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National Orgasm Day I remember what it was like to be a kid and I couldn't wait for the summer. I grew up in a place where nearly every day was like a summer day, but during the months of mid-June, July, August and mid-September, school was out.
I was free to sleep in (okay, I still do that); play with my friends (okay, I still do that); surf (can't do that here); play two-man beach volleyball (it's jungle ball when there's more than four players); play sand smashball (only in Cali); read a great book (still doing that too); or get into some other kind of trouble (yep, still doing a lot of this as well).
I think that's why I love summer so much as an adult, because I had so much fun as a kid. The Summer months have been imprinted into my brain as a get out of jail free card.
"Summertime and the living easy." Sublime.
As an adult, I have to work through the summer months now; no more summer break from school. I have responsibilities you know. There's smut to be written. Anyway, this year I discovered yet another reason to love summer; as if we needed another reason, right?
I've learned the month of May is National Masturbation Month. By writing a piece for a Literotica contest, I learned July 14th was National Nude Day in Auckland, New Zealand. I have a feeling there were others that decided to Kiwi it up so-to-speak and partake in New Zealand's nude themed day in other parts of the world; to include the U.S.A.
Today, Thursday, July 31st is National Orgasm Day.
If you're just learning about this fantastic news for the first time today, well, you better get going; get busy and have one, two, three, four...or as many mind-blowing, earth shattering, electrifying, start believing in God ORGASMS as you can. I don't think it wouldn't be breaking any rules if you accidentally started yesterday, and what the hell, go ahead and extend the party into Friday, Saturday and Sunday too.
Don't forget to tell at least two friends; share the wealth by asking them to join you. It's the right thing to do, it's summertime afterall.
Happy Orgasms
To Keep track of all your big O's, the notebook above can be purchased here via Etsy. 
Cherry Flavored As I climbed into the passenger side of my business associate and friend, C's fancy-shmancy SUV yesterday, the first thing I noticed was a yowza and ouchy, bright red, scrape that was scabbing over on her right knee. Her black, knee-length skirt was hiked up a bit; exposing the tops of her thighs and her scene of the crime knee.
I don't hold back much. People that know me, know this. I generally speak my mind, and I like to ask a lot of questions:
"Hi. How are you?" I asked, smiling. It was good to see her.
"I'm well. Things are good. Busy. I've been busy." She said, as she pulled into the street; we were headed to the grocery store to pick items for our business luncheon.
"Yeah? What the hell happened to your knee? Was T involved (T is C's husband)?" I inquired with a smirky grin.
"No. It's not what you think. I tripped going down the stairs going into the basement. I'm such a clutz, but I really got a doozy this time." She said.
"Uh, huh." I said, eyebrows raised; saying nothing more.
"No really. That's what happened. I swear." She said.
"Okay. Then why are you getting so defensive? Do you know what it looks like to me?" I asked.
"I can only imagine, but go ahead; what's your version?" She said.
I put on my Inspector Clouseau hat, and started in with my investigation: "Well, based on the precise location of the scrape... lets call it what it actually is: A rug burn. And it appears to me like a text book case of one too many vodka's over the weekend. The act, that's easy, it was doggy-style. And the culprit: Berber carpeting. Berber isn't good for let's do it on the floor in any position, because it's so rough; you're just opening yourself (no pun intended) up for a nasty burn. Sort of like the one you have on your knee, kiddo. Well, unless of course you're into that kinda rough-n'-tuff-stuff. Er...uh...are you into the rough stuff, C?" I asked.
"Neve, I tripped down the stairs." She said, devilishly.
"Okay, C. Whatever you say, but I'm calling T later, and confirming my version with your version." I said, closing the car door and walking into the parking lot.
"You wouldn't? Oh God, you would, wouldn't you?" She asked.
"Okay, it was cherry flavored vodka." She said as she breezed pass me and walked into the store.
"I knew it! I have an eye for these types of things. That's not a falling down the stairs scrape, my friend." I called after her, grabbing a cart and catching up with her.
What's your favorite flavor, and why?
p.s. Just gotta have the cute cherry lingerie pictured above? Select here for more details. 
A Dirty Little Story was directed by the late, Jean Eustache. A Dirty Little Story is a damn dandy little story of one's man obsession with looking through a peephole in the floor in a French cafe' bathroom.

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

Did someone say, obsession?

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

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

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

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

For me, I thought Eustache did a phenomenal job at taking something so perverse and then weaving the views from both men and a women into the story; highlighting that women and men do indeed think much differently when it comes to sex, with or without a voyeur involved.
 
I'm Through With You... ...you, you... 24 hour writing contest, you. I'm done, I tell you. D-O-N-E, done with you.
In case you were wondering, I'm through with non-blog related contests. For me, it's simply too much energy and not enough reward. I'm somewhat of a perfectionist when I write. I've always been that way about things I feel deeply about, and writing goes deep for me.
Some writers strive at waiting until the last possible minute of the deadline; the 11th hour, and then pull all nighters; filled with the French Roast cups of black coffee; lots of dark chocolate and No-dose to help guide their minds toward creating a masterpiece, and they do it. Some writers do that very well.
I'm not a contest crammer of sorts. I like to ponder my thoughts; glaze over words; work from an initial outline, and then fill in the blanks as I go; little by little. Sometimes, I back words out, while thinking, "Fuck, this character wouldn't say that, they'd say this." And then I'll rewrite it a different way. I re-read paragraphs; sentences; words; word-by-word; making sure the character's persona rings true from each word chosen.
Anyway, 24 hour writing contests just aren't for me. I appreciated Craig Sorensen's comments yesterday morning too; making me feel that I'm not alone in the "What the fuck did I do to myself this time?" arena.
I could have pretended that I didn't see the e-mail message yesterday at noon, as it slid into my e-mail in box; giving me the few lines; contest rules; and the pleasant reminder that I'd better get my shit together, because the clock is ticking: 24 hours. I coulda' pretended, but I didn't; I can't. I have to always try, and just fucking go for it. I did it, and I did finish in ample time.
I didn't need gobs of chocolate and black coffee either. Perfectionists are masochistic at times also, but I already covered that little tid-bit of news in yesterday's posting.
What's your style? Do you cram for something at the very end, or do you take slow bites; thoroughly chewing before swallowing?
p.s. The picture above is from Etsy. This is from the artist's break-up series. I think she's incredibly sexy, and she resonated with my I'm through with you theme. 
Ready, Set, Go... Why, oh why, do I deliberately sign up for 24 hour writing contests, and try and convince myself it's for fun? Hmmm...a root canal or a femur break is fun too, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention the pain factor this causes me?

