hell does it do to you once it was inside your body? BDSM is tame, I thought, looking in the mirror the day after the first time I was slapped during sex and finding nary a bruise. I have to worry about my partners possibly rupturing.

Then again, no one ever said this was the smartest idea for a fetish. I can copy Maymay and take the activism route, complain that, unlike BDSM, feederism is too small and scattered to have cons and classes and produce knowledgeable people to teach how-to's on...tube feeding? Really, one must simply question the sense of a lot of ravenous boys going about the world with the one question being uppermost in their minds being, "What would happen if I swallowed *this*?" Such a mentality is bound to end in the same species of shenanigans that results in men coming into the ER at 4 am trapped in various vacuums cleaner attachments.

Then, one day when I wasn't looking for it, I received help from an unexpected source:

The Mythbusters.



They actually use pop rocks rather than mentos, but the basic idea is the same. Because people (unlike rats) can burp, there is small chance of them going kablooie. Bellydu--actually, let's give him a better name, and refer to him as Jake from now on--Jake tried the mentos experiment shortly after this, and what happened? Nothing.

Of course, if you watch all the way through that particular episode, and end up at the credits, you'll see the result when they empty so many sodas into it that the pig's stomach does in fact part at the seams and spray its contents everywhere.

So if you're ever sitting in a bar drinking rum and diet coke, and I offer you a mentos, you'll know what I'm about.

Just don't say you weren't warned.



* Dear God, please don't do this.

Sex 2.0: Pre-Party

I thought I'd never make it to Sex 2.0.

Really, I'd thought I'd never even make it to DC. There had been a serious error in the bus schedule, leaving me scrabbling for an alternative on a weekend when most of my friends had left town and none of my DC acquaintances were willing to help me out. After shelling out $30 for a taxi, I arrived at my friend's house 4 hours later than I had planned, exhausted and dusty. 30 minutes later I was off again when I received text messages indicating that Jefferson was still awake and, presumably, fucking. But there was always something, and this time I had seriously underestimated the time it took to travel across what seemed to be the entirety of DC.

Why am I doing this? I wondered several times as I struggled to follow Google's directions in an unfamiliar city at 11:00 at night, and couldn't come up with anything except that listening to Charlaine Harris' Horny Vampire Novels for a week had done me in. The thought of so many sex bloggers in such close proximity forced me to press on even when I knew how unreasonable it was to expect an open-arms welcome from people I barely knew. The closer I got, the later it got, and I felt my chances of being fucked decrease exponentially.

But when I finally arrived at the hotel, I discovered I hadn't missed the party at all. Jefferson was outside with two women, Elle Lumpesse and Domina Doll, and he was making out with the latter.

"I see you didn't waste any time," I snarked, but Jefferson looked so happy that I felt it melting away almost immediately. He led the way to the Brownies and Porn party, which was several floors up. Along the way we met Lolita Wolf in her PJs, but that's a story for another post. Within ten minutes of my arrival, I found myself in a suite where hardcore pornography was playing on two TVs and at least 30 people who I had never met were already deep in loud conversation. They were all older than me, there were two girls who were much prettier than me, and I had no idea how to break into the cacophony. Jefferson did his best to make introductions, but in minutes was distracted by a boy who had come to Sex 2.0 out of curiosity. Hey, I heard Jefferson saying, isn't this ice cream? Can we feed you ice cream? Where's Molly? Jefferson pulled the boy's shirt over his head, revealing a perfectly rounded tummy that wouldn't have looked out of place on the Myspace profiles I'd jacked myself off to in the past year. "Excuse me," I said to the person nearest, and went into the other room.

There were only three people in it, quietly watching porn. One of them was Match--I recognized him from his Flickr photos.

Too much? Match inquired. He was in a brown bathrobe that made him look like a monk.

Yes, I said. I peeped in the other room and Jefferson waved a dripping spoon at me. I shook my head. "Wait ten minutes," I said, and then I'll be in the thick of things again, you'll see.

"What are they doing?" Match was worried, since he had to sleep in the bed that people were committing unknown acts with ice cream on, and I decided to use that as my cue.

"Hey peeps, don't get ice cream on the bed!" I yelled, and the answering laughter gave me enough courage to go back in. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"Blowing this boy with ice cream," said Jefferson matter of factly. He was straddling the young man's hips and working his uncut dick with his hands. The boy's shirt was pushed up, and his naked belly was shiny with melted ice cream and littered with chocolate and cherry pieces.

