Friday, November 30, 2012



As some of you may have noticed, my last few blogs have referenced the number for which they are quasi-titled. I say quasi because the numbers were just place holders.

With NaNoWriMo being quite difficult, I was not able to both write fifty-thousand words and still produce thirty blogs by the end of the month. However, a friend made a suggestion that I used to assuage my guilt. I published blogs twenty-six through thirty as blank place holders for when I could come back and update them with actual stories.

(Side note: May I just say I was quite surprised when people actually looked at the blank posts. I didn't realize people visited my blog on their own instead of through the links I post on Fet & Twitter and my link love from elust. I guess some folks really like what I write. Thank you.)

With this being the last of my place holder replacements, I thought I'd take the time to ponder some numbers.

It being December, the end of the year fast approaching, all of my adventures and the life I've lived for the past eleven months have been invading my mind.

1- the number of new countries I visited.

My London trip was my first adventure requiring a passport. I was nervous, talking to the woman at customs, realizing almost at the end of our conversation that she was figuring out if I planned on staying illegally. Very weird moment there.

Walking through the wet and cool streets of London, I kind of wanted to skip almost all the time. I was in another country. I had made the trip all alone (until the arrival gate). I'd done it, finally.

I have but one stamp in my passport. I hope to acquire more next year.

2- the number of times I set foot in San Francisco

Before this year, I'd never been to the west coast. Technically I still have not swam at a beach or dipped my toes in the Pacific, but I've had two awesome experiences all the same.

Excellent food, warm people, and two fun events made my time on the left coast more than memorable.

As my plans for next year are shaping up, I will probably be back twice again.

3(A)- the number of Moleskins I carry in my back pocket

I'd heard of this specific brand of notebook before, but did not see a need, at the time, of purchasing one. And then I did need one.

And after I bought one I needed another, which happened to come in a pack of three. So now I carry three around wherever I go.

If I'm not wearing pants, they'll be in my back pack or my Hello Kitty bag. One is my Worry Book (self explanatory). Another is where I take notes or jot down ideas for the current novel I'm working on (a great tool all last month).

The third is the first one I bought. It's thicker than the other two and contains random thoughts, notes on whatever, jots of information, ideas for blogs, and, most importantly, venting that desperately needs to come out (but should not be directed towards anyone). My third book is my life saver, my comfort, pages only meant for me.

3(B)- the number of books I'm currently working on.

I have the rough draft of two novels written. The first, Sticky, was one that had sat on my flash drive for almost a year before I finally wrote the last chapter in recent months. The second is my creation for NaNoWriMo. The third is still in its beginning stages, though I have high hopes for its future.

Between my blog and my stories, I really do write more than I give myself credit for.

50,003- the number of words I wrote for NaNoWriMo

November was a difficult month for me. I challenged myself to write more than I ever had before, while still working and traveling.

November gave me a horrible thing: hope. Hope that I could do this for a living. Hope that I could be a working writer. Hope that if I put in the work I will be rewarded for it.

Now I'm just hoping that idea germinating in my mind doesn't come back to bite me in the ass.

6- the number of events I attended for the first time this year (starred below)

12- the total number of events I attended this year:

Dark Odyssey: Winter Fire
International Ms. Leather*
Dark Odyssey: Fusion
The Floating World*
Dark Odyssey: Summer Camp
Rope Camp
London GRUE
Dark Odyssey: Surrender*

And now the question is: What new adventures will I have next year?


The Knight (part two)
~ a fairy tale ~

"What was up with you tonight? You don't normally get this bad."
"I was just trying to have some fun."

I could still hear how wrong my words sounded. I hoped Manny wouldn't think less of me from my display this evening.

His block really was close. In just a few minutes we were walking up two flights of stairs before he opened the door to his apartment.

It was simple, cleaner than I expected from a guy who lived alone. Old high school photos, family portraits, and group shots of friends I didn't know were scattered like starbursts on every wall. A tall bookcase was overrun with books. His flatscreen was big, just like him.

"Come on."

Manny led me into his bedroom, a huge king sized bed, four postered, metal; strong enough to handle a guy like him.

"You're gonna take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."
"No. No. You shouldn't... I couldn't... Please. It's huge. And you're nice. We can share."

I gave up on trying to sound sober. I dropped my bag on the floor and unzipped my jacket, flinging it to the ground as well.

"You gotta a t-shirt I can borrow."

Manny left for a moment and came back. It was an old jersey with Central High and the number twenty-nine written in faded gold on the front.

"You went to Central? So did I."
"Yeah, I know."

I stripped my clothes off. Manny turned around, not watching. My boots proved to be harder than I remembered.

"Manny, can you help me? It's okay; I'm decent."

And I was, mostly. I'd gotten my clothes off and was wearing his jersey, which was so big it fit like a dress on me. But I hadn't worn any underwear. I knew he might see more than he bargained for, but I needed help and was in no way modest at the moment.

"It's my boots. Could you help me get them off?"

Manny knelt in front of me as I sat on his bed. For some reason he reminded me of a knight from a fairy tale. He was caring, gentle as he unzipped the side of boot and firmly pulled the leather off. He set them by my other clothes, a pile of my things on the floor.

"Thank you, Manny. Manny, could you help me... take my fishnets off."
"I like you, chica, and on another night I gladly would, but you've had too many."

He stood and strode off. I kept my fishnets on and slipped under the covers on his bed.

My eyes were closed before I realized it.

When I woke up, sunlight was streaming into the room. Somehow I'd migrated over towards Manny's side of the bed. He'd been sweet again. My head rested on his chest, his arms around me. I didn't remember ever moving during the night.

As I looked on him, his massive chest undulating as he slept, I wondered how he knew me so well, and why I'd never seen him as he was now before, a kind caring huge hunk of a man. My very own white knight saving me from the dark night.


The Knight
~ a fairy tale ~

"Why are you wearing a Santa Hat?"
"Because I'm a ho ho ho."

I was drunk. Stupid drunk. I believe the term is wasted.

I'd gone to the bar that night in search of something. I didn't know what. I had a few drinks, a few beers, and no food. And then this new guy, some twenty-eight year old with perfect teeth and slicked back hair asked me that question. And I answered too loudly.

Everyone looked over at me. My friends. Faces I didn't recognize. Everyone looked at me with the same expression plastered across their faces. It was enough to sober me up.

I grabbed my bag and left, stumbling down the stairs and out the door.

The air was bitter cold, but thankfully there was only the slightest of winds. I cut through the residential neighborhood towards where I parked my car. At least it's where I thought I parked my car. Now, six drinks later, my keyless entry fob was not helping.

"Stupid. Stupid. They're all stupid."

Even though I was wasted, I could still tell I was slurring my words.

My skirt was short. My boots had heels. I wore fishnets, which I guess was better than nothing. At least my coat was somewhat warm, but it just barely kept me from shivering. As I looked down the lines of cars on either side of the road, I still couldn't find my hybrid.

In the midst of my search, the only noises I heard were the click of my footfalls and the rattle of my keys. I'd finally found a parking spot many blocks away from Happy Hour, in a quiet neighborhood with front lawns and no driveways. Most everyone who came to Happy Hour used public transportation. I had the unlucky distinction of not living in the city.

And then I heard it, the honk of my horn. I pressed the button on my fob again and ran towards the noise. A third time and I could make out the lights flashing from around the block.

I dashed around the corner and spotted an odd sight: Manny sitting on the hood of my car, a stern look on his face.

"Give me your keys."

Manny, the bartender who served us every Happy Hour, who knew our names and our favorite drinks according to our moods.

"I can drive."
"Yes, you can. In the morning."

Manny was big. He'd played football in high school and college, but was sidelined his Sophomore year with a knee injury. No one messed with Manny.

"I have..."
"Fridays you work from home. You're staying with me tonight. Give me your keys."

Manny, who always treated us great. Manny, who listened to and remembered everyones stories. Manny, who walked the girls to their cars at night when they needed or wanted it. Manny, our fierce teddy bear and friend.

"What about the..."
"Travis is covering the rest of the shift. Come on, I live a few blocks from here."

Even sitting on my car, he was taller than me and easily twice my size. I couldn't think of a way to get out of this, and I was feeling a bit woozy anyway, so I gave in.

I tossed him my keys and followed as he started walking.


Dear Z
~ an imagined moment ~

Dear Z,

It's been nine months since I last saw you. Ten months since we broke up. Twelve minutes since I last thought about you. Twenty-seven days since I last said your name.

And though I keep telling myself I'm done. Though I keep believing that this time will be the last time I think about you, I know I'm full of shit.

I'm glad I'm not with you anymore. You were an asshole. An arrogant asshole. An arrogant, always late, all-are-less-important-than-me asshole.

