National Orgasm Day

I remember what it was like to be a kid and I couldn't wait for the summer. I grew up in a place where nearly every day was like a summer day, but during the months of mid-June, July, August and mid-September, school was out.

I was free to sleep in (okay, I still do that); play with my friends (okay, I still do that); surf (can't do that here); play two-man beach volleyball (it's jungle ball when there's more than four players); play sand smashball (only in Cali); read a great book (still doing that too); or get into some other kind of trouble (yep, still doing a lot of this as well).

I think that's why I love summer so much as an adult, because I had so much fun as a kid. The Summer months have been imprinted into my brain as a get out of jail free card.

"Summertime and the living easy." Sublime.

As an adult, I have to work through the summer months now; no more summer break from school. I have responsibilities you know. There's smut to be written. Anyway, this year I discovered yet another reason to love summer; as if we needed another reason, right?

I've learned the month of May is National Masturbation Month. By writing a piece for a Literotica contest, I learned July 14th was National Nude Day in Auckland, New Zealand. I have a feeling there were others that decided to Kiwi it up so-to-speak and partake in New Zealand's nude themed day in other parts of the world; to include the U.S.A.

Today, Thursday, July 31st is National Orgasm Day.

If you're just learning about this fantastic news for the first time today, well, you better get going; get busy and have one, two, three, four...or as many mind-blowing, earth shattering, electrifying, start believing in God ORGASMS as you can. I don't think it wouldn't be breaking any rules if you accidentally started yesterday, and what the hell, go ahead and extend the party into Friday, Saturday and Sunday too.

Don't forget to tell at least two friends; share the wealth by asking them to join you. It's the right thing to do, it's summertime afterall.

Happy Orgasms

Ciao

NB

To Keep track of all your big O's, the notebook above can be purchased here via Etsy.

Cherry Flavored

As I climbed into the passenger side of my business associate and friend, C's fancy-shmancy SUV yesterday, the first thing I noticed was a yowza and ouchy, bright red, scrape that was scabbing over on her right knee. Her black, knee-length skirt was hiked up a bit; exposing the tops of her thighs and her scene of the crime knee.

I don't hold back much. People that know me, know this. I generally speak my mind, and I like to ask a lot of questions:

"Hi. How are you?" I asked, smiling. It was good to see her.

"I'm well. Things are good. Busy. I've been busy." She said, as she pulled into the street; we were headed to the grocery store to pick items for our business luncheon.

"Yeah? What the hell happened to your knee? Was T involved (T is C's husband)?" I inquired with a smirky grin.

"No. It's not what you think. I tripped going down the stairs going into the basement. I'm such a clutz, but I really got a doozy this time." She said.

"Uh, huh." I said, eyebrows raised; saying nothing more.

"No really. That's what happened. I swear." She said.

"Okay. Then why are you getting so defensive? Do you know what it looks like to me?" I asked.

"I can only imagine, but go ahead; what's your version?" She said.

I put on my Inspector Clouseau hat, and started in with my investigation: "Well, based on the precise location of the scrape... lets call it what it actually is: A rug burn. And it appears to me like a text book case of one too many vodka's over the weekend. The act, that's easy, it was doggy-style. And the culprit: Berber carpeting. Berber isn't good for let's do it on the floor in any position, because it's so rough; you're just opening yourself (no pun intended) up for a nasty burn. Sort of like the one you have on your knee, kiddo. Well, unless of course you're into that kinda rough-n'-tuff-stuff. Er...uh...are you into the rough stuff, C?" I asked.

"Neve, I tripped down the stairs." She said, devilishly.

"Okay, C. Whatever you say, but I'm calling T later, and confirming my version with your version." I said, closing the car door and walking into the parking lot.

"You wouldn't? Oh God, you would, wouldn't you?" She asked.

"Okay, it was cherry flavored vodka." She said as she breezed pass me and walked into the store.

"I knew it! I have an eye for these types of things. That's not a falling down the stairs scrape, my friend." I called after her, grabbing a cart and catching up with her.

What's your favorite flavor, and why?

Ciao

NB

p.s. Just gotta have the cute cherry lingerie pictured above? Select here for more details.

A Dirty Little Story

was directed by the late, Jean Eustache. A Dirty Little Story is a damn dandy little story of one's man obsession with looking through a peephole in the floor in a French cafe' bathroom.

Yep, we're taking another voyeurism tour today, boys and girls.

Did someone say, obsession?

I've said this before in previous blog postings, but hell, I say it again: I enjoy a well, written, and well directed film that makes me think about things. Films that illicit feelings of madness, sadness, or gladness is a film for me (I sound like Dr. Seuss). I don't mean sappy-happy either. If you get a chance to see A Dirty Little Story at your local Art House Movie theater, go. It's disturbingly good.

Yes, the main character in the film is undoubtedly a voyeur, and yes, we did visit this subject just last week. Like any good voyeur, they're driven sometimes to humiliating discomfort at the chance to sneek a peak. The voyeur character in this film was quite cerebral as well, because he later analyzes each unknowing and unwilling women's box, or pussy as he so casually refers to them in his diatribe rendition of personal voyeur experience.

