I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A holiday tradition

No, not this Christmas, sadly.  It’s just me fondly reminiscing again about one of the best nights of my life.

Last year I wrote the following blurb:

Peyton is with my ex for the next few hours and I am home alone watching a bunch of hokey Christmas movies and sipping on cheap champagne. The Neighbor is in colder weather with his family and I am alone with a herd of Christmas animals I’ve volunteered to watch for a few days. Life is pretty good at the moment. I just wish I had wood for my fire — it’s somehow lonelier without one.

Anyway, I thought I’d share one of my favorite sexy Christmas memories and most popular posts with you all today: I fucked two guys on Christmas night.

This year is much the same as last and all the others: Peyton is with my ex for a few hours so I’m alone, I’ve got the herd of animals (but they’re mine this time), no wood for the fire (or a fireplace, but I like to watch the Fireplace Channel so I sort of have one — don’t judge!), and The Neighbor is once again in much colder weather with his family.

What’s different is someone loves me.  Not a bad change.

I love this Christmas Story of mine not just because of its salacious nature, but because it marks the beginning of everything for me.  It happened 4 years ago today, seemingly a lifetime, but just like yesterday.  I can still close my eyes and feel them on me.  That was a night to go in the record books.  And without it I might not be where I am today.

Troy reached out to me recently — filled with his own nostalgia I presume — and suggested that he, Jack and I get together for a drink.  I told him I’d love to.  Troy and I crackle when together and Jack is the perfect grounding unit.  It could be a lot of fun, like old school-time buddies except we’re talking cocks and pussies, not keg stands and finals.

I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and hope that today brings you much love and warmth!

Lots of love,



He watches me go.

The sun warmed my back as I climbed the three sets of stairs to The Neighbor’s door.  It was barely 8 am and the morning chill was already beginning to fade.  I slipped my key into the lock and turned the handle.  He’d left the deadbolt unlocked for me.

I stole into his quiet space, kicked his shoes out of the way of the door and crept quietly across the apartment to his bedroom doorway.  He lay tangled in his comforter, the ceiling fan whirred overhead.

I set my purse and keys down and cringed when they jingled.  He didn’t stir.  My zipper sounded like a roar as I undid my jeans; I quickly kicked off my shoes, followed by my cheap Target Harvard sweatshirt and climbed into bed with him.  He continued to slumber.

I pressed my cold skin against his back and let his round ass fill out the cradle of my pelvis.  He was a warm cloud and I clung to him and breathed him in, his entire backside pressed against me.

“Good morning, Hy,” he said to the window filling with light.

“Good morning, TN,” I whispered into his neck.

I stroked and scratched him and he stretched and purred, climbing his way out of a Lunesta haze.  I pulled him over onto his back and grabbed his giant morning wood and began to gently pump it as it pulsed and flexed in my grip.

We didn’t say much; I let the silence wrap around me as I gently lured him to greater consciousness.  I knelt between his knees and took him in my mouth.  Soft, wet pulling.  Soft, sweet moans.  I kept at him imagining my greatest morning hope of his release into my mouth, but he stopped me and roughly grabbed my shoulders and pressed me down into the mattress.

“You are the best alarm clock ever,” he said, his gaze intense.

He was wide awake now.

I spread my knees and he plunged into me.  Our eyes locked on one another like long lost lovers.  No sentiment, just hunger.

He moved in me and I closed my eyes, felt him fill me to the brink. “God I fucking love your cock,” I moaned.

He pumped and ground and rode me like the little morning whore that I was.  He curled into me and growled and I held on for dear life, then my ankles went up to his shoulders.  Orgasm burst through me and I shook my head from side to side in desperate protest.  A tear slipped out and ran down my cheek.

He stopped and I lay panting.  He looked at me for a moment then lay to my side and put my legs over his hips.  He was buried deep inside of me.  “Use the *Doxy,” he said gently with a lift of his chin to the British magic wand that lay beside me.

“We haven’t done this in a while,” he added.  It’s been almost a year since my Hitachi died.

