Stuffies

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2009-10-18T17:00:00.001-04:00

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

2009-10-06T17:00:00.000-04:00

via Derekisme

Chocolate Gloves

2009-10-01T17:00:00.000-04:00

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

2009-09-30T17:00:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-29T14:23:00.002-04:00

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

2009-09-28T17:00:00.000-04:00

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

2009-09-24T17:00:00.001-04:00

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...

2009-09-23T17:10:00.000-04:00

[Via] And Death Smiled...

Cheng Fei

2009-09-23T17:00:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-21T17:00:00.006-04:00

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

2009-09-17T17:00:00.000-04:00

[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

2009-09-16T17:00:00.004-04:00

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.”

2009-09-15T17:00:00.000-04:00

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

Turn Ons

2009-09-14T16:26:00.001-04:00

bad twin, originally uploaded by Photos Parfait.

Pretty much this whole area is what I dream about.

Beth Ditto

2009-09-13T17:00:00.002-04:00

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

Hipster Guts & Male Swagger

2009-09-10T14:05:00.006-04:00

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

2009-09-09T17:00:00.000-04:00

[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

2009-09-08T13:37:00.006-04:00

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

2009-08-10T23:28:00.003-04:00

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

2009-06-28T17:54:00.006-04:00

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...

2009-06-22T00:20:00.004-04:00

...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

2009-06-21T16:29:00.004-04:00

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

2009-06-13T20:15:00.000-04:00

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

2009-06-07T17:00:00.000-04:00

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

2009-06-06T12:33:00.006-04:00

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

2009-05-03T12:26:00.001-04:00

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

2009-05-02T14:19:00.007-04:00

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

2009-04-27T23:28:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-26T11:43:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-15T08:55:00.006-04:00

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.

Beth Ditto

2009-04-14T09:52:00.001-04:00

[via] You Can't Piss On Hospitality

Sepia

2009-04-13T09:00:00.000-04:00

[via] The Dailies

Thickbondage.com

2009-04-12T09:00:00.000-04:00

[via] The Dailies

Mollena sez:

I got on a bit of a riff today about there not being much variation in the BDSM and Bondage community when it comes to size and color, etc...

But I think there is a market for people who wanna see fat girls, and those who think we’re imminently fuckable and look awesome in bondage.

SO, I ran out and bought a domain and now and sitting here thinkin’…huh….what now?

You can sign up at the site for developments…and you can contact me if you might wish to model, or get content up there, or…yeah!

Kind of excited!

Bathhouse

2009-04-09T09:00:00.000-04:00

[via] homeofthevain

Crystal Renn

2009-04-08T21:17:00.003-04:00

[Via] The Pipeline (Thanks, Tilda!)

Oral

2009-04-06T18:41:00.000-04:00

"What would happen if I bit you on the nipples?" I asked, encircling them with my fingertips. They were a normal size, but in my mind they are bright red.

He winced a little. "I wouldn't like that very much."

It's true! I thought, exultantly, but I decided to leave them alone for now. "Have you had sex yet?"

"Tonight?" he asked.

No, I thought, I mean in your whole fucking life. I caressed his thighs and the bulge between them. "Do you want to fuck me first?"

"All right," he said. Was there a little bit of hesitation there? He made the houseboy get him another bourbon and took me by the wrist. "Sometimes you have to ask for a drink even when you really don't want one," he confided to me as he led the way to Tilda's bedroom. I have no idea what this meant.

There were people sitting on the mattress on the floor, talking. "We're going to fuck now!" I told them happily. They laughed, but I couldn't understand why: weren't they just as happy to fuck? I got on the bed first, just lying there since I was already naked. I could hear someone in the other room calling, "Jefferson, Jefferson!"

"They're calling my name when I have a naked girl in front of me," Jefferson said to me, the nerve, and then he pulled down his pants. And because I was on the bed, exactly level with his crotch, for what felt like a minute I had a very good view of Jefferson's Cock.

I think for split second upon seeing it, realizing it WAS his cock, I was terrified. Because Jefferson's Cock had to be the size of a baseball bat. And then I realized it was a perfectly lovely, normal, average sized cock. And then I realized a second thing: he wasn't hard yet.

That surprises me most of all, that he was entirely eager and willing and he wasn't hard yet. And then he was in bed with me and spreading my legs and I realized he was going to give me oral.

"Don't you need...stuff?" I couldn't remember the word: dental dam.

"I need my mouth on your pussy," Jefferson said, and went down on me.

Ah well, I thought, it's not like I've done any different with the last three people I've slept with.

It was an odd technique. The B.H.M. had flicked his tongue in and out of my vagina (and sometimes my anus) while I sucked his dick in the 69 position. It had been wet and warm and very often pleasurable when he'd hit a particularly sensitive spot. Instead, Jefferson seemed to seal his mouth to my vaginal opening. There was nothing wet to it, only a kind of...pulling. Occasionally there'd be a tiny movement, a pinhead of sensation that seemed too delicate to be made by the tongue. I lay on the bed, shifted my hips, trying to accommodate this new technique, and looked at Jefferson's skull between my thighs. Looked at the ceiling, tried not to think. Breathe.

The Diptychs of Frederic Fontenoy

2009-04-05T15:50:00.006-04:00

Rembrandt

Untitled

I discovered these via Strange Eros.

If BBWs Ruled the World

2009-04-02T20:38:00.004-04:00

It's a Nestle commercial, in...Spanish? Hebrew? For some kind of ice cream substitute? (I suck at all languages, except American English, and sometimes even then...) Anyways, it's a cute look at how things would be if the beauty ideals really were turned on their heads.

I'm trying out a new posting schedule, where I don't put anything up Friday or Saturday. It's spring, people, go out and enjoy life! I'll be back on Sunday night with more tales of beatings, boys, and oral sex (though oddly enough, no blowjobs).

First Impressions

2009-04-01T17:00:00.004-04:00

A clothed man answered the door, as if I were making a normal house call. I wondered if I would be fucking him later, started to introduce myself. He started to ask me something, then stopped short. It was as if he had been forbidden to talk, but had forgotten the injunction.

“Jefferson?” I said, invoking the only name I knew.