How we ever started, how I ever fell for you, and how I ever lasted as long as I did still remains a mystery to me.

The only thing I can think of that kept me for so long was the sex. I wanted a lot. You put out a lot. It that respect, we matched. In all others, well, hey you're reading this letter so you know how that went.

I had a dream about you last night. Well, actually, it wasn't about you per say. You were featured, though.

I dreamt I was talking to you, at least I thought I was talking to you. You stood behind me, put your arms on my shoulders, and crossed our wrists in front of me. It was a familiar touch, a sweet playful gesture. I should have known it was a dream from that alone.

You whispered in my ear as we talked. I smiled and squeaked a little when your words tickled my ear.

But when I turned around, I saw that it wasn't you. It was Hannah, my friend who's working in Brazil trying to help poor runaways find jobs and not end up as addicts or drug whores or worse.

I miss Hannah. Her smile. Her ridiculous laugh that sounds, at times, like a fog horn.

I love my Hannah. I miss my Hannah.

And yet, when my dream started, those arms and that voice were yours. It doesn't take expert to realize my brain was harping on the people I cared for, the people I missed.

But you are no Hannah.

I miss your penis, though. And your eyes when you fucked me. Your intensity. Your concentration. And the smell of your sweat on my body.

But you. No, I don't miss you.


~ an imagined memory ~

Whenever I daydream, and I do a lot, I think back on my last summer with my grandparents. I was thirteen, about to start high school, ready for my life to begin.

Summer days at their home was idealic. Lemonade always cool and waiting on the table on the back porch. The swing ready for lazing and chatting, but especially hearing Granpa's old war tales.

And the river, the beautiful river just steps away from the back of their home. I spent so many days just lying down in a small boat, staring up at the beautiful blue sky, wondering what my life would be like in high school.

Would I finally be cool? Would I finally get a boyfriend? Could I become a cheerleader? What about student council? Or sports?

The possibilities were endless then, the idea of what I might be not yet set.

There is one particular day, though, that I dwell on when work is unsufferable or my day just will not give me relief.

It was August the twenty-sixth, the last day of my vacation and my times with Grandma and Grandpa.

It was late afternoon. I was in a boat again, staring up at the sky, thinking on everything that could be, daydreaming about how cool I would become in just a few short weeks, when somehow I fell asleep.


I finally woke, opening eyes, and seeing the most beautiful face I'd ever laid eyes on staring down at me.

Her hair was dark, short, and uneven, like she'd chopped it off because it was in the way. Her eyes were jade green. Her faced had a patchwork of freckles across her forehead, cheeks, and nose.

She wore jean shorts that were obviously cut from pants, an old concert t-shirt that was at least two sizes too big, and chucks almost near their end. On both her wrists was a maze of bracelets stacked on top of each other. Her lips shimmered from just a bit of lip gloss. And she wore just a hint of green eye shadow, the more to pop the natural color near them.

I thought she was perfect.

I sat up with a start. Looking around, I realized my boat had landed at another home pier. But I wasn't sure what part of the river I'd ended up at, whether I was near my grandparents' home or had ventured miles away. The girl who sat cross-legged on her pier was now eye level with me, closer than before.

"Um, hi."

I felt foolish, embarrassed in front of this beautiful rough and tumble girl.

"I... Um.... Where am I?"

She smiled at me, a grin that gave me pause both in its allure and in its calculations.

"That will cost you."

I swallowed hard, realizing I had no money to offer her, and wondering what awful thing she'd make me do instead. I'd seen the local boys dare the young kids to do stupid things. Beating on bees' or wasps' nests. Eating live worms, bugs, or even mud. I braced myself for what she'd ask of me.

"Ah... what do you want me to do?"

At once her lips were on mine. She kissed me, soft and gentle. She was better than the boys back home. She didn't try to bite my lips or stick her tongue down my throat. She was slow, exploring how I liked to kiss, and never pushing me too hard or fast as our lips danced. I loved the berry taste of her lip gloss.

I parted my mouth, an invitation for her tongue, and she accepted. Her massage was sweet; I could also taste the recent candy in her mouth. I loved kissing her, for a moment forgetting anything more than her lips.


She jumped back and stood right up. I heard a door slam open and closed. It took me a few breaths to open my eyes again.

"Yes Daddy! Over here. We have a vistor. She fell asleep in her boat and got lost. I think she lives up the river."

Issa's Daddy was tall and thick, arms the size of cannons and a chest that looked like it was made of muscle. He stomped more than walked down to their pier.

When he arrived at my boat, he looked down on me not unlike his daughter, and broke out into a boisterous laugh within moments of seeing a thirteen year old girl in a sundress sitting in a little paddle boat with nothing else.

"You're gonna need a ride home, hun. It's getting late. Probably past your supper time."

It was 7pm. By now I was sure my grandparents were worried sick and I'd be in big trouble.

Issa's Dad showed me inside, had me call my grandparents, and drove me home. I'd floated about two miles down the river.

During the entire drive, Issa and I sat in the back of her Daddy's pickup holding hands.

When he drove off, she stayed in the back, watching me watch her ride away, dust kicking up on the country road. It felt like she was slipping back into a dream I had had, a dream that had conjured her, fading back into my hopes and wishes for my future life.

I never saw Issa again.



~ a story ~

Birthdays are always fun at the house. Everyone gathers. We drink. We eat. We laugh. But, most importantly, we all enjoy the show.

We have a little tradition amongst our friends, a rite of passage for each new year of life. One year, one person, one hit.

The funny ones opt for the birthday spankings, the simplest form of our tradition. One-by-one our friends circulate, the birthday boy or girl stands in front, bent over, counting as hits land. There's lots of laughter and everybody, including the birthday boy or girl, has a great time.

But this was my birthday. I wanted something a little different, something special. Still, it would be hard to choose my fate. Celine had an intense display for her twenty third year, twenty three slaps across the face. Taren was just as hardcore. He took twenty-nine punches to the face, stomach, and chest. Not many had the stomach to take a swing, or to watch, but we did anyway.

For my twenty-five strokes, I wanted more meaning, more feeling. After all, it had been a big year for me. Meeting Daniel. Our recent engagement. And my promotion at work. I wanted to mark my years, and, I decided, mark myself.

I sat on the chair in the middle of the room, the small table beside me. The tiny scalpels laid on a sterile sheet. Twenty-five cuts to mark my twenty-five years.

Only three people had the stomach for what I asked them to do: Raquel, my oldest friend in life, Nance, the first person I met when I entered the public kink scene and who'd been my rock during my first difficult days, and Daniel, my love.

The room grew quiet as soon as I sat down. Everyone knew what was about to happen. I made sure to warn the faint of heart to stay away, but everyone remained.

My three stood behind me. Raquel was first.

Before that night, Raquel and Daniel had learned the proper precautions to take from Nance who, among our friends, knew the most about (and presents on) blood play. He also explained to them what I wanted.

Raquel's area was my right shoulder blade. I spied her gloved hand in my periphery as she picked up her scalpel. It didn't shake, not an inch. I could always rely on her to be strong. She cleaned her area, then placed her left hand on my back, steadying myself and herself.

I felt the bite of the blade, the quick scratch of the first mark. Then the second, a little more pain now that my body knew what to expect. The third, as I felt a drop of blood form on the first. The fourth, as I felt the high begin. The fifth, slashing across all four, the hardest mark to take yet.

I gritted my teeth as she worked, breathing, pushing through the pain. Her second set of five she placed beside her first, ticks marking off ten of my years. When Raquel finished, she disposed of her gloves in the waste bin and her scalpel in the sharps container. She came around to my front, knelt, and kissed my forehead. There were tears in her eyes and mine.

Next up was Nance. His marks would be on my left shoulder blade. Just like Raquel, he made his slashes in my flesh, two sets of four upright ticks and their fifth slash across. Disposing of his gloves and scalpel, he too came to my front, knelt down, kissed my forehead, and joined the watching crowd.

I could hear them breathing, but I didn't dare look at them. For me to get through this, for me to truly feel the meaning and weight of this, I remained in myself and saw only my arms or the eyes of my closest friends.

The last to mark me was my Daniel. His marks would be at the top of my back, just below the nape of my neck. As he worked, I thought about our year, thought about the first time I saw him across the room, walking into the lounge. I thought about that first eye contact, the way he made my heart flutter from twenty-five feet away. Our first kiss. Our first scene. Our first fuck.

When Daniel finished his marks and disposed of his scalpel, he pulled out the jar from under the table. Slathering the mixture on my skin, it hurt more than creating the wounds. But it was necessary. I wanted to hold the cuts, wanted to be scarred by this.