I punched the On button and adjusted the speed to the middle setting and thought about Goldilocks and all her choices.  I pulled the comforter between me and the buzzing head and instantly blasted off, my pussy stuffed full of his rock hard cock.

He thrust, just enough, and with each penetration I climbed higher until I fell off the fucking mountain with a yell and many expletives.

“Again,” he said the instant I landed.

I felt like saying, “Ok, Coach!” but only nodded instead and started the climb.

But two wasn’t enough for him, no, he coaxed 3 more from me.  By the fifth, I was trembling, damp with sweat.  His cock was as hard as ever, his hands filled with breast.  I dropped the speed down to the gentlest and let my clit meet the challenge with less intensity.

His body nudged mine with a rhythm matching that of his alarm clock.  In the past, fucking to his alarm reduced us to giggles.  Not that morning.  I ignored it and concentrated on the pulsing in my hole, the stretch and swell, and came with a boom a fifth and final time.

I hung on his cock, limp and satiated.

I turned to look at him, the treetops in the window a bright green.  “And here I thought I was just going to give you a blowjob this morning; I had no idea I was gonna get some morning sex!”

He grinned and looked at his phone.  “I really have to get up now.  I have to be at work in 20 minutes.”

He pulled out and left the room for a minute.  I laid in his bed feeling motherfucking lucky.

He came back in and helped me up and watched me as I got dressed.  At his door, still nude, he gave me a kiss and a hug and I walked out into the bright morning light.  When I turned around he was standing in his doorway.

The bright sun reflecting off the building nearly blinded me and I could only make out the dusky pink cock that hung like ripe fruit between his muscular thighs,  his white body glowed from the shadows behind him.


I’m lucky.

I could tell he was smiling at me, watching me watch him.

“You’re beautiful,” I called as I started walking down out of sight.  “And you can do that every time I leave in the morning!”

And he has.


[Ed. note: TN Tuesdays is a semi weekly meme which will share more of The Neighbor with my Internet Boyfriend.  All photos have his approval before I post them.  As always, he’s eager to see what you guys think and has requested that I share any comments.]



 *Doxy post coming soon!

I’m re-learning how to take nude selfies.

It’s funny how we get attached to things being a certain way, it’s like I’m a little old lady who likes her mashed potatoes lumpy.

In my old room, for example, I came to rely heavily on my east-facing windows which were to the left of my bed for my natural light.  It was so good in there, in fact, that most of my pictures were sans filter.  But here, in the new apartment, the orientation is all different.  My window still faces east, but now it’s on my right and I am much closer to it making my pictures very washed out or distorted by sunbeams — awful, I know — but I have a certain look I’m going for so this will take some getting used to.

So when I finally got to sleep in today I decided to practice a little.


Can you spot the kitty?? 


Can you see him now?  Turns out that Faisal wanted in on the action, too.

It’s always a little humbling to have to push a cat out of the way (repeatedly) of you trying to take nude selfies — doesn’t he know I’m trying to be all sexy?! — but I persevered and managed to get these two pics kitty-free.


Bars of light.


I’m nearly indecent in the ones like this.

I actually don’t mind the little light show, honestly, and I rather like the different look my new room affords!  Maybe it’s time to get creative with shadows and kitties!  Meow!


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I found Two More Dissolutes! – April edition

The first Monday of each month, N. Likes of My Dissolute Life and I will be highlighting two other bloggers whom we find to be  share-worthy/intriguing/awesome/funny/controversial/fill-in-the-blank.  We share our picks with one another and then give our two cents, so our readers get two takes on two new writers.

This month, I couldn’t resist a blogger that hardly needs my help (I already have her in my sidebar), but whom I so greatly respect I felt compelled to share her more officially with you all, and N., well, he found a doozy of a writer that I think will make everyone stroke their chin a little – and no, that’s not a euphemism.

