The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #169? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks Covet
“My mouth waters at the sheer beauty.”
My birthday…in moving pictures and still moments and a few words here and there…
I even had a special surprise delivery from my friend Julie, who snuck in an adorable little charm of one of my fave inappropriately named snacks!
The cast of the show I’m rehearing now, Rent Boy Ave, bought me some old school cupcakes! AND sang and everything!
I said fuck it, took myself to Ruth’s Chris because meat is love. Oh, and while I was up on Cathedral Hill, I bought myself a bed. I’ve been mulling it for a long time and I knew this was it. I wish I could have gotten it the same day, but it is OK. This just extends the joy of the birthday extravaganza!
I packed this morning for my Hotel and Spa day. This was the funniest packing job ever. Bunny PJs, Hugh Heffalump, a shitload of spa stuff, the trusty Wahl, and off we went!
Thumbs up to Arrow Cab for getting me downtown fast as hell.
I was hoping for an early check-in, but the room wasn’t ready. Dammit…forced to shop at Lush and to get a manicure & pedicure at Nova Spa.
I e’en stopped at Cole Hardware…made a purchase of an item I’ve wanted for a while and was hoping to…er…re-purpose for use later this evening. I’m still not sure if I’m gonna keep it, but at least I have it.
I think the boys at the Hardware store are gonna be talking about that one for a while. Yeah, I obfuscated a little and told them it was for a friend but that was not entirely a falsehood. It is meant to share…to be offered in conjunction with access to me. And I was honest about the fact I was perverting it. So there :-p
Unfortunately, not long after I took delivery of the DEVESTATINGLY FUCKING AWESOME cupcakes that Jennifer from Cups and Cakesdelivered, a series of text messages squished flat my hope that I’d have some company this evening. My erstwhile companion, the Ex-Un-Boyfriend, was not making it happen.
But even as I was stomaching that jagged little pill, I thought “Well, fuck it. I’ll just have to wear BOTH bathrobes myself and now there won’t be any squabbling over that third strawberry….right…?
The room is cosy. The bathroom is awesome…here’s a little tour -
Around 7-ish, my massage finally came through. Fie on you, downtown SF, for having garages that CLOS. Total fail. I wound up having to throw down extended ducats for parking for my massage, Praise Ganesha though, my masseuse, Saint, was awesome! Thanks to my buddy Suzanne for recommending her. Nothing like a big ol’ butch dyke pummelling you for 2 hours to make you feel alive! She rearranged furniture in order to make room for the table, but I also suspect she was showing off the butchitude as well. Who am I to complain? I mean, I wouldn’t wanna fuck up my mani! Hey fuck you I can too do femme.
I scored major points telling her my “Drinkin; with Lucy Lawless” story. Kills ‘em every time
Then it was time for bath number two.
The first one was a warm up, really.
I discovered the power of the Lush Karma Bubble bar and how violent it can be in conjunction with a spa tub that isn’t quite full.
…SPA BUKKAKE!!
Candles, crazy fucking epic bubbles, it was freaking ridiculous, everybody. I made bubble castles, a bubble fort, fought with bubble giants, and burrowed underneath until I was hella claustrophobic!
This is the bubble bath Mom never let you take because they make a fucking disaster. but you know what? IT IS A HOTEL ROOM! THAT IS WHAT THEY ARE FOR!!
I realized, pretty late, that my dietary needs today had been met by caffeine and Red Velvet Cupcakes.
Sure, I can get behind indulgence, but that’s just ridiculous. Plus I was feeling pummeled and achey from the massage and I needed fud.
The hotel restaurant, a good one, was closed today but the concierge recommended a little bistro up the street so I rinsed off and rolled over.
I couldn’t have stumbled into a more perfect ending.
I was originally gonna get my shit to go, but I decided, fuck it. Let’s stay here!