"In the beginning he had chocolate chips in his pubes," said Furrygirl. "It was cute". The bed was crowded. The boy's hand was being cradled by Furrygirl (to keep him from becoming gay, she teased him) and she in turn was leaning up against a second boy. And that was only one half of the bed. She pointed out to Jefferson that he had some chocolate on his face, and he wiped it off, saying, Isn't this awesome?

"I thought you were straight?" the boy asked Jefferson.

"Oh, I was until I met you!" exclaimed Jefferson in a voice so redolent with feather boas that I stared. How the hell could anyone ever think he was straight, I wondered in disbelief. That a man known primarily for his skill in finding women's G-spots would constantly set off my gaydar was one of the many things about him that had been unexpected. Though I had been reading his blog for a year, if you added up all the face time we spent together, it was probably no more than 8 hours.

I was still racked by nerves, but the scene he had started was something I could get into. I knelt by the bed. "If I hold your other hand", I told the boy, "it would really keep you from becoming gay. And if I kissed you", I added, "it would make it even better."

He made out with me well enough, though I don't think he really liked it. "Is he your boyfriend?" he asked when we we parted lips, and it took me a second to realize he meant Jefferson. My surprised expression made him add a list of other relationship names, which made this all sound way too serious.

"Fangirl?" I attempted. I watched Jefferson work the boy's cock with his mouth, tried again. "Jefferson's the only pervert I know."

"Aw," said Furrygirl in sympathy.

Even though the boy hadn't come, Jefferson stopped and tucked the boy's cock away, telling him he had very much enjoyed sucking it. Then he tried to kiss him, but the boy turned his head away. Undaunted by this rejection, Jefferson went to get a towel to wipe the boy's belly down with, explaining that, just like at the gym, you had to wipe down your machine when you were through. Newly cleaned, the boy got off the bed and I jumped into the vacant spot, hoping for similar attentions, but Jefferson was already talking to someone else.

After a while Jefferson began playing with my hair, gripping it in a knot and moving it from side to side. This was fine until he started doing other things. "What are you doing?" I sputtered as he squeezed my cheeks betwen his forearms.

"Playing with your face," he told me.

I gave up on the idea of Jefferson fucking me that night and talked to the cute boy sitting next to me about computer programs. Suddenly Jefferson had me by the crook of my knee, and what I thought was an inarticulate request for me to move over so he could sit on the bed devolved into him pushing me onto my back, pulling me around so my crotch was in easy reach and and skinning off my tights and panties. "Hi, Molly," said Furrygirl as my head ended up by her feet.

"Hi," I managed to say as Jefferson pushed my legs above my head. The boy behind Furrygirl handed him a condom.

"Magnums?" said Jefferson in disbelief, "I dunno what stories you've been hearing!"

"Jefferson has a real cock!" I said, proud that I spoke from experience and then immediately regretting my words in case there were some naturally endowed men in the room that would feel left out.

Jefferson agreed that his was indeed a normal cock. And speaking of penises, he said, you should look at the one my friend has here-- and motioned to Furrygirl, who opened her legs. Since I was right by her feet and she wasn't wearing any panties, I found myself in prime position to gaze upon the most beautiful bush I had ever seen. The hair was thick, lustrous, and dark, much closer than my own, and beautifully shaped between her thighs.

It's pretty, I said, making the understatement of the year. In fact it was so pretty I had no idea what to say next and turned back to Jefferson to hide the dazed look that I was sure was spreading over my face. I had no idea what orientation Furrygirl was, and she didn't seem to be ready to play, having designated herself the Safe Sex Fairy. She squirted a dollop of the lube Match had put on the bedside table onto Jefferson's hand so that he could better work it up inside me, for in spite of all this cock talk, Jefferson kept his jeans on.

Not that I was at all disappointed. "Oh yeah," I said, spreading my thighs wider as he entered me with his fingers on the bed in the middle of a crowd of people, "oh yeah, I remember this!" The first and last time Jefferson had done this was at the orgy three months ago, and, though I don't think he had been unnecessarily rough, I remembered it as intense more than pleasurable. This time I felt the wetness come, and I began to understand how this might become something I could get off on. Jefferson made an appreciative sound as my pussy began to make wet noises.

"No, stop!" I yelped at Jefferson nipped at my belly with his teeth.