Two More Dissolutes

N’s pick:

The Amsterdam Diaries

N’s thoughts:

I’m interested in reading men write about sex. Oddly, I’ve found precious little of it on the internet, and most of what I’ve found that’s been interesting to me has been by men who have sex with men (for example, I’m a big fan of this blog). Thanks to L, I recently discovered this series of accounts by a British man of his adventures with the women who work in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. I’m not linking to a specific post, but rather, to the whole blog. It’s fascinating to me.

Mostly, I have to say, because it is so unappealing to me. The model of prostitution – and of sex with prostitutes – documented by this man seems holds no appeal for me. He comes across as unsentimental, something of a tender sociopath. He’s not a sadist, he’s not cruel, but the women he describes hardly come across as anything other than the possessors of holes – holes which, for fifty euros he can do various things with/to. I’m not really sure what to do with his writing. He writes well, he recounts his sexual encounters, but the unapologetically transactional nature of everything about which he writes is singularly off-putting to me. The blog ends up being compelling at the same time that it’s neither hot nor particularly thoughtful or thought-provoking.

I found myself wondering (in a bit of terror) as I read, “Is this how I sound? Am I this oblivious, indifferent, to the women I have sex with?” I sure hope not. I like women. I really like the women I have sex with. Not just because they have sex with me, because they “let” me finger them, or fuck them. But because they conspire with me to invent a super-hot reality that gets us both off.

But if you want to get a comprehensive, if highly specific, take on the Amsterdam red light district, this is a great place to do it.

Hy’s thoughts:

Man… I don’t even know what to say.  I am totally turned off by this writing and only mildly interested from a psychological stand point, like, what the fuck?  His writing is unapologetic, not at all introspective, and his callousness towards the act of sex is basically uninteresting to me.  But, apparently he has an audience.
My feelings about the blog are also unrelated to prostitution.  I’m generally ambivalent about the whole thing (prostitution, I mean) and so long as everyone consents, I really don’t give a fuck.  My hopes for it are for the sex workers’ safety, satisfaction (work-wise, not necessarily sexually, though that’d be awesome, too), and autonomy (whatever that means or looks like to her).

Obviously, I haven’t read the entire blog, but I think it was him writing “Whatever, in the interests of research she will do,” in regards to having sex with a “plump girl” (who also might as well be fat because his preference is strictly for toned women), that made me feel like I was done.  It’s all too manual-like for me.  I prefer to know and feel the human interest in someone’s writing, not just learn about a human’s interest.

If I ever decide to fuck a Dutch prostitute I know whose blog I’ll read, but until then…

N’s postscript:

I don’t disagree with anything Hy says. Except. I think glimpses of unfamiliar worlds, particular those having to do with sex, generally are interesting to me, especially to the extent that they portray those worlds not so much naturalistically as through the eyes and mind of the viewer. This is what I like, what I find compelling about this blog. It exposes me to a world, a way of thinking, I’d otherwise never know.

Hy’s postscript:

And No, N. you do NOT come across as a gentle sadist who is just looking for the next hole.  You come across as a wonderfully horny man who digs the sex with the women.  That dude just sounds like a consumer.

Hy’s pick:

Girl on the Net’s On Extreme Porn Close-ups.

Hy’s thoughts:

I couldn’t have said it better than Carina did herself: it becomes gynecological.  I’ve always figured that I like to see what I might normally see during an encounter, and even though I occasionally fuck chicks, I have never spent much time looking directly up into her vagina.  It’s more of a glance to see the lay of the land and then I get down to business.  Those close up shots in porn make me distinctly uneasy and ruin any kind of “moment” for me.
So there’s that.

But then the comments of this particular post take the whole conversation of porn somewhere entirely else.  Some reader decides to say that all porn is anti-feminist and openly misogynistic.  Girl on the Net responds succinctly and directly, politely.

It’s exactly this about her, her openness and clarity — which allows her to claim disagreement in an intelligent, thoughtful way — that brings me back around again and again.

In general, she also writes about sexy, real, provoking themes and experiences and her honesty is unmistakeable.  She doesn’t write erotica, per se, she writes about sex, sexuality, and herself from a self-deprecating feminist voice that I thoroughly delight in.

I feel smarter after I’ve read her.  Plus, she and I feel similarly about lots of other things, too.

