featured escorts
Victoria
CompanionsVIP
Brook
Dru Berrymore
Verified
EliteGlamour
CityGlamours
Sabrina
AllNatural
Sophia
Velinda
Emma
Krissy
AllNatural
Valerie
NY Hotties provides links to escorts and BDSM providers in the New York area. The list of erotic adult erotic entertainers includes massage, tantra, exotic dancers, strippers, dominatrix, female erotic dancers, escort services, female strippers, male strippers, escort agencies, male escorts, gay escorts, shemale escorts and other adult erotic entertainers.
Here are some of the areas covered by NY Hotties.
- Manhattan Escorts
- Brooklyn Escorts
- Staten Island Escorts
- Long Island
- Queens Escorts
- Bronx Escorts
- New Jersey Escorts
- Connecticut Escorts
- Westchester Escorts
By following the links on NY Hotties, you'll find photos, rates and contact information for adult erotic entertainers such as escorts, dominatrix, strippers, erotic dancers, female strippers, male strippers, and escort services who can satisfy your every fantasy and fetish in New York City.
A New York Escorts Confessions
The Edge
It is now day four of the oatmeal and mashed potatoes diet. I just can’t seem to bring myself to eat anything that isn’t mushy and devoid of color. Just like I can’t bring myself to get dressed. Or wash my hair.
This is it. I have hit it. Bottom.
Over and over I play through the events of the last week. What the hell was the matter with me? What was I thinking? Was I even thinking at all?
I could have chosen to go to Prague any time in any other way than the way in which I did it. The thing is, I plain old won’t. Even now, when I actually have the means, I don’t go on my own accord. Something happens to you once upon a time when you have student loans and then become an assistant to a fashion editor for $22,500 a year. It’s like being a victim of The Great Depression. You never feel like you have money even when you do. A friend once told me that an older man in her office always stole an extra muffin from the building’s breakfast cart, then stowed it in the back of his closet. There were hundreds in there still in their plastic wraps. Rotting away. Meanwhile, the guy pulled in $300,000 a year.
I weirdly understand that. My awareness though doesn’t exactly follow a sensical pattern either. I can believe I have enough for a whimsical shoe purchase or for a shiny new Apple laptop. But paying for tickets to Europe? Nope.
That said, why didn’t I just scram as soon as the true nature of the trip began to emerge? This was hard. Why indeed? Was I really as stupid as I seemed?
I think…I think there’s a part of me that shifts into another plane of reality when confronted with something really really bad. Suddenly, everything seems to be happening to someone else. That’s probably why my blogging seemed so composed. It’s a hell of a lot easier to fix something in writing than to fix the actual event as it unfolds — and a lot easier to focus on words, than on well, people who shift and change with every passing second.
At the bottom of it, I couldn’t stop thinking that everything that was happening was entirely my fault. This was their vacation. They were supposed to have a good time. To be happy. To see something dying horribly before you is a little like experiencing a glimpse of death yourself.
I wanted to fix it. I wanted to — to drag her into a vintage shop and make her try on clothes she’d never dream of owning. A kimono top. Cowboy boots. A leather sash. I wanted to braid her hair behind her back and put big pink bows in them. I wanted him to pick me up piggy back style and spin me around in the middle of the castle walls until I was so dizzy I cried uncle. I wanted to put that chastity belt around her, lock it, and watch him make her come despite the impossibility of it all. I wanted the happy movie montage. I wanted life brighter and fuller and richer and deeper for them than they ever experienced before. I wanted to put it all before them, the mystery, the mystique, the dream, the glow, the fever and tie it up in a beautiful box that they could unwrap together.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t at all.
Land Ho!
I have never been so excited to see the grays of Kennedy Airport in my life.
You have no idea how long it took to get there.
The morning after writing my last post, I tried to catch an earlier flight. Okay, a much earlier flight. And as fate would have it, the airline was more than happy to oblige as they had overbooked my original plane. (Ah isn’t it good to know that capitalism has truly taken root in the former Eastern Block?). I would have a two hour layover at Charles DeGaule in Paris AND would get a coupon for $400 towards future travel. Hot dog.
Two hours would give me just enough time for a Kir and a baguette with Camembert. And a little bonus stroll around the Duty Free shops.
The flight to Paris went off with nary a hitch, as did the aperitif and sandwich. But then, you guessed it. The quintessential delay. Which resulted in a two hour layover stretching to four. I limped my way through French Elle and appeased myself with some brie. Boy oh boy they have good cheese in France, even in the airport.
Finally it was time for my flight. Yippee. I was finally going home. I hummed ‘Homeward Bound’ and tried to translate it into French in my head. It was kind of a useless exercise since I couldn’t remember the lyrics in English.
On the flight they served us lunch. Un sandwich avec jambon et—yes you guessed it. Cheese. I thought of just contenting myself with the ham alone, but somehow all the stress had made me hungry. Plus there was ample French wine with which to down it.
It was midway over the Atlantic when I knew I had a problem…
It suddenly occured to me that aside from the tiny side of steamed milk that I had had with my morning espresso each day, I hadn’t had any dairy products to speak of for a week. My system suddenly hit the eject button. Hard.
Luckily, the bathroom was a convenient three rows away. But seriously, everyone begins to look at you like you have a third arm on the—okay, tenth trip. Of course then I felt compelled to drink As Much Water As Possible. I have a strange fear of dehydration. Somewhere in another life I kicked off in the middle of the Sahara, I’m sure of it.
Anyway, seven hours later well-hydrated but hideously bloated, I touched ground in New York. I waited until everyone was off the plane, then sloshed my way to the exit. As soon as I hit the ramp I got down on my knees and gave the worn carpet une grande bise. I seriously wanted to ask if I could do the same to the tarmac but figured the Department of Homeland Security probably wouldn’t be too pleased with such a gesture. When I stood up, I saw the entire flight crew was staring at me. “Um…happy to be home!” I chirped, trying my best to not look like a crazy person. One of the attendants gave me a tight smile, then handed me a wet nap. Probably a good idea.
I kissed my carpet, my coat rack, my toaster, my ficus, my picture, my pitcher, my lampshade, my cell. I was on the way to kiss my laptop when nature called AGAIN. Shit, the human body holds a lot more…um…contents than you ever think possible, huh?
An hour later I crawled over to my suitcase to unpack. I had an exorcism to perform after all—to be rid of anything that conjured up ‘travel’ and reminded me of this god-foresaken trip. The suitcase was step number one. It was then that I remembered something. Oh right! I was now officially an international smuggler. I felt bold and dangerous as I lugged my two bottles of absinthe out and displayed them proudly on my table.
Then I hightailed it back to the bathroom.
Farewell
I spent the last few days at Ruby’s hotel with her and her band. I could have found a room of my own somewhere, but frankly I found the company very very welcome. I even cried when they left yesterday for a gig in Budapest.
Ruby never once asked me what happened and for that I’m truly grateful. We made a pact to see each other just as soon as she gets back. We promised to have high tea at Alice’s Teacup. She’d order chai and me the Mauritius, my favorite. Perhaps we’d have pumpkin scones, perhaps whatever the special was that day.
Friday morning I set off determined to have a normal and final day of sightseeing. I have to say I was completely and utterly awed by Josefov, the Jewish section in Prague. My first stop was the Pinkas Synagogue which had been turned into a memorial for the Czechoslovakian victims of the Holocaust. I’ve never seen such a moving tribute, I swear. The whole space was bare, the walls plain, white, textured. But they were covered from the ceiling to the floor with neatly written red and blue names. The names of the dead. On every single wall in the building. My throat tightened. I felt the hair stand up on my arms.
After a day’s worth of touring around, I stopped off for dinner at a local cafe. I walked in, sat down, ordered yet another round of warm potato pancakes and cold pivo. I lit a cigarette, then looked up.
There were tens, hundreds of nude photomontages on the wall. Women being spanked. Women masturbating. Women doing their toilet.
I was being haunted by sex.
I had to go back and face them. I knew that. I knew it couldn’t wait any longer. At the very least, I had to fetch my clothes and suitcase if they were still in fact there. Shit.
