Friday, May 29th, is KINKY Boobday!


You all really shined this month for KINKY Boobday!  I, on the other hand, did not.

I’ve been having a rough time with the blog lately and have been actively avoiding it, which included a pic for Boobday this month.

In addition, the wonderful Anonymous Aussie, whom I asked to be my May feature, was too busy with travel and work to send me something!

Can Mercury be in retrograde for an entire month for the whole planet? 

Anyway, many of you were able to get your acts together and I am so very grateful for your loveliness.  Kinky tits galore, y’all!

Next month’s theme is JUICY.

I kinda miss the blog and I definitely miss you all.



For Boobday Guidelines, click here.

NOT my KINKY tits:

Our sweet Anisa is about to bring life onto our planet and damnit if breastfeeding isn’t just about the best thing ever.

Something I am sort of fascinated by as I get ready to give birth is how some people get super turned on by lactating boobs, which I’ve seen regarded as a kink. In my favorite novel series, Outlander, by Diana Gabaldon, there are a few mentions of the nurturing and sensual aspects of milk-filled breasts. One that I find particularly sweet is this passage:

“Will ye let me do this later?” he murmured, with a soft bite. “When the child’s come, and your breasts fill wi’ milk?  Will ye feed me, too, next to your heart?”

     I clasped his head and cradled it, fingers deep in the baby-soft hair that grew thick at the base of his skull.

     “Always,” I whispered.    (Dragonfly 249-50)

Who knows if M and I will do any exploration of this after the baby comes. But for right now I’m marveling at the preparations my body is making, signs that are most evident following a good orgasm and some through nipple stimulation by my sweet love.


I think this is both delicious AND kinky, Miss V.

Is it Kinky? No, not so much…
It’s Delicious Pain!


Our sexy South African friend, Kim, lets feathers do double-duty.

Tickle & Spank…….Feather Dusters have multiple uses!!!


I just love this image. The clarity of the tug, the swell of her breast. Well done, Hubman (and Veronica)!
Dawn’s swell. I don’t know what else to say. It’s so beautiful.

I don’t really have a kink, and lately, I’ve had a rather tame, though steamy, sex life. The little kink I’ve had (multiple partners, spanking or anal sex (is that even a kink?)) is quite hard to show in a boob picture… so you get a close up of my fingers on my nipple, because after all, that may be the kinkiest thing about me at the moment: nipple orgasms!


Kayla got some sexy new toys!  Follow her @KaylaLords

It wasn’t easy deciding how kinky to be for this until I received these – nipple suckers!


LaShonna’s netting reminds me of a delectable challenge, a riddle to solve to get to the prize.  Follow her @SunShyne0915

I like the way the net pressed into my flesh.  I had so much fun with this one. :o)


Mz. Hyde ices her lovely breast. I’ve forgotten how much I love ice…

The droplets of water escaping my nipple symbolize the breaths escaping my chest. {ahh}


Raven’s IG (@RavensDesirexo) is filled with beautiful images that allude to her kinky side (thanks, ToS!). We’re lucky and get to see the whole image here.

In the last few years “being kinky” meant having sex some other way besides missionary, watch out doing it doggy style is so kinky…. LOL. I was terrified and intimidated to explore different types of sexual experiences. The society we live in today makes it hard for women to embrace their sexuality without being shamed for it. Thanks to Hyacinth and other boob day friends for being so bold in embracing their sexuality, I began to embrace my sexuality and desire I found a few things I really enjoy… one of them being rough nipple play. Now Kinky has a whole new meaning and I kinda love it *:x lovestruck


Zoe’s images are always so arresting. I ADORE this one.
I bought this belt (with holes along its entire length) at a thrift store with exactly this notion in mind.
Krystal dazzles with the depth of her kink. I love how there’s a color theme!

When it comes to kink, one thing leads to another.


It’s better if we don’t talk.

I sit in a perfumed cloud of semen and spicy sports deodorant; my hands are mine again.

After a brutal week at work our meeting was spur of the moment, motivated by watching him in a porno gangbang with two women who didn’t look unlike me.

