Death...By Coconuts?

I know. I think it’s very odd that I’ve chosen the above title to blog about today. I’m somewhat obsessed with death, you know and I’m not sure why. No. I’m not a some socio-path that enjoys murdering small animals; wanting to up the ante and murder people. It’s the statistics that I love wrapping my head around, especially when the media hypes things out of proportion.

Yes, it was another article that I read. It was titled Bizarre Deaths, or something similar. Basically the article was pointing out the improbable odds of actually dying from some of life’s most bizarre mishaps; misadventures, if you will.

Here’s a little information about coconuts: A coconut palm tree commonly reaches 25 meters in height, and a coconut can weigh two kilograms or more, and that a two-kilogram coconut falling 25 meters would have a velocity of 80 kilometers per hour on impact and a force of as much as 1,000 kilograms. Several victims suffered fractured skulls, were rendered comatose, etc.

Statistically speaking (if anyone cares), your chances of getting poisoned at a picnic, murdered by your spouse, or bitten by a rabid dog or cat carry a much higher rate than being hit on the head by a coconut. However, death by coconut has a much higher statistical rate than dying from being bitten by a shark, bitten by a bat, or other strange, random and often media hyped ways to sell articles.

Note: It appears scientists are rallying around the misunderstood shark, because falling coconuts kill 150 people worldwide each year; 15 times the number of fatalities attributable to sharks.

See. Isn’t this interesting? Yes? Not so much? Or, are you wondering, “What type of drugs are you taking, Neve?”

Now I’ve probably scared the beetle juice out of you about coconuts, haven't I? Nasty little buggers, aren’t they? Who would have known? The next time you’re traveling to a place that has lots of coconut trees, it might be a good idea to make sure your life insurance policy has a cause written into it about, “Death by Coconuts”.

No need to thank me. I’m just giving you a little Neve statistical information about death and coconuts. :-)

Russian Internet Contortionists?

What is it with Russian fitness instructors or gymnasts, the internet and men in the U.S.?

Someone I knew well was adamant about not traveling across large bodies of water; until he met a Russian woman. She was a gymnast; living in Paris, France and they met on the internet. They tickled and played with words, back and forth on their keyboards; much like I do while writing a really hot story. This man was hell-bent for election against flying over the Atlantic Ocean. He decided one day to book a one way ticket to romantic Paris (not the one in Texas) to spend a very long, sexually charged weekend with his Russian gymnast.

No. I'm not kidding.

Think about it. The contents above make for a great porn story, don't you think? It has a great romantic beginning; a spicy, hot and sexy crescendo and bathtubs filled with chilled Vodka as an ending. Hey, I'm the first to admit it, except here's the Neve caveat: I knew this guy. I knew him well and I could see the whole story playing out badly; right in front of me. It has all the usual "porn story" characteristics I like to sink my teeth into and damnit, I so wanted it too.

Too. Close. Too. Much. Discomfort. Maybe in time though....

I really wanted things to work out with his Russian gymnast too, but as I suspected the relationship had many holes in it and that relationship was going down. It sank to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

...and then it happened again....

I received an e-mail message yesterday from someone I know that has apparently fallen head-0ver-heals in love with a woman living in Moscow; yep, Russia. And double, yep; internet dating is how they met. This woman is a fitness instructor, which has peculiar similarities to a gymnast.

What is it with gymnasts and fitness instructors that live in Russia that are into internet dating the men I know that live in the U.S? And why do these fucking fantastic details have to happen to people I know and I can't really write about it, because I'm too close to the characters in order to embelish and weave something porn-a-riffic?

Great. Fucking. Fantastic.

In this latest Russian love connection story, he's living in my home town of California and his Russian, on-line girlfriend is asking for money; so she can make the trip across the Atlantic Ocean and live with him. Did I mention they've known each other for about a month now? Minor detail. I hope it works out. In spite of cultural differences, language barriers and potentially incorrect expectations; sometimes relationships can survive, in spite of large bodies of water standing in between them.


Does anyone know any Russian gymnast and or fitness instructors? Is it coincidental, or is this an epidemic?

Single? How to work a wedding

This story caught my eye when I pulled up my internet landing page. Once again, I found a way to spruce up the advice the author hands out to both men and women that find themselves single and staring at a wedding invitation. I’ve approached this a little different this time, by inserting; okay interjecting my comments in red font throughout the article below:

As awkward as it is to attend a wedding with someone you’ve only just started seeing — there’s nothing like accidentally catching a bouquet to accelerate the normal relationship timetable by, say, two or three years — (What the hell? Catching the bouquet at a wedding means you’re headed down the aisle with your date for the evening? Fuck, that’s reason enough to go alone, isn’t?) going to a reception all by your lonesome self is even worse. This prospect is so daunting, (Daunting? Going to a wedding alone is daunting? It’s fun. I’ll show you) in fact, that most singles fall back on one of three strategies: a) taking along a brother or sister (Call me square, but I just can’t get into incest.) (or a platonic friend of the opposite sex) and hoping no one asks any questions; (Huh? What’s wrong with a little platonic friendship with sexual benefits, again? Why can’t anyone ask any questions? I’m confused.) b) sadly nursing a triple scotch in the lounge while all the happy couples are out on the floor slow-dancing; (This is the only thing I agree with so far: Nursing a triple scotch at the bar, but for different reasons than what the author suggests. I’m usually at the bar, feeling badly for the couple that just tied the knot; knowing what I know about the bride or the groom, wondering when the divorce proceedings will begin.) or c) invoking the “family emergency” rule and not showing up at all. (For fuck’s sakes, go and have a good time; there’s free food and booze.)

So what’s an unattached invitee to do? Here are a few ways to dispel your anxieties, preserve your friendship with the bride and groom, and (just possibly) meet someone in the process. (Duh! I have many stories to tell about meeting people at weddings. That’s a different blog story, but why in the hell wouldn’t you go? There are lots of single people and chances are if you’re single, you’re going to meet a plethora of new, single people. Maybe you might even get a little action in the coat closet too.)

Plan ahead. Perhaps because the occasion evokes so much dread, most single wedding-goers show up at the reception without doing any homework. That’s a mistake, says Keith Ferrazzi, author of Never Eat Alone: “You don’t have to wait for the wedding day to make contact with the other guests. In fact, it might lessen your nerves if you reach out a couple weeks in advance. You can say something like, ‘It’s always awkward not knowing everyone at a wedding, so I’m trying to get better acquainted with a few guests so we can all have a better time.’” To pull this off, of course, you’ll have to ring up the bride-to-be and ask her who’s sitting at your table, but odds are she’ll be dealing with so many gruesome details that she’ll actually enjoy helping you. (There’s really nothing to plan for except making time to hit the mall and pick up a gift. If you don’t have time for that, just get a card and give them money. People can always use money. Under no uncertain circumstances are you to call the bride and inquire about the seating arrangements. Trust me; she has much bigger fish to fry at this point. She’s trying to keep her affair with the best man a secret from her future husband. Put your big boy or girl pants on and go and have a raging good time.)

Work the crowd. Granted, a wedding reception isn’t the biweekly mixer of the Greater Cleveland Insurance Brokers Association. (Hey, I think the author just slammed Cleveland. Booo-hissss.) But that’s no reason to leave your networking skills (You must be kidding?) at the door, says relationship expert Dr. Diana Kirschner: “A wedding provides a smorgasbord of people to meet. Even if The One (Think… fucking a perfectly hot new stranger in the coat closet….) isn’t there, every new person you meet has a network of 200 other people they know. Say hello to everyone, and subtly let them know you’re available.” (Don’t pass out your business card and start asking for business, unless of course you’re pimping prostitutes for coat closet action.)

Don’t wallow. “Slow dances are the bane of every single guest’s wedding experience,” says Diane Forden, editor-in-chief of Bridal Guide magazine. “This is the moment when you may find yourself suddenly abandoned at a big table as every couple in the room darts onto the dance floor. Take a deep breath, get up, and circulate. You can find someone you know at another table to talk with, take a walk around the reception site, or freshen up in the ladies’ room. But whatever you do, don’t sit there sadly gazing at those dancing couples, because your happy mood will instantly deflate as you ponder your single status.” (I just don’t know how to respond here. Personally, I’m not a big slow dancer, unless of course there’s a pole of some kind close by. Consider yourself blessed that you’re not up there on the dance floor getting felt up by the groom’s mother or the bride’s father. Unless of course one of these two people are your coat closet rendezvous.)

