Friday, December 28, 2007


It’s been exactly a year since I began writing here.

In that time, I’ve discovered something about being a whore:

I’m not one.

Not to say that I’m stopping exchanging money for sex, when it really boils down to it. I have an assignation planned with Be-My-Real-Friend. I’m being sweetly and aggressively courted by a Mystery Man who has recently entered my professional sex life.

Not that I’m any less slutty. I’d like to see Fucked-Up Guy again when I get the chance, my path will be crossing quite soon with Secret Scientist and Zurich (in the same room, no less…what a shame they’re both solidly straight), Big City Lover has been back in touch, and I’m contemplating changing my social networking profile photo to decrease the frequent expressions of interest, so time-consuming to sort through (never know when you’ll find a pony).

And not that I’m resigning my role as muse. In the past two weeks, I’ve read quite a bit of poetry, part of a novel, consulted on an album or two and given writing assignments to some stuck writers.

But just as hourly dropped away as I discovered it felt icky, so, too, is whoring in general fading from my life. Case in point: Tourist has been texting me and leaving messages for months. Finally, I pick up the phone out of pity on Christmas Eve. I agree to meet for coffee, which suddenly becomes lunch and then how much would it be to eat your pussy in the car afterwards? I tell him I’ll email him. I mull it over, I use the calculator, I figure I’d ask $750-900 for the three hours of getting there, lunching, and, er, dining, a bargain considering his normal rate. And then I email him lies on Christmas Day: My mother has come in from out of town, don’t you hate surprises? I send him a naughty picture to “tide him over”. And I realize:

There is no amount of money worth feeling icky and bored with this man.

- Would you have sex with me for ten thousand dollars?
- Yes
- How about for fifty dollars?
- What do you think I am?
- We know what you are, now we’re just haggling over the price…

I don’t want to see any man whose only attraction is that he can afford me. I would see Be-My-Real-Friend for less. I talk to him on the phone because he’s the person I feel like talking to at the moment. I don’t know if I’ll ever actually fuck Mystery Man – I’m still waiting to see if I like him like that. I won’t see them for free, because I don’t have enough room in my life to add another thing to do without being compensated for my time (I don’t, in fact, want a social life and friends). Their gifts overcome my lack of time, not lack of desire. Am I burning with the need to fuck them? Not at this point. But they don’t have to buy their way past revulsion.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Oh, Grammar, How I Love Thee

I receive a missive, from a non-friend whose profile picture depicts him clad in a shiny g-string and cape. For one quick moment I think it's Secret Scientist, whose name this person shares, and because Secret Scientist once appeared publicly in a shiny g-string, though I don't think there was a cape.

Myspacer writes:

hey u ever think about hookin up with a young stud

Mandy responds:

Not one who can't spell or punctuate properly, thanks.

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Fourth Base

The apartment is cold, I cradle the coffee cup in my hands, my girly mix of half milk and lots of sugar coursing through me while we make small talk about our job. He’s funny, he’s honest, he doesn’t have a deal with his on-again girlfriend and he makes sure I know that.

I like knowing where I stand.

And where I stand right now is on the brink. The Dread’s been coursing through me for some days now, I step to the edge of the dock and step back, step to the edge of the icy water and let it lap my toes. This is what I need.

He says, “So I was hoping maybe we could hook up.”

I say, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Come over here.”

I cross to the other couch, he kisses me, first with the firmness of a confident often-lover (though he’s not, this is the first time he hasn’t fucked it up, if he was more than ten minutes off the highway I’d have thought twice) then wrapping his arms around me and placing my body under him on the couch, kissing my face, my neck, my hair, sometimes my mouth, I use my hands in his hair and he groans and sweeps me up, standing, carrying me to the bedroom, so tall and strong and fit that for once I don’t care how much I weigh in his arms.

The bed is made. Points, I think, and then I’m on my back and he’s on me like a wolf, his hands on my neck, my back, my breasts, under my shirt, my shirt is off and his mouth is on my nipples, sucking hard, biting softly, his other hand squeezing not too hard and then he’s reaching for my zipper. Jeans off, he pauses for a moment to admire my panties (yes, chosen). “Nice,” and then they’re off and his mouth is on my pussy, his fingers fucking me hard in a way that walks up to the edge of pain and observes there, though he’s not trying to hurt me, not like…

And then his fingers are in my ass and this accelerates oral to a whole new place, a place where if I wasn’t shy with new people, wasn’t worried about taking too long, I could come. I nearly do. I can’t ask for more, I’m not in that place, and this is so overwhelming my senses almost shut down. He comes back to kiss me and that taste is me on his lips, so familiar and yet so foreign on a different mouth. His fingers are in me again and if this keeps up the pain will be the wrong pain, the wrong person, so I push him back and take off his shirt, take down his pants, and good grief, new record, his cock nearly as thick as my wrist rising from clean shaven skin, sweet-smelling, sweet-tasting, and I suck him with all my desire to please him. Tongue around the head, wet mouth around him, draw him into my mouth, my throat, only able to go halfway before I gag, draw back, force down again. He’s loud, he likes it, I slide one hand up and down his cock, gently pinch his scrotum, press into his perineum with the other. He pulls me off, rolls me over, slides into me I brought condoms, I’d really prefer… and fucks me hard, the feeling is not pain but intensity so hard tears well up, coming from release of tension, release of waiting, release of The Dread. His sweat drips onto my breasts, I’m loud, he’s loud, high and low-pitched grunts and moans, I can’t tell whose voice.

I roll him over and slow down a little, rubbing my clit on his body in the way that makes me come, knowing I have to come, and when I do – the slow build, the burning in my thighs, the burning in my belly, the burn that starts in the center and spreads out, pushing back for that little pain, forward for the drag of pleasure, back for stretching and spreading around his cock, forward to release a little, catching like a rachet, never slipping back completely – the tears flow down my face, I come hard, opening and burning, shaking and weeping.

He is not freaked out by this. Or at least does not tell me if he is.

We roll over again, back to mish, he pulls my legs over his shoulders and starts to fuck me so hard I know I can only take it for a little while, he’s too big for this to be easy. He comes in me, almost as loud as me, and we roll over and laugh, lie together, warm enough.

He says, “Your body is so young. So smooth and white. I feel like a teenager again.” I’m pleased to be thin and pale, pleased to not worry about a flattering angle when I get up and walk to the bathroom and back. I pinch his nipples, suck on one, move down to his cock and start again, feeling him harden in my mouth. He takes me from behind, first on hands and knees and then pushing me down into the pillows, my legs together, thrusting into me so hard my body checks out to observe for a moment, noting how intense this is, and yet it does not right now register as pain. He pulls out, he’s soft, it’s been awhile for him, too. He’s rueful, wants to fuck me with his fingers, but I’m fine, this is enough. We lie on the bed and tell each other one-liners. We talk about doing this again sometime. The phone rings, his son’s Christmas pageant starts in a few minutes, and I need to get back on the road. We shower. We dress. I am sore, I am content, I am Dread-free for a little while.

