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.
Showing posts with label the BHM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the BHM. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Insensitive Dicks
Whether by luck or by chance, I've had both lovers and acquaintances whose cocks didn't work they way they were "supposed" to.
We all have an idea of how a dick works, right? That is, it gets hard, you give him a blow job, and then he squirts. I expect the comments to soon be filled with exceptions to this rule, but I believe this is the general idea.
Or perhaps I have this idea simply because X., my first lover, set a pattern of expectation. I'd come in, we'd fling ourselves on one another for about ten minutes of making out, and then we'd get down to the business of sucking or fucking. It was inevitable that within an hour of my stepping in the front door he would have cum. In other words, his penis always worked the way I expected a penis to work: it was his main erogenous zone, and no matter which way you sucked it or stroked it, he was bound to come within a relatively short amount of time. (He also liked to put things up his penis and getting fucked in the ass, but we'll ignore that for the sake of argument.)
But in several of the boys I've known since then, it doesn't work that way.
The first experience I ever had with a penis that defied my expectations was with a blind date we'll call C. This was many years ago: I'd just entered college, I think I'd had sex once, and I thought the internet was where you looked stuff up on Wikipedia. You know, stuff like where Iraq was or the profile of Virginia Woolf.
But anyway, I'd had a few conversations over IM with this boy before I actually met him in the flesh. Somehow it came up that his penis was extraordinarily large, and he told me that it was also curiously insensitive. He claimed that he could squeeze it "until my knuckles turn white" and he wouldn't feel a thing. When I mentioned this to one of his guy friends, deploring C. for lying, the mutual friend exclaimed that it was entirely true. "I've seen C. hit people with it!" he told me.
The further confirmation that C. wasn't lying about his dick's cartoonish size came when I saw its outline through his pants leg later on the night of our first date, and this probably contributed to it also being our last. I had a irrational fear of big dicks, sex with X.'s normal dick still being an uncomfortable proposition at the best of times. But even though we never fucked, I never forgot C.'s truly gigantic dick and his admission of insensitivity.
I've known, too, males who couldn't come right away. Now, I understand lots of women will wonder why the hell I am complaining, but in my early days of cock sucking, when I wanted like mad to meet X.'s exacting standards (he himself claimed he had learned how to deep throat with popsicles), if a boy didn't come within twenty minutes or less I would worry that I was doing something wrong. That I am still prey to this fear might also have something to do with my one night stand with Constantine, but more about him later.
I don't know why, but it took me a while to realize that men could hold back their orgasms. Jaime calls it being "tantric", used as a verb. ("I'm still tantric", he'll say, if I ask him if he's cum.) The BHM is another one with unbelievable stamina. He gets hard and stays hard for the two to four hours we're usually at play, but hardly ever shoots. He has told me that he's always been this way, no tantric practice required. Usually we'll bang away, go to sleep, and then I'll suck him off the next morning, when I'll finally have the pleasure of watching his sperm flow onto his big belly with its peach-colored stretch marks. (Which is really quite a pretty sight, in my opinion).
And then there is Constantine, the Ur-boy of insensitive dicks.
I don't, oddly enough, remember much about his dick except that it was white and smaller than X.'s--quite natural, since I didn't get a very good look at it. The the whole time we were fucking, and that went for several hours, it was either in me or in my mouth.
In my mouth.
(I still remember this with anger.)
He couldn't get off when I had it in my mouth.
I sucked him until my jaw hurt, but he didn't even moan. I had mastered, I thought, my technique with X., even though I couldn't quite deep throat him. I don't think I quite knew all the niceties of using my hands and pirouetting all around the shaft with my tongue, but he should have come by now. He had moaned and writhed in the first few minutes when I had started, but now he was just lying there. Suddenly I felt my first empathy with X., who, despite his best efforts at fingering me, would often feel my vagina go bone dry. One time he had sat back on his heels and exclaimed, "What am I doing wrong?"
It's only sensitive on the very end, Constantine told me at last. I was supposed to just rub it on the head. All my painstaking deep throating techniques were worse than useless.
That's where the anger comes from. How long was he going to go on laying there, hands behind his head, while I worked and worked for no result? I felt like he'd been holding back deliberately, keeping from me the liquid I so craved (for even though I didn't yet enjoy normal intercourse, I loved swallowing sperm). I had the sneaking suspicion that he was enjoying watching me failing at the one technique I had.
He got up, we switched places. I lay on my back, watched him work his own cock. He came at last mounted atop my chest. It was awkward to stretch my neck to get my lips around the head of his cock before he came, but I had to, for my own pleasure. I swallowed.
That's usually how it is, he told me. The only way to get yourself off is to do it yourself. No one else knew the exact inner workings of your genitalia except you.
I read a lot of articles about the difference between men and women getting off. The conventional wisdom now is that men are more straightforward, just unzip and plunge in, while a female's sexuality must be coaxed and teased out...that her mind must be aroused before her the place between her legs can be.