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

 Labels: go, Ready, set

 I enjoy the stream of consciousness I get; I want; I need when I blog. Sounds like the beinning to another one of my addictions, doesn't it? For me, blogging offers a fun writing break from the arduous task of writing about smut related topics. Whew.
What? You think writing pornographic prose isn't arduous?
Okay, you got me there.
Let me start over; let me rephrase: When I'm blogging, little puffs of white smoke aren't suddenly trying to escape from any of the uh, wait a second; let me count: 2, 4, 5, 6&7. Yeah, seven. Seven open holes in my head; circling above my head; whispering SOS signals to the writing Gods above: Please help her. Send her the perfect adjective, adverb; slip it into her fried-egg brain to help her describe, describe, describe that line, that paragraph, or that character's thoughts that she's working on.
On the other end of the spectrum, when I'm composing a story; something that the Big Dog editors will be reading; someone like Rachel Kramer Bussel, or Alison Tyler, well, then I'm striving to find the perfect prose, you see. This week, as I took a time out from working on a story, and blogged my thoughts to you, I also jumped over to my daily bread; my daily worship; my fucking hot, cup of java and logged onto Alison Tyler's blog.
As always, I found cool and interesting stuff over there, and I learned that sometimes the Big Dog's that work in the world of smut might occassionally need to take a break from some of their more serious fiction writing details too.
Why do I know this you ask? Am I mentally telepathic, you're wondering?
No, silly. This week, Alison Tyler mentioned me in one of her blog titles. Yeah. Little me, that lives way over here in the N.E. section of the midwest; transplanted from the wild, wild west; where AT lives. Ironic, isn't?
Anyway, because you tune into this blog, I wanted to share the Neve Black comments that I'd posted on her blog with you:
This is from Neve Black's comment yesterday: sequestered in my house with a lusty, and much younger, hot man with a cock and tongue that's aimed to please. We take sucky-fucky breaks only for things like, food, water and batteries.
And for some reason, the cadence of that line stuck with me all afternoon, like a little song lyric playing endlessly in my head. Reminded me of one of my favorite stories in Naughty or Nice, which is bizarre, because there is nothing in the story that is like this sentence. The story is Dominic Santi's Mulled Wine—all right, so there is sucky-fucky in this story, and there is a hot man with a cock and tongue... but the big difference is that there are two hot men, and peppermint sticks, and mulled wine, and the piece is just so incredibly dirty that I am fanning myself right now simply on recall.
BTW: The panties above, shown in a size six; our called The Stream of Consciousness. Love it. 
Excuse me, but I seem to have misplaced my balls.... I saw a Sex and the City episode once where Carrie Bradshaw's boyfriend, Jack Burger left her a Post-it-Note that said, "Im sorry. I can't. Don't hate me." That was his way of breaking up with her. I remember thinking to myself and then confirming my thoughts, by announcing them out loud in my living room, "That guy's a real fuck head."

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

I understand the stomach quivering and arduous task of confrontration. Lets face it, unless you're Osama Bin Laden, most people don't like confrontration.
I've had a couple guys end things with me on the telephone. I like to refer to that type of break up as going 100 mph, and getting pushed out of the car. I was scraped up badly; bleeding profusely, and overall my body felt bruised. Yeah. Nice, huh?
Aside from Carrie's Post-it-Note, the telephone to me is as equally cowardly. I mean, come on, the phone? Have the common courtesy to at least meet the person for coffee, lunch, a godamn fucking drink and do what's right: "I don't see you and I running off into the sunset together, but you mean enough to me that I wanted to speak with you personally about the relationship."
It's not that hard, really, it isn't, I swear. Breaking up with someone the right way, not only leaves you in good karmic standing with the universe, but you also have to be feeling pretty good about knowing you stepped up; you did the right thing, even if it wasn't pleasant. In the long run the other person's feelings were saved; respected.

So, now you're ready face the dating world again, and your reputation hasn't been trashed on the streets. People talk, you know. We all know who the shitty-ass breaker uppers are, and we pay attention to that shit. Six-degrees of separation, my friend. I live in a city that's more like, two-degrees of separation.
I've had to break up with men before. No, of course it's no a trip to Disneyland, but for fuck sake's, meeting with someone personally is the right thing to do (I keep repeating that, don't I). If you've been spending time with someone, dating them; divulging family secrets and having any kind of sex, even if it hasn't been mind-blowing, Oh My God, you found my G-spot, and I'm a guy, lets get married kind of sex, then look down at those two dangling things that reside in between your legs; in between that singular and longer dangling thing; study it closely, because THOSE ARE YOUR BALLS. Please remember to use them when it's time to say bye-bye to a woman in your life.
I sound a little bitter, don't I? Sorry. This post goes out to women too, not just men. I just happen to date men, and I've been the recipient of a couple of men that forgot they had a set of balls, or they simply misplaced them. Women can be just as cowardly too, so yes, of course the same applies to them: Find your clit, and break up with him; do it like a man, damnit!
Why am I writing about this today, you're asking? Well, it's a good question, and while I was busy pulling up the on-line dictionary, I was sidebar'd into reading a story I accidentally stumbled upon (I know. I know, there really are no accidents, right?) I've pasted the story below:
The old song had it right: Breaking up is hard to do. But a free new phone service called Slydial might make it easier to get through that and other awkward moments — without actually having to talk to anyone. Slydial lets you connect directly with another person's cell phone voice mail, bypassing the traditional ringing process that often results — sometimes disastrously — with someone picking up on the other end.

Users call (267) SLY-DIAL from either a cell phone or a landline, and are prompted to enter another person's cell phone number. After playing a short advertisement — unless users pay a subscription fee or 15 cents per call to skip ads — Slydial puts callers directly into their target's voice mail. Recipients should then get a voice mail notification, and sometimes they will see a caller's number show up as a missed call, too.
"Everybody has gone through the scenario where they've called somebody and just hoped they got voice mail so they didn't have to have a conversation," Macomber, the company's CEO said.
I'm so tempted to send Mr. Macomber a I'm breaking my Sly-DIAL contract with you VM, and see how he likes it, but it would contradict everything I just ranted about. I wonder if it would be appropriate and at all appreciated if I sent him a text message instead; reminding him where his balls are located. Nah. Never mind. Labels: breaking up, do the right thang, misplaced balls

 My eye catches things that other people might not notice, or perhaps they do notice, but it's on a subliminal level, so it doesn't register in their mind to beg the question; to inquire about that one thing that's seems a little off kilter. I'm brazen, and not really shy, so I ask questions, lots of questions, baby.

This week, for example, I noticed two distinct, and somewhat faded black and blue marks just at the top of my friend D's arms as we both sat next to each other during a Spin Class.

"Oooh. Were those marks on your arm left from a stray soccer ball? I asked.

I was checking for a pulse, and there was no response on D's face. So, naturally, I dug a little deeper.

"Are they the remains from um, um... handprints after being pinned up against a wall while getting fucked senseless...?" I inquired, smiling mischeviously. D is quite athletic, so the reference to a sport's related incident was appropriate.

"Full moon." She said returning a devilish smile.

"Oh, that's the pulse I was looking for earlier; thump-thump." I thought to myself. "Really? Pause. I thought those markings looked vaguely familiar... I'm sure I've written about those types of... was it a hit a run type of experience?" I asked.
"I can't believe you noticed. Now I'm embarrassed. And yeah, it was a lot like a hit and run. How did you know that?" D asked.
"Oh please, you have nothing to be embarrassed about, yet...pause. I want details, damnit." I said still smiling.
Fortunately for D, the class began, and she was saved by the bell, or in this case the loud music. She didn't really have to give me details though, because my mind was already composing a story about what had happened to create those black and blue markings, and this is what I came up with on a whim:
"...I'd open my eyes only for a minute, while I caught my breath. The moon was exceptionally large that night, and it sat low in the sky, the color reminded me of the Indian spice, turmeric. He had my hands pinned above my head; his feverishly hot, and wet mouth engulfed my neck, as he began moving down my body, slowly. He pushed his free hand up and under my shirt; massaging my breasts. We were in the alley behind the bar we'd just met at just a couple hours before.
He pressed his body against mine; pushing my back into the solid brick wall. His head found its way in between my legs; spreading them; pulling up my skirt, and moving my black, cotton thong panties to one side. His lips and tongue probed at my core; circling and sucking on my clit. I moaned in anticipation. He stood up; unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out to greet me properly. His hand grasped the tops of my arms; squeezing tightly as he lifted me up and onto his hardened cock; pentrating me deeply...."
I'm going to check back with D and learn a little more about those fatal, final details and maybe, just maybe I could put a finish on this piece.

