Unlimited Ride Wristband Night!

Here’s what I got to ride at the midway:
Freak-Out
Power Surge
Giant Ferris Wheel
Monkey Jungle
Wacky World
Alpine Bobsleds
Giant Slide (3 times)
Merry-Go-Round

Here’s what I didn’t get to ride:
Secret Scientist

But his girlfriend is totally hot...


On another note, Power Girl and I were propositioned by carnies at, of course, the Merry-Go-Round. Nothing says wholesome, child-oriented-ride like a guy with six teeth letting you know he gets off in half an hour. I figure it’s like the way they train dolphins – if the reward comes all the time, the desired behavior gets sloppy, the animal will do only the minimum to get the treat. But if the rewards are irregular and unpredictable…well, they’re motivated to do their very best every time. Good try, Flipper – and keep up the good work!


(Amazing photo courtesy of World of Juice Juice, if you ever read this...love to comment on your pics but can't find a link or even a way to contact you on your site.)

Question - Ads?

I'd like to make a little money off of the blog, since I'm spending a fair amount of time on it. Google AdSense yanked when they found out I write about sex. Shame, really. Anyone have any good ad programs they like?

Safari

Outfitting
The musicians didn’t suck. Thank goodness. The fellow with too much receding hairline (lead vocals) and the hot black guy (bass) both made meaningful eye contact with me over several casual interactions, and I chatted with them in a muse-ish way, how they might develop their sound, other places they might perform. I asked what else they do (musicians generally do something else): hairline boy teaches music lessons on the side, and hot black guy is…wait for it…very high up in a governmental agency in which he does something complex with behavioral intervention psychology. My estimate of his worth rises exponentially. So I’ll be calling him Secret Scientist. Sorry, Hairline Boy, you’re screwed.

Still-Hunting
Power Girl and I go to dinner with Secret Scientist and Hairline Boy. Casual pizza, Secret Scientist and I stand in line to order for the table. I pull out money for the girls’ share. SS waves it away. Point! He also turns out to be 37, about ten years older than he looks. Double Points! While we’re eating, I casually let my leg touch his leg, and play a very careful conversational tennis between the boys and another lady who has joined us and is less attractive than we are. I’m not judging her looks, I’m judging her role as a hanger-on. (We are also prettier.) Power Girl eats pizza in a state of beatific observational glee as I move on Secret Scientist, Hairline Boy gives me sparkly eyes, and the hanger-on responds earnestly to my inquiries about her role in the chemical industry. Between ‘accidental’ touches and “gee-you’re-nice-but-sorry-I’m-married” looks, I learn quite a bit about refining.

Stalking
After a discussion of fans who don’t know when to quit in which Power Girl and I explain to the boys that any girl who PM’s you wants to do you, there is no other reason for a girl to PM a guy (longtime friends and short exchanges about the Chem notes excepted), we all head home. Hairline Boy hugs me for that crucial I-wanna-do-you amount of time. So does Secret Scientist, who rests his arm around my waist during goodbyes. I text him: So what are my chances?

Persistence Hunting
I generally prefer a direct club to the head. He hasn’t gotten my text. I rescue him from a group of hangers-on and tell him I texted him. He asks what I said. Then he tells me my chances would be excellent…were it not for his longtime live-in girlfriend. (Waa-waa-waaaahhhh….) I am torn. Karma-wise, I’m trying to be a better person, I should respect his thing and enjoy our flirting and not push.

Regroup. Hang out with the band and chat normally. Throughout the time we’re around each other, he and Hairline Boy each find excuses to talk to me alone, more than once one arriving as the other departs. Power Girl nearly wets herself with amusement. I casually ask Secret Scientist out of hearing, “So, does head count?” He says he believes in quid pro quo…

The last time I see him today, he waits patiently while I deal with business, then we sit alone but publicly. I tell him my deal with Husband, that I have a lover, that I like being with new people. He tells me about his girlfriend whom he wants to be with but doesn’t want to marry (minus half a point!). He’s committed to cooking at home tonight. He’s been flirted with before, often, but never with someone who “put their cards on the table” the way I do. I’m straddling a bench and in the tension between us I am oh-so-conscious of the pressure of my pussy on the metal. He is slightly dominant. He feels polyamorous. I like him. I say, “I’d like to kiss you but it’s too public here.” His thoughts exactly. “Step into my parlor,” I say and lead him somewhere marginally more private but not by much.

We stand. He looks. I step forward and put my hands on his shoulders, reach for his mouth with mine. His tongue is strong and slender and firm in my mouth. I suck it gently, part my lips as his arms go around me. One hand strays towards my breast, he’s not quite brave enough yet. We step back. Eyes. He comes to me this time, his hand solid on the small of my back, his mouth covering mine. I run my hand up the inside of his leg, stopping low enough so that he will think of me all night, cooking dinner, sleeping next to girlfriend.

Tomorrow, we go to the circus.

The Dream

I was in a college class, the teacher was Japanese. We were sitting around a table, and John M (my best friend from first grade who is now serving in the Navy) got up to leave a little early. As he stood up and gathered his books, he looked at me and mouthed, “Mandy.” I was in shock. I had to wait for the bell to ring to be able to leave, then run through the halls, out of the building, across to the next campus, a military academy on a wide grassy lawn, backing on a river. I finally caught him in doorway of the foyer. “How did you know? How did you find out?” He looked at me pityingly, “I know how to look around on the internet, it’s not hard.” Sun on the grass. White uniforms. Terror, lasting long after I woke up.

Sugasm #76 - Top Three!

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Bits and Pieces

…Not to be snarky, but has anyone else felt that Belle de Jour, mother of us all, has lately become both annoyingly, pretentiously cryptic and just the wee-est bit, well, boring? As a fellow sex blogger, I worry about continuing to generate good stories...