But I have yet to find an article about a man's dick the way I envision it now: numb here and exquisitely fine there, piebald with sensation. And what must Constantine have envisioned all that time to keep himself hard, if my own technique, my very self and physical body, was not near enough to stroke him to his peak? Perhaps the way men and women get off isn't so very different after all.
Related:
◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.
We all have an idea of how a dick works, right? That is, it gets hard, you give him a blow job, and then he squirts. I expect the comments to soon be filled with exceptions to this rule, but I believe this is the general idea.
Or perhaps I have this idea simply because X., my first lover, set a pattern of expectation. I'd come in, we'd fling ourselves on one another for about ten minutes of making out, and then we'd get down to the business of sucking or fucking. It was inevitable that within an hour of my stepping in the front door he would have cum. In other words, his penis always worked the way I expected a penis to work: it was his main erogenous zone, and no matter which way you sucked it or stroked it, he was bound to come within a relatively short amount of time. (He also liked to put things up his penis and getting fucked in the ass, but we'll ignore that for the sake of argument.)
But in several of the boys I've known since then, it doesn't work that way.
The first experience I ever had with a penis that defied my expectations was with a blind date we'll call C. This was many years ago: I'd just entered college, I think I'd had sex once, and I thought the internet was where you looked stuff up on Wikipedia. You know, stuff like where Iraq was or the profile of Virginia Woolf.
But anyway, I'd had a few conversations over IM with this boy before I actually met him in the flesh. Somehow it came up that his penis was extraordinarily large, and he told me that it was also curiously insensitive. He claimed that he could squeeze it "until my knuckles turn white" and he wouldn't feel a thing. When I mentioned this to one of his guy friends, deploring C. for lying, the mutual friend exclaimed that it was entirely true. "I've seen C. hit people with it!" he told me.
The further confirmation that C. wasn't lying about his dick's cartoonish size came when I saw its outline through his pants leg later on the night of our first date, and this probably contributed to it also being our last. I had a irrational fear of big dicks, sex with X.'s normal dick still being an uncomfortable proposition at the best of times. But even though we never fucked, I never forgot C.'s truly gigantic dick and his admission of insensitivity.
I've known, too, males who couldn't come right away. Now, I understand lots of women will wonder why the hell I am complaining, but in my early days of cock sucking, when I wanted like mad to meet X.'s exacting standards (he himself claimed he had learned how to deep throat with popsicles), if a boy didn't come within twenty minutes or less I would worry that I was doing something wrong. That I am still prey to this fear might also have something to do with my one night stand with Constantine, but more about him later.
I don't know why, but it took me a while to realize that men could hold back their orgasms. Jaime calls it being "tantric", used as a verb. ("I'm still tantric", he'll say, if I ask him if he's cum.) The BHM is another one with unbelievable stamina. He gets hard and stays hard for the two to four hours we're usually at play, but hardly ever shoots. He has told me that he's always been this way, no tantric practice required. Usually we'll bang away, go to sleep, and then I'll suck him off the next morning, when I'll finally have the pleasure of watching his sperm flow onto his big belly with its peach-colored stretch marks. (Which is really quite a pretty sight, in my opinion).
And then there is Constantine, the Ur-boy of insensitive dicks.
I don't, oddly enough, remember much about his dick except that it was white and smaller than X.'s--quite natural, since I didn't get a very good look at it. The the whole time we were fucking, and that went for several hours, it was either in me or in my mouth.
In my mouth.
(I still remember this with anger.)
He couldn't get off when I had it in my mouth.
I sucked him until my jaw hurt, but he didn't even moan. I had mastered, I thought, my technique with X., even though I couldn't quite deep throat him. I don't think I quite knew all the niceties of using my hands and pirouetting all around the shaft with my tongue, but he should have come by now. He had moaned and writhed in the first few minutes when I had started, but now he was just lying there. Suddenly I felt my first empathy with X., who, despite his best efforts at fingering me, would often feel my vagina go bone dry. One time he had sat back on his heels and exclaimed, "What am I doing wrong?"
It's only sensitive on the very end, Constantine told me at last. I was supposed to just rub it on the head. All my painstaking deep throating techniques were worse than useless.
That's where the anger comes from. How long was he going to go on laying there, hands behind his head, while I worked and worked for no result? I felt like he'd been holding back deliberately, keeping from me the liquid I so craved (for even though I didn't yet enjoy normal intercourse, I loved swallowing sperm). I had the sneaking suspicion that he was enjoying watching me failing at the one technique I had.
He got up, we switched places. I lay on my back, watched him work his own cock. He came at last mounted atop my chest. It was awkward to stretch my neck to get my lips around the head of his cock before he came, but I had to, for my own pleasure. I swallowed.
That's usually how it is, he told me. The only way to get yourself off is to do it yourself. No one else knew the exact inner workings of your genitalia except you.