 Labels: black and blue, eye catching, fucked senseless


The allusive G-spot You know how I love to dissect articles; edit by adding here, deleting there, or just getting down and dirty and commenting throughout the entire piece; giving it the Neve Black kiss of approval. My friend, and fellow blog reader, K&D, or D&K sent me an interesting article this week entitled: Stumbling on the path to G-spot utopia.
Naturally, I was intrigued. I took the bait; reading through the article that mentioned an allusive G-spot.
Studies show that not every woman has a soft and spongy tissue located just inside the front of her vaginal wall, better known as the infamous G-spot. The G-spot is named after it's original founder: Dr. Ernst Grafenberg. I'm not exactly sure how this non female doctor discovered the G-spot to begin with, but the article did mention research studies.
Hmmm...G-spot research studies?
How the hell did I miss out on this research study? I feel left out; hurt actually. I knew nothing about this. Was I absent that day? Did I forget to check the yes box when choosing certain types of medical insurance and clinical research studies with my employer? To think I could have spent an entire day and maybe extended the time into the evening doing what, you ask?Achieving blind-blowing orgasms, I say, while earning a couple extra dollars all in the name of science. Damn.
Anyway, so sorry for the digression. For your reading pleasure, I've trimmed down the original article from its lengthy content, and pasted it below. I thought while you're reading, I'd skip over to Craig's List and search for any and all sexual research studies currently being offered in my area.
"For some women exploring the promised land around the urethra led only to a sense of bewilderment -- sometimes enlivened by an irritating urge to urinate. Some researchers doubted there was anything to stimulate in the first place. Scientists decided to examine the pelvises of living women using ultrasound imaging.
Published in March in the Journal of Sexual Medicine, looked at 20 women, about half of whom said they experienced "vaginal orgasms" through the stimulation of the front wall of the vagina alone.This vaginal-orgasm group tended to have slightly thicker tissue than did the clitoral-orgasm group. The team found about a 2-millimeter difference along the upper wall between the vagina and the urethra. Some women have extra-thick, sensitive, different tissue in the front wall of the vagina, whose stimulation can lead to vaginal orgasms. Other women don't.
Thick or thin, though, it's all part of natural variability. In fact, sexual variability seems to be the
rule among women, says Kim Wallen, a psychology professor at Emory University. He has explored the methods women use to experience orgasm, and how the configuration of a woman's external clitoris and vagina relate to her orgasms during intercourse. In recent work, published in February in the journal Evolution and Development, he and a colleague found that women's clitorises vary in length about three times more than men's penises do.

This might relate to why the G spot differs so wildly among women -- and also hint as to why G-spot absence need not matter so much in practice. Women's potential to have different kinds of sexual experiences is probably greater than it is in men. And the variability in women's genitalia may also reflect that there are more paths to orgasm in women than in men. Or, as Ernst Gräfenberg wrote, "There is no spot in the female body, from which sexual desire could not be aroused."
I didn't have any luck on Craig's List. Damn. G-spot? Yep, I've got one of those, but my increased desire to find a sexual research study program? How can say it? It remains allusive.
Vagina card pictured above can be purchased here via Etsy. Yes, I did notice the G-spot was not included to this vagina diagram. Labels: allusive, G-spot, research studies


Voyeurism and Murder I'm fascinated with voyeurism. That stated and out in the open, my voyeur fascination might have something to do with a seed planted long ago after seeing the movie, Rear Window (pictured above), with James Stewart and Grace Kelly. Along with voyeurism, the movie has another one of my favorite subjects running through the plot: Murder. Maybe Mr. Hitchcock should have titled the film: A View To a Kill, had Duran/Duran compose the music; traded Jimmy Stewart for Roger Moore, and well, never mind.

Voyeurism is one of the ultimate indulgences, I think. Watching or listening to someone else without them knowing; without receiving their permission and getting off on it. Oh my.

If you think about it, a voyeur secretly steals a piece of someone's life; covets it and makes it their own.

I'm writing down some thoughts on the subject of voyeurism; starting to work them into a story. I put my special sexual research hat on, and I've discovered some new information about voyeurs. I've also learned quite a lot about myself: I'm a pervert. Too much to tell on that subject in this posting, so I'm saving for another day.

Now you tell me, can you think of any other films that have to do with Voyeurism? No fair choosing Disturbia, because that's a modern day re-make of Rear Window.
 
You're Invited, Please Cum We all have them; those little milestones in our lives that help us ultimately kick the ball over the goal line, and before we know it we can see the progress of our efforts; our blood, sweat and tears finally pays off. Sometimes that progress and those efforts get us closer to our dreams.

I had a recent milestone when I was published this year. Then I had another milestone when I was published again, and this time, I was paid for my work; making me a professional within the porn industry; okay erotica, but I like the alliteration of the word porn: Porn, professional.

Well very recently; this past weekend, to be precise, I had huge and exciting thing happen to me.
No. I didn't have a menage a many, however, I do concur with your thoughts. Ahem. That would be huge news indeed.

My heroine, Alison Tyler who I've mentioned on more than one occassion has invited me to write a piece for an anthology she's going to edit. How fucking cool is that? I sent her back a message accepting her offer; letting her know my emotional standing: "I have goosebumps. I'm honored. I'm so excited. Thank you."

I remember when the musician Jewel was just starting out, and I saw her at concert series called, Lilith Fair. I was living in Seattle, WA at the time, and Jewel was maybe 18 years old. After her performance, she told the audience with tears in her eyes how truly wonderful it was to really be living her dream. Her message was not to give up; to keep pushing forward and go after what you want. I'll never forget what she said. I wasn't in a place at that time that was allowing me to live my dream; which has always been to write.

What's your dream? Have you had a recent milestone in your life? Wanna share? Please do.

 

My friend Q and I had decided on sushi for dinner, and the prerequisite was that we sat outside. Lucky for us, our neighborhood boasts some of the best dining around. We headed to what I like to call the Red Carpet Oscar Party Restaurant in my neighborhood. It's the in place to be right now, and a lot of people go there to be seen. I know, it turns my stomach too, but the food, especially the sushi is heavenly.

Hot spots offer great character ideas if you're a writer. There's me; sitting just a little off to the side so I don't miss out on anyone's conversation (insert auditory voyeurism); asking lots of questions, and mentally filling in the blanks to all the questions that never get answered, while simultaneously creating new characters for a story that has yet to be conceived.

I don't try and compete with the jet setters (not that I could), and I'm usually wearing my standard: Tank top (no bra), a pair of shorts (no panties) and a pair of cheap, 99 cent, all rubber flip-flops. Sometimes I'm wearing a straw hat too, because writers always seem to be wearing hats, or more than likely, I didn't wash my hair that day. There are times when one must ante up and wear the damn panties and bra, though, but not last night.

I sat their watching as couples, singles, and groups of people were seated for dinner; after their flashy sport's cars and gas guzzling SUV's were turned over to the valet. I saw beautiful women; dressed in silks, and strappies; exposing lots of tanned skin. Nails, toes and make-up on their faces; all matching perfectly in shades like, peach and poppy. They smelled of honeysuckle, rose and spice. The men I saw were equally stunning; sporting golden golf tans, dressed expensively and crisp; holding bill folds full of cash.

I dipped, and swallowed my sushi while my eyes followed and my ears tuned into the jet setter parade. I blinked back tears; partly from the wasabi, but also from all the ostentation that surrounded me. I was overwhelmed with the audacious, loud, and voracious behavior. The flaunting of money; the inclusion and exclusion of power, and the shallowness of all of it seemed to vibrate throughout the restaurant; it was louder than the music pumping through the speakers.