Amuse yourself. (This article is amusing for me.) “Look at a wedding as a chance to get dolled up,” Forden continues. “In these days of casual wear, it’s fun to look like a runway celebrity. Splurge a little and pamper yourself with a few spa treatments, or buy a new dress and a new pair of shoes. Guys can get new cummerbunds (Oh yeah. I can think of at least 20 guys that I know that will run right out and splurge on a brand new cummerbund. Who is this author?) The result will be an instant mood lift.” (No. The mood lift is located at the bar, or in the coat closet.) And if you’re feeling lonely and left out during the reception, try to find ways to turn that to your advantage. “I only go to weddings alone if I know there will be lots of kids there,” says Carol from New York. “Then I have my playmates, and the other adults appreciate the attention their children are getting.” (I mentioned earlier that I’m not into incest. Well that’s a double on child porn. I gotta draw the line somewhere. Stay away from the little people at the wedding reception.)

Have a little perspective. Take it from me: When you’re absorbed in a single, dismal, self-pitying frame of mind, it’s easy to lose sight of the icy stares, forced laughter, and under-the-breath bickering that transpire for many ostensibly “happy” couples during a deluxe evening. (Good God. Not everyone that’s single is dismal and not everyone that’s coupled is unhappy. Just be. Single or coupled; Just be.) My own dateless wedding strategy is to pal it up as much as I can with the folks at my table. (I think if I were at his table, I’d locate the bride and beg, borrow and steal to be relocated. “Please. There’s some weirdo singled guy; whose looking dismal and daunting about being single. Can I move my seat to the fun, single table, pleasssse?”) Then, when I’m in danger of feeling blue, I replay all those overheard insidious comments as I lean back in my chair, nurse my triple scotch (Nuff said...the only thing the author and I share in common....) and watch the slow dance. It may not be very nice, but it sure does work! (Well, that’s because he’s never had sex in a coat closet, right?)


Comments?

No Use Crying Over...

Not getting a story published.... I wrote the story below for a contest and found out that I didn't make the cut (boo-hoo). It's really okay (why do I feel like an American Idol contestant?) because I'm tenacious, thick skinned and I will continue to write and enter contests (my mantra) and then someday, I will be writing in my blog announcing to you that I won. But, until then feel free to indulge yourself in my sex in the rain themed story:

A Break From the Rain
Written by: Neve Black

Long, black running pants hugged her curvaceous, tight ass. She had a strong, athletic build; standing about 5’ 6”. She was short-waisted with powerfully-built legs and succulent C-cup breasts; complimenting shapely hips. Her bright orange raincoat touched the tops of her muscular, rounded thighs and she tossed her gym bag, now filled with work clothes, into the trunk and started her car. Instantly, windshield wipers sprang to life; ready for ‘water-to-windshield’ combat.

She found a parking spot close to the park’s North/East entrance. She pulled her blonde, gloriously thick, straight, hair into a ponytail. She wore very little makeup; she didn’t have to. She was blessed with an oval face, naturally flushed, high cheekbones, a small button nose, genuine red-stained pouty lips and luminous, aquamarine eyes.

Running along the black-top jogging path as it meandered its way into the park, she could see the river to her left; violently gushing and spilling over the banks. Her heartbeat thumped in time with her cadence. Running past the picnic area, a metal roof provided shelter for an old, paint-chipped, wooden picnic table and the concrete patio below it.

Looking closer, she saw a man sitting underneath the metal roof, wearing head-to-toe running accoutrements; legs outstretched before him. “He could be hurt,” she thought and slowed her pace; walking toward him and ducking under the covered awning.

The rain immediately stopped pummeling her head, but above, against the metal roof, it reverberated. She noticed his expressive, crystal, blue eyes and rugged good looks. His sandy-blond hair was shorter on the sides than the 2 inches at the top of his head and rain drops gathered at the tips; dripping into creases around his eyes; cascading onto his weather-chapped cheeks and chiseled jaw line. His nose was long, almost beak-like, but it suited him well.

“Is everything okay?” She asked.

“I think I may have pulled something in my leg,” his deep, husky voice responded. His black running pants clung to well-defined muscles.

They had both jogged the same path many times before, but never before had they been still long enough to meet. Amanda had admired Ken’s butt and nothing else – until now.

“How far were you going today?” He asked.

“My goal was not to freeze to death.” She replied, wiping the rain from her face.

“I’ve been training for the marathon,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Me too.” She replied.

“Maybe we could run together sometime…er..of course, after I’m walking again,” he said chuckling.

“Is he flirting with me?” Her thoughts raced. “I could run back and get my car and come back for you.” She offered.

“I appreciate that. I called my brother just before you found me and left him a message.” Lifting his cellular phone.

“Oh, well you’re all set then,” she replied, getting up. His hand touched the top of her knee, gently pushing her back down; she felt the cold cement seeping through her pants and shivered. “He is flirting.” She thought.

“Ken.” He said introducing himself. His thoughts raced: “I’m recently divorced; feeling lonely and really horny. God…you’ve got a great ass.”

“Amanda.” She responded shaking his hand, thinking: “I’m recovering from a break-up; feeling lonely. You’re hot.”

With sudden boldness he kissed her. Their cold lips touched; pulled back and touched again; grazing and seeking the warmth from the other. Amanda could feel the iciness in her body dissipate. A fiery, hot ember ignited inside her; lighting her body’s pilot light.

Ken pulled the zipper to her jacket down and reached his hands inside. His hands were cold under her jog bra; clasping her breasts; skimming her erect nipples. She moaned; felt her crotch become juicy. Ambitiously, she moved her hands under his clothes and pushed past the elastic band of his jogging pants.

She looked down at his groin; his cock bulged against the confines of his pants. He moved his fingers into the front of her jogging pants; under her panties, caressing the softness of her hair and the cleft leading to her clit; sliding his fingers up and down. “That feels good.” She sighed. Her hand pushed deeper inside his pants; fingers stroked the mushroom-head and shaft. He bucked his hips.

His fingers inched toward the opening of her pussy; dipped them inside, removed them and then sucked her nectar from his finger-tips. “Hmmm…sweet, just how I thought you’d taste.”

She wriggled his pants down until the elastic waist-top was around his sinewy, muscular thighs. His exposed hard cock curved, like a banana; bending toward him. Amanda ran her tongue down every inch of his banana-cock shaft; moving her lips upward, circling the head. Ken thrusted his hips toward the warm, wet friction of her mouth. She pulled her pants down and struggled to get them over her running shoes.

She straddled him; her back pressing into his chest. She was slathering wet; he was slab-hard and she hissed as the first few inches of his swollen cock speared inside her warm pussy; he fit snugly, like a missing piece to a puzzle. He grabbed her hips and guided her. Up. Down. Up. Down. Pussy muscles clenched his cock; contracting and releasing; fucking him hard.

“Oh God, I’m cumming,” he yelled and his hands gripped her hips; pulling her down onto him.

“Ooooooooooh,” she moaned and their bodies exploded and quivered; furiously pulsating.

She heard his cellular phone ringing. “Bet the brother’s on his way,” She thought, lifting herself off of his cock; reaching for her pants. In the distance, headlights flickered against the wetly paved road just ahead.

“Can we give you a ride?” Ken asked.

“I think I just got off one,” she said grinning.

“How about your number then?” He pleaded.

She pulled the hood from her coat over her head as Ken punched her digits into his phone and she stepped back into the rain, moving a little slower than before; reflecting on what just happened; smiling and making her way back to her car.

Bad Karma Car

I’m giving up. I call Uncle. I’m begging forgiveness to the Bad Karma Car Gods. Whatever I did to any car in the past, regardless of how awful it was, I’m sorry. After this week, I feel I’ve more than paid my penance with this car; making up for any Bad Karma Car in the past.

