Saturday, September 30, 2006

Turn and Face the Strange Ch-ch-changes...

I'm attempting to move the blog over to a new server, new (easier) url, and a new blogging client this weekend. So things don't get too confusing, I'm going to have to turn off all comments for a bit, until I can move it all over. Stand by, and I'll let you know when everything's up and running at the new place.

Cross your fingers for me and I'll see you soon in my new digs.

Friday, September 29, 2006

Sugasm #48

Here's this week's best of the sex blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Spotlighting the top 3 posts voted by Sugasmer participants. Want in Sugasm #49? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
The Luckiest Girl in the World (
“Would he have the energy, the stamina, to make me come as much as I need to come?”

I Want To Shave You (
“That luscious plum, that erotic ridge around it, the enticing veins tracing their way up that cock I am so engrossed in…”

The Rum Raisin Compromise (
“My husband did not understand why I couldn’t live the rest of my life without the taste of a woman passing my lips.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
How to Give Away Porn (

Editors’ Choice
Rope Bondage Images (

Sexy Audio & Video
Hear My Name (
How to Give a Blowjob in a Car (
Sex Inspiration, Study & Dream - Video Blog Entry (
Slave Girl: Part One (

Sex News and Sexy Reviews

Craigslist User Publicizes Private Correspondence (
Do Video Games Effect Our Sex Lives? (Survey) (
The Five Best Tera Patrick Scenes of All Time (
Inflatable Vibrating Penis (
Tire Paddle HNT (


Adela & Susana (
Ass Masterpiece (
Consolation Eye Candy, or What a Wild, Wild Month! (
Featured DDGirls Covergirl Sunny Leone (
Put on a Shirt HNT (
Roxy in booty shorts (
Two Bad Girls in a Prison Bed (
WebMistress Feature Gallery: Scenic Silver Reef (

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Adult Webcam Humor (
Boobies (
Erotic Rather Than Fucking (
Phain’s Tasty Specs… (
Science of Sex - Sense of Smell (
Sex Goddess??? (
“Three sex acts enter, one sex act leaves.” (
The Vagina and the Douche (

Erotic Writing and Experiences

2. Greet (
Dreaming of a Dark Odyssey (
The Eternal Hotness of Hanna (
Get Caught Looking now! (
My Taxicab Confession (
Room 304, Part I (
Teresa (

BDSM and Fetish

Happy HNT-Cheerleader Paddling (
Lions, Tigers, and Spankings! Oh my! (
A Long Awaited Erotic Very Sexy Spanking Session… Finally (
Melinda Makes a Discovery… (
Pajama Party (
She was like a wild animal… (
Switching My Bottom On (

Join the Sugasm

Thursday, September 28, 2006

"One-way ticket to Paradise Island, please."

SOME people say they hate meme quizzes, but then keep taking them and FORCING other people to take them. Some people need to be punished for their evil, green, monosyllabic ways.

Okay, maybe the word should be "tempting" instead of "forcing." But still.

Nontheless, the results are okay with me. Though I'd rather be Catwoman. BUT I'd like to point out Catwoman doesn't even BELONG on a superheroes list, anyway. I demand a supervillainess test!

You are Wonder Woman

You are a beautiful princess
with great strength of character.

Wonder Woman -85%
Superman - 80%
Hulk - 75%
Spider-Man - 75%
Supergirl - 70%
Robin - 60%
Batman - 60%
Green Lantern - 60%
Catwoman - 60%
The Flash - 40%
Iron Man - 40%

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...

The Persistence of Memory

The other day, someone sent me a link to an online photo slideshow. I was coursing through it, and then suddenly noticed that the subtitle under one photo indicated that a man in it was an old lover of mine. This person was someone who at one time understood me more and meant more to me than anyone else in the entire universe.

If the caption hadn't been there under that photo, I would have never recognized him. I would have just passed it right by.

He could have been standing right next to me the day before I saw that photo, and I would have never known.

I don't know anymore if my visual memory of him is warped, or if he has really changed that much. And it makes me wonder about the veracity of my emotional memory of him, too. If I met him today, and we were to talk, would I encounter a similarly unrecognizable person, or would we instantly connect, two neurons across a synapse, the way we always used to in the past?

Though I have long been out of contact with this person, part of me has still been walking around feeling as if the world is still okay because he is out there, and he knows I am out there, and he knows me, and I know him. But now I think maybe I don't, and he doesn't. Not anymore.

And if that is true, and we are now entirely absent of knowledge of each other, does that make the world less okay than it was the day before I saw this photo? Or does it make it more?

Good question.