I read a lot of articles about the difference between men and women getting off. The conventional wisdom now is that men are more straightforward, just unzip and plunge in, while a female's sexuality must be coaxed and teased out...that her mind must be aroused before her the place between her legs can be.
But I have yet to find an article about a man's dick the way I envision it now: numb here and exquisitely fine there, piebald with sensation. And what must Constantine have envisioned all that time to keep himself hard, if my own technique, my very self and physical body, was not near enough to stroke him to his peak? Perhaps the way men and women get off isn't so very different after all.
Related:
◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
But People Don't See My Fetish As Sexy! How Do I Write About It?
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Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monster Sex
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.
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.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Perhaps Frida Kahlo was an FFA?
Frida y Diego, found at From the Books of Ex Libris
"Part of Riviera's attraction was his female aspect--Frida loved, she said, 'the sensitivity of his wonderful breasts'." --Frida Kahlo: the Paintings, Hayden Herrera.
I'm "home" for a few days, visiting Q. in another town. A lot of my old books are here, stored for when I'd want them after college. I picked up the Frida Kahlo book on a whim, but this sentence made me sit up even through the jet lag of traveling for four hours.
Diego was legendary for having lots of women, despite his "elephantine" charms. You saw the movie, right? Always the most beautiful girls. I used to wonder how he managed to do that, but now that I've had the BHM, it suddenly makes sense. Rivera must have had the same aloof look, coupled with a gentleness of touch that left it up to me to decide how far he could go the first time...and the next, and the next. And their faces must have worn the same look of wickedness when his tongue dipped down into a woman's body, into me for the first time, making me feel things that I never had before.
People can say that this is what women really want, they don't care for looks, but I also like the BHMs body as it is. Even though he is not an artist, the BHM is far better looking than Rivera ever was.
Related:
◆ The Archives: the BHM
Friday, September 5, 2008
"You Can Do Better": Part 2
Part 1 is here.
We're taking a little trip back in time, sex blog readers. It's April 2008, I'm drunk at a party, and I've just been pulled into my first kiss with a BHM.
* * *
Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?
All those times I'd seen the BHM at parties, all the times I'd sat with his group to have lunch, he'd never given me anything more than sidelong glances. I think I'd spoken to him exactly once, and now he was pressing me to him as if he'd wanted me for ages.
And he was enormous. Not "heavy", not "chunky"--he had to be close to 300 pounds, his great belly pressed up against me when we kissed. We came apart and he said something about the way I looked compared to him. "It's ok," I said, my hand on his belly, "I like BHMs."
"What?" he said.
Shut up and kiss him, I admonished myself.
He kept wanting me to go somewhere, to "sit down". I had my arm around his neck. "I dunno," I said, made merry by his lack of subtlety, "do you have any condoms?"
I think this was too forward even for the sloppy drunkards we had both become. He said some more things that I don't remember except that they riled me up enough to tease him. I put one hand on my hip and trilled, "I dunno, you are older than I am."
The BHM is one of those students who, for one reason or another, end up going to college at the age when most of his peers had finished graduate school. With this memory other details began to float to the surface of my brain. T.'s girlfriend--who had once been Constantine's girlfriend, but I pushed that thought away--had called the BHM "the biggest lush in school." That's all I knew about the BHM, and after Constantine I had had enough of drunkards. I began to push him away. He suggested once more that we go sit on a nearby bench.
I guess my legs were tired. "You take eye shots," I accused as we sat down.
"Psh," he said, and we made out again. This time when we came apart he asked me if he wanted to go up to his room. When I had protested at him peeling me off the only girl I had touched in two years, he said it had been a year since he had had sex.
Apparently I was the cure for this. But then again he probably didn't get fucked much, he was a BHM. Suddenly I felt sorry for him, all alone against the bodily prejudices of the world. And the way we kept making out...
I pulled myself away from his mouth, rehearsing the reasons in my head: It's not you, it's me...
"You can do better," he said.
"Better than what?"
Better than a dumb excuse like that, he said.
Oh, fuck: did I actually say something as uncool as that? "It's true," I said, taking refuge in what Constantine had taught me. "I'm a cold heartless bitch."
"That's not true..."
We made out some more.
X. and Constantine had been all about frenching, to the degree where normal kissing was something exotic for me. Even with those experiences, the BHM had an unusually skilled tongue. He encircled his with mine, tracing spirals. My tongue bumped and shoved against his. Even though I had never experienced the kind of attention he put into frenching before, I teased him when he began to delicately explore my teeth. Ah, you don't have just one trick! I exclaimed, but he still wanted me to come with him to his room.
I was thinking I could maybe do it, I wasn't held to conventional ideas of who to and who not to fuck. There was Mr. R., six foot three, long black hair and a soft overhanging belly... Mr. S., who was short and soft all over, with a whiff of cruelty about him from his dalliances with Constantine....