After we'd left the restaurant, I thought about my experience as we walked the short distance and slipped into a lesser hot spot located close by for an after dinner, cool and breezy, icy, cold drink.

"Q, do you think less is more?" I asked sipping my decaf ice-coffee with a shot of Irish Creme.

"Yes." She answered, savoring her drink.

"I think so too. I'm not one for wanting to live too far below my means, but I certainly feel better about myself when I don't have too much. Frugal is the cure. Too much of anything, is just too much. Too much sushi. Too much perfume. Too many cats (Fuck. Ooops, too late.) Too many clothes. Too much sex (Okay. Maybe not this one thing). It seemed gluttoneous to me back there. Did you get that too?" I asked.

"Yes." She answered, smiling.

Is less more for you? Why? Why not?
 
Personal Sex Machines As a follow up to last week's post regarding robotic boyfriends and girlfriends, a friend of mine, and fellow Neve Black blog reader sent me an article regarding personal sex machines (the monkey rocket tango is pictured above).
I read the Personal Sex Machine article and I found myself immediately checking the calendar, wondering if it was my birthday month. Nope. It's not. Perhaps it's Christmas in July. Whatever the reason, it's fantastic news for all of us, and I want to share, share, share it with all of you....
Personal sex machines, boys and girls. I'm not talking about your average dildos, blow-up dolls, vibrating cock rings, or take it to the next level and have your cock pierced as a special favor for Neve kind of personal sex machines either. We're talking big time techie product developers that have made all kinds of thumping, vibrating, shiny, happy new toys (BIG SMILE).
Below is a snippet from the article if you're short on time and choose not (poor choice) to read it in its entirety:
"...It's the ultimate revenge of the nerds as product developers use their big brains to create sex machines that kick pleasure into overdrive. In fact, the very nature of the sex "toy" is changing as a new generation of sex-positive engineers infiltrates the industry...."
Complete article can be read by selecting here.
 Labels: Personal sex machines, techies


Pleasure Pain Principle Epiphany approached the austere, and dimly lit building. She glanced down at her chicken scratch penmanship on the post-it-note she had scribed earlier, and then looked up; squinting in between the windshield wiper's melody, searching for names of street signs illuminated by the full moon's ominous light.
Epiphany had driven the five blocks north, then headed east, and drove two blocks more. Her head was pounding after a long and stressful work day. This place was located away from the hustle and bustle streets of the city, a place so far removed from anything else, but so close at the same time.
The solid wooden door was heavy, and Epiphany pushed down on the patina brass door handle; opening the squeeky door. Her footsteps echoed throughout the travertine tiled floor below and marble walls, as her petite frame walked inside the doorway; the door shut loudly behind her. She shook the rain drops from her dark, tendrils, and noticed the list of recipes available for the evening were displayed on a chalk board that sat up against a tripod easle, to her right.
A man approached her; dressed like a waiter, wearing black pants, black shoes, a white, button down, long sleeve, mandarin collared shirt and a white waiter's apron tied around his waist. His name tag said: Maitre D'.
"How may I help you this evening?" The Maitre D' asked; standing erect, both hands were clasped behind his back.
"Hmmm...This place was recommended to me, but I don't see pleasure with pain on the menu tonight, Sir." Epiphany said.
"It's there, read between the lines; the subtext text." The Maitre D' answered.
"Oh, please forgive me, but I don't see it, Sir. I think you might have to show me where it is, Sir." Epiphany pleaded, putting her head down, while looking up with her round, soft brown eyes.
"Okay, but if I have to show you, I'll have to show you." The Maitre D' responded, walking toward her, pulling the riding crop out that was tucked inside his apron.
Epiphany could feel her headache begin to dissipate....
This is the scenario my mind came up with after reading a headline I spotted today; duly noted in today's blog title above. Here's a snippet from the article that subsequently led to the story I created for you above:
Sex is nature's own pain reliever. Orgasm doubles the pain threshold, although the effect doesn't last long enough to serve as a treatment. Exploring this effect, Barry Komisaruk, professor of psychology at Rutgers University in New Jersey, has found that for women, just a bit of pressure in the vaginal region (not the clitoris) can dampen pain perception for hours. Research with rats suggests that rectal pressure in both sexes has a similar, but less powerful effect, possibly because both vagina and rectum use the same sensory nerve. Komisaruk and his students are studying women with chronic leg and pelvic pain to see if vaginal stimulation can help.
It's as simple as breathing in and out. For every action; a reaction. Point and flex. Feeling some pain? Increase your sexual pleasure for release. Want more sexual pleasure? Increase the pain, and feel the pleasure. 
Koochie Lickings I think some of my best blog writing thus far has come from everyday conversations I have with my friends, and or people that happen to randomly cross my path. It's summer and I enjoy being outside as much as possible. I've been walking and or cycling through Cleveland's city park system more frequently.

This morning, my friend Natalie and I walked and talked for a few miles through the park. Because we were outside, naturally our conversation turned to the birds and bees. Ahem. Well, sort of. Today's conversation gives new meaning to the phrase,"Talk with me, walk with me, and touch me like you know me."
"What's the slang term used for when a woman gets a blow job?" Natalie asked me this morning.
"Oh that's an easy one, koochi lickings." I responded.
The term koochie lickings is a word I've used to describe cunnilingus for years now. "Here's to 1,000 hours of koochi lickings." I would say before making a toast, clinking glasses together with other women, or sucking the lime; licking the salt and throwing back that golden tequila nectar.
"I know that's what you like to call it, but not everyone uses that term, Neve. Think about it, there really isn't a universal slang term for cunnilingus, like there is for fellatio, aka: Blow Job. Everyone knows what a blow job is" She responded.
Natalie makes a good point. I've heard women refer to having their clits sucked, licked and hummed upon by using words like, going down on me, head south for the winter, he licked my wu, getting oral, or, eaten out to name a few. There really isn't just one specific word used to describe the phenomenal experience, known as cunnilingus, is there?
I don't usually ask someone in the heat of passion to pretty, please with my cherry on top give me cunnilingus. I say, I want you to suck my clit and make me cum. Yep. That's sounds about right. The word, cunninlingus comes from the alternative Latin word for the vulva (cunnus) and from the Latin word for tongue (lingua). Alas, with a little verb fucking, or conjugation; cunninlingus was born.
Lost in the cunnilingus sauce, are you? Here's the on-line definition of a woman's blow job, you know, koochie lickings; cunninlingus:
Cunnilingus is the act of using the mouth, lips and tongue to stimulate the female genitals. The clitoris is particularly noted for stimulation as it is the most sensitive part of the female genitalia. A person who performs cunnilingus may be referred to as a "cunnilinguist". Most women achieve orgasm easily from clitoral stimulation as part of cunnilingus.
Now tell me, what do you like to call it? Do you like it? Yes? No? Are you a cunnilinguist? A receiver of cunninlingus? Both? Come on. Give it up for Neve.


p.s. The Cunnilingus notepad above can be purchased here via Etsy. 
Auditory Voyeurism

You can blame today's blog title on the lovely and talented, Ms. Alison Tyler. Alison has a way of asking her readers to send snippets of information about themselves. "Tell me a story..., a fantasy..." She asks, pleadingly. Let me be more specific, she's asking for sexual snippets. And well, I take the bait nearly every time.

I recently won a book, Best Fetish Erotica , which features a story written by Alison titled, Blades. I won the book for one of my fetish stories I'd shared on Alison's blog.

Truth be known, I live on the dark side when it cums to fetishes and fetish related topics.