…Folk Rocker has gotten back in touch, announcing that he’s golfing in Retiree State with 12 other guys, he’d rather be home with a good book, and isn’t it my turn to send dirty pictures? We’ve exchanged already, the first time he’d ever taken a naked picture of himself, let alone sent one to anyone, and it’s both charming and frustrating to see him half-pictured in a mirror, his hand coyly on his uncut cock. I’m ok with sending him more, but I want something in return – perhaps his fantasies, written out. I’m enlisting Power Girl to click the shutter and will share some of the results with you, Gentle Readers…

…Here’s why I’m a female chauvinist pig: I meet yet more musicians and my first thought is, “fresh meat.” (My second is, “Hope they don’t suck or I’ll have to stop liking them.”) Here’s why I’m a racist: I immediately rank them as “too much receding hairline,” “hot but too young and probably taken,” “guy I can’t really remember,” and “hot black guy, bingo, you’re mine.”…


("Titus Three" poster courtesy of Toxic Dreams)

They Say It Broadens the Mind

A trip. Two trips, one inside the other, the everyday (to me) shell of another business-related trip, the hidden yolk a side trip to Be-My-Real-Friend’s city for our first meeting. I want to sightsee (with him) in his city, I want to see my girlfriend Computer Whiz who also lives there, I want to see if being my real self works, I want to see if we like each other in person, I want the cash.

Husband’s red suitcase on the bed. Easier to pack a larger bag than make choices. Outside big zippy pocket: files I don’t need handy on the trip. Outside little zippy pocket: extra pens, razor, tampons - Oh dear God, I’ve timed my period wrong.

(I take my pills continuously instead of taking the week off, I can go three months in a row, no mess, no expensive tampons, and it lowers the risk for ovarian cancer. Having had part of my cervix chopped already, I’m in no mood to go another round. No, wait – count the days. Stop bleeding Friday, new pills on Sunday, fly on Tuesday to see Be-My-Real-Friend, it’s all right. Back to cancer – Lover found the lump in a place Husband’s fingers hadn’t been for months and didn’t know well enough to compare.)

Main compartment. Underwear, socks, tights, remember there will be laundry, I only need four days’ worth.

Plus some extras.

Plus tights I might be in the mood to wear. Plus one more pair of socks for sleeping in. Plus pretty underwear, in case I meet someone. Whore underwear doesn’t count against the I-should-pack-less-total. I don’t know if I’ll wear mine or the whore’s with Be-My-Friend.

T-shirts (three exactly alike, I know what I wear), a long-sleeve shirt. Call out to Husband, “Can you look up the weather in Big City and DC for me?” I’m going to travelogue later so I might as well reveal – it’s a big enough place. Husband reports back – two more long-sleeve shirts.

Bag of sex toys, I love masturbating alone in hotel rooms. They probably won’t come out with Be-My-Real-Friend, I’d rather just be with a person the first time. The tiny glass dish from Epcot Japan, there’s a real branch of Mitsukoshi there. Lucky Cat (white for patience). Two plastic pigs from Husband that touch noses on hotel bedside tables in Prague, in Dayton, in Seattle. Two pictures in tough plastic frames, one of the cats, one of Husband, cooking something for his fellow workers three summers ago. He looks up over the pot, white collared shirt open at the neck, his hair in two tiny pigtails, I forget why.

A carefully timed dash to my office, while Husband changes the laundry, nets my whore bag, the phone off for more than a month now. I discard the candles that have been at other appointments, substitute some ginseng tealights, a new smell for a new plan. The bag with condoms, lube, toothbrush, mouthwash, not sure how much I’ll need but it’s faster than sorting and I don’t want to get caught. I add four outfits, I don’t know how dressy dinner will be. Kenneth Cole heels with a Mary Jane strap, my favorite, bought in Vegas years ago and still in style, still the most expensive shoes I own. Patent boots with spike heels. Stockings. Garter belt. Whore underwear, the bits of lace only suitable for being seen in and rubbing on.

Guidebook. Metro stops. Restaurants. Hotels (I still haven’t booked, trusting in Hotwire and faith). Markets. Helpful articles about the history of the city, about which I know very little. Shopping. Sights. Museums. Useful Addresses. Emergency Information. Sadly, no section marked “Tricky New Relationship, Navigation Of.”

Phone Sex

‘Cause I heard that you got you a lover,
And lovers you’ve got one or two.
But you can’t tell one from the other,
Now Mama, now you’re nothing to you
- Two Gallants

We’re in a hotel room. We’re always in a hotel room. (Except for that one time I violated the sanctity of my home in the guest room, but I was crazy, it was a one time thing, I swear.) Anyway. Hotel. Motel. Cheap but clean, grey-green stain-hiding carpet, blue bedspreads patterned with faux Wedgewood. On the edge of a failing city, now a grimy town – it’s hard to avoid them in the Midwest. Lover’s inside me, cowgirl. Yeah, yeah, cutting to the chase, but we’d be here all day if I rambled through the nuances of his hand at the nape of my hair, pulling my head back, his other hand on my breast while I watch him standing behind my shoulder in the mirror, etc, etc.

So Lover’s inside me. It’s been stop and start, talking and fucking, talking and fucking. The phone rings. Mine. His is off, his is always off when we’re here. Mine is never off. I will usually ignore the old-fashioned ring if there is a cock actually inside me, but otherwise I always look to see if it’s Husband, and if it is I pick up. Primary partner first, and if boyo doesn’t like it, they can move to less-complicated pastures, at least my cow pats are right there in the open, no squelchy surprises later on.

It’s not Husband.

I pick up anyway. Shift my weight, press my clit on Lover’s pubic bone, he’s mildly surprised. “Hello…” lower register fully engaged during Monday morning sex. It’s Actor, we’ve been flirting for years at a low simmer. I don’t know if I’ll ever fuck him, but he’s got pretty eyes and smooth strong fingers and a willpower about his person that I admire even while I deplore his ability to commit wholeheartedly to his girlfriend or wholeheartedly move on.

“You always sound so sexy in the mornings.” I thank him. He asks if I’m busy.

“I’m not busy, no, I’d love to talk.” Lover, still beneath and inside, is trying to decide whether or not to be offended. I lift a little, then slide his cock back in more deeply. He’s that wonderful mostly-hard that means I can go forever without getting sore.

“In fact, I was thinking about you,” I tell Actor. “Thinking about your cock sliding into me.” I lift and settle again, rising up until the tip is nearly falling out of me, then pressing back down slowly, tensing in my kneeling thighs.

