Incentives: Nipple clamps, riding crops, cat o' nine tails....

Today is the last day of April, and once again, I’m asking myself, “Holy shit, we’re nearly half way through the year already!” I’m a little dumb founded at how fast the year is flying by; crazy, fast.

Realizing that we’re moving into the month of May, it made be go back and self-evaluate the goals I’d set for myself just a few short months ago in January; benchmarking if I’m on target to where I should be, or where I’d like to be.

How many of you do that? Do you write out your goals and then periodically glance at them throughout the year? Do you check and balance yourself against where you are today compared to where you said you’d be months ago? Are you headed in the right direction, or have you completely broken away from your original dream, and found yourself on a path leading you far, far away from the goal you had set?

I try and set realistic goals for myself each year. I give myself some breathing room when setting the time limits for the goals and then I reward myself heavily with lots of treats whenever I reach a milestone: New vibrator that I’ve had my eye on for months, platinum nipple clamps, or an embossed and initialed, leather riding crop (see above) are just a few of the items on my wish list that help guide me; propelling toward reaching my set goals.

I realize this topic makes me sound really anal retentive; writing out short and long term goals; checking back to see if I’ve achieved them; rewarding myself for reaching them, etc, etc…. I guess I am somewhat anal…at times, but if I don’t write things down and create a clear picture of what I want, then I’m a truly a mess. I am ship at sea without a compass; a whore on the city streets without a pimp. You see, goals set me straight.

I am not always right on target with my goals. Nope, I haven’t won a Pulitzer Prize yet for penning porn, if there is such a thing. However, I do feel that I’m on the right path; burning my own trail, which is a goal in of itself for me, so hey, you know what that means don’t cha’? It’s treat time, boys and girls (wink, wink).


p.s. I completely understand if you’re as ga-ga over the riding crop pictured above as I am. You can have your initials put on it with Swarovski crystal letters. Hmmm…yum, yum, yum.

Are you really doing you?

I had cocktails last night with some old colleagues; they are more than just colleagues, they’re friends. It was good catching up with them; learning about what’s been going on from a business perspective, but as more wine was poured into our glasses, the conversation became less and less about business and more personal. Typified with topics like, what’s your favorite sexual position? Or, to shave the bush or not to shave? (See yesterday’s blog). We mustn’t forget the all time favorite, what’s the best orgasm you’ve ever had? You know, the usual quintessential dialogue amongst work mates getting together after work for a drink.

As usual, I had many questions to ask; questions I wanted to know rather than the every day run of the mill conversations about sex. I wanted more; something bigger; something deeper; ensconced, if you will.

I put on my diving mask, strapped on my…compressed air tank, slipped into my flippers, and squeezed into a full bodied wet suit before jumping into the deep, dark water where all their secrets were living; hiding. Secrets that prefer to stay under wraps unless of course they’re lured out by alcohol and the Neve inquisition. I posed the next question to the group as if it were their last meal before walking the plank:

“If you could do anything in the world to earn a living, what would you do?”

(Long pause) Blank faces stared back at me. Fingers drummed against the bar, pondering; searching for an answer. “Must be a good question,” I thought.

Finally someone broke the spell and responded. “Why don’t you start, Neve?”

(Another long pause) “Okay. I’d be a sex slave. Tie me up, tie me down; spank me, gag me, torture me with pleasure and pain. Yep. Hands down, that’s what I would do.” My response was too good; it broke the ice, and I didn’t think anyone in the group could possibly top my unique, and eye brow raising answer; I felt glorified.

I was wrong.

It was as if a bolt of lighting had struck the end of the bar where the four of us sat; the white heat rose above us; sending smoke signals throughout the city; spilling onto the streets. The words were out, an epiphany perhaps was in the making; the deed was done.

I am a professional, so I grabbed my purse, digging inside; fingers searched for my small, red writing pad; my journal filled with copious notes and a pen. I needed to write this stuff down.

I learned that each person was working in a field that wasn't lending itself to what their true inner workings wanted and needed them to be doing. What each person said they wanted to be doing wasn't even remotely close to what they were doing now. How do we end up so far from where we want to be? Upon reflection, I was mystified by what I learned last night. Many of our great philosophers felt that true happiness comes from finding and doing the one thing that you do well. I would have to agree with that. For me, it's love slave/writer. I am blissfully blessed.

I went deeper. Hell, I had the reserve tank of air; I could handle it. I forged on and asked,

“Why aren’t you doing what you want to be doing?”

Silence.

So, I’m posing this question to you; the reader for today:

“If we’re not really doing what makes us happy, are we really being true to ourselves? Are you sure you’re really doing you?

Body Hair and Lou Reed

“Holly came from Miami, F.L.A.

Hitch-hiked her way across the USA

Plucked her eyebrows on the way

Shaved her legs and then he was a she

She says, Hey babe

Take a walk on the wild side

She said, Hey honey

Take a walk on the wild side

Candy came from out on the Island

In the backroom she was everybody's darlin'

But she never lost her head

Even when she was giving head

She says, Hey babe

Take a walk on the wild side

Said, Hey babe

Take a walk on the wild side

And the colored girls go doo do doo do doo do do doo…” Lou Reed

I heard this song again recently. It’s a true classic. For some reason it always makes me think about body hair. Call me crazy. The lyrics send me straight down the melancholy hair path. Hair, hair and more hair. Hair loss; shaven hair; plucked hair; waxing one’s hair; a full head of hair… Okay. I think you get my drift, yeah?

Just so you know I’m an a la carte person when it comes to hair on my body. I like my legs, arm pits and eyebrows smooth and preferably waxed; clean as a whistle. I like my bush to be slightly trimmed; maintaining some order below, but the area covering my pubis mons should be full and hearty, full enough so it glistens when it’s wet. Wet from stepping out of the shower, or a pool, or hmmm… dang! I just can’t think of any other reasons my bush would be wet. Huh? It’s Monday; my brain’s a little slow.

I’ve had my bush waxed before; I was in a Brazilian state of mind, I suppose. Ouch! It hurts so bad; really bad. I kept waiting for the pleasure to follow the excruciating pain, but that failed to happen. I was to find pleasure in the fact that my coochie was bare, and as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I felt that I looked pre-pubescent; attracting the likes of pedophiles. Or something even worse: Smooth Jazz listeners; smooth coochie; smooth Jazz, there seemed to be parallelism.

Eeek!

I was hysterical. I wandered the streets of my neighborhood asking everyone I’d come in contact with, “Where’s my bush? Have you seen my bush? I think I’ve gone and lost my bush!”

I was crying out for help, you know; sending a bush SOS.

Someone finally thought a bush intervention was necessary; in retrospect I was a bit out-of-control. My friends were so sympathetic of my loss, repetitively telling me, “Neve, for the love of bush… yours will come back to you, just is patient.”

Thank heavens for my good friends. They were correct. It took awhile; prickly little devil came back to me in pieces; teasing me with a hair here, and morsel there. It was as painful as having the damn thing waxed off. Ouch! The memory still stings.

Anyway, how do handle the hair on your body? Do you shave a little here, pluck a stray there, and how often? Is your body hair a ritualistic maintenance nightmare? Or do you just say, “ahhh… fuck it!” and let it all hang out and go hippie-style …? You know I want to know.