I was pulled into the story though; fascintated. The voyeur's soliloquy, or his confession made me feel uncomfortable, okay, disgusted, but I still was pulled in. I was actually sitting on the edge of my seat, so I wouldn't miss a breath; a blink, or a word.

I know everyone walks away after the last film credit roll, or reading the last page of a book with their own emotional experience firmly attached. The person you sat next to while watching the film, or a conversation with someone about reading the exact same book may have a completely different viewpoint than yours, and of course there's no right or wrong reading.

For me, I thought Eustache did a phenomenal job at taking something so perverse and then weaving the views from both men and a women into the story; highlighting that women and men do indeed think much differently when it comes to sex, with or without a voyeur involved.

Ciao
NB

I'm Through With You...

...you, you... 24 hour writing contest, you. I'm done, I tell you. D-O-N-E, done with you.

In case you were wondering, I'm through with non-blog related contests. For me, it's simply too much energy and not enough reward. I'm somewhat of a perfectionist when I write. I've always been that way about things I feel deeply about, and writing goes deep for me.

Some writers strive at waiting until the last possible minute of the deadline; the 11th hour, and then pull all nighters; filled with the French Roast cups of black coffee; lots of dark chocolate and No-dose to help guide their minds toward creating a masterpiece, and they do it. Some writers do that very well.

I'm not a contest crammer of sorts. I like to ponder my thoughts; glaze over words; work from an initial outline, and then fill in the blanks as I go; little by little. Sometimes, I back words out, while thinking, "Fuck, this character wouldn't say that, they'd say this." And then I'll rewrite it a different way. I re-read paragraphs; sentences; words; word-by-word; making sure the character's persona rings true from each word chosen.

Perfectionist.

Anyway, 24 hour writing contests just aren't for me. I appreciated Craig Sorensen's comments yesterday morning too; making me feel that I'm not alone in the "What the fuck did I do to myself this time?" arena.

I could have pretended that I didn't see the e-mail message yesterday at noon, as it slid into my e-mail in box; giving me the few lines; contest rules; and the pleasant reminder that I'd better get my shit together, because the clock is ticking: 24 hours. I coulda' pretended, but I didn't; I can't. I have to always try, and just fucking go for it. I did it, and I did finish in ample time.

I didn't need gobs of chocolate and black coffee either. Perfectionists are masochistic at times also, but I already covered that little tid-bit of news in yesterday's posting.

What's your style? Do you cram for something at the very end, or do you take slow bites; thoroughly chewing before swallowing?

Ciao

NB

p.s. The picture above is from Etsy. This is from the artist's break-up series. I think she's incredibly sexy, and she resonated with my I'm through with you theme.

Ready, Set, Go...

Why, oh why, do I deliberately sign up for 24 hour writing contests, and try and convince myself it's for fun? Hmmm...a root canal or a femur break is fun too, right?

Okay, it's not that bad, but having your head suddenly combust into flames from writing so fast is still painful.

As I look over the tapas size couple of lines they give the contestants to expand upon; to carve out a very short, 900 word non-erotica piece of work, I become more in tune to how much I must enjoy this type of pain...

...so in my justification and obvious need for pain, I tell myself, "Self, writing these quick and not-at-all down n' dirty pieces is good practice." And then I mentally go through my self-inflicted pain list:

1. This will loosen up your need at trying and winnning a Pultizer Prize each time you write something non-blog related.

2. This excercise will help you become a faster and more proficient writer.

3. You like the pain, you know you do....

Did I mention the pain factor this causes me?

Suffice to say, I have 24 hours to write this piece. Wish me luck.

Ready, set, go....


Ciao
NB

Stream of Consciousness

I enjoy the stream of consciousness I get; I want; I need when I blog. Sounds like the beinning to another one of my addictions, doesn't it? For me, blogging offers a fun writing break from the arduous task of writing about smut related topics. Whew.

What? You think writing pornographic prose isn't arduous?

Okay, you got me there.

Let me start over; let me rephrase: When I'm blogging, little puffs of white smoke aren't suddenly trying to escape from any of the uh, wait a second; let me count: 2, 4, 5, 6&7. Yeah, seven. Seven open holes in my head; circling above my head; whispering SOS signals to the writing Gods above: Please help her. Send her the perfect adjective, adverb; slip it into her fried-egg brain to help her describe, describe, describe that line, that paragraph, or that character's thoughts that she's working on.

On the other end of the spectrum, when I'm composing a story; something that the Big Dog editors will be reading; someone like Rachel Kramer Bussel, or Alison Tyler, well, then I'm striving to find the perfect prose, you see. This week, as I took a time out from working on a story, and blogged my thoughts to you, I also jumped over to my daily bread; my daily worship; my fucking hot, cup of java and logged onto Alison Tyler's blog.

As always, I found cool and interesting stuff over there, and I learned that sometimes the Big Dog's that work in the world of smut might occassionally need to take a break from some of their more serious fiction writing details too.

Why do I know this you ask? Am I mentally telepathic, you're wondering?