“I like that thought.” Actor has himself in his hand, I hear his breathing. “I like thinking about you bent over in front of me…”

“I want to be there in front of you, heels high enough so I’m just the right height, feel you slide into me…”

Actor makes a noise in his throat. I hand Lover a toy, red and white and shaped a bit like a woman with arms raised overhead but mostly like a penis. The bumps of her breasts are great. “I want to feel your cock in my ass, I’m putting a toy in my ass right now…”

Lover presses it into me, not enough lubricant which is the way I like it, the friction of dry silicone catching at my skin inside on the way in, that bit of drag telling me how deep, exactly where, and later reminding where it’s been.

“God, I want to fuck your ass, I want to thrust into you and fuck you hard…”
“Yes, please fuck me hard, take my ass…”

I’m pushing back onto the toy, then forward again, one way relief, one way pain and the pleasure of my clit sliding on Lover’s skin, the stubble where he trims emphasizing the best bits. Several of us are on the edge.

Actor comes, heaving. I come, shrieking. Lover observes, earnestly, his eyes on me through the last gasping breath, his practiced hand on the toy, silent and unheard.

(painting by Rodger Casier)

Gala

(since Beautiful Girl has been visiting lately...)


This is the Hallucinogenic Toreador, which means, the bullfighter that you see in your imagination. Can you see the woman in the blue bathing suit on the yellow raft? That’s Dali’s way of saying that the tourists are ruining Port Ligat. And here, where the artist has signed his name: Gala Salvador Dali. He wrote his wife’s name first, to show that she inspired all of his paintings.

In Museo Sophia Reina, the labels are less explanatory than my fifth-grade self on Student Docent Day, my whole gifted program class each given a painting to memorize, me with the longest one, a page and a half single-spaced. The parents and teachers and the unsuspecting public subjected to our practiced spiels followed floor paths of red and green tape from painting to painting, stopping off at the ones with a sweaty-palmed grade-schooler standing in front, carefully not fidgeting in our dark pants and white shirts. Beautiful Girl and I have only two days in Madrid, Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon, and we are not going to waste it on minor paintings by minor artists, for us it’s the Lichtenstein special exhibit, the Guernica room, Dali, only as much as our attention spans can handle before going back to the hotel for siesta, late dinner, coffee, and the street of clubs that beckon with Spanish techno and Euro techno and American techno which is really Euro techno at its heart, remixes and dance mixes and Kylie, Kylie, Kylie.

Here, there are three Venus de Milos. Notice how they fade into the background and become less complete. This is Dali’s way of showing that classical art is disintegrating, and it reflects his earlier painting, The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory. The first Venus de Milo is next to the cliffs. See how the fabric draped over her hips is also part of the cliffs, and at the same time, it makes the cape of the toreador.

I say to Beautiful Girl, do you want to see a bullfight? It is Spain, after all. She does not. I do not. I've heard you have to buy a really expensive ticket to get a seat in the shade, and we are both nearly broke, I’m charging the hotel on my card and Beautiful Girl can pay me back in the fall. She would be shamed if she knew I wrote that, as much as she loves me, as much as she knows she would do it for me if the situation was reversed, as much as we are the kind of friends who do that for each other, there is still shame packed in the imaginary backpack she still carries despite her transition to a rolly suitcase, to big-girl luggage, to traveling in skirts and the pretty heeled thong sandals that hurt her, so she will not look like a hippie any more. Beautiful Girl is also a vegetarian. Compromises have been made in Morocco, where it is almost impossible to get food that is only vegetables, you would think that a couscous country would have dishes that are only vegetables and grain, but even the lentils are flavored with fat. A bullfight would not be a compromise. It would be a capitulation. I wish that I felt as strongly about something, that I was able to stick to my guns on one thing, one lousy thing that I wouldn’t give in on, no matter what.

The toreador has a pink cape, with gold sparkles, and the curve of the arena above him is also the curve of his hat. Here, below him, you can see the bull, his shape emerging from the cliffs. The straight lines sticking out of the bull’s shoulder are banderillas, long spears with hooks in the end that the bullfighter’s assistants use to distract the bull and tire him out. The bull is kneeling, which means that he is very tired.

Guernica, what we came for, the one thing in Madrid I really want to see, is huge and in black and white, a surprise. I have been imagining blood and gore and Bosch-like excess, but it is spare and cubist and terrifying. Beautiful Girl comes over to me, and says in a whisper, “It’s Picasso.” I don’t know why she’s telling me this, is it a joke I’m not getting? I give her the “and?” look. She says, “You’re looking for Guernica. This is by Picasso.” I say, “Beautiful Girl, Guernica is the name of the painting. I know it’s by Picasso.” There must be something in my tone (shame again), because she looks around at the room of people gazing at Guernica, gazing at a painting finally freed from bulletproof glass with the change of government, a painting whose commissioners’ sole instruction was “Make it big,” a painting famous enough to be our reason for this museum, and says “Oh.” I have already shamed her once, refusing to put our things in a pay locker when there was a free coat check, saying in front of the clerk who almost certainly spoke very good English, “They’re employees of a national institution, they don’t make their living robbing bags.” In Morocco, it’s a legitimate worry.

Later, I shame her yet again, walking down the street, handing her a condom just in case, saying, “Maybe I should be passing over my vibrator instead?” She shushes me and scolds, “Mandy, you’ve got to stop assuming that no-one here speaks English!” I say, “I’d say it in New York.” But that is later. That is on the way to the airport, on my way back to Prague, on her way to the Prado that turns out to be closed on Sunday afternoons. How do you go to Madrid and not see the Prado? How do you go to Amsterdam and not see the Rijksmuseum, to London and not the Tate or the British Museum? In the end, it’s not really what we’re there for.

Notice the collar button here at the toreador’s neck. It’s painted so realistically that most people think it’s real. You can see that it’s not by moving to the side of the painting and looking for the edge of the button. Below the button is the toreador’s tie. See how the vertical dark line of the tie leads your eye to the blue water below. The water is in the place that the bull’s blood would be, but it’s a swimming cove in the cliffs instead.

We see one more room of paintings after Guernica, that’s all we have the eyes for, we’re cloudy with images and need ice cream to revive. But we’re here, and we might as well, room 12 has the Dali’s and the other Spanish surrealists. I recognize them from down the hall, the first glimpse through the doorway. There’s something snobbish in knowing a painting’s artist from across the room, I can do it with Vermeer and Hals and Renoir and Monet (Impressionists are easy) and sometimes Judith Leyster although of course the opportunities for recognition there are much fewer, but Dali is the easiest. It’s not the brush strokes or the colors or the subjects alone, it’s all of those, recurring images, recurring themes, the nurse from boyhood and the cliffs of Ligat and the Venus de Milo and drawers in bodies and Dutch merchants and Gala, Gala, Gala.

We stand for a long time in front of Bust of Gala, her head an island of light in the low right, the rest of the board black as ink. I softly read the signature aloud, “Gala Salvador Dali.” Beautiful Girl looks at me, and I say, “do you know why?” I hope to ask the right question, I hope not to shame her yet again, to presume ignorance instead of enlightenment as is my wont. She does not know. She would like to know. I say, “Gala was his wife. He wrote his wife’s name first, to show that she inspired all of his paintings. As if she was part of him.” Outside the museum, we eat ice cream, Magnum bars with truffle and dark chocolate and the tiny paddle-shaped stick inside after the last and best bites. When we sit on the bench, the men turn to us like sunflowers as they pass. I cannot kiss her, so I take her to a sex shop filled with the same plastic as Amsterdam, equally out of our price range. I cannot kiss her, so we siesta from eight to ten at night, dress, make up, tell each other you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful.

At the first club, I realize, this is what the man feels like. She’s lovely and fun and smart and I can’t keep my eyes off her breasts and while part of me knows she’ll welcome it, I’m afraid to kiss her in case it’s wrong, in case it wrecks everything. We hold hands, we dance together, we see the sunflowers turning towards the only blondes in the bar. We walk, hand in hand, to the big club, the twelve Euros cover even with our discount flyers club, the club we really cannot afford to go to. We’re on my money. I am already planning to tell her not to pay me back until the fall, I am already hoping drinks will be bought for us. They are. And in the end, we walk home as the sun rises. I make Juan Carlos say the “star light star bright” rhyme in broken English and Catalan, and she falls behind with Santiago, so far behind they finally call us on Juan Carlos’ mobile to find out where we are. We are on the way to the hotel. We are in that hazy morning place after dancing all night. We are safely away, safely averting danger, the kind of danger that comes when you kiss someone you really like instead of someone you met in a club.

Here is the curve of the toreador’s face. His chin is the stomach of the second Venus de Milo. His nose is her breast. His eye is her face. Below his eye, you can see a single tear. Perhaps he is mourning the fate of the bull, or perhaps he is sad that the tourists are ruining Port Ligat.

Sugasm #75 - Yay, Tom!

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Tired and Tremulous

I feel like Madeline Kahn.

My last full day off was Easter (I used it to clear my desk). My next full day off is Tuesday the 24th. I went into work today with a terrible attitude and was horrible to my co-workers, one of whom is in charge of a large project that she's feeling overwhelmed by. If I tell her it's just not that big a deal, it demeans the project, which is a first for her on a few levels. If I agree that yes, it's a huge deal, it just puts more weight on her shoulders.

But back on topic.

I've been corresponding with Be-My-Real-Friend, by which I mean he writes me long emails, I answer one out of ten and call him when I have time. He doesn't nag, or phone at bad times. So far, this is working great, as far as I'm concerned. I like reading what he has to say, and I'm glad he is OK with my getting back when I can. The battle is to make sure I keep my head aligned on, "I've talked to him about as much as I've talked to Beautiful Girl this month, and she's my best friend. I am not short-changing him as a friend, and he has expressly said he doesn't want my paid attention, he just happens to be giving me money so I can carve out the time to see him."

We've set a date for me to fly to see him. He's sent a deposit for the plane ticket and hotel. It's a city I enjoy visiting, and we're going to look at buildings and stroll through neighborhoods. Battle #2 is to stay me, to not defer past politeness into customer service, to act like the superior bitch I am instead of the "woman who can't wait to have sex with you" that I act like with clients. To truly take him at his word, make him work for it the way I would with any non-client, be the tease I am, make it feel edgy and slippery and doubtful.

It's still a sure thing.

I'd feel like a very, very bad person accepting the plane and hotel, let alone the cash, and not follow through at the moment of truth. The Victorians had a point when they restricted what presents a lady could safely accept without compromising herself. But we've had enough chat that I find him likeable, and he's cute in a craggy sort of way.

I'm very curious to see if I can pull this off. If so, it's the first step into courtesan-ship. If not, at least I'll learn something. And I do think he's the kind of guy who can laugh and say, "That sucked, let's do something else." Hopefully, even (if necessary), "someone else."

Upgrading the Product Line

So I’m noticing on the bulletin boards around Midwestern State that a lot of guys are bitching and moaning about girls who want to switch to condom blowjobs only, since right now there’s a bit of an STD scare going around. (Girl posts that she’s the owner of a brand new, turbo-charged STD, everyone panics, I’m just grateful I haven’t seen many guys, and they haven’t seen many girls (so they claim)). The big observation is - imagine whiny pasty middle-aged guy typing petulantly on company time - “Well I notice they’re still letting us do oral on them for their pleasure!!”

Oh, those selfish, overpriced girls! Letting you pleasure them without protection because it feels so nice, and then refusing to return the favor! Ummmm, whiners? News bulletin:

I’m not. Getting pleasure. From you.

When I come with a lover, I’m with them. I’m with them. I’m enjoying how their body feels, their hands on me. I can tell them, touch me here, do it softer, try it another way, without worrying about offending them or turning them off – even with a new person, I presumably have a personal connection that led us into bed, and I don’t have a vested interest in them coming back to spend more money. If they find me bossy in bed, fine, fuck off, there are lots of less-complicated girls out there if they don’t want to put the effort in.

When I’m with a client, I can’t say, “grab my ass like this, not like that” or the equivalent in nicer language, because that’s not my job. It’s not my role to discover together how they can please me. It’s my role to please them, in whatever way they overtly or covertly ask for. Overtly, they tell me they don’t want me to fake it. Covertly, they clearly expect their skills to make me come nearly instantly. In a way, I think playing this role makes me a lousy whore - or at least, not the kind of whore I want to be. Judging from comments on bulletin boards, I think there are guys who want (or think they want) to be treated like they are really someone I want to be with. Like I care about how they please me, rather than just hoping it will be less-unpleasant than it could be.

More often than not, I come with clients. They like me on top (less work) and that happens to be the position I come relatively easily in. Rub the space below my clit enough, there it goes. But even in the throes of orgasm, part of my brain is ticking off the clock. I’m thinking: How much should I give away in my face? Am I loud enough? Too loud? Crank up the volume a little. No, bring in the lower register, that always sounds good. Close your eyes. OK, throw in a couple extra spasms. Stretch it out a little. Breathy voice. “Mmmm…thank you…that was great…you make me feel so good!” It’s like eating something very nice when you’re just not hungry. You can appreciate the taste, and maybe you paid a lot for it, or maybe someone you care about made it for you and took some trouble, but it’s not the same as sitting down to the table with the sauce of appetite.

I’m thinking more and more about this – how perhaps the whole point of moving into upscale whoring is that I can be me, I can be a lover whose time is purchased rather than a whore whose services are the product. What’s valuable about me is real me – Mandy is a lot more interesting and worth a lot more money for her time than the person I have pretended to be for my clients so far. I also suspect that men with more money have more to lose. I’d rather be able to tell my real name, and what I do, to someone who will enjoy talking with me about it…and will lose his wife, kids, and standing in the community if he tells.

So here’s what I think. I think that if I charge ten times what I charged before, only do long dates and overnights, and put up a cute little website, perhaps 100 men (who are genuinely potential clients) will find me. Of them, 90 will not be able to afford me. Five will not find me attractive and will get a girl with a Barbie body instead. Of the last five, I will not like three. But at ten times the price, I only need two in six months to make the money I want. If I’m lucky, maybe only one and see him twice.

I notice there are fewer seats in First Class...

Sugasm #74 - Top Three!

I guess Tom hasn't quit voting for me yet :)

Mon 9th Apr, 07

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #75? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

History: Marlene on the Wall (http://thismuse.blogspot.com)
“3AM, showering, head, his hands soapy on my breasts, I’m thankful I’ve dropped weight, the water is warm and cool enough to feel like bed.”

Afternoon Debauchery (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
“Occasionally he’d push it further inside me, from where it had involuntarily escaped due to slickness and enthusiastic vibrations.”

Too Many Choices (http://bikersballsandteacherstits.blogspot.com)
“We’d been naked most of the time since getting here on Friday, so I wasn’t surprised when I reached under her skirt and found that she wasn’t wearing any panties.”


Mr. Sugasm Himself
Circumcision? Bullshit. (http://sugarbank.com)

Editor’s Choice
Spanking Models Run For Charity, AKA Bums on the Run (http://adelehaze.com)

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Ah! Yer Kegeling Me! (http://smutandsteff.com)
The Cruel Algorithm of Desire (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)
Gold Star Academy of Discipline to open Washington DC branch! (http://principalquattrano.com/blog)
Thoughts on the “true love revolution” (http://www.jessicagoldharalson.com)

NSFW Pics (& videos)
Jesse Capelli Nude (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Webmistress Feature Gallery: Dirty Chores (http://www.TaraTainton.com)

Sex Work
Oh, for the good old days (http://www.callacuckoldress.com/blog)

BDSM & Fetish
Hitting the Edge (http://lafillemariee.blogspot.com)
A Kinky Friend says… (http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog)
“Late for a Spanking” from He’s on Top, part two (http://lustylady.blogspot.com)
Laughter (http://www.kinkerbelle.com)
Lessons in the Boardroom, Part 3 (http://dragonflygeisha.blogspot.com)
March Questions: SM (http://danaewhispering.blogspot.com)
Meeboguest G confesses: “She likes denying my orgasms” (http://anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
Softness (http://kinkyfarmwife.blogspot.com)
Surprise… (http://fantasy-nuggets.blogspot.com)
Trip - Day One (http://www.timidboy.com)

Sex News
Half-nekkid invitation (http://www.TarasNaughtyShop.com)
The latest in Free Speech Coalition v. Gonzales (http://mikeymongol.blogspot.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
600 (http://secretbrain.blogspot.com)
Elusive spunk (http://rubytellsall.com)
The face at the window (http://thelastseduction.blogspot.com)
Feast of Delights (http://confessions112.blogspot.com)
Fuck Me (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)
Fuckfest March, part 3 (http://mysexualmisadventures.blogspot.com)
Hold it Against Me. Please. (http://www.betweensheets.net)
I need…. (http://ellesnovellas.blogspot.com)
I took the plunge (http://wanklog.blogspot.com)
In the Back Row pt. 5 (http://kislee.naughtyblog.net)
La chasse (http://www.easilyaroused.co.uk)
“… not really.” (http://celebrateyournaughtiness.blogspot.com)
On the Road Again (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
Parents Possessed (http://http://dirtyandthirty.blogspot.com)
“So does this make me a slut or what?” (http://lastbreath.wordpress.com)
Sperm-a-thon (http://drtycplinva.blogspot.com)
A Tiny Flame (http://femmefataleteen.blogspot.com)
Trembling (http://curvaceousdee.blogspot.com)
Using it (http://thenakedrhetoricaltruth.blogspot.com)
Whose Cock Is This Anyway? (http://domain2.blogspot.com)
You say good-bye, i say hello (http://nocloudnine.blogspot.com)
Your voice (http://lifewords.wordpress.com)

Sex Reviews & Advice
“G” Marks The Spot: Part One (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Gwen (Forever) Diamond (http://www.connectbycam.com/blog)
The Sadistic Tourist (http://blog.atlantabondage.com)
She’s On Top Book Tour (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Lovely picture of C. courtesy of Polyamorously Perverse.

Bits and Pieces

...I have traveled south to the land of God and good manners. I noticed through the night, as we got closer to our destination, the Christian radio stations became much more prevalent, and I was able to tell them faster - it didn't even take a God lyric to catch Christian rock. Then I realized that Christian artists have much better diction and you can make out every word, which is why the music instantly sounds different than "mainstream" music. When you've got a message, get it out...

...also heard on the radio: "Don't miss next Saturday's Pregnant Bikini Contest for all you MILFs-to-be! Win some cash and show off that beautiful bump before it becomes a bouncing ball and chain!" There was more. There was a lot more. I don't know if I'm more amused or appalled - let's celebrate the human body in all its shapes and sizes! By getting drunk and choosing one girl as better than all the others based on audience catcalls and obscenities!...

...this month's Glamour boasts Kate Beckinsale on the cover and a tagline about the new beautiful body, "strong, healthy and real!" and announces in the table of contents that women from 90-230 pounds are in the article and real bodies throughout the magazine. In the article, there's a starlet, another starlet, the Urban Bush Women (thank God), one plus-size fashion model and Steffi Graf. The plus-size model might weigh 170 pounds if she's over 5'10", otherwise she's maybe a dress size 14. Throughout the magazine are the usual crop of lean, toned print models, and the skinny aliens shaped like coat hangers who populate the high-fashion ads. I'm serious about the coat hanger bit - couture is designed to be displayed on a woman who looks like a hanger...

...meanwhile, I continue to lie about my weight - so many women do, that if I claimed my true weight I'd sound like a giant cow, but in everyone's head, I *am* what a 135 pound woman looks like. However, after losing five pounds from being so sick, I then ate badly for two weeks and I'm starting to *feel* like a giant cow. Since several of my jobs involve being paid to be attractive, I'll be actively seeking additional physical activity this weekend...

"I Never" Without the Drinking Part

Lover says I don’t cheat on my wife and defines cheating as putting his fingers inside me, instead of just on me, around me, over the place between my legs. He won’t kiss me on the mouth, or with his mouth open, but he presses his pelvis against me in the bed we shared with Beautiful Girl, the next morning meets my eyes and then jumps back and away when she emerges from the shower. Adultery’s in the heart, I think. Eventually there is divorce, the laws of Big City tangled and slow, the division of property tedious and time-consuming, the end result satisfactory to all parties, except, perhaps, the wife. He dates. It is not cheating. I wish it felt like it was not cheating.

Lover says I wouldn’t come in a girl’s ass, wouldn’t that be awful for her? I guess I understand why someone wouldn’t like it, but once you’re nailed into the barrel it seems a waste not to head over the falls. I urge him to, he doesn’t demur. Later, in another hotel, I crouch before him having figured out (finally) that stacking up the pillows means not wearing out my left arm holding my weight while I press the bullet to my clit, and after the tick-tick-tick up the track and the first, expected longish plunge, the coaster whips into a tunnel, around three sharpish bends, I’m screaming in earnest and it doesn’t stop. Two more bends, a short wind-up (barely a breath) to another long shrieking plunge, corkscrew at 4G’s, another quick hill and finally the whoosh of the brakes coming out of another tunnel as the cars slow. Lover says, what was that? Why, that was a multiple orgasm. Always ride in the front.

(I love being past thirty and having figured out my body, I love being not afraid to try something that might not work, that we might laugh and go, well, that sucked, let’s do something else. Power Girl, amazing Power Girl, you are so strong now, in just a few years you will be a force of nature, I am not condescending, but there is so much depth to come that cannot even be told and I hope I get to watch you dive into it…)

Lover says he’s never had phone sex. Afterwards, of course. I wouldn’t have known. Due to distance and infrequency, there is a lot of phone sex. There is me-in-a-hotel, writhing-on-the-bed, bedspread-crushed-up-under-my-body, jammies-too-damp-to-sleep-in sex. There is him-in-the-car-map-over-his-lap-while-the-cop-passes sex. There is him turning on the dome light so the truckers can see my skirt rucked up, vibrator in hand in pussy, mouth-breathing hard while he talks to me, both hands on the wheel.

Lover says he could never hit someone in the face. We go to a casino hotel, check in in a snowstorm, notice the room is indeed slightly “off” in the way designed to get you out of your quarters and onto the gaming floor. We fuck. He raises his hand and pauses. I laugh and roll out from under him, “Lost your chance.” The restaurant is oddly laid out, a room across the hall has the dinner tables, the kitchen and breakfast tables are out of sight, like a very small banquet room. It’s early-bird time and we are the only diners. The waiter exits for the dessert menu. I lean forward. Meet his eyes. Shrug my eyebrows, smart-ass, triple-dog-daring. His hand comes across my face with a sound that doesn’t echo in the dull room. The waiter enters again on the follow-through, he must have heard the sound, he certainly sees the mark spreading on my face, he is clearly completely freaked out that I laugh and kiss Lover and we turn our faces toward him to order something chocolate.

He could never hit someone with the buckle end. On the clit. With a chain.

Except he could.

Given a nudge, given permission, given a partner who triple-dog-dares you, buys the chain, gives it over in a sweet little box with a bow…wouldn’t you?

(the other picture that goes with this story is here)

Sorry, sorry, sorry

I am way behind this week on posting - I have a major "real life" work event happening Thursday, another one on Friday and I'm leaving town to work this weekend, so it's been hectic. I am working on a post that I hope to put up tomorrow (this morning - it's midnight now).

Know, Gentle Readers, that I am thinking of you.

Mandy Pronounces With Great Judgementalism (is that even a word?)

So as you may have noticed, Gentle Readers, I participate in the Sugasm. (Fellow bloggers, I highly recommend it – I’ve gotten a lot of traffic from it, and also discovered a number of good writers.) Every week, I submit my link, and get an email of all the submitted links to vote on – everyone votes for their top three, no fair voting for yourself. Now I can’t vouch for how everyone else does it, and some weeks I get pressed for time and don’t send in my votes, but I usually read every single submission before voting. La Fille Mariee, Gillette, Always Aroused Girl and Tom Paine are consistently good, and there’s always a few newcomers I’m pleased to discover. (Newcomers to Sugasm, that is, I’m pretty new to the blogosphere myself). But I’m also learning a lot about what I like in porn.

*Note to the satirically challenged – the quotes are made up.

“I felt her writhe beneath me as I thrust my throbbing member into her tight little flower. After she drenched the bed with her multiple screaming orgasms I left the money on the dresser.”

Whoring from the client’s perspective is not hot, because my first thought (accurate or not) is generally, “umm, yeah, right…” Actual whores (Compartments) are generally not writing about how hot it is to be with clients.

“You ring the bell and I usher you into my apartment dressed only in a lacy negligee. You see the rosy tint of my nipples through the sheer black fabric, and you can’t help reaching out to caress my woman-buds with your thumb. I moan, instantly aroused, and guide your hand downwards to the wetness of my cunt, already soaking with desire for you.”

I’m not into second-person porn. Feels fakey-fake to me. See also:

“He guided his hard tool into my moist pink tunnel. I felt him pause at the tight entrance and urged his manhood into me. “Impale me with your love-engine,” I whispered, flicking my tongue along the curve of his ear, feeling him tense his rock-hard thigh muscles with anticipation. As he thrust his eight-inch cock roughly into my pussy, already dripping with need for his smooth, warm flesh, I leaned into the washroom door.”

Doctor! We need an adjective-ectomy, stat! Descriptive porn doesn’t float my boat unless I’m skipping through to get to a good part at the moment of orgasm.

I’m not interested in reading about someone else’s fucking. I’m interested in reading about their love, or their power exchange, or their discovery, or their life. A sex session may be the best way to illustrate one of those themes, but if there’s not a theme beyond sex, I’ll buy a Hustler Variations. At least I can read that on the subway.

On Parenting

At the end of White Oleander, both the book and the movie (which I recently re-read and saw, respectively), Ingrid Magnussen admits to her daughter Astrid that when Astrid was a toddler, Ingrid left her with a neighbor for a year, “give or take a few months.” She confesses what a relief it was to be free,

To go to the bathroom by myself. To take a nap in the afternoon. To
make love all day long if I wanted, and walk on the beach, and not have
to think, where’s Astrid? What’s Astrid doing? What’s she going to get
into? And not having you on me all the time, Mommy Mommy Mommy,
clinging to me, like a spider…

Ingrid tells Astrid that she felt like a hostage. Astrid retorts, “That’s what babies are like.”

Fitch commented in an interview:

A child will take up 100 percent of you if you let them. It’s only
natural for them to want that, to try for that. So motherhood’s a dance
between individual needs and the needs of your child…Ingrid’s failing
is that she had a child but refused to dance with her.

When Janet Fitch originally wrote the short story that was the genesis for the novel, Ingrid was the protagonist. Everyone hated her, thought she was a monster, said you couldn’t possibly tell the story through her eyes, no-one wanted to empathize with her as the main character. And so the book took shape as Astrid’s story.

It’s a great book. And a lot of bad stuff happens to Astrid in a series of foster homes. But even after reading about the shooting and the foster-mother’s suicide and the blowing juvenile delinquents for weed and the eventual growing to adulthood without her mother, when Astrid confronts Ingrid at the end of the book, I think, well, yeah, no wonder Ingrid needed some time alone. She’s an artist.

I think it’s worthwhile to do reprehensible things for the sake of making art. That’s why art must be good, why we cannot settle for average in our work. It must be worthy of the time spent cheating on the spouse, avoiding the friends, half-heartedly grading the students’ papers, ignoring the crying child kicking at the locked door of the room of one’s own.

I suspect I will not be a very good parent.

In fact, I strongly suspect I’m not really fit to be a parent – I’d rather make great art than a great person (I think). I also don’t believe in an ideal childhood, and I actually hope I can settle for average in that field instead of frustrating myself by reaching for the unattainable. Everyone I know is, to some extent, fucked up by their parents. Not that they were beaten with coat hangers or burned with curling irons or molested in the kitchen while the rest of the family sat down to Sunday dinner, but that no matter how much love we receive, it’s never the amount we desire. The yearnings of unfulfilled desire are what make us discover and seek and create, in an effort to attain the recognition and love we feel we deserve. Survivors are a lot more interesting than the protected, and probably contribute a lot more to the world.

If you like who you are, you have to be okay with what you’ve come from. Bad times make us tough. We know we can survive. And if we’re inclined to making art, they give us subjects for our work.

My mother is a lovely woman. Pleasant, pretty, nurturing, handy around the house, cooked lovely meals, made some of the kids’ clothes, mostly a stay-at-home mom. But it’s my dad about whom I blog…

Sugasm #73

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History: Marlene on the Wall

Marlene watches from the wall
Her mocking smile says it all
As she records the rise and fall
Of every soldier passing

But the only soldier now is me
I’m fighting things I cannot see
I think it’s called my destiny
That I am changing
-Suzanne Vega

It happened a long time ago.

Yesterday.

I was lying in the bed where we’d fucked, despite not having a condom between us, and I ended up faking it for the first time in a long time because he was insistent about it even though he didn’t come himself because, “It’s giving away too much isn’t it.”

Yes, it is.

I’d been prowling, walking alone, making eye contact with the last man in every pack of the Brit boys roaming the streets looking for cheap beer, getting thrown out of strip clubs by the same big black men in day-glo safety jackets who’d cajoled them inside with bigger and bigger discounts on cover, “Fifteen minutes free, you want fifteen minutes?”

The last man is always a little behind the others. He’s glad to be with the lads, he is, but he’s also a little bit sorry that all he’s seeing of Prague is the insides of pubs and bars and the restaurants that don’t have No Stag Parties signs. He almost always has pretty eyes, blue ones. And if I make eye contact and smile, instead of doing the quick, down and right, please-don’t-rape-me-I’m-a-tourist slide of the eyes, he’ll turn and look back when I’m fifteen paces past, which is when I turn and look back. And we laugh, because we’ve caught each other, and take another five steps and look again. Then I stop, and he comes to me, and asks me where am I going, love/sweetheart/darling (it sounds much less demeaning from a Brit boy, they all call all women their pet name of choice, eight to eighty) and I say, “I think you have beautiful eyes.” And he says, “I’d quite like to kiss you.” And I do, and his mouth is soft and tastes of fresh beer and sometimes cigarettes, Friday night tastes, and he puts his hands gently on my hips, careful not to take too much.

It’s safer to walk near a pack, on the way home. Not really. But I like listening to them tease each other and picking out their voices, Manchester, East London, Suffolk, Geordie, Scottish sometimes, best of all. They tell how hard they were for the lap-dancer, what an effort it’s taking to be faithful, how many beers they’ve pissed into the gutter or against the six-hundred-year-old walls. Tonight’s pack is Cheshire, older than the average, all with buzzed hair that they tell me later they got done this morning, to match the groom. When our paths part, they wave goodbye, but I want to see if I can hold them so I ask about the hair, end up patting and judging, Paris-like, whose is softest. Like to go to the last bar of the night with them? It’s quite near their hotel, it’ll be lovely, come on. I know I won’t pay to get in or pay for drinks; I’ll escape the metal detector wand and the bouncer’s frisking hands.

Orange juice, orange juice, orange juice, while they put away vodka and Red Bull and I cut out the one who dances in place like I do. We shout into each other’s ears, a good reason to be close, on a white dance floor, watch the plasma screens over our shoulders. “You don’t dance like an American,” Sean’s a barrister, he gets to wear a wig and argue before a higher court. He’s sharp enough to know when something I say is rehearsed, and that impresses me. I know before the last round of drinks I’m going back to his hotel room, and it only stings a little to see his friends give him the thumbs up. In all seriousness, the pack would walk me home and leave me at the door if I felt scared enough to need it. The coat check girl is sleepy, or maybe has something wrong with her left eye, and I leave her twenty crowns on the way out.

The room costs as much in a night as I’m paying for a month’s rent in my flat-share near Florenc, probably more. There is mineral water on the table and we drink it while he tells me about his dad in the SAS, and how he didn’t go into the army. Every two or three sentences, one of us has to repeat something, the accent, the phrasings tangling in our ears, making us listen harder. 3AM, showering, head, his hands soapy on my breasts, I’m thankful I’ve dropped weight, the water is warm and cool enough to feel like bed. In the bed, he wants to be an athlete, four or five positions, wants to please me, wants me to come, and finally I’m sore enough to fake it, hoping we can quit.

“How can I help you?”

“Hit me,” I whisper back. Below me, he shakes his head. Afterwards, I explain about hitting and spanking and the different feelings from constricting the windpipe and pressing on the arteries leading to the brain. He could never hit a woman, he cannot wrap his head around anyone wanting to be hit (today, there are bruises on the eyes of my elbows and the insides of my breasts from the strength of his touch).

He thinks I am asleep when he comes back from the bathroom, and gathers up his wallet and his cash, plucks his mobile from the charger, puts them in the room safe, I hear the buzz of the lock. By now I am bemused and angry, and as he lies back down beside me, still sweaty from the effort of faking, I say, “I’ll try to avoid rolling you for your wallet in the night.” Then I have to explain the slang.

In my travels, I have danced naked in two countries, planted my flag on nearly a hundred lovers, known good sport sex and can I please have a hundred dollars sex and hey, it’ll make him happy and what the hell, I’ve got twenty minutes sex, but whoredom is a foreign country. The buzz of the safe sends me beyond risk and power and the granting of secret wishes, past the first adultery of a barrister trembling on the threshold of middle age, past a good story to tell my lover who will hit me for the pleasure of the details, past penance and joy and detachment and tourism and sometimes even pleasure, into the hallways of the Renaissance Hotel and the realm of the girls who stand on the corner, waiting to be invited upstairs.



(I took this picture)

I Got Tagged

Thus proving that I am now one of the popular kids. Thanks, Tom :)

A - Available or Single? Wow, a hard one right off the bat. Not single. Not monogamous. Not currently available.

B - Best Friends? Husband, Lover, Power Girl, Beautiful Girl, and my Best Friend who lives across the ocean are the people who love me no matter what I do.

C - Cake or Pie? Crème brulee.

D - Drink of Choice? Shirley Temple

E - Essential Item? Notebook and pen. I’m weaning off my cellphone.

F - Favorite Color? Black to wear and yellow to look at.

G - Gummi Bears or Worms? Sour Worms, but only about three. And I'll never touch peach rings again because I associate them with losing my wallet in Arkansas, then having to fly on two planes with no ID (pre-9/11).

H - Hometown? An Arts Wasteland in the south. Oddly though, one of my best places to generate writing ideas is driving through the rural south.

I - Indulgence? Mystery novels and potato chips with homemade dill/onion dip. Half yogurt, half sour cream makes me feel less like Jabba the Hutt on completion.

J - January or February? January – it’s the month of good intentions.

K - Kids and Names? Three cats. Eventually I'll have a girl. If it's a boy, we're sending it back. I'm not kidding.

L - Life is incomplete without? Curiosity. When I stop caring enough to ask questions, I’m done.

M - Marriage Date? I always forget my anniversary, but it’s been more than ten years.

N - Number of Siblings? One and a half brothers, one sister, one deceased.

O - Oranges or Apples? Honeycrisp apples with sharp cheddar or Nutella.

P - Phobias/Fears? Needles (can’t watch it on TV, either); heights (just standing around on a balcony is bad, but if I’m doing something up high I’m ok – I’ve heard that the fear of heights is the fear of not trusting yourself not to jump); dogs; that my father will die.


Q - Favorite Quote? Just read it today:
But when you’re writing a song
Without a partner
That’s a completely different matter.
No one tells you
That’s not funny.
No one says, “Let’s cut that bar.”
No one makes you better than you are.(Kander and Ebb, Curtains)

R - Reasons to smile? Husband next to me in bed, Lover coming around a corner to meet me in a new city, going in to work, writing something solid.

S - Season? The week of autumn leaves and the week the tulips come up. Less predictably, the weeks between Christmas and New Year when I have a glorious turkey-and-pajamas centered holiday.

T - Tag 3 People? Aussie Jack (start writing again, eh?), Power Girl and Beautiful Girl (you can do it on your Myspace/Livejournal/Facebook, just don't link it back here or we'll all be outed!)

U - Unknown Fact About Me? You know how in every high school, there is one person who is the object of focused, organized ridicule and bullying? That was me. Until a new kid moved to town in 11th grade and he was a hunchback.

V - Vegetable You Hate? Beets. Even as an adult. Unless pickled.

W - Worst Habit? Agonizing over the decisions of others that are out of my control.

X - X-rays You've Had? Chest, wrist, hand, all job-related

Y - Your Favorite Foods? Casino buffet, especially the Aladdin; rare roast beef with horseradish; yogurt made with whole milk and/or cream - take your lowfat crap and stuff it!

Z - Zodiac? Capricorn/Rat – we make good pawnbrokers.