The water-color above can be purchased by selecting here.

Buzzz....Vibrator Dependency

I wanted to catch up with an old friend; wanted to hear about what’s been going on in her life; her marriage; kids, the whole nine yards… We agreed to meet at a quaint, little coffee shop, located somewhere in between where she lives (suburbs) and where I live (urban-dweller). We chose a bistro table, near the window, and the sun rays warmed our bodies. It was great to see her; she looked fantastic. She was, well… she was glowing…. I thought she might be pregnant; radiating some internal joy that percolated to the surface; cheeks were naturally flushed, even her lips seemed fuller. I closed my eyes and took my first sip of my tall, vanilla, non-fat latte. She wasn’t engaging in her coffee. She looked at me; eyes blinking… I knew that look; she had something to say; something compelling to get off her chest.

“I’m having an affair.” She blurted out; matter-a-factly.

Choking and coughing, I spilled my coffee on my lap; this news caught me off guard. It was the last thing I expected she'd say. My eyes were as big as the saucers our coffee mugs sat under, and I gazed back at her. My thoughts raced, “Why the hell do people tell me this stuff?” It’s no secret that I pen porn, for Christ’s sake! I do change the names to protect the innocent; embellishing here, a little change there, and then Voila! The seed is planted for a story. Immaculate Conception at its finest hour.

Thoughts were racing, “say something logical; be supportive; something logical…”

“What!” boring, typical words escaped my lips; disappointed in myself.

“My new vibrator; it’s unbelievable, but hey, I don’t have to tell you that, right?” She said, grinning and winking at me, like I was some vibrator expert (okay, maybe a little).

As usual, I begged for more information; there just had to be more.

“Are you and Jake having sex?” I asked; it was a stupid question.

“Oh yeah, sure Neve, all the fucking time. After fifteen years of marriage, three kids, his job, my job, his stinky, ass and my mood swings…well, we’re just doing it every time we see one another. We’re a barrel of, how would you say it? Hot, Monkey Sex; Monkeys! ” She responded, while rolling her eyes.

Hot, Monkey Sex, Monkeys? Ooops, I touched a nerve; she used the word fucking as an adjective, and I knew I was in trouble. I imagined my friend sneaking off to her spacious master bathroom; closing the door behind her; vibrator in her hand; buzzzz…buzzzz...buzzzz; resurfacing minutes later; refreshed with a healthy glow (hmmm…) and ready to make a hearty dinner for her family. I blushed in embarrassment. Yeah, I know. I know, me; blushing about masturbation? It seemed incongruous, but true.

I’d known her for years. Hell, I wore the obligatory, satin, aqua-colored shoes and matching, pouf-sleeved dress in her wedding. I used to listen to her go on, and on, and on, and on, and on about what a fantastic lover Jake was and meanwhile I was between lovers; vibrating my heart out. Buzzzz.

“So, what you’re telling me is you and Jake don’t have the time, or have lost interest in doing the nasty dirty, using his groove-tube, and you’re engaging in an extramarital affair with your vibrator…huh?” I inquired, seeking clarification.

“Yeah. I guess that’s one way to look at it, or say it.” She said, sitting back in her chair; sipping her cappuccino.

I pondered this information for days before I could write about it. Is she really engaging in an extramarital affair by using her vibrator instead of her husband’s cock? Yes? No? When does acceptable masturbation end and vibrator dependency begin?

I’d love to hear about your thoughts on the subject. Please feel free to leave a comment.

Note: Do you have to have the business card case above?

In flight fuck, please

So, I just submitted a story to an editor that had a call out for submissions themed, plane sex. You know what I mean, right? The Mile High Club type of hanky panky; where so many of my fantasies like to hang out. Think about all the variable options to in flight sex? The possibilities are endless; racking up frequent flyer miles while taking full advantage of the hot flight attendant (s) so eagerly helping you adjust your seat belt, while your tremmering thighs hide behind a blanket. Having trouble using the sink in the teeny, weenie bathroom? It’s a tight fit for two, but somebody’s gotta’ do it.... Maybe you’d like a personal tour of the pilot’s…quarters? Well, each one of these examples gives a whole new meaning to the word, turbulence for me.

How about you?

Needless to say, it was really fun to write about the topic of sex on a plane and to write it from a man’s perspective. The idea came from a very casual conversation I had with someone; rooted from one of his fantasies, and suddenly I was fascinated; wanting more. It’s funny, because I can’t say that I’m really good friends with this person; we are acquaintances, for lack of a better word. He felt compelled to share his thoughts, maybe because he knows I’m penning porn and he was baiting the hook to reel me in and expose his fantasy. My eyebrow rose with intrigue, as he spoke of his ideal flying experience. I bit into the bait; hook sunk deeply into my mouth; taking its hold. Thus the basis for this story was born. Here’s a little taste of smelt or mackerel to wet your appetite (be careful of the hook):

…I was suddenly awoken. I’m not sure how long I’d been sleeping, but it was pitch black outside and the last time I remembered it was twilight. It was quiet, except for the slow and steady humming sound of the plane’s engine. The couple sitting next to me were sleeping. The cabin was dimly lit and the light above my seat glowed above my head. My eyes were trying to adjust to my surroundings, and I rubbed them.

As I blinked and cleared my eyes, I could see the outline of a woman’s body standing in front of my seat; so close, I could have reached out and touched her. I blinked again and rubbed my eyes again. It was Delilah, the beautiful redhead with those amazing eyes. She stood there; looking at me and she was completely naked. Her firm and full breasts were superbly perfect in shape, like two firm, ripe cantaloupe melons. Her elongated and erect nipples sat perched on top of light brown, silver dollar sized areolas, offering themselves to me on a platter. I felt aroused.

Her full hips complimented her breasts; symmetrically proportioned. She had a flat stomach and her waist indented on each side; making her figure look hourglass-shaped. Her long, lean legs were slightly parted; showing off the auburn colored hair that covered her pubis mons. She smiled down at me.

“Is this happening to me?” My thoughts raced and Delilah lifted one of her hands and motioning me to follow her, “come here,” her fingers instructed. I looked around, making sure she was motioning to me and when I looked toward her again, she had turned and started to walk up the aisle, turning to look at me; still motioning me to follow her.

I unclasped my seat belt and moved into the aisle. Delilah was more than half way up the aisle now, still motioning to me. I didn’t hesitate; I wouldn’t let logic try and talk me out of it….

p.s. The condom holder above can be purchased here.

Blooper Sex

Once again, I had the amazing luck of a story that slipped under the proverbial door of my e-mail in box today. The title was along the lines of sex that’s gone awry, or erred sex; sexual blunders.

I’m such a perfect lover (kidding) that I couldn’t think of one story to share with you about any personal sexual snafus, but I did get this telephone call from my friend one morning and we still laugh about it to this day:

“Do you have any Advil?” she desperately asked me as I picked up the phone.

“Yeah, I think so…why? Bad cramps? Sore muscles from running? Too much chitty-chitty-bang-bang last night?” I was relentless. I knew something was up.

Pause. “Well. I can’t move my neck.” She finally said.

“Huh?” What the hell happened I asked digging for an answer; I knew this was going to be good; newsworthy good.