The bartender was very pretty, and friendly, and so that is never a bad thing. I sometimes feel weird sitting alone at a bar, but I was OK about it. I told the adorable bartender, Heather, that it was my birthday, and what I’d been up to all weekend. She declared it “Awesome!” and I agreed.
Folks, lemmie tell you. This place, Anabelle’s Bar & Bistro, is the shit. They have a late-night Happy Hour with $5 small plates. I guess they have drink specials but that wasn’t my focus…obvy!
I had a Caesar salad WITH anchovies, thank you, little hand-cut chicken bites (Rad.) and prosciutto wrapped jumbo prawns. Holy shit it was so good!
I asked Heather if she could hook me up with a virgin cocktail that did not suck and she knocked my Crocs off with a “Pregnant Hemingway” which is a virgin Mojito that has been molested by Ginger Beer and the shit is GOOD. So I officially have a crush on her.
I was on the verge of ordering another plate of the shrimp and was waffling when Heather said “Well, would it change your decision if I said desert was coming?”
She brought out a hazelnut torte, with a candle, set it in front of me, and wished me a happy birthday.
It took all Icoulddo do not to cry, I was so moved. The buzzed Southern Gentleman next to me wished me a happy birthday and then Heather and the other folks at the bar reacted with profound disbelief when I tole ‘em I’d turned 40. I’ll take that reaction, any day. And to top it off, a sweet couple sitting behond me bought my beverage.
So folks, there it is.
Heather, Jennifer and Saint, thank you for making my 40th birthday one that touched not only my tired body but awakened my heart to how beautiful even simple things can be.
Everyone on Twitter and FaceBook who sent wish after wish, you all pulled away the fog of loneliness, one warm thought at a time. I felt to loved, so cared for, by friends and virtual friends and strangers, it was transcendent. May you all feel as present and cared for as I have over my birthday weekend.
Though I had a few times I wished there was someone here to hold me and rub noses, it is OK. I remembered that I can, in fact, treat myself well. It is important to know that I am still ME on my own, and furthermore, I CAN trust me, my ideas, my ability to thrive in space I create.
Now…time to roll into bed. Hugh the Heffalump awaits and my bunny PJs are feeling just fine to me.
Please feel free to leave awesome birthday wishes and remind me why getting old is cool…?
My ass STILL has that weird angle to the side. Some shit never changes.
Bringing class to the baby photo studio. Modest? Moi?
Busted nomming this white lady’s thigh. Shit.
SO. FUCKING. CUTE! Word
Rocking the (Rip-off) Gunnie-Sax dress, 6th Grade Graduation
It is a bit creepy how much we look alike…I was in High School, I think.
1987 Hunter Yearbook Photo & quotes. As you can see, my attitudes haven’t…shifted. Much. Or at all.
Me and a friend, Bennett Miller. He’s kinda famous now I think and NO, that isn’t his cock. Geeze.
Me and Jack, with Squish (RIP) and Ebonycat (RIP)
Me playing “Vezna” in “America’s Deadliest Home Video”
That’s Jim…you know, my “Gateway Drug” to eventual perversion? The one who wrote songs about me. That one.
Image from the poster of “69Stories: One Pervert’s Tale” my 1st solo show.
My (then) boyfriend and me in Costa Rica. An amazing trip we took as a result of me winning the grand prize at the Company Holiday party. So much magic!
Tattoo of my theater company's Logo. I helped to design Crowded Fire's logo 11+ years ago.
Me and Mom at “The Gates;” Christo’s installation in Central Park.
Soberversary. March 17th, 2007. Jai Ganesha!
Me at the Folsom Street Fair. Photo by Howard Schatz.
Whether it is a picture of a woman with a corndog in her vagina or a shipment of mass-produced pornography that winds up on your desk, when you work on adult-oriented websites your day rarely has the word “boring” attached to it.
My buddy Sparkly Devil has had a particular toy lurking around her cubicle for over a year now, and since it was first deployed in our office around Pride, it seems fitting it resurfaced now.