He picked me up in the hallway and carried me into my room.  His skin was damp from the rain.

“You just need someone to fuck you, don’t you?” he growled in my ear.  “To make no decisions, to just be taken.”  It was almost a hiss.

I only barely nodded as his mouth crushed mine and his hands gripped my breasts.

I had on boots and a blazer over my sundress; when he got up to kick the dog out I peeled off the coat and sat nervously on the edge of the bed.  He turned to me and wrapped his hand in my hair and tilted my head back.  “You don’t have to say anything,” he said and bent down and kissed me again.

David is a punishing lover, a Romanian coach of sorts.  Brutal, demanding, and then filled with pride and kindness when I comply.  I find myself wanting to comply.  A lot.

His lips were soft, his five o’clock shadow gruff, his hands hot and seeking.  He stroked and pet my pussy and bit my flesh; his clothes melted away and I reveled in the cloth that covered mine, but not his.

He jammed his fat cock down my throat and crooned to me as he went balls deep, his hand hooked into me and began to slap at me.  I suckled on a ripe testicle, arched my back, moaned, breathed in his soapy skin and filled his cupped hand with ejaculate.

He moaned and quivered above me and kept at me.  Cock swollen and banging against my cheek, my pussy throbbing, my chest heaving.

Clothes had to come off now, boots unzipped.  I must be unfettered.

He climbed up onto the bed and slid his cock between my breasts and squeezed them together, his balls on my chin and perineum soft against my nose and lips.   I felt exposed, humiliated, then empowered as he gently turned my face towards his sweet, puckered ass.

“Lick it, you dirty girl,” he panted as he stroked his cock between the mounds of my breasts.

I flicked my tongue, afraid, yet curious.  The giant man straddling my face tensed and froze as I fluttered my wet tongue around his anus.

His fingers hooked back into me and began to jerk me up to orgasm.  The pressure built and I bit his cheek as I came again and created a puddle between us.  He laughed almost maniacally and climbed off of me and rolled me over to my side and helped me up to my knees.

He told me to put my head down on the bed and to spread my cheeks for him.  I felt shame and a thrill, a duality I am not familiar with.  He grunted approval and slipped a finger into my cunt, then another, and maybe another.

My shoulders went numb and a hand dropped away as his arm pistoned into me.

He slipped a finger into my ass and my other hand dropped away as I gripped the bedding for purchase and leaned back against him.

“Please,” I panted, my face pressed into the mattress.  “Please, please fuck me.”  It was a whimper now.

There was a pause while he rolled on a condom and I felt his hands back on my hips as he gently pushed me onto my back, spread my knees and pushed into me as his mouth met mine.

I don’t know how long it’d been since we’d coupled, but as the rain pattered on the window feet from my head I thought about what a gift my body was, his body, everyone’s body.  That we are capable of such existential bliss through a physical act is nothing short of magic, a breach across divides.

He slammed into me and held my wrists.  He pinned my arms, he bit my nipples, he spanked my flanks with bruising blows.  He went wild on me and I met his crashing waves with my sea wall, unbroken, yet drowned in his needs to push me under the surface of my sanity.

When he pushed my legs together and held my wrists behind my back I began to sob as the orgasm seeped into me.  I imagined the other blonde, buxom women he’d pounded in the video and how they had become flushed and breathless.  How their hips and bellies and breasts had rippled with each passionate thrust of his hips.  How they had loved his cock — marveled over it — and here it was in me.  It was mine.

I came harder then and cried out that I was cumming and with my cries I heard him lose it.  He roared his climax, pulled out and ripped off the condom; I began to sob with release as hot ropes of his cum crisscrossed my back and landed in my hair.

I lay prostrate and jerked with sobs and laughter.  He stroked my temple and asked if I was ok.  I nodded that I was and he kissed my head.

“I hate to leave, but I was supposed to head out to the campground when you texted me an hour and a half ago, but I couldn’t miss out on this.”  I understood.  David and I aren’t so great at talking anyway.  His “no guts, no glory” approach to life is too harsh for someone as sensitive as me and I am often left scratching my head and feeling oddly defensive and misunderstood.  We do much better when all we do is fuck.