The scars were my years. The individuals who made them were my closest friends, the people who I held in my heart.

On my body, I wear my days. In my flesh, I show my years, my life marked.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

NaNo Lessons Last


The hardest part of NaNo, and something I've been struggling with as a goal for this year, is forgiveness.

As a writer, as an artist, I logically know that my vision isn't going to just fall from me onto my screen in its perfect form conveying all the emotions and depth of feeling that I envision in my head.

Logically I know it will take time, work, and the crafting of nuance. Logically I know writing is a process, an exercise, and at times a fucking hard ass job. Logically, I get the struggle I went through this month.

But emotionally I have beat up on myself throughout much of this process.

I felt horrible skipping my writing time while in California. I felt less than when I didn't meet my daily quota goals.

I feel kind of shitty in the fact that I got to fifty-thousand-three words and stopped, that I just barely crossed the threshold and said, "Fuck it, I'm done." In my mind, I should've written more, kept writing til the bitter end, til the last possible second.

All of my negativity in this past month is just another reminder that I must be better to myself, treat myself better, forgive myself.

The expectations I have for myself I could never achieve. The idea I have of what I should do or should be are unrealistic and hurtful.

To let go of my sadness at not being "more", to allow myself to just be, no over-arching expectation, no grand idea, just be poetic and let life be as it will, to do that will be to have struggled, accomplished a goal, and now moving forward to the next.

It took me about twenty-four hours to really smile at the fact that yes, I competed NaNoWriMo. Yes, I wrote fifty-thousand words in twenty-seven days.

Yes, I still blogged. Yes, I still went to California. Yes I still worked, and saw my family on Thanksgiving, and smiled when I hugged my niece and spent time with my friends doing nothing important (which often are the most important moments).

That was my month. And, fuck it, even through the shitty times, it was a great month.

So yes, I forgive myself for not being perfect, and I forgive myself for ever expecting that in the first place. I forgive myself for not creating the final draft the first time and I forgive myself for ever dreaming that was possible. I forgive my imperfections and my brain for thinking they shouldn't exist.

I forgive myself and, in doing so, am happy to just be myself.

NaNo Lessons Four

There Are No More Wants, Only Needs

I wanted to be lazy. I wanted to watch TV all day in my pajamas.

I wanted to write something, but not my novel. Anything else besides my damn novel.

I wanted to clean my room, to unpack my suitcase, to wash clothes. I wanted to organize my rope, hang up my outfits, and start planning things for next year.

But it didn't matter what I wanted anymore. All that mattered was what I needed. And I needed to write. A lot.

I needed to leave my suitcase on the floor and ignore the clutter. I needed to put off goal setting for next year until next month. I needed to allow myself to live in a room that looked like a tornado swept through it.

I needed to get up on my days off, put on clothes, go downstairs, and write. I needed to take breaks. I needed to eat, and to sleep. I needed to go to bed early. I needed to remember that if I endured, I would make it to the end.

I needed to go to California. I needed that break.

I needed to keep Thanksgiving NaNo free. I needed to give myself that day.

I needed to see my niece, who I hadn't seen in ages. I needed to hear her laugh, and cry, and be a brat, and be super sweet. I needed to see my best friend and her husband. I needed to be reminded people loved me, with or without a published work to my name.

I needed to be pushed. I gratefully accepted the help that came.

I needed to keep going. Just keep going. And I did.

Allow Your Needs To Sustain You

Sleep felt so good, and yet never enough during NaNo. I needed more, much more, and though I know it made me feel lame at times, I also know it made the struggle more bearable.

When I ate, I stopped thinking about calories. I focused on the foods that made me happy, or more to the point the food I had as opposed to the food I wish I had. Food was a meal, but I allowed myself to enjoy it. Taking refuge in the little good I could muster would push me further.

Make Yourself Happy

Once, again on my last day of writing, I realized I had not practiced poi in weeks (since California to be exact).

I also had a headache. And I was annoyed. I had about two-thousand more words to go before I could be done. Why couldn't I just push them out? Why couldn't I just throw shit up on the screen and call it a day, fuck a month?

I closed my netbook, found my practice poi, stepped outside in the cold, and played. Music came from my iPhone. I sung along while occasionally whacking myself in the face or the thigh or the arm. (Like I said, I was out of practice.)

But I gave myself that time. I got some fresh air, got my heart pumping a little. I smiled. I laughed. And, at the end of my thirty minutes in the cold swinging tennis balls around, I felt so much better.

And then I finished my first draft.

A couple times a week, before bed, I read a blog. I knew I needed to go to sleep, knew I needed to rest up so I could get back to writing in the morning. But I also knew I needed to relax. I needed to think about something other than my wordcount. My brain needed a break from my novel.

And, as it so happened, reading that blog felt good, great even. It got my mind working in different directions. Got me to write (as per the comments section) about something other than the lives of my characters. It made me happy.

When you're in the thick of it, lost in the sea of your imagination and the stress of making something difficult come to life, it's important to take moments to make yourself happy. Find things that make you smile. Family. Friends. A good book (I'm working through How To Be A Woman by Caitlin Moran). A soothing hobby (I also almost finished a fucking long scarf in this month too). Something that does it for you.

If I couldn't have been happy while also doing this thing that I loved, even when it was hard, even when it was a struggle, then this month wouldn't have been worth it.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

NaNo Lessons Three


It was important for me to create a routine when it came to my writing.

Having a lightweight netbook helped me to carry around my novel wherever I went, but it also gave me the illusion of always being able to write.

But I couldn't write when I was working. Or when I was driving. Or when I was too tired from work and driving to keep my eyes open.

I thought I had all this time to create, but instead I painted myself into a corner, making myself feel guilty about not churning out words when, in reality, there was no time to do it.

So I wrote in the morning, right after I woke up and brushed my teeth.

When I had days off, I would put on normal clothes, take my netbook downstairs, and write. If I kept my pajamas on and write like I often do in my bed, I felt sleepy all day, less productive; bad bad bad.

And now, a subset of routine: breaks. Take them.

I got into the habit of work equals reward.

I'd get up, get dressed, eat while watching something on NetFlix, and then turn off the TV. If I wanted to see what happened next on Sons Of Anarchy (FYI: fucking awesome show), I had to finish a certain scene or achieve a certain wordcount range (not a specific number). I went through this cycle multiple times. TV, write, more TV.

It was a way to institute breaks, which my brain desperately needed.

Sometimes it wasn't TV, though. On my last day of writing, when my brain felt dead, I simply closed my netbook, pulled on a blanket, and closed my eyes. I couldn't write. I couldn't think. I just needed to stop.

And then, magically, about forty-five minutes later, I opened my eyes, drank some water, opened my netbook, and went back to it.

Take breaks. This doesn't mean forget about your novel. It does mean be kind to yourself and listen to your body. Hint hint: your head counts as a part of your body. Writing through a headache sucks.

So, my friends, take breaks.

NaNo Lessons Two

Watch The Calendar

NaNoWriMo gave me a set amount of time to write the first draft of a novel: thirty days. I thought about working on an existing piece I'd started a while back, but no. NaNoWriMo is about one novel and thirty days.

This gave me two things I needed. 1- A set deadline and 2- a sense of perspective.

When I came back from California, worried that I would not make it, worried that my laziness would get the better of me again, I had one saving grace: the calendar.

I still had weeks to work. Even though I was behind, I knew if I could just get myself to sit down for long stints of time and make myself write, I could still make my deadline.

I looked at my schedule for the rest of the month, saw the days I had free, and promised myself they would be sprint days. I gave myself high wordcount goals, often over five thousand words each day. I wrote over twenty thousand words of my novel in four days, days I had off in a row when I knew I could shut myself in my basement with just my music, my netbook, and my novel.

I also figured out when I could write before work, possibly after (which is hard for me; I work best when I just wake up and go) and what days would be the worst to write. I worked my calendar.

Wordcount Is Everything, And Nothing

The point of NaNo is 50,000. The magic number. The ultimate goal. Wordcount was stressed to me, and it stressed me.

I had to make a daily quota or I would fall behind. I had to set a higher quota to make up for my lost amount of quota or I would fall even further behind.

It was the thing that loomed over my time when I was at my keyboard. And, as such, occasionally it did more harm than good.

If my first goal was to get to a certain number, I found writing harder. I struggled to hear my characters, imagine what would happen next for them, how they would react, because I had that number thumping in the background.

When I stopped, thought about the scene, thought about the people in it, how they would feel, react, what they would say, the words came. I worried about wordcount after I finished a scene, after I painted the landscape, after I expressed the mood of the moment, the feelings of the character, the experience they had.

