Thursday, February 23, 2006

Young Love

This post by Zulieka made me nostalgic for those awkward teen years when everything is new and thrilling and guilt-inducing, but I had to smirk at this passage:

"It is the most joyously memorable experience of my sex life, the delight of that first oral tryst that took place, so humorously, and endearingly, in the pitch black of a cramped broom closet backstage of an auditorium after an orchestra rehearsal. When we recovered from the fright of the clatter of falling cleaning bottles and clacking broom handles, and my underwear was sidestepped beneath my skirt, his tongue made first contact. What a thrill! All my nerves were touched at once by the most delicate appendage of the human body, a shapely raw muscle unconstrained by bone or hide which could move every which way and besides, was self-lubricating. Intelligent design, my ass! If nature had a mind, penises would be tongues."

Amen to that!

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

...and the gods created love

A feather. He dragged it across my body, making me giggle, then shiver and moan. The sensation was wide-ranging, vague, imprecise. I arched my back, yearning for a firmer touch. He obliged, that mind-reader: his warm mouth on my hard, chilly nipples. A solid, concrete place in a sea of light ticklishness.

My fingers. He kissed them, and my palm, and the back of my hand. He licked the webbing between them, a manoeuvre I wouldn't have thought I'd enjoy but found strangely arousing. And he placed one in his mouth, sucked, drew it out, and said: "Now you have an idea of what it's like to penetrate." Christ.

His cock. He impaled me with it from behind, strong and insistent. It was so deep inside me that I could feel it bruising my cervix, and I knew I'd be sore later but I didn't care. He slapped my ass: not hard enough, but it's a start. I grunted, he sighed and muttered "Oh, god." And came.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Seven or Eight Inches, at Least

I was bitten by a rabbit yesterday. M, the king of original dates, took me to the park, where we fed the animals (in defiance of several stern warnings posted on the fence.) I survived the miniature horses and the deer without injury, but with the cute bunnies I let my guard down. The furry little fucker chomped down on my carrot-scented finger and drew quite a bit of blood.

Today, I feel a curious sort of ache all over my body. I suspect, however, that this is due less to potential rabies than to being repeatedly ploughed by M's lovely cock. Based strictly on a sample size of exactly one, there is, in fact, a correlation between hand/foot and cock size. This man has extraordinarily large hands and feet; he's extraordinary in other ways, as well.

He's a beautiful specimen, this one: tall, hairless and amazingly fat-free. And damned good at what he does. I almost expect him to vanish in a puff of smoke -- no one this perfect actually exists.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Slightly Unrelated

I'm now going to post something that isn't about sex! I don't want to turn this blog into a rant about my daily life, because that's usually painfully boring, but I just need to get this off my chest.

I was recently at a family gathering. My sister, who is taking classes to become a hairdresser (or should I say stylist, ahem) and I were talking about marks. I said that I had about a 75% average, and I wish it was higher. My sister said, I'm getting 90's in my courses. Very superior. And without thinking, I replied, well, if I was taking hairdressing courses I would be getting 90s too!

Now that was, I realize, unforgivably rude, given the audience contained not only my sister but my aunt and her sister, who are both hairdressers. My cousin has just last evening informed me that they were severely put out by this statement. Yes, I put my foot in my mouth. I shouldn't have said this. But you know what? I'm not particularily sorry.

I am in university studying a very technical, difficult and emminently practical scientific subject. When I graduate I will have knowledge and skills that will enable society to continue to function. I am not exaggerating or bragging, that's just how it is. Without my field, life as we know it would not exist. And it's damn hard. I work really hard to maintain a 75% average.

And then, a student of hair styling, possibly the most useless career choice possible, acts superior to me because she gets higher marks. First of all, I've seen the tests she writes and the textbook she uses, and they're a joke. All you have to do is memorize names, and the 'science' they teach about the hair and scalp is just plain wrong. I admit, the actual cutting and styling of hair does take considerable skill, but is it essential or necessary? If all the hairdressers in the world up and died, would the world come to a grinding halt? Hell no. I'd grab some kitchen scissors and get on with my life. Perhaps people would have less perfect hair, but really, who has perfect hair anyways? Even when I'm fresh out of the salon I don't like my hair. I'm pretty sure most women would be happy if society didn't demand they spend $50 on a hair cut every six weeks and a half-hour every morning in a futile attempt to style it.

Tell me hairdressing is fun or creative and I'll buy it. Tell me it's difficult or intellectually stimulating and I'll tell you to shove it up your ass.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Dark Side

A long time ago, I mentioned I had a dark side. (And in the sidebar, too!) That's a bit silly, in hindsight; everyone has a dark side. And mine, I suppose, in the grand (blogo-) scheme, is not particularily dark, after all. Still, I promised I would share it, so here I am.

I remember the first time I realized there was something strange about me. I was, perhaps, 15 or 16 years old, and reading a book called The Fionavar Tapestry by Guy Gavriel Kay. In it, a female character is kidnapped and raped by the villian. I remember reading that part over and over, and feeling a strange mix of excitement and discomfort. I knew I was turned on, but it disturbed me that something so cruel and sadistic could do so.

As much as I wanted to deny it, I recalled still more instances in books and movies where such a thing had attracted me. In The Princess Bride, Wesley is tortured. Jamie is tortured and raped in Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. Dracula and Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles had similar effects on me. To be honest, I felt like I must be a bit sick. What kind of person found pleasure from the depiction of such twisted events?

I tried my best to forget about it until first-year university, when I was 18, and I stumbled upon the blogs of BDSM devotees. Finally, I had confirmation that I wasn't alone and that my desires weren't sick and twisted.

Of course, that really hasn't helped my quest to find a person who is really and truly willing to explore this world with me. A couple people have humoured me with the occasional spanking but I know they're only doing it to please me. That's fine, but I'm looking for something more. I'm looking for a man who's a true sadist -- a man who does it not just to gratify me but to gratify himself; someone serious, someone wickedly creative, but someone I can also trust and care for.

I want to be tied up and spanked and fucked, yes, but I also want him to fuck with my mind. I want to be controlled and abused and violated in the most filthy, and yet the most loving, ways.

Any takers?