Slowly I made my way back to the hotel, the enormity of the situation setting into my shoulders. Why oh why hadn’t I done this while Ruby was still here? I didn’t even think about the fact that I left my rented computer there. My stomach clutched.
I passed my policeman who nodded to me. “Dobry den,” he said. I noticed his parnter was in the car playing a Gameboy. Just before I turned to go towards the hotel I heard him say something to me in English.
“Sorry. What was that?”
“Why you sad?”
How is it that people can move you as much as history can?
I looked around to see if anyone was paying any attention. Then I quickly kissed him on the cheek. “Dekuji vam.” I hope he could understand my lousy Czech accent.
As I stepped back into the hotel all I could feel was dread. Why was I so completely stupid? What in the world had I been thinking?
The second the host saw me I froze. “Oh no,” I thought. “He’s going to throw me out.” I felt dead. Caught. But he smiled as if nothing in the world was wrong, addressed me by name then asked me how I was enjoying my stay. I couldn’t even attempt to answer that one. But at least I knew I probably still had a room.
I barely managed to get my key in the lock since my hands were shaking so badly. Miraculously everything seemed to be where I thought I left it. I said a silent prayer to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in, and who I was sure no longer believed in me. Then I opened the door to their suite ever so slightly and peered in.
They sat stiffly on opposite sides of the bed facing the walls. He was slumped over rubbing his eyes and running his hand through his thinning hair. His clothes were still on but his pants were undone. I could see his cock like a deflated balloon peeking through. She sat stone still on the other side wearing only a red thong and staring off into space, a thin mascara-colored tear streaking her cheek. I silently closed the door and locked it.
I went into my own bathroom and sat on the toilet to think. Then I began to pack.
The Crypt
No one here is having sex…
There was a feeble attempt at a threesome. She came out in a gorgeous La Perla jeweled teddy and heels, looking tall, commanding, and well, totally hot. Unfortunately she kept ruining the effect by pulling a white terry cloth robe around her like she was horribly embarrassed at the whole exercise. That in turn made P look ashamed. I sat down on the bed and motioned for the two of them to join me.
Hmmm. This was going to be like a math problem. How to break the tension? I figured it was probably more threatening to have me act on P than on her, so first I put my hand very very tentatively on her cheek. She didn’t move. I ran my hand softly down her neck to where her hair was pinned up, then unfastened it. I had actually been wanting to do that since the first moment I saw her. Her hair fell down softly about her shoulders. I ran my hand through it, then grazed her neck with my lips. She let me, even leaned into me. I kissed her shoulder, her chest. I then brought my mouth to her lips. I heard P’s breathing change behind me. He began nuzzling at my shoulder. When I looked up at Mrs. P, she looked…well, a bit shellshocked. But she wasn’t making a beeline for the door either. I turned to P and began to kiss him. He tried to undo my strap but I stopped him and kissed Mrs. P again this time harder. Then I brought them together. They hesitated at first but suddenly P moved her toward him. She kissed him hard, bit into his shoulder. Then she reached down and grasped his cock. He jerked back and froze. A long moment passed. She tentatively touched him again. He looked like he was holding his breath. I grabbed his cock and began to gently stroke him. He closed his eyes. When he opened them I began fumbling with the clasps on Mrs. P’s teddy. It was useless. Even as I managed to undress her with my teeth, P would not, could not get aroused.
It looked like there was nothing to do but well, go and be tourists. First we went to the Prague Hradany Castle, the jewel of the city. While we were wandering the halls P suddenly grabbed me and pushed me behind a massive antique stove.
“I’ve got to have you now.”
“Get off of me,” I said.
We then entered St. Vitus’ Cathedral. After touring the main floor we ascended a narrow winding staircase to go up into one of the towers. About one hundred steps up P reached underneath my skirt and grabbed me. He startled me so much that I went careening into a group of Japanese tourists and knocked over a four-year-old girl who of course began crying. Mrs. P turned around, looked at me and glared. Then for the briefest of seconds I saw a look of pure despair. As soon as she turned the corner I laid into P. “I thought you didn’t want to fuck up your marriage.”
“I’ve got a big one for you. Look. Look” He started to take it out. I turned and kept climbing.
Once we were at the top of the stairwell I managed to sneak myself next to Mrs. P. She let me stand there but didn’t say anything. I listened to the eveness of her breathing. “You know, ” I ventured quietly. “He’s not in love with me.” Her eyes welled up. She took in a sharp breath.
“And he won’t sleep with me.” She walked away.
I ask you, could this get any more awful?!
Finally we went down to the lowest level of the castle to the crypts of the kings. The air was dank the ceiling low. Before I knew what was happening P had pushed me into a dark tunnel. I could feel cold metal bars behind me like those from a jail cell.
“Suck me.”
“No.”
“C’mon baby. You’ve got me so horny.” He tried to push my head to his pants.
“Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you? A thousand years of death make you horny?”
“I brought you here. I paid for you, you whore!”
I slapped him as hard as I could across the face. I heard bone breaking, heard him gasp in pain. Then I ran, ran like hell. Out of the crypt, out of the church, out of the castle, down the hill, running running running running. I ran right into some poor girl, pushed her aside and kept running. I ran and ran. Then I stopped. Someone was calling my name.
“Alexa? Hey hold on. Alexa! Is that you?”
I’d know that tiny breathy little girl voice anywhere. “Ruby?” I turned around and saw her in all her East Village finery. Glittery eye-shadow, black lace tights, a long black wig and a henna tattoo on her hand and forearm. “Dear God. Tell me you’re really here. Tell me I’m not making this up” Before she could even answer I had her in a bear hug. Then I started crying.
Chastity and Obedience
Okay things have well…stabilized. I guess.
I got my own room, thank God. Along with a rented laptop so that I can curl up with you after hours. This trip has been way too stressful, and writing my thoughts at night is the only way I know to get some relief!
I marched back upstairs and read P the riot act. After enduring the red eye from hell, there was no way I was going to spend my next night in a hell of a different sort. I told him I was getting on the next plane to somewhere, anywhere in the States. (I wasn’t really going to do that by the way. I was in Prague. I was going to see Prague no matter what. I figured the city was big enough that I could go incognito. I was dreaming of head scarfs, raincoats and big dark glasses. Catherine Deneuve came to mind for some reason).
If only it were that romantic.
“Alexa please. I’m telling you—
“No.”
“She—she doesn’t mean it the way she—”
“You’re not going to talk me into this, okay P? I am not going to stay in the same room with someone who so obviously hates the very sight of—”
“She doesn’t hate—would you stop for a second? She she she just wants us to be together, to be close. She wants to understand, you, me. Look I’ll get you another room in the hotel.”
“Oh for God’s sake. It’s not about the hotel.”
“I’m sorry about the plane. I said I was sorry. If I’da thought you two would get along I would have sat in—”
You knew this was going to happen?! You told me she wanted me to come and you knew all along—”
“No—you’re changing my words. That is not—”
“You just said—”
“Please. Please honey I am begging you to stay. I will—I.” His voice cracked. And then he literally, literally got down on his knees. Pants to the carpet. He held my leg. People turned and whispered
“Alexa. Listen. If you leave…if you leave, she’s leaving too. She’ll leave me. I—I can’t have my marriage end, I can’t. Please”
I think I was so stunned in that moment I didn’t know what to make of anything. I felt like I was suddenly in the midst of a slow motion car wreck. I couldn’t figure out which way was up and which was down, if I was supposed to be rubbernecking or grabbing onto my seat belt for dear life.
P took my moment of confusion to spring into action. “Wait. Just wait here, alright?”
I don’t know what he did, but the next thing I knew P had gotten me my own suite. Okay the adjoining suite to theirs. That shares their balcony. And opens up with french doors into their bedroom.
The upshot is there’s some really good western toilet paper in the bathroom.
Afterwards I went outside to walk around and get some air. There was an old inn about a mile from the hotel. In the window was an actual chastity belt they had found on the grounds while they were excavating. I looked at it and wondered how they pooped. I wondered if they were prone to infections.