I have clunker. I don’t care too much about cars, because, well, I just don’t care that much about cars. I will admit I love a great looking Porsche though; especially when it’s hugging the corners; doing 150 MPH. When do I ever see that? Not so much in Ohio, I’m afraid. It’s a bit on the conservative side here for that. Most Ohioans would find that type of behavior nonsensical; illogical. It snows here for God’s sakes, Porsche’s are only allowed to come out and play during prime time seasons of the year (maybe two weeks’ max). It’s simply just too cold and too dangerous for a Porsche to live here in Ohio.

Boy, did I digress, or what? Let me see, where was I? Clunker. Karma Car. Bad. Begging forgiveness. Oh yeah. My bought and paid for car has a lot of miles on it. My theory is to run it straight into the ground before I have to go out and purchase another one. I try and take good care of it; oil changes, tune-up’s; no speeding; practical grandma-driving porn writer that I am.

So, I mentioned that it was bought and paid for, right? Yeah. Well, if you can believe this, it was; at least I thought it was until it was repossessed this past week. I’m. Not. Kidding. Someone came in the middle of the night and repo’d my car. My very non-Porsche-looking mobile with well over 100K miles on it; the same car I’ve been making car payments for hmmm…four fucking years. The car the thieves in my neighborhood pass over; yeah, that car.

It’s a very long and not too interesting of a story, but it appears that I still owe a bit of money on the car, even though I’d paid all the payments in the payment book. It was really a rather nominal amount of money that I owed and nope, no one from the bank informed me of this deficit. It appears that I was just supposed to know about this minor detail. I can sometimes read minds, like I know what a man's thoughts are as he eagerly attempts to get me into bed, but I'm a little rusty on loan balance telepathy; and I apologized profusely to the bank for this mishap.

All kidding aside, I’m working this out though. It has taken gallons of tequila and some nasty conversations with bank employees, but I should have the dog with fleas…I mean…dog with parvo. Oops! Silly me, I mean dogma car back in no time.

I’ve had other issues with this car too. This is just the latest and the greatest Bad Karma Car experience. I know what you’re thinking, why not just let the fuckers keep the car and go out and buy something new; something with a clearer karma history, eh? Well, I thought about it, but as Karma goes, if I don’t work it out with this car, any residual bad Karma will transfer over to the new one, and I’ll be right back in a Bad Karma Car debacle.

So, with all that said, is anyone looking to buy a car? Just kidding.

Come on. Tell me your best Bad Karma Car story.

p.s. The Jack Kerouac button above can be purchased here.

Memorial Day

Today is Memorial Day. Most people have the day off, unless of course you’re in some line of work that you can’t “call off” from work. Writers fall into that group. Writer’s across the nation are pulling off the warm covers; leaving behind snuggle-land ready to face the day with thoughts like, “must blog; can’t wait.” “Must finish deadline, must finish…” I think they must be close to finding a cure for those of us that write. Thank fuck sakes.

For a lot of people, Memorial Day means backyard BBQ’s and partying like rock stars for three straight days, because for many of us (including myself) Memorial Day is the celebration of the beginning of summer; the nod from Jackie O that says, it's acceptable to wear white shoes.

I’m going to get a little sappy here, because I want to say thank you to all the men and women that lost their lives fighting for their countries. I’m not a supporter of any war, but I’m taking a moment today; thinking about all the people that went to work, instead of having the opportunity to grill outside; spending time with family and friends. They fought for me; giving their life so I can have mine. Thank you.

"Should I Stay, or Should I Go?"

I was doing a bit of grocery shopping in the burbs this weekend. I don’t live in the burbs, but occasionally I find myself outside the confines of the safe, urban jungle; knee deep in the pretty, pink and prostituted world of the...suburbs (heavy organ music inserted here).... I’m usually in need of one item or another from the grocery store and before I know it, I find myself pulling into a strip mall; lured and romanced by some large and bright neon sign; promising me fresh meat, dairy and produce.

You know the place, right? Rows and rows of parking spaces are filled with mini-vans and large SUV’s. I can usually find a parking spot for my practical and paid for car though, because I don’t really mind walking the short distance to and from the parking lot. Exercise is good and there’s no need to be that close to the front door.

As I was pushing my shopping cart through the natural food section when…suddenly... I heard a long forgotten tune…. Could it be? No, it’s not possible, Neve. You're in the burbs. I am not at my quaint and funky grocery store close to my home, where its customary to stand in line with people paying for their food with food stamps, but…but…I’m hearing the Clash’s, Should I Stay or Should I Go.

Gasp!

I pinched myself; making sure this wasn’t a dream state. I did consume a lot of wine the night before. I heard the familiar lyrics, “darling, you gotta let me know, should I stay or should I go?” Fuck yeah! It was raining punk rock right down on all the busy, moms and dads as they reached for frozen foods, or read peanut butter jar labels. Filling, selecting, grabbing and squeezing as they shopped for their groceries, “It’s always tease, tease, tease, you’re happy when I’m on my knees.” I was stunned. I looked up; waiting for the lighting bolt to strike, or pigs to fly; I’m not really sure, but something was amiss. “I AM IN THE SUBURBS AND I’M LISTENING TO THE CLASH”, my mind was consumed with this novelty.

I know, I’m weird. What can I say? But, come on, you have to admit, when grocery shopping in the burbs, the music is usually elevator-like, at best. Maybe you can hope for a real swinging, step-up, like smooooooth jazz (barf!). Calming and soft; there's no need to upset any heavily medicated shoppers. How else could you live in the burbs without some type of prescription? I was listening to Mick Jones sing his heart out over his declining relationship with Meatloaf’s backup singer, Ellen Foley and I was in the Burbs.

Holy Crap.

If I hadn’t of been there, I would have never believed it. Well, here ya go. You have my permission to sing your heart out this weekend while your shopping for groceries. It appears that it’s okay to sing punk rock on a Saturday in Ohio (This is the Midwest, not California) at a suburban grocery store.

I’ll be damned and dippy-dooed!


“darling, you gotta let me know
should I stay or should I go?
If you say that you are mine
I'll be there till the end of time
So you gotta let me know
Should I stay or should I go?
I'll always tease,tease,tease
you're happy when I'm on my knees
one day is fine and the next is black
so if you want me off your back
well, come on and let me know
should I stay or should I go?
chorus:Should I stay or should i go now?
Should I stay or should i go now?
if I go there will be trouble
and if I stay it will be double
so come on and let me know

The indecisions bugging me
(esta un decision me molesta)
if you don't want me ste me free
(Si no quieres librame)
Exactly who I'm supposed to be
(Diga me que tengo ser)
Don't you know which clothes even fits me?
(saves que robas me querida)
Come on and let me know
(Me tienes que decir)
Should I cool it or should I blow?
(Me debo ir o quedarme)”

p.s. The image above was too cool to pass up. It's from the 7" single, and yep, that's a picture of Ronny Reagan. The album; Combat Rock.

A Double Order of...Chocolate

"...chocolate cake. My wife wants chocolate cake with chocolate icing." Tom interjected his thoughts as Jenna and I were talking about yummy and delicious birthday cake. The kind of cake you can't stop eating because it's just that good.

Jenna had just celebrated her birthday and she mentioned that her favorite cake was a rich, dark chocolate cake with white, butter cream frosting.

"God that's orgasmic; where's my piece?" I said laughing with her.

"Wait a minute. Did you say your wife asked for chocolate cake with chocolate icing? Are you sure?" Jenna questioned Tom, her hands on her hips; brow was furrowed with worry.

"Oh yeah. There's no mistaking her request. Chocolate with chocolate icing." Tom said proudly knowing exactly what his wife's cake needs are.

Jenna pressed on, "What is she missing that she needs a double order of chocolate?"

Tom only shrugged. Obvioulsy, he didn't know what we knew about women and their double order of chocolate desire.

I stood back; listening and taking copious notes in my head. There was no need for me to say anything. This conversation was headed in a new direction; laden with sexual reference. Somewhere far beyond the ingredients of rich and delicious cake batter; something much more intriguing was cooking, or I guess baking.

Jenna and I both looked at each other and then we looked at him; innocently standing there grinning. We looked at each other again, both our heads nooded in unison. We knew.