If I fell short, I went onto another scene or I went back and enhanced the visuals or delved more into the emotions.

Wordcount takes care of itself if you write for your characters, not for the number.

NaNo Lessons One

I did it. I wrote a novel in a month. That was big and heavy and hard. Not surprisingly, having endured twenty-seven days of wordcount hysteria, I learned a few lessons along the way.

The first, surprisingly, mimics one of the goals I set for myself at the beginning of this year.


NaNoWriMo lasts an entire month, thirty days to pump out fifty-thousand words. When I first started, I was excited and scared but hopeful. My first week of NaNo was amazing. I was pouring out my words each day before work and found myself way ahead of schedule.

And then the second week rolled around. I went on a trip to California, a vacation I had planned for quite some time, and thought, Oh, I've got this. I'll write while I'm there, no problem.

And then the jet lag set in. And there were classes I wanted to attended. And I just had to spend time with people because, for goodness sake, they live on the left coast, thousands of miles of way.

In a heartbeat, I fell behind. I got down on myself. I wondered if I was going to make it.

But I kept writing.

When I came back home, I still wrote. Even as my daily output had slowed. Even as I struggled for ideas of where to go. Even as I wondered if my novel was worth writing. Still, I kept writing.

I endured. Sometimes all you need to do is gut it, push through, slog and scramble and suffer, but endure.


In life, nothing is easy. Nothing is easy. As soon as you think something is easy, you learn it is not.

As I worked my way through fifty-thousand words, I was writing with one hand tied behind my back: my 's' key worked only half the time.

This was a major issue at first, seeing as the password to enter my netbook contained that letter. Thankfully a co-worker informed me of how I could pop up an on screen keyboard and at least log into my computer.

But that was only the first in a long sequences of annoyances, starts and stops. I had to use the copy and paste function whenever I wanted to write an 's'. Think about this for a moment. Count how many times, just in the paragraphs I've written so far, or in just this paragraph, that I use the letter 's'. And think about this: that doesn't even include the capital. One of the characters in my novel goes by the title 'Sir'.

The mental hoops I jumped through to get beyond my keyboard issue was the height of inconvenience, but I did it. Yes, it sucked. Having the vibe going. Knowing what you want to write, and you can feel the words ready to pour out of you, but you have to keep remembering cntrl-C each time you want an 's' or you have to find the a capital 'S', copy it, paste it, and then find the lower case version again, copy it, paste it...

I don't know why my keyboard decided 's' is going to be finicky. I have noticed it works fine when my netbook is cold, which I'm exploring as a possible solution.

But I digress. Even with that annoyance, I kept typing. Even when my brain was all headache-y with the confusion, I still found a way to pump out my words. Even when life threw me a curve ball, I learned to adapt, adjust, and find ways to make that shit work.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012


* Today: 4,971
Total: 50,003
Done. Finally.

- You rock. Feel good?

*Relief and some happiness... and yet more expectation to make it better than what it is.

- Of course. That's what national novel editing month is for. Meanwhile, enjoy the satisfaction. YOU WROTE A BOOK IN A MONTH.

The first thing I did, when I checked my wordcount and saw that I'd finally reached that magic number. When I did the math and realized I was over the top. That first moment, I took a deep breath and thought, finally.

This whole month I've been participating in NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. And that shit wasn't easy, at all, so much so that the next few blogs will, most likely, feature the lessons I learned over the past twenty-seven days. (Yes, I ended early, but for a pressing reason, namely this blog.)

Over the past month, I put a lot of pressure on myself to somehow be better. Better than I would expect anyone else to be. I was talking about this with Doc earlier today, and he wanted to understand what I meant when I said I expected more of myself than I do of others.

I must be stronger. Tougher. Work harder. Hold it together. Do more. Be better. Be more.

And then Doc pointed out the obvious: I was not being kind to myself with this mentality.

I've pushed myself in this past month towards an arbitrary goal, while still holding myself to another arbitrary goal I set at the beginning of the year. Not only did I expect, no demand of myself, to write fifty thousand words in thirty days, I still needed to write thirty blogs. And hey, I even threw in a trip to San Francisco and lots of work to pay for it on top of that.

I gave myself all these goals, all this expectation, but now I'm not sure if what I accomplished is much to show for it. There wasn't going to be any ticker tape parade, no medal, no great accolades, but just more work. Work.

So, right now, sitting in my bed jotting down words for one of twelve more blogs I need to pump out before the end of the month, I feel a little less stress, and a bit sad because, in my mind, I could've done more, wrote more, made it better. My 50,003 words need a lot of work.

Also, and this is going to be me sounding conceited and I fully cop to that, I could've easily written 75,000 words this month. But I went to California. And I skipped a few days. I didn't live up to the exorbitant standard I set for myself.

Instead, I was human. Instead, I made one of my deadlines and must now rush to meet the other, much like most people at their jobs. (Oh, that is one lesson I will preview for you. Writing is a fucking job and anyone who says otherwise is full of shit. /rant)

In the end, I was just adequate when, for some reason, my mind thinks I should've been extraordinary. Then again, should isn't exactly my favorite word. 

I guess, in the end (yes, I'm being repetitive because I'm tired), it'll take a day or two to sink in.  Even though I can't feel it yet, even though I can't comprehend it yet, what I did was kind of awesome.

I wrote a novel in a month.

I wrote a novel in a month.

Shit, I wrote a novel in a month.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012


~ a moment of terror ~

There is something about that first feeling as it passes over your lips. Something about that first drop on your tongue. That first taste. The fullness of the liquid. The salted sting of it as it flows from someone else and into you.

It is a powerful notion, a powerful moment, when the blood of another crosses your lips.

He laid in my arms, young, pretty. He was just becoming a man, just turning into something more than annoying. That's why I chose him. All that promise. All that potential. I knew it would make him even more delicious to consume.

He rode his motorcycle at night, on old forgotten roads where he could embrace his need for the wind rushing over his skin and the thrill of pushing his bike to its limit.

I made sure to appear to breakdown my car on that rode, late at night, with no one around. I made sure I wore something to attract him, something alluring, revealing, enticing. I made sure I had my syringe at the ready, and the knife nearby, for when it was time.

He stopped, ever the good Samaritan, and asked me if I needed help. And when I said I did, he did something even more remarkable. He threatened to rape me.

Said he wanted a fee for his generosity. Said nice hot piece of ass like me on a dark rode like this needed protection against the darker elements of this world. Said he'd be just the guy to help me out, provided I helped him out first.

His words would make the kill that much sweeter.

I took my shirt off for him, let him see the goods, pulled him in closer. He was young, handsome, and stupid. When his lips found my neck, I found it more than ironic the fate that soon awaited him.

My syringe found his neck and he fell into my arms.

When he awoke, a few hours later, we were far from where he was last conscious.

We were still outside, but now he was the one disrobed. On the ground. His hands bound. I left his mouth free to scream, his eyes free to see. I wanted him to see, wanted him to watch as I approached.

I showed him the blade. I'm sure it was nothing to his surprisingly hardened eyes. One little nick and the blood trickled from his neck. He struggled as my lips found his flesh, lapped up his blood, sucked the life force out of him.

Soon, though, his voice grew weak. His struggling eased and then stopped. His body grew cold.

It always is a little sad when they turn cold, once beautiful and still quite stunning, but lacking the warmth that is life, that is the essence of them.

For now his essence was inside me, churning in my belly, giving me his power, his allure, his youth.

So young, so stupid, so sweet for me taste tonight. I would gladly have drank from him forever were it possible, but this woman always has too great an appetite.

An Excerpt

~ erotica ~

[Note: The following is an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo project.  Enjoy...]

I knelt on the ground, my head bent down, naked, waiting. He told me to wait. Told me he would be back. But when he'd be back I did not know. The chain around my neck, and it's lock by the top of my sternum, weighed heavily on my chest.

When would he return? Would he return? Was this a test? All I wanted was my Daddy. All I wanted was his cock. On me. In me. My mouth. My ass. Wherever he wanted. I wanted my Daddy.

I heard footfalls, the familiar click clack of his boots on the wooden floor. Daddy was coming. Daddy was back. Daddy was home.

He opened the door and closed it behind him. I didn't look. I knew he didn't want me to look, knew he liked it when I just waited, same as he had left me, same as he wanted me, on my knees, hands on my thighs, head bent in supplication to him.

I heard the click clack as he walked to his chair right in front of me. Out of my periphery I saw those familiar boots, and those familiar chaps. I smelled his cologne. Even from those few feet away, I felt his heat. My Daddy was ready for me, wanted me, needed me. And his boy needed him too.


I curved my toes under and glided up, my head still bent.

"Look at me."