N’s thoughts:

Yup. I agree totally. I love GOtN. She’s in my sidebar, and I read her every post. I remember when she wrote this, and I agreed then. I just re-read the comments and was struck by some of the claptrap that’s been written there.

She is a truly great writer. Unapologetic, smart, funny, iconoclastic. Read her.

Friday, March 28th, is SOFT Boobday!


With the exception of some lost comments on a couple of posts and about a million little things to do in the new apartment, I have successfully completed two moves!  Yay!

Thanks again to all the ladies who chose to participate this week and I just want to say I miss some of my regulars, but I’ll be patient and hope you come back to us.

Next week’s Boobday theme is SILLY.  What?  Boobs aren’t always serious and/or sexy!



Want to participate in Boobday?  Go here and read the Guidelines and State of the Boob Union to answer any questions, but this is the TL;DR of what I need each time:

  1. an attached pic

  2. a sentence about why you chose this particular photo

  3. if you want to be anonymous or not

  4. a hyperlink or URL to your Twitter handle (if you have one)

  5. a hyperlink or URL to your blog post (if you have one and post, it must have my Boobday banner and a link back to me and only posted on Friday)

Emails sent to me with all of this info plus the theme will be given preferential treatment.  I will not look up links.

My SOFT tits:


Pretty much softness everywhere.

Layers upon layers of softy stuff.


NOT my SOFT tits:


I love this view of @ScarlettDubois.

I chose this because I had just showered, and I felt clean and soft, laying in a bed with soft blankets, and my nipple, once hard, was once again soft. I just felt soft, literally. 😉



Beck’s got such an innocent face. Follow her at @BeckandHerKinks

I am softly rubbing my nipple.



Hennaed describes her pic beautifully.

This time of year, I feel like the animals coming out of hibernation- still a bit of extra energy stored away, and far from toned. So “soft” is particularly apt to describe my body. Cozy and cuddly might work too. 😉 I decided to soften the photo as well, using natural light and filters.



Yes, it does @SilverDom 🙂 (Follow @SilverdropUK, too)

Silverdrop’s nipples might be rock hard (they usually are) but her breasts are soft – does that count for the theme?



New Dawn is always so creative. Click her image to check out her blog.

Shooting Boobday pictures took my mind off things this week. A litle bit of softness in my week was more than needed.

So here is my breast, nestled in soft red feathers…



@KinkyBikerMom is alll about the soft this week.



I’m moving.

It’s happening.  I will no longer be 5 seconds from my lover.  We will be a car ride apart, clothes will be almost always necessary, a call-ahead check in order.  The Neighbor will always be TN, but our special His and Her apartments will be a thing of the past in a matter of hours.

Since I’m up to my ears in boxes and dream about organizing my shelves I haven’t given this change much space, but The Neighbor has.  When the boxes first showed up in my apartment he was visibly distraught.  When they began to fill up and things disappear from sight he would whimper and come for a hug.  He was vocal about how much he hated it and wanted it to stop, but it is financially impossible for me to stay here.  Literally, impossible.  So, I’m going and he has to let the universe push us down this path.

It’s hard to imagine that three years ago my heart was in such tatters.  I was 4 months out of my marital home and completely out of my mind to fix it with dicks galore.  Two years ago, the heart was on the mend, but it had attached itself to this fidgety, weird young man next door who, despite our ridiculous chemistry, refused to admit we were more than just friends.  Hell, I couldn’t admit it, either, honestly.  And a year ago, we had decided to be monogamous and my guilt rose about my secrets even as my heart admitted it really was love between us.  Two goddamned idiots with more than enough fear of our feelings to go around.  And now, here we are, in love, committed, fucking happy.

It’s a goddamned miracle.

He’s worried that the move will cause us to break up.  I sincerely can’t imagine how, but that’s just him: he doesn’t like change and he doesn’t want to lose me.  And he’s vowed to cuddle with me every single night as usual.  I can live with that.

But really, I have no doubts that we will survive this for multiple reasons.  The least of which being I’m only moving 2 minutes away.