Instead of answering, the boy motioned for me to follow him upstairs. Though I could conceive of no other place I could be where a boy who refused to speak would lead me upstairs to a party when he had never seen me before, I began to wonder if, somehow, I had gotten the directions entirely wrong and was about to stumble into a hipster party to which I had not been invited.

At the top of the stairs the boy pushed the door open. I found myself in a lovely, white painted apartment, lined with books, chic art--and what seemed like an inordinate number of typewriters. In the living room was a group of people who were fully clothed, holding drinks, and the oldest one--a man--was holding out his hand to me and smiling, saying, "It's Jefferson..." I shook his hand feeling as if my eyes were bugging out--I hadn't recognized him. Somehow he looked entirely different than I had expected, even when we had talked over webcam once before—present in the moment, and very pleased with himself.

Gee, I thought, he is good looking. And so was everyone else in the room--

“..Florida?” Jefferson was asking me things and I wasn't paying attention. "Where are you from?" he went on, looking at my dress, which hardly reached my knees, "Florida? It's cold out.."

The boy behind me was taking my coat, and I realized they were all looking at me while I was still getting over the fact that they all were hot and no one wanted to rape me and I had to say something clever--"I'm from the land of POOR!" I blurted. I believe they may even have been amused.

It was no wonder I was having trouble finding my wit—my mind was occupied with the sea changes that were happening to it. The nagging anxieties of the past few hours—the agonies of the past few months—were banished in the swell of confidence I felt. It no longer mattered what other people wrote, or thought: I could feel the ease and mutual trust in the room, currents that would gently but inexorably move me to what I most wanted.

In short, dear readers, I melted. I went over to the kitchen, to mingle. The houseboy asked me if I wanted a drink.

Lost

2009-03-31T17:00:00.001-04:00

I got lost on the way to the orgy.

Whoever wrote the directions was at fault. Or I had gotten off at the wrong stop. At any rate, I had circled around the same street twice now, and somehow always missed the turn that would allow me to arrive at the door to everything I wanted. Which is something I had been experiencing quite often of late, to speak metaphorically. I called them “oversights”, or “unseen circumstances”: some little detail that I had never thought to check, that somehow interfered with the whole operation.

Of course I didn't have a cell number. That would have meant giving up my own.

I had ridden the subway for god knows how long, my swollen pussy attentive to every bump and vibration, my overactive imagination looking at every halfway attractive rider, wondering if they were “going my way”. If the boy oblivious to my gaze would “just happen” to get off at the same stop as myself. After a block we'd realize we were both on the same secret errand, and when we reached the apt. I could have sex with him. All of my subway crush dreams would come true in an instant.

He got off at the stop before mine. Instead, I was in a part of New York City I'd never been in before, and I was freezing.

I don't do well with getting lost. At least in NYC, where you can get so far away from your starting point in so short a time. It plays on one of my irrational fears, this one being left alone, forever, in Greenland. As I traipsed about, trying not to trip over the broken sidewalks in the darkness, I reflected that by the time I got there everyone might have been fucked already. “You didn't leave anyone for me!” I'd weep as I burst in three hours late, having circled endlessly around the same city block when the secret meeting place had been under my nose all the time. I felt the urge to giggle.

The crotch of my pantyhose became soaked. For the past fifteen minutes my pussy had been tingling as the blood flowed into it, and now with the thought of all that naked flesh so maddeningly close it had burst its wetness all at once. If I didn't get help soon, I'd go insane with pent up lusts and the next morning they'd find me gibbering on the sidewalk.

An old woman (the most-non threatening individual I could find) suggested that I go to a nearby community center to ask for directions. The name of this fine establishment failed to make an impression on my memory, but the gentleman inside was very helpful, explaining that instead of a left, I should have taken a right. Within minutes, I was standing in front of a door that matched the description I had been given in all particulars. I pushed the button.

“Hello?”

“It's Molly Ren,” I said, shaking. “Can you let me in?”

Coming Soon

2009-03-28T22:43:00.006-04:00

Stuffies will quit being an invite-only blog today. Like most of my decisions, it was made in a hasty effort to be responsible and almost immediately regretted. My apologies to those of you who downloaded Firefox in vain, I had no idea that making my blog invite-only would make it entirely inaccessible to Safari users.

I will also no longer be re-posting updates on my Livejournal or my Myspace. In the case of the former it has become too much trouble; in the latter, Myspace changes all my links to a warning that my page is spam. This would normally be enough to get me to leave Myspace altogether, except that is where the largest community of straight male feedees is to be found. Which should be a post someday, my musings on the Feederism community of Myspace. When the rest of you quit using it, only the fetishists will be left.

Speaking of future posts, I recently attended one of Jefferson's orgies. The feeders and feedees in the audience have most likely not have heard of him, his blog or the huge mess he got into not too long ago. Long story short, the sex blogosphere was divided over whether he is a manipulative bastard or just made bad decisions. I was about evenly split down the middle myself, though perhaps my next posts will clear things up a little. Or perhaps people are just sick of reading about him, who knows.

Actually, I debated writing about the orgy for another reason: it's not Feederism sex. There were various party foods served, but I didn't force anyone to drink an entire bottle of soda. In fact I have hardly ever written about a real, live, Feederism sex scene on this blog. This is because I have never yet had real, live, Feederism sex, though I would like to have it more than anything else in the world (including a night in bed with Starbuck, Jonathan Rhys Meyers and an end to the recession.)

The reasons for this lack of what this blog is supposed to be about are myriad. But it can most easily be summed up in a quote this from this excellent paper on the subject of Feederism:

Given that people interested in feederism do not hold annual conventions, subscribe to a certain type of magazine, nor are they formally members of any one particular organization, finding participants could have been extremely challenging. Not only are participants in this community not socially organized for real life meetings and conventions, they are also few and far between. They span the globe but are few in numbers.

Thus, I've been trying to spread out in my erotic interests--in other words, see if there might actually be another way for me to get off besides feeding boys gallons of ice cream. I'm not yet ready to say "everything is broken" like Bitchy Jones, but nor do I want to set myself up for a sexual life in which satisfaction is almost impossible to find. Which I think is the healthiest way to look at life when you have a very strong desire for something so rare, but leaves me the question of whether or not I should continue to blog.