The BHM wasn't like any of those people. He kept putting my arm on his shoulder, like the neediest nerd boy.
"No," I bleated, "it'll be weird afterwards. And I really wanted a girl," I wailed, suddenly remembering that was what I had been originally after.
"That's not the issue," he kept saying.
"No," I said, "I lay with the Jackrabbit and Constantine, and it was weird afterwards."
I got off the bench and walked away. I looked back a little later and he was gone. I was surprised it was so simple.
It was around 2 am, the hour when parties died and everyone who hadn't hooked up yet would be too drunk to fuck. That was my last chance of the night, I thought to myself, if I couldn't find someone else to fuck in the next twenty minutes I might as well go back to my room and cry into my pillow.
I made one last circuit of the campus. No one, no one, not my girl or a blonde girl or girl with braces. I did find the class math whiz laying on the grass. I came up to him slowly, my hands out as if to fend him off. "I know a billion people have probably asked you this--"
"GET THE FUCK AWAY!!!" he roared.
I went away, figuring that if he was well enough to yell like that he could have his beer-induced existential crisis by himself. I passed one of his friends, much soberer than I and carrying a cup of water and a wet washcloth for him.
Why hadn't I done it? I said to myself later, stripping down to the skin in my room. I didn't know why I had given up the chance at something so rare I spent all of my leisure planning and scheming for it. I pulled out my laptop, found my favorite sex blog, and started reading about orgies--a good plan because I soon became so distracted I forgot to cry. I probably masturbated before I finally succumbed to exhaustion and the acceptance of my own bad luck.
* * *
The next day, Friday, we had off from classes. Even after I had showered, breakfasted, and begun my class reading for Monday, I was still thinking about him. In the beginning, I wasn't sure why he excited me so much.
He wasn't horrible, as fat guys went--he was friendly-looking. I had even vaguely considered him at one point, before I had become brave enough that having longings and the voicing of those longings weren't completely divorced.
And yet... and yet...
I should have said something like, "Dude, you're a boy and produce sperm. That's not a good combination when I'm this drunk." Girls were a lot less dangerous in terms of fuck ups, at least in this case. Lots less chance of STDs with muff diving too, though HIV was always a factor...
Right, bisexual girl, I thought, it's all about his gender.
Or I hadn't been 100% comfortable with him. "I don't KNOW you," I had kept saying. "You take eye shots." Of course, I hardly had known my girl either, I had just wrapped my arms around her and went for it.
It was that, then: such things could only happen when I was fully in control, when I wanted it.
It's not your body, I had been trying to tell him in my drunk and inarticulate manner, it's just you. In the back of my mind I was hearing people say, Gawd, she got with him? "Him" being not "that fat guy" but the lush, the horny drunkard. Of course, if I had been fully attracted to him I wouldn't have cared what people said--or what he thought, either. I had screwed plenty of people far worse personality traits than his.
And I left it at that. After a year without sex, he might have been happy to have me use him. But the next day--the start of a whole empty weekend without sex--I was still happy about my decision.
* * *
Related:
◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.
We're taking a little trip back in time, sex blog readers. It's April 2008, I'm drunk at a party, and I've just been pulled into my first kiss with a BHM.
Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?
All those times I'd seen the BHM at parties, all the times I'd sat with his group to have lunch, he'd never given me anything more than sidelong glances. I think I'd spoken to him exactly once, and now he was pressing me to him as if he'd wanted me for ages.
And he was enormous. Not "heavy", not "chunky"--he had to be close to 300 pounds, his great belly pressed up against me when we kissed. We came apart and he said something about the way I looked compared to him. "It's ok," I said, my hand on his belly, "I like BHMs."
"What?" he said.
Shut up and kiss him, I admonished myself.
He kept wanting me to go somewhere, to "sit down". I had my arm around his neck. "I dunno," I said, made merry by his lack of subtlety, "do you have any condoms?"
I think this was too forward even for the sloppy drunkards we had both become. He said some more things that I don't remember except that they riled me up enough to tease him. I put one hand on my hip and trilled, "I dunno, you are older than I am."
The BHM is one of those students who, for one reason or another, end up going to college at the age when most of his peers had finished graduate school. With this memory other details began to float to the surface of my brain. T.'s girlfriend--who had once been Constantine's girlfriend, but I pushed that thought away--had called the BHM "the biggest lush in school." That's all I knew about the BHM, and after Constantine I had had enough of drunkards. I began to push him away. He suggested once more that we go sit on a nearby bench.
I guess my legs were tired. "You take eye shots," I accused as we sat down.
"Psh," he said, and we made out again. This time when we came apart he asked me if he wanted to go up to his room. When I had protested at him peeling me off the only girl I had touched in two years, he said it had been a year since he had had sex.
Apparently I was the cure for this. But then again he probably didn't get fucked much, he was a BHM. Suddenly I felt sorry for him, all alone against the bodily prejudices of the world. And the way we kept making out...