And, finally, I saw his face. His salt and pepper beard. His sky blue eyes. His jet black hair.

"I missed my boy."
"I missed you too, Daddy."
"At my knee."

I rushed towards him, gripped his leg tight, and rested my head at his knee. He caressed my head, his leather gloved hands in my hair. My head instinctively leaned into his touch, leaned into each stroke of his hand.

And then came the grip. He held onto my hair and pulled my face towards his. With his free hand, he unzipped his jeans which he wore under his chaps. Out came his massive and hard cock, the cock I had so missed, that cock that would soon be inside me.

Daddy pushed my mouth onto his cock, all the way in, down my throat. I gagged at first, but made myself relax. My Daddy was in me again. I couldn't be happier.

He pulled on my hair, moving my head back and forth on his cock. Stroke, stroke, hold. Stroke, stroke, hold. Daddy had taught me how he liked his cock sucked, taught me how he would use my body for his pleasure.

Once he pulled them out, my hands eased up to my Daddy's balls. With each pause at the back of my throat I was to squeeze as hard as I could. This meant my Daddy would soon cum. My Daddy loved it when I squeezed his balls.

Stroke, Stroke, hold/squeeze. Stroke, stroke, hold/squeeze. He grew faster with the rhythm, faster and deeper in my throat. I gripped harder and harder, so much that my hands hurt, but I didn't care. It was what my Daddy wanted, what my Daddy needed, and I would do anything for his pleasure.

And then it came, my Daddy's grunts as he spewed into my mouth; warm cum filled me. I love the taste of my Daddy's cum, love it when he cums in me, in my mouth, in my ass, just in me.

Pulling me up by my hair, my Daddy encircled his arms around me as he kissed me, licking his cum from my tongue, filling my mouth now with his own tongue. Oh how I missed him, his dick, his tongue, his cum, my Daddy all in me.

But he wasn't done yet.

As my Daddy lapped at his cum in my mouth, one of his hands now gripped one of my ass cheeks and a finger played with my asshole. My Daddy was especially horny and wanted yet more of me. I leaned my ass back into his touch, wanting more than just his finger playing with it.

And then I was turned around, bent over, my hands on the floor. Daddy gripped my hips and pulled my ass into his mouth, licking and lapping at my hole. He spit into my crack. He licked and sucked all he wanted.

His first ungloved finger slid in and I gasped from the surprise and the sensation. A moment later, after working me good, his second slid in. Daddy was opening me up good and wide. Sure enough, his third finger soon followed.

I breathed. I screamed. I cried my pleasure as my Daddy stuck in a forth finger deep inside me. Daddy was going to do it. Daddy was going to give me my greatest pleasure, my favorite pleasure.

A moment later, my Daddy's full fist slid inside my ass. "Yes!" I moaned as Daddy began pumping his hand in my ass, ramming me hard. He punched my prostate, bracing his arm in front of my thigh both so that I wouldn't fall but also to give him extra leverage, extra pushing as he pummeled my insides how I loved.

With his hand so close to my crotch, he soon began stroking my cock as well. It was so much, oh so much pleasure as my Daddy fucked me right. And then, oh my god, and then Daddy bent down and started sucking my balls too. I could barely stand, could barely think of anything but all the sensations, all the pleasures running through my body.

"Daddy, please! Oh god, Daddy please!"

Daddy pounded my ass harder, squeezed my cock firmer, and lapped at my balls even more.

"Please please please, Daddy! Oh god, please let me cum. Please Daddy, I want cum for you. I want to cum for you. Please!"

Daddy sucked both my balls into his mouth, held his knuckles against my prostate, rotating around, and gripped the base of the shaft of my cock.

"Fuck! Daddy, please! Please!"

The world went tumbling as Daddy flipped me onto my back, my cum racing from my body into his mouth, onto his face, lapped up and on him. He used his hand to milk my cock, pulling every last bit of cum out of me for him to enjoy.

Daddy slowly eased his fist out, then brought his face to mine. His kissed me softly as I tasted myself on him. He let me lick his face, lick my cum off of him, before kissing it from my lips again.

His hand caressed my cheek, then cradled my neck, lifting me up off the ground. He softly placed my head back by his knee where I rested, waited, happy to have my Daddy back home.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Three Notes On My Poly Adventure

I guess this is going to be an ongoing random series, me talking about my poly life (or lack there of).

1) Pedestrian Polyamory

So I now am listening to yet another polyamory podcast. This one came as recommendation from a friend and I am loving it.

The podcast is called Pedestrian Polyamory. Our hosts are a triad, Gavin Katz & Shira B Katz, a married cis-gendered heterosexual couple (I think all of that is true. I've listened to almost six episodes and that seems to be an apt description for them) and the wife's second primary, The Transient.

I love these guys. My first peek at them came from Poly Weekly, when the wife was featured as well as others on another podcast she is a member of, Life On The Swingset. (Yup, she does two podcasts. Someone is a bit busy.)

The first actual Pedestrian episode I listened to was the Depressisode in which they talk about dealing in a poly relationship when one partner has depression. I think it says a lot that I listened to this one first and still kept coming back. If you can entertain me with a topic as sad as depression and make me want to keep listening for more, I think you've got something there folks.

Pedestrian Polyamory wants to air once a week, but it appears closer to twice a month. They've not been around long, I think a year, but still I like those folks and will continue to listen to them.

2) OKC update

So I had my first OKCupid date today. I met a guy at a small dive bar for a drink.

When I first showed up, there was a bartender and two other guys sitting at a bar watching a football game. Thankfully I saw they sold hard cider. I ordered an Angry Orchard and joined the guys in watching their game.

About five minutes in, another guy walked in and took a seat. I only got a passing glance at his face. When I peeked over, I thought he might be my OKC date. I checked his picture on the site again (fuck, I love my smart phone), and confirmed it was him.

And then I got nervous. Was I suppose to go to him? Should I wait for him to make a move?

Thankfully the football game ended, so I had a natural reason to stand up and go over. I introduced myself and sat down.

We chatted for about thirty minutes on normal first meeting topics: work, life in general. When the conversation veered towards kink, I could tell he was not versed in the subject.

Around the thirty minute mark, I said it was getting late and dark (which for fall was true). I told him it was nice meeting him and then left.

He was a nice guy but there was zero spark. Like none. At all. Whatsoever.

I didn't have a bad time, but... no.  I won't be seeing him again.

One down. How many more to go...?

3)My book

So I am participating in National Novel Writing Month to varying degrees of success. I am incredibly behind in my word count, but I endeavour still.

I mention this fact because of the subject of my book. It is a day in the life of a poly person. Because I picked a super special day, all of their partners show up and interact with the main character.

What I find kind of interesting about the story is I can see myself crafting my ideal of my perfect poly tribe. Not that there isn't conflict (cause any story without conflict is dull as fuck), but as I write more and more I'm finding myself shaping fantasy sex scenes, fantasy living arrangements, fantasy emotional connections, and, most recently, a fantasy collaring ceremony.

I look forward to finishing the book, even though I am so far behind, and then being able to share it with the world at large, and you, my readers, at... intimate.

The Cowboy (1 of 4)

~ erotica ~

He dragged her behind him, her wrists bound, his sweaty bandanna covering her eyes. She stumbled over the uneven ground but always kept herself upright as he hurriedly led her to his favorite spot.

Stopping, he shoved her down to the ground, her knees landing on the wet earth, straw and mud now caking her shines. She heard him sit on something, not sure what, and felt as he tied her wrist rope to something as well.

He pulled the bandanna off her head, errant strands of hair now flying this way and that, no care in that he took a lock or two with his rag.

The Sun was setting in the background. The amber light gave a glow to his face, to the menacing, calculating smile that was plastered across it.

"Hello," he said before slapping her hard.

Gripping the collar of her tight shirt, he riped it open down the front. Taking out his knife, he riped down the back as well, exposing yet more skin. A few good tugs freed her bra to fall to the ground. Reaching down, he created a small slit in her also tight skirt. With a few good tugs, he sheered this fabric off her as well. Two more tugs with his blade and he pulled her thong off too.

She was naked, the pieces of her shirt hanging from the rope around her wrists looking almost comical in their exaggeration of her binding.

He put away his knife, folding it up and slipping it into his boot. He took off his hat and sat it next to him on the large rotting log. The width of the wood was easily four feet. The cowboy had found a natural notch in the tree, a perfect spot for him to laze against as he gazed on his prey.

Looking about, she saw where her wrist rope was secured, looped around multiple branches on the side of the log, branches that had once been roots snaked deep through the earth.

Pulling a tube from his other boot, the cowboy slipped a cigar into his hand.

"Do you smoke," he asked.