You're probably asking, "what the hell are you talking about, Neve?"

Okay here's the deal. When a woman is craving chocolate; especially a double dose like Tom's wife is, that usually means she not getting enough sex. Let me be more specific, she's not getting off enough, so she diverts that sexual energy (sublimate) into something else that she finds equally satisfying.

Chocolate.

The fact that Tom's wife wants double, chocolate, well, both Jenna and I knew that one of us would have to pull him aside and explain of few things. For the love of God, a woman's sexual needs were at stake here.

It's important that you understand that having this conversation with someone can be well, like swimming in a vat of thick, chocolate. First of all, you don't want to make someone feel like they're not doing their job in the boudoir'; breaking the news that their partners needs aren't being met (bitter chocolate). Secondly, the conversation usually turns into a tutorial session; explaning a woman's nether region. A quick overview; a refresher course of her vaginal lips; outer and inner, her vulva and of course, her power house of sensory chocolate morsel; her clitoris. Often times this can also be troubling for someone to hear, because they may have thought everything was fine. Fine up until yep, a request for double chocolate is ordered.

In the situation with Tom, I let Jenna do the explaning on this one; she knows him better than I do. Tom seemed to take the news well. I'm really anxious to learn whether his wife's cake request is going to change once he goes home and fucks her; fucks her the way she wants it. I bet it does. After Tom is done with her, she'll surely change her cake order to something light and airy, like angel food with strawberries, or perhaps lemon chiffon; easy and simple, because she'll no longer need the double, chocolate.

What's your favorite kind of cake?

The chocolate sucker can be ordered via Etsy here.

Pussy Panties

My big news is the image above. It was displayed onto my writing hero's blog this week; Ms. Alison Tyler. If you get a chance, check out her panty parade. It's been really fun and of course, highly erotic (dirty smile).

I feel so special; proud actually having my panties exposed along side with some of the best erotica writers I know.

Heavy sigh.

I'd bloged about panties a couple of weeks ago. Wanted to hear all about your favorite, sexy pair. I guess I must be somewhat submissive, because when Alison asked for my panties... I delivered; post-haste....


Have a great holiday weekend!

Long-distance and Sexless

No. I didn’t write long-distance and senseless, although long-distance relationships are often senseless and sexless.

Sorry. I didn't mean to offend anyone, but come on, think about it? Isn't the title a little redundant?

Okay. So here’s the deal. I’m not kidding when these titled articles land right into my lap, or SLIDE into my e-mail in box. It just doesn’t get any better than this for me.

I love question and answer type articles, especially after a juicy tag line, which just happens to be today’s blog title. Here’s the question:

QUESTION: My boyfriend and I have been together for almost three years, and have had a long distance relationship for about a year and a half. We only see each other every two months and we have been apart even longer on occasion. The last two times we got together he just does not seem to want intimacy. This last time, I visited for nine days and he only wanted to be sexual three or four times. Each night, nothing happened. I just waited. But then one night I said something about it and he said he was tired. I understand that because he was not out on spring break at the same time I was. I asked if he was still attracted to me and he said he was. He said he has just not felt up to it and that he is getting older. But he's only 25! I asked if it was me and he said no. Can you help me understand what's going on?

Feel free to read through the author's answer, or simply scroll down to my answer, which is of course very much to the point.

ANSWER: There are numerous reasons why a man may stop being sexual with his partner and age has little to do with it.
It is possible that after three years, the hormones that cause most couples to have sex as frequently as they possibly can have shifted in your boyfriend. The change from extreme lust to a quieter sort of contentment often takes place after a year or two. He may still love you and want to be with you, just not in as passionate a way as you might like, or expect. It in no way necessarily reflects his love for you. You mention being sexual three or four times in nine days -– hardly a sexless relationship. You said he told you that he was tired –- well, he well may be. You also wrote about "spring break." If he's in graduate school and also has a job, he may be exhausted.
Consider that having sex every two or three days may be all the intimacy wants at this time in his life. If you were living together instead of apart, having sex every other day or so after three years probably wouldn't seem so disappointing to you. But, you're not. And so, when you visit, you expect everything to be like the very first time. It's a romantic but unrealistic notion. You may need the reassurance of him wanting you the way he did three years ago more than the actual intimacy itself. It is also possible that you have a higher level of desire than he does at this point in your lives.
It is also possible that your partner is depressed or anxious, both of which have libido-lowering effects. If he is taking medications for either of these conditions, they may also cause a loss of libido.
You also have to realize that your boyfriend may be reconsidering your relationship. You are apart for two months or more at a time, and that would be difficult for any couple to navigate. You have got to have a serious conversation with him –- something way above the level of "Is it me?" Realistically, did you think he would say yes?
Speak to him about the future. Do the two of you plan to be together when he finishes his degree? Do you intend to live together or marry? Do you want to start a family? Or, is he having second thoughts about the relationship? (It is possible, but hard to imagine a 25-year-old man would think that his libido was weakening because of age. That sounds more like an excuse than a reason). And if his libido is, in fact, significantly lower than yours, are you having doubts? Do you both feel the same way about important issues like fidelity and spirituality? What about the type of careers you are planning? Do you respect each others choices? How about the way you intend to approach financial issues? We think you see the way we are heading here –- sex is an important part of a relationship, but a relatively small one. It is looming large for you because you are so often apart from your boyfriend -– and for you, passion equals love. But love is really made up of so many things, including understanding, listening to and respecting one another, friendship, fidelity, and trust. Take care that all of those things are as important to you as keeping a sexual scorecard

Neve Black’s Answer:
Alert. Alert. Alert. Harsh Message Coming:
Pull your head out of your ass. He’s fucking someone else, sister. No conversation in the world is going to make much of a difference either. He's a young stud of 25; you're far, far away, so he's banging someone that lives a little closer; helping to ease the pain with pleasure in between your infrequent visits. No worries though. The best way to get over one guy is to get another one on top of you, or underneath you…go cowgirl, go...! One more thought: Might I suggest finding a man that lives a little closer to your bedroom this time?


p.s. Belt buckle above can be purchased via Etsy here.

What's Your Poison?

Personally, I’m all over the board with this subject. I like beer, wine, vodka, tequila and a little moonshine if the occasion calls for a shin-dig. I cut my teeth with the Colorado Rockies; drinking Coors beer. This was long before the marketing gurus got a hold of Coors and created the "Silver bullet"; Coors' answer to light beer.

I'll take the extra calories and drink a regular beer or two, or three, or hell, a six pack will do sometimes.

It all began when my grandparents used to pour a little into a glass for me when I was maybe seven, or eight years old. Don’t worry mom, (as is if my mom would ever read this blog) it was dad’s side of the family that was illegally serving minors in the fine state of California. My mother’s mom and dad didn’t really drink beer, they liked Irish Whiskey and yep, it was okay that I sipped a little of that too whenever I’d visit them.

Looking back on those days as a somewhat emotionally mature woman, it’s no wonder my grandfather used to tell me there were leprechauns in his garden; he was probably drunk and thought there really were. I was a kid with a huge imagination and I would take the leprechaun bait every stinking time. I’d run out the kitchen door; leap over the stairs and slide into the grass; skinning my knees as I came to a stop and cautiously; intrepidly peeking under avocado, lime and lemon tree leaves and branches; looking for leprechauns.

Good God. I guess I can blame my alcoholism on my grandparents, huh?

Later, as a high school teenager, I quickly learned to drink a whole beer, straight from the can, thank you very much. After football games my high school peers gathered at a place affectionately called, “The Hump” (it’s a mystery why I’m penning porn, isn’t?). Anyway, we used to drink a beer called, Mickey’s Big Mouth, and I’m not sure why that beer was the chosen brand, other than it must have been considered cool for some unknown and long forgotten reason. Maybe it was cheap, or someone at our school’s parents (probably their grandparents) owned a liquor store. Who knows why, but that’s what we would drink and party way past my curfew of 10:00 p.m.