I pulled myself away from his mouth, rehearsing the reasons in my head: It's not you, it's me...
"You can do better," he said.
"Better than what?"
Better than a dumb excuse like that, he said.
Oh, fuck: did I actually say something as uncool as that? "It's true," I said, taking refuge in what Constantine had taught me. "I'm a cold heartless bitch."
"That's not true..."
We made out some more.
X. and Constantine had been all about frenching, to the degree where normal kissing was something exotic for me. Even with those experiences, the BHM had an unusually skilled tongue. He encircled his with mine, tracing spirals. My tongue bumped and shoved against his. Even though I had never experienced the kind of attention he put into frenching before, I teased him when he began to delicately explore my teeth. Ah, you don't have just one trick! I exclaimed, but he still wanted me to come with him to his room.
I was thinking I could maybe do it, I wasn't held to conventional ideas of who to and who not to fuck. There was Mr. R., six foot three, long black hair and a soft overhanging belly... Mr. S., who was short and soft all over, with a whiff of cruelty about him from his dalliances with Constantine....
The BHM wasn't like any of those people. He kept putting my arm on his shoulder, like the neediest nerd boy.
"No," I bleated, "it'll be weird afterwards. And I really wanted a girl," I wailed, suddenly remembering that was what I had been originally after.
"That's not the issue," he kept saying.
"No," I said, "I lay with the Jackrabbit and Constantine, and it was weird afterwards."
I got off the bench and walked away. I looked back a little later and he was gone. I was surprised it was so simple.
It was around 2 am, the hour when parties died and everyone who hadn't hooked up yet would be too drunk to fuck. That was my last chance of the night, I thought to myself, if I couldn't find someone else to fuck in the next twenty minutes I might as well go back to my room and cry into my pillow.
I made one last circuit of the campus. No one, no one, not my girl or a blonde girl or girl with braces. I did find the class math whiz laying on the grass. I came up to him slowly, my hands out as if to fend him off. "I know a billion people have probably asked you this--"
"GET THE FUCK AWAY!!!" he roared.
I went away, figuring that if he was well enough to yell like that he could have his beer-induced existential crisis by himself. I passed one of his friends, much soberer than I and carrying a cup of water and a wet washcloth for him.
Why hadn't I done it? I said to myself later, stripping down to the skin in my room. I didn't know why I had given up the chance at something so rare I spent all of my leisure planning and scheming for it. I pulled out my laptop, found my favorite sex blog, and started reading about orgies--a good plan because I soon became so distracted I forgot to cry. I probably masturbated before I finally succumbed to exhaustion and the acceptance of my own bad luck.
The next day, Friday, we had off from classes. Even after I had showered, breakfasted, and begun my class reading for Monday, I was still thinking about him. In the beginning, I wasn't sure why he excited me so much.
He wasn't horrible, as fat guys went--he was friendly-looking. I had even vaguely considered him at one point, before I had become brave enough that having longings and the voicing of those longings weren't completely divorced.
And yet... and yet...
I should have said something like, "Dude, you're a boy and produce sperm. That's not a good combination when I'm this drunk." Girls were a lot less dangerous in terms of fuck ups, at least in this case. Lots less chance of STDs with muff diving too, though HIV was always a factor...
Right, bisexual girl, I thought, it's all about his gender.
Or I hadn't been 100% comfortable with him. "I don't KNOW you," I had kept saying. "You take eye shots." Of course, I hardly had known my girl either, I had just wrapped my arms around her and went for it.
It was that, then: such things could only happen when I was fully in control, when I wanted it.
It's not your body, I had been trying to tell him in my drunk and inarticulate manner, it's just you. In the back of my mind I was hearing people say, Gawd, she got with him? "Him" being not "that fat guy" but the lush, the horny drunkard. Of course, if I had been fully attracted to him I wouldn't have cared what people said--or what he thought, either. I had screwed plenty of people far worse personality traits than his.
And I left it at that. After a year without sex, he might have been happy to have me use him. But the next day--the start of a whole empty weekend without sex--I was still happy about my decision.
Related:
◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
"You Can Do Better": Part 1
We're going to be doing a bit of time travel now, dear sexblog readers, so bear with me. This happened back in April 2008, when I was still in college. Like most colleges, the night we finished our finals was given up to the senior skit and drunken parties. And like most college students, I was horny and out for blood.
This is different from most stories I've posted on here in that there's a lot of lesbian making out. But if you're worried you might get bored reading about a pretty BBW getting some girl-on-girl action, just hang in there: there's also a BHM.
* * *
I woke up on Friday at noon. I put my arm over my eyes to shut out the sunlight as last night became present memory: I had gotten drunk, and I was still miffed about the girl.
Two girls.