I wondered if they were better off.
Ugh. Am I just royally screwing up here?
Tricked
They made me sit in coach.
Now I don’t have a problem with coach. Give me an aisle seat and a couple of bags of peanuts and I am good to go I swear. But this, this was different.
They were waiting for me when I arrived at JFK. P and the Mrs. I don’t know what I expected but when she turned around all I could think of was that she must in actuality be an actress hired to play Mrs. P. I mean she was the Upper East Side Lady Who Lunches to a T. Hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Old school Chanel suit with a silk blouse. Prada pumps. (Who wears that kind of outfit on an eight hour flight these days anyway?!) She would actually have been quite striking if only there was a part of her, anywhere, that seemed to be smiling. Instead her mouth was a tight coil of resentment. She literally looked me up and down, rolled her eyes, and gave a small cough of disgust in P’s general direction. He looked mortified and chased after her without so much as a welcome to me. Uh oh. Fasten your seat belt Alexa. We are in for a bumpy bumpy ride.
Now about that aisle seat…didn’t happen. Oh no my friends. In coach on this particular plane there were seven seats across. Four were aisles. Two were windows. The other? No man’s land smack in the middle. Which is where, of course, I now found myself planted—and surrounded by a group of Hasidic Israeli families complete with two crying infants, several fidgety teens, and a group of older men who seemed to look right through me like I didn’t exist at all. She had to be behind this. I wasn’t ready to chalk all of this up to plain old bad luck.
I guess I got pretty nervous on top of everything because I literally had to go to the bathroom about a million times during the flight. Ok so maybe it was the red wine I was drinking. And the gin and tonic. And the swig of-let me see if I’ve got this right- palinka-that’s Romanian moonshine folks-that some lovely guy from Bucharest let me try. (Thank you Ivan!) I knew I was getting loaded but it was the only thing I could think to do in my intense state of forboding. Besides it distracted me from the sandpaper that was masquerading as toilet tissue in the bathroom. It literally looked like someone had made it out of recycled paper bags. All I can say is ‘ouch.’
Eight hours and a hangover later we arrived in Prague. I pulled myself together, put on my best face and prepared to meet the P’s. “Well hello there!,” I gushed at her. “Did you have a nice flight?” God, I sounded like a chirpie stewardess even to my own ears. “So, what are we going to get to do in Prague?” She looked away and studied the passing baggage. “Have you ever been here before? I hear it’s just—”
She turned and looked directly at me for the first time. “You and I,” she said, “We are not friends” and walked away. P took the opportunity to grab me and shove his tongue down my throat. “Don’t worry beautiful. We’ll ditch her just as soon as we get to the rooms. I’ve got a couple of valiums ready to slip into her drink.”
And the adventures just kept coming. Right before we got to our hotel, we were stopped by a couple of policemen and asked to get out of the limousine. I watched as they took what looked like a golf club with a mirror attached to it and looked under the car. What was all the fuss about? We had gone through dozens of streets and this was the first with a road block. And then I looked down the street. There it was in all its glory. The American Embassy. Great. I was going to be blown up on top of being tortured.
I turned back to give an apologetic look to one of the cops when I noticed something. While one of them talked to the driver the other had positioned himself just behind Mrs. P and had moved his little mirror so it was angled below her skirt. I slapped my hand over my mouth and tried to hold back a guffaw. The policeman turned a deep shade of red and broke into a sweat. He was just able to hide what he was doing before P turned around. “What are you looking at?” he growled. “Alexa, is this guy bothering you?”
Before I could answer she interruped, “What P? So now you’re a cowboy?”
“No I-honey-wait. Come back. I’m not a cowboy. Honey.”
And then the—well, hold on to your hats here folks. Because we have arrived at the climax—the room issue. I say room because guess what? There is ONE for the three of us. You heard me right. I nearly passed out at the check-in counter. The host was going on and on listing the many many amenities in our suite, The Presidential—complimentary breakfast made to order each morning, complimentary international morning paper, a king sized bed, a balcony overlooking the private topiary garden blah blah blah and all I could think of was ‘suite’ ‘suite, what does that mean ‘suite’? “But what about my room?” I blurted out.
“There was to be two? But I have eh but one reservation for—”
“P. What’s going on? We talked about—”
“I am sorry. We are fully booked.”
“Buddy hey look. There’s obviously a mistake here. I made a reservation for two separate rooms—”
“And I changed it,” she said. We all stood in silence.
“Um,” I finally broke in. “I think—”
“My husband, you see, insisted on bringing his mistress. He wants to have both of us. And I thought now that he’s made his bed, he should lie in it. With both of us.”
It was all I could do to sneak away to the business center and to you. Help! Send me a prayer, a bit of advice, ANYTHING!
The Gurrrl’s Guide to Giving Great Head
The Cunting Linguist says…
I’m a perfectionist, which has served me well in many areas of my life, say, at work or in the kitchen. Or, as it happens, in the bedroom.
I like to think of oral sex as a fine art. I think it’s the most sensual, supposedly selfless thing you can do for a lover.
Now, I say “supposedly selfless,” because who’s kidding who? If you’re already in a good relationship, throwing great oral into the equation makes it sexual utopia. It’s the final touch. Then they owe you. You know as well as I do, you’re keeping score. We all do.
When it comes to oral, I owe everything I’ve learned to Sex Tips for Straight Ladies from a Gay Man. The first time I used all the tips in that book — and let me tell you, when I read, I absorb information like a sponge, my friends — the guy was gasping his thanks for three full minutes afterwards, no exaggeration.
It’s not just knowing the moves, though. That’s half the battle. It’s really all about understanding your lover’s body language. That twitch, that gasp, that shudder, when their thigh muscles tighten or their ass clenches while they inhale sharply… all these little signs will give you clues as to what’s working… and what’s working better.
You don’t have to talk during the process but your lover should always emit little vocal cues when oral’s underway. It’s a roadmap of sorts. I’m fortunate, this is my strong suit. I can read a lover like a Dick-and-Jane book.
By understanding all those little subtle shifts in behaviour, you know when to switch up your technique to get a little added stimulation in, or to pull back so you can prolong the experience without having them blow their load too soon. It’s torturously delightful when the whole process is dragged out for as long as you can make it last.
My record for delivering oral on a guy was spread out well over an hour, and with his reaction and the night that followed it, my time proved to be very well spent. There are some situations that scream for you to dote and linger and take the slow route around. (In my books, that always includes light bondage.)
I’m not afraid to make an entire night about the guy. Or to at least try. I’ve never had a guy let me make it all about him. Half-way through, they’re always so riled they feel compelled to take charge.
And who am I to argue, then? It’s one of the perks of showering your lover with affection — limiting their ability to be involved in the process always heightens the payback. And I do so love payback.
If I wanted to deliver The Perfect Scenic Route Blowjob, it’d take a little scheming. Naturally, he wouldn’t know I had this in mind. Where’s the fun in that?
I would be planning to give loverboy a full-body massage that would slowly turn into bondage. I’d do firm but sensual deep issue work, keeping it fairly innocuous… for a while.
If not already naked midway through the massage, I’d remedy it and undress. Straddling him, sitting on his ass, I’d work my way lower on his back. When through there, I’d have him roll over, and he’d naturally be rock hard by now.*
I’d have a bind or tie of some kind under the pillow, and upon straddling his front, I’d lean in for a kiss, pin his arms playfully over his head, then produce the rope. Of course he’d give his permission (because I only date intelligent men) and I’d then tie his hands up.
Then it’s all about exploring, isn’t it? Kissing, sucking, nibbling from head to toe and back again… but stopping often for long, involved cock teasing.
Where I start with a blowjob is by grabbing the base of the shaft. This isn’t an option. Need I repeat that? Not an option, sisters. A good firm grasp around the shaft is a great start, but it’s also great to have the testicles involved in this lovely grasp, as well. Cup them, and maybe play with his balls, rolling them in your hand, but don’t overdo it ‘cos you don’t want to get him too riled too early. Be careful that you’re not pinching him. If you’re new to his cock, then check that he’s all right with your grip’s pressure.