Sometimes business and pleasure intermingle, and often the results are hilarious.
And no, this story is NOT going to involve the above-referenced sex toy, so let that go.
I got an e-mail from a member of one of the sites on which I work. Now, since I’ve been a member for over a decade continually, and on and off since its inception about 12 years ago, I’m used to communicating with kinky folks there.
Unusually, this individual wasn’t sleazy, didn’t have a picture of his penis on his profile (don’t get me started)and approached me with a nice e-mail.
We exchanged a few messages and then the curiosity got the better of me. See, he is originally of [REDACTED] extraction but spent many years in Germany, and his very succinct profile was in German. Feeding the text through online translators yielded me clunky results worth of re-posting on a website like Engrish.com, so of course I turned to Twitter.
Where, of course, some people redirected me back to Google Translate and Babel Fish. For future reference, I am a googling motherfucker. If I am asking for help it is either because I have already bloody googled the fuck out of some shit, or I am making some freakish point. Really.
But I digress.
Anyway!
The Lovely & Talented @KateBornstein hooked me up with the delightful @Ullieemigh after several days of my trying to have a native speaker tell me what the hell this dude’s personal ad said.
On a inky site, you never NOW what you are gonna get, so I made it clear to my new online translator friend the source of the text, and hope it wouldn’t offend.
We exchanged email addresses, and I sent her the following:
Howdy!
Thanks for your help….though it may be moot, because he seems to have dropped the ball.
His profile has the following information:
Profile for [REDACTED]
About Me:
Ich bin huebsch. Ich bin intelligent. Ich bin nett.
Ich bin dominant veranlagt.
My Ideal Person:
Meine ideale Partnerin sollte wissen (und spueren) welche Rolle sie an der Seite eines Mannes zu haben hat. Auch nachdem sie den maennlichen Orgasmus in ihrem Gesicht empfangen hat, sollte sie immer noch Unschuld, Stolz und Selbsbewusstsein ausstrahlen. Es geht mir viel um diesen finalen Blickwechsel.
Thank you again!
~Mo
And not so long afterwards, she replied back with the following:
My ideal partner should know (and feel) what part she must play towards her man. Even after receiving his cum in her face, she must still glow with innocence, pride and self-esteem. This final exchange of glances is critical to me. Warmly, Ullie
HOLYMOTHEROFACHICKENFUCKING PERVERT!!
That is a LOT of pressure to put on a bitch!
I can see it now
….a girl, kneeling expectantly, takes the money shot with grace and innocent pride, then glances shyly downward…
“Dammit! where was the self-esteem?!!? and you DIDN’T give me that final glance!! THAT GLANCE IS CRITICAL!! Now we have to start all over again!!”
Ah well…back to the drawing board!
And oh yeah, if you need translation, go to Ulrike’s Site!!
She is a hell of a lot more accurate than some damned translation software and, as you can see, possessed of an excellent sense of humor!
Since I’m almost 40 (3 days to go!) and therefore entitled to not give a flying fuck about what people have to say about me, this week’s HNT is brought to you from horseback.
Click through to meet my friend, Prince Frederick
I bought him not long after I got sober. I was on unemployment, barely scraping by. I passed a little antique store near my house one afternoon, coming back from an AA meeting, and saw him there.
No, I’m not a collector of antiques (well, except maybe Franciscanware Desert Rose stoneware and china) but this wasn’t just about an antique. It was about something I’ve always wanted and never had.
A lot of life is like that.
You want something, very very much even, and when you don’t get it it leaves a little footprint somewhere in your heart. And maybe years later…maybe decades later, on the other side of the continent, that little footprint that you so long ago outgrew, or thought you had, resonates for you again.
And a rocking horse big enough for a grown-up to sit on was exactly what my newly dried-out inner child wanted.
SO, she got him.