Longer pause. “Well I saw M (first initial of Ex boyfriend) last night and well, one thing led to another and…”

“Yeah, okay. Go on….” I responded a bit too quickly. I was anxious for the low down.

“Well…uh… uh… I don’t know how to say it…” She said stammering.

“Just say it! What happened?” I said prying for a confession, feeling like Lucy from the Peanuts cartoon; therapy session sign posted up reading: The Doctor is IN; 5 cents, please.

“WE FUCKED LIKE CRAZY LAST NIGHT AND I FELL OFF THE BED AND LANDED ON MY HEAD!” She finally yelled it out; needed to cleanse her conscious of her night of wild abandonment; her hot, monkey sex, sexcapade with her recently past and re-occurring lover, M.

“Oh my!” I finally said. “I’ll be right over with the Advil and two coffees. I want all the juicy details.”

So, of course I want to hear about your most embarrassing sexual fumble, stumble, clumsy, mishap that you think about from time to time and still get a good laugh out of. Come on, give it up; tell me your story! I REALLY want to hear it. It’s not like I’m going write about it or anything (big smile).

p.s. check out the cool stuff this artist is selling at etsy; link is here.

Holy Loppers, Batman!

I love gardening tools.

Spades, shovels, picks, hoe's, forks, rakes; good God the names alone send shivers up my spine. I've been test driving a new tool for the past couple of days, and lets just say, I'm in way over my head here in expertise, but the experience has been...well, titillating. I borrowed this scrumptious tool from a friend, and she affectionately calls it, “The Loppers.” Oh, be still my beating heart (thump, thump; thump, thump).

The ‘loppers’ are huge. They have thick; good sized, two foot handles with a rubber-type grip just at the tip; making it easier for people like me, the amateurs to handle them properly. Follow the long, lopper shaft to the other end and there lies the real prize; heart pounding, sweat dripping; five inch blade for shearing and angling the really big jobs, if you know what I mean? (Wink, wink)

It makes me juicy wet just thinking about them. I keep finding more things to “lop” off too. My poor plum tree... it didn’t really need a good lopping, and now its almost completely naked; lopped, shaven, right down to nearly a stump; Oooooh la, la! The loppers made me do it!

What’s your favorite gardening tool?

Gotta have the men's tool shirt above? Check out http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=10619060

Garden Naked; it's Earth Day!

Get Off Days and Off Days

Have you ever had one of those off days? Or worse, several off days all strung together in a row; the next day is even more fucked up than the last, until the only sane thing to do is pull the covers over your head and call off (funny to me why it’s called that) the day?

Those fucking days where everything that could go right, goes wrong? For example, you
realize miles after the fact that you should of turned left, but you went straight instead, and now you've missed that very important appointment you needed to keep; dazed, confused and oh so fucking lost because the bright green freeway sign you just passed read: Desert 10 Miles. You started in Iowa.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I’ve had a run in with a couple of those types of off days this past week and I hope I’ve seen the last of them for awhile. Lets just say I’ve paid my off day dues for God’s sake!

Just so that we’re all on the same page here, having an off day isn’t anything like having a get off day either. Those are actually diametrically opposed (two points directly opposite each other). After having a string of off days; hoping for a get off day, but instead you found yourself having yet another off day, best describes irony for me. Or maybe that’s frustration, either way it’s somehow related to the off day prohibiting you to have a get off day.

Do you have an off day story? Do you have a get off day story? Let’s hear it!

Spank Me

“Desiree'," he said as he struck the tender cheeks of my white ass with…what was it? I couldn’t see from this angle, maybe it was one of my frying pans from the kitchen one floor above us. I couldn’t be sure though… and my name isn't Desire'.

My arms hugged the wide and massive frame of the washing machine, and my hands held on tightly to the back. My legs; spread eagled, and straddled, as I press the swollen, wet lips of my pussy flush up against its side; erect nipples of my cantaloupe sized breasts crushed into the top of the machine.

He smacked me again, this time harder than before, and the glorious ‘spin cycle’ began; shaking the concrete below its legs; vibrating and pulsating into the core of my clit. “Desiree”, he said again louder, as he swatted my upper thigh. “God this was so good.” I thought to myself and I let out gasp and then a moan….

I’m working on this story right now. What do you think? Do you like being spanked, or do you like to be the one doing the spanking? Maybe you prefer both!

http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=10885282 Select the link to learn more about purchasing the item above.

Sexy Time

I started today wanting to write about a completely different topic, and of course, I digressed into another direction (this happens a lot). I started thinking about what types of tunes I listen to when I want to get my groove on; sexy time music. Now I know, this topic has been hashed and re-hashed many times by many people; calling it many different things, and I’m quite sure you have your very own repertoire of ‘sexual healing’ tunes you play and well, ahem…before too long everyone’s naked and having a good time, eh?

I couldn’t write this blog today without mentioning my fond and funny memory of Bo Derek and Dudley Moore in the Blake Edwards classic film, 10. I’ll never forget the scene when Dudley Moore’s fantasy is finally fulfilled and he gets the chance to get it on (sorry Marvin Gaye) with the gorgeous, corn-rowed beauty, Bo Derek; while Ravel’s, Bolero plays on the turntable. BTW: The music to this movie was composed by Henry Mancini. This movie is a classic comedy about how one man copes badly with incipient middle age; immortality at its comedic best is portrayed in this film.

Anyway, on with my list of “hey, wanna fuck?” music. There are so many songs to choose from, but I narrowed it down to a specific genre for today: Classic Jazz. There’s nothing like the sultry sound of a horn player; saxophonist, or trumpet accompanied by a piano player, with a little percussion to stir your core. Some of you might disagree and say that my sexy time jazz songs listed below emote thoughts of contemplation; it’s too relaxing and cerebral instead of heart pounding, lips mashing and body grinding list of fuck music you’re looking for, but I beg to differ, because sex always begins in your mind.

I’ll be honest, I’m treading in deep water here; I’m in way over my head because I’m not a musician (strumming the guitar now and again doesn’t count) and my jazz palate is relatively new, compared with some of my friends, including musicians I know well, but I know what I like; I know what gets my blood flowing, auditorially speaking. Please understand this isn’t a scholarly list; created by someone that holds a post graduate degree in music. This list hits on a few of my favorites that come right to mind; evoking a visceral response that makes me wet and willing:

Saxophonist extraordinaire, John Coltrane and the amazing pianist, Duke Ellington coined the quintessential love song, In a Sentimental Mood or something very similar called, My Little Brown Book. Speaking of John Coltrane, I love, Violets for your furs, I see your face before me and Polka Dots and Moonbeams. It gives me goose bumps just thinking about it and I could go on and on here with just these two, but I won’t.

Thelonius Sphere Monk’s, Reflections and Ruby My Dear, have to be included; makes me wet, wet, dripping wet. Miles Davis’ Love Songs CD is filled with nothing but the serpentine sound, intimate and muffled trumpet players love ballads. Sonny Rollins version of Monk’s, Round Midnight, Joshua Redman’s, Mantra #5 and Chill. Terence Blanchard’s, Water and last to this could go on forever list, but certainly not least, Grant Green’s, Idle Moments.

One more thought: I love the powerhouse, raspy, distinctive sexy voice of the late and great, Nina Simone, I listen to her all the time; before, during and after a sexcapade.

What types of music gets you hot and bothered?