Home run, no. But a respectable fourth base.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Catching Up

I've been buried in a huge work project this week, Gentle Readers, and I beg your indulgence...I'm also sick as a dog and waiting for it to pass. And while I know there's nothing sexier than snot sculpture in the morning and a hacking cough before bed, there's just not much happening around here, adventure-wise.

I will say that recently I have:

...decided that life is too short and forgiven ex-Lover (more later) while being somewhat mystified by where the new boundaries are...

...had many deep and lovely conversations with Beautiful Girl...

...attended another Meet-and-Greet where I still felt like meat but not nearly so much, and the quality of the conversation was much better...

...pondered how while I feel tremendously slutty, I have not actually managed to have any sex in several weeks, and in fact was totting up and realized that other than clients (who just don't count) I have only had four partners this year. I must be slipping.

I'll don my thinking cap tomorrow and see what I can devise for your amusement.

Sunday, December 9, 2007

Unclear on the Concept

I’ve been engaged in a minor email exchange for nearly a year with a non-potential client who found me through one of the whoreboards. It’s gone on for some months, and I keep thinking, maybe he’ll get the hint? But…

In February, Idiot Boy writes:
Hi. I am 37 MWM 6'1 185#. The post by [this client] inspired me to contact you. I would love to correspond by email more.

Said client posted that I was a nice person, prettier than my pictures, and following my stated plan of meeting gentlemen for coffee before committing to an appointment.

I respond, about a month later because I’m new to my anonymous email and have lost track of the emails lower on the page:

Yes, I'd love to correspond more by email - I'm not seeing very many people, and it is really important to me to get to know each other first :)

A little bit about me - I just finished my graduate degree in [Big City], in [my field], and am resting and recuperating in [Midwestern State] until I move out to [Another Big City], where I hope to live and work.

(This is my basic cover story, because it gives me a reason to stop returning their calls later.)

I've read a lot of books about this hobby, and it always seemed attractive to me, and this felt like my chance to try out something new in my life. I'm a bit of an internet junkie - I'm really getting into reading blogs - and I also love to read. I used to teach yoga and am kind of getting back into practicing it, but it's a physical rather than a philosophical pursuit (though it does make me calmer :)).

Physically, I'm a 33-y-o redhead, and I'd call my build athletic with curves - I'm not a hardbody, but I'm strong, fit and flexible. I have the little tummy that goes with having breasts (36C) and a round behind. I'm 5'8" and 130 pounds.

I was actually 155, but so many women lie about their weight that if you admit your actual weight, you sound like a cow, and if you drop off 20 pounds you look exactly as they expect. Now I'm 140 (thank you Break-Up Diet) so I should start saying I'm 125...

My only real taboo is that I don't speak Greek, so if that's a big one for you, don't let me disappoint you :) As far as the technical details go, I don't keep track of time - I prefer to just have a pleasant meeting and let it last as long as it feels right for both people. My student loan payment is $275,

Ah, my old rate…

and I know that the type of gentleman I'd like to spend time with will certainly take care of me if we do end up spending more than an unrushed hour and a half together.

I'd love to know more about you - what are your hobbies, what interests you about the world? Looking forward to chatting -


There are 322 words in that email.

Idiot Boy responds, about a month later:
are you still in town?

I send back:
Yes, I am, but I'm involved in a work project and I’m not making any appointments this month :) I hope you're well!

He responds the *same day*:
wife is gone until tues and i am free anytime. would to love to see you?

And I figure he’s just stupid:
I'm sorry, I'm involved in a work project and not making any appointments this month. Thanks for your interest, though!

Nothing for awhile. Then this week:
Are you free this month?

And you know, I should just stop answering. Or tell him I never want to see him. But I was raised to never say no, so I think, perhaps this moron will get it:

Hi there - I'm flattered that you've stayed in touch, but I try to develop a more personal relationship with the very few people that I see. I'd love to know more about your interests and what we might have in common - you might scroll down to my original email to you and see if there's anything that strikes a chord. I generally don't see people who aren't interested in a closer connection, because there are so many wonderful ladies focusing on shorter appointments who do a much better job at that type of friendship!

Also, I no longer see people on an hourly basis - I prefer to spend time that feels more like a date with special private time, and that may not be what you're looking for.

I'd love to get to know you better and see if we might hit it off, but I understand if this is not your style.

Have a lovely day!


Five dollars says I get another ten-word email in two weeks…

Friday, December 7, 2007


This is the end of the story: I walk back to the hotel alone, the snow now a fine, driving crystalline miasma that pierces through my jeans, my leggings, hunches me down to the narrow vision of the sidewalk of the next six feet, the hurried glance at the crossing signal, the white man still flashing go-go-go as I cautiously run the last fifty yards, all grace gone in the effort to achieve, at least, the door.


Kieran is the most enthusiastic dancer in the room. His hands on my waist, on my ass, draw me into the leg-straddling grind that passes for dancing these days (old enough to say “these days,” old enough to not recognize most of the songs) but also twirl me in and out of his arms, speak to me with his fingers that sing along, mouthing money and booty and all my ho’s as well as I love you and you’re so fucking beautiful you’re so hot. He buys me a ginger ale, he asks me repeatedly if I’m a cop, because I don’t drink. He’s a Native, I am the only light-skinned, thin-featured, light-haired person in the room of “you wanna see some wagonburners?” asked the Iranian doorman as he ushered me past frisking and metal detectors and a $25 cover. Turns out it’s the after-party for the Pow-Wow Gathering, everyone here played lacrosse all day, shook their tailfeathers on the stadium floor, shared stories and beading techniques while I drove through snow to get to the Big City, checked in, went out, passing the first two clubs (long, huddled lines of thick coats over bare legs, the last smoke in line before getting in), thankful the hotel is only two blocks away. I followed the Power Girl list, I crunched and pushed up to all of Behind The Music: America’s Next Top Model until I glowed, I showered, I changed pants three times and settled on jeans, I bought my own first ginger ale, and I am going to get laid.

Kieran takes a break, joins his friends, dances with other girls, dances with me again after I dance alone and with another man, an ironworker who abandons me when it turns out I don’t smoke anything, either. I am beautiful tonight, I am wearing my favorite top (turns out there’s a hook that keeps it closed in front, didn’t find that out until I got back to the hotel), I have good hair, I am made up the right amount, and according to Kieran I am fucking sexy. If nothing else, I will have had two hours of cardio, interrupted only by a wait in the bathroom to take off the leggings beneath my jeans, I am finally warm enough.

We talk, as much as one can in a club. He says, You are so beautiful. I thank him. He says, Where are you staying? I tell him my hotel. I tell him, You should come home with me. He says, I would never let a girl like you slip through my fingers. He asks when I want to leave. Maybe half an hour? I say. He asks what I do. I tell him he won’t believe me, but he touches my arms, my waist, my thighs with both his hands, and believes me. Kieran kisses me, and his lips are as strong and soft as his hands on me, I cannot wait to have him in me and on me and under me, and then he asks,

How come a girl like you is single?