My mom didn’t know I was drinking at a place called "The Hump." Yes, I would get into big trouble and have to hide behind my dad’s affection to get out from under my mom’s punishment for drinking….worked every time too…except for that time when I was thrown in jail for making an illegal turn in Mexico. Yeah. My dad was a little pissed off over that minor incident, and just in case you were wondering, alcohol was involved.

Damn drunkard grandparents; look at the legacy they’ve given their granddaughter?

Of course there were always shots of tequila and Tecate beer if you headed south; over the boarder into Mexico. I was bound to get into some kind of trouble over there; jail time was probably one of the lesser evils for all the crazy-ass things I used to do. I remember being drunk as hell in search of donkey show in Tijuana and we could never find one; the shows would move round, because they were considered illegal; even in Mexico, which has very high tolerance for nonsense type of behavior. I did finally see one of those shows, wish I hadn’t. I’ll probably never be able to erase that from my memory; no matter how much booze I consume.

Anyway, I’m walking down the booze path today for some reason, probably because I was drinking last night and also because it’s a topic that sometimes, not always, but sometimes leads to a raunchy sex session and hey, nearly everyone I know drinks to some degree for some reason or another. Not to mention all the great American writer's were drunks; I'm just trying to stay with the program and walk in the foot steps of other writers. Oh yeah, and my grandparents (smile).



Let’s hear about your favorite poison and a great story to go along with it!

Bewitched, beguiled and bewildered

is the name of a tune, sometimes just called Bewitched that best describes the way I’m feeling tonight. There's a full moon tonight; Moon is in Scorpio; my sun sign and I am surely feeling its effects. Lyrics below:

“After one whole quart of brandy
Like a daisy, I'm awake
With no Bromo-Seltzer handy

I don't even shake
Men are not a new sensation
I've done pretty well I think
But this half-pint imitation
Put me on the blink

I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Couldn't sleep and wouldn't sleep
When love came and told me, I shouldn't sleep
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Lost my heart, but what of it
He is cold I agree
He can laugh, but I love it
Although the laugh's on me

I'll sing to him, each spring to him
And long, for the day when I'll cling to him
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

He's a fool and don't I know it
But a fool can have his charms
I'm in love and don't I show it
Like a babe in arms

Love's the same old sad sensation
Lately I've not slept a wink
Since this half-pint imitation
Put me on the blink

I've sinned a lot, I'm mean a lot
But I'm like sweet seventeen a lot
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

I'll sing to him, each spring to him
And worship the trousers that cling to him
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

When he talks, he is seeking
Words to get off his chest
Horizontally speaking, he's at his very best

Vexed again, perplexed again
Thank God, I can be oversexed again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Wise at last, my eyes at last,
Are cutting you down to your size at last
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more

Burned a lot, but learned a lot
And now you are broke, so you earned a lot
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more

Couldn't eat, was dispeptic
Life was so hard to bear
Now my heart's antiseptic
Since you moved out of there

Romance, finis.
Your chance, finis.
Those ants that invaded my pants, finis.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more”


Is anyone else feeling the effects of the full moon?

Marriage without Sex = Children

“…tomorrow’s our anniversary and what am I going to do?”

My dear friend, Rachel of nearly ten years asked me before I could say the words, “Hey, how are you?” into the telephone. Her tone was rather frantic.

My mind raced: “I’m not sure why she’s asking me this question. I’m not married. ”

“Uh…Rach, why you asking me?” I questioned her. The words escaped my lips before I had time to push them back in; knowing I was going to get a lashing (not the good kind) from the other end of the phone.

“Humph…I need help. The kids… What am I going to do with the kids…? Tomorrow’s Monday and it might be really difficult finding a sitter on a Monday night. Brad’s out of town next weekend….so we can’t postpone it, and I don’t want to because tomorrow’s the actual date, and we REALLY need some alone time.” She was like a whale that wasn’t coming up for air in her frenetic; stream of conscious jive.

Okay. I think I’m getting dialed into this now, so stupidly I asked,

“Do you want me to watch the kids and get them off to school for you on Tuesday morning?”

Silence on the other end.

More silence.

Still; more silence.

“Rachel?” Are you still there?” I asked looking into the receiver; wondering if the call had been dropped into some cellular black hole.

“No. I appreciate the offer, but Brad’s sister could probably take the kids, Neve.”

Ouch. That hurt. I can’t say I blame her though. I’m not sure if I’d want me to watch over someone else’s kids either. I don’t have any kids. I pen porn. I live in the hood. I can see how a mother, even though she’s my friend, would have some slight concern as to the activities I would choose for her children while spending the night at Aunt Neve’s house.

I was about to pull another rabbit out of the hat; trying to figure out why she was calling me with all this in the first place when she finally asked,

“Can you go shopping with me and help me pick out a couple of things, you know sex stuff? Please? Please? Please?” There was pleading, no it was begging in her voice.

“Rachel, have no fear; your slutty friend is here!” Come on over later and you can go shopping in my over-stuffed, sex toy box.”

“I love you.” She said, satisfied with my answer and hung up.

Many of my friends, men and women have young children. Of course they’re the pride and joys of their lives, but it also seems to wreak havoc on their sex lives. I hear these horrific stories about why marriage partners aren’t getting down and getting busy with each other. The reasons run the gamut and I’m sure as a reader, you may very well be in the midst of this in your own marriage, or you know someone that is, or as a couple, you’ve survived the “we have children, but we don’t have sex” phenomena and have lived to tell the tale.

I’m interested in learning more about what you do to get through the "we're not really having sex" in your relationship, or what you did to survive.

What type of olive branch do you offer your partner to bridge the gap between your side and their side of the bed, even when there could be a child sleeping in that space at the moment?


p.s. For those of you that are going through this and can offer me no insight, and now you're scared; thinking, "Oh. God. I'm. Never. Going. To. Have.Sex. Again!" Don't get your knickers buckled. It's my understand this is a phase that parents go through and they get through it and they do knock boots again with their partners. :-)

Are You Sure You're Getting Enough...

yin with your yang or, yang with your yin...?

The yin/yang is the easily recognized Taoist symbol of the interplay of forces in the universe. In Chinese philosophy, yin and yang represent the two primal cosmic forces in the universe. Yin (moon) is the receptive, passive, cold female force. Yang (sun) is masculine- force, movement, heat.

The Yin/Yang symbol (image above) represents the idealized harmony of these forces; equilibrium in the universe. In ancient Taoist texts, white and black represent enlightenment and ignorance, respectively

If you’re not getting enough balance of yin and yang, I like to equate that with fucking in the same position; day after day; week after week, month after miserable month; year after excruciating, boring-ass year.

Arghhhhhhh.

Here are a few examples that come to mind; struggling with too much yang, but not enough yin:

Darth Vader
George Bush
Wiley Coyote

On the flip side to the examples above, here's an example of too much yin and not enough yang:
Picture a commune, chuck-full of women; all having their periods at the same time; with no men in sight. Hell, there’s not even a strap-on cock on the premises.


I don’t know about you, but I really try and balance my life. It’s a constant tight-rope walk between what makes me happy - like striving to become a porn/writer star, or staying in bed all day and fucking my lover, or spending a gloriously long time washing and drying my hair, or getting my bottom spanked and blistered while wearing my nasty, little, school-girl uniform (any role-playing outfit works actually...I’m digressing) and my everyday responsibilities, which usually have some monetary value attached to them. Soooo, that means I have to work; cutting into my happy activity time mentioned above.

Thus; I find myself daydreaming; wondering what it might be like to wake up and find that all my responsibilities were taken care of, because I’m filthy.

Filthy, rich.

I get wet just speaking about it here with you today. Ahhhh…

…there goes the sound of my alarm clock’s shrill shattering my daydream state and I’m suddenly jolted back into reality, like a triple-espresso. “Hello! Wake up ‘wanne be’ porn star. Wake the fuck up!”

Damn. I hate that.

Anyway, back to the yin and yang. I’m usually guilty of not adding enough yin to my everyday, balls-out, yang life, so I’m working on adding things like yoga, or playing my guitar more and or learning to become an expert at HTML, CSS and XHTML, which requires quiet (yin) time; absorbing, studying and researching; calming yin.

I do know some people that can’t seem to get out of bed; suffering from the opposite; too much yin and not enough yang.