This whole process is going to be about giving and denying — taking him to the brink and knowing when to stop so you can stretch that tease to the maximum. If you can prolong it as long as possible, the orgasm (from my experience) is of the earth-shattering, full-body spent kind. (My favourite, personally.)
From that point, baby, it’s all mix’n’match. There’s no real process. Vary it like mad, not sticking with any one technique for longer than a minute or so. If I can see his face and know he’s concentrating with furrowed brows or biting his lip intensely, then I’ll probably prolong that move just a tad since it’s obvious he’s in another place with it. There are no rules… just make it good and make it last.
Among my favourite moves:
The Explorer: Licking hard and slow up from the base of the shaft, over the head, nibbling the tip oh-so-gently before going open-mouth and deep over the whole shaft, closing lips hard over him, sucking hard but teasingly slow all the way up, then making a couple short little slurping passes over the tip. I repeat the whole move a few times in a row, usually producing a couple tortured little shudders at the very least.
The Nibbler: Imagining you’re a dainty little old English lady working her way around a tea biscuit with the littlest of nibbles. You’ll work your way from base to tip ever so delicately nibbling the skin lengthwise, and when you get to the tip, you’ll simply mouth the top of his cock and his glans and toy with him using your tongue and sucking with varying degrees of pressure.
The Creamsicle: Ah, let’s hear it for the classics. Fondly recall those days of old when you’d grab yourself an orange creamsicle and suck it whole in your mouth, up and down, until it was too weak to last much longer. So too will be your man’s cock if you’re attentive enough with this trusty old standby. If you don’t lay hard tongue pressure against the side of his cock as you suck the length of the shaft, then why don’t you?
Now, the downside of the Creamsicle is that it tends to get him off a little too quickly if you overdo it. I prefer short bursts of Creamsicling (unless I’m winding up my services, and then I give it all I’ve got). I’ll often make sure I’m clutching his shaft hard and tugging in rhythm with my lipservice. This, too, can be problematic when you’re trying to prolong his experience.
More tips to get him off orally cumming soon…
Me and the Bohemians
Oh gosh oh gee oh me oh my. Guess what guess what guess what?!! I am suddenly and unexpectedly—and quite deliciously I might add—being whisked off to…PRAGUE for a week! Am I a lucky girl or what?
Oh I can’t wait. I can’t wait to be dumbstruck by the magic of that unbelievable architecture. I’ve seen pictures of the castle and the old churches and squares. It looks like a set on a old Disney movie. I can’t wait to wander the cobblestone streets and stroll the medieval courtyards and and and—I don’t know. Just get good and lost. I want to indulge in real European espresso and get such a caffeine buzz going that I have to run laps around the castle! I want to feast on beer and dumplings and saurkraut (isn’t it wonderful to be bad in the name of experiencing local culture?) in some great neighborhood pub! Maybe see a classical music concert of native son Dvorak? Maybe check out a couple of the underground rock clubs? Oooh—perhaps take the waters somewhere?
Prague is being brought to me courtesy of P, a casual boyfriend I’ve had for some time. I use that term “boyfriend” loosely. P’s okay. He’s a bit of a show off with his money, a bit of a braggart about his job (really I don’t care that you made partner. I really really don’t.) What he does have in spades though is great taste and great connections. He was the first with Per Se reservations and Producers tickets, the first to get access to Bungalow 8 and become a member of Soho House. If he can work miracles like that in New York, there’s no telling what we’ll get to do in Prague.
So what’s the catch you say? Yes the catch. Why is there always a catch? Because P is not only bringing me.
He’s bringing his wife.
Apparently, when they decided to get married, P and Mrs. P agreed to have an open marriage. Apparently, Mrs. P thought ‘open marriage’ meant they’d get to talk about things like, well, feelings. She was actually none to happy to find out about yours truly, especially when finding out meant finding P bringing himself to climax in their linen closet with one of my recently worn Cosabela thongs. (Did not give him the parting gift by the way. He took it on his own.) A row of epic proportions ensued.
Supposedly, though, they’ve reached some kind of agreement. P says Mrs. P’s just curious and wants to get to know me. She was the one who suggested that I come along with them on their trip.
I know. I know. You’re all at home screaming at your computer. Step away from the plane ticket Alexa! Get thee to a brain surgeon. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. I hear you. I know. But it’s Prague! I’ve never been! It’s supposed to be beautiful! And I mean honestly, what could really go so wrong?
The Fine Art of Massage
The Cunting Linguist says…
For me, one of the most passionate things I can do for a man is a massage, and if he does it right, likewise.
I take massages very, very seriously. A great massage takes you to a different place. Paying for a massage is one thing, but receiving one from a lover fills me with raw desire while setting me on a wave of bliss.
I love giving hour-long full-body massages. I love to trade them like favours. It’s a delightfully erotic evening in and really adds layers to your intimacy. I hear a lot of complaints from men, though, that while they massage their lover, they seldom receive them in return. Smarten up, ladies.
For a woman, I have strong hands. They’re broader across the palm, and my fingers are pretty solid. I can apply a lot of pressure, and the nice thing is, my hands and fingers are perfectly shaped for massage. They’re not sharp and bony, and digging into tissue isn’t invasive.
But you can always adjust your technique if you don’t have the “right” hands. The trick is, when you’re massaging with fingers, to make sure the portion coming in contact is that part under the crease, over your top joint nearest your finger tip. This allows you to use the rounded-yet-flat surface to keep your lover most relaxed. It’s best if you’ve got short fingernails, but if you don’t, then simply stay aware of them.
The heel of the palm is the best part of your hand when it comes to massage. Lord, is it ever. And the outer ridge of your thumb, as it extends down towards your wrist. This works the best when you’re squeezing ligaments and muscles on the shoulder tops and neck area, as well as the arms, legs, and the always-yummy ass.
For you, my friends, in anticipation of next weekend’s hijinks, some recipes for massage oils as included in InterCourses: An Aphrodisiacs Cookbook, one of my most prized cookbooks. From Terrace Books, published in 1997. (Check out that book. Makes you want seconds — both of your dinner and of your lover.)
But if you haven’t the time to cook up a love potion, I highly recommend “Love Butter” by Auracacia. (The link takes you to a site selling it cheaper than I’ve seen it before. Some might suggest it’s still an exorbitant price, but really, if it takes where you want to go, who cares?)
It’s solid cocoa butter scented with the essence of ylang-ylang oil, whose properties are that of an aphrodisiac. It’s worked like a charm for me. Definitely a recipient of the
The recipes.
“yummy yummy juicy warm”
to 1 ounce jojoba oil, add:
21 drops sandlewood oil
6 drops of ylang-ylang
5 drops steam-distilled lime
“the heady oil of good feelings”
to 1 ounce jojoba oil, add:
13 drops Frankensence
6 drops patchouli
5 drops steam-distilled lime
“relieve anxiety, restore balance”
to 1 ounce jojoba oil, add:
6 drops geranium
6 drops clary sage
6 drops ylang-ylang
“sultry-sweet aphrodisiac potion”
to 1 ounce jojoba oil, add:
3 drops jasmine
34 drops sandlewood
(as written in the book:)
mixing your own massage is a simple process to follow: simply mix 6 to 8 parts of essential oil for every 1/8th cup (25 ml or 1 fl. oz) of base oil. essential oils are available at health food and natural food stores. vegetable oils work nicely as the base — try almond, avocado, olive, sunflower, hazelnut, or jojoba. mix with your signature concoction of essential oils. store in an airtight container in a cool, dark place.*
*steff’s tip? store it in the fridge. buy yourself one of those little electric plug-in cup warmers for hot beverages at work, and put it bedside. when you’re wanting to heat things up with your lover of choice, fill a small bowl with the oil before the massage, and place it on the warmer. hot oil, hot massage, hot night.
the above recipes from InterCourses by way of the Aromatherapy Catalogue.
Looks like Great Brittain had their own Kinsey Report in 1949. Nothing though was ever reported because the news was considered just too shocking—until now.