One of my secrets fetishes is auditory voyerism. I'm an auditory voyeur, and I'm proud of it. I love to listen to people fuck. I love hearing them, but not being able to see them. I'm forced to use my imaginiation on what they look like; what they're wearing, and what sexual position they're doing it in. Damn. It's hot, and it makes me hot....

Auditory Voyeurism is an addiction, and like Amy Winehouse, I say, no, no, no to rehabilitation. If there's a cure for this, I don't want it.

I can remember staying in a hotel in Arizona with a group of friends during May Gray; June Gloom season in San Diego. We were tired of the low pressure cell hovering over the Dakota's which notoriously causes a cold, and dreary marine layer of yuck across the Pacific's coastline. We craved the hot sun, blue sky, swimming pools, pina coladas and of course, hot, single men.

I was in my room; reading and relaxing alone before dinner. I heard strange noises coming through the somewhat paper thin walls from the room right next door. It was a couple that I'd seen earlier that morning having coffee on their patio. Their room was next to mine; we shared a common wall. There wasn't anything that special about this couple: Mid-40's; married; golfiing get away in AZ.

I couldn't see them, but I could hear them while they were in mid-fuck. He was beggging and nearly screaming to his wife, "Please can I cum...please I wanna cum...is is all right if I CUM?" She was panting and moaning (so obviously faking her pre-orgasm, orgasm) and I thought to myself, "For the love of God, say yes, and let the poor dude cum, already."

I wondered what position they were in, and if they were completely naked, or did he just pull his golf shorts off; lift her skirt; push her panties aside and plunge his hard cock into her, feverishly. She finally let him cum, and wow, did he. I think the matress that I was laying on shook, because AZ isn't known for earthquakes. It made me wet thinking about them; just a layer of drywall, and wall paper keeping us apart. Aroused as hell, I wanted to bang on the wall; beg, borrow and steal to be next, but I didn't.

Here's another one and then I'll stop, I promise:

I was in Granada, Spain. I'd been cycling in the mountains above the city for days. I was planning to fly into Barcelona the very next morning, so I found a hostel in the city. It was the wee morning hours, and I was fast asleep. I was awoken by the sounds of very, low and gutteral moaning.

Once again , I heard strange sounds cuming through the paper thin walls next to my bed where I lay my head. "Oye, oye, oye, oyyyyye." Were the words of a woman panting and moaning in ecstasy, and rapture. I think she was receiving oral, and she wasn't faking it. You can tell the difference. Her moans became consistently louder and louder until she stopped, almost like she was holding her breath while she came, and then she let out a long and heavy sigh.

I was dripping wet and out of my mind horny after that. I masturbated to the memory of her voice that morning and many times afterwards. It was melodic and unbelievably sexy to me.

Now that I've shared a little bit of my naughty side with all of you, it's your turn to give it up. What's your sexual fetish?


p.s. Alfred Hitchcock was also a auditory voyeur. He'd have the camera direction creep up from behind the actors; listening to their conversations. The viewers couldn't see the actor's faces, but you could hear the conversations, and it was always sexual. Heavy sigh. Labels: auditory, hitchcock, voyer


Signature Song

"What's your signature song, Neve?" My friend affectionately known as 'Q' asked me while we were cruising down the highway on our way to dinner last week.
"Huh? Do you mean a song that sums up my personality, kinda signature song?" I asked.
"Yeah. You know, like a song a professional athlete would choose when they enter the playing field, summarizing up his/her personality." Q said, giving more clarity.
"Oh. Huh? Damn. You come up with some good questions, Q. It's no wonder you're in the professional training and development field. Jeez-Louise. What would your song be?" I said, stalling for an answer.
"This time, will be the last time.... that we will fight like this." Q suddenly belted out in song.
"Is that the late, great Michael Hutchence from INXS?" I asked.
"Yep." Q said, and turned the music up in the car; singing along: I will believe you, If you say it's true girl
you know I need you more than any word spoken
I've seen you before turn and walk away
You say you won't come back
It's a game anyway
We are hoping - yes we are praying
This time will be the last time
That we will fight like this
We are always wanting things we cannot find
You know that we are always wasting time
You know I can forget
We have fought before I've seen inside your heart
And I know it's breaking
I thought about why she chose that song as her signature song. The lyrics speak of a relationship that seem to continuessly be on the brink of ending, and then beginning again, and, so on and so on.... Chances are it probably did finally end. I wonder if it Michael Hutchence was singing This Time to his girlfriend, Paula Yates? That relationship was surely scandalous. Hmmm.... What's ironic is that they both died; both comitted suicide. So essentially there really was a last time that they would fight like this. I just creeped myself out.
Anything by Prince will have lyrics I can identify with, but Q asked for a song; singular, not a notebook of songs. Sorry, TAFKAP, aka Prince. Ever wonder what the hell that sign he was using for awhile stood for? Me too. I researched it. Trust me, that's a whole other blog topic. Nope. It's not Madonna's religion of choice, Kabbalah that coincidentally appears to be A-Rod's excuse to his wife. And I'm pretty confidant saying that it probably won't be the last time that they will fight like this. The band, 311's I Told Myself lyrics come to mind and it's within the same love gone bad genre: FUCK. I need to let this dog with parvo for a relationship end, for the love of God!
My girlfriend, Q is in a long-term, and very healthy relationship with her boyfriend. Oh, wait, fiance' (I love using that word) and they don't really fight. I wondered if it was the song du jour; that specific moment, or a pleasant memory from the 1980's that made her choose INXS's song as her signature song?
What would my signature song be? Damn. Damn. Damn. I don't have just one. I really like Beck's Lost Cause; and it's fitting to the signature love song gone awry theme I have going on here, but, that's not really how I feel, right now. I have though. I think most of us have. I guess sometimes I do feel like a lost cause, but that has more to do with the pressure I put upon myself to write, and less to do with love. Just in case you're wondering, I'm perfect when it comes to love. Uh, huh, and monkeys fly out of my butt (SNL reference).
The song I would choose would have to be like the smorgasbord of emoticons used to describe your mood on a Myspace page: Vexed, happy, sad, lethargic, sleepy, sleezy, sneezy (Ooops. That's the seven dwarfs). Does anyone have a signature song? Do you? Just one song that really conveys who you are. Is there such a thing? I'm not sure. I don't think it would matter how long I pondered the Q question, one song just isn't enough. Labels: Prince, Signature song