He got a towel and gently wiped my back clean and sat beside me.  I hooked an arm over his thigh and hiccupped receding sobs.  “See,” he said, “I knew this is just what you needed.  You seem much calmer now.”  He chuckled.

“You’re right.  This is just what I needed,” I agreed.

I got up and had to steady myself, my head was light, my limbs heavy, my hands numb.  I pulled on a sundress and we kissed by the front door.  I wished him a good time camping and thanked him for the good time.

“Bye,” I said as I was closing the door.

The last thing I heard him say was to chuckle and make fun of how I’d said it.

It really is better if all we do is fuck.



e[lust] #70

exposing 40
Photo courtesy of Exposing 40

Welcome to Elust #70

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #71? Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Exposed! My Mom Knows!

Flash Fiction: “A Taste”

I am a Sex Blogger & I Reject Pseudonymity

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

‘X’ is for X…
Give my guilt an erotic payoff? Tell me more.

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*


All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7

days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!




Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

The Great Outdoors (Or Why I Trust Him)
I’m Reminded You Can’t Force an Orgasm
Yes I am Sexy
Why Choose Monogamy When You Can Choose Every
Would you? Could you?
On Being Haunted

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

A Horse Among Unicorns: Embracing my Straight
Being a Disabled Top in Kink Community
And here I thought kink was all about consent
10 Signs You Don’t Understand Submission
The Answer

Writing About Writing

Sex in Real Life vs Fiction
Terms of Use


Six Nine – A Happy Horny Haiku

Erotic Fiction

One Saturday Evening
Stolen Minutes
Haunting you
Q is for Quenched
A schoolgirl spanking story 10
Sit Here Please
My Prize

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Spanking, Brits, and what if we didn’t?
“V” is for Virgin

Erotic Non-Fiction

My first date with Lexy – Part 2
Goodnight kiss
How To Kiss Me Like You Mean It
running cold and hot
His cum came out my nose.
Going Down. Honey, Coconut Oil and Cum.



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I am going through the motions.

I’m on my way to another date I don’t care about.

I have a lump in my throat, a heavy heart.  All I see is a saggy, fat, reject.

I don’t know who has crawled into my skin; I’m hoping a glass of wine and a charming man will snap me out of it.

I am so ugly.  It’s like a stench I can’t get out of my nostrils.

I’ve been doing everything wrong.  I should do a cleanse, no drinking or smoking, no men.  But they are my nectar and I am their fucked up bee.


I know how to fix a texting mistake.

I’ve gone on 3 dates with a man I really dig, but who is a shit texter.

Earlier today Troy and I were chatting about my dating life and I told him about this guy.  Troy wasn’t sure what a “shit texter” meant, so I hopped over to check our thread and typed back a reply regarding the frequency of texts.

Except I forgot to return to my thread with Troy.

It was on the Shit Texter’s thread.

My stomach dropped, my heart stopped, I clapped my hand over my mouth.  I might have yelled at the phone in a long, drawn out, “Nooooooooooooo!”

I hadn’t texted him since after our quick coffee date yesterday where we sat snuggled up together on a couch for about an hour before we both had to run.  He walked me to my car and we kissed sweetly; I wished we could have done more, but the clock was against us.  I really like this lughead.

An hour or two later I texted him a smiley face and note that he didn’t need to respond.  It’s an open, running joke that he sucks at texting.  He proudly owns it and this early in our dating I feel weird to demand any changes.

He replied with a laugh and a note that it was nice to see me that day.

I told him I’d had a nice time, too, and would like to see him when he returns from his 10-day vacation which starts today.

I hadn’t heard from him in 18 hours when I sent him that mistext.

Dating is difficult and strange; we try to become mind readers.  I’m done with trying to interpret people, so while his texting habits drive me fucking crazy I truly enjoy myself when we spend time together.  The odd thing is, he’s easier to hang out with than just about any other man I’ve met.  He’s on time, funny, affectionate, open.  He’s also sweetly nervous.

We also don’t “date.”  He doesn’t, I don’t, we don’t, but we kinda are.  I haven’t been as nervous to see anyone as I have been him and there’s something between us that draws me in.  I’m intrigued.  He can also eat pussy like a champ.