No Clue why I'm so Blue

So, I’m feeling a little blue today. I’m not sure why either. Raging hormones infused with the waxing full moon in Scorpio (Full moon tomorrow) is the only logical reason I can come with for my moody, blue tune frame of mind.

And it’s okay to feel down and blue sometimes. Hell, it makes you really appreciate the sunny, feeling fabulous, great days, I think.

I’m usually pretty upbeat about things; I’m a ‘the glass is ½ full’ type, rather than its opposing wicked, step-sister, ‘the glass is ½ empty’. Stopping to smell the roses; what a beautiful blue sky; hey, did you see that hot guy’s ass? Is more my style. You get my drift, right?

But today, I’m just feeling blue. How blue you ask? My mood ring is overcast; cloudy dark clouds are keeping the brilliant blue color indicating a cheerful and happy mood color away today. No comprende, you say? Well, how about this example: George Clooney could walk pass me right now and I might have to check for my pulse. That’s a real deep, shade of blue for me. Because on any other day, I’d be naked, wet and willing. Okay, maybe if it was George Clooney, I’d turn my frown upside down, and then I’d turn him upside down, inside out and….

But alas! Today, I am blue. Sorry George, some other time, perhaps.

Rain is in the forecast for today and I’m hoping it not only waters all my freshly planted flowers in my garden, but also washes my blue, blue mood away.

How’s your day?

p.s. Get your very own cool and retro mood ring from etsy: http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=10562454

Naked is a state of mind

“…MADRID, Spain - Seven middle-aged Spanish mothers who posed for a tongue-in-cheek nude calendar — a fundraiser for their children's tiny, rural school — are now saddled with debt and 5,000 unwanted copies….”

I read this story yesterday and saved the article and picture to talk about today. The picture caught my attention. Well, anything that has the word SPAIN in it always seems to catch my attention; I’m Latina at heart; maybe from a past life, and well, that’s not really important, or relative to this blog, I suppose.

I think these women; these mothers are beautiful, courageous and fucking sexy! Not just because searing hot, red, blood pumps through their Latina veins either. These hot mamas were trying to do something good for their kids; trying to earn money for their kid’s school. Admitting their ranking as amateurs in publishing and marketing, and ahem; posing semi-nude, they ended up with too many calendars because they missed last year’s Christmas shopping deadline with the publisher (the louse!). Keep in mind, this is Spain; heavily drugged in incense and myrrh of Catholicism; celebrating Jesus’ birthday is well, it’s a huge deal. I’m so tempted to send my eight dollars; equating to nearly a billion Euro these days and order a calendar; saluting their efforts.

Wild Sex; Sex in the Wild

http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=10911201

I’m just finishing up a short story I’ve been working on for the past few weeks’. My mind wanders; pondering my characters as I search for the perfect words to the final act of this story, or stage production (every story is really a screenplay in my opinion) created onto paper, or typed into a hard drive; saved to a disk.

Laptop and I go outside today and write; it’s finally warming up here in the mid-west.

As I sit outside, I can hear the birds chirping and bees humming; it feels glorious and my thoughts travel to healthy outdoorsy type activities: Gardening; using all different kinds of wonderful gardening tools (I love tools), patios, with various shapes and sized terra-cotta pots, filled with a rainbow of colorful blooms of flowers and herbs, cooking outside on my grill and the very best outdoor activity; having sex outside; amongst the elements; in the wild.

Never tried it before? Here are a few suggestions to help you get started:

Be a really dirty girl/boy and go play outside in the dirt with your lover; add water for mud and really get down, dirty and slimly with someone. How about nude sun bathing in the back yard? Picture this: Two naked bodies lay side by side in lawn chairs; sun is warming your bodies; the sprinkler is set to hit you every five minutes, keeping you cool and wet, while strong, purposeful hands rub suntan oil over your body; sliding in between, over and around. How about going on a bike ride or a long run with your lover and then finding a great place to have sex up against a tree? Too exhibitionistic for your taste, you say? Wait until it gets dark out and then go; only the owls, deer, raccoons, fish and creepy crawlers will hear you panting and moaning. I have fond memories of where I grew up; sex on the beach (not the cocktail) was a big past time, especially during high school. Romanced by the ‘grunion run’, couples would fuck anywhere and everywhere on the sandy beaches while waves and fish crashed into the shoreline. A friend of mine once told me she used to give her boyfriend a blow job in between shots while they played 18 holes of golf. I think they used to fuck in the bathroom at the turn too, but I’m not sure, I’ll have to ask her.

Well, I should get back to finding an end to my story. Good luck finding your wild side while you enjoy the warmer weather and if you have a really good sex in the wild, wild side of you story to tell, please share; I’d love to know!

Every now and again say, what the fuck!

I heard today that Ray Ban sunglasses are making a come back.

Hmmm…I think I might have a pair somewhere, but mine are a softer, more female version; yellow colored frames bejeweled with fake diamonds, so they’re not really Ray Ban’s at all, I suppose. Ray Ban’s are distinctive; definitive. Classic black, austere frames with black, movie star looking lenses and they're the hottest of the hot in the realm of sunglasses. Once you put them on, they effortlessly seem to say, “Yeah. I know I’m hot, baby!”

Back in the day, all the hot guys wore them. They’d slide them behind their slick back, wet hair; wet from showering quickly at the beach after a long morning of surfing kick ass waves. Sends shivers up my spine just thinking about it again.

Ray Ban sunglasses also remind me of the time capsule movie, Risky Business (the quote for today). I see Tom Cruise dressed in a men’s button down shirt; donning tighty-whities, white socks and a black pair of Ray Ban’s as he slides across the hardwood floors of his parent’s suburban home in Chicago, singing to Bob Seger’s classic: “Old Time Rock n’ Roll.” Please don’t quote me, but I think this was Tom Cruise’s film debut. Remember the dialogue between Tom Cruise (Joel) and Rebecca De Mornay (Lana) the morning after they had hot, monkey sex? She was looking to get paid and he was, well, clueless:

“Uh, my name isn't really Ralph. It's Joel.”

“Mmmm. I'll be needing 300 bucks... Joel.”

“You're kidding?”

“No, I don't believe that I am.”

“Well, uh, it's just that I don't have that much here in the house.”

“How much do you have?”

“I have 50 dollars.”

“50 dollars? What are we going to do about this, Joel?”

“I don't know. [Pauses] I could I send it to you?”

[incredulous] “Could you send it to me?”

[long pause] I, uh, have a bond at the bank. I could go cash that.”

“I'm not real good at waiting.”

“I'll be quick.”

The next time you see me, I might be sporting classic Ray Bay sunglasses, thinking about hot surfers and Tom Cruise, letting anyone and everyone know, hey, every now and again you just have to say, what the fuck!

Hot Pussies

I live with two hot pussies. Yep, that means three pussies in one house and we couldn't be any more different from one another...

ttp://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=8179781

Pussy number one has a petite frame with black and white hair; she’s a bit older, (shhh, we don’t want to say that too loudly, she’s a bit sensitive about her age) and graying. And if that isn’t bad enough, this pussy is suffering from a sever case of alopecia right now. She had a long time love affair with the heat register over the winter months, thus her hair loss. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a beautiful pussy; bright yellow-green eyes, soft to the touch and so sweet and demure she charms the pants off any man that walks through the front door.