And apparently sexual repression in the UK still exists, since it is the country with the strictest anti-pornography laws.
Ever wonder how to say ‘asshole in Japanese? Here’s the guide for you .
Worried about rising gas prices? You may want to hire this guy .
To Be Young At Heart Redux
“D,” I said slowly, conspiratorily. “Have you ever played ‘Pin The Tail on the Donkey’?”
“Of course I’ve played Pin The Tail on the Donkey. How do you get a cab in this crappy neighborhood anyway?”
“How about horse shoes?”
“Sure in camp.”
“And ‘donut toss’?”
“We’re not going to the Doughnut Plant. Let me say that again Alexa. We are not going to the Doughnut Plant. We’re going to sleep on The Upper East Side”
“It’s sort of like horse shoes. But you don’t use a stake”
Something about my tone caused D to give me a sideways glance. “What—what do you use?”
I raised my eyebrow and smiled.
“Which way is it?” he said.
“Follow me.”
I spread them out before me on the bed like little treasures. Vanilla-Bean. Apricot. Valrhona-chocolate. Malted Milk. Rosewater. Coconut Cream.
“What’s your fancy birthday boy? Coconut cream or jelly?”
“What kind of jelly? If it’s strawberry I can’t eat it. If I even look at a strawberry these days I break out in—”
Before he could finish, I ripped open my shirt popping a few buttons and revealing my bare skin. I picked up the coconut donut and brought it slowly to my mouth. “Mmmmm.” I said licking the sticky glaze as I squeezed the donut hard. The gooey center oozed in my hand. I brought it to my breasts. To my nipples. “Coconut okay?” I cooed.
“Uhhh,” he whispered.
I walked over and grabbed him by the waist of his pants. “Do you want a taste?” D leaned down and tentatively tried to lick my nipple. I backed off and dropped down to my knees, then looked up at him while I unzipped his pants. I squeezed the donut again around him and slipped my breasts on either side. The room smelled of sugar, coconut and D’s sweat. He hardened between me and I began to hear his breath quickening I reached up and offered him the Valrhona-Chocolate. Before he could take a bite though, I brought it to my own lips. The first taste was a revelation. Deep. Rich. Pungent. “Ohhhh,” I moaned. My taste buds yearned for more, I felt light-headed. I reached my mouth up to D. He bent forward in a kiss and stole the donut bite from between my lips. He arched his head back, swallowed then grabbed the Rosewater, brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. I took the Malted Milk and whispered to him. “Watch me. Watch me D.” He fluttered open his eyes and looked as he took in labored breaths.
“What…what are you going to—”
“This. This is how you play donut toss.”
I took the Malted Milk and pushed it around him until it hit the skin of his pelvis. D moaned as his cock slightly jerked upward. I slid my sticky glazed hand over him then grabbed the Vanilla Bean and shoved it hard next to the Malted. It fit tight, snug, then broke a bit. The glaze nestled in his hair, began to melt from our heat and coated him ever so lightly. I licked my fingers then took the Apricot and moved the hole in and out through the tip of his cock. I squeezed the donut and the room filled again with the smell of rich sweet sweet fruit. “Mmmm. Apricot,” D moaned. I began to eat. First the bottom of the Malted Milk. My tongue grazed his balls, my breasts rubbed against his thighs. I bit the Vanilla Bean, the rush and smell making me woozy. I took the Apricot off of him, brought it around his backside and ran it down between his cheeks, then with one final movement pushed it inside of him. D exploded just as the donut burst forth its rich fruit center.
“Alexa,” he panted afterward. “I think…I think I do like donuts after all.” And he began to giggle, giggle and shake and guffaw like that was the best joke his new teenage ears had ever heard. He couldn’t stop. His laughter was like music. His eyes danced. And his smile, it lit up his face like a room full of biggest birthday candles I could imagine. I smiled and laughed along with him.
Mission accomplished.
Day of the Dead
It’s tragic. Around 20,000 people died last weekend in Pakistan. Whether we’re talking about the 100,000 people who died in the tsunami or the 3,000 who died on 9-11, it’s just terrible when so many die in a disaster. I couldn’t help but cry when I read the news.
It’d be even more tragic if Osama bin Laden pulled a Pat Robertson by broadcasting throughout the Muslim world that God struck down the unfaithful in Pakistan for aiding the infidels in their assualt on Islam. Whether Billy Graham’s son calls Islam a “a very wicked and evil religion” or a mullah incites young boys to jihad from his dusty little mosque, religious intolerance is truly evil. Nothing good can come of it.
It’s most tragic, though, that we’d be partly at fault if more people died in a future attack here. After we’ve invaded Iraq on a lie and propped up corrupt dictatorships throughout the Middle East for so long in the name of protecting our oil, who can blame others for not taking our message of democracy seriously over there? How can we advocate keeping religion out of the government when our own president spurns science in favor of religion in teaching creationism in our schools?
God, now I’ve fucking made myself depressed…
Right to Fuck
The Cunting Linguist says…
I wrote a fun piece a time ago on my own blog, “The Failure to Fuck,” about an Italian woman who sued her ex-husband for failing to disclose his inability to get it up before they tied the knot.
The Italian courts ruled in her favour, citing that he had abused “her right to sexuality.”
What turned me on about that judgment was the legal precedent set by stating we all have a right to be sexual. Fuck freedom of speech and liberty — give me the right to fuck. As a Canadian, I enjoy the right to do anything I want, aside from fucking animals, in the privacy of my own home. It’s a pity the same can’t be said about the laws in some American states.
Elsewhere in the world, things are even more liberal than my home in Canada. Like in Denmark, for example, where prostitution is legal, as it is in Holland and other nations. This legalization of an industry that’s been around as long as civilization itself has made for an interesting new lawsuit that’s presently before the Danish court.
A Dane named Torben Hansen is afflicted with Cerebral Palsy and confined to a wheelchair. With his disease in such an advanced state, he is asking the country to pay for his sessions with a prostitute since housecalls by hookers in Denmark cost the client extra cash — cash that Mr. Hansen can’t afford to spend, but must if he wants to get some pussy, since visiting a brothel is out of the question, and women obviously don’t flock to men in wheelchairs.
Apparently there has been copious research done which proves that individuals who are afflicted with CP and other nervous disorders suffer added frustration and aggression when they’re denied a sex life.
Personally, I find it amazing that scientists needed to do a study to prove that of anyone. Angst is easy to come by when you’re not getting any, and the notion of denying people such services because of posturing by the political right is abhorrent.
Recent studies have shown that North Americans are at an all-time high for touch depravation. Meaning, some of us can go entire days, if not weeks and months, without receiving meaningful physical contact with others. That it happens to any of us is a crime. That people like Mr. Hansen are virtually doomed the rest of their lifetime without sex thanks to the disease they suffer from is a tragedy.
Those arguing against Hansen’s case cite things like trying to get women out of prostitution as a reason to deny Hansen’s request for state-sponsored visits. They suggest that providing state funds for schtupping would imply that they’re endorsing the act of paying women for sex.
That’s just ludicrous.
We all know that sex always comes at a price. Be it a fancy meal, a new set of lingerie, or plane fare to visit a lover back home, we’re all footing the bill for getting ourselves off. Sometimes, it’s just a little more obvious, and a little less socially accepted.
Besides, it was Denmark that inspired this desire in Mr. Hansen.
He took a state program for those afflicted with disabilities such as his, and it was during that course that they were taught how to deal with their desires when they arose, so to speak. It took a while, but he eventually found the confidence to arrange for professional services. Then, he found a girlfriend for a while, despite his crippled, palsied state, but she sadly passed away in 2003. After a while, he again mustered the confidence to find a call girl to visit his home and help relieve him. Unfortunately, the costs are prohibitive, and the visits aren’t nearly as frequent as they could be, from a therapeutic point of view.
Personally, I imagine it took quite a bit of guts to go public with his need for financial assistance in his continued quest of fighting his sexual frustrations. It enrages me that sanctimonious folks who are opposed to the notion of paying for sex continue to try and stymie his attempts to live as fulfilled a life as he can, considering the prison he already lives in.