* * *
Thursday was prank night, a secret that the entire campus already knew. I had been assigned no real job except to photograph the insanity, but ended up holding the ladder for one of the more shapely members of my class as she climbed up to hang banners. Her dress was sparkly, gold, and short. Very short. Dude, I thought, I hope she's wearing underwear and cursed the gods when my hopes were fulfilled.
Other than that, the pranks we pulled on the underclassmen went off without a hitch. Things were cheerful enough as long as the drinking was going on, but once they were all packed into an auditorium for the satiric skit the senior class had dreamed up, things began to get ugly.
First, one of the MCs was hit in the face with a cheap blue kickball. He leaped off the stage, jumped over the first row of seats and a fistfight began. Another senior grabbed hold of the microphone and called them off.
Then the audience started throwing beer cans.
I was trying to take photos of what was happening on the stage when one zipped by my head, spraying beer. Then others. Some of the cans were crushed, some full. Still the prank play went on. They hoisted V.-- the sexiest girl in school--onto their shoulders, her hands wrapped with chains. The gayest boy in school was crowned king and treated to half-naked men giving him a massage. Then he was overthrown and they hauled the shyest boy in school on the stage and crowned him instead.
The audience roared. They climbed out of their seats and onto the stage.
"That's it, that's it, it's over!" yelled the MC into the microphone. The auditorium emptied out, the outer lobby became dark, and the dancing began.
I went out, reloaded film, and realized that in all this screaming crowd I was the only one not yet drunk. I found the Atheist and his friends, dressed in black and smoking cigarettes and complaining about how bad the skit had been. Constantine was there. He had a paper crown on his hair, a feathery tinseled thing that would have been worn at a three-year-old's birthday or virgin's bachelorette party. He had his girlfriend on his arm, and as I talked with the Atheist their making out became more and more explicit. She touched his chest, they put their arms around one another, they came closer and closer until they kissed, he laughed, he caressed her ass.
"Atheist," I said, "you used to be an alcoholic. Tell me where I can get something to drink that isn't beer."
"Behind the stage," he said, "if it isn't all gone."
"I'll see you when I'm drunk," I said.
Behind the stage was a nearly full pint of gin. I hate tonic water so I poured it straight, tried to drink it. I found a half-empty liter of Coke and used that as a mixer. I on the way out I snagged a cold can of Keystone Light and took it with me--I wanted to see if I could shotgun it, later.
Then I saw the girl.
She said something about having lost her purse. Upon inquiry she had either left it in the lobby or somewhere else. I followed along without being invited.
She found the purse on the floor, dangerously close to the spilled drinks that marked the edge of the dance floor. She put it on without seeming to notice that I had followed her--I pulled on the strap to get her attention. "Are you really bi?" I asked.
She looked offended that I would doubt her. "Yeah."
"Are you really drunk?"
"Yeah..."
"How drunk?"
"I dunno..."
"Are you drunk enough to kiss me?" I asked.
'Well..." she said and her mouth bore down on me.
Ten minutes later my chin was slick with her mouth juices. I couldn't call it spit, it was too sweet and lovely for that. My arm was around her waist, feeling the muscles through her tight shirt. Then a well-meaning friend came and pulled her away.
"You ruined a beautiful thing," I told the friend later that night. Like all drunkards I was easily distracted, and my girl had seemed to disappear directly she was taken away. But I saw her once more, a long time later. She was trying to hold up a shorter blond girl.
"Tonight's not the night," she said, noticing me.
"I think it's a good night," I said, tracing my fingers down her belly.
The blond girl was hanging off her, they were so tangled up together each step taunted the ground with their falling.
"Later," she said, moving off. "I'll remember."
"Sure," I said, knowing that she would forget. They staggered off for a hundred yards or so before finally sitting down in the soccer field and I forgot they existed. I found myself with my arm around a girl with braces.
"So-and-so hit on me earlier," she said.
"So-and-so is a slut," I said.
"You're right," she laughed, "he is a slut!"
"I'm a slut too," I said, and then we were lip-locked.
"I have a girlfriend," she said when we came apart.
"Who's your girlfriend?"
"She isn't here..."
Since she was still kissing me I was sure we could work something out.
Then I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see the BHM, a very large boy a year below me, come to save the damsel from my clutches. He wasn't letting go, so I sighed and then smiled and released my prize.
"Ok, I'll let you go because you have a girlfriend," I said. "M.'s right there--go dance with her."
The BHM was turning me towards him. He was blurry from the Keystone Light, and I whined something about not having had a girl in years. He said that wasn't the issue, put my arm on his shoulder, and began to French me.
Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?
* * *
Part two will be posted later.
Related:
◆ The Who's Who of Stuffies
This is different from most stories I've posted on here in that there's a lot of lesbian making out. But if you're worried you might get bored reading about a pretty BBW getting some girl-on-girl action, just hang in there: there's also a BHM.
I woke up on Friday at noon. I put my arm over my eyes to shut out the sunlight as last night became present memory: I had gotten drunk, and I was still miffed about the girl.