Not having enough of either one isn’t good though, because you need the right amount of both for balance, which makes you well-rounded and whole. You have to recognize when the scale is tipping to one side; when the proverbial pendulum is swinging too far to the left or to far right (which is a travesty in itself) and you have to add some more of one or the other in order to pull yourself back and get centered.

Ommm….

How do you know if you’re in yin/yang balance? What do you do when you feel the scale is being tipped too far in either direction?

"Are you writing something... good?"

I get asked that question from time to time. Hmm...trouble is, I'm not really sure how to respond to that and naturally, my mind races:

What do they mean by good?

Could it be that they want to know if I'm working on something that I particulary like?

Or are they asking me to give them something that's dirty; dirty but good and bad?

Maybe they need just a nibble of what I'm working on, like a porn fix, so they can go home and get working in private; it's National Masturbation Month, you know.

Long pause; fingers drumming against the keyboard.

So, to answer the question above: I'm always writing something good, that's also really bad too. My characters are usually getting down and getting dirty; stripped naked and exposed. I like to leave the blinds open so you, the voyer can peek inside to their lives and see all their pink, and vulnerable spots. My characters are usually seeking the warmth and sometimes the protection from someone (male, female, or both) or something else (alcohol, drugs or bondage). These characters enjoy doing some nasty, naughty stuff; curl your popsicle toes gritty. These characters are a lot like you and me actually, which makes them so good, yet oh so bad.

So yeah, I guess I'm always writing something really good.


Here's a taste of a story I'm working on right now:


"He wanted me to suck his cock. I slid myself down from the chair, until my knees hit the floor; my back was against the chair and I was straddling his legs. I moved my head closer to his erection. One hand grabbed the cheeks of his ass; pulling his cock closer to my lips, while the other hand touched his smooth, honey-brown tanned and well developed thighs. I ran my hand up down the length of his hamstrings; massaging his muscles and then moving my hand around and kneading his quadriceps. He let out a whimper. I moved my hand from his thighs; firmly grasping the base of his cock while I grazed my full, wet lips across the thrumming head. I slowly circled my tongue around the mushroom head before enveloping his pre-cum, cock into my mouth. I moved my mouth farther down; feeling his cock pulsate and grow bigger; sucking and licking his engorged member. I pushed my other hand into the crack of his ass and moved my hand up and down; his ass was sweating and his hips began to thrust toward my mouth and my hat fell to the floor."

Like it? Not so much? Good? Bad? Want more? Let me know.

Cougars, Pumas and Jaguars

Been to the zoo lately? Me neither. I guess we don’t have to if we want to spot some female wild cats though. According to a headline news report I saw this week, there’s a new favorite pastime in Hollywood, its called “cougar” spotting. Now many of you probably didn’t know that there are some pretty steep mountains above the city of Angels; all kinds of critters live up there, like rattle snakes, coyotes, and mountain lions.

I read further into the article and much to my chagrin, the writer wasn’t talking about the kind of wild cats you find at the zoo, or in the mountainous region of the Hollywood Hills. Nope, these wild cats are living in the city; shopping along Rodeo Drive and eating some of the finest cuisine their paws can buy.

Basically, a cougar, puma or jaguar is categorized by the big cat’s age. The term is gender specific; deemed a female wild cat because of her sexual experience, bank roll and her age compared to the younger fellow she’s currently dating; fucking, or both.

Hollywood “cougars” are in their 40’s; currently prowling along the streets of Los Angeles, but have been spotted in other cities as well. Here are just a few examples:

Mariah Carey
Madonna,
Halle Berry
Jennifer Aniston
Courtney Cox
And the Queen of the cougar den, Demi Moore

Hollywood “pumas” are defined as women in their early 30’s attracted to younger men as well. Here are some members that fall into that Hollywood category:

Eva Longoria
Cameron Diaz

Finally, the den mother of the entire big cat family is the Hollywood “jaguar”. A "jaguar" is defined as established, 50+ women, and hot enough to snag younger prey:

Susan Sarandon
Dianne Sawyer


I’m sure these terms aren’t actually new to anyone, but I thought it might be helpful if you were given the actual definitions. I personally knew about the term “cougar”, but was not aware of pumas and jaguars. I guess I’ve always fallen into the big cat category; enjoying the companionship of a younger man long before the label was sewn inside my thong panties.


Comments?


p.s. The tee-shirt above can be purchased here ; sold on Etsy.

The Size of the Wave

“…his cock is like a churro. Do you know what I mean?” She asked me while taking another sip from her beer.

“Uh. Huh? What the hell are you talking about?” I asked her ordering two more shots of tequila from the bartender.

“It’s long and slender, from head to base; shaped just like a churro.” She said trying to explain; gesticulating with her hands while reaching for the limes and salt.

I knew exactly what she meant, but I was having way too much fun pretending that I didn’t. She kept spilling more details about her new boyfriend. How he kissed her; what he smelled like and then she talked about the sex. Hell, I had ring-side seats; wiping the sweat from my brow as she swung another punch; giving me explicit cock knowledge.

“Really? I asked licking the salt from the back of my hand; swallowing the tequila; wincing as it burned going down and I quickly biting into the lime.

“Yeah. Fuck. I really like him, but God, you know how much I like a good cock. Don’t look at me like that, Neve. You like a good cock too!”

I shrugged. Who was I to argue?

“Who else can I speak to about this?” She asked exasperated, grabbing her shot glass and knocking it back; recoiling from the taste of the potent liquor.

“Just so I’m on the same page here. Are you saying a churro cock is a bad thing?” I asked her sipping more beer.

“Well. No. It might work for someone else’s body, but I need a cock that’s more like a firm banana; thicker at the base with a slight bend to it, so it hits the good spots.” She said padding her lower abdomen and slightly smiling now, reminiscing no doubt about someone from the past’s perfect, bent banana.

“Is that right? I inquired, my left eyebrow was raised and I suddenly knew I didn’t need to write this down, because it was seared to memory and I’d write about this conversation some day; my best girlfriend’s, boyfriend’s, churro dick.

Okay all you men out there, listen up!

Women often talk about the man in their life to their girlfriends; divulging intimate information that would put the talk found in a man’s locker room to shame. Men would blush knowing the things their girlfriend’s friends know about them. I know nearly everything about most of my girlfriend’s boyfriend’s quirky, little habits, bodily functions, love making techniques, and yes I know all about the size of their churros and bananas.

We’re sworn to secrecy though; never letting on about what we know, but there is a caveat to the secrecy: We’re allowed to talk about it with our other girlfriends. So that means if you believe in the six degrees of separation theory, then the natural conclusion would be: Every woman that a man knows, or has yet to meet has carnal knowledge of his parts and pieces.

Is that shocking?

I remember telling one of my friends the story about my best girlfriend's description of her boyfriend’s “churro cock” and she confused the term; trying to describe the cock of some guy that she was dating, referring to it as a chaluppa, not a "churro." Yes. There is a difference.

I felt like I needed to run to the border and order some Taco Bell. The image was all wrong for me.

“It’s churro, not chaluppa!” I said, correcting her dick description.

“Oh. Well, I don’t know exactly what a churro is, but this guy had a cock like a chaluppa.” She said, sighing heavily into a glass of wine, needing to talk.

Ahhhhh. Let the games begin.


p.s. The magnet above can be purchased through Etsy here.


p.p.s. Comments are always welcome.

Popsicle Toes

“When God gave out rhythm

Sure was good to you

You can add, subtract, multiply and divide by two

I know today's your birthday and I did not buy no rose

But I wrote this song and instead I call it, Popsicle toes

Popsicle toes

Popsicle toes are always froze

Popsicle toes

You're so brave to expose all those Popsicle toes…”

I’m not sure what made me think about toes, but whenever I’m in a toe frame of mind, I tend to think of the song above; performed and written by Michael Franks. Mrs. Elvis Costello, aka, Diana Krall does a great job performing the song as well, but it’s Michael Frank’s performance that gives me those goose bumps that run right down to my little piggies; highly erotic.