I’m sure the state pays for his medical attention, so why not help bring him physical relief he may not otherwise ever attain?
Some women may well be forced into prostitution through situations beyond their control, but there are obviously some sex-trade workers who have no problem with their chosen careers, who actually enjoy the work they do, and the rewards for their services.
Sometimes, these fights waged for others’ rights end up costing the rights of others. Mr. Hansen, and those like him, have few, if any other options when it comes to intimacy. Who the hell does anyone think they are to deprive others?
Yes to “The Year of Yes”
Now I’m the first to grab your standard-issue chic lit book for a day at the beach. Shakespeare it’s not but in terms of escapism you just can’t beat it. When a publishing friend gave me a galley copy of The Year of Yes by Maria Dahvana Headly, I expected much of the same—until I found myself slapping my knee repeatedly and yukking it up out loud.
Headly’s premise is a funny one. Throughout her life she had been the first to say no when a not-so-camera-ready guy asked her on a date. When Valentine’s Day rolls around once again and once again she hasn’t got a date, Headly decides to change her tune. From now on she’ll be the girl who says yes—to everyone. The catch is that Headly lives in Greenpoint, Brooklyn and thus has her share of homeless men, crazy men, Spanish-speaking lotharios, dyke publishing execs, software executives who live with their mothers and the odd virgin thrown in to boot. What’s the absolute best is the book crackles with the same off-beat, wacky, and downright unbelievable energy that makes our great city tick.
Get thee to a bookstore girls! I promise you’ll have a rollicking good time.
To Be Young At Heart
The other day I got a call from D, a charming handsome older man that I had met out at a bar a few nights ago. “Alexa,” he said hurriedly, “Are you free on Friday?”
“Friday…” I rifled through my book. Wasn’t I doing something on Friday?
“It’s it’s it’s uh…well um, it’s sort of my um—50th birthday.”
“Well happy birthday then! Of course I’m available,” I said, making a mental note to change plans with Cathy. D was quite an attractive man that spared no expense when it came to having fun. No one but no one likes to be alone on their birthday. “So what will we be doing to celebrate?”
“All I want”, he said with all the sincerity in the world. “All I want is to be young.” This didn’t sound like the D I spent time with earlier.
Young in my New York experience only means one thing—the Lower East Side. There’s nowhere else in Manhattan that feels as fresh and as new and as alive than East of the Bowery and South of Houston. Oh I was going to show D a roaring good time. By the end of the evening he was going to be a footloose and fancy-free twenty-five-year-old.
We started off at 9:00 with dinner al fresco in the garden at Le Pere Pinard, my favorite hip LES bistro. Mussles. Steak frites. A bottle of Pernod and a Kir Royale. What more could a body want?
“Do you like the salmon?” I asked D.
“I’m fifty” he sulked.
I took him to a set at The Living Room, ordered us a couple of pints and snuck us both a couple of cigarettes.
“I gave it up,” he said handing it back. “Cancer.”
“You never had cancer.”
“But I could.”
I took him to The Saphire Lounge for a little bit funk, a little bit reggae, and a whole lotta Latin. I danced. I shouted. I lifted D’s hands above his head and shook him. “Isn’t this the best!”
“Let’s go”, he said. “I don’t even know this music.”
“Young,” I said reminding him. “The night is still young.”
“And I’m still old.”
“I can’t hear you!” I yelled over the backbeat. A tall blond bumped and grinded against him. A brunette rumpled his hair and smiled.
A few hours later we stumbled out onto Eldridge Street and the New York City dawn. “Okay Mr. Twenty-something. This is the part where we hit a greasy spoon for some eggs, fries and a milkshake. I’ll even sing to you if you’re good.”
“I’m tired.”
“Oh I don’t believe you. You’re young. You’re virile.”
“It’s not even my birthday anymore.”
“Wait wait wait wait. Wait. Hold on a second. What time is it exactly?”
“It’s—Jesus you’re killing me. 6:10. In the AM,” he said for emphasis.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Guess what we are going to do next? You are going to love this!”
“No. There is no next. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m done. I’m finished.”
“We are going to The Doughnut Plant. Yeah!!!!!”
I had been obsessing about The Doughnut Plant since Tasha, Machiavelli and Rex wrote in about how great it was when I was on my search for all things donuts. I had gone there twice already but each time it was in the late afternoon and they had already sold out. Which only made the mystique of the place even greater. And it was a mere twenty minutes to opening and we were literally around the corner. What luck! I’d offer D the pick of the litter. We would eat until we were utterly giggly and sugar sick. The only thing I had to do was convince D, who was looking older and sadder by the second. But I wasn’t going to give up the fight this easy. This was now my mission.
“I don’t like donuts,” he said.
“Everyone likes donuts silly goose. They’re whimsical.”
“They’re carbs.”
Think Alexa think! What could I do to finally find D’s inner teenager?
And then I hit upon it. The perfect idea…
How the Other Half Lives
It all started with the zit.
It was one of those cyst-like under the skin jobs. You know what I mean. The kind that actually takes days to emerge but you can feel it throbbing there just under the surface like nobody’s business. And you are stuck once it shows up. Try to take action and it will just return in a bigger uglier form. Ah yes, the gift that just keeps giving…
So I was sporting this Mark of Cain one morning last week when I walked into Columbus Avenue Bakery for a happy dish of oatmeal and a latte. This being the upper West Side, I had to first walk a virtual obstacle course around various baby carriages and children to even get myself inside. You know, I know it’s got to be hard trying to navigate narrow and uneven sidewalks while pushing a stroller and pacifying a two-year-old. Nonetheless, there needs to be a better system employed here. Like a “single-girl” crosswalk, or a red light where they have to pull all the strollers over simultaneously into a neat and compact line.
Anyways, I looked around and I saw I was outnumbered even more than usual. Was everyone in the entire place pregnant? And then I saw something that stopped my heart. Literally they all had the most perfect skin—slightly flushed, dewy, youthful and radiant. Their hair was another wonder to behold. Shiny, swingy, healthy. It was hair commercial hair to the letter. I sulked. Was it possible there was a black market for hormones?
It did start me thinking, though. What was it like to be them? What was it like to suddenly be a nubile fertility goddess plunked down into the middle of gritty and earthbound New York? I suddenly realized that I had to find out. Now.
My first thought was to call Bethany. “Okay,” I said. “I’ve got a job for you.”
“Shoot. What’s up?”
“I need to get myself good and knocked up.”
“I’m your girl,” she said. I hung up and immediately headed over there.
Bethany, it should be told, is a costume designer. One of the best I might add. At her studio, she promptly fitted me with a prosthetic belly and butt. “Do you want the boobs too?” she asked. I paused. I couldn’t stop thinking of my Upper Breast Side experience. 42K 42K. “Let’s just stick with the standard package for now.” “All right,” she said. “We’ll work with what we’ve got.”
One hour later I was good to go. Six months and counting. Unfortunately, though, Bethany seemed to only have the Target version of maternity ware on hand. I immediately headed to Liz Lange. Do not pass GO. Do not collect two hundred. And did not exit until I had secured the proper Upper East Side accoutrements. Then I walked outside and stepped into the threshold of my possible future.
What was it like? Well wonderful. An older man literally tipped his hat at me. Women made eye contact and smiled. A crossing guard asked if she could put her hand on my belly. Odd. I felt exposed, as if I were suddenly wearing my genitals on the outside of my body. I couldn’t figure out how to rightly balance my weight. When I crossed the street between intersections I realized I couldn’t slip through parked cars like I usually did, but had to go around. Sly. The world thought they had something on me but didn’t. Maybe I was really a spy with the perfect cover. Maybe I was an actor walking away from the Law and Order set.
Late that night I took off the prosthetics and stepped back into the present tense. I looked in the mirror. Alas, the zit was still there. But someday, maybe soon, it wouldn’t be.
Go Fuck Yourself. Seriously.