Two girls.
Thursday was prank night, a secret that the entire campus already knew. I had been assigned no real job except to photograph the insanity, but ended up holding the ladder for one of the more shapely members of my class as she climbed up to hang banners. Her dress was sparkly, gold, and short. Very short. Dude, I thought, I hope she's wearing underwear and cursed the gods when my hopes were fulfilled.
Other than that, the pranks we pulled on the underclassmen went off without a hitch. Things were cheerful enough as long as the drinking was going on, but once they were all packed into an auditorium for the satiric skit the senior class had dreamed up, things began to get ugly.
First, one of the MCs was hit in the face with a cheap blue kickball. He leaped off the stage, jumped over the first row of seats and a fistfight began. Another senior grabbed hold of the microphone and called them off.
Then the audience started throwing beer cans.
I was trying to take photos of what was happening on the stage when one zipped by my head, spraying beer. Then others. Some of the cans were crushed, some full. Still the prank play went on. They hoisted V.-- the sexiest girl in school--onto their shoulders, her hands wrapped with chains. The gayest boy in school was crowned king and treated to half-naked men giving him a massage. Then he was overthrown and they hauled the shyest boy in school on the stage and crowned him instead.
The audience roared. They climbed out of their seats and onto the stage.
"That's it, that's it, it's over!" yelled the MC into the microphone. The auditorium emptied out, the outer lobby became dark, and the dancing began.
I went out, reloaded film, and realized that in all this screaming crowd I was the only one not yet drunk. I found the Atheist and his friends, dressed in black and smoking cigarettes and complaining about how bad the skit had been. Constantine was there. He had a paper crown on his hair, a feathery tinseled thing that would have been worn at a three-year-old's birthday or virgin's bachelorette party. He had his girlfriend on his arm, and as I talked with the Atheist their making out became more and more explicit. She touched his chest, they put their arms around one another, they came closer and closer until they kissed, he laughed, he caressed her ass.
"Atheist," I said, "you used to be an alcoholic. Tell me where I can get something to drink that isn't beer."
"Behind the stage," he said, "if it isn't all gone."
"I'll see you when I'm drunk," I said.
Behind the stage was a nearly full pint of gin. I hate tonic water so I poured it straight, tried to drink it. I found a half-empty liter of Coke and used that as a mixer. I on the way out I snagged a cold can of Keystone Light and took it with me--I wanted to see if I could shotgun it, later.
Then I saw the girl.
She said something about having lost her purse. Upon inquiry she had either left it in the lobby or somewhere else. I followed along without being invited.
She found the purse on the floor, dangerously close to the spilled drinks that marked the edge of the dance floor. She put it on without seeming to notice that I had followed her--I pulled on the strap to get her attention. "Are you really bi?" I asked.
She looked offended that I would doubt her. "Yeah."
"Are you really drunk?"
"Yeah..."
"How drunk?"
"I dunno..."
"Are you drunk enough to kiss me?" I asked.
'Well..." she said and her mouth bore down on me.
Ten minutes later my chin was slick with her mouth juices. I couldn't call it spit, it was too sweet and lovely for that. My arm was around her waist, feeling the muscles through her tight shirt. Then a well-meaning friend came and pulled her away.
"You ruined a beautiful thing," I told the friend later that night. Like all drunkards I was easily distracted, and my girl had seemed to disappear directly she was taken away. But I saw her once more, a long time later. She was trying to hold up a shorter blond girl.
"Tonight's not the night," she said, noticing me.
"I think it's a good night," I said, tracing my fingers down her belly.
The blond girl was hanging off her, they were so tangled up together each step taunted the ground with their falling.
"Later," she said, moving off. "I'll remember."
"Sure," I said, knowing that she would forget. They staggered off for a hundred yards or so before finally sitting down in the soccer field and I forgot they existed. I found myself with my arm around a girl with braces.
"So-and-so hit on me earlier," she said.
"So-and-so is a slut," I said.
"You're right," she laughed, "he is a slut!"
"I'm a slut too," I said, and then we were lip-locked.
"I have a girlfriend," she said when we came apart.
"Who's your girlfriend?"
"She isn't here..."
Since she was still kissing me I was sure we could work something out.
Then I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see the BHM, a very large boy a year below me, come to save the damsel from my clutches. He wasn't letting go, so I sighed and then smiled and released my prize.
"Ok, I'll let you go because you have a girlfriend," I said. "M.'s right there--go dance with her."
The BHM was turning me towards him. He was blurry from the Keystone Light, and I whined something about not having had a girl in years. He said that wasn't the issue, put my arm on his shoulder, and began to French me.
Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?
Part two will be posted later.
Related:
◆ The Who's Who of Stuffies
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Under Construction
Today I took down three of my previous posts: "Stuffer Boy Sunday: Alex" and "Baking Pies" and "'You Can Do Better'". ("Cyberfun" also disappeared briefly but then I remembered I had left a comment about it on Violet Blue's blog and she wouldn't be able to read it.)