Pussy number two has a larger frame, with glorious, thick and long chestnut colored hair; threads of gold and black run through it and she’s actually quite stunning, and she knows it! She has bright green eyes and she’s as sassy as a whore that knows a naval ship is docked in her town for the week. Sexy, sassy and incessantly talking about something. I sometimes have to bring pussy number two down a notch by reminding her that she has both a beard and a mustache. She also talks too much. I’m not trying to be mean spirited with her, but if I don’t, she makes it impossible for pussy number one and I to live with her. Pussy number two's vanity is over the top sometimes. She gets mad at me and thinks I might be a tad bit jealous of her good looks. Typical pussy behavior.

We’re pussies with lots and lots of hair; hair that seems to perpetually get stuck in my eyelashes, finds itself inside my bed, on the kitchen and bathroom floors and all over every piece of clothing and furniture in the house.

We’re all sun-crazed pussies; we like it hot. We all love to bask every ounce of our bodies in the sun’s wondrous beams of heat; morning, noon and just before it sets on the horizon. Three pussies lying in the toasty warm sun, like three lizards warming themselves on a rock in the desert. This is one of our favorite past times. Each of us purring like kittens; smiling at the other, knowing life is good.

Is there a Fuck without U?

I think today’s blog title demonstrates how words have more than one meaning. What does it mean to you?

From a literal standpoint, you can’t spell the word fuck without the letter U, but for me, it reads, “Baby, I only want to fuck you,” conjuring up romantic feelings. I don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that the man in my life is fucking hot, and he fucks me well. Then again, maybe it does. Maybe for someone else it reads, “I've learned it's possible to fuck someone else without you;” translation: Dear John letter.

I love the imagery words provide; always subjective and thought provoking.

Words are a powerful tool, much like sex. One false word; one wrong fuck and hell, you could be headline news history. If you think I’m kidding, check out the political arena.

p.s. Today’s title must be credited to Alison Tyler. She’s one of my erotica writer/editor heroes. I love the way her mind works and I can relate to her writing style. I find certain characteristics of her writing within myself. In some way she’s opened my proverbial Pandora’s Box; freeing the use of words like, slut, tramp, whore, cunt, cock, fuck, pussy, etc. and I’m forever thankful to her for that.

p.s.s. Scrabble letter's F.U. made into cuff links above: http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=10897597

Hot; Latin Jazz

There’s just something about the fevered, thumping beat of Latin Jazz that’s so hot, it makes you wet. Wet, sweaty, vibrating and begging for more….

I went and listened to the multi-talented and award winning band of Sammy Deleon y Su Orchestra last night at a relatively new Martini Bar in town. The stunning, Miss Jackie Warren was jamming’ on the keyboards.

As always, whenever I see this band, I’m never disappointed. I know I’m in for a musical and theatrical performance, because the band is musically in sync with one another and the audience surely feels their positive and sweltering hot energy.

As the band’s hypnotic vibe builds and builds; feet are tapping, fingers are thrumming, heartbeats pulsate to the percussion, hips grind and gyrate to the rhythm; bodies are moving; sizzling, steamy, blazing, burning hot, hot, hot! Whew! We need a fire extinguisher to put this band’s flames out.

Are You Too Judgemental?

I live in an artsy neighborhood that’s been gentrified and in many ways it’s very good for the neighborhood; creating a more mainstream environment which improves the economy. How you ask? The gentrification has opened the neighborhood up to a lot of people who simply wouldn’t step into the previous uncharted territory and push themselves against their own self-imposed boundaries; they pre-judged the neighborhood based on crime rates, prostitution, and tenement housing and or have heard it was a great place to buy crack cocaine. For the record: Those are just a few of my favorite things that I love about my neighborhood. It keeps it interesting; makes it edgy.

I too have fallen into the judgmental category on more than one occasion; for being judged and or judging others For example, just last night I walked into a gallery in my own neighborhood; minutes from my humble abode. The gallery has a reputation for being one of the truly ‘real’ galleries left in the neighborhood; it’s non-gentrified. I was intrigued with wanting to see this exhibit, because the presentation had to do with male genitalia; penis, cock, rod, love wands, etc, etc. I thought the artwork was amazing. I loved it! (I think a man’s cock is extraordinary, but that’s a whole other blog topic) The scene at the gallery was over the top for me. In my unsolicited opinion, it appeared to be really trying too hard at not trying to be too non-mainstream; reversed gentrified prejudism. It was too much for me, but you see, I was judging and didn’t realize it. Fifty lashes to me, eh? (And actually that wouldn’t be punishment because I love a good spanking).

I do digress, don’t I?

Anyway, I like to fancy myself as being ‘non-mainstream’; a rebel of free-thought, if you will and compared to some of my friends, I probably am. I feel I’m a bit more open-minded to new ideas, somewhat Bohemian. Judgment isn’t just about jumping to a conclusion you have no reference point for, but it really has more to do with making judgment based upon your own personal negative experiences, right? It’s like an old record you’d forgotten about that seeps back into your mind, playing a tune that takes you down the path of uncomfortable. Right? Yeah. I know I’m right on this one.

When faced with an idea that takes us to a place we’re not familiar with, or makes us feel disagreeable, dolorous, excruciating, annoyed, awkward, thorny, troubled, aching, angry, disturbed, embarrassed, anguished, confused, miserable, nervous, uneasy, vexed, strained, cheerless, or uncomfortable is it possible to tell our minds to “Shut The Fuck Up” and stopping judging it? I don’t know about you, but I’m going to give it try.

p.s. The painting above can be purchased through an artist at Etsy.com and here’s the link: http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=10017148

All My Ex's Live In Texas

“All my ex's live in Texas, And Texas is a place I'd dearly love to be. But all my ex's live in Texas And that's why I hang my hat in Tennessee”

I don’t think any of my ex’s live in Texas, but I love the lyrics to that song, written by George Strait.

You’re probably wondering what the hell? Why is she referencing C&W today, aren’t ya? Well, here’s the deal, an X-boyfriend (there’s always a very good reason why an old lover is an X, right?) wants to get together with me and catch up. Has this ever happened to you? So I beg the question, is it possible to ‘just be friends’ with our X’s?

I don’t know what your experience has been, but I’ve gone down the road of trying to stay connected with old flames; grabbing a lunch here, let’s meet for coffee there and then somehow, someway the sexual spark ignites and yep, I’m right back to where I said I’d never go again; sucking his cock.

Not moving forward and clinging onto the past of what coulda’, shoulda’, woulda’. Get my drift?

Its worse when you’re dating someone else and an old lover makes contact with you. You’re working on building something good and real with a new person and then out-of-the fucking clear blue you get a text message, an e-mail, or maybe it’s a bolder gesture, like a telephone call saying: “I just want to catch up.”

What the fuck? Should we go through life crossing X’s through our Ex’s with a red ink pen; editing them out of our lives, like my editor does after she’s read one of my first drafts? Think about it? This is a person that you shared intimate moments with, a person who helped you get through a crisis, and a person you loved, respected and adored. Is it possible to keep these people in our lives and re-work the relationship into a friendship, or is there always a proverbial fork in the relationship road where you take one path and your Ex takes another?