I negotiated the price down a bit and the nice men in the store agreed to hold him for me until my next Unemployment Benefit check arrived.
OK, sure you might think ”I am SO ratting her out to the gubmint! You are NOT supposed to spend unemployment money on &^%$ toys!”
And maybe that is true for most people. But in those early days of living life without the haze of booze, I felt so comforted by the sight of this silly horse in the windows of my flat. I love rocking on him too. Despite the fact that several overprotective friends were certain I was going to rock myself out of the bay windows, and thought my priorities were somewhat fucked up, I did what I wanted to do. For a change, it wasn’t destructive, and it felt good.
One day we will rock in that horse in the Bunny suit and on that day Nirvana will be attained.
I sit on that fucking horse and rock. Sometimes, weeks will go by and I won’t. I run around a lot. I sometimes forget to make time.
Tonight I remembered.
So, there you have it. Just one piece of why I keep myself alive one day at a time.
My knuckles pressed into the pale hollow formed by his hip as the muscles and bone slipped beneath skin damp from the shower, and I slid my hand up his side, ribs evident beneath an expanse of freckles.
“What’s with this Jesus of Nazareth post-fasting look you’re rocking here, dude?”
He laughed, somewhat ruefully.
“Yeah that happens when your focus on food being pleasurable shifts: you don’t really think much about eating. A protein bar is fine…” he trailed off as I wound my leg around his much longer one, my body shifted towards him and my breast was within reach.
“But your tummy issues are better?” I slid my arm under his head, hair damp, my chin on his forehead.
“Yeah…”
His reddish goatee scratching a heated trail of skin sensitized by the scrubbing sensation from my throat to my mouth as his insistent lips caught and nipped skin eliciting my sharp inhalations that drove him to more aggressive exploration of my body his hands pulling and pinching and twisting an arm between my legs my knee bent his elbow on my thigh and wait somehow under my head. His blue eyes meeting my myopic brown ones he pulls off my glasses and I laugh
“Now I can’t see…”
“You wanna keep your glasses on?”
“It might be interesting to see how long they last.”
He is close enough that I can see him his gaze dropping from mine to slide appreciatively down my body as he grabs fistfuls of me rippling reverberations of almost subaudible desire a counterpoint to one hand on my hip another squeezing the flesh on my belly and another or is it the first hand on the back of my neck nipple caught I must have lost track of his hands but one now is insinuating between my thighs going for my pussy but I keep my legs tightly together until his leveraging wins the day.
“Why are…open your legs, baby…” and though I’d usually comply something makes me shy at that moment absurd yes but once he gets the upper hand as it were he quickly realized the subtext of my reluctance is that “Goddamn your pussy is wet baby…” Fingers slipping in the flagrant fragrant evidence of my complete inability to “play it cool” once I’m raring to go and I was distracted from being embarrassed soon enough since I was shortly focused on his cock as it prized open my jaw and my hand gripped in that pushpull reaction I tend to have when getting face fucked. But when I have a gagging mouth full of cock I’m not necessarily able to do my best…work…as it were so I push away harder the barest edge of my teeth tugging lightly on the skin of his cock and…
…there…
…the perfect depth angle and position for me to…
“Ahhhhfucking hell my god baby you are such a good little cocksucker …” a violent hiss of breath and his cock is rapidly a fading memory on my dripping tongue as he pulls me over towards him with his free hand, the other busily fisting his upthrust cock “I have to fuck you. Right now. Right fucking now…” condom on…then his balled up fists on either side of my head his muscled forearms on either side of my face as he fucks his cock into my cunt my hands my fingers my fingernails dig into the sway of his back my breath caught in my throat as my feet
…my … feet…?
my feet feel as though they are on fire then legs hands shaking… my body begins a slow implosion that will I know take him with me but for him slowing down slowing slowing even as I’m on the brink of an orgasm then the brink is past and my own eyes rolled back into my head are blind to anything but the punishing reward of an orgasm that smites me from myself even as the tendons in his neck reflect the immense willpower he exerts as he holds fast on the brink over which I’ve already fallen and I regain a bit of the present and he is slow slow rolling slow “No…not yet…not yet…not yet…” his mantra as the muscles on the underside of my legs aftershock to their own seismic sexuality and I breathe one two feeling that no it isn’t over not yet, not yet and I laugh through my nose as he leans in to whisper that he “Isn’t done yet…” and I slide. Deeper, deeper and further.