I did this to avoid drama.
If you have been following this blog you will know that I have many different kinds of relationships with several different boys, both in RL and online. Recent events have forced me to think about changing my relationship to some of them, and putting my feelings out on such a public forum might create problems in the future. For instance, the Colt reads my blog, and I would rather he hear of the people I saw in his absence directly from me than read it in some impersonal blog post. (EDIT: he now knows about Alex and the BHM.)
Also, I try to make it my policy to ask the permission of almost everyone I write about before I put anything up about them on the internet (emphasis on the "try"). Cee, the Colt, Jaime, BBB and the "guest" stuffer boys whose photos I post every Sunday all know I write about them and have given their blessing. The exception to this is my housemates (who I've decided don't need to know I am a hardcore fetishist yet do things too amusing to avoid writing about), people I make out with in the murky darkness of parties, old flames who I will mention but haven't spoken to for years, and Alex, who I haven't heard from since he missed his date with me on July 4th. I told the BHM I wrote a blog last night and he said he wanted to see anything before I put it up, and thus some of the posts may reappear after I've talked with him. "'You Can Do Better'" will also probably re-appear in a newly edited state because I seem unable to write about anything in less than 1,794 words.)
So this is a needlessly long post explaining why you may have tried to find one of these articles and can't now. Unfortunately, Blogger does not have a password protect feature, which would allow people limited access to these posts while still letting you know they're there. This is the next best thing. The posts aren't gone, I just re-saved them in my draft folder. Hopefully after I've figured things out a little more they can re-appear.
(Here's a hint if you really miss them and use my RSS feed: even when it's been deleted on my blog, it's stuck in the RSS feed forever. Which is why you should really, really think before you put something on the internet, and why I always try to make sure it's OK with people first.)
I did this to avoid drama.
If you have been following this blog you will know that I have many different kinds of relationships with several different boys, both in RL and online. Recent events have forced me to think about changing my relationship to some of them, and putting my feelings out on such a public forum might create problems in the future. For instance, the Colt reads my blog, and I would rather he hear of the people I saw in his absence directly from me than read it in some impersonal blog post. (EDIT: he now knows about Alex and the BHM.)
Also, I try to make it my policy to ask the permission of almost everyone I write about before I put anything up about them on the internet (emphasis on the "try"). Cee, the Colt, Jaime, BBB and the "guest" stuffer boys whose photos I post every Sunday all know I write about them and have given their blessing. The exception to this is my housemates (who I've decided don't need to know I am a hardcore fetishist yet do things too amusing to avoid writing about), people I make out with in the murky darkness of parties, old flames who I will mention but haven't spoken to for years, and Alex, who I haven't heard from since he missed his date with me on July 4th. I told the BHM I wrote a blog last night and he said he wanted to see anything before I put it up, and thus some of the posts may reappear after I've talked with him. "'You Can Do Better'" will also probably re-appear in a newly edited state because I seem unable to write about anything in less than 1,794 words.)
So this is a needlessly long post explaining why you may have tried to find one of these articles and can't now. Unfortunately, Blogger does not have a password protect feature, which would allow people limited access to these posts while still letting you know they're there. This is the next best thing. The posts aren't gone, I just re-saved them in my draft folder. Hopefully after I've figured things out a little more they can re-appear.
(Here's a hint if you really miss them and use my RSS feed: even when it's been deleted on my blog, it's stuck in the RSS feed forever. Which is why you should really, really think before you put something on the internet, and why I always try to make sure it's OK with people first.)
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Baking Pies
There's this scene in Charlie Wilson's War where he's lying exhausted in the bathtub and says he cannot fathom the energy women have after having sex. They're cleaning out closets, baking pies...
The posts you have been seeing for the past few days have been drafts. They were crafted months ago when I had more free time, spruced up with links and such to as appear new. In case you were wondering if I spent so much time blogging about it that I wasn't able to have sex.
Because I am, in fact. Having sex.
With the BHM.
Since July 4th.
Which means you are about to get quite a lot of posts in the coming days, fellow sexblog readers, despite my self-imposed silences elsewhere.
I suppose the real problem is my lack of decision. Should I start with my Very First Pussy Licking? Or the way he's able to hold both my wrists in one hand?
The posts you have been seeing for the past few days have been drafts. They were crafted months ago when I had more free time, spruced up with links and such to as appear new. In case you were wondering if I spent so much time blogging about it that I wasn't able to have sex.
Because I am, in fact. Having sex.
With the BHM.
Since July 4th.
Which means you are about to get quite a lot of posts in the coming days, fellow sexblog readers, despite my self-imposed silences elsewhere.
I suppose the real problem is my lack of decision. Should I start with my Very First Pussy Licking? Or the way he's able to hold both my wrists in one hand?
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