And I think the answer is yes. Because, even though my circumstances do not currently allow me to make love in the highly strange fashion which is my ultimate desire, I still have "fat eyes". In other words, I tend to see the world through Feederism-colored glasses, no matter how much of a stretch it might be. In addition, the orgy was attended by a great number of curvy women and at least one FA, though I don't think he knows that's what they're called. For the first time I found myself complimented openly on my curves, and to my chagrin I found I hardly knew what to do with myself.

At any rate, writing up the orgy will take a considerable amount of time. It will lead to a week or two of almost continuous posts on this blog, and I hope you all will comment lavishly--I promise to give my leisure hours over to answering every one. Or, at least every one for which I can think up a witty rejoinder. I've had big plans for there to be more and better photos too, and maybe even some links to hot Feederism stories...but all of that is still in the vague planning stages. I may, as usual, have bit off more than I can chew.

It's Official

2009-03-22T20:47:00.001-04:00

I have one of those fetishes.

BBW Monday: Ren Fair

2009-03-16T21:25:00.001-04:00

Joylawn1, originally uploaded by Bigbabe715.

BBW Monday: Redhead

2009-03-09T19:53:00.001-04:00

Red Woman, originally uploaded by M.R Photography.

BHM Crushes: Dan Dreiberg

2009-03-07T22:38:00.012-05:00

I'm sure after the movie's been out for a while I won't have so much of a time trying to find photos of Nite Owl naked, but until then enjoy this pic of him and Silk Spectre looking all lovey dovey, courtesy of Shipperwar.

They fucked up the sex scene.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to BHM Crushes. This is the part of Stuffies where I wax eloquent on one of the poles of my desire--for what I like, at least in terms of the male body, varies both toward the tiny etherial boys who aren't over 5 foot nine all the way over to what I call, for want of a better term, chubby linebackers.

Thus, I give you my very first BHM Crush: Dan Driberg.

Tho I don't think I'm supposed to like him "that way". Example:

I'm a huge fan of the comic, but if you can pull yourself away from the source material long enough to look at the flick from a purely cinematic point of view, you'll see that the movie serves as a pretty profoundly fucked-up meditation on not only superheroes, but also on the people who dig superheroes. This is all subtext in the 'Watchmen' comic, but it wasn't until I saw all of these characters on the big screen that I realized that each of the heroes is crippled by an archetypal personality flaw endemic to a lot of comic book fans: the well-meaning but outta-shape/impotent Nite Owl, the too-smart-for-his-own-good Ozymandias, the rage-filled Rorschach and the all-knowing-but-tragically-disconnected-from-humanity pile of protons that is Doc Manhattan. It wouldn't be too hard to see these same characters stuck together in high school, unable to get dates or get along with anyone else while the Silk Spectre II bumps uglies with the school's quarterback.

But really, even with all that, how can you not love a man who named his flying machine Archie? And he can make all his own toys!

This article also conveniently forgets that Miss Jupiter ends up bumping uglies with that same impotent man, and honestly seems to like it. Sometimes multiple blue dudes that taste like batteries just don't do it for you, and what you really need is a good old fashioned fuck delivered by a hot geek with arm muscles, holy god, I so need a still of that scene where he's on top of her on the sofa and he's not sure what he's doing but his arm muscles look so gloriously capable. And then there's a close up of her undoing the belt on his pants and you can see his soft tummy even and there's never ever been a sex scene like this in a movie that I've ever seen and then it was over. But it was ok, I knew he'd get a second chance. I'd read the book.

Speaking of which, isn't Nite Owl supposed to have a fetish too?

I'm pretty sure the creators of the original comic put the fetish sex connotations in to say something about how being a superhero was a unique kind of fucked up, but you know what, I don't care about that any more. So what if the man has a latex fetish? There are much worse fetishes to have, I assure you...

Costumes. Oddly, one of the things the book and the movie never explained how he was supposed to fit back into his costume. Wasn't he supposed to have gained weight? But you know I don't care about that either because she's taking his mask off and there's something so hot about a man with a naked head when the rest of him is covered. And then he picks her up and starts to pound her right there on the bulkhead and whoa, this looks like a real sex scene! He's thrusting and they both look kinda awkward but also hot and we have this nice close up of her boot pressed up against his side and then the music.

The horrific music.

Was the sex scene supposed to be stupid all along and I just missed it? Ok, the bit where the fire shoots out is kinda silly...but it's tipped over into agonizing absurdity with this song, which will simply not go away or be faded out so I have to hunker down in my seat and simply breathe, focus on Dan's arms, don't let it entirely ruin it for me. It's like my fetish in general, I thought, you just gotta block out the bad parts, focus on the good...

Anyway, when Watchmen comes out on DVD I can scroll to this scene and watch it with the sound off. Just like a real porno.

BBW Monday: Coy Pink

2009-03-02T17:00:00.001-05:00

You can see the rest of this set here.

This week's BBW is the long-overdue Coy Pink. She and her gorgeous husband collaborate to bring their readers beautifully shot HNT's almost every week. It's always a treat to see what theme they'll pick, and how happy Coy always looks showing off her curves.

March Wishlist

2009-02-28T02:01:00.008-05:00

1. I want to see you suck cock.

2. I want you to fist me.

3. I want to help turn Laken into a cake--and then watch you eat her out.

4. I want to beat up Nate again. Do you think I can get him to scream into my mouth?

Movies That Squick Me

2009-02-27T23:17:00.007-05:00

If I did one of those year end roundup things like everyone else does, I probably would have done one on Useful Words I Have Only Read on Sex Blogs. Among the nominees for terms for things that I knew existed by had absolutely no words for, there's "mimbo", "guh", and "subspace". But by far the most useful word that I have yet to see in everyday life has been "squick".

There's a certain scene in a certain movie that everyone talks about in Feederism. Perhaps you've seen it?

This movie squicks me. I first saw it when I was a teeny kid and watching the scene filled me with a horror that I still can't quite describe--Turn it off, turn it off, please please turn it off!

Which, according to some things I've read, is exactly why I'm interested in the things I am now. It's probably in a very general top ten of "When I Realized I Had A Fetish" stories. As one of my feedee acquaintances past explained it to me, What you fear becomes that which you most desire, and so--! One wonders if the makers of Willy Wonka realize how many little children had all their sex synapses fire off at once simply from watching their move. After one showing, hundreds of little inflation fetishists were born!