And if I put that part of his I shared to rest and say it is no more, does it mean that part of me that I gave him, that girl I was then who only he knew, has to die, too?

Another good question.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Open Up That Golden Gate...

So next month I'm being sent to San Francisco on a business trip. I'm very excited, because I've always wanted to go there. It's consistently the one city besides New York that people have always told me they felt I "belong in." So I have high hopes to really like it.

As I've never been there before, though, I was hoping for some advice from any of you who have visited or lived there.

What advice do I want? Well, when I visit other cities where I have friends, I always tell them not to take me to any tourist attractions, but instead to take me to all the out of the way, eclectic, comfortable, amusing, etc. spots they love the most--the places they go to relax, play, and remind themselves that life is good. You always end up with a much cooler vacation that way, and you get a "local's eye-view" of the city.

One other thing to note: I'm the only one going on the trip and I have no friends who live in the city, so unless anyone in this training I'm attending is really cool and wants to hang out, I'm going to be all on my lonesome the whole time. So I'm looking for places that are single-person friendly and also at least reasonably safe for a woman traveling alone.

So--any suggestions along those lines for me? I'm open to anything.

Oh, and also, the city I'm living in is really low on the cool indie/hipster scale, so if there are some neighborhoods that are better known for that in which I could do some good clothes and shoe shopping, that would rock, too.

Thanks if you can help!

Here are a few other details to help with suggestions:
  • I've got 2-3 weeknights and one entire Saturday free to experience the city.
  • I'm not wealthy, but not so impoverished that everything I'd have to do would have to be under $10 or something. I could probably afford one or two extravagances.
  • I don't mind going to some tourist spots if they're interesting, or help me to get a "big picture" view of they city overall, but I'm also just as happy hanging out in cool spots and observing life around me.
  • I'm not big on sporting events, but otherwise anything artsy, cool, friendly, culinarily (?) exciting, music/entertainment related, beautiful, unusual, or quirky usually pleases me immensely. Places where locals are actually friendly enough to talk to you a little is nice, so you can learn some stuff about the city.
  • I'm staying close in to Chinatown and the theatre district.

Friday, September 22, 2006

"Three sex acts enter, one sex act leaves."

Time for an Oral-Anal-Coital cage fight. Can you handle it?

Today I've got a fun little survey for you, based on a few throw-away lines I heard in a B-list romantic comedy I watched earlier this evening.

Let's say you were presented with this choice:

For the rest of your life, you can receive ONLY oral sex , ONLY coital sex, or ONLY anal sex.

Which would it be? (And why.)

I'll add this stipulation to make the choice more difficult: Let's say this act you choose would be (heaven forbid!) the ONLY sexual act you get to experience. No masturbation, no manual stimulation from others, no vibrators, etc.

Oh, and please feel free to share the thought process that led you to your decision, regardless of what it is. I'm really interested to hear that part. To me, it's no easy choice.

I'm also interested if responses will skew very different by gender. We shall see...

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

How are you?

I can’t answer that.
Any one-word response I could give you
Would make me die of shame.
Any lengthy answer I could give you,
You don’t really want to hear.

And anyway, you never really ask.

It’s okay. Forget it. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.


A long time ago,
Someone asked me, “Does this hurt you?”
And I said no.
(I could hear the rend.)

Since then,
I wait for the hurt,
So that I can tell you
Just how much it doesn’t.
Come on, I can take it.
And fuck you, anyway.

Liar. Liar.

How am I?
I’m living clenched.
Invisible fists balled.

Not to strike back.
To bear it when it comes.

come into my solitude
welcome to the wheel
come into this wonderland
of wounds that will not heal
walls that do not speak
steps that do not sound
come into my solitude
burn this building down

--Janis Ian, "Breaking Silence"

Friday, September 15, 2006

Can't Hold Back Much Longer...

Four years is a long time to wait to get some satisfaction. In October, I'm finally getting me some. I can't. fucking. wait.

Back in 2001, I saw Hedwig and the Angry Inch and it affected me in a way no film had for a long time. The film was like a love letter to outsiders everywhere, looking into our hearts and telling all us misfits, losers, and strange rock and rollers, "You know you're doing all right/So hold on to each other/You gotta hold on tonight."

Well, I've been holding on. And I've been desperate to see what the next creation of Hedwig's inspired conceiver, writer, director and actor John Cameron Mitchell was going to be.