And that’s the part of the story where no matter how literary I can be with telling what may not have happened but is the truth, no matter how I can bend the world with words, fingerpaint the pretty picture from the primary details, I cannot fail to tell the fact.

I’m married. I’m in an open relationship.

And Kieran, who describes himself as a bad, bad boy, who claims to do bad things, turns out to have a strong moral conviction that it’s wrong to mess with another man’s wife.


The next morning, I lie in bed, waking after four hours of fitful sleep, waking again and again to check the clock, the phone, the clock again, make sure I have not missed the call from Fucked-Up Guy, my early breakfast date. Last night we would have met, but when you have custody, you’re subject to the vagaries of your sixteen-year-old sitter’s social life. After two weeks of Facebook poking and subtle messaging (does the girlfriend still have the passwords or doesn’t she?) we have finally made a date, which he breaks without calling.

The ex is still the last man I fucked. This is not OK.

This is not OK.

This is not OK.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

I keep feeling like maybe I'd have more good days if I could sleep...

Monday, December 3, 2007


I have left the big TO and am now happily ensconced at the home of a fellow writer and longtime friend, for our semi-annual writing retreat. Sounds a mite fancy, means we meet at one of our houses, curl up in a warm room, and write for three days. Blog posts will likely be part of this, but if there is a little silence, that's why.

For those of you interested in "Process" (a lofty title for the painfulpleasurework of writing), here's the morning's schedule:

- Slept until 10, lay on my back in bed thinking and noticing the grey quality of the light until 11, mentally planned the day's attack.
- Morning toothbrushing, etc.
- Wrote a few pages in my notebook about a realization I had, one that has been directly prompted by available mental space I've gained by honoring my promise to self and the Girls (Power and Beautiful) to stay back and not call, text, message or poke ex-Lover (not since Wednesday, and believe me, every day is a victory, not a little one, but a full scale lap-around-the-track, gilded laurel wreath, hoist-me-to-your-shoulders-boys-and-trot-me-round-the-goals triumph), pages that will end up refined and tightened and show up here later this week.
- Yoga with Fellow Writer.
- Yogurt, internet (have to ration it so it doesn't eat the writing time), posting here.

There are four projects on my plate for this three-day span. Finishing the first draft of a medium-length project in another genre; writing out from my scribbled notes in the margins of the map balanced precariously on the wheel and with the occasional accidental honk (but I can't pull over because forward motion lets the words come), a poem that came to me last night on the dark, rainy drive here, radio alternating between Philip Glass and new Canadian pop/rock I've never heard, thank you Canadian Content; a very short piece in still another genre; and sitting with the printed out pages of How About Now? and organizing them in a few ways - likely, chronology, topic, ?? - and seeing where additional material needs to be written to answer questions, clarify, fill in backstory, make it flow like a book and not a diary. I'm planning to start with the poem, because it will hopefully be something I can knock out reasonably quickly and feel accomplished. (And hey, this post counts, too, because I say so).

A side note: Thank you, very, very much, Gentle Readers who have contributed to my Amazon Honor System box (to your right). I randomly checked it this morning and my contributions have tripled since last week. So thank you, not only for thinking of me during the holiday season, but for letting me know that you like and appreciate my work, and value it as something that adds to your life and is worth paying for. I've also had several recent emails from people saying they enjoyed reading, and that means a great deal to me, too. Both of these gestures are truly helpful to me as I work on rebuilding my self-worth lately, and I thank you so very much for visting that construction site. Hard hats required. And of course, this offer (see section marked 'Gratification') is still open - perhaps a little holiday pressie to yourself?

Now I'm off to the warm room...

Friday, November 30, 2007

Power Girl's Guide to Getting Free* Drinks

*so long as you are a fairly attractive girl with good fashion sense and a sparkling conversationalist.


Yes, Gentle Readers, it's time to kick off your weekend with How About Now?'s first-ever post from a guest writer. Power Girl speaks, as it were, and hopefully you will be the beneficiaries. And yes, this does work better for women, but if there are any brave Gentle Male Readers out there, I'd be curious to know what happens if you give these (ahem)well-researched techniques a shot. I turn the floor to her:


Have yourself a merry little workout at the gym, (the kind that leaves you with more energy vs. snoring on the beer-spilled table, and not so strenuous that you can’t move the next morning should you need to make a quick panty-grab-power-walk of shame,) then make plans to go out with your fave gal pal. The pump-up from the gym should give you a general glow that carries with you throughout the night. Make sure to shower part of that glow off before going out.

Gal Pal: Choosing the right friend is important; the dynamic between you and gal pal must be such that you can carry an intelligent conversation about nothing for several hours at a time and with ease; you don’t want to have to try too hard.

The magic number is two. You and gal pal. No dudes, no tag-a-longs. Three is intimidating, and most guys only fly with one wingman. Also, most men are TERRIFIED of women. Recent discussions with male friends and strangers have revealed that the male gender is threatened by the female gender on the basis that women have the ability to hurt men, and men are terrified by the prospect of getting their delicate little hearts broken. This had never occurred to me before, partly because I’m uber considerate of my significant others feelings and wants and desires and would never do anything ever in the world to hurt them (read: doormat), and partly because I lack general common sense. I’ve lacked it so you don’t have to. One lady is desperate, two chicks = safe and inviting, and three is a girls night out. Want drinks? Two chicks.

Physically you and gal pal should both be incredibly attractive and fulfill two different types, i.e. boobs vs. long and leggy. Great smiles and warm laughs a must. Also points if your hair is drastically a different color, so long as it’s not red. Redheads buy their own drinks. Unless they are being paid for their time (read: sex). Then they better damn well be having-their-drinks-bought-for-them-you-cheap-bastards. If you are a civilian red, grab a bottle of peroxide, stat. Blondes have more fun.

Don’t bring your Mom. She does not qualify as your gal pal, no matter how much you love her (read: no matter how much liquor she’ll pay for), and it will only lead to cock blocking later.

At home getting ready: while gal pal rants once again on speakerphone how she needs to just casually date someone to take her mind off ‘the one’ (you know, ‘the one’ who screws her over time and time again, when will my bitches ever learn?), pop two slices of leftover Hot-n-Ready pizza in the microwave and start the bath water so it will be scorching when you hop in. Rummage through your closet and select no less than five complete outfits, and remember to throw a timely “Yeah!” and “Uh huh.” and “He’s such a douche-bag.” to gal pal so she doesn’t catch on that you’re totally fazing her out. Don’t feel too bad about this. Hang up and hop in the shower. As you rub-a-dub your body and face, visualize the no-less-than five outfits and create quick hair and makeup schemes for each. When thoughts of your recently failed relationship creep in the shower with you, and the ghost of him haunts you about how you really blew something beautiful and true, kick it all out ASAP. While you’re at it, purge your soul of all deep thought. Let it wash down the hair-clogged drain. Tonight is about being a vapid, fun-loving hottie, and there is not enough room for you and sentimentality in your tiny, time-efficient bathroom (you know, the kind where you can BM and wash your hair at the same time). Don’t bother washing your hair; it will only smell like smoke when you get home at 4 in the morning.