Two minutes away, people!

I am one lucky lady. So so lucky.

/smiley faces all over the goddamned place

Also, I’ve moved to self-hosted!  Yay!  So, you may notice some things are a little different around my page and the mobile page may not be at all like what you’re used to.  Please be patient with me as I work to get it back to the way I’d like and if anyone you know wonders where I’ve gone, just tell them where they can find me!




I’ll be back soon!

I’m not sure what you’ll see as I do some heavy blog maintenance later this afternoon, but don’t worry, I haven’t quit! The blog may be down for a few hours or a couple of days, I’m not really sure which, but it’s all very routine.

I’ll be back better than ever before you know it!

In the meantime, here’s a pic I just snapped for your viewing pleasure.



My life is forever changed.


Because I made this happen.


Go here to get the app if you’re so inclined to bedazzle your sexts like me!

I do what I can.

It’s not much, but here’s a little piece of me.


And to be clear: the post from yesterday is not a true life account of things between my father and me.

Dreams are often metaphors of our real lives and that therapy office and the relationships I thought I had with those male figures represent the space of this blog and the trust I have in all of you not to hurt me as I expose everything to you.

I’d like to think that my critic, Jiminy Cricket/Sonofabitch, didn’t mean to hurt me or make this space feel unsafe to me, but that has been the result. Even exposing my body today or for Boobday is a struggle.

fighting to be here, but it’s difficult knowing that whatever weakness I have in my walls of defense (that allowed my identity to become known) is still there — waiting to be found again — and maybe this time by a less benevolent individual.

I feel trapped, but I’m working my way out of it. I promise. Please bear with me.

I don’t feel safe.

Last night I had a dream.  In it I was assaulted by my father — no, my therapist — no, my father.  I was in his office in a loose white t-shirt and a pair of shorts.  My bare legs were exposed to his gaze.  I lay on a twin bed pushed against the wall, my cheek pressed against a pattern of white, cobalt blue and orange stripes.  Very 70’s.  A window and some ferns dotted the walls amongst bookshelves.

I was heavy with sleep, safe as a slumbering child.  My eyes fluttered open as my father — no, my therapist — walked towards me.  I smiled to myself knowing we would start talking.  I trusted him to sit in his green leather chair and rest his ankle on his knee.  Only he didn’t.  He passed the chair and filled my line of sight.

What I thought was the weight of sleep revealed itself as fear, oppressive and paralyzing.  I struggled to sit up, to gain my bearings, but my therapist — no, my father — closed the gap and lay behind me.  His weight strained the bed and I rolled back against him, helpless to gravity.

He breathed on me.  I imagined that he closed his eyes and filled his nostrils with the scent of my clean hair and I shuddered.  He let his arm rest along the curves of my body and his hand innocently, accidentally, rest where my legs joined.

But he and I both knew it was no accident.

I screamed, but no sound came out.

I sobbed, but no tears fell.

I only shook and died behind the barrier of my skin, the walls of my soul.

His hand pressed down on my plump skin and again I howled in terror and helplessness.  This time a sob escaped my lips.  This time I was able to tear away from him.  But I was only just now awake and my legs were weak, my eyes shrouded by the blur of tears.   I was painfully vulnerable.

He came towards me again and touched my breast through my loose white t-shirt.  My nipple hardened, braless.  He touched it again, smirking at my paralysis and my horror.

I pressed my back against the wall wishing it would swallow me, desperate for air, for my muscles to work, but I was immobilized with the searing cruelty of what my father — no, my therapist — was doing to me.

I wept and flung myself from side to side, but not really.

I bellowed and yelled and cursed his filthy, lying, betraying piece of shit life, for hurting me in a brightly lit room meant to be safe, but not really.

I willed it to stop, willed him to die, willed it all to go away just so I could breathe and suddenly… it did.

I lay panting in my bed.  The fan whirred above me.  The room was cast in midnight light.  My father really was dead.  My therapist was history.

I could breathe, but was I safe?  It doesn’t feel like it anymore.

Fucking dreams.