Somewhere around 2002, a friend who knew of my obsession with this sent me a link to a very sparse website called (the link is now deactivated). It was an open invitation from John Cameron Mitchell for real people to audition for his next film, which would be a story about real people, with real sex lives--but he didn't want the sex to be simulated. He wanted to capture all the beauty and grittiness and mess and joy and awkwardness and that comes with human beings loving and lusting and being and experiencing real sexuality. Not antiseptic, sans-members-and-moisture, aesthetically approved Hollywood sex. Not silicone enhanced, prosthetic wearing, emotionally disconnected porn sex. The real thing.

It was a daring prospect, really. Such a thing has probably never been shown on film before. I was sure if JCM was doing it, it was going to be genius. I was dying to see it, and it was only in auditions. I wanted it NOW.

And so began the long wait. There was some buzz early on, some mention of the audition process in the press, but then in the past couple of years, it all faded away. I heard nothing.

Just last week, in fact, I found myself wondering as I listened to the brilliant Hedwig cover CD, Wig in a Box, whatever had happened to the Sex Film Project? I wondered if it had turned out to just be too damn hard to accomplish, and if he'd given up. It made me sad; I'd so wanted it to happen, to see this kind of film unfold in front of me.

And now--here it is. It's coming on October 6. And I'm pretty damn sure I'm going to be, as well.

It's been re-titled Shortbus. Just look at these trailers (content is different in all three):

NSFW trailer (more visual than thematic):

Safer for work trailer and teaser (more thematic):

Film description:
SHORTBUS explores the lives of several emotionally challenged characters as they navigate the comic and tragic intersections between love and sex in and around a modern-day underground salon. A sex therapist who has never had an orgasm, a dominatrix who is unable to connect, a gay couple who are deciding whether to open up their relationship, and the people who weave in and out of their lives, all converge on a weekly gathering called Shortbus: a mad nexus of art, music, politics and polysexual carnality. Set in a post-9/11, Bush-exhausted New York City, SHORTBUS tells its story with sexual frankness, suggesting new ways to reconcile questions of the mind, pleasures of the flesh and imperatives of the heart.
"Art, music, politics and polysexual carnality." "It's everything you need to get through the next two years of George Bush." I so want to be there. Now if I can just hold out until October.

I hope it's all it seems to be. Knowing the source, I'm guessing it will be. People don't wait five years to have their next creative orgasm unless they're sure it's going to be really good when it does happen.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

The BILF and the Fury

I've been feeling grumpy and self-pitying over the past couple of days and anything I've contemplated writing has made me feel ill with its wafting scent of Eau de Despair, a misted cloud of which I somehow accidentally walked through in the cosmetics section of the Life Shop a few days ago. I'd rather spare you lot from having to read about that at the moment, and spare myself the memory later on that I'd written something so soppy. So instead, I'll point you to something nice from someone else.

I've wanted to give this BILF a nod for quite a bit now, because I accidentally left it out of my original BILFs post.

I am a devoted reader and listener of the mp3 blog To Die By Your Side, and you should be, too. Why? Because the blog's owner, Coxon Le Woof is a man of exquisite musical taste AND writing skill. Feel like you're not keeping up with new indie stuff? Really miss that obscure britpop band from the '90s? Chances are Coxon's got the goods. And he'll also serve you up things you didn't even know you wanted to hear, but once you read his posts and listen, you'll realize it was just what you needed.

Coxon's knowledgeable, he's clever, he's got those HOT geek specs, and he's got a music collection that wakes the twin cobras of arousal and jealously within me and sends them dancing slinkily up out of my soul basket. And not only that, but his blog entries always perfectly evoke the feel of the music he's posted for you at the end of them. And that, my friends, takes real talent. Words and music. May they always copulate so beautifully.

Go give him a visit and a listen and tell him I sent ya. Or don't, but visit and listen anyway. Let me know if you like.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Can't. Stop. Laughing.

I can't even explain why. But if you find yourself in uncontrollable hysterics at the close of this video, you are one of my people. I may have to start using this as a litmus test.

All hail yongfook. He is one of my people. And a hot piece of man ass, to boot.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Photograph For Her

When I think about people I care about, their actual real-life images aren’t what I see in my mind. I mean, the physical image flashes through, but it’s specter-like, fading in and out under what I really see.

What I really see is this other thing, which is hard to explain. I don’t see the person as a body, but more the essence of what they are made up of. It’s a mixture of image and sensory impulse and emotional instinct/impact. Each person, as I get to know them, comes to look like something different. A walled fortress, a lily stem, a purring cat in front of a fireplace, a finely honed, shining blade, a gathering of white pillows on a dark wooden floor.

There's this woman I know. To me, when I imagine her, she’s made up entirely of the flecks of light reflected off of moving water. Her image is solid in outline, but everything inside is moving and changing and swirling around—lights dancing and whirring like electron clouds around the denser nuclei of her heart and brain.