The Cunting Linguist says…
A dude dropped me a line over at The Cunting Linguist and I thought it was a nifty topic to share. He wrote:
Late at night your long-time female partner believes you are alseep and commences to masturbate right there beside you in the cot.
The unmistakable sound of her arousal soon has e breathing heavy, but she’s concentrating so hard she thinks it is snoring coming from my side of the bed.
What should a man do in these circumstances, expecially as she has denied this activity ever took place when challenged previously? Sex life is quite OK, but she obviously wants more and wants it solo.
Should I request she leaves the room to perform this act of self-service?
Signed,
Not Snoring, Breathing Heavy
When your lover’s laying next to you and apparently wants an unmanned journey to The Big O, there are a few questions you need to ask yourself, Mr. NSBH.
- One, is my sex life as good as I’ve been deluding myself that it is?
- Two, have I really been honest when talking to my lover about sex?
- Three, is she comfortable truly telling me her desires?
- Four, what can I do to have her wanting me to join in?
- Five, is there something wrong with my approach?
Now, I couldn’t help but notice you said she “denied this activity ever took place when challenged previously.” Allow me to pull a Dr. Phil here and point out your choice of language: “denied” and “challenged.” The tone’s argumentative, and it leads me to suspect you may have dropped the ball when you addressed the issue in the past.
She shouldn’t have been challenged, and shouldn’t have been put in a place of having to “deny” or “admit”. That’s inarguable. Masturbation may not be mentioned by name in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, but I tell you, we’re all entitled, baby, and so is she.
But was she in the right to be doing it right then? Well, that’s the debatable part, and I say no.
If your lover is fucking themselves in bed next to you, there’s really only three ways that goes.
- One, they want to be discovered because they secretly desire to fuck you.
- Two, they’re already fucking — with your mind — and are doing it to taunt you.
- Three, maybe it really is a sudden middle-of-the-night desire and they’re just dealing with it as the situation arises, so to speak.
Situation three seems not to apply to this case in point, since it’s happened on more than one occasion.
Face it: If you’re in bed, masturbating, and your lover’s six inches to your left, you might as well be lying there with a low-wattage neon sign that’s shouting “fuck me now, please.”.
Maybe, though, you’re part of the really ignorant segment of society whereby you feel you have the right to lie next to your partner, masturbate, then tell them you’re not interested in them helping. If so, I got to tell you, you’re a right cunt.
Get out of bed and masturbate someplace where you won’t be fucking with your partner’s head. They deserve that, at the very least.
The fact is, most of us, when faced with someone masturbating by our side, will find ourselves ragingly horny as a result.
If you’re a guy, and your woman is doing this to you, then I say you should try to get in on the act. Personally, I’d welcome it. A middle-of-the-night fuck is always one of my favourite kinds.
Now, don’t be an idiot and start talking to her. You may catch her offguard and shock the mood right out of her. No, better to keep your mouth shut. Just lightly trace a finger up her thigh or gently bite her shoulder. Do not try to get a touchdown by rushing for her genitals. She’s already aroused and they’re hypersensitive. Do a light tracing and guage her reaction.
A quiet moan from her means you’re in. Rub your palm down her, and back up. Maybe find your way to her breasts. If she starts responding more, then continue with the surface play for a little while longer, letting her tell you what to do, while you prolong the tease before delivering. If you do things right, you’ll either go down on her or enter her, depending on what she wishes, since this particular session ought to be all about her, since she’s generously allowing you along for the ride.
If she’s not interested in you joining — she gasps, grumbles, or just suddenly stops and rolls over — then you need to have a conversation in the morning, but save your pride and roll over for now.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with masturbating when you’re in a relationship. I think it’s fine. It’s better if you have a healthy sex life and let your partner help you, but it’s not a death knell. But no lover gets carte blanche. You do not get to lie in bed next to your lover, fuck yourself, and tell them essentially to fuck themselves when they want to be fucking you in your moment of fuck-worthiness.
It just ain’t right. You want to do self-service? Then do it where you’re by yourself.
After all, Elvis said it best, baby. Don’t be cruel.
Not Your Mamma’s Video Store
This is what happens when the adult section swallows the rest of the store…
Kate Moss’s coke-snorting pic has set tongues awagging. The real question? Is she or is she not a hottie? I, for one, vote yes.
Having trouble getting some and you’re over fifty? Those in the know at the University of Michigan offer some help.
Looks like CNN finally acknowledged the blogosphere in prime time. Check out the Blog Chics.
Seems like David Cronenberg can be as strange as his films. Apparently, he and his wife demonstrated sex moves on the set of The History of Violence.
Beach Blanket Bonkers
I spent last night in hell. No not strapped into stirrups at a tattoo parlor where a guy named Snake repeatedly pierced my labia. No not trapped in an elevator with a sweaty, nervous, and overweight business man who crying for “Mommy” and stuttering novinas in equal intervals. No. I spent last night being forced to watch not one, not two, but three of the Beach Blanket movies.
God help me.
For the uninformed, The Beach Blanket movies were a series of films that began in 1963 starring Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon as two goody-two-shoe kids who liked to surf and sing. They included Beach Party, Muscle Beach Party, Beach Blanket Bingo and How To Stuff A Wild Bikini.
Now in fairness the music is actually kinda great. Dick Dale and his Del-tones started things off with a bang in the first movie with their California surf music. And it’s fun to watch all the gang including DeeDee (Annette), Frankie, Bonehead, and Eva Six dance, shimmy, and strut their stuff. There’s a featured dancer in fringy outfits in Beach Party who twists so hard and so fast it’s amazing she didn’t just drill herself into the sand. And weirdly, some of the bathing suits (ah! so that’s where boy shorts came from!) are now back in style. Shoshanna Lonstein? You should get right on this.
What isn’t so good though is just about everything else. The dialogue for one thing:
DEEDEE: “You think it’s love Frankie?”
FRANKIE: “Is there a moon? Is there a sky? Are there dreams?”
‘nough said. The plots are ridiculous. Harvey Lembeck plays the sort of villain who wears leather and rides a motorcycle but has more pratfalls than Jack did in Three’s Company. His signature line is, “You stupids!” which just about shows you the level of sophistication going on here. Plus he’s got to be well into his forties, but meant to be a teenager!? Buster Keaton shows up in a recurring role which makes you just wish he stuck to silents and then from time to time Mickey Rooney or Paul Lind or Don Rickles comes out to embarrass himself. See the scary thing here is someone actually thought these were good or they wouldn’t be getting that level of guest star, right?
Oh wait! I almost forgot the clincher. While everyone shakes and shimmies in relatively itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny apparel, Annette is clothed in a one piece that make her look like, well, a vacationing nun. The reason? Disney still had her under contract to be a Mousketeer. She was allowed to do the Beach Blanket movies only if her navel never saw the light of day! Let’s just jump about thirty years into the future now shall we? Can you imagine if someone had insisted on the same clause for Mousketeers Brittney Spears and Christina Aguilera?!
So how did I get suckered into losing six precious hours of my life to all of this? My friend Deidre is writing her thesis on the changing sexual mores in American Cinema. Of course when she called me to ask if I wanted to join her on her research I jumped at the chance. Oooh—what would we be watching? Don’t Look Now, which has one of the most poignant sex scenes of all time (and is totally so creepy and scary everywhere else)? The Big Easy with sexy Dennis Quaid and Ellen Barkin? Body Heat, Mullholand Drive Nine and a Half Weeks? No. Nyet. None of the above.
So today? Well, I think I’ll just have to counter with a private Tribute to Candida Royalle. Belly buttons here I come.
Fizzle Fo’ Shizzle, Baby
The Cunting Linguist says…
A reader dropped me a line. Seems she’s thinking it’s time for the big threesome experience. She’s been with her man a dog’s age. Longer, maybe. One of those open-minded “fuck-me-now” sizzle-bang-bang type relationships that’s always stayed monogamous since it’s been so healthy and rewarding since day one. Now that they’re older, wiser, and have tried so much, why not spark it all in a bigger, better, two-fer kinda way?
Well, because He has hesitations, basically. She wants to know how to “persuade” him to get over his apprehensions towards watching another man fuck the stuffing out of his woman.