A quick towel dry and you’re ready for your fashion parade. Try on several of the outfits before realizing that all of them look like you’re trying too hard, especially the almost-too-short skirt. ‘Tis the season. So DO NOT WEAR: Tank tops, halters, tube tops (never, never wear tube tops), shirts with glitter or sparkly sequins (unless a retro piece, and then you better have removed the shoulder pads), things that show too much cleavage, shirts that show midriff/midback. These fashion faux pas all scream cheap trash and date rape, and if you’ve gathered anything from Mandy’s blog, I hope it’s a sense of self-worth. You are probably worth more than the clearance rack at DEB. Remember, you don’t want to look like you’re TRYING too hard. These girls are ALWAYS trying too hard.

Dig through your recently dirty clothes and find that new top you just bought and only wore once. Give it a smell test. When it passes, grab another funky shirt and go for a trendy layering look. Change your pants. Change them back. Just wear jeans. You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard. Mascara, liner, shadow, designer boots (minimal, if any, heel), and, the finishing touch...

The MAGIC hat: Wear a hat. But first, rules: One and ONLY one of you should be wearing an hat on any given outing otherwise it will look like you and gal pal are exactly the same and you coordinated what you were wearing to match and that is totally trying too hard. Also, it helps if the less sparkling of the two conversationalists adorns the headpiece; don’t let ego get in the way here. The hat gets the notice, the head keeps them buying. Wearing a hat can even hide the fact that you aren’t as clever. It’s a mask, a shield, bright red wool shrouding you with mystery and rendering you all the more desirable. Trust me, trust me, trust me, I don’t know WHY the hat works, but it does. If you aren’t getting at least five “nice hat!”-s a night, you need a new hat. I recommend something brightly colored that doesn’t blend into your dark surroundings. Nothing with twinkles or jewels. Vintage ok but don’t take it too seriously. Don’t match your shirt; you don’t want to blend into yourself. I usually go for red (don’t wear purple).

The entire process, from the moment you enter your apartment to the second you leave, should take no more than 25 minutes. Any longer and it will APPEAR like you’re trying too hard.

Race out to gal pal’s neck of the city and rescue her from some drab engagement: bland family dinner, bad first coffee date, baby-loving-conservative-band audition hell… It’s good if your friend has a prior engagement. Creates a sense of urgency and excitement for the rest of the evening– oh, the getaway!

Go into the first dive-bar that’s open on a Monday night. Realize it isn’t as dodgy as you had hoped, and note the general lack of clientele. The fat chick and her lax beau playing KENO aren’t likely to ask what you’re drinking. It’s your turn to buy the first round. Ask gal pal what she wants, knowing you’ll end up with 2 of what you want anyway. Paying with a credit card? Close it out immediately. You’ll be on your way to somewhere else as soon as the last swig is swallowed.

When a gaggling group of already-wasted-at-9-and-a-half-pm girls comes in (most of them will be overweight and wearing ill-fitting clothes that show too much skin, all of their shirts sparkle in some way, and they are trying way, way too hard), switch tables. Do not feel bad about this; their squealing is irritating and damaging your important (read: pretentious) convo with gal pal, and their aura of desperation might be contagious.

When the first drunk man of the evening (there will be several) trips and lands at your feet, and you debate whether or not to help him back up, and he looks up and says, “Wow! What a great hat!” and you think, “Wow, what a great …straggly patch of chest hair,” actually say, in an exuberant voice to match his, “Wow! Thanks!” No sense in being ungracious. Chug the last of your brews with gal pal and hightail it out of loser central. Never stay in the first bar. It shows you settle too easy, lack taste, and have nowhere better to be.

Drive to the new indie bar with the open mic night in the outskirts of town. Pray there isn’t a cover. Wonder why you feel a bit woozy after one beer, then remember the pizza you left in the microwave. Grab some popcorn and a table near the back. Not the very back, that’s reserved for skanks who are so drunk they make out with you AT the bar. You don’t want to try that hard. Your friend’s round, she’ll come back with the microbrew special.

Bait, set, trap. You have: No mothers, one hat, two hot chicks that are obviously having a marvelous time, and a table for four with two empty chairs in a really happening joint.

Remember, you are not looking for a good time; you’re already having a good time. Occasional eye contact/smile/nod with potential drink buyers is always encouraged, but your table, and your conversation with gal pal, is THE place to be, and THE thing to do. If you have followed these tips carefully, the rest will take care of itself, and you and gal pal will be drinking a la free the rest of the night.

The secret is in the set up; the game is gravy. Relax with your gal pal, don’t get caught trying too hard, and you’re in like Flynn. He’d buy you drinks too.

Sugasm 107

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #108? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
Half-Nekkid Blow Job
” We could hear people walking past and talking so they’d be able to hear us as well.”

Masturbation on a Memory
“I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind.”

Reality Check: Handling Long Calls
“While I get my share of quick cummer calls I have several clients that like to talk for hours.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Christian Friis

Editor’s Choice
A Non-Monogamy Lexicon

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Bad Girl
The Driving Lesson
The First Date part one
Late Meeting
Night Call
Over the tub
Saturday night special
Sweet Dreams

Sex Advice
Bringing It Up Gracefully
I Don’t Need Porn, I Get Real Sex!
Prince Albert for thanksgiving

NSFW Pics & Videos
Aria Giovanni sexy video
Catalina loves her New Black Silk Corset and Boots
Pornsaint Popwhore
WebMistress Feature Gallery: Flirting with the Camera

BDSM & Fetish
Big Fun in a Small Space
Double Dip Part 2
I don’t chase
Ideas of my own.
My Reformatory Birching
The Perfect Implement of Pain
Rope as a tool for Intimacy
She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile
YouPorn, MePorn

Sex News & Reviews
Fetish Film - Julie Simone’s Diary Of A Submissive (Bondage, Spanking, Femdom)
Five Sips of Darkness
Special Discount for Our Naughty Friends!

Sex Poetry
Tulips… His lips… Her lips…

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Me and My Vagina
Oh..oh…oh! My orgasm- A User’s Guide.
On Self Image and Confidence
An orgasm faker wannabe
Relationship Rules
Retail Therapy

Sex Humor
Decoding A Dominant Personal Ad
Happy Thanksgiving!

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Well, Hey... Plus, Coffee?