She didn't want to answer; she wanted to exude some semblance of control, of still having some power in this situation. He slapped her again.

"Do you smoke?" She remained quiet.

Quick as lightning, his blade was out and by her neck.

"You're pretty, which is why I picked you, but this is no fun when you're all quiet like. Now I can make you make noises in many different ways, many of which I'm sure you won't like, but if you keep me happy you may just enjoy your time with me."

He lifted his knife, pressing into her neck. She felt the scratch and gave a whimper as the tiny trickle of a few drops of blood kissed her skin.

"Now, do you smoke?"
"No," she said, quiet as a church mouse, eyes closed, stern resignation on her face.
"See, was that so bad?"

The cowboy brought the blade to his tongue, licking the small streak of red that had formed, before putting the knife away again.

"Me, I love a good cigar. Love the smell. The taste. And all the fun things I can do with it."

He gripped her hair and pulled her to standing.

"There are so many things I can do with a cigar." He brought her head close to his, then traced her lips with the tobacco.

"Open up." She parted her lips, her eyes locked on his.

"Close." She shut her mouth around the cigar.

"Now, can you think of something that looks a lot like a cigar? And can you image how it would like to be sucked? Would you be so kind as to suck on my cigar like that?"

She closed her eyes, then rolled her tongue around the end of the cigar. She used her lips, caressing the end. For a moment, she tried to forget where she was, who held her here, and the fate she knew soon awaited her.

"Yes, I like that." He pulled the cigar out of her mouth slowly, tapping her lips when it was finally free of their touch.

"But, actually, I prefer my cigars to be flavored."

Guiding her by her hair, he pushed her onto the log, her skin abraded over the rough wood. Pulling her legs apart, he brushed the tip of the cigar against her pussy lips, up to her clit and around and around the nub. Despite herself, she moaned at the touch.

"Hmm, you like that. Do you like that?" He pulled her head back, his gaze locked on her eyes.

"Do you like that?"
"Yes. Yes, I like it."

He pushed her head back down and returned his cigar to her pussy. This time, instead of teasing, he used the cigar to enter her, pushing the tobacco up into her body so that it almost disappeared. She gasped, a moan she wished she could've held back.

"I also like my tobacco warmed before I smoke it."

The Cowboy (2 of 4)

~ erotica ~

The cowboy ran the cigar in and out of her pussy, fucking her with his tobacco.

Even with the scratches from the wood. Even with the fear of the moment. Still, she could not help but notice the feel of the tickle of her nipples with his gyrations. She could not help the growing wetness he no doubt felt. And she could not help the warmth building inside her as the cowboy kept entering her again and again with his cigar.

"You like that."

He laid his body against hers, never stopping the movement of his tobacco.

"I can hear it in your breathing. I can feel it in your pussy."

She bit her lip and turned her head away from him, but he grabbed her chin and pulled her eyes back to his.

"No, you will look at me, and you will know who is making you feel this way."

She closed her eyes, her orgasm so close to breaking throughout her body, so close to its more than welcome release.


Her eyes burst open.


It was enough. Though she could not admit it even to herself, she needed his permission, needed his approval, and he was obviously not giving it. She blinked back the tears forming in her eyes.

The cowboy pulled the cigar from her pussy in one last long movement.

"Nice and warm, just how I like it."

He brought the tobacco to his lips.

"Mmm, flavored quite nicely."

He released his grip on her chin, pulled his lighter from his pocket, and lit his tobacco. After some puffs, the end glowed red. He held the smoke in his mouth before exhaling across her back. She felt the heat slowly trail down her skin. She shivered at the subtle touch.

Her body hurt from her desire, ached at her wanting. She wanted, needed to cum, but how would she ever get permission? How would she ever find a way to fulfill her body's yearning? And why was this, and no other thought, the most important to her at this moment?

The cowboy grabbed her by her hair again, pulling her off the log and back to her knees in the mud. Her face was at his crotch level. Instinctively she looked towards the bulge in his pants.

"Don't worry, I won't make you suck my cock. I'll wait til you beg me to suck my cock.

"I see the look in your eyes, still obstinate, still believing you have any power. You don't, but go on believing what you will.

"By the end of our encounter, you will beg me to let you suck my cock, beg me to let you cum, and beg me to never let you go."

The Cowboy (3 of 4)

~ erotica ~

The cowboy puffed on his cigar, then brought his mouth to her lips. He kissed her softly, gently. The smoke entered her mouth, slipped from both their lips, and surround their faces in a haze. She was shocked by his gentleness, shocked that such care could come from this seemingly cruel man.

The cowboy puffed on his cigar again, brought his lips to her neck, and released his smoke under her chin. The heat rose up, kissing her skin, swimming up her face. To her surprise, the act felt calming, almost cleansing, as if his smoke washed over more than just her skin.

Another draw from his cigar, and this time his face settle into her now wild hair. His smoke filled her strands, the heat from his breath and his spent tobacco encircling her face. Now she felt another surprising emotion: intimacy. With this man who'd taken her. With this man who abused her. With this man she now felt herself drawn towards, wanting, needing.

And with that thought, she drew back. But he would not let her go far. His hand on her shoulder pulled her forward, pulled her face to his again, to his lips and to his kiss again with the haze of the smoke between them.

Despite her brain telling her to run away, to pull back, to fight, something in her melted. Something in her let it happen, let her want for this man take hold. Something in her relented, and though she could not utter the words, she knew now that she was his.

Leaning back, he looked into her eyes. And, somehow, she knew that he knew too.

His cigar now had a sizable head of ash. The cowboy rolled the chunk into his hand, preserving the cherry, and crushed the nugget into many small flakes. The cowboy took his ash filled hand and smoothed it over her chest, over her breasts, and up her neck. He grazed her cheek, traced the line of her chin, and then slapped her. This time, instead of seeing it as a punishment, she felt his hit as a caress.

The cowboy puffed on his cigar and blew his smoke over her skin. Up her arms. Puff. Across her chest. Puff. Over her shoulder, down her back. Puff. Into her hair. Puff.

And then he kissed her again.

With another head of ash ready for him, the cowboy again rolled it into his hand and broke up the ball into a multitude of flakes. This time he smoothed the ash over her back. As a line tumbled down, falling in between the crack of her ass, she somehow found herself smiling and giggling.

The cowboy picked up her chin and steered her eyes towards his. His face was stern, but then somehow he cracked a smile and lightly kissed her.

Laying his arm across her back, he pulled her body into his lap. Holding his cigar, he puffed, blew his smoke onto her skin, then trailed his cherry along her flesh, just barely not touching her. She could feel the heat as it loomed oh so close to her body.

And then the cowboy lightly tapped her skin. She yelped at each touch, the heat of the cigar like miniature burns to her flesh. After each of his touches, he wiped his hand over her skin as if rubbing the hurt away. He puffed, blew smoke over her back again, and then kissed her shoulder.

Releasing her body from his lap, she looked up and saw most of his cigar was gone. She could not help but feel sad, knowing this moment she spent with him would soon end.

As if sensing her thoughts, the cowboy brushed his hand against her cheek and cooed, "I know, but no moment lasts forever."

The Cowboy (4 of 4)

~ erotica ~

Her bound hands, which still rested in his lap, errantly brushed his crotch. She could easily feel his quite hard cock. She looked down at her hands, then up in his eyes. And without her even realizing it, the small quiet word spilled from her lips.


Quick as a cat, he gripped her hair and tilted her head back.

"Say it again." This time the word was not a surprise to either of them.

There was a desperation in her voice, a tone he more than enjoyed, the tone he had been waiting to hear.

With his cigar hand, his eyes never breaking from hers, the cowboy unzipped his jeans and pulled out his cock. She felt it in her hands and instantly began stroking the shaft. Only the slightest of facial twitches betrayed the cowboy's pleasure at her touch, but it was enough for her desire to recharge anew.

She gripped harder and increased her speed. Up and down, up and down she ran her hands over him. But, all the while, his eyes still locked on her, there was one thing she wanted more than any other. And again, without her realizing it, the small quiet word slipped and fell once more from her lips.

"Say it again." She knew her intention, knew her desire, knew what her body yearned for more than anything.

He slammed her mouth onto his cock. She gagged as all of him entered her. Fumbling, her hands found his balls as he fucked her face relentlessly. His grip firm on her hair moved her head back and forth.

Though she couldn't see it, as he enjoyed her lips on his cock, his own lips wrapped around his cigar, enjoying his tobacco still. Even as she gagged and tears formed in her eyes, she enjoyed the feel of all of him in her.

He pulled her head back, all the way off his cock, and his lips found hers again, smoke bursting into her mouth. She held back her cough as he kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her.