All this from a shit texter.

So how does one fix a faux pas such as revealing that you’re talking about his bad texting habits to someone else?

I did the only thing I could think of:  I sent boobs.


Hy text oops!

Within a minute or two he responded with “Well played.”

I texted back, “Thanks.”

Of course I didn’t hear anything else from him and now he’s on a plane to London.  It remains to be seen what the fall out from my texting seizure will be.  It also remains to be seen what the fall out will be from his horrendously bad texting habits.

I take two steps forward and one step back.

I wrote last night’s post before bed, after The Neighbor swung by for a few minutes to help me move a heavy potted plant up to my apartment.  He looked good, clean, freshly groomed.  His energy was weird and so I asked him if he was ok.  He said he was fine, he was just a little stressed due to work which was waiting for him back at home, but I didn’t believe him.

Naturally, I didn’t press — it’s none of my business — but I wish he’d lie better.  This morning at 7:30 his car was no where to be found.  It’s possible I missed it, but on my way out to take Peyton to school I didn’t see it or on my way back in.

One step back…

I think about what it means to me, the possibility that he stayed with a woman last night and I feel deprived.  Not only do I have no one in my life with whom I’d invite to have an overnight, but I also feel the void which defined my relationship with The Neighbor: always wanting more, never getting my needs met.

Of course it’s silly to say I’m being deprived of anything just because he might stay the night with some woman — it has nothing to do with me, technically — but because I am still wounded by him, by us, I am unable to see a missing car before 8 am and think, “Good for him.”  Instead I think, “I’m missing something he’s giving to someone else.”

It grinds me down to think he’d be willing to give it away to someone else, but of course he will.  Look at me, I’m giving it away left and right.  My charm, my pussy, my time, my attention.  Lots of men are getting a little piece of me and it’s been uplifting.  He certainly has every right to do the same.  I just wish I didn’t know when it was happening.

I’m here, just quiet.

Hy in a hoodie

The waters are still now, nothing like those first few weeks of frenzied hunting when I gorged myself on men, on endless flavors of masculinity which paraded through my bedroom and skipped across my tongue like so many brightly colored jelly beans.

I had great sex with nice men and these days I’m venturing into what can only be called The World of Normal People: I had two dates with a guy, didn’t fuck him, and might actually still be interested.  I’m sorting out my feelings for him while mostly under other men.  I’m fickle like that.  I like the sour flavors the best.

Hy in a hoodie

The Neighbor and I are mending fences; I’ve let him go.  The ache in my gut is a faint shout, gone is the keening.  I miss him, I love him, I’m moving on.  It fucking sucks.

Time heals all wounds, it’s true, but I continue to search for my favorite bean somewhere in the pile of men.  I still think it’s him; I can’t seem to stop myself.

It really is quiet here.

Hy in a hoodie

It’s hard to be hard all the time.

I am much softer than I may appear.  Not only is my physique nothing like what I share with you all here, my psyche is also not what you read here.  I am soft, loose, out of shape.  My heart bleeds for approval, even now so many years of anguish later learning that others simply cannot prop me up by response only.

Yet, I trudge on my old familiar path of feminine wiles and slights of hand.

I had a bad date last night.

And the date itself doesn’t upset me, but my reaction to it: I thought I was the cause.

Not the man who only spoke of himself and who disclosed things that had I known them prior I never would have been sitting with him in an obnoxiously loud sports bar playing Cinco De Mayo Bingo Trivia.  It wasn’t he who struggled to take the perfect picture of his bingo prize for Facebook who ruined the night.  It wasn’t he who had no interest in asking me questions.  It wasn’t he who thought he might throw up from chugging a beer.  It was me: I was fat, I was unappealing, I was a let down.

And those traitorous thoughts to basic feminism and all the years of hard work I’ve done to believe I am valuable are what made the date utterly miserable.  I was back to square one.

Forget that the very night before a lovely man with a silky sensuality had let my vulva slip between his hands in a rhythmic massage and peered down intently at me arching my back against his hand and purred, “I love learning new people.”