No, silly. This week, Alison Tyler mentioned me in one of her blog titles. Yeah. Little me, that lives way over here in the N.E. section of the midwest; transplanted from the wild, wild west; where AT lives. Ironic, isn't?

Anyway, because you tune into this blog, I wanted to share the Neve Black comments that I'd posted on her blog with you:

This is from Neve Black's comment yesterday: sequestered in my house with a lusty, and much younger, hot man with a cock and tongue that's aimed to please. We take sucky-fucky breaks only for things like, food, water and batteries.

And for some reason, the cadence of that line stuck with me all afternoon, like a little song lyric playing endlessly in my head. Reminded me of one of my favorite stories in Naughty or Nice, which is bizarre, because there is nothing in the story that is like this sentence. The story is Dominic Santi's Mulled Wine—all right, so there is sucky-fucky in this story, and there is a hot man with a cock and tongue... but the big difference is that there are two hot men, and peppermint sticks, and mulled wine, and the piece is just so incredibly dirty that I am fanning myself right now simply on recall.

BTW: The panties above, shown in a size six; our called The Stream of Consciousness. Love it.

Ciao

NB

Excuse me, but I seem to have misplaced my balls....

I saw a Sex and the City episode once where Carrie Bradshaw's boyfriend, Jack Burger left her a Post-it-Note that said, "Im sorry. I can't. Don't hate me." That was his way of breaking up with her. I remember thinking to myself and then confirming my thoughts, by announcing them out loud in my living room, "That guy's a real fuck head."

What a shitty way to face the music. Can you say, cowardly lion in dire need to find his courage, or perhaps, he's just misplaced his balls?

I understand the stomach quivering and arduous task of confrontration. Lets face it, unless you're Osama Bin Laden, most people don't like confrontration.

I've had a couple guys end things with me on the telephone. I like to refer to that type of break up as going 100 mph, and getting pushed out of the car. I was scraped up badly; bleeding profusely, and overall my body felt bruised. Yeah. Nice, huh?

Aside from Carrie's Post-it-Note, the telephone to me is as equally cowardly. I mean, come on, the phone? Have the common courtesy to at least meet the person for coffee, lunch, a godamn fucking drink and do what's right: "I don't see you and I running off into the sunset together, but you mean enough to me that I wanted to speak with you personally about the relationship."

It's not that hard, really, it isn't, I swear. Breaking up with someone the right way, not only leaves you in good karmic standing with the universe, but you also have to be feeling pretty good about knowing you stepped up; you did the right thing, even if it wasn't pleasant. In the long run the other person's feelings were saved; respected.

So, now you're ready face the dating world again, and your reputation hasn't been trashed on the streets. People talk, you know. We all know who the shitty-ass breaker uppers are, and we pay attention to that shit. Six-degrees of separation, my friend. I live in a city that's more like, two-degrees of separation.

I've had to break up with men before. No, of course it's no a trip to Disneyland, but for fuck sake's, meeting with someone personally is the right thing to do (I keep repeating that, don't I). If you've been spending time with someone, dating them; divulging family secrets and having any kind of sex, even if it hasn't been mind-blowing, Oh My God, you found my G-spot, and I'm a guy, lets get married kind of sex, then look down at those two dangling things that reside in between your legs; in between that singular and longer dangling thing; study it closely, because THOSE ARE YOUR BALLS. Please remember to use them when it's time to say bye-bye to a woman in your life.

I sound a little bitter, don't I? Sorry. This post goes out to women too, not just men. I just happen to date men, and I've been the recipient of a couple of men that forgot they had a set of balls, or they simply misplaced them. Women can be just as cowardly too, so yes, of course the same applies to them: Find your clit, and break up with him; do it like a man, damnit!

Why am I writing about this today, you're asking? Well, it's a good question, and while I was busy pulling up the on-line dictionary, I was sidebar'd into reading a story I accidentally stumbled upon (I know. I know, there really are no accidents, right?) I've pasted the story below:

The old song had it right: Breaking up is hard to do. But a free new phone service called Slydial might make it easier to get through that and other awkward moments — without actually having to talk to anyone. Slydial lets you connect directly with another person's cell phone voice mail, bypassing the traditional ringing process that often results — sometimes disastrously — with someone picking up on the other end.

Users call (267) SLY-DIAL from either a cell phone or a landline, and are prompted to enter another person's cell phone number. After playing a short advertisement — unless users pay a subscription fee or 15 cents per call to skip ads — Slydial puts callers directly into their target's voice mail. Recipients should then get a voice mail notification, and sometimes they will see a caller's number show up as a missed call, too.

"Everybody has gone through the scenario where they've called somebody and just hoped they got voice mail so they didn't have to have a conversation," Macomber, the company's CEO said.

I'm so tempted to send Mr. Macomber a I'm breaking my Sly-DIAL contract with you VM, and see how he likes it, but it would contradict everything I just ranted about. I wonder if it would be appropriate and at all appreciated if I sent him a text message instead; reminding him where his balls are located. Nah. Never mind.

Comments?

Ciao

NB