Just as quickly his cock was again in her mouth. Her tongue danced around his shaft, trying to keep up with his furious pace. The heat in her body grew. She wanted, needed to cum. She would beg him, plead him for it, if only she could speak.

He stopped his thrusts, holding his cock in the back of her mouth, before slowly pulling her head off of his shaft, quarter in by quarter inch, her lips gliding down his cock. He then held her eyes towards his.

"Open your mouth." She needed only to still her breathing, her heaving breaths having kept her lips parted.
"Stick out your tongue." She obeyed, not understanding what was going on or what was to come next.

He held his cigar just above her, the flamed end so close to her face. He rolled his ash onto her tongue. She kept still, not wanting to break the ash, not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting to disappoint him. The ash broke off in a nugget.

"Hold it there." She obeyed, doing so because she wanted to, because she wanted to please him, wanted to see the look in his eyes he held now at this moment for as long as he'd let her.

With his cigar hand, he brought his cock head to her mouth and without a word came, spewing over the ash she'd held there for him. He released her hair and pet the side of her head.

"Close your mouth." She did, the salty tastes intermingling. Her loins burned for this man, for this moment. She wanted to be no where else but here.

The cowboy leaned down, and whispered into her ear. "Swallow."

She did, the ash and cum gliding down her throat.

His cigar hand gripped her left breast. The fingertips of his right hand tickled down her stomach, past her abdomen, and lightly caressed her clit, the most delicate of touches.

"Please," she gasped.
"Say it again," he whispered.

Her body trembled. Sweet warmth burst from her abdomen and shot throughout her frame. He squeezed her breast hard and played with her clit mercilessly.

"Don't stop," he whispered. Her face lay cradled in the crook of his neck. She yelped and moaned, her body gyrating from the dilation of her inner walls. She'd never felt this, had never been so lost in a person, in a feeling, in a moment, in a cum.

"Thank you," she heard herself whisper before somehow she passed out.

When she woke up she was in her bed. She heard no sound other than her breathing. Sun streaming in through her windows. She felt warm, naked. For a moment she wondered if it had all been a dream.

And then she felt grittiness in her bed. And couldn't remember where she'd put her clothes. And she felt, for the briefest of seconds, a deep burning desire for a man she'd never know.

Friday, November 16, 2012

My Piggy

~ erotica ~

When my piggy opened the door, it was wearing just what I always wanted, merely it in white cotton underware and nothing else.

"Hello piggy."
"Good evening Mistress."

My piggy stepped back, head down, waiting for me to enter it's home. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

The room was as I liked it: a futon mattress at the center, my preferred chair (high backed and well cushioned) pulled next to the mattress, and an end table with my preferred drink (a glass of champagne) freshly poured and waiting for me as well as my favorite toys placed on the floor beneath the table.

Today I was in a somewhat femme mood. High heeled stilletto boots under my pressed pinstripe dress pants. My white collared button down sleeveless dress shirt. My hair slicked back, wavy, like I'd just stepped out of the shower.

I walked over to my chair and sat. My piggy, like a good little slut, stayed put until I called it over.

"Come here piggy. Kneal down at my feet."

It scurried over quickly and laid its body below me.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you. Did you miss your Mistress." My piggy nodded rapidly.

"You're Mistress missed you too." I took a sip from my champagne and smiled. My piggy had found my utter favorite, sweet notes popping in my mouth.

"I know something my piggy missed more than it's Mistress." My piggy looked up in dismay. I only looked down on it with care. My eyes then trailed to the button and zipper on my pants. My piggy's eyes followed, becoming large and wild.

"Go ahead. Pull it out."

Gingerly, my piggy reached it's hands up, undid my pants, and pulled out my cock. It licked it's lips, giving away it's hunger. My piggy stroked my shaft softly at first, then looked up at me again.

I gave an approving nod.

My piggy's lips softly enclosed around the head of my cock, kissing it at first, before enclosing its mouth around it. Long languid movements up and down, piggy enjoying having my cock in its mouth again.

When piggy got my cock to hit the back of its throat, I put my hand behind my piggy's head and held it.

"Look at me." My piggy's eyes shot up towards mine.

"I missed you piggy. Just like this. But do you know what I missed most of all?" My piggy slightly shook its head no.

"I missed my cock in that tight ass of yours. Do you want my cock in your ass piggy?" My piggy slightly nodded its head yes, now starting to squirm, struggling for air.

"How much do you want my cock in your ass, piggy? Can you beg for it, piggy? Beg for my cock in your ass with your eyes."

My piggy could no longer sit still, begging not just for my cock in its ass but for air again. Tears were on the edge of forming. My desparate piggy, in more ways than one.

"As you wish piggy."

I let my hand off the back of its head. It gasped for air as I shoved it onto the futon mattress.

Reaching under the end table, I grabbed a pair of handcuffs and locked them onto my piggy's wrists.

Pulling my knife from my pocket, I cut a small slit into my piggy's underware. With one good yank, I ripped a large hole into my piggy's underware, revealing my piggy's pretty ass.

Sitting back in my chair, I pulled my piggy back to standing but had it bent over, its ass near my eye level. I spread my piggy's cheeks and easily found its wanting asshole. Spreading my tongue wide, I licked my piggy's ass. My piggy moaned. Though I'd never tell my piggy this, I missed eating it ass almost as much as my piggy missed my cock.


My piggy bent its knees as I guided its ass onto my cock. There was initial resistance, but I slowly eased my cock head into piggy's wanting ass. The first bump of my cock into its ass illicited a gasp.

"Missed that, didn't you piggy?" My piggy nodded slowly. I pushed it down harder, forcing more of myself into it. Moans fell from my piggy's lips. Soon my piggy's ass was sitting in my lap.

"Such a good piggy, taking all your Mistress' cock."

One hand on my piggy's hip and the other on its shoulder, I told it simply, "Fuck my cock, piggy."

My piggy bounced up and down, stroking my shaft with its ass, fucking slowly to begin but soon picking up speed, slamming its ass into my lap.

"Good piggy. Such a good little fucking cock pig. Always wanting more and more cock every time I see you. Fuck my cock piggy. Fuck it hard like I know you want to, like I know you dream of when I'm gone."

e[lust] 41

Welcome to e[lust] -

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~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

The 2 weeks of my sex life I lost to Zoloft - "My G-spot felt non-existent. My clit felt numb. The masturbation didn’t hold my interest, and my mind wandered."

Baby Girl - "You fill me with a desire to learn so that I can teach you. I push you to trust yourself as I trust you."

Denial - "“Not yet,” he says, pulling both of my arms back, leaving my clit screaming for attention."

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Dangerous Lilly

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Thoughts: Contractual Considerations

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Challenging Sexy
Open Me Up
How this blog started
Speaking of NRE

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

How to Pack for a Con Rape Culture Rant
The Female Orgasm: A Brief History, Part 1

Kink & Fetish

Ball Gag Safety For Beginners
Choose one word to describe yourself
Drawing out hurt
Dirty, Nasty, Perfect
Evolution of a new fetish: veiling erotic
It was always a trap...
The Panty LoanWatersports: Not As Easy As It Sounds

Erotic Writing

A Writing Challenge - Blindfold about to be devoured
Blow Me Away
Girls' Night Out
Hot Girls with Gay Bodyguards
Leaving You Wasted!
Lolita Twenty-Twelve, Part Sexeh and Sexbee
Vampire girl #14

Thursday, November 15, 2012


~ erotica ~

This person, this perfect person lying next to me, in my arms, in my bed.

This body, slender and muscular. This skin, beautiful brown, sun-kissed, unscathed. This head nestled into my arms. This person, this perfect person in my arms.

The smell of his hair, his cologne, his sweat. The feel of his head nuzzled into me, his body nuzzled into me, his perfect ass resting in my crotch.

The sound of his breathing. The rise and fall of his chest. The soft way he holds onto my arm, holds onto to me, while he sleeps.

How did this body, this perfect body, this perfect person, half my age and double my beauty, end up in my bed?

Just looking on him, feeling him next to me.

Again. I can't help it. I'm getting hard again just at the sight of him.

I want to touch him, taste him again. And again. And again.

Softly kissing his neck. His ear. Nibbling his ear. His cheek. His lips.

He kisses back. I've woken him up. Groggy slow kissing. Down his chest. Kissing his nipples, now standing up at my touch. Kissing the rise and fall of skin over muscle. Kissing his stomach, his perfect stomach.

And, finally, there. He's hard too. Of course he's hard too. His youth, always ready, always wanting. And oh how I want him.