Forget that we had leaned into one another at the coffee-house with eyes alight with curiosity and interest and desire.

Forget that his cock had touched my core just so and I had cum and sprayed us both with the juices of my sex while he growled into my ear how surprised he was he was doing this.  That he was even capable after already disclaiming that he didn’t need another play partner, yet somehow, here we were naked and clawing at each other’s bodies.

All that shamefully became background noise as my super power to make every man I meet fall in lust with me fell from my grip because — I don’t know why.

The truth is, he was attractive, this misfire date with a lisp and loopy, toothsome gestures.  But from the second he opened his mouth I knew it was a mistake.  I tested him surreptitiously to see if my assessment was wrong and he failed each time.  No, he had no questions for me.  Let’s talk about hashtags on Facebook and Instagram for 10 minutes instead.

I grit my teeth against the anguish of my impotence and ground against the shame I felt at the realization I was experiencing a sense of failure.  Where was my sense of value now?

It seemed to have abandoned me, much like everything else in my life lately: it had better, bigger things to attend to rather than sit with me and remind me that sometimes, I have no effect on a man.  Sometimes, I don’t want to have an effect on a man.  And that doesn’t mean I’m suddenly not valuable, potent, or relevant.

The idea that someone wouldn’t want me makes me itch, but it’s an even more foreign concept to not want someone.  I am simply not allowed to have such a feeling; I am to make everyone else ok, you see?

Mother, father, selfish friends and boyfriends and husbands.  I say, “I really hate how this thing that you do makes me feel, but it’s important to you to feel ok, so I will swallow it and live with the lump in my throat.  I am expendable, you are not.”

I am frustrated and embarrassed at this little break down, especially in light of my high from yesterday.

I suppose it’s not unheard of to have a dip after such an exalted shout from the mountain that is more like dress-up some days than it is my real skin, but I’m trying — God, how I’m trying to make it my own skin.

I’ve been nursing a bottle of wine tonight and I ate half a calzone and some salad.  I feel like a rotund version of myself; unfit for public consumption.

I have been fighting tears for half the day because my mother has decided to abandon me on Mother’s Day.  You see, I made plans for breakfast and an afternoon with my own baby before I go see her.  She is no longer available to me now, she says.   Also, I reorganized this writing space and was thus faced with the reorganization of The Neighbor himself.  I miss him; I still love him; I still want him to come around and be the partner I need and want, but he is forever lost to me.  I ache with that knowledge.

With all those sad and unrequited needs of both my mother and The Neighbor I am therefore faced with the unapologetic truth that neither of them will be there for me in the ways in which I need them most.  I must let them go and thereby free myself in the process.  They have their own paths to strut and I mine.

I have curled up away from the world today.  I canceled a date and I have been reluctant to return texts, though there have been virtually – and thankfully — practically none.  I am focused on my sweet sissy’s pictures of my newest, weeks old niece humorously apologizing for my mother’s erratic, shit-colored behavior towards me.  The stain on my heart as I mourn the bond I felt towards my ill-suited boyfriend of 3 years throbs unattractively beneath my ribs.  It’s like tar on my carcass.

I can’t ignore that I have other shit going on besides trying to get laid.  I’m a hurtin’ unit, as they say.

A good friend called me a “turbo-slut” today and I laughed.  “You have sex with more men in one month than I do with women in an entire year,” he observed.  “I don’t know how you do it.  I get sex hangovers because I’m emotionally involved and I believe I leave more behind than just semen.  Maybe that’s why you’re feeling so down.”

I think there’s something to that.  Though I am more measured than the young Hyacinth, I am forgetting the psychic repair I require after sharing myself with someone.  I must be careful in this post-TN era, more discerning, lest I end up nothing but hungover from my hedonistic pursuits.  And lets not forget the other psychic things I juggle such as a supremely complicated relationship with my mother and a pulverized heart.

Deep in my grey matter I believe I am more than the sum of my parts, but my heart is still wrestling for purchase on that summit and I blame myself.  It’s just so easy to get the quick fix of a fuck that I struggle against the temptation and when I feel like saying No to an opportunity — or the potential of one — I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Fuck.  I still think of it in terms of my failings.