But the problem with that theory is, the movie still squicks me. It's not that I secretly want it and have deeply repressed it, it's that it doesn't excite me in any way at all. It gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach--or, if I actually force myself to watch it (to prove to myself that I am a normal person and the fact that these images of entirely fantastic expansion shouldn't really bother me) a feeling that something terrible will happen when the tension is finally released. There is a deep part of me that is simply terrified of watching the buildup of pressure that leads to an explosion, and it is this strange quirk of my makeup that will guarantee that if I ever cross paths with a looner, I will hail them as a cousin.

Granted, this peculiar quirk doesn't have much affect on my life. It doesn't inhibit with my everyday functioning, unless you count my media consumption. I didn't even see the second half of Willy Wonka until many years later, when there was a community showing of it that I attended with my friends. I went to the bathroom during the "Blueberry" part, and came back when it was over. I did the same thing during the pig scene in Sprited Away. And that stuffing scene in Cool Hand Luke. And this one bit in Brasil that you will probably watch and feel nothing for at all. It's why I still haven't seen Wall-E.

Oh, yeah, and Akira.

I saw Akira originally because I wanted to watch more anime, and it was recommended to me as a classic. I haven't had much of a desire to watch any anime since.

If I want an explanation for why I feel this way, it's really very simple. I am horrified at losing control over my body to that extent. The possibility of my body's cells going berserk in quite that way is highly unlikely, but nevertheless lurks in the same space as my fear of deep water or airplane crashes. And I feel the same sense of unease when I read about someone who on my fetish forum who has the goal of reaching 500 lbs.

I kind of like my fear. It's how I separate myself from other Feederism fetishists. I imagine myself to be more virtuous in that I draw strict circles around what I'm attracted to, and what I'm not, what I'm willing to do, and what I'm not. In a seemingly limitless fetish, I have limits, and it's this that prevents me from doing harm.

My Tits

2009-02-24T23:54:00.008-05:00

All right, a promise is a promise, so here they are: my actual breasts. The beads are real Mardi Gras beads, bought in New Orleans many years ago. As for the purple mark you can see on my left boobie, that's a souvenir from a more recent adventure.

Happy Mardi Gras everyone!

xoxo,

Molly

BBW Tuesday: Isabella Valentine

2009-02-24T17:08:00.002-05:00

Femdom Isabella Valentine 1, originally uploaded by isabellavalentine.

Hey peeps, sorry for the lack of updates yesterday. My home internet will have to be resuscitated, it seems. Hopefully Miss Valentine will make up for it. In the meantime, I'll be in the local coffee shop, storing up pretty curvy girls in case of future outages.

Damages

2009-02-19T21:53:00.004-05:00

He'd somehow gotten ahold of the flesh just above my knee. I didn't even know there was enough slack up there to bite, but he was holding it even when he had one hand in my pussy and his prick in my ass, Karma Sutra style.

I'd never been bitten before. Bite my nipples, I'd tell boys, and they'd gently hold my nipple between their teeth. Harder, I'd tell them, and they'd increase the pressure until I could really feel it, and I'd gasp. He'd begin at that point, then keep bearing down until the pressure reached a white hot point, the kind of concentrated pain you'd get from having a hot needle driven into your breast. Sometimes he'd worry the marks with his teeth a little, to spread the pain around.

I found I sometimes had to fight the urge to hit him. I wanted him to do this to me, but when the pain pushed one click to far I'd start to pound him on the shoulder and then remember and hold myself back so I wouldn't hurt him. Ha! I'd thought that after a time everything would get mixed up, and a slap would begin to feel like a warm massage. Instead it was an edgy game where I did my best to open up, take it in, bear more and more. And he kept finding ways to make things hurt I had never realized before, like when he gripped me under the knees to push my legs towards my chest to fuck me. Ten seconds later I realized even such an innocent grip as that could become agony.

Or the skin above my knee, which was hurting like a fresh burn. His teeth were still set firmly.

Stop, I'd beg, oh stop, and he'd let up...a beat or two later. Once I had yanked his hand away when he'd mashed my breast in a fist and twisted. But I wanted to bear more. "I don't have a very high pain tolerance, do I?" I'd asked over my increasingly scarlet breasts.

He looked confused. "You seem to be holding up fine."

His teeth had reached the stage where the pressure was like a white-hot needle.

I leaned my head back, and suddenly found the trick of it. Like in the moments before one of my own self-induced orgasms, I'd clear the front of my mind so as to have no distractions. I'd refuse to focus on the room around me, on how long it was taking, and the pleasure wouldn't jerk to a stop in the middle but would flow unencumbered to a strong and lasting crescendo. I could throw my mind away, refuse to acknowledge my nerves' insistence that they were at their limit, and hold it...and hold it...

That was the longest one. I felt the beat pass when I'd usually beg him to stop, blocked out the peak, and allowed another to pass. Then another, and then he let go of his own accord. I sighed with triumphant relief, just before he bit down again, just as hard.

And in the exact same place.

"Fuck YOU!" I exploded, and hit him on the shoulder.

BBW Monday: Curvaceous Dee

2009-02-16T17:00:00.001-05:00

This week's BBW is New Zealand's very own Curvaceous Dee! As you can see, she is so lovely that she only makes love to gods and goddesses.

Penetrate

2009-02-16T14:48:00.005-05:00

I should never Twitter while drunk.

Some weeks ago, Essin' Em wanted to know if someone would buy her (new in box) dildo for the amazing price of $10. Goofy with two screwdrivers and wanting to help a sex blogger in need, I grandly DM'd her that I would adopt the rabbit, exchanged addresses via email, and woke up the next morning to wonder what the heck had come over me.

Because, you see, Feederism people don't use sex toys. Unless you count Twinkies, but I can assure we don't stick them anywhere but in the most usual place. We're not even into lingerie, really. For us, the best accoutrement is a birthday suit, where you can see all the rolls unencumbered. All of the fiction I have read is so overjoyed at the unveiling and subsequent ravishing of all that soft flesh that there isn't room for any extra stuff. Except for junk food, we're entirely immune to the commercialization of sex. We'd make Bitchy Jones proud.

But there's also my own prejudices to contend with. I have a weird relationship with the penis--or, more precisely, sticking anything in my vagina.