Just realized, after going to sleep weeping, waking up weeping, and weeping all over Husband in the kitchen, that perhaps some of this is due to coming to the end of the tiny blue pills...PMS doesn't usually get me this bad, but there are extenuating circumstances, and it's the first really cold, dark week here in Midwestern State, too. So, Gentle Readers, I promise you five more posts before the next traumatic and bitter one. Maybe I'll even get lucky and get on a roll.

Also - I will be in the lovely and damn cold city of Toronto this weekend - if you'd like to meet up for coffee Saturday or Sunday, drop me a line.

And since a number of you have asked, "HNT" is "Half-Nekkid Thursday". Sponsored at Osbasso's blog, about a hundred people each week post nifty half-nekkid pics of themselves and their loved ones - some of them are porn, some are art, many are amazingly creative. If that's what you've dropped by for, scroll down to the next post and there I am. I've always loved the thing Lewis Grizzard said about the meaning of "nekkid": "'Naked', that means, 'Got no clothes on.' 'Nekkid' means 'Got no clothes on and up to somethin'".

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Bits and Pieces

Today’s Bits and Pieces brought to you by “Writing Because I Can’t Breathe When I See Her Name, Thank God for Friend Delete.”

…Just saw a locally-made-video-commercial for a strip bar, with a lady in evening dress dancing on a stage for a group of businessmen who are earnestly conferring over the paperwork on their table. She finishes and they all look up and clap appreciatively. Of course, the local beer-and-pussy bar is where I have all *my* business lunches…

...A friend asked, a few weeks ago, if I could give him some guidance on finding a girl, natural redhead, breasts like melons, creamy skin, professional. I'm just now wondering if there was a hint in there. (It's not natural, they're more like small grapefruits, I'm not that pale)...

…Still collecting names/pseudonyms and mailing addresses/secret drop locations for the Mix CD present to Gentle Readers. Note that you do not have to have been a longtime reader or a longtime commenter or even resident in North America to claim yours! As my sister-in-law said when I asked if my mother had pressured her to have me as a bridesmaid when she barely knew me, “Later, we’ll know each other better, and then we’ll be glad we did.” Could be widely-applicable advice, don’t you think?...

…I’ve finally found a legit reason to despise Cute Girl. OK, OK, I hear you all. The relationship overlap was neither her choice nor her fault. BUT (and it’s a big but), it was indeed her choice to hear my anguish from my mouth, and then 48 hours later spread her fun new thing all over Facebook and Myspace and LiveJournal where she knew I’d see it and be hurt by it. So, Cute Girl, props to you for pissing on him to establish ownership as soon as you could, because it certainly was touch and go and now he’ll be embarrassed to back out any time soon, and fuck you, I no longer have to pretend I still think you're cool. Incidentally, when you’ve broken up (and you will), I’ll be telling you exactly what ex-Lover's wager was in the pool your acquaintances have started about how long this will last. We’re all the betting type…

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

More Precious Than Flattery

Sometimes I don’t write because I’m busy. Because I’m lazy. Because I have nothing to say. Sometimes I don’t write because I am afraid of what I will say, or what I must say, and what I must think and know and feel to be able to say.

I call ex-Lover. Against all counsel, against my own will, I can’t maintain the wall any longer. I am calling to say we can’t be friends, he has texted me that he blames me for a prank someone pulled on Cute Girl, how can we possibly be friends if it’s me versus her in his head? He says it’s easier to hate me, that believing I did something awful is one way to do it. This takes down a fence rail barring my way out, he’s not my champion any more. I wouldn’t prank her via computer, I don’t know enough to make it clean and cruel and untraceable. A weapon you don’t know how to use belongs to your enemy.

My weapon is words. I can shape the world, history, memory with words.

Ex-Lover says through the phone that our relationship was staggering from disaster to catastrophe. I don’t say what I wanted was you, what I wanted to give you was me, even negative attention is attention.

He says we were already breaking up for more than a year. I don’t say every time I made a scene, every time I hurt you, every time I walked away it was in fear that I would never be able to walk away, too deep, no turning back.

He says, as I head into the produce section to get a smoothie, the only thing I can keep down, “I had hoped this would bring you closer with your husband.”

I say, “It did. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. I knew that when I married him.”

He does not say that he, too, hates not being enough. That when I slept with someone else, it was nails through his palms as well as fodder for his fantasy. He says, he was crushed by what I wrote about Folk Rocker, about wanting, about needing to be wanted.

I say, that feeling? When I wrote you I was with someone else? This is like that, except there is no happy ending where I come home to you and you beat bruises into my ass, my thighs, my pussy, fuck me until you own me again. This is every day a new chapter of pain and there is no end in sight. You have taught me to welcome pain from you, to beg for it, to wish for more, to love your hand, the belt, the chain. Now I have no choice but to seek it out, to wait for more. I do not say, nothing like putting your finger in the ass of a crying woman, remember? And the weeks you kept yourself from fucking me because you had hurt me so badly, instead pulling on the belt around my neck while I came, you coming later in your hand, smearing the semen across my breasts in the strange and creaky-floored hotel? I say, at the very least, you could have waited, you and she could have kept things quiet for a week or two instead of rubbing your new relationship in my face.

When you have been with a lover for some time, the only way to surprise your lover is to hurt them.

He is shocked by my response to the breakup, he doesn’t get why this is so hard for me. I say, “I love(d) you,” with the 'd' so soft neither of us can hear it.

I say, “Remember the staircase at the farmhouse?”

I don’t say the place we played house in the fields for nearly a week, the place you first learned how much you loved to fuck me while I lay still, the place where we cooked together and then I leaned over the top of the stairs, looked down at you looking up, your face against the blond wood everything there was in the world to me and I told you in someone else’s words how much I loved you though we did not (then) allow ourselves to say I love you, told you deny thy father and refuse thy name or if thou wilt not be but sworn to me—

He says yes, he remembers.

I say, “That’s how I felt all the time.”

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Sweet. And Uncomplicated. And Pirates.

Sweet and uncomplicated. That’s all I need. No owning, no taking, no teasing, no hurting. Just sweet. And uncomplicated.

I go to a party. Flat-iron my hair, new black top in which my breasts look smashing (thanks again, Be-My-Real-Friend), the one pair of jeans I own ($10, resale store, Yonge Street, 10 years ago), black spike heel boots, pretty bra and panties just in case. Power Girl is my wingman. She will keep me from choices of desperation. I have consulted her, I have consulted Beautiful Girl, what I need is “something sweet and uncomplicated” (and oh god the terror, what I need is a man who will not want to touch me there, so that I do not have to text or worse call Lover and ask, may I? because the answer may be no, or worse, yes, or worst, it’s not my decision to make).

It is a pirate party.