You wanna persuade him, honey? Have at it. Tell him, “I’ll be so hot for you after it all. I’ll fuck you six ways to Sunday, baby. Every day.” You can even tell him, “I’ll learn to suck a golf ball through a garden hose all for you, baby.”
Best way to persuade a man is by telling him all the dirty little things you’ll do deliver him to his sexual nirvana. Persuading a man is easy. Oh, so very easy. Far too fucking easy for your good, honey.
You know what hesitation is in the land of men? It’s your early warning system. When a man shows hesitation, he’s telling you he ain’t comfortable, and he’s telling you to proceed at your own risk. Fact is, if he’s hesitant, and you press him, he’ll likely acquiesce — not because he’s changed his mind, but because he doesn’t want to hear
about it anymore. “If I do it, it will go away, and life will go back to normal,” is what he’s probably thinking. The path of least resistance — the man’s credo.
Fact is, in this scenario, the number one thing most men will feel is threatened.
It all comes down to their manhood. Are they man enough to watch their woman get fucked, then be the follow-up act? Are they big enough? Are they hard enough? Are they good enough? Can they shake that image of their woman getting penetrated — again and again and again — by some other guy? Will she look different when she orgasms, and can they live with that image playing in their mind every time afterwards?
Fact is, it’s your fantasy. Odds are pretty good you’re gonna really blow the gasket when this other guy takes you to your happy place. If it’s at all different from the happy place your man takes you to, he’ll never forget that.
You wanna roll that dice, you go right ahead, girlie.
Me, I think you’re fucking mad — MAD, baby — to have a relationship that’s been going on for years, and then suddenly decide to bring a third party in. It’s as risky as all hell.
It’s different if the relationship began with extracurricular activities included in the package, but to do outside shopping a decade or so in? No matter how cool your hesitant partner pretends to be in the situation, the reality is, he’s probably wondering how long you’ve been bored with him, and whether this is the death knell for all you’ve shared, and whatever you tell him, it’s never really going to ring true. Some small seed of doubt’s always gonna linger.
If you want to take the games to a new level, then you’d both better be getting something out of the deal. Try swinging. You and he will both get a little somethin’-somethin’ on the side.
And if the notion of him getting sucked off by some sexy young thang makes you creepy-crawly and insecure inside, then you know you’re headed in the wrong direction. If you can’t allow him the same sexual mind-expansion as you’re wanting, then it ain’t right for either of you. Period.
Relationships more solid than yours have crumbled after antics like these. It’s a classic “be careful what you wish for” type situation. After all, if you go for the trinity, you may just go from sizzle-bang-bang to sizzle-fizz-fizz.
Dud Light, I Said
There’s no question that Bud Light’s “Real men of Genius” campaign is simply stellar. Who can keep a straight face when introduced to “Mr. Really Big Pet Snake Owner” or “Mr. Pro Wrestling Wardobe Designer” especially with the hilariously crooning back up singer thrown in the mix? I, for one, applauded when whipnet.com put the MP3’s of the commercials on the website. Yippee! I could now laugh and sing along to ditties about “Mr. Mail Order Bride Orderer” (You just said doodie!) and “Mr. Backyard Bug Zapper Inventor” (Die bugs die!) whenever I wanted. That was until August 26th of this year when whipnet suddenly took them down.
Why you may ask? Because the brilliant lawyers at Anheuser-Busch told them to cease and desist since the use of the material was unauthorized. Hello! You just said ‘dumb ass’! Let’s step back a minute boys. You just put the kabash on 60,000 mp3’s downloaded DAILY i.e. 60,000 possible buyers of your product—PER DAY.
One of the disappointed fans, Jarred, put it succinctly:
Whipnet presents Real men of genius (real men of genius)
Today we salute you mr. Budweiser marketing guy (you are a stupid mo-o-ron)
To the man who spends millions of dollars on advertising he doesn’t want people to hear. (don’t listen to our commercials)
Free? I don’t think so. In fact… I don’t think at all. ( I forgot what I’m doing)
Keep on begging for our product America, you can’t have it. In fact we want you to buy our competitors beer. (what are we selling anyway?)
So crack open an ice cold Coors, or whatever, oh maestro of the marketing committee… but make sure nobody sees you.
Open Mouth. Insert Football.
Why is it that every exhilarating experience has to be abruptly followed by its polar opposite—i.e gross and excruciating, unfathomable embarrassment?
Because alas, I cannot speak of my brother’s college friend Ted without blushing a deep teenage red.
You see after the game and my wonderful ride, after a day of touring around campus and indulging in a chipati from Pizza House and Grasshopper Pie ice cream at Stucchi’s it was time to party.
My brother’s fraternity was throwing a “Return To The Womb” shindig. That’s right. The logic was this: all of us attendees were fetuses. And if you wanted to travel down the birth canal and get born—into booze and debauchery mind you—you had to take a trip down the three-story central staircase of the house, which was covered in mattresses, which were in turn were covered in some sort of thick vaseline-like substance. It was the kind of thing you wouldn’t do unless you were completely sloshed, which of course you were given that this was a fraternity party.
We were all wearing pajamas (what exactly they had to do with being born and coming down the birth canal I’m not sure.) I was going for cute in a pair of Michigan boxers and one of my brother’s white T-shirts. The womb ride was pretty fun, but after a few times of knocking myself into the bannister I had had enough. I tried to find Pete but he was flirting with some blonde sorority girl in a nearly see-through teddy.
Ted was holding court with a group of older boys. I wandered over to listen to their conversation and perhaps get a little kid-sister attention. Or, who knows, something even better. But they were immersed in guy speak:
“But we can’t get cocky this early, you know? Ohio State is tough”
“No no Howard’s untouchable. 115 receptions in his career—”
“118! 118 as of today”
“Dudes trying to cheat our boy out of his stats!”
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m just saying the guy’s unstoppable for fuck’s sake. He’s already set or tied three NCAA records and—”
“How about touchdowns?”
“That was sweet man, right?”
“Your mattress-ride is fun,” I offered.
“33 goddamn yards. Score! And Howard is in the end zone!”
Clearly this approach wasn’t working. I tried to wrack my thirteen-year-old brain for something, anything that Pete had said to me during the game. Suddenly I knew I had it.
I screamed my know-how over the music but no one could hear. I screamed again.
This time Ted actually looked in my direction. “What? What was that Lex?” He said giving a big dimpled smile. I yelled again with the full force of my tiny voice just as the music stopped.
“I said Desmond Howard’s gonna get the Hyman Trophy!!!!!”
Ah yes it’s true. In November of 1990, I Alexa gave a room full of my brother’s fraternity brothers the greatest straight line known to God and mankind. You can just imagine what the scene was like after that. I’ll tell you though I never got it wrong again. Heisman. H-E-I-S-M-A-N Heisman. Ugh.
web designers
about me
So why am I writing this blog? I have an inner exhibitionist that just needs to be let out. I've always wanted to bare myself completely in front of strangers but have always been held back by fear.
As strange as it may sound, I've never really truly bared myself in front of any of my clients. For all that they've seen, they've never seen me be me. And for all that I've seen, I simply need to share it with you!
So why should you come? To be tantalized and teased. To get release by knowing the true me.
I promise that I won't bite, and if I do bite, I'll make sure you like it!
my favorite posts
- Caveat Vendor - Part II
- Selling Out (Part III)
- Poops!... I Did It Again!
- My First Escorting Experience
- My First Lesbian Experience
- Daddy's Little Girl (Part II)
- Selling Out (Part III)
friends
raunchy humor
sexy stories
archives
- February 2007
- January 2007
- December 2006
- November 2006
- October 2006
- September 2006
- August 2006
- July 2006
- June 2006
- May 2006
- April 2006
- March 2006
- February 2006
- January 2006
- December 2005
- November 2005
- October 2005
- September 2005
- August 2005
- July 2005
- April 2005
- March 2005
- February 2005
- January 2005
- December 2004
- November 2004
- October 2004
- September 2004
- August 2004