I decided to sleep on the question and get back to my Ex; leaving the X indicating Yes, Maybe or No blank for now. Maybe I’ll send his request to my editor; I’m sure she’d have a field day editing him out of my life. Maybe I’ll take the higher road and work on accepting the people in my life for who they are and where they are at right now, even if that means saying goodbye to the way things once were. Yeah, right. Don’t let me fool ya’ I’m not quite there yet.

p.s. you can purchase the adorable "Woof!" ID tag http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=9780237

Films That Make You Hot

I was reading another writer's blog this week and she wrote about the receipt of an e-mail from a friend who had written to her: "I just re-watched Last Tango in Paris the other night and I'd forgotten how hot the sex scene is."

Yep. Smokin' hot would be my description of the the film.

If you’ve never watched Marlon Brando in Last Tango in Paris, please do. So...this got me thinking: Hot sex in film; Films That Make You Hot….Do you have a favorite, or favorites? Please share. I’d like to know.

Personally, I’m an Art House film junkie and I can think of several films that had me ‘booty calling’ once the credits started rolling. My favorite film genre is: Film Noir (it's a wonder I love writing erotica, isn't?). Here’s a list of just a few of my mainstream but mostly non-mainstream favorites:

1. The Postman Always Rings Twice (1981 remake with Jack Nicholson and Jessica Lange) It’s a film noir classic; crime, moral ambiguity, dark and lots of obsessive behavior (that’s hot in itself). Jack Nicholson plays the drifter seduced into a sordidly steamy love affair with the very hot, hot, hot Jessica Lange. They get it on for the first time on a kitchen table. It’s a memorable scene for me and I haven’t watched the film in years.

2. Sally Potter’s Yes is hot because the entire film’s dialog is in iambic pentameter (playing tribute to Shakespeare). I saw this film a couple of summer’s ago and I remember a scene where the heroine is sitting at a coffee shop bistro table with her lover; he starts fingering her in a public no less. She’s squirming in her chair, cumming and trying to keep quiet. HOT!

3. Mickey Roarke and Kim Basinger in 9.5 Weeks, directed by Adrian Lyne. Hello? Could it have been the BD&SM, or the overall obsessive undertones that made you want to fuck immediately after seeing this movie? Kim Basinger crawled across a floor, sucked on strawberries fed to her from Mickey’s fingers; naked and blindfolded in front of an open refrigerator, and if that isn’t enough, she gave visual meaning to Joe Cocker’s You Can Leave Your Hat On. This movie is still a let’s make popcorn, watch a movie and fuck on the couch classic in my book.

4. Bound. Gina Gershon and Meg Tilly tear up the screen in this hot lesbian, crime film (more film noir), directed by the Wachowski Brothers. I remember the scene, like I just watched it yesterday (and I didn’t) when Meg Tilly fingers Gina Gershon. It’s ‘I need a cold shower hot’.

5. Speaking of Lesbian sex ….How about David Lynch’s Muholland Drive! Its film noir meets surrealism. This was Naomi Watt’s big acting break too. Laura Harring plays Naomi Watt’s lover and the sex between these two women…well, the words Fire Drill come to mind.

6. The Lover Directed by Jean Jacques-Annaud. The film is set in 1920’s Vietnam under French Colony rule. The highly explicit, steamy sexual relationship between the innocent (virgin) French and very poor girl and an on older, wealthy Chinaman represents true erotica for me. The affair is reckless and forbidden, and the scene when he baths her after taking her virginity is memorable.

Cricket's Calamari Catharsis

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He Likes Porn More Than Me

Let me start by saying my intentions are not to find fault or to poke fun at anyone and or their problems, God knows we all have them and I’m far from living a life without problems or challenges. If that should ever happen, I suppose I would have to check for batteries, because I would no longer be real, right? Anyway, with all that said, I find the most interesting topics to blog about, and the really funny thing is I don’t have to look very hard or very far to find a story idea. I can’t make this stuff up; I don’t have to, its life imitating my daily blog, or is it the other way around? “Hmmm….” The blog title for today is the tag line title to a website that by happenstance landed into my e-mail in box this afternoon. Is it pointless saying I wish the woman would have posed her question to me?

Anyway, this stuff is as rich as a bitter-sweet, flourless chocolate cake smothered with luscious, sweet chocolate syrup. Please read on!

QUESTION: “My husband of 15 years seems completely disinterested in being sexual with me even though I know he spends hours online looking at porn. I think he is having a virtual affair. I understand that he may need something to spice things up after all this time, but I find this intolerable. Whenever I bring up the topic, he gets angry and accuses me of spying on him. What should I do?”

ANSWER: “When we surveyed over 4,000 people for our book, "He's Just Not Up for It Anymore. Why Men Stop Having Sex and What You Can Do About It," 58 percent of the men who responded said they watched porn online, and 25 percent said that they preferred it to sex with their partners.”
The author’s answer continued, commenting on various hypothetical reasons as to why this woman’s husband isn’t interested in fucking her. The author suggested the problem could be age related; thus an inability to perform: Penile Dysfunction. Ahhh, not to worry though, there’s a drug you can take for that… If he is having an on-line affair, the author mentioned to the woman that she should talk to him about it. “Yeah. Right-E-O,” were my initial thoughts. The author also suggested that if she can’t broach the topic without the conversation escalating into a heated battle, then she should consider couples therapy and or seek a member of the clergy to act as a mediator.

My eyes glossed over there, sorry.

What the hell kind of answer is that? Go see your clergyman? Didn’t the woman mention that her husband isn’t open to discussing the problem? If she’s having difficulty speaking with her husband, how is she supposed to bring it up to a man of cloth? “Bless me father, for I have sinned… I have been having impure thoughts about everyone because my husband doesn’t want to fuck me anymore.” And what exactly is the clergyman supposed to say to her? “Bless you my child. Say 100 Hail Mary’s a couple Acts’ of Contrition and buy yourself a dildo.”

Neve’s Answer: Okay. Calm down. You’ve been married a long time. There are simply not enough sex positions to keep your man, or any man interested (and I’ve done a lot of them) for 15 years. Come on! How many times can you do it on the washing machine? You gotta’ spice things up; take it up a notch in the boudoir’, baby! Here’s a couple of suggestions:

1.Buy a wig; be someone new for a change. Buy some handcuffs. Turn up the lights, turn down the music and fuck him like there’s no tomorrow!

2.Take him to strip club. Let him frolic around amongst the naked women. Let him see you get a lap-dance; having the time of your unbelievable life. Take him home and fuck him like there’s no tomorrow!

3.Make his favorite drink; make it a double. How about another? Get him so blasted he won’t know what hit him and then…well, fuck him like there’s no tomorrow.

If you don’t find the results you're looking for after implementing at least one of my listed items, call me, I know some hot, horny men that would love to have sex with you. ;-)

Crazy In Love

I pulled the internet up this morning, and as always my default landing page glared back at me; flashing its fancy colors and exposing me to the news of the day. There was one story that caught my eye: “What keeps a man crazy in love?” Immediately before reading through the article, I was raising my hand, motioning from the back of the room, like Arnold Horshak, or Vinnie Barbarino from the television sitcom, Welcome Back Kotter, “Oooh! Oooh! Oooh! Pick me, pick me, I know the answer!” The article listed eleven items that are supposed to 'super-glue' your marriage and keep a man crazy in love with you. "Hmmm... sounds intriguing," I thought. I read the article. Needless to say, the author’s top eleven items slightly differed from my top eleven items (Yeah. I know, shocking). So for fun, I thought I’d sauce up the authors list; adding just a pinch of spice.