It’s stunningly beautiful. The thing is, she can’t see it.

A lot of us are like that. Maybe we fear the chaos of our inner makeup makes us too scary, no matter how luminous each individual element within it may be. Maybe we are so worried about whether conditions will erode—about if we can manage to hold on and maintain the precisely perfect confluence of water and wind and motion that will keep the light of who we are from dimming or going out—that we are always only looking outside ourselves to what isn’t working, and forgetting to stop and really look inside at what is. Maybe it’s just our own luminosity, looked at at such close range, burns our own eyes and blinds us from ever being able to see ourselves properly--our own personal Greek tragedy.

There are a lot of reasons why we might not be able to see ourselves as we are in the world.

Sometimes I have trouble knowing what I actually look like. When this happens, when feel I can’t grasp what I look like out in the world, sometimes I take a photograph of myself, so I can see.

This post is me taking a photograph for her so she can see what she looks like.

And it’s me saying to her, yes, this image I’m showing you, what’s inside you, it’s crazy and confused and dependent on conditions that don’t always come through. But it’s also so bright, and full of rare luminosity that it fascinates and delights everyone who encounters it; people are drawn in and can not look away. And I'm showing in this photo how even at night, even when the hours are darkest, even when the water runs cold and black, there’s still the reflection of the street lamps and the moon and the stars, all glancing off the surface and dancing inside you, shooting up like like silver-scaled flying fish and fireflies and fairy lights and sparklers on the Fourth of July, slicing through the dark night.

Hold on to this photograph and look at it whenever you're not sure.

And my friend, this is for you.

And so is this.

And so is this.

And so is this.

(Photo credit: Starry Waters by southernangel7345)

Friday, September 08, 2006

Zen and the Art of Pubic Hair Maintenance

A short (and curly) and sweet one for you all today:

1) When I rule the universe, everyone will come to their senses and realize that pubic hair is pretty. MUCH prettier than an unnaturally shaved pubis.

2) A fully shaved pussy on a woman weirds me out, but an inch wide "landing strip" (a.k.a., Hitler mustache on your pussy) looks even stupider to me. Stop it.

3) A fully shaved pubic area on a man might also freak me out, but I've never seen one up close and personal. I don't care if I never do. I like my men with hair down there. And no, it doesn't impede my ability to give a blow job, thank you very much.

4) Why, oh why do people think they look better hairless?

5) That said, as someone with sensitive skin, and who prefers to trim for swimwear and underwear-wearing purposes, has anyone found a good solution for the whole red bumpy irritated skin thing that happens after you shave or wax or depilate? Don't say "loofah." That's bollox. Doesn't help at all.

6) Has anyone who's reading electrolysis-ed away their pubes? How did that work out?

7) I'm not for Brazilians, but I am for public hair celebratory adornment. Like dying it, for instance. Maybe with Special Effects. How do we all feel about cupcake pink pubes?

8) Has anyone reading ever dyed their pubic hair? There are a lot of "don't sue us" disclaimers surrounding this kind of procedure when you look for tips on how to do it. So how did it go for you? Did you end up wanting to sue someone?

9) For those with gray hair: did your pubic hair go gray or silver much earlier, much later, or in relatively the same time frame as the hair on your head? Do you think silver pubic hair looks prettier? (I think it might.)

10) Every person who reads this post is hereby required to write a celebratory poem in the comments about pubic hair. Length and genre are entirely up to you. Though I'd love it if someone managed to pound out a sonnet on the topic.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Midway to Here

For BB

You were so big and I was scared. I could not get past the mass of you. To me, you were like the buildings in the city where we met: giant, hulking, immovable. All thickness and brute strength; their very presence a silent, epic boast against the elements, inspiring awe and fear.

And I did feel both about you, though I never let on.

The others, though, they had no trouble showing you. I watched as they were drawn in and then drawn back, night after night, into our little sideshow world of smudged light and strange music and carnival freaks. Every night, I stood in the back and held the tent flap open. I watched them file past, their eyes already on you—a massive presence, standing on the stage, axe in hand, ready to pound solid rock into ash. I saw how they looked at you. The men’s admiration and jealousy and need to connect with what you were; what you stood for. The women’s small, wringing hands pressed against their bosoms, gasping at every feat of strength. The strategically placed flowers. The “accidentally” exposed ankles and slips of dresses off shoulders. The breathy exclamations of love and desire.

I saw it all and I cannot say I was unaffected. But there was also the fear.