There, I've said it. And I feel very unoriginal, because every woman who ever thought her vagina was "broken" ends up on the internet at one point or another and tries to cure it with large amounts of casual kinky sex. (By the way, this method totally works.) But, even when it has already been written about around a million times, it annoys me deeply that, as much as I think about sex and erotica and two boys making out, even now I'm not totally sure why I get off.

Because, unlike many women on the internet, I CAN get off. I do it about five times a week, and lately I have been able to come harder than I ever have before. I even have a surefire way of doing it: I put a pillow, wrapped in a towel, between my legs, hump it, then shut my eyes and think of pretty boys being forced to eat gallons of ice cream.

Oh, yeah, and it helps if I suck my stomach in and out too, while I'm doing it.

Y'all do that too, right?

It is maybe the least photogenic way of getting off ever conceived. To that end, I feel odd about letting someone else see me do it, and in fact only two people have ever seen me cum: The Colt, who wanted to know what the pillow was for, and Edward, who improvised lines of Feederism fiction until reading them and watching him and squeezing my thighs together made me cum so hard I found myself staring at the ceiling, wondering what he'd say about the fact that I hadn't even taken my panties off.

A part of me thinks it's weird why anyone would want to shove a buzzing piece of hard plastic up inside themselves. Sometimes, I've wondered how anyone manages to get anything inside themselves. The couple times I have put my fingers in there, I've met with resistance, and I've always been afraid I might hurt something. Same with the last few dicks I've had in there: no matter what we did beforehand, no matter how eager I was at the time, there's usually a single thread of pain, which, once pushed through, goes away. But it is never replaced by pleasure...

Gah, I thought, it's no good taking this all apart in some Freudian way. Let's just get over these prejudices, be an adult, buy the dildo, and experiment. (And anyway, I didn't want to go back on a promise of payment, no wonder how I felt about it afterwards.) So I dropped a money order in the mail, and waited.

And waited. See, the payment had to get to Colorado first. And then the toy had to come all the way back here. And then, I dunno, maybe it was detained by the postal service, because I had time to go to NYC and come back, and I still hadn't gotten it. By then some things had happened--mainly, I had been in a room full of eager hands and cocks that were attached to people who knew how to use them.

"JESUS!" I'd screamed up at the ceiling, while the boy between my legs smirked as he proved that the G-Spot does in fact exist. "CHRIST!"

By now everyone else in the room was giggling. "Was it good for you?" asked someone.

See? Classic story: girl goes to big city, girl gets off, girl lives happily ever after. After having five fingers inside of me I found myself wondering what else I could stick inside there. (Cucumbers? Baby hippos?) I was armed and dangerous. I had a roadmap. From now on I was going to be able to tell every boy I ever bedded exactly where to stick what to make me get off!

And then I couldn't find it again.

I had everything, I thought. Water based lube. A sexy video to watch. And of course my own hot mental video of the first time it had happened. When I put two fingers in, I felt lots of wet flesh, but all of it was uniformly smooth. There was an area that felt like a bump, but wasn't that too close to the opening? It had felt like he was halfway to my navel. And pressing on it didn't make me feel like I had to pee, or scream...

To every boy I've ever been with who didn't find my G-spot, I apologize. I can't even find my own. All this fumbling around had decidely broken the mood, and my vagina was going from wide open to discomfort at having one finger shoved up in there, let alone two. I sighed, rolled over, and ground one out the usual way.

Two days later the rabbit arrived.

BBW Monday: Pink Lingerie

2009-02-09T17:00:00.001-05:00

P1040065, originally uploaded by ★Triple X ★.

BBW Monday: The Art of Robin Bougie

2009-01-26T17:00:00.001-05:00

Robin Bougie draws very real, very hot fat chicks. And nerd girls. And this little thing called Cinema Sewer.

BHM Thursday: Johnny Vegas as a pregnant Demi Moore

2009-01-22T17:00:00.000-05:00

Discovered on the always amazing (but usually pussy-centric) Fluffy Lychees.

I'm looking for artistic, thought-provoking, and even erotic photos of larger men. Email me with links at missmollyren@gmail.com or tag it as stuffiesblog on flickr.

Male Submission Art

2009-01-22T11:32:00.006-05:00

This isn't the photo I reccomended, but you should go look at that one too. Sadly, I no longer can tell where this one came from.

Yet another of my favorite photos has been put up on Male Submission Art!

I am really liken' the idea of their project, which is

We showcase beautiful imagery where men and other male-identified people are submissive subjects. We aim to challenge stereotypes of the “pathetic” submissive man.

Since I'm one of those people who never thought they'd like anything about this whole Fem! Dom! thing, I find looking at (and looking for) pictures of men chained up & tied up is wiring new connections in my brain as to what's sexy, what's beautiful, what it means for a man to be desirable.

But it's becoming clearer and clearer that M.S.A. needs our help! While they have many interesting things, they don't have nearly enough. Too many of the photos just show a pretty dude, tied up, alone...and even if I've never bound anyone to a chair in my life, that only seems like half of the equation. So this is where you come in, my dear readers: do you, or someone you know, have a stash of beautiful pics depicting a man submitting to a woman? Sharing them with the world can be as simple as just tagging your Delicious.com bookmarks as for:MaleSubmissionArt! If you have other ideas, you can read their submission guidelines here.

BBW Monday: Essin' Em

2009-01-19T22:19:00.004-05:00

Do we stick with the same types/methods of attraction through out our lives, or is this something that changes and morphs as we do? Am I going to be doomed to either short yet passionate lustful attractions, or else having to convince myself that I’m attracted to people as I spend more and more time with them? Or perhaps, is there hope for me?

~ Types of Attraction

Today's BBW is the wonderfully queer and delightfully geeky Essin' Em! She chronicles her Denver adventures in roller derby, sex ed, aching hearts and aching knees on her blog Sexuality Happens.

Torture Him

2009-01-11T11:42:00.002-05:00

I submitted one of my favourite found photos to Male Submission Art, and they put it up today!

Do you know of any other photos of beautiful submissive men that they haven't featured yet? Then submit!

BBW Monday: Vintage Fatty

2009-01-05T22:47:00.004-05:00

From the always awesome LJ group vintage_sex.

Bang, Bang! BBW Monday Rides Again!