1. Learn to Play Poker
Why? So you can socialize his way for a change.

Learn to Play Poker; Naked
Why? So you can really give new meaning to the words, “upping the ante.”

2. Give the Perfect Backrub
Why? Because there's more than one way to make a guy moan in complete and utter satisfaction.

Start with a Backrub and Finish with a Hand Job
Why? Because there’s more than one way to make a guy moan in complete and utter satisfaction.

3. Tie His Tie for Him
Why? Because it's such a sexy, retro, little-wifey move

Tie Him up. Blindfold Him and Fuck Him
Why? Because it’s hot!

4. Make a Mean Steak
Why? That hulking slab o' beef appeals to his most manly side

Make his Cock Your Steak
Why? Because I’ve never been able to really make a steak the way a man can. Hell! I’d much rather eat his cock-steak!

5. Wake Him Up in the Morning
Why? So he'll start his day with a smile — at the very least.

I concur on this one.

6. Give Him a Barbershop Shave
Why? He'll get a sexy little thrill from letting you wield all the power while he submits to your capable hands.

Back Away From the Sharp Instruments!
Why? Because he’ll think the next step leads to boiled bunny’s on the stove. Yikes!

7. Strip
Why? Because he really — please, baby, please — wants you to.

Strip Only for Him
Why? Because it’s fucking hot!

8. Have a Conversation with His Boss
Why? Because he or she is the adult who, after you, matters most in your husband's daily life. So you want to play it just right.

Have a Conversation with His Boss and Let Him Know What a Kind of a Real SOB You Think He is!
Why? Two reasons: 1. Once he loses his job, he’ll have more time to stay at home and fuck you all day. 2. Losing his job will propel him into landing his dream job and he’ll thank you by wanting to fuck you all day.

9. Throw Him a Super Surprise Party
Why? Because he'll never forget that you made him feel so special

Throw Him a Super Surprise Party; Invite Strippers
Why? Because he’ll never forget that you made him feel so special

10. Leave Him a Sexy Voice Mail at Work
Why? So he'll have a really compelling reason to get home on time.

Leave Him a Sexy VM at Work and or Text Message
Why? So he’ll have a really compelling reason to masturbate in the men’s room

11. Quote at Least Three Lines from The Godfather
Why? Guys believe the Corleones know what it is to be a man. Yours just wants to know you get it. Capisce?

I have respect for the Godfather (parts 1-100), but what are you trying accomplish by quoting this man’s man verbiage? Try quoting anything said in a Jenna Jamieson movie, your results might be more titillating. Oh, did I just say that?

She Was A Virgin

I was up pretty early this morning, bursting with energy. Please don’t hate me for saying that, because there are plenty of days when getting out of bed is all I can muster. I wanted to get my sweat on this morning (Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but that wasn’t going to happen), so I headed to the gym; Spin class started at 9:15 A.M.

"How many of you are new to my class? The very cute and perky instructor asked as she perused the room looking for unfamiliar faces. A woman sitting on a bike off to the corner shyly raised her hand. “How many of you are new to Spin?” The instructor asked the room full of eager, beaver Spinners. The same woman raised her hand again. Every head in class, including mine, turned and stared at this woman; she was in fact an anomoly. My thoughts raced: “Good God! She’s a VIRGIN Spinner!” I don’t about you, but whenever I get the chance to use the word virgin in a sentence, I jump at it. Think about it...using the word virgin doesn’t happen very often, does it?

The music started and we Spinning veterans knew what to expect: One full hour of heart-pounding, head-to-toe body drenched in sweat, legs pumping, glutes screaming, stomach turning (no I didn’t say this was a orgy) hell. The newbee Spinner didn't know what to expect. How could she? She was a VIRGIN. Sure, she could live vicariously through people she’d known that had attended a Spin class and lived to tell the tale, but she herself had never done the Spinning deed. I wanted to reach out to her and pleadingly ask, “Oh virgin Spinner do you know what you signed up for this morning?”

Throughout the hour long class I found myself looking over at her, grasping for a read on how she was doing while her proverbial cherry was getting popped. She was panting and sweating; her hips pumped rhythmically to the music and she was transitioning from one position to the next. She was a doing great. Once the class was over, I walked over to her and personally congratulated on her rite of passage. I felt so proud!

Hot. Hot. Hot.

“…Hey, hey, hey, well I like it when the lighting comes, hey, hey, hey, well I like it a lot. Hey, hey, hey, yes I’m jumping like a jumping jack, I’m dancing, screaming, itching, squealing, fevered, feeling, hot, hot, hot….” The Cure

Natalie was having a bite to eat with her son at a local establishment close to her home when her cellular phone started ringing. Nothing too terribly spectacular about that event, you say? The Caller ID showed it was her alarm company calling; alerting her of a problem. Getting up from her seat, she jumped into her car and pedal-to-the-metal her way home. She called me in the interim; high anxiety pleaded with me, “Please meet me at my house. I think someone might be trying to break in!” I was relaxed on my couch; busy typing prose, wearing a comfortable tee-shirt and yoga pants; you get the picture, right? I put on some practical flip-flops (it was 40 degrees outside) and I quickly did the flip-flop-trot over to her house; she lives right up the street.

As I was approaching her house, I could see Natalie as she opened the side door to her house – FLAMES leapt out from the doorway! I did the appropriate 180 degree turn and ran as fast as I could back to my house. Was I a yellow-bellyed coward, trying to escape a potential disaster? Hell no! For some good reason, my mind was working over-time (this doesn’t always happen) and I thought about the fire extinguisher fastened to the wall at the top of my basement stairs. It sat there quietly; patiently waiting to be used, wanting to be needed. Clumsily, I flip-flopped back over to her house; fire extinguisher in hand; thick billows of black smoke poured from her side door; the entrance into the kitchen and the fire. I could see the outline of Natalie through the smoke as she stood inside her kitchen. My mind raced; words gushed from my lips, like the flames and black smoke surrounding her, “Smoke inhalation! Smoke inhalation! Not good. Bad idea. Please get out of there!” She and the broom handle were poking and prodding a burning, charred cardboard box; Ahhh, yes! The culprit; exposed at last! The cardboard box you see had been sitting too close to the stove; sparks flew, the box ignited in passion; setting the whole fucking kitchen on fire! “Ooops!” The stove said, cavalierly; offering a wink.

Hot sex in the kitchen.

In the end, Natalie and the fire extinguisher saved the day. No one was hurt (except the burning cardboard box) and the fire was extinguished. We called 911; thought it was the right thing to do (duh!) and within minutes, 20 firemen were lined up at her door. My mind raced, “Hmm...this is a new and interesting Friday night date tactic!”

Play Me

I had the fortunate experience to listen to Brad Mehldau; jazz pianist last night. The trio’s performance in a word: Sublime. If music turns you on, like it get down and dirty does for me, then check his music out; build your aesthetic. http://www.bradmehldau.com/index.html

The music was so moving, I penned these thoughts today:

Finger tips touched in delicate restraint against her body; augmented melody.
Fingerboard frets in French sixth burning with desire.
Percussion caressed crescendo; pushing the trio for release.
Trill, turn and twelve note technique, fluidly innovative; captivating emotion.
The rhythm was building; the audience blushed.
Chromatic, acoustic synergy.