I think I need another glass of wine.  This is much too much for a Wednesday.

I am very, very dissolute and dick is abundant and low value

I am bathing in cum and cocks and quickly established rapport.  Arms entwine, I writhe and buck, I swallow jizz like it’s water from The Fountain of Youth.

Some men I’ve written about I have left behind.  Some are still orbiting.  I am in a holding pattern of desire and the knowledge that I have something they all want: Me.  A sexy, forthright, intelligent, kind woman with an insatiable appetite for men and sex and all things hedonistic.  I am of high value; dick is abundant and low value.

I wish I can say I coined that phrase, but it was Madeline Holden who did, not me, and Alana Massey wrote a detailed piece about the “Dickonomics of Tinder,” a razor-sharp look into the changes in dating economics in the 20-teens based on that idea: Dick is abundant and low value.

This is not to be confused with men as abundant and low value, because of course men have value, but their need to stick it in, to share it, to wave it in front of my face has very low value.  I walk on a ground paved in dicks and have bouquets of them on my bedside table.  I’m drowing in dick.

Dating isn’t unlike a very long afternoon spent at the mall dodging the obnoxious foreign men stumping skin care at the kiosks and occasionally climbing a broken escalator; passing the temptation of the grease-infused fare at the Food Court and relentlessly hunting for the pair of jeans that fit just right.

Unlike a day at the mall, however, dating is a lonely affair.  No girlfriend can come along to boost your sagging resolve to only buy the pair that fits  and not compromise.  You must be your own best friend and repeat Dick is abundant and low value and keep looking.

These days I have developed a three-pronged approach to dating and every man I speak with knows it before we ever agree to meet.  It goes like this:

I am looking for a kind, intelligent, and well-hung man.

It’s simple and men are blown away. Is it so rare to own such simple needs?

Of course dick size has no correlation to a man’s character, that’s not up for debate, but I refuse to bite if less than all three are in play in one male body.  Of course every man seems to think he’s well-hung, but I’m one of those who has actual measurements in mind so I have run into some disappointment there.  But because he has also been kind and intelligent I have enjoyed my time with him anyway.  It’s almost like getting the wrong order at a 4-star restaurant.  I’m still on the winning end of that shit stick.

I also say that in no way does my agreeing to meet up mean that I am meeting for a sexual encounter with a man.  The men who come at me with the attitude that I am a prize, something to be earned, will win a chance at speaking with me face to face.

Recently something interesting happened on Tinder.  A man said that the picture I had that framed my breasts as the focal point meant (meant!) that I wanted sex.

I asked him if he were serious, explained that it was actually unfortunate cropping and that the picture was really there to illustrate my figure, not my breasts.  He confirmed he was completely serious.

I wrote this in response:

Even though I say in my profile it’s not code for anything?  So are you saying that had you seen me on the trail that day [in my workout clothes] you’d have thought, “That woman wants sex [because she has breasts and she’s – gasp – not hiding them]”?  I understand that a lot of men get confused about when women want to have sex, but don’t confuse consent or intentions with the way her body looks or how you respond to it.  I’d also like to add that there’s nothing wrong with looking for sex if that’s what I wanted to do, but there sure is a lot of judgment there if I were, isn’t there?

He un-matched me, but not before I took screen shots of our chat.

I posted the conversation to my Moments (a mechanism through which I can share an image with everyone I’ve matched with for 24-hours) and the Likes began pouring in.  Seventy-one in all and I had less than 200 matches at the time, so over a third of the men got what I was saying.  In addition to the Likes, lots of thoughtful conversations were had with dozens of men over it.  A couple of men said something like, “I didn’t think you were looking for sex.  I thought ‘If she ever lets me touch them, I’d like it a lot!'” and others apologized on the man’s behalf.

I was encouraged by the number of feminist responses and the general attitude that they also believed I was allowed to express myself in a way in which might indeed be provocative (it totally was) without being an advertisement for hooking up (it really wasn’t).