So, since I’m on the subject of erotica, lets get back to those ten digits that live below the waist line, knees and ankles. I'm talking about yep, your toes. I affectionately refer to my toes as “space toes” because they remind me of ten little space men; bent, flat-headed, some long, some short, you know, space toe looking. Actually I don’t think I’ve ever met a single toe that I would consider to be perfect looking. They’re all so oddly shaped. I try and help mine out; keep up appearances by giving them pedicures, or toe makeovers, but even with pretty, painted “take me to bed red” toe polish, they still scream up at me saying, “take me to your leader, we’re from outer space.”

I like toes because it’s the one thing that people don’t try too hard to change about themselves. You certainly don’t hear (or I haven’t heard of it) about toe liposuction, or toe implants, do you? Nope. For some good reason people are just happy to dress their little devils up from time to time with a simple toe nail clipping or some inexpensive polish and just let them be who they are.

The next time you see someone out and about with there toes exposed, ask them if you can take a taste; just pop one of those popsicles into your mouth and let me know what you think. Summer is just around the corner; flip flop season is upon us, so you’ll be seeing a lot more toe exposure than the past winter months, when they were covered up with socks and shoes.

Do you have any popsicle toe stories? I’d love to hear them.

Give Yourself a Hand

I just learned that May is National Masturbation Month. No. I didn’t stutter. National. Masturbation. Month.

Earlier this month, I was talking about May Day and the beautiful flowers. Fuck May Day. I can’t believe how completely out of the pink, budding loop I’ve been. We're nearly half way through the month. Please forgive me, my loyal readers.

You’re probably wondering how in the world I stumbled upon or came (no pun) to learn about this bit of fanatical information, aren’t ya’? One word my friends, research. Hey, someone’s gotta’ do it.

Here’s what I found, just in case you’re interested to know how this all came (there it is again) about:

“Masturbation Month was originally started in 1995 by a company called Good Vibrations to protest firing U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Joycelyn Elders. Elders was asked a question about safe sex and responded with, "Masturbation is something that perhaps should be taught." Sex education providers around the nation agreed with her but the conservative consensus did not and so she was canned. In lieu of that firing, Good Vibrations decided to rage war against the conservatives by bringing masturbation to the front lines; to make it a visible topic of discussion amongst Americans.”

Go figure.

If you haven’t already got your own groove on this month, please give yourself a hand and celebrate the sticky month of May, because it’s National Masturbation Month. Life rocks!

A Guide To Sensuous Pet Ownership

is the name of the short "How To" story/contest authored by your's truly; currently published on Literotica's website.

Please feel free to read the story (it's a really quick read) and don't forget to vote.

I'd love to hear your comments.


XO
Neve

p.s. The picture above is a good representation of pussy pet number one and pussy pet number two; characters in the story.

Mutha's Day

Happy Mother’s Day to all you mutha’s out there (wink, wink).

I have much to be thankful for when I think of my mom. The fact that she had sex with my father and I was conceived would be the first thing I feel compelled to thank her for. And yes, as shocking as it is for some of us to fathom the idea that our mother’s have had some sex, well, I’m here, so the proof is in the pudding, or the semen met the egg. I know that my parent’s had sex at least four times, because I have two sisters and a brother.

Oh God. I suddenly feel nauseated.

I’m not sure if you’re one of those persons that actually get along with your parents. I am not. I love my family. No really, I do, but quite honestly there’s a reason why they live a plane flight away, or a week long trip in the car to come and see me. I moved; they stayed. When they do come to visit, I need time to clean up my love shack.

You know what I mean, don’t you? Put away the porno movies; replace all the erotica books next to my bed with something less offensive to them, like gardening 102, or how to cook the perfect meal. And I can’t forget to clean out the bottom drawer of my nightstand. It’s stuffed with things like, various types of lube, vibrators, riding crops, handcuffs, massage oil, Kama Sutra lotion, French ticklers, blindfolds, paddles, and one very fine, leather whip (heavy sigh).

My mom was just here visiting a few months ago and I’d completely forgotten about that bottom drawer. Oops! Let’s just say, the contents made for an interesting breakfast conversation. When family comes for a visit, clean that shit up, is all I’m saying.

I guess I wasn’t abused too much as child growing up; on a beach, surfing everyday. But there was that whole Catholic thing my mom kept shoving down my throat. I was a round hole; Catholicism was the square peg. My mom kept pushing and shoving me into that damn space, but I just didn’t fit. It’s like trying to fuck a guy with an enormous cock. I know. I know. Some of you are wondering what the problem is, but sometimes cocks are just too unmanageable. They can actually be too big. I SWEAR this is true. Too big of a cock is like never getting wet enough, but still getting fucked anyway.

Ouch. Oochie-wa-wa. Fingernails down the chalkboard, ladies. Sandpaper sore.

And there’s never any pleasure to help ease that kind of pain. Unless of course you’re taking some real serious muscle relaxer’s, and the dude with the big cock that’s pounding away on you doesn’t care that’s it you he’s banging or a corpse, for God’s sake.

I’ve added much humor here. I just can’t help myself. I do have fond memories of my mom. She’s actually a wonderful woman; very loving, giving and she can be a real hoot. She’s a little on the controlling side, but I learned to put the kibosh on that a long time ago.

Happy Mother’s Day to the every mom in the world today.


What fond memories do you have your mutha? I’d like to hear about them.



p.s. The greeting card above can be purchased here.

Get. Me. There. Now.

Do you ever feel that way? You’re driving and driving and it’s taking forever to get to your final destination; you just can’t sing along to one more song on the radio? You’re running in a marathon and you’re at mile 24; you’re done, but there's 2.6 more to go, but... your legs won’t go any farther? Your lover has been teasing you with his/her tongue and lips for what seems like hours and hours; taking you just to the edge, but not letting you cum? Your mind and body is screaming, “Get. Me. There. Now!”

As we plan for the future by saving our pennies from heaven for a rainy day, I think it’s important that we stop (long pause) if only for a moment and think about right here and right now; the space of time we’re standing in now. Someone once told me, “It’s always better to be on the road than to reach the Inn.” Those words have stuck with me forever.

As you save for a trip, a down payment for a house, a fabulous brand new Channel handbag, or that trapeze set you can attach to your bedroom ceiling, remember to gage where you’re headed by where you’ve been and where you’re now. Chances are what you’ve been striving for might be standing right in front of you. So instead of saying, Get. Me. There. Now. You might be, Already. There.

Have a Great Weekend!

Swinger

In my pursuit of doing research for my characters (that’s the story I’m sticking too), I've come to realize that some of my readers look to me for advice in areas that might perhaps make them feel slightly uncomfortable by doing the research on their own. Rest assured, I’m here to turn that rock over and help you peek underneath; see what’s living under there, and hopefully help you expand your sexual aesthetic; your repertoire.

How many of you out there have thought about swapping partners? Come on…fess up, maybe just a little? Maybe you’ve thought about the topic, but didn’t know where to go to get more information, or maybe you haven’t felt comfortable broaching the subject with your partner.

There’s no need to look any farther than here. As I stated earlier, in the name of character research, I came across an interesting article dedicated to the alternative lifestyle of swinging. What I didn’t know was there are varying degrees of this lifestyle, and I thought you might want to learn a little more about it.

Are you ready? Here we go.

From my research and understanding, swinging can be categorized into three separate areas; varying on swinging experience and the comfort level of the swinging participants.


Soft swinging…
involves no sexual intercourse between non-partners. Couples can have sex with their own partners in the same room at the same time while another couple is having sex. Couples do not exchange partners at any time during the session; no vaginal penetration between non-partners.
Partners do not physically swap partners, but there could possibly be some touching, or oral sex involved. These rules are usually negotiated in advance between the couples. Usually, there’s a lot of watching (voyeurism) between the other couple’s foreplay during these sessions.


Closed swinging…
is where partners swap, but have sexual intercourse in separate rooms. Closed swinging allows couples and individual for a more intimate experience. Many people feel that is allows them more freedom to explore with fewer interruptions of their enjoyment.

Many closed swinging occurs at parties and events held in large homes. Closed swinging is usually for couples who have been in swinging for quite some time and have built up trust and understanding between each other.