Sunday Morning Asana

Yoga was the muse in this piece I wrote. Yoga is a very spirtual experience. Yeah. I know, I know....I'm headed straight to hell.

It was late morning on Easter Sunday. We both sat on your slightly worn, green couch licking our plates clean of the remaining maple syrup that had covered our waffles only minutes ago. The special coffee you were brewing from Costa Rica permeated the air and I had more than one cup. “Yes. It’s delicious.” I confirmed. “Just like you.” I thought smiling at you while taking a sip from my cup. We were both non-practicing Catholics; no plans to attend an Easter Mass that day. “Let’s do some yoga!” You said smiling. Your big, brown, tender eyes opening wide. You were excited.

Beautiful oak, hardwood floors traverse the entire house. A large, burgundy and crème colored Oriental rug lay over a portion of the hardwood floors, just to the front of the fireplace in the living room; where two yoga mats sat beckoning to be used. I was no expert at the clever art poses of yoga; only attending a few classes, so I followed your lead. We both stripped down to our underwear. You wore smoldering, smoky-grey boxer shorts, and your dark, soft and rich hair that I loved getting lost in was exposed; glistening on your chest, arms and legs. I wore small, lacy-topped and black, cotton thong underwear and a black camisole; my flat belly, my toned arms and legs and taut butt were bare. I hadn’t showered yet; remnants of mascara lay smudged around my big, blue, happy eyes. My shoulder length, straight, blond hair was messy; bed-head and wild looking; sticking out and up in all directions.

We started by taking deep breaths in through our noses; blowing them back out through our mouths, appropriately facing the East and starting off Sun Salutation session. You started us off, “Anjali Mudra.” It had been snowing lately, but today the sun was out and it peeked through the gap in between the closed curtains; dancing across our almost naked bodies. Standing at the edge of the mat, you bent your knees slightly; put your hands together in prayer just over your heart; your elbows were out to each side, “Tadasana,” You said. I mimicked the pose. Inhaling, you lifted your praying hands out to the side and over your head, and said, “Urdhva Hastasana.” “Bless you,” I said jokingly, as I followed your every move. You exhaled; swan diving down; your hips hinging; palms flat on either side of your feet. Inhaling, you came up until your back was flat and your finger-tips touched the floor, “try and get your back flat.” You smiled helping me. “Ahhh, finally words I recognize,” I responded, smiling.

Exhaling, your palms were flat on the mat; bending forward again. “You’re doing well,” you mentioned. I smiled at you; noticing and admiring your muscular legs as you inhaled and brought your right foot to the back of your mat; coming up onto your finger-tips into a lunge. Exhaling, you put your left foot back; meeting the right foot and your hands were flat on the mat, just above your head; pushing up; torso arched, “Downward Facing Dog, let’s hold this for 30 seconds,” you were breathing hard. I’d done some of these moves before, so I definitely knew that name. Doing yoga with him; in the living room; nearly naked was highly erotic for me, especially “doggy” anything.

Inhaling and coming forward, you flattened your back again. Exhaling, you lowered your body inches from the floor and into another pose, “Chaturanga Dandasana, hold this for 30 seconds.” Looking over at him, I could see the head of his cock poking out through the hole at the front of his shorts and I’m not sure if it was the pose, or the view that made my arms and legs start to shake. “Try and go a little lower and move your hands in, if you can,” he said teaching me. I was sweating and breathing hard and I felt the tinge and moisture growing in between my legs. He had no idea how much he turned me on. Inhaling, he lowered his body to the mat; arms pushed his torso up; legs touched the floor, “Upward Facing Dog.” Calling the pose. “Wait a minute! Do you think you could upward facing dog into me?” I thought. And he called out the sequence change, “we’re going back to, Downward Facing Dog again.” After we had gone through the poses of the Sun Salutation sequence a few more times, he finally asked, “How you doing over there?” “I’m ready to stop now. But I’d love to learn a great move to stretch out my back.” I replied as I collapsed onto the floor and my back.

He moved toward me; hovering over. “Does yoga make you want to fuck?” He asked. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven; thought he’d never ask. “Oh baby, yes, yes, yes!” I whispered up to him. He kissed me hard and I pulled him in closer; forcing his tongue deeper into my mouth. He pulled his hard cock from the slit in his shorts; pushed my panties to one side and thrust his cock inside me. “Oh Mi God. That feels so good!” I said. My muscles were warmed up from the yoga poses and I easily lifted my legs up into the air, spreading them wide; almost doing the splits (I don't know that yoga pose name) and he pounded his cock into my hot, wet pussy. “I like that pose.” As he moaned. I rubbed my clit back and forth with my fingers. “Baby, I’m going cum!” I yelled loudly. “Oooooh. Cum all over my cock!” He said huskily. I did. I felt the waves of orgasm spread over my body as he thrusted one last time; grunting and spewing his hot cum inside me.

We both lay on the yoga mat; sweating and panting. “I like yoga and I think I need to start doing more of it,” whispering to him. He lifted his head from my chest, smiling at me.

The Perfect Banana

I was invited to my friend's home for dinner one evening, so I begged the question, "what can I bring?" "The perfect banana. I need the perfect banana; for the desert." Was her reply. Ahem. Thus the story below was born:

I need the perfect banana, she said into the phone.
Yellow with the hint of green, better make it firm.
To the grocery store I flew and searched the aisles high.
I found the banana orgy, I was in the zone.

I couldn’t choose just one, bought a bunch; each could take a turn.
I stood in line with my bananas; heard the check-out girl let out a sigh.
I felt I should share my find; she could take one as a loan.
Bananas in a bag now, I was on the move; I hurried, didn’t want concern.

Peeling out of the parking lot; I winked and waved goodbye.
I pushed down on the pedal, flying towards the street, like a cyclone
Heard my cell phone ringing, my friend was calling, she wanted to confirm.
Assuredly I spoke; bananas are here next to me, rubbing at my thigh.

I reached the free-way, bananas and me, we were all alone.
I gently touched the bag where my new friends lay silent for the short-term.
Opened up the bag to let them breathe the air, they sat there acting shy.
I placed my hand on top of all of them, caressing them like gemstones.

I placed them on my lap now; I was anxious; starting to squirm.
Finger-tips stroked their long, hard, perfect skin as it curved; there was no reply.
I couldn’t help myself, I pulled one from the bunch; letting out a moan.
Slowly I unzipped its suit; my mouth watered; wanting to learn.

I drove along the road and saw the exit sign; knew her home was nearby.
I held the naked banana in my mouth; I was hungry to swallow and make it my own.
Instead I sucked at its fruit; smelled its flavor and touched it with my tongue; no lie.
That banana wanted to be eaten; I could almost here it cry.

I’d stolen this banana selfish as it was and I would have to atone.
I found myself gobbling the fruit as I drove with one hand, making the final turn.
My cheeks were filled, the fruit was gone I took it all the way; I felt high.
I pulled into her driveway and licked my fingers; no one would ever know.