Which brings me to my dissoluteness.  I am absolutely looking for sex, but not through a single image on Tinder.  I reserve the right to use my words and in-person actions to communicate that.  It’s somehow unsettling to think that a man would make such a direct connection to an image of my body, a connection that could lead to a very dangerous miscommunication.

Besides, we are all “looking for sex” on some level or another be it tender love-making with The One or a debauched night on someone else’s memory foam bed.

It’s a “wax on, wax off” approach.  You come at a sexual, sentient being in an “I will only take what you’re willing to share” kind of way and she will very likely stick around and let you touch her boobs.  You come at her like she owes you something because you have dick and she has tits and she will tell you you’re a dipshit and then post your idiocy for all to see.

It’s how we date in the 20-teens.

I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to sustain the level of men I have today, but one thing’s for certain: My value is much higher than any dick and I won’t settle for less than agreement in this.  I won’t work to convince you I’m worthy.  My value is much too high to waste my time.


[Ed. Note: I realize that this post has pockets of ambiguity; it was hastily written.  To be clear (as I’ve addressed in a comment) I’m not at all angry with men; I like to think that I understand some of them, even. This post is about finally believing my value is higher than what I valued it before, that I’m allowed to have my needs, that I’m allowed to be discriminating. It’s not me vs. men. It’s me vs. me.]


I learned to masturbate in the shower.

I had my first orgasm on the back of a horse at around the age of 12 or 13, but I can’t claim to know at that moment what was happening to my body.  I only knew I was gripping the saddle with my thighs, my stirrups were long so I could sit deeply, and I was driving this giant animal forward into my hands in order for him to do an extended trot.

My hips began to tingle and then it spread lower.  My trainer was yelling at me with her megaphone because as I lost control the horse was, too, and I was failing at the exercise.  I had no idea the pommel being ground into my mound was the culprit.

Fast forward a year and I was surreptitiously perusing the bible of all women’s books, Our Bodies, Ourselves, and discovered a chapter which included a woman’s discovery of water as a sexual toy.  She was 9 and would use a faulty sink faucet.  I had a detachable shower head massager in my bath.  It was a Eureka! moment.

That first time I stood in the shower stall holding the head to my crotch.  I didn’t know what I had down there or even really where anything was, but the sensation was immediate and profound.

I pushed my hips forward and closed my eyes.  The build was swift and complete in a minute.  It stayed in my legs and hips only and I immediately recognized it as what had happened to me on the horse months earlier.

I became a showerhead aficionado that day.

A shower became so much more; I came in there every chance I could get.  I even boldly came with a young lover in there many years later.

When I left home, I also left my shower massager behind.  It was a sad day.  But I’d sneak into my roommate’s bathroom and use hers when she wasn’t around until a friend told me of an ex who’d lay on her back beneath the tub faucet.  That got me through for years until I bought my own massager again.

By now my orgasms were explosive and blew out the top of my head.  I no longer stood primly with my feet together like that first time, but with legs spread wide and my back against the cold wall.  I came with many eyes on me, sometimes hands, sometimes a mouth.  I hadn’t met the Hitachi, yet.  Water was my only toy.  And the occasional horse.

My senior year in college I joined the equestrian team and early one morning while training I was in a two-point position, stirrups short, but legs in a new style of riding.  I perched above the pommel again and as my trainer yelled, “Yes, Hy!  Like that!  GOOD!” I came and came as I cantered in a circle on a giant-barreled steed.

Later that season, while competing in an equitation class, I began to cum on the long side of an arena and nearly fell off.  I won the blue ribbon that day.  For me, doing it right equaled the reward of orgasm.

It wasn’t until I was 25 that I got my first vibrator and things have never been the same since.  In fact, I think I’m going to see my old friend now, before David comes over tries to murder me with his giant cock.  See ya on the flip side!



Welcome to Masturbation Monday and Masturbation Month! So the prompt isn’t super steamy this week, but I have no doubt the stories that bloggers and writers will share will be. Go show them some love and help spread the word about Masturbation Monday! You and I know that masturbation is wonderful and delicious, but too many people think it’s bad or shameful. Let’s show people just how yummy and hawt it can be.

Masturbation Monday