There are skulls and glow necklaces and black flags and hats with plumes and for some reason, plastic Viking hats. There is a pirate trivia contest and games involving whoever has an animal on their drink bottle or is holding a face card or is wearing something red. There is, of course, booty. And an hors d’ouevres table with grown-up pate and salmon mousse and tiny circles of ham with Dijon and my favorite, devilled eggs. It is dork-tastic. Geek-a-licious. Spectacu-nerd. And it is sweet and uncomplicated. The hostess is incredibly nice. The host is an ex-lover (and then I walked away from the club where we all shot pool and you had to walk the other way with your friends who didn’t know and I ended up on my knees for the man now hosting, in the alcove of a public building, within sight of the window where Husband awaited my return and never looked out, and oh how you held my throat with your hands while I told you how I spent that time kneeling). I tell the host that, were it not for his obviously happy relationship, I would be making a play, and he concurs. Sweet and uncomplicated.

I talk to an engineer. I make him tell Power Girl the story of the iron ring that engineers wear, made first from the Twin Rivers Bridge and then from the Mauritania and now from stainless steel, the ring that rubs against the paper on the working hand and reminds them all that human lives depend on doing the job well. The engineer is cute, talkative, nervously dorky, fun. Sweet. Uncomplicated. While he talks I scan the room, Attached, Attached, NotGoingToBeGame, NotMyType, Attached, AlrightGoodEnough is standing in front of me finishing the story of the ring.

I don’t win the trivia contest. But Good Enough and I flirt throughout, sharing answers (I’m still competitive enough to start hiding my paper when the questions get tougher), moving towards and away. I catch him eyeing my cleavage, and I stand too close to write my name on my quiz paper while holding it against his chest. He plops a plastic Viking helmet on my head and I warble a few bars of "spear and magic helmet!". I'm pretty sure that counts as a pass.

At midnight, lasagna comes out, and there is a renewed rush to the buffet. I talk to a girl who lost her beloved pet rat. She has a tattoo of the rat, she was born in the year of the rat, twelve years before me. I don’t have the heart to tell her that as a February baby, she was probably born in the previous (Chinese) year, rather than the one she thinks. Later I’ll look it up for my own curiosity, and in the meantime, she is happy. I drift by Power Girl, who is trapped between two Francophones who haven’t showered. She gives me the eye, I give her the eyebrow, she gives me the shrug, might as well, nothing better and he’s clean and cute and a not-stupid. Good Enough turns into a pumpkin, and when he hugs me goodbye, I whisper in his ear, “any chance of a shag?” He asks me to call him next time I’m in town. I know it’s over, but I give him my card anyway.

When Power Girl and I head downstairs, he is waiting in the lobby. I know he is waiting for me, so we drive him home. Two streetwalkers cross in front of the car, and I observe that this part of town is full-service girls, short skirts and no tights. The ones further down are head and handjobs, and they wear leggings and high boots. Good Enough says he doesn’t connect with it, and I ask, paying or selling? Neither. He has friends who are “polyamorous,” and he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do that, either. I feel Power Girl’s psychic signals in my head: don’t tell don’t tell and are you really sure you want to do this babe in the woods? She's pled sick, we drop her at the hotel, I already know it’s not going to happen, that the level of honest I have to be I can’t not be will cause him to run screaming, possibly literally, now I’m only deciding whether to bother enlarging his world.

I stop at his corner, he tells me he’d like to get to know me better, he’s ruined two relationships in a row by moving too fast. I think:

I cost $1500 and you could have had me for free.

There are a dozen people at least who’d love to see my face, let alone fuck me.

I can give pleasure like you wouldn’t believe possible, even without the extra whore/porn touches I often throw in.

He says: “Thanks for the ride.”

I say:

“I’m married.

I’m polyamorous, though I hate that word and wouldn’t choose it.

There’s a reason for the “one” in “one-night-stand.”

You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

Friday, November 23, 2007

Merry Christmas!

Ahh, Gentle Readers, you suspect that Mandy has, in the post-prandial haze of the Big Day, gotten lost in the calendar. True, there was a longish celebration, starting with the pre-holiday kitchen scrub (this is the time of year when I take everything off of the shelves and out of the cupboards so as to start clean, bless my mother for taking off the back of the fridge and vaccuuming that part you're supposed to vaccuum but never do), moving through cranberry sauce, stuffing and apple pies, culminating in broccoli, roast asparagus with parmesan, mushrooms sauteed in merlot, root vegetable salad, vegetarian stuffing (yes, it can be done), mincemeat pie, a vat of gravy and a 22 pound bird, because Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. All the fun and none of the stress and disappointment of That Other Winter Holiday. Plus, since we typically spend it alone, Husband and I view it as our anniversary and Valentine’s Day wrapped into one. This year there were guests, so I wore a dress with the pearls, heels, and pink gingham apron.

But on to Christmas. Or Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, La Posadas, O-Shogatsu, St. Lucia Day, Eid al-Fitr, Yule, whatever you celebrate. Probably not appropriate for Ramadan. The last time I offered a prize it went over so well that I’d like to up the ante a little and send out some holiday gifts. It's also a bit of a commemoration, given that I started writing here on Christmas Day last year...

Inside the gold-wrapped box that doesn’t rattle, light enough to hide in the branches of the tree…the Muse Mix CD. Nifty songs that inspire me, some of which have been quoted or referred to here. Some you will have heard, others will be obscure, some unreleased. There *may* be music from ex-Lover, Folk Rocker, Beautiful Girl, Famous, Man Who Loves Stars, Secret Scientist and/or Hairline Boy (I’ll never tell, you’ll have to guess). Some will make you laugh, others will make you thoughtful, one makes me cry.

Tell us, Mandy, how do we obtain such a prize? And without compromising our privacy?

Email me (see box at right. Your right. The left hand makes an L.) with an address at which you can receive your pressie. Some ideas:

1) I don’t care, send it to my real name at my real address.

2) I’m a little cagy. Send it to a fake name at my real address, or my initials at a friend’s address, or my first initial and last name or vice versa.

3) I’m willing to put in some effort. Send it to General Delivery at the big post office in my city. I’ll either give enough of my real name to show ID when I get it, or I’ll take my chances that they’ll give it to me without ID, especially if Mandy writes on it, “please, no ID needed for pickup”.

4) I’m willing to put in some effort and spend some cash. Send it to a PO Box, or a business like Mail Boxes Etc where I’ve made a deal to get one piece of mail and vanish into the night.

5) I have a better idea. And I’m mentioning it in the comments so that other people can use it, too.

I will, of course, be sending them from a city in which I do not live. Or even live near. Which means the deadline for you to get it in time for the holidays is December 5th. Requests received later will not be honored until January, in which case you may celebrate by opening your trinket on Twelfth Night.

I’m a little uncertain that there may yet be some huge snag I haven’t anticipated, or that Gentle Readers will not want to be contacted in any real way, but hey, it’s worth a shot. No-one has to play unless they want to.

Best wishes and Happy Holidays.

Oh, and around the dinner table? Somehow, “by the way, I’m a whore” never really came up…

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Sugasm 106

Sanctum courtesy of Erotic Garden.