2008-12-28T18:16:00.012-05:00

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!

Awkward Things

2008-12-09T20:53:00.001-05:00

"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.

Sex Blogging and Getting Older

2008-12-08T23:30:00.004-05:00

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!

Chat of the Week: Cee has an answer for everything

2008-12-05T17:00:00.001-05:00

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

2008-12-05T05:54:00.003-05:00

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

Trigger

2008-12-03T23:14:00.006-05:00

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?

2008-12-03T18:37:00.008-05:00

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. ;)

This is Only Temporary

2008-12-02T12:35:00.003-05:00

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.

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

2008-11-27T12:27:00.007-05:00

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!

Normal Sex: The Last Part

2008-11-25T21:29:00.005-05:00

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.

Normal Sex: Fetish

2008-11-24T13:51:00.006-05:00

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

2008-11-24T00:51:00.005-05:00

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.

Facelift: UPDATE

2008-11-22T21:05:00.008-05:00

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...

Honestly, for us this is just foreplay...

2008-11-21T17:00:00.004-05:00

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!

In Which I Become Intoxicated With World Domination

2008-11-19T18:12:00.006-05:00

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

2008-11-19T11:16:00.005-05:00

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.

That naked chick clutching a photo of Obama

2008-11-18T00:26:00.007-05:00

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*

Who is Constantine?

2008-11-17T17:00:00.002-05:00

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.

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

2008-11-15T10:13:00.006-05:00

"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!

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

2008-11-14T17:42:00.007-05:00

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.

Barebacking and Umbrellas

2008-11-12T23:27:00.008-05:00

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.

Pervertables: Big and Chunky

2008-11-08T18:49:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-08T00:19:00.002-05:00

"He makes me think of a vampire... but then he wouldn't need the gun...". Originally uploaded by _Vorfas_.

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.

Insensitive Dicks

2008-11-06T00:18:00.004-05:00

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.

Better Late Than Never: Sugasm #151

2008-11-05T13:36:00.003-05:00

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

Stuffer Literotica: Warm Blood

2008-10-31T13:04:00.003-04:00

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!"

BBW Monday: Along Came A Spider...

2008-10-28T15:33:00.009-04:00

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

Belly Brigade: Pooch

2008-10-24T21:47:00.000-04:00

_MG_5575.jpg, originally uploaded by Nicky Pallas.

BBW Monday: Butterfly

2008-10-22T17:00:00.001-04:00

Jack Potsmoker

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

2008-10-22T13:41:00.000-04:00

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!

Molly Is Under the Weather

2008-10-21T12:31:00.006-04:00

Via ru_glamour

I've been sick for the past couple of days. It's my own special brand of cruddiness. Lately, when I'm under stress (my writing, mainly) I start getting the same symptoms, sore throat and such. So this blog's semi-hiatus will have to continue for a while longer, until I can get better and write a longer article.

However, with the magic of scheduled posts, you'll be seeing some new photos of bellies and beauties this week. While I'm in bed drinking tea with lemon, look at this amazing set of fashion photos I found at ru_glamour: a fit boy and his curvy lady at play in bed and on the beach.

Related:

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

◆ Got a tip about a website that I should feature? Email me at missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Monster Sex

2008-10-16T17:00:00.000-04:00

R u there?

Even though he always txts the same thing to me, he pretends not to know what I'm talking about. There?

Fancy a bj from a girl in glasses?

what's special about a girl in glasses?

you can imagine i'm a kinky geek goddess

there is that

should I come?

If you can come for a few minutes.

I go up to my room, brush my hair. I slip a sharp-edged condom into my bra--foil wrapper.

Max is in the same room as me, writing. I pat his blonde hair. "I'm going for a walk."

"Oh?" he says, looking up.

"Is Jesus your friend?" says J. from the floor.

"No," I say. I go out.

My breast buzzes.

Well?

I txt back, coming.

I regret it a little. Mr. Six would have let him wait. Mr. Six would have made him think he wasn't coming. Then, only when he was at the very top of the stairs with Rufus inside thinking he would never come: Knock knock.

Halfway down the street I start hiccuping.

Rufus is sitting with his knees on the sofa, waiting. hic! excitement. he looks out the window, anxious. hic! Must stop--isn't sexy. hic!

I hold my breath.

"God fucking dammit!" I yell.

Hic.

Rufus is panicking, both hands over his mouth. Giggles.

Scream. Yell: reset. Someone come up from behind and yell, "Boo!"

hic!

Half a street away, I hold my breath again. This has got to stop.

Rufus opens the door. Mr. Six holds up a bottle of Orange Crush. Nervous, Rufus shows him in, trying not to hiccup, fails. Mr. Six says "Aww, here," gives him a drink. Rufus gulps it down, swallows the hiccups, gasps.

Mr. Six is drinking too, laughing at him.

"Shut up," says Rufus, kisses him.

hic!

Hold breath again. Moment passes in which I imagine my diaphragm erupting. Somehow it calms. I don't feel calm.

Cross the street. Headlights.

Peering in the dark--which door? Up the creaky creaky stairs. I leave the door open, on the bottom, even though it is also open at the top. Anyone could get in. Robbers.

Last time he was watching TV. This time he is already standing. Big shape--comes to me. We make out. He finds my chiffon skirt, perhaps he'll pull it up--I want to be bare-assed to anyone looking up the stairs from the street.

The french kissing ends. He looks back to the sofa. He wants to sit down. No, he's turning off the TV. "It's dark," I say. He reaches to turn on a lamp, but instead AC goes silent.

Uh-oh, I think, as he takes my hand in his large, dry palm. It's so dark there's nothing to see, only touch, and I know how my mind will people the dark with shapes. He's ahead of me, opens the door. I remember the first time, party outside, he pulled me in the same way. "I wish we had done it when we weren't drunk", I had told him then.

All dark, just shapes. In the dark he will not have a face, just a blank hole. "Wait," I say, laughing a little, "let me take off my sandals."

First time we did this, my grandmother had been dead. My father had called and told me the week before. His room is a wreck: clothes, boxes, a hatrack. But only in the daylight. Now just big lurking shapes.

Last time, I had realized that he could have been anything. I couldn't see anything but black, I only knew he was there from his mouth on my pussy. He could have been doing anything else without me seeing. He could have switched his body entirely, changed to a wolf, silently swelled to fill the whole room...