It was your want. So obviously visible on your face as you stood there above the crowd. Your eyes, searching for my face, as you lifted impossible weights, crushed coal into diamonds with your bare hands. Your gaze fixated on me, every night, so intensely held, so unflinchingly steady, making me feel exposed. As if you could see through me; as if you knew what I was hiding underneath my flimsy, shapeless muslin dress and big workboots.

Your eyes; your want, it made me feel…too much like a girl. Small. Weak. Sweet and shaking and untouched.

I didn’t want to be that. I wanted to be an iron bar. Hard, unbreakable.

But you. You bent iron bars like they were willow branches.

Others told me I shouldn’t be stupid. That I should know this meant you would always protect me.

I wanted to make myself believe this. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t look at your arms and not imagine my bones being crushed. I couldn’t look at your massive shoulders and imagine the head that rested on them might be as gentle and sensitive as my own. I couldn’t look at the roughness of your fellow carnies, the men you spent your days with, and not imagine you were like them. I couldn’t imagine that if I let you know me, you wouldn’t tell them all my secrets, my body, my taste, my smell. I couldn’t imagine you wouldn’t have a good laugh telling them.

Yet, there was something that wouldn’t quite let me run away, either.

So instead, I became your first-aid administrator. At the end of every show, once the tent emptied, you would sit on the edge of the rough wooden platform, and quietly wait as I tended to your cuts and bruises. We would talk. And I could feel you wanting, and wanting, and drinking in every touch of my hand to your skin; every kindness I’d bestow on you. You were a lion, laying down before me. You wanted me to know you could do this.

But every time I heard that growl in the back of your throat, I jumped back.

And then the next night, I was there again with cotton and linament.

We settled for this pattern, you and I; this uneasy balance. We each half had what we wanted. We waited to see which of us would gain the other half, if we ever would. We occasionally let the scales tip a bit, to test…but never enough. For both, something never started was better than something ended.

But we knew the rules of our world well. No show can last forever. A finale is demanded.

And so eventually, it was time to play ours out.

It was a night when we allowed ourselves to break the balance of our routine just a tiny bit. We stayed too late acting out our little care ritual, talking, pretending it needed to go on longer than it did. When we left the tent, the lights and noise the midway had gone dead. It was pitch dark. All the sleeping carriages had been locked shut.

Except yours.

I could not go to my bed at that hour without disturbing others, so you offered me a place to sleep. I accepted as if it were nothing, but felt full well the weight of what we were setting in place. Whatever happened, we both knew it would all be different from here.

We went inside. You offered me the couch in the front and some of your underclothes to sleep in—soft, worn white cotton undershirt, boxer shorts. I knew I would be swimming in them, but accepted the offer. You politely turned the lights off and pulled the curtain around your bed in the back to give me privacy. I turned my back when I changed even so; afraid you would look; and afraid of what you might think. I listened, but I didn’t hear the curtain move at all.

But I couldn’t hear you breathing, either.

I lay down and waited in the dark, for either sleep, or you, to come.

Sleep came first.

I was roused by light coming through the windows, stale and gray and discomfiting, the way it always is, for those of us who are used to making our living at night. I could hear the early, early morning sounds of the troupe—animals being fed, waste being hauled away, motors being tested for the next move.

I heard you stir.

I closed my eyes and feigned sleep. It was still very early. Most performers were not up at this hour.

I heard the curtain slide open.

You walked to the front of the trailer as if to get something. I heard you pour some water into a cup.

I heard you turn around and look at me.

I lay still, my dark hair a tousled mess about my face on the pillow, pretending to still be asleep, hoping that you couldn’t tell I was faking. Trying to keep my breathing soft and even.

You stood there for a long time. Watching me.

Through my closed eyes I could see the look of want on your face. That look I’d come to know so well. But I could also sense something I hadn’t realized before. Your own fear.

And I knew for the first time that perhaps I was not so powerless after all. And perhaps, in the end, it was all down to me.

You were still standing there, wanting me to want you. And I was still feigning sleep.

I had a choice: open my eyes and welcome you in or stay sleeping behind my iron bars.

When I return to this city, it’s that early morning I always come back to.

You standing over me,
The world’s strongest man.

Me lying still,
The world’s weakest girl.

(photo credit: in person by techne)

Saturday, September 02, 2006

I should mention...

I'm on the road for the holiday weekend and will have pretty much no 'net access. I'll consider myself lucky if this post even gets out there. So, be surprised if you see something before Tuesday.

What WILL you do to fill the gaping void?

Well, in the meantime, you could:

1) Avail yourselves of some mighty fine writing from the folks on the right over there.

2) Write me a comment about how much you miss me so that when I get back I feel, much to my surprise, just showered in love and adoration from afar.