Congratulations to Tom and C from Polyamorously Perverse on getting back into the Top 3! Tom's been writing some very thoughtful posts on the evolution of their relationship and where they are now. If you haven't stopped by lately, I recommend it. Also - The Provocateur doesn't usually submit to Sugasm, but there is currently a lovely amd heart-wrenching story, Emily, up there right now that I liked a lot. Stop on by.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #107? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
5 Advanced Deep Throat Techniques
“Suck your man’s penis into your throat, and, while it is deep in, start to hum.”

MILF = Men I’d Like to Fuck
“He knows my body p e r f e c t l y and knows exactly how to make me squirm with pleasure and always knows the right thing to say.”

Reconciling Desire & Reality (part 2)
“The excitement of sharing her, the excitement of my arousal THEORETICALLY should mean a heightening of our own sex life.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Our fearless leader tells me he’s crazy busy so I’m presenting one from the vaults.
The Six Types of Porn Movie (and How To Get Into Them)

Editor’s Choice

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Sex News & Reviews
The End of the Mile-High Club
Fetish Film - Squealer (BSDM, Master, Shibari)
My controversial, nipple-baring Dirty Girls book cover
NEW Culture Shocking Designs!
Sex Toy Review: Mini Bullet One Touch Vibrator

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Am I born as a Whore?
Floral HNT
He’s Horny and She’s Easy
The Humble Handjob
I’ll assume i’m on the naughty list
Minus One
Obsessive Compulsive Slut
Re-discovering myself
So, doc, when can we…
Virgin Extraordinaire

Sex Poetry
Now and Zen

BDSM & Fetish
The **** machine
Erotica: Mind Games
Generic Pussy?
Get the contract signed- part two: vital lessons
Just a Few Naked Pics of Amy’s Perfect Body
Naked Service
What a Saturday
What is a Daddy Dom? Pt. 2

Sex Advice
Six ways from Sunday - Cowgirl (reversed or otherwise)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Bad Girl
Dark Cold Moons
Icing on the Cake
Like Me
The Main Course
Second Time Around
Sex Party in the Hood
Stressed Wanking

Sex Humor
Fuck’n Fun
Untitled No. 1

Sex Work
Reality Check: Eating Food

NSFW Pics & Videos
Day trip to porno town
Hannah Hilton Sexy Bikini pics
Lisa wants a spanking
Self-portrait in Boots
A Hot Femdom / Slave Boy Strap-On Scene

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Retail Therapy

Power Girl and I have a Theory of Retail Therapy. Not to be confused with “shopping.” Or “browsing.” Or even “hanging out at the mall.” Retail Therapy is when the list is not the point, the looking is not the point, even, to some extent, the hanging out with your dear friend who knows almost everything about you, tucks away in her own small heart the whoring and the slutting around and the desperate insecurity, is not the point. Retail Therapy is when your dog dies, your cancer comes back, your relationship is over and you’re reduced, physically and/or emotionally, to frantic dry heaving before every meal. Retail Therapy is about regaining control. Being in charge of your own life despite the forces of death, love and metastasization.

The Theory: If it is perfect, it is worth any price. If it is imperfect, it is to be instantly forgotten.

Shopping in this way, purchasing in this way, is intensely powerful. Meeting the saleslady’s eyes over your armful of potential, knowing that if the item is right, you will make her day, if the item is wrong, there will be no regrets.

Expedition One: An exclusive (how exclusive can it be when Banana Republic is there? We think it actually means “no food court”) mall on the East Coast. A grey, rainy day. Power Girl and I plunge into Bloomingdales and try on perhaps forty formal and cocktail gowns with two specific occasions in mind. Our saleslady is a treasure, one who has the guts to say, “No, that’s not you,” rather than shark us. We have her hold five dresses and head to Bebe, where we are requested to leave our clutch purses at the counter. Next! A small boutique of many designers. One dress is great, but not exactly what I need. Next! Another is smashing, but not special enough for $800 (I think I can get something similar for under $500). Next! Coffee break. Power Girl has chai and an almond cranberry pastry, I have warm milk with a splash of coffee (my new indulgence) and an orange and chocolate croissant. Ladies who lunch are lunching around us, petit fours on tiny china plates, incongruous plastic spoons. We return to Bloomingdales and end up with seven dresses. Damage: $1500, including clearances, bonus markdowns from the saleslady, and a 10% thank-you-for-opening-an-account-with-Bloomingdales discount. Not too bad considering the biggest chunk was a $785 floor-length formal, fine-pleated navy chiffon, Grecian, stunning. It’s my first formal that looks nothing like any prom from any era. Mary Pickford would have worn this before shedding it in a heap on the floor to frolic in the indoor pool, Douglas Fairbanks a slick baby seal by her side.

Power Girl hunts fruitlessly through the rest of Bloomies, Coach and Banana for a bag (we eventually find it at Target for $5 on last-chance clearance), I pick up a little red ipod and accessories, we head to Chinatown, park in the first spot we see, enter the first restaurant by the car, and plunge down rickety stairs to a room in which we are the only non-Chinese. Metaphorical chopsticks drop to the tables before the room resumes chatting among themselves in Cantonese. Jackpot! Even the college students who drift in cross the language barrier at the door, sound-sound-sound-“computer lab”-sound-sound-long syllable-“research paper”. We invite a lady waiting for her party (there’s no wait-seating) to sit with us, and she teaches us about vinegar in the soup, gives us her card, invites us to call next time we are in town. It is the best Chinese I’ve ever eaten.

Damage for the day, including parking, lunch, dinner and the airport tolls from picking up another friend and Secret Scientist who squeezed next to me in the backseat with the bags and softly held my hand the whole way home: $2135.

Expedition Two: I have measured my finances (I’m saving up for either new windows or a trip to Europe as a present for Husband, not sure if warm toes and a lower gas bill or the alleys of Amsterdam are a better birthday surprise) and decided that I will blow all of my last present/fee/ill-gotten-gains from Be-My-Real-Friend on happy shopping. I count the already-therapeutic ipod in this. Power Girl has decided her latest bonus is meant to be perfect boots and some new clothes. We head to Toronto, land of shopping, though the dollar right now is hurting rather than helping us. Screw it. It’s time to pay any price for perfection.

Esprit: t-shirts from clearance.
Roberto Couture: boots for Power Girl. More than she has ever spent on shoes.
Some Sort of Older Woman Store I Normally Wouldn’t Shop In But That Turns Out to Have Amazing, Sexy-Classy Shirts and Blouses: two blouses and a skirt. More than I would normally pay, but two weeks later I’m still getting great feedback on the shirts.
Food Court: Bagel sandwich for Power Girl, spicy tuna roll for me.
My Favorite Lingerie Store Ever (Tacky Name, Ugly Lighting, and the Greatest Bra Saleslady in the World): Four bras of a brand I love that is about to be discontinued, and cutie panties for Power Girl. The saleslady here is another wonderful woman, she adjusts everything “Put it on the second hook for trying on! Always the second hook! OK, I am sorry about my cold fingers but let me just pull you out a little here, and tuck you in a little there…good fit, but not your color, take that off and put this on” and will not let us buy a bra that doesn’t fit. Not that we want to this time.
Godiva: Chocolates for sustenance. I have a cappuccino truffle. Power Girl has dark chocolate raspberry.
H&M: The mother lode. Skirts, dresses, shirts, accessories, and finally the purse I’ve been looking for. We call to each other in the dressing rooms – “do I like this?” “God, yes.” “Hell, no.” "It's cute but not perfect." Lover calls in the middle of trying on and I am flustered enough to pick up a pair of formal shorts. The Fug Girls would be gripped by seizures, but they’ll be cute with tights and boots.