Open swinging…
this kind of swinging allows partners to swap and have sexual intercourse in the same room, or bed. This includes orgies and it is great for exhibitionist and voyeurs, who can show off or just enjoy watching their partner play.

Many swingers find open swinging allows for total release of their sexual desires and fantasies. An open swinging is successful when all members in the group demonstrate no jealousy. Therefore, it is recommended for couples who have been swinging for some time.


I don’t know about you, but I didn’t even realize I was a swinger. I just didn’t have an open, closed or soft label to stamp onto all that crazy sex I’ve been having over the years. Fuck’s sakes…. Who would have known?

I learned a lot more about the subject, and I found a helpful website that I’m linking here, if you would like to get a little more acquainted with the subject. This site offered answers to some of the most frequently asked questions. For example, how to get started swinging? Where to go to swing? How do you handle things like partner jealously or STD’s? These are all very good questions and this site was very informative on the subject; giving straight forward answers.


How many of you have thought about a lifestyle of swinging? How many of you are currently engaged in one of the three levels mentioned above? Please share your stories.


p.s. The pinback, button pussy, swinger above can be purchased here.

Spankologist

It’s Christmas in May. I’m jubilant with glee. I can hardly sit still. I found something so delicious, that I had to share it with everyone. I was researching for a story; hungrily searching for raunchy, lascivious and unspeakable spanko stories. Innocently; demurely I typed the words, spanking into the internet’s search engine. I’m sure everyone does that, right? Eureka! Look what I found:

Licensed Spankologist

Good God it makes me so wet just thinking about all the possibilities. Some people go for therapy, some people get massages, some head to the gym; to get their sweat on. Some women I know save their hard, earned money for a new designer handbag, or an expensive piece of jewelry. I’ve secretly pined and dreamed for a professional spanker. Someone who will smack my ass until it's red and swollen; a bottom so sore that it stings when I sit down. Let’s just say I’ve been searching for a licensed spankologist practically my whole life.

I’m afraid I’ve fallen head over heals in love with the concept. I looked to see if there was someone I could make a standing, everyday appointment with; close to my house; easily accessible, but unfortunately there was not. I was disappointed. However, I’m a tenacious woman; zealous in my pursuit and I’m not giving up. Eventually I'm quite sure I will strike gold and find my very own spankologist; licensed for pleasure and pain.

Until then…

I guess my poor lover will have to continue spanking my bare bottom. He’ll have to place me right over his knees, the sink, the bathtub, the lawn furniture, the car and spank me with his hand, the rubber spatula, the back of the wooden, paddle brush, or the frying pan. Ah, the list is endless….


Have any good spanko stories for Neve? I’d love to hear about them.

Please, baby please

…bend me over the bathroom counter-top. My hands reach for sink’s faucet for support; one hand grasps for the Cold, while the other finds the Hot. You make me so wet baby; so dripping wet that your rock-hard cock easily slides in and out and in and out from my cunt. Your cock pushes up against my glorious sweet and delicious, G spot, making me cum so hard that my legs shake, begging for mercy. Thrust your cock in deep; spilling your hot juices inside me….

I’ve been writing a lot lately. That was just a little taste (Ohhh…did I just say that?) of some words that I’ve been tossing around in my head; typing and creating them into another story. I think I mentioned that I’m currently working on three different stories, along with a couple more that are in for final edit (my editor; my savior; my life-line, my friend). I’m also waiting for final edit to appear in my e-mail inbox on a story I’m entering into Literotica. Once that returns, I’ll link their site from here, so you can read my entry, if you choose.

Thank you for reading my blog, and please feel free to make comments. Like my hero, Alison Tyler, I’m always looking to add new and exciting ingredients to my erotica shopping list.


p.s. To purchase the item above, please select here.

"Patron..."

That was the last thing I remember him saying to me….The next thing I know, I woke up in the bathtub; clothes were still on though, sort of. I think I was seeking water; looking for water, feeling so parched….

“My head hurts, my feet stink, and I don’t love Jesus.” Jimmy Buffett

I need a day to recover from Cinco de Mayo, not to mention I’m working on a few stories, and devoting my time to that cause right now.

I’ll check back in with you tomorrow when I’ve located those lost brain cells, and yeah, just in case you were wondering, it was the tequila.

Need a kitschy tequila shot holder? Select here.

Eat the Worm

Happy Cinco de Mayo! The Mexican holiday falls on Monday this year, so I celebrated it on Cuatro de Mayo; yesterday, aka, May 4th.

Esquire Magazine had an article about how to hit a piñata, paying tribute to the holiday, I suppose. As obscure as that might sound to some, I actually grew up in a place where I frequently attended parties with piñatas. There’s a real science to finding the paper Mache’s sweet spot; whacking the shit out of its bowels until the candy treats inside spill onto the ground for everyone to enjoy.

As I got older, parties with piñatas were stuffed with other types of treats inside for the party goers to enjoy: Uppers, downers, vials of coke and marijuana, to name a few. Funny, I can’t remember if I actually attended one of those types of parties though. It’s either brain cell damage, and or I was living vicariously through someone else’s memory. I can’t be sure.

When I think of Cinco de Mayo, I don’t think about piñatas too much anymore. It’s more about the tequila for me. I have a love/hate relationship with the mind alternating potion. It’s sort of like loving a really bad boy. You love the way he fucks you, but you hate the way he fucks you, over; the next morning. Head in the toilet, swearing you’ll never lay eyes on him again, but damn was that a good time; one hell of good time.

Back in my less responsible days, I used to take road trips down to Mexico and go surfing. It was a doable weekend getaway, and super cheap. Gasoline was a lot less expensive back then too, and a group of us would head south on a late Friday afternoon; surf boards tied to the top of our cars; it was a Mexico Surfing Trip Caravan.

After a long day of surfing at a place called Calafia, we’d head back to the hotel for showers, following a quick jaunt to Puerto Nuevo looking for the perfect Mexican dinner. Mexico is known for its lobsters; smaller than its east coast rival, but delicious in their own special way. It makes my mouth water just thinking about my traditional lobster dinner of piping, hot, rice and beans, warm tortillas with butter and a freshly caught Mexican lobster. We’d drink a Mexican beer called Tecate and lots and lots, and lots of tequila.

…suddenly, I’m Alice in Wonderland, chasing a rabbit down a hole; landing in some other world…dancing topless on top of the bar at the Rosarito Beach Hotel; Goddamn tequila!

There are tequila aficionados, like wine connoisseurs. Mescal is the tequila with the worm, and it’s not my personal preference. I don’t have anything against worms per se’, but I’d rather not see it marinating in the bottle that I’m drinking from. Tequila is crazy-ass stuff all by itself; it doesn’t need props, like worms.

I’m not sure if I have favorite name brand of tequila. Some people swear that a smoother tasting tequila produces less of a hangover, unfortunately, the smoother the taste, the higher the price tag on the bottle too. I’m not sure about smoothing over a hangover, because I think tequila is inherently just a bad, bad, bad-ass boy. You know how bad boys are, don’t you? You can dress them up in Armani, or Karl Lagerfeld, but they’re still bad to the bone when their clothes come off, and you’ll be swearing once again; head in the toilet realizing that you just got fucked, but oh boy, you had the time of your life.

How did you celebrate the holiday?


Select here to purchase the plaque above.

She was a Jezebel

…but I loved her. She was whore, but I needed her; wanted her more than anything else in the world. She possessed me; owned my body and fucking soul….

That’s a little taste of something I’m tossing around right now in my head; working on creating another story. I have two stories into my editor (shhh...she’s a jezebel wanna be), and two stories out for publication. I just keep writing. Every writer, good or bad; does that, we just keep writing. It’s as if aliens take over our bodies, no wait that’s too reaching.

Hmmm…okay, here’s a better analogy: When I write, my body is possessed, possessed by the writing, she-devil and she's relentless in her pursuit. She-devil keeps taunting me at all hours of the night and day, “write you wench!” Crack, goes the whip against my bare, slightly bruised upper thigh. Oooooh… how can I write under these extreme conditions; the pain, the pleasure, the pleasure, the pain?

What’s your possession? What’s your pleasure? What’s your pain?


Select here for the trio of cards displayed above.