He was annoyed with me. "It's just a love bite--"

"You can't leave marks," I said, "tomorrow I'm meeting this boy for the firrrrsssttt---"

I didn't get to say the last word because Jefferson was picking up the pace. Does he know you like this? he said, pressing down on my belly, does he know you're a slut that likes to get fucked in front of all these people? and I arched my back with the truth of all these things and the feeling of his fingers forced inside me.

"How many is that?" I gasped. "Three?"

"Four," said Jefferson. "And that's the beginning of five."

"Fisting?" asked someone (I think it may have been Jack).

Five started to hurt, so I reluctantly asked him to stop. We knocked teeth accidentally when he tried to kiss me better. "With you it always hurts," I pouted, and we kissed again.

In our play we had naturally moved around, but when you'd think we would have moved forwards, Jefferson had actually gotten so close to the edge of the bed that he slipped off and ended up sitting in the space between the bed and the wall. There was much hilarity. I gave him my hands to help him pull himself up and used my leverage to pull him down on top of me instead. "I wasn't planning to go here!" he grinned. But he must not have minded because he stayed. Before I had come here I had fashioned--and hinted at--all kinds of rough fantasies, but right now this was exactly what I wanted. They were hello kisses, welcome back kisses. I wrapped my legs around him and crossed my ankles over the small of his back, squeezing him. "You taste like the boy you blew earlier," I whispered in his ear.

Jefferson grinned at me. "That's the ice cream talking," he said.

Thanks for Being Awesome

I'm not popular enough for people to start complaining when I don't post, but nevertheless, it's been a while. Hardly had I returned from Sex 2.0 when I was struck down so thoroughly by a undiagnosed malady that I ended up in the hospital, and it was another week before I felt myself again. Thus, everything got pushed back for longer than I care to think about, and I never got to write to the awesome people I got to meet and listen to, such as Maymay, Essin' Em, Furrygirl, Jack Stratton, Match, Mollena, and many more. Even tho in some cases I only got to say hi, y'all are cool people and it was great to finally see the faces behind the computer screen! :)

Another thing that happened while I was gone from the blogosphere was that Jefferson wrote about me. Sex blogs are places to be naked, so I will admit that ending up on One Life Take Two has been one of my blogging goals for a while, second only to making out with an Andy Warhol look alike and getting Fleshbotted. Some stuff we remember entirely differently, some stuff was embarrassingly spot on, and some of it I think he made up. Go read it!

Really, between that and Fleshbot I could stop the blog right here, but of course I won't: blogging is my crack, and I still have many more Sex 2.0 posts in the works covering the good, the bad, and the foolhardy exhibitionism. As they used to say on the old adventure serials: dear reader, stay tuned.

Orgies for Beginners

To set the scene, I have just arrived at my first orgy. To my surprise, this early in the evening it looks like any other cocktail party, with fully dressed people standing around to sip drinks and mingle.

A woman I had never seen before said, "Molly Ren?" as if she knew me. "I read your Twitter!" she explained, hugging me. "I'm Tilda!"

"Oh," I said.

She drew me into an eddy of the conversation, and soon I found myself standing in a circle made up of myself, Tilda, Nate, and Byron. Naturally, the topic was how'd we'd found out about this party, and Byron told the usual story about how he'd been reading Jefferson's blog, sent him an email, and, for some reason, been invited!

Because you are pretty, I managed not to blurt out, staring unabashedly at his cheekbones.

It turned out that me and Byron were the newcomers: neither of us had ever been to a party like this before.

Nate said he had been in Europe once during some kind of riot. He'd also been to a concert with a mosh pit. If you struggle in a mosh pit, he said, you get hurt. But if you just go with the flow, everything will be fine. Tilda nodded in agreement: the movement of these things was just like a good orgy, where you let the collective body take over.

See, Byron, I teased, now you know: in twenty minutes these people will strip off their clothes and throw their drinks over their shoulder and it will be like a riot and a mosh pit all in one. Aren't you glad you came?

The Internet Loves Me

Earlier this week, I was flattered to discover Ice Cream had been featured by the lovely Sexoteric, who specializes in collecting unique instances of pervery under their Experiences tag. This was the first time anyone had ever quoted me on their blog, let alone one I love to read!

But things got even better yesterday, when I idly signed into Statcounter (as I do every day). What is usually an exercise in pure narcissism, however, turned into bug-eyed gasps and squeals of glee when I realized I had been featured on Fleshbot! A million thanks to the lovely Madeline Glass for picking me (and making me first on the list, no less!) Being on Fleshbot has pretty much been a goal since I started blogging, so this really made my month!

I'm in good company, too. My internet buddies Byron and Lily were also featured. Go check 'em out!

Ice Cream

An excerpt from a piece I'm currently working on:

...There's something about the sheer hunger, something very masculine about the concept of devouring--Takeru Kobayashi's world famous hot dog eating eating contests, frat boys downing bongs. It definitely has something to do with the fact that once he has filled himself to capacity--the good ones, the "feedees", can drink almost a gallon at a time--he is incapacitated. No bondage cuffs could hold a pretty boy as willingly in thrall as the warm, heavy belly and the loggy feeling that comes after an orgy of overindulgence. To my mind, there is nothing so sweet to look at as a naked, full-bellied boy "sleeping it off"...

It's a lot like bar hopping in that I drop down into a crossfire of conversation, a hungry boy latches onto me, and if he passes the first tests of grammar and basic articulateness I take him aside into a private chat-room. We'll stay there for the first "getting to know you" paragraphs and then switch to Yahoo chat for the webcams. The little screen opens and I see an unfamiliar bedroom, a new body.

He's naked in an office chair. I can see his brush, his dick...oh, and his belly. He's just a little plump, so it contrasts nicely with the rest of his body, not to big or too small, and I can't see the rest of him because he's angled the camera to cut out his face. Once when he moved to the other side of the room to get something something shifted and I spied the color of his hair before he bought up his hand to cover his face like a prima donna hounded by the paparazzi. I want to respect his privacy and yet at the same time it seems so frustrating and pointless not to be able to see his face.

Beside him is one of those plain plastic tubs of ice cream you can get at the grocery store. He says he's let the ice cream inside melt, so that he can swallow it more easily and it won't give him a tummy freeze. Such details fascinate me, all the little bitty things that can't be thought of, but can only be realized through experience. Like a sailor talking about proper knots or a foodie describing the various ways to make a single dish, you can tell a true expert by the attention to detail, the little things he does to make the job easier.

He lifts the whole thing to his mouth, like drinking from a bucket. There's no way he can drink a gallon, but he's going to try. My clit swells as I watch his throat move, and if I watch carefully I can even see his tummy grow a bit with each swallow, each gulp traveling down to press it out a little more. A loop of melted cream falls across the soft flesh just above his nipple, and I offer to lick it off.

He stops, overwhelmed. He can't do it, though he made a good try. His tummy is noticeably bigger, rounder. fuller. This pleases me: that he looks better, that my favorite part of him is more exaggerated, that his senses are overwhelmed with sweetness and richness and gluttony. He runs his hand down his belly, caressing it, then, without asking me, begins to jerk off.

Homecoming

I went to my college's homecoming party because I hoped I'd get laid.

It had been almost a year since I'd been on campus, despite the fact that I lived in the same town and still had one or two friends there who'd been a year behind me. I decided to go because I'd always had good luck at homecomings in the past, there would be free beer, and it had been long enough since I'd been there that I would just seem like another alum. I could pretend I had just come into town, and thus avoid the questions which would lead to me revealing that I'd been laid off and out of work for almost four months.

Additionally, my good friend Anastasia had invited me. She was engaged to be married, and this was one of the few times she'd be staying up late for a real party. I was an old hand at these things, even had a playlist that I listened to to get me in the mood as I got ready, walked from my house to campus.

Don't think of Constantine.

It's unlikely he'll be there, I said to myself, accessing the emotional risks. But in an obsessive nature such as my own, some fantasies are inevitable. With everyone half blind with alcohol, who knew whose bed I would end up in at the end of the night?

I won't go into any details--such fantastic thoughts embarrass me in the sober light of day. Anyway, by the time I was nearing campus, I had put such dreams away in the worry over the endless questions I might be asked: why was I still living in town? What happened to my plans for New York City? Had I applied for graduate school?

The truth was I was embarrassed to go, but it was the only party in town.

I solved this problem by downing a beer in my first ten minutes and going in search of something stronger. Unlike last year, however, there was no hard liquor behind the stage, only a couple making out beneath the emergency exit light. Good. If people were making out already, I'd be bound to pick somebody up, maybe some sweet 19 year old freshman boy with a private dorm room...

But at a party attended by almost 200 people, that was the only couple I saw.

Instead, there was Constantine.

I hadn't made any plans to seek him out, or even to notice him, but the moment I stepped onto the improvised dance floor he broke from the crowd and got as far away from me as he could. I had to brush past him when I wanted to seek someone on the dance floor or went over to the tables for a drink. When I left to go outside for a breather he'd be out there smoking, and when I tried to come in he'd decide to rejoin the party at the same time as me. In my increasingly buzzed state I began to wonder if he wanted something from me, or if this was some sophisticated form of torture. I tried to make a joke of it to Anastasia: "I'm seeing Constantine everywhere!"

"I'm sure he doesn't see you," she replied in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

But it was comforting to know that the social agony my memories from last year were colored with hadn't just been a result of overactive emotions. This place really was small, and the parties I had gone to mainly so as not to make it seem like I was afraid of him really had been difficult. After he stood right next to me and Anastasia as we danced, obviously "looking for someone in the crowd", I was glad when she suggested we take a break. I had had four beers, and in another minute or two I would have grabbed Constantine by the collar and either bawled out an apology or finished what we'd started 3 years ago.

I don't drink much. It's always social drinking, and lately I've begun to wonder if I should even do that. The reason is that a good drunk--that happy free floaty feeling where I want to hump almost anyone--can so quickly become a bad drunk. In the course of three or four hours I can crash into the dangerous round of thought that no one will ever fuck me again, nothing I have achieved is worth anything, no one will remember me when I die. Like when I was a child at my first IMAX theatre, I will become more overwhelmed than most people in the audience, unable to resist a powerful feeling of vertigo. "Easily overstimulated," says Q.

In the safety of Anastasia's dorm room I collapsed on her bed, hugging one of the huge squishy pillows she had there. She collects Klimt prints, has put up photos of her family and charming little drawings and trinkets she's made, has DVDs like You've Got Mail and The Hours. "This is peaceful," I said. She and her fiance, for all our ideological differences, are like a little island of calm compared to me. I wanted to tell her how the rising tide of bad memories had been quelled simply by a change of scene, of how a week ago I'd been surprised to notice that I hadn't thought of Constantine for ages, only to have it flare up again in his actual presence. Of how happy I was that she was there, when usually I have no one to save me from the bad drunk but myself.

Instead, we got into an argument about sex.

I have no idea how it began. I've told my closer friends and family part of the truth. Q. knows I have a blog, though not what it's about, and promised she has no interest in reading it. Anastasia knows I meet people online for sex, but has no idea why I do this when I could meet someone normal in a less dangerous fashion. Perhaps I had just quoted something someone had said on Twitter.

What are these people like? she wanted to know, "Do they have jobs?" From her tone she thought they were a lot of vagrants living off the back of the state--as I was I until very recently, for at the time of this conversation I had a food stamp card in my wallet.

"Well," I began, deciding to play for sympathy, "some of them have children to come home to--"

"Then they are obscene!" she exclaimed. "You think they don't know?"

I'm not sure how she made the connection between having children in a house and having wild sex in the same house without my saying anything, but the jump had been made. "Q. dated," I recalled, and tried to stammer out an anecdote about a trip to another state and adjoining hotel rooms, but the tone was wrong.

"This is too personal," she said, "we should stop."

So we did. But I wanted to say that you always kind of know, even in households where there are no orgies. There was an article in one of those teen magazines about funny "I walked in on my parents" stories, and my cousin had once complained to me about accidentally ending up in a similar situation: "Ugh, old people!" And knowing what I do now, was there really anything wrong with what Q. was trying to do? She'd gotten divorced when I was one, didn't start dating again until she was in her late 30s. I'd never actually seen anything, though I had my 12-year-old suspicions. When I teased her for going back to the laundromat with its cute attendant because she had "forgotten" something, she'd thrown a pair of socks at me.

But accidents do happen. And some people push and blur the boundaries in worrisome ways. Even Q. had said to me, long after she'd ended that stage of dating men that neither of us were very comfortable with, "I wasn't a very good role model."

"Is this really good?" Anistasia wanted to know, meaning, I guess, internet dating and the unspoken suspicions of bondage, beatings, god knows what.

"It's good and bad--"

"It can't be good and bad! It's either one or the other!"

"Oh come on", I said, "there's nothing about the Catholic church you don't like?"

"Well," she faltered, and I remembered we'd had the same number of beers, "it's really old..."

"So are we!" I was sure there were frescos of people having orgies and cross dressing going back hundreds of years.

"That's just debauchery," she protested.

"Same thing!"

Really, we were in no shape to debate about any of these things, though they needed to be talked about. The difficulty was that I didn't think we'd do any better if both of us were sober. This time I called a break in the conversation, and when we came back we hugged and swore eternal friendship. We decided it was time to go back to the party, forget all this, dance some more.

But really, she said as I got my things together, why do you do it?

"After Constantine, I said, pulling on my raincoat, "I had trouble trusting anybody--"

"--with good reason", she broke in.

"Do you know what a sexual surrogate is?"

She didn't, so I explained as we went down the stairs. How they didn't really have them any more, but that there'd used to be specially trained people who would have sex with dysfunctional people. Because if you're emotionally or physically screwed up, you have two choices: either never have sex again--

She tried to interrupt.

--or get with one of these people, who can help train you so you don't end up hurting people any more. These people are like sexual surrogates. In like six months, when I'm done--


"Are you OK?" Anastasia asked an unsteady couple who were coming up the stairs.

They're fine, I assured her, they just think I'm crazy because I'm talking about sexual surrogates in public.

Anastasia wasn't satisfied with this, and we quarreled about it until we got back to the dance floor, which, despite the longer curfew, was looking pretty bare. We decided it was time to part. We hugged, and I went out the front door, where Constantine was once again smoking on the patio. I didn't even look at him. I went home. The party was over.

Of course you want to know what happened between us, to make such a mark on me. And the answer is nothing: not rape, nor grey rape, not even some depraved realization of a Marquis de Sade fantasy. We had normal sex, with full consent between both parties, which I initiated.

It was the emotional fallout I couldn't deal with, afterwards.

Seriously, though, this is his last year here, as I hope it is mine. In a month he graduates, and will go back to his home on the other side of the country, or even across the sea. Then, like a pulled tooth, it might finally cease to ache.

The Slit Dream

Image [via] Historical Anatomies on the Web


The slit dream began as a fantasy of violence, a mugging or rape of a particularly beautiful boy I had chased down an alley for just that purpose. It was an expression of my frustrations, a role reversal of the typical dream where one is helplessly chased down unfamiliar alleys by someone who ultimately overpowers you. I am ashamed to admit that (even as a fantasy, which means in real life I would hurt no one), my anger was such that a crowbar would often be used, a personal reenactment of that scene in a Clockwork Orange. Thus, I eventually I switched from simply hurting to immobilizing, and from there to fucking, and from there it evolved into a much stranger fantasy.

The boy in question was first replace by Jaime. After our failed trip to NYC he was also a subject of much frustration, while also being a source of lust. His belly, sometimes of Jesus-Christ-he-swallowed-a-basketball dimensions after a drinking bout, was ideal for the new purpose that I had suddenly conceived. He'd be secured standing to the wall behind him, and I'd tease him as to what was inside it: kittens? Perhaps it was filled with candy, like a pinata?

At this stage I had switched from a crowbar to a single knife. The effect was something like Mr. Flynn rappelling his way down the sail of a pirate ship.

Now my inventive mind has made things much easier: the boy comes pre-perforated, like toilet paper. Having secured him--his hands are bound above his head, always, by immoveable metal staples into a rough brick wall--there is very little foreplay. If he began the fantasy by wearing a shirt, by the time I--or Mister Six, I sometimes imagine it from the POV of either--is ready, any clothing he has above the waist has magically dissolved. A gripping of the flesh on either side of his belly, a sharp tug, and there he is, open.

The boy may struggle at this point, but there is never any pain. Nor is there any blood, though there may be a thin veil of red covering the major organs to give them sheen. Mainly, I imagine his insides to be clean and white, with a touch of blue here and there on the brain-like wrinkles of his intestines or the membrane of his stomach, which may already be much larger than normal. Ideally, the boy will have been been pre-prepared for me so that his internal organs are full and swollen--and therefore, most sensitive.

Here the fantasy may have a small hitch, for I have heard that there are no nerves in the internal organs, and therefore the pleasure I am about to give him will be for myself only. And sometimes I try to go on with the fantasy like that. But a moment later I decide that he can, and dip my tongue inside his body, running it over the dolphin skin of his stomach or the meaty ridges of his intestines. And another consideration: what does he taste like?

Chicken bullion.

The boy, having expected to be in the most agonizing pain of his life, followed by certain death afterwards, will instead find himself writhing in the most exquisite pleasure. There will be no penetration in this dream--how vulgar and stupid, when he is already more open than he has ever been in his life!--and I, or Mister Six, will smile with pleasure as we run our tongues over all the most deliciously secret places of his insides, our faces shiny with the clear and delicious broth that we lap from his internal organs. A little bit of steam may rise in the cold air of the alleyway.

This is where the fantasy always ends.