All day long, we do not agonize. We do not question our finances, worry if something truly matches, mess around to see if we can fit in the wrong size. If it is perfect, we buy it. If it is not, we hand it back without a second glance. There is no “Gee, maybe it will work if I…” If there is no medium in the back, we’re outta there. As a side effect, the money from my client transforms into a present from my friend, the means to have a good day at a time when I desperately need one, a happiness that he has made possible, a gift certificate for self-medication. Suddenly, I realize, it’s not about the money, if I can make it not about the money, if I can make it about spending time with Be-My-Real-Friend, treating him like I’m not a sure thing, letting go of the crushing sense of obligation for him to have a good time and let him treat me like a girl, it’s actually pretty fun. It’s not that a sure thing costs, it’s a fair trade – pleasure for pleasure, with the bonus of enjoying the time when I can calm my ass down and enjoy the time. Where else is there a man who is happy to talk to me, asks very little, cares what I think of him, listens to me whine and gives me a big cash present every time we meet?

Damage: under $1000. It’s a small price to pay for the perfect happiness of being better dressed, in control, and carrying four bags filled with potential. We cab back to the hotel, we try things on again, we rest. I silently thank Be-My-Real-Friend, then just go ahead and call him. For once, it’s good to be a whore.

Monday, November 19, 2007


I managed to stay off the internet all weekend, with the help of Power Girl, expensive cheapskate hotel (why is it that the Super 8 can give me free internet and not the Hilton? I know, I know, most people expense it so they can. I still hate it), and a fun city to be in. But I did write in my notebook the whole time, so stories to come, Gentle Readers...

Friday, November 16, 2007

Reaching Towards Relief

I've been wending my way through a book, Tomcat In Love by Tim O'Brien, recommended by Brit Boy. The epigraph is the last sentence of this poem, which I had read before in a class, but hadn't really noted. Now I'm noting. I hope you'll enjoy it - I think it's now one of my top five.

(The other four would be Aristotle by Billy Collins, "You want a social life, with friends" by Kenneth Koch, TS Eliot's Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, and The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, because my mother used to read it to me.)

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

-- Elizabeth Bishop

Thursday, November 15, 2007


"I couldn't have my happiness made out of a wrong - a wrong to someone else"
Edith Wharton,The Age of Innocence


I'm not entirely sure how this works, but...

Lover tells me that he has always felt guilty about cheating on his wife. Fair enough.

He has decided that if he can be faithful to Cute Girl, it will somehow expiate that sin. Second chances and all that.

So...cheating on wife with Mandy, Mandy = tarnished garbage that contaminates him.

Cheating on Mandy with Cute Girl, Cute girl = virgin who will redeem him.

Um, yeah...that's a totally fresh start!

Meanwhile, Cute Girl (who knows about me, we talked) is disturbed that Lover felt what to her looked like no shame for cheating on said wife. Hello, pot?

My last conversation with her indicated that we would stay friends. I'm a little bemused - friends don't usually take up with each other's ex-lovers immediately (in fact, I can't imagine Power Girl or Beautiful Girl ever even dating an ex-lover of mine, let alone one with a relationship this deep and serious, nor would I with their past boyfriends), so I'm curious what her standard of friendship is.

So, Gentle Readers. How much do I owe her civility and kindness on the grounds that when she first fell for Lover she didn't know? They decided to continue their relationship a week after I told Lover we were through, and less than 48 hours after I told her what had been going on from my perspective. Is this merely fortunes of war, may the best woman, etc?

Is this OK behavior from a friend?

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Sugasm 105

So when the Sugasm links are compiled, everyone in it is supposed to read them and vote for the top three.

Here's what sucks: it's a good Sugasm this week.

Here's why that sucks: more than half of the posts, my first instinct was
a) Wow, that's hot, I should share that with L...oh;
b) God, that reminds me of the time Lover and I...oh;
c) That would be so much fun to try with...oh
or, d) all of the above.


The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #106? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
“I feel him start; then he groans into my mouth, a deep helpless sound, and I know I’ve got him.”

Domme virginity lost
I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. You know that, don’t you, sweet boy?”

Reality Check: Lessons Learned From Clients
“From my conversations I’ve learned a number of things that have helped me, educated me and surprised me.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Belladonna Likes Heroin

Editor’s Choice
Each Mirror has two sides

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

NSFW Pics & Videos
Anetta Keys - Mischief In Mind
Carmella Bing - Keeping It Hardcore
Erica Campbell nude by Andrew Blake
The Hottest Babes… Right Here, Right Now
How to behave after sex
Jade | Mirage

Sex News, Reviews & Advice
At least he’s not going blind!
Lust, Caution review
NEW Gender Bending Designs
Orgasm - Do You Fake It?
Pierced for Play
Pjur Eros BodyGlide Original Silicone Lubricant Review
Top 7 Horror Porns

Erotic Writing and Experiences
At Your Service
Catalina loves (Polyamorous) Fantasies - Part II
Confessions: Babysitter
Encounter 2, Part II: All About Jane
Having her cake
How zep got me my first feel of tit
“I’m not having sex with you in here.”
A Letter…
Sexual Initiation
Symplexity Presents: The Friendly Skies
An Unexpected Opportunity

Sex Work
In the Heart of Real America: How Porn Made Me a Patriot

BDSM & Fetish
About last night…
Beat Me Baby: A Step in Submission!
Bitch in heat
Dirty, Filthy, Nasty Instructions
Feeling a Twitch
I Will So Whip Your Ass
A Little Fantasy I Wrote For The Mrs.
Masturbation Fantasies
Men are dogs: a fantasy
On Hands and Knees
Re-Education Part 2: A Fantasy
Revisiting the piss slit
Shame, Shame, Shame; Shame of Fools
Whippings in the eighteenth century

Sex Poetry & Recipes
Cooking With Mandy: Get Your Ass In the Kitchen Slut and Spend Some Quality Time With Your Husband Pasta with Shrimp
Friday Poem: Hot Boobs and Spam

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
“As Long As Your Vagina Looks Good…”
Ethical Adultery
Femme vs. Feminine
The Full Body Project, or Fat Can be Sexy, Part 2
Need, Want, Love
Return to sender
Sleepy HNT
Today is “Mom the Minx(’s)” Birthday
You Are So Sexy