Full Moon over the PCH

People repetively ask me while they look at me like I've completely lost my mind, "Why did YOU leave California? How could YOU leave California and move here?"
"It's different when your from there." Is my usual response.
"Don't you miss it?" I'm badgered.
"Sometimes." I say.
Here's a taste of what some crazy-ass (no pun) people did over the weekend in my native land, California. "The annual Moon Over Amtrak party today in Laguna Niguel drew an estimated 8,000 bottom-baring participants, along with complaints of nudity and public drinking, a sheriff's spokesman said."
This headline had me singing Rufus Wainwright's version of Cali:
California, California, you're such a wonder that I think I'll stay in bed.
Big time rollers, part time models, so much to plunder that I think I'll sleep instead.
You see, Mr. Wainwright's distaste; his tainted view of California has a lot to do with the fact that he's not a native of Cali. It's different when you're born in California versus moving there from someplace else. As snobby as that sounds, it's true. Every normal, mellow, and rather conservative Californian is nodding their head in agreement with me right now. I can betcha money that I don't have, no one I know was full mooning the Amtrak trains over the weekend. A native Californian would take one look at that, shake their heads and enjoy the glorious sunrise and sunset over the Pacific instead. But then again, I'm the crazy girl from California that opted to leave the golden state. What do I know.
"The 29th annual Mooning of Amtrak began about 7:30 a.m., when individuals bared their behinds to passing Amtrak trains in what legend says began as a dare in the nearby Mugs Away Saloon at 27324 Camino Capistrano (I've been to this bar).
As the crowd grew, so did complaints of nudity and public drinking, said Orange County Sheriff's Department spokesman Jim Amormino (Wow. There's a real shocker). Around 3:30 p.m., more than 50 law officers, including sheriff's deputies and California Highway Patrol officers, began dispersing the crowd, he said. "There were complaints about the mooning, women lifting their tops and a couple cases of complete nudity," Amormino said (Gasp!).
There was also reports of public alcohol consumption at the event, which has been prohibited in the past (No. That wouldn't; it couldn't happen.) He added that traffic had become congested in the area, and with all the complaints, we decided it was best we shut it down. No arrests were made, he said (Party poopers).
So when people ask me, "Don't you miss California?" I feel justified saying, "No, not so much."
p.s. PCH=Pacific Coast Highway 
Desert Storm Earlier this week, I blogged about couples in their 70's that are having a lot more sex. A lot more sex than you and I are having, statistically speaking; you know, we the jet-setters (LOL). Today, I read about an 80 year old woman (pictured above) that strips in Las Vegas. Let me rephrase that: Back in the day, when she was younger (maybe in her 70's) she was a stripper in Vegas, and she is still stripping in Vegas today. Okay, one more time for the guy in the back that isn't getting it: There's a woman currently stripping in Las Vegas and she's 80 years old. Capiche'? Her name is Tempest Storm.

What? (Long pause. Heavy sigh). No. I'm. Not. Kidding.
"Tempest Storm is fuming. Her fingers tremble with frustration. They are aged, knotted by arthritis and speckled with purple spots under paper skin. But the manicure of orange polish is flawless and new, and matches her signature tousled mane. She brushes orange curls out of her face as she explains how she's been slighted. She is the headliner, you know. She is a star. She is classy. "I don't just get up there and rip my clothes off," she says. Indeed, the 80-year-old burlesque queen takes her clothes off very slowly."
Hey, I'm here to take, or have someone else take my hat, shorts, tank top, flip-flops and panties off, in salute to Tempest Storm's efforts. I'd like to refer to her as, Desert Storm. Why? Well, various reasons immediately come to mind. But, I won't bore you with my biblical, figurative or Freudian references.
Back to Ms. Storm. You see, I know some people that are much younger than she is, and they won't even get naked for sex unless all the lights are off and they're doing it in their own bed. I think she might snicker a bit over that tid-bit of risk taking news; B-O-R-I-N-G. Think about it, this woman gets up on stage; performs with a boa and then strips, right down to her bare waddle. That's impressive at any age.
I think Ms. Storm could have a side career as a motivational speaker; tandem to her anti-aging strip tease act. Her tag line could be: "Fuck, if I can do it, you surely can." No need to thank me. Just have Ms. Storm's agent cut me into 30% of her speaking engagement profits.
It's been a really long time since I've visited Vegas, baby. If I go, I'm going to look for Tempest Storm's act; the Desert Storm. Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and meet a 70 year old. ;-) Labels: Stripper, Tempest


Poetry Jam

I went to a poetry jam one night this week. It wasn't my first jam session, but it was my first poetry reading since living here in Cleveland. When I lived in Seattle, poetry jam's were as common as coffee shops. There was one located on every corner and they were always piping hot.

The Literary Cafe is, and as far as I can tell has always been an artist hot spot in my humble neighborhood. The Lit. hosts monthly poetry jam sessions on the second Thursday of every month, and our very own, Steve Goldberg is spear-heading these events. It felt good being around other like minded people; writers tend to be a breed all to their own. Only other writers know exactly what I'm referring to. We're crazy and have weird things floating inside our brains. Nuff said.

Among all the new, hopefull poets in the room that night, there were two special poets at the jam, David Smith and T.M. Gottl. Both published writers; both equally fabulous. Without taking anything away from T.M. Gottl's poignant and powerful verse, David Smith's reading resonanted with me. He's from SoCal, and a few of his readings reminded me of the place I used to call home.


p.s. Speaking of poetry....does the word, jam connotate a sexual image...? The Rolling Stone's song, Some Girls: "Black girls just wanna get fucked all night, I just don't have that much jam." I'm cruising down Mission Blvd on my way to Mission Beach in my VW bug; jamming to the Stones right now. Okay, circa 1979. Labels: Jam


Death by Couch

I'm fascinated with death, more specifically murder. I'm sorry. I'm probably going to freak everyone out now by actually admitting that little tid-bit of secret information about my already morbid, raunchy, bad-kitty, brain. I'm not necessarily in the market to murder anyone, well not today anyway (kidding). God, I can't kill a bug that's found its way into my house, let alone plan to kill another person. Yikes. That's too scary; far too much jail time, and really, really bad Karma.

I scoop up any little critter, regardless of how big, small or how many arms and legs it may have, and put it back outside into the world it came from. Remind me to tell you about the freaky praying mantis in my bathroom of all things some day....but not today. That's digressing too far from diabolical murder. Insert Vincent Price movie organ music here.

"A Russian woman in St. Petersburg killed her drunk husband with a folding couch, Russian media reported on Wednesday. St. Petersburg's Channel Five said the man's wife, upset with her husband for being drunk and refusing to get up, kicked a handle after an argument, activating a mechanism that folds the couch up against a wall. The couch, which doubles as a bed, folds up automatically in order to save space. The man fell between the mattress and the back of the couch, Channel Five quoted emergency workers as saying.The woman then walked out of the room and returned three hours later to check on what she thought was an unusually quiet sleeping husband. Police refused to comment. Emergency workers said the man died instantly." I don't make this shit up either. I might be the only person that catches these stories, and then feels compelled to blog about them, but I don't make it up.

Can you imagine killing your spouse by folding them into a wall couch?

It's really hard for me to get my head wrapped around this (Uh. Oh. No pun intended), because a wall couch conjures up a different image for me; a comedic image. Not that the story above doesn't hinge upon satire, but I don't think it was supposed to be funny.

The wall couch image for me is from a very fun movie titled: Foul Play. It starred Goldie Hawn and Chevy Chase. Did anyone see it? The late, great comedic actor Dudley Moore played the character, Stanley Tibbits. Stanley epitomized the pathetic, sad and lonely guy that hangs out in night clubs; trying to get lucky, and lets just say, his character struggled quite a bit in the getting laid arena. Anway, Stanely leers Goldie Hawn back to his apartment. The only reason she agrees to go with Stanley is because she's seeking protection from an albino and a dwarf who have been chasing her.

Goldie Hawn, "Do you have any binoculars?"

Dudley Moore, "What's that? Binoculars. Are you into that, too? Me, as well. I read about it in Penthouse. Just a second."

Stanley thinks this is it, he's finally gonna get some pussy, so he opens the infamous wall couch, complete with a red, velvet duvet cover. He has all the accoutrements to go with it too: Mirrors on the ceiling, blow up dolls, dirty movie playing, music, booze; he looks like a circus act. It's hysterical.

Anway, do you think it's possible that the death by couch story was an accident, or could there possibly be some foul play involved? Insert Vincent Price movie organ music.


Dirty deeds done dirt cheap. Please feel free to contact email@example.com (kidding).