He pulls me down onto the bed. Swell of his belly. Perhaps pressing my hand to it will make it cave in, the sides will clamp down on my hands, cutting them off. Teeth, blood, scream. His mouth is a warm wet hole on mine, probing tongue. He lifts my thigh, I realize something about myself.

"I'm so wet," I say.

"You are." He closes my legs, lays a hand on my knee.

"Aren't you going to put them in?"

"I will," he says.

His fingers slip in easily, without a hint of the pain that usually threads the sides of my cunt hole. All the while we kiss, his tongue encircling mine, his mouth wet, covering my chin. My hands in his hair are wet, his neck is slippery. Only touch, can't see a thing. Perhaps in the throes of it his head will detach from his body, big drops of yellow ooze, and I won't realize it until I reach for his body and realize that it's somewhere else, that he's nibbling the back of my ear while his chest is still in front of me. I put my hand in the crook of his neck so I can feel it in case he decides to detach. Tongue. I bit the tip and realize his whole tongue is extended out of his mouth, the length of it.

He's doing it, I think, he's doing it now. He pulls my hand down--feel my cock. "Can we turn on a light?" I ask. "Want to see what I'm doing."

"All right," he says. As wet as its made me, my libido won't take much more of this, soon I'll start to freak out.

The light is on in a moment. He is wearing a t-shirt, bare legged, his broad face. He's grinning. Human. I sigh with relief and we kiss--he lays back, pushing my head down towards his crotch. Blowjob.

I look up and realize the mirror on the wall, we're exactly even. I can watch myself give him a blowjob. I smile at myself, like that girl with the website--will I tear with love? (link) My face takes on the same elongated shape as hers.

Good sloppy blowjob. Sloppy seconds. even thirds (link. make it exact). my hair makes a webbing around my face, sticking to everything. My own hair in the blowjob.

The bed begins to squeak--our combined weight is rocking the whole thing.

I can't come. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon!" Rufus barks as he thrusts into Mr. Six's arsehole over and over again.

Smell of fruit. Did he fart? Pause half a beat. Thrust, thrust, thrust...

My hips are killing me, stretched to accommodate his bulk. Why must they ache? I stretch my legs up--pilates--he goes wild. Thrustthrustthrustthrustthrust. What is that, oh god, my ass, his hand, no, it's his balls, with every thrust his balls are swinging and hitting me square in the pink pucker-up of my ass.

"Ohohohoh," I say.

His cock slips out, he lets it go, it brushes the lip of my pussy and he thrusts it right back in again. Press. I glance up and see him with his head up, his eyes shut tight, holding.

Oh, I think, this must be it.

Ejaculation.

For a second I'm afraid he's going to collapse on me. His head drops, then he kisses my breast. Smiles, eyes nearly closing. The he pulls himself up, goes out into the hall still naked. I catch a glimpse of the condom hanging halfway off his dick, full of sperm.

I lay on the bed where he left me. My skirt is around my waist, one leg drawn up, falling against one another. No orgasm. Unhappy? No.

Mr. Six laughs. He tilts a bottle of orange crush and drinks and drinks until his belly is round and hard--belches. He caresses the curve of it and that's all, what a thousand licks had not been able to put into me is lit up. My legs begin to stir--another round?

The BHM is back. He turns off the light, gets in bed with me. We tangle up together, belly bulge against mine. Might collapse. I think he can eat me, now.

"Hi," I say, in between kisses.

"Mm," he says.

Related:

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

Quickie: Strange Things

2008-10-15T17:00:00.000-04:00

A "quickie" is a fragment of story that doesn't quite fit anywhere else. But if you read them, you'll find that they might illuminate a few points of the larger story.

* * *

A constant source of marvels to any of his lovers or acquaintances was Mr. Six's seeming inexhaustible libido. Sometimes, when they had nothing better to do, they would sit and mythologize about it, as if Mr. Six were a movie star or a historical figure and not someone they shared their bed and house with--adding to it, speculating, embroidering truths. it was true, however, that once at a dinner party the topic of the very strangest things to get off to came up...and Rufus found himself blushing as Mister Six had begun to slowly, subtly...then not so subtilely, to lead up to that time in the garrett when he had forced Rufus to drink six bottle of--

"Is there anything you don't get off of?" Rufus cut in, so abruptly that people laughed.

It took the table a moment before they realized Mr. Six had actually taken the question seriously. The silence lengthened.

"Chewing gum," said Mr. Six at last. "the noise it makes. And I hate the flavor."

* * *

"He gets off from watching The Thing--"

Rihanna had yet to see the movie.

"There's this bit in it where a doctor is giving this guy a shock treatment and the guy's stomach caves in and grows teeth and bites off his hands..."

Rihanna's eyes widened. "He gets off from that?"

Rufus had been laying with him on the sofa in the half-dark, as usual. "And I have my head in his lap, right? And all the sudden I realize he's popped a stiffy!"

Rihanna laughed at the phrase he used and immediately regretted it when she saw how distraught Rufus looked. "Maybe it was just you...", she tried to soothe him, thinking that the weight off Rufus' head on her mound, all that silky hair, would be enough to get anyone off.

"He wasn't even looking at me! You know how he gets, right? The Look..."

Rufus had been shutting his eyes. He himself was "sensitive", with a private list of movie scenes he could hardly bare to look at--everything from Violet Beureguard in Willy Wonka to the last thirty minutes of Akira--when he'd noticed Mr. Six's growing "problem".

"And I said, are you getting off? And he said, 'His stomach caves in,' very simply, like if there's a tummy in it he just "has" to get off! But there's this other bit, where the head kind of oozes off the table--"

"Stop!" said Rihanna, laughing and putting her hands over her ears.

"--and he's still hard! I mean, I'm a pervert too, but I'm not perverted like that!"

Rihanna began to laugh again, this time at Rufus' mix of awestruck and indignant.

"I've just never thought of what the inside of his mind is like--tentacle porn and medical texts and The Cell and all that vore by mamabliss... it's all gotten mixed up in his head until I just can't imagine what he's envisioning when we're having sex. How can real life sex be enough for him, anyway... sometimes I think he's lost all sense of boundaries when it comes to fantasy..."