Note: this covers some moderate “Daddy / girl ageplay” stuff,so if that is a trigger for you, please take care of yourself and move on to another SMSS!
It is time for the Best of the Bay series! Each year the San Francisco Bay Guardian prints a “Best of the Bay” issue and a few years back, my solo show “69Stories, one Pervert’s tale” was running and I was voted “Best Solo Performer” that year. It was pretty neat!
There are a lot of famous sexpeople here in the Bay Area, and I may not stand much of a chance but if we all put our minds and keyboards and mouses to it, maybe a little Black girl from the Johnson Projects will be on step closer to her dream of being in Internationally Known Executive Pervert!
If I win, I promise to video my performing the kinky versions of “Crazy” by Patsy Cline and “My Favorite things” from The Sound of Music previously only seen in “69Stories” or by those lucky enough (???) to see me yowling onstage at Kinkfest 2009!
The other day I was told “No, you’ll do it this way.” In my professional life.
And, Ganesha help me, I loved it.
Sure, at first, not so much. But within a few minutes I was strangely pleased. Smoothed out. Dare I say, perky, even.
I had a customer issue I needed to address, and it had been shuttled around for a bit. A number of people had their fingerprints on the e-trail for this problem, but I had to actually respond to the customer. This is something I do well, and I have in fact been given recognition, prizes, plaques and awards for this shit. I fucking RULE at customer service.
Yeah, shocking, I know.
So this fairly standard issue, addressing a customer complaint, was a piece of cake. I dusted off my high-falutin’ CorporateFuckYouHaveALovelyDay approach, dashed out an e-mail, and forwarded to one of the Powers That Be for approval.
And they said “No, I don’t want it this way.”
I sat, a bit frustrated because I am rather proud of my writing ability and my 20+ years working in Customer Service of one kind or another.
Then I realized that I wasn’t angry or even really that frustrated. That what I wanted was to receive the back-patting I felt I deserved for my not-inconsiderable skills.
After some lighthearted banter, I (only partially joking) pulled the “Well if you can do better, bring it! Let’s see whatcha got!” gambit. And then I waited for the re-write.
The new draft of the response to the customer had little to do with my initial response, which was not designed to leave much room for the complainant to continue their diatribe. It was far more personable, friendly, all that shit.
I made one or two tiny adjustments to make it sound at least a BIT like something I MIGHT say, and sent it off.
What the hell does this have to do with kink?
OK, I’m getting to that. STFU. Furthermore, as I work on kink-oriented websites (to get meta on that ass) anything work related IS, technically, kink related.
But that’s not my point.
My point is this: I have shifted my perspective a whole lot in the past 2+ years of sobriety. Things I never noticed before are thrown into sharp razor-slicing relief, and loom large as blue whales. And things that used to be crushing blows to my ego roll off of my back like so much dew on the head of a cygnet. But I only take criticism with calm, unruffled grace in a HANDFUL of situations.
From a director I respect, while working in theater.
From a dominant I respect while working in submission
From a friend I respect when I KNOW they know me well and intimately.
In most other situations, criticism usually had to filter though defensive mechanisms more Byzantine than I am even capable of describing to you now.
So when I realized I’d accepted a criticism in a NEW way, and not had the hackles raised, and in fact feel calmed and pleased that I was able to see the value in the criticism without it having to diminish my self-worth, that is kind of amazing.
To further wonkify it, it felt…submissive. