January 2009

I could write a thousand words on the artifice that pornography is, on the way that it forms and transforms our expectations of sex, on the way it humbles men as well as women.

Or I could simply post this picture.


I’m making the assumption that what’s in that pump bottle is semen or semen-substitute.   If I’m wrong, I’d be happy to be enlightened.  I have to say it does appeal to the twisted soul in me to think that somewhere, people keep bottles of cum, fake or real, on hand.

Somewhere over the rainbow . . .

Photos of pornotopia found at Dennis McGrath‘s blog Explicit, courtesy of M at AtlantaBondage.


When Robbie was here over Thanksgiving, he found a bottle of birch beer at a corner store near my house.  “Hey!” he called to me, holding it up.  “Look!  I’ve never had birch beer!”  His eyebrows did the hubba-hubba dance.

It wasn’t until a couple months later, long after he had left and abandoned the forgotten bottle of soda, that I, eager for something to soothe a stomach afflicted by flu, drank it down.  And that I realized why he had been so excited about it in the first place.

BIRCH beer.  Yeah, I get it now.



I hate my neighbor, always have.  She lives below me and listens to the kind of ambient music that is guaranteed to float, blithely, through walls and doors.  The kind with recursive drum and bass beats, plus little pinging electronic noises.

She is sexually active, which I know from listening to her fuck for seven and a half years.  There’s nothing wrong with this–God forbid that I be judgmental.  I don’t even know that she’s promiscuous (not that there’s anything wrong with that).  But she was getting some during the long, thirsty years when I had none, and for that, I cannot forgive her.

I have seen her about a dozen times.  She has that sort of post-sex, mussed-eyeliner, goth-in-need-of-a-shower look.  This is probably because most times I have seen her, she is in fact post-sex.  She and her guy will listen to ambient music for about four or five hours in the evening, or in the morning on weekends, and then loudly fornicate.  Sometimes, they go on to have even louder conversations, and a couple times I’ve gone down there to ask them to hold it down.  Five hours of music, screwing, and talking is my limit.

Today, after being woken at the ungodly hour of half-past-noon to the sounds of their moans, it occurred to me that they have another pattern.  After they fuck, they fight.  This is odd to me.  Robbie and I fight, THEN fuck.  After we fuck, we sleep or get snacks.  Whipping, biting, and slobbering all over each other tends to tire us out.  It takes us a good 8 – 12 hours to get back to our default state of antagonism towards one another.  Can anyone explain fighting after fucking to me?

On the up side, I don’t have long to deal with this issue.  I’ll be moving in a couple weeks, which its own little tale.  I don’t know what will happen to my posts before, during, and after the move, so I don’t have any predictions.  Just giving you a glimpse into harem life here.

Photo found at le Chagrin.

So what happened was that for a couple weeks I thought I wasn’t a pervert anymore.

And then last night, I had a dream that two men came over to this house I was staying at and told me that as soon as all the guests who were about to come over left, they were going to rape me.  And then Robbie came home.  I told him about the two terrible men.  Robbie is big and strong and capable of defending me and a small village of other people; he more than fits the bill for all my damsel-in-distress fantasies.

In my dream, after I went to Robbie for help, he reassured me it was okay.  He said he’d take care of it.  That he’d wait with me until all the guests left, and that when the two men came over, he’d take charge of the “rape”, starting with having me blow him while they watched.

I kid you not.  This was the dream.  I woke up feeling all happy and smiley, full of affection for my boyfriend for taking care of me.

So what happened was I decided I’m still a pervert for now, and I’m back.