His cock in my mouth. His exhale at the touch of my lips. His hands in my hair. His gasps from my manipulations. So young, you have no idea what tricks I've learned in my years, dear boy. I can hear his pleasure, hear his moans, feel the rise of his hips towards my mouth.

Condom, I tell him. Quick recognition in his eyes. His arm reaching out to my end table and frantically grabbing one. Giving it to me. Good boy, I say.

Still sucking on his cock while I rip the condom open. Putting it on, gliding it down my quite hard shaft.

Hooking my arms around his thighs. Bringing his hips into my lap, onto my crossed legs. My tongue trailing down, over his balls, the loudest gasp thus far.

Then down further. Further. Licking his asshole. His moans louder still. Getting his asshole wet for me. Playing with it, the tip of my tongue dancing all around.

And then the tip of my cock as I sink his hips down into my lap again. Sucking his cock. Fucking his ass.

This boy. This man. This perfect body. This perfect person. So happy to be in my bed. So happy to be in my arms. So happy to be fucked hard by me.  So happy to be with me.


~ a story ~

It isn't like I want to feel this way. I don't. I don't want to be sad or upset or feel adrift. I don't want to think on you longingly or hope for something I know will never happen. Because I know it will never happen.

I love you. Fuck, I love you.

I love you so much that I want to scream it out loud. I want to scream and yell and tell everyone I know how much I love you. But most of all, I want to tell you.

I love you.

But I've never said it to you. Will I ever say it to you?

I love you so much it scares me. Like literally scares me. Because I would do anything for you. Anything for you. Just ask it.

You're there and I'm here. You have your life and I have mine. But if you asked, I would leave. I would come running to you. I would find a way to make it work. If you just asked, I would. But you never will.

I'm not suppose to feel like this. Feel like I'm less than. Feel like I'm not appreciated. Feel like I'm not even thought of. Because how are you suppose to know I feel like this?  I never say anything. Anything. I just feel the way I feel and hope for some sort of fairy tale miracle.

Of course I feel like shit. I've been feeding it to myself every day hoping for an outcome that just can't happen unless I do something to make it happen.

I'm suppose to be happy. Joyous even. I have this awesome job. These awesome friends. This awesome life. People would kill for my life. I'd kill for it. But I don't appreciate it. Don't enjoy the things I have or the people around me. Because...

You. You're there. You're always there. You're the background noise I can't turn off. I can't turn it off. It won't go away, can't go away. I won't let it go away.

Because I love you. And from the first moment I felt it, to the first moment I admitted it to myself, to the realization that I was too chicken shit to say anything and have watched you live your life without me, all I feel is nothing I want to.

I want to be happy with you. I want my life to be joyous with you. I want you.

I love you. Truly love you.

But when, oh when, will I ever tell you?

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Flight Delay

~ erotica~

- I didn't wake you, did I?

* No, I was already up. Couldn't go back to sleep. Too excited for your arrival.

- About that. My flight's delayed. I won't be in til noon.

* How long til you board?

- About an hour. Everyone's pretty stressed, red eye and all, but at least it's not canceled.

* Do you need some help relaxing?

- What did you have in mind?

* Can you go to the bathroom?

- No, I have to charge my phone. I'm huddled on the ground next to the outlet. My back is to a vending machine and a pay phone is above me.

* Your own little nook.

- Just for me.

* Turn towards the wall and put your coat over you like a blanket.

- Okay. Got it. All nice and toasty.

* Is it in your pocket like it's always suppose to be?

- Yes.

* Unbotton your jeans and slip it into your underware, right onto your clit, setting on low.

- Do you think anyone's watching me?

* I'm watching you, all the way over here in my bed waiting for you. Is it there?

- Just a second. Yes, it's there.

* How does it feel?

- Teasing, like low always feels.

* Does that mean you can't cum for me?

- Don't say that. Please.

* But I thought you liked cuming for me.

- You know I do.

* And how much do you want to right now?

- So much.

* You know you can't be loud. Wouldn't want anyone else on your flight knowing how much of a slut you are, can't even wait til you land and are in my arms. Can't even wait til you're on the plane even. Don't even have the decency to go to the bathroom to do it. Are you my little slut?

- Yes.

* What are you doing right now?

- Holding my legs together, squeezing them tight, moving it around on my clit.

* How good does it feel?

- So good. It's as if your right here. As if your fingers are touching me, playing with my clit.

* My fingers are massaging your clit. You like it, don't you? Feeling me on you?

- Yes.

* My dirty girl, whispering so no one hears how much you want to cum for me.

- Yes.

* Are you keeping still?

- Yes.

* Can you feel it building?

- Yes.

* Are you going to cum for me?

- Yes.

* Cum.

- Yes... Thank you...

* I can hear you. Hear your breathing. Hear you tremble. Keep cuming for me, my dirty girl. Feel me next to you, inside you. My little slut.

- Yes...

* Did they hear you?

- I... I don't think so. I was quiet.

* Good. Don't take it off. Don't turn it off. Not til I see you. Not til you're in my arms.

- But...

* Not til you are in my arms.

- Not til I'm in your arms.

* See you at noon. And no, you don't have permission to cum again.

- But...

* Til noon. Bye.


Warning: This is a rant.

I almost threw up on the plane.

On my flight home, the Captain warned us it would be a rough landing. We were coming in through a heavy downpour. I opened up the window and could make out the storm as we passed through it.

After the first time the plane pitched, I knew I needed to find my vomit bag. My stomach, normally happy to brave the ups and downs of a roller coaster, was having none of this turbulance. I endured because I had no choice, because this was what I had to do to get home.

Our rocky landing wasn't the only thing I had to go through this traveling Monday just to make it back home.

TSA decided, once again, that the rosettes on my boots looked suspicious. But, instead of just opening my bag, seeing the boots, and closing it liked they had the last time I left SFO, this time the trainee inspector decided to swipe down all the pockets of my back pack, unpack the entire bag, and run it all through the scanner again. Oh, and she almost forgot to give me back my $500 boots.

Already pissed off that I'd been hasseled by Homeland Security, I patiently waited for my plane. But at least I was on my way home. At least I would be in my bed by the end of the night.

And then Murphy's Law struck.

The plane that would've taken me to Dallas/Fort Worth (the hub from which my connecting flight back home left out) had to be taken out of service for a maintenance issue. All of a sudden a full plane of people was scrambling to find ways home.

A flight attendant passed out Customer Service cards. Each one of us got on our phone and spoke with a representative trying to find us new flights while we all also stood in line to get reticketed. After about thirty minutes on the phone, my rep found me an 8pm flight to LA and then a direct flight home. Arrival: 6:45am. As much as it sucked, at least I would be home before my work the next day (today).

However, when I got to the counter, a stroke of luck. The SFO rep found me a direct flight with another carrier, arrival only two hours after my previous expected time.

But then came snag number three: I had to go through security again. I walked out of terminal two, made my way to terminal three, and waited. When I was half way through the security line, I cursed and exited. I'd forgotten to dump my water bottle which I'd filled after my first security check. Back in line, waiting again, I had the unlucky pleasure of being in front of a douchebag who decided to complain about the wait we all had to endure.

After shoving my things through the scanner (along with specifically pulling out my boots to avoid another bag check) I was let through fine. I ate an overpriced but pleasing lunch. I waited for three hours for my now direct flight home.

And just as we were about to board the plane, the attendant asked us to wait just a bit longer. My heart sunk.

Not again. Oh please God not again. This can't happen to me twice, can it?

And, thankfully, it didn't. One of the restrooms on the plane was out of service, but the flight would still happen. We boarded with plenty of room for the less than half capacity of passengers.

I sat. I closed my eyes. I wanted, desparately wanted, to pass out.

But, once we were in the air, I couldn't. Instead I pulled out my netbook and started typing. I got some NaNoWriMo words in. I roughed out a few blogs. I felt better, much better. And I was on my way home.

And then the kid in front of me wouldn't sit still, and decided he wanted his seat all the way back, and oh-my-god-this-movie-is-so-awesome. I moved to the center seat and turned up the volume in my earbuds.

Later, satisfied I'd gotten some work done, I passed out for maybe an hour before we slowly made our descent.

With the jossling of the plane, I kept breathing deep trying to keep the contents of my stomach in my stomach. For about ten to fifteen minutes, I wondered if I would have another first in my life. Thankfully puking on a plane is still a cherry I have not broken.

We landed fine. I am not dead. And even though I still had to endure a ridiculous shuttle ride home (an hour and forty-five minutes when normally it would take about thirty), I did eventually make it.

I walked through my door at 3am. I did not sleep overnight in the airport. My lugguage was not lost (carry-on only bitches!). I made it to work today.

I am tired, worn out, exhausted. But I made it. I survived. I endured.
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