 Labels: dirty deeds


More Sex at 70? Is it possible that your grandma and grandpa are having more sex than you or I? Nah....That can't be true.... Could it? Well, it could be, based on your current sexual status and the article I stumbled upon yesterday:
"When it comes to sex, grandma and grandpa are having more of it these days, new Swedish research suggests. According to the study, the last quarter century has seen a dramatic rise in the frequency of sex among the 70-year-old set, whether married or unmarried. And as an added bonus, seniors today (particularly women) say they're much more satisfied with their liaisons than the previous generation -- facing less sexual dysfunction and feeling more positive about the experience."
Go Grandma, go Grandpa, go! Yowza!
There's a huge part of me that loves getting older. I. Swear. I'm. Not. Lying. I like the fact that I'm comfortable being in my own skin, even if it's not quite as supple as it was 20 years ago. I see the world differently now too. Sure, I'm still trying to take on things much greater than I can possibly manage, but I'm smarter about it; I make smarter decisions, even though I've always been a smart-ass.
I like the fact that I still wear a size 2 petite; and I look like I did when I graduated from High School. Okay, so there are a few more wrinkles on my face then there were back then, and okay, I don't have my hair styled to look just like Farrah Fawcett's anymore (but that's a good thing). Okay, okay, okay, damn..., so I may struggle a bit riding a wave into shore now, but...hey, I can fuck a lot better than I did when I was younger because I had less experience, and that definately gives me some getting older bonus points, right?
No one should ever feel badly about moving into their golden years, because clearly, studies show the golden years will be filled with golden showers. ;-)
Happy Getting One Year Older And Having More Sex To Everyone.
p.s. This blog is dedicated to my brother who lives in San Diego and today is his birthday. 
Hello. I'm R2D2; wanna fuck? Maybe it has something to do with my love for erotica, and my rising, snobby, distaste for porn these days, that made me want to blog about today's topic, Robotic men and woman. I'm talking boyfriend and girlfriend robots here, people....

"She'll kiss you, dance for you and hand out your business cards — until her batteries run out. Search is buzzing with news of the release of the EMA, scheduled to debut next fall. She isn't the only robot winning search love. Adorable, animated WALL-E is clearly our robot boyfriend."
No. They don't offer a push button option for fel·la·ti·o and or cun·ni·lin·gus. I might have to take my snobby porn attitude down a notch if that were the case.
I know what you're thinking before you even utter the words, "what's the fucking difference between erotica and porn, and what the hell do you have against robots, Neve, you snobby, bitch?"
For me, porn isn't real, like the robots. Porn involves characters in film (I'm using that term loosely) that usually can't act; highlighting women with huge boobs that don't jiggle (insert: plastic) and men with cocks that look like prosethic limbs, or their cocks were possibly borrowed from an elephant at the zoo (insert: unmanagable). It just never looks real, or right; all those people fucking and faking their orgasms. Eeew.
Furthermore, who in the world writes the scripts to these porn films?
I mean come on, what dude do you know that finally manages to pull himself up from his couch potato state and open the door to what he thinks is the pimple-faced, sixteen year-old pizza delivery boy, only to find not one, not two, but three, sometime four, hot, young female co-eds standing there on his door-step? They're all dressed in scantily ripped clothes (of course) and they beg to come in and play sucky-fucky? Oh, and the pizza is free.
Not. So. Much.
Erotica is what most people feel, or want on some sublimated level; sans robotics. Erotica that is well written (it's what I strive for), pulls you into the story, because you can relate to it. A woman who gets burned in her heterosexual relationship finds love and sex in the arms of her lesbian girlfriend, like my story, Project Down Under. I know. I know. I'm plugging my stuff here, but I can do that, this is my blog, right?
Here's my porn versus erotica anolgy:
I don't watch many, if any hollywood blockbuster movies. I'm always disappointed; feeling like I could have written the script (insert snob); providing a much better, beginning, middle and ending (I've probably lost any and all chances of writing for some big named Hollywood producer now). Hollywood movies are like porn. It's a good fix every now and again, when you're bored and you'd rather not have to think about what you're watching, or fucking.
I usually sway toward the low-budget, independent films and they're usually sub-titled. The acting is suberp. The script is outstanding and believable. The direction, cinematography and overall feel of the film gives me goose-bumps. I can relate to the film; I'm engaged; captivated with the reality of the story. I have to think about it much more than the blockbuster movie; but the independent film stays with me for a long time, like a good, real orgasm.

p.s. I'm saying Ciao until I leave and come back from Italy in September. ;-) 
Skinny Man

Please feel free to read my published story, Skinny Man on Oysters and Chocolate's website.

I'm very proud of this story, because it's pushed me into the professional erotic writer category; no longer amateur. Yeah. I think I've found my professional calling.

Let me know your thoughts and comments on this story.

p.s. If you haven't perused this e-zine website, you'll thank me later for introducing you.
 
Tails, I Win Why do I get so turned on just thinking about having the cheeks of my ass spanked, or paddled?

Is it because I know I've been a really, really, really bad kitty-cat, and I deserve to be punished? Maybe.

Is it because I'm freaky and kinky and just like it? Maybe.

Is it because I'm addicted; addicted to the intense pleasure that will surely follow the excruciating pain? Maybe.

If I so much as read just a snippet about someone else's bare bottom being smacked with a spatula, slapped with the palm of a hand, switched from a riding crop, or thwacked from a wooden paddle, I can actually feel the stinging sensation on my ass; the burn on my skin, sinking in deeper. I give into the pain. I can see my ass turning pink, then red; darker red; welting red. My heart is beating so fast; my breath quickens. I'm dizzy. I'm wet. I'm....

"God. That's going to turn black and blue. I won't be able to blame that nasty welt on clumsy behavior when they ask me about it in the gym locker room tomorrow."

I learned about a call for submission for a spanking story just days ago. I'm fervently working on creating a semi-fictional story about one of my all-time favorite erotic fascinations; having one's bottom spanked.

Now, I'm quite confident that I'm not the only one that's into having my ass cheeks and thighs spanked. Fess up. Tell me your best spanking story.

p.s. gotta have the necklace above as much as I do? Select here for details.
 "Love child, never meant to be
Love child, (scorned by) society
Love child, always second best
Love child, different from the rest"
Written by: Diana Ross and The Supremes

Remember Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel, The Scarlett Letter? Hester Prynn was an unwed mother, banished from the small-minded town and forced to live her life on the outskirts, because she wouldn't say who the father of her child was; turns out, he was a man of cloth. She had to wear the infamous, Scarlett letter A (Adultress) at all times; the letter A resided upon her chest; burning into her heart and soul (Insert: Fire and brimstone).
Now I realize, Mr. Hawthorne's letter was published in 1850, and it was Puritan Boston, but didn't you secretly desire, no, crave Hester Prynne to put her big, girl panties on and say, "fuck that, fuck this and oh yeah, fuck you!?" Hester then would have packed up her things, to include her beautiful daughter and head out west; perhaps to California, where people are a bit more forgiving about adultress affairs with men in cloth.
I'm certainly not suggesting the poignant story should be altered to my liking either. I'm nothing like Demi Moore who played Hester Prynne in the Hollywood movie version; opting to just go ahead and change the ending because she felt her ending was much better than NT's. No offense Mrs. Ashton Kutcher, but I think Mr. Hawthorne knew exactly what he was doing when he wrote the beginning, the middle and the end.

Are you wondering why on earth I'm blogging about The Scarlett Letter and referencing lyrics to Love Child, today? I do have a point, and here it goes:

As of late, for no apparent reason, I've met a number of men that have children. Let me rephrase - these men are single, never been married men, with children. They're somewhat equivalent to Hester Prynne's lover, I suppose. The difference is that these men live in modern times, aren't usually men of cloth and they've taken responsibility for their love child, by paying child support and being involved in their children's lives. They're also not banished from society for not marrying the child's mother. These men have fathered love children (Insert: Nearly every NBA professional).