"Maybe he likes the idea of kissing your lips when the rest of you is someplace else. Maybe he likes the idea of your morphing into a lot of tentacles to pull him closer, or splitting down the middle so he can get his whole body inside you. Isn't there that scene in Alien where he puts his tail up her ass?"

Rufus just shook his head.

BBW Monday: "She didn't come with a name, just prettiness."

2008-10-14T15:16:00.005-04:00

Via riotclitshave, the greatest photoblog in the world.

I get very annoyed with the comments whenever I post a skinny girl- people just can’t seem to help themselves. After the hundredth “sammich” comment I just want to delete the post. Which is why you’ll never see me post a picture specifically pointed at making fun of a fat person. People are cruel and I don’t want my journal to be a place for people to get hurt.

--quoted from riotclitshave's interview with Coilhouse.

Related:

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

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

Text of the Week: The Colt Has Interesting Tastes

2008-10-12T16:44:00.000-04:00

I've had increasingly weird dreams lately. I told the Colt so in a text message this morning.

Me: I had zombie attack dreams. :-0

The Colt: ZOMBIES!

Me: Loads of 'em. And me without my machine gun.

The Colt: I like zombie dragons.

Me: Learn something new every day.

Though, since this is the boy that has also expressed a liking for dragons in lingerie, I guess I shouldn't be surprised?

Related:

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

Muffintops Galore

2008-10-11T10:47:00.005-04:00

According to bart_calendar,

Reading Fleshbot, AVN and various other adult industry trade publications I've noticed that Muffin Tops are the new big trend in porn.

He then goes on to explain what a muffin top is, which I hardly need to do for you people.

The Fleshbot article in question has the kind of descriptions I never expected to see in "real" porn--i.e., the kind of details that would make an FA cream his pants:

In the fashion typical of director Jim Powers, stars Brooke Scott and Marlie True begin the movie by doing a ho-stroll down a crowded street in broad daylight until they are won over by a man offering them jumbo ice cream cones. Claudia Downs and Rucca Paige were also encouraged to buy jeans a couple sizes too small...

Muffin Tops are so in demand in the world of this film that Claudia Downs... is forbidden from going to the gym.

However, as you will see when you read the full article, my hopes to even slightly "legitimize" my fetish of choice are always dashed.

They also have an impressive gallery of nicely muffin'd chicks. Don't worry, I'll still be here when you get back.

Related:

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

Welcome

2008-10-08T11:14:00.003-04:00

I'm not sure where you all are coming from--my statcounter isn't able to give me a particular place--but there certainly seems to be a lot of you. And I'm glad to see each and every one. ;)

So, Welcome to my pervy little corner of the internet! Here you will find everything a stomach fetishist could desire, with articles weekly, erotica monthly and pictures almost daily...when I'm able to get online. (My internet connection is a bit, er, ticklish at the moment.) But until I've put up the next installment, why don't you have a look around?

You can look at the stuffer boys (i.e., male feedees) in all their round bellied glory.

Or, if you have the other persuasion, you can look at some of the hottest BBWs I've ever seen.

Or if your wanking takes a more literary turn, you can read the feederism erotica (i.e. stuffer stories) starring Mister Andre Six, his girlfriend Rihanna, and their soon-to-be-boyfriend Rufus Hex. Many stuffing orgies ensue.

And, if you want to keep up with my erotic adventures, the best way is, as always, to go up there on the right, hit the button under "subscribe", and add me to your RSS Reader.

Related:

◆ 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!

Janie Blooms Talks About Her Tummy

2008-10-04T10:45:00.003-04:00

Janie has been one of my favourite sex bloggers ever since she wrote so hilariously about her first try at anal sex. In Janie Dresses Up, she writes about her late blooming love for dresses. How they make her feel girly, sexy, for almost the first time. And her changing view of her own body, which a lot of us sexy BBWs can relate to:

Which isn’t something I talk about here, really. My chubby issues. It’s not that I’m trying to pass as some skinny girl of my readers’ dreams. It’s just an issue that’s a blog on its own and besides, my tummy has never prevented me from having orgasms or good sex. In fact, my stomach has become my most erogenous zone, apart from the obvious ones (pussy, breasts, ass). It was a scary thing when someone first touched my stomach and I found it very arousing. Because it is a place on my body that holds for me, historically, tons of shame, insecurity, and doubt. However, there is a miracle that happens in sexuality. Or at least in mine. All those negative-ish feelings about my tummy translate into physical sensitivity. My fears about my stomach not being attractive are eroticized and, bam, kink is born. Touch my stomach in a certain way, grope it, massage it, and well, I get very, very wet kids. And boys who have elicited this reaction out of me, well, this reaction has often made them touch my stomach even more, and in turn, I have started to treasure my tummy. As a place of power, of VULNERABILITY. Vulnerability is power, folks.

Read more...

Related:

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

This is not supposed to be here

2008-10-01T17:00:00.003-04:00

EDIT 10/4/08: Due to my inability to figure out the correct date months ahead when I schedule picture posts, this showed up on a day that wasn't Friday. And since I haven't had reliable internet until today, I wasn't able to fix it.

But heck, it's a hot photo. So I'm keeping it up.

I found this photo on daphnestone44g.com, but it's not the shorter haired, tan Daphne that I'm looking at. This chick in pink looks to be having way more fun...and the man she's sitting on doesn't look a bit displeased either!

Stuffer Boy Sunday and Technical Difficulties

2008-09-29T15:30:00.003-04:00

As you may have noticed, it's not, in fact, Sunday. However, rather than a tale of too many drinks Sunday night, I can only tell you that my house's wireless is busted. It's paid for by all of us, but now the wireless people are claiming they never got the first payment...which was sent to them a year ago.

Such snafus are common, but it means I might not be on very much in the coming weeks, if at all. Don't worry, tho, there's a few more scheduled posts, so things won't dissapear entirely...but for the next couple weeks the blog is kinda on hiatus.

I'll be back, tho, to spread more word about "the rarest fetish in the world". Might even have the last installment in that story about Rufus. ;)

In the meantime, enjoy some watermelon:

Related:

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

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

Stuffies

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Plus Size Erotica: You're Doing It Wrong

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

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Souvenir

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Sex 2.0: Pre-Party

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