I guess there's a reason for everything, and I'm not really sure why I've run into so many men lately that fall into this category, but for some reason, I have. I'm not naive either. I've known many girl friends over the years that have dated men that have Love Children in their lives. It's strikingly odd that I've met so many love child sperm donors lately though.

Maybe it's my age; that I'm single, and that men occassionally hit on me. They don't realize what they're getting themselves into; casually offering to buy me a drink; hoping for my digits and then SHAZOOZLE!, before they know what hit them, The Neve Inquisition begins. I start digging. I dig for the grit, the details and the explicit directions; asking all kinds of questions: Who? What? Why? How? When? Tell me, tell me, tell me...pleassssse.

One said he felt duped by his then girlfriend nearly 20 years ago, after discovering she really wasn't taking birth control pills. Uh. Oh.

Another man confessed he loved the woman he was involved with, and when they both learned of her pregnancy, he felt he was simply too young to get married at that time. "You love me, but you're leaving? Huh?"

I'm not a love child. I think I might be a bit jealous of that mere detail too. Not because I think it's a fashion statement right now and everyone is doing it. But because my parents are Catholic and I'm quite sure my mom just got tired of saying, "no" one night and well, 9-10 months' later, along came Neve.

Nothing too terribly sexy about that, huh? I'd like to know that my exisitence was based on some hot, sorrid, sultry, alcohol involved, rip eachother's clothes off firework's explosion. Cigarette smoke permeating the air afterwards.

Six weeks' later, a woman sits on the toilette at home; cell phone in one hand, a pregnancy test wand held in the other; it's glowing with color; blue, or maybe it's pink. Shhhh...you can hear her whisper something into the phone, "Hi baby, how's your day? I have news - the rabbit done died."


p.s. Select here to order the card above.
 
Erotic Fruit and Vegetables

After yesterday's post regarding the natural wonders of a watermelon, I was alerted to a column about Fruits and Vegetables of well, the erotic nature. The story was written by Donna George Storey.

It's fabulously written. And based on the theme of fruit and sex this weekend, I thought it was fitting to link you all over to her story. So, carry on readers. Eat lots of juicy, delicious watermelon while you drool over Donna's story this holiday weekend.

Link to Donna's story is below:
Naked at the Farmer's Market.

Posted by Neve Black at 8:55 AM 2 comments: 
Watermelon is the new...Viagra? Happy 4th of July, America. Most of us all have the day off today, and we'll be spending some part of the long holiday weekend cooking outside with friends and family.

Enjoying picnic types food as well, I suppose. Hamburgers, hotdogs, potato salad, fruit salads, etc. Don't forget the Viagra for dessert. Ahem. I mean the watermelon.

Look at what found, boys and girls:

Juicy and delicious, wet and tasty summer melon we slice, dice and or scoop out is actually an aphrodisiac; much like oysters, chocolate and George Clooney. Each of these various food items (Yes. I. Know. Mr. Clooney isn't technically in the food category) offers a kick start to your Vespa-visceral response needing ways, baby. In other words, wanna get your engine racing before the fire works start this weekend? Offer your date a slice of watermelon and let the games begin.

p.s. Seek immediate medical attention if your date's erection lasts for more than four hours, or if they start to experience severe bloating from too much water intake.

One more thought on this subject: I wonder what the legal drug lords would have to say about this natural cock enhancer, citrulline? Keep in mind drug companies have made gazillions of dollars off of men and women's sexual dsyfunctions, by selling drugs like Viagra, Levitra and Cialis.

Once again, Felice il quarto Luglio.


Posted by Neve Black at 8:00 AM 7 comments: 
E-Zine Publishing

I just learned yesterday that one of my stories is going to be published on Oyster's and Chocolate's website. I'm thrilled to have my story published.

I've been reading erotica on O&Y for months now and I'm so honored knowing I'm one of the writers selected for their e-zine.

I'll keep you posted on the details when the story goes live....


Posted by Neve Black at 8:16 AM No comments: 
Edited Copy, Baby My editor who lives on the west coast surprised me by editing a story I'd written recently. She was on the fence about finding the time to do it, but I received it from her this morning when I opened my e-mail messages. Surprize! I'll have to check the time, but I'm sure she completed it last night some time; long past my bedy-bye.

When I receive my edited copy, I'm filled with glee. Tapping the cursor button over the open file document; "Open sezame! Hurry, hurry; faster, open, open" My mind says as I exert every ounce of patience waiting for the computer's engine to open the document. Once it's open, I'm practically eating the edit; tasting each red marking and licking every annotated suggestion, which is usually in the right margin. I look for the message that says, "Great job. Loved it." Or, "Hmmm...this wasn't your best writing effort." I crave the feeback. Good or bad. She's my editor afterall, and I respect her both personally and professionally.
My editor's life (this could be a story all on its own) has become far to over-extended with a full-time job, a husband, two children and a demanding social calendar to continue to keep up with my prolific writing. This story is particularly important to me, because this could be the last story she edits for me for awhile. Deep, down inside I think she'll be baaaaack though.
Finding your original story returned from review is a huge gift. Priceless. For some girls, diamonds are their best friends, but this girl prefers her stories edited. Don't get me wrong, I love jewels too, but an edited story, nearly ready to face the publishing world, well it just doesn't get more personal and any better than that, now does it?
p.s. The necklace above spells out editor in ASCII Binary. You're not an editor? Check out this Etsy artist's other items also, by selecting here.

Posted by Neve Black at 7:54 AM No comments: 
Quattro Uomini Italiani My partner in crime and I played hooky yesterday. Originally we had wanted fly into the city that never sleeps; NYC, but with gas prices at gazillions of dollars, we chose to take a road trip, via car and head to the islands located North/West from our urban setting world in search of sun, mermen, wine, food and possibly some trouble to get into.

I was appropriately dressed for a summer day, floppy hat, sun-glasses, khaki-colored skirt, black tank and my favorite shoes, flip-flops. I chose the slimmingly black pair from the multitude of colors I own. I suppose I wanted my feet to look svelt and alluring while walking around the island.
It's been raining here for the past few days, and the dual-doppler report had promised a clearing from the clouded, grey, cold skies. The lousy's lied. It rained, or was just on the verge to rain all day. It was cold and and I was cold.
Somehow we managed to eat, drink and have a blast. We found the only second-hand store on the island; picking up a few little momentos at the thrift store; memories of our hooky, playing day ways.
We said goodbye to the island; turned our rented golf cart in and caught the ferry back to the mainland, mon'. We talked about stopping at a winery and grabbing dinner before driving the one to two hour highway drive back home.
The hostess sat us in a corner (insert: nobody puts baby in the corner) and we chose a bottle of white Italian vino. We ordered our food and chit-chatted about the day. Sitting at the table next to us sat four men. They were very, attractive and interesting. I somehow picked up on the fact they were foreigners. Hmm...could have had something to do with their accents, eh?
Anyway, turns out all four, were in town for the past few months on a work assignment. Where were they from, you ask? Italy. I'm not kidding. Quattro uomini Italiani (four Italian men) were sitting right next to us.
It begged for an introduction. I did the honors. Next thing we knew, we were next door at the tasting room, sipping port, eating chocolate and having coffee, while both my partner in crime and I tried are darndest to impress them with our "we've been learning Italian on CD's in the car". To answer your question, they weren't impressed, but they were all very nice about the fact that we both slaughtered their language.
We got home late, late, late, but it was a good day, even though the weather was not cooperative, the playing hooky day was quite fun, and I highly recommend it.

Do you have any playing hooky day stories to share? Please do.
The item in the image above is a pill box. Love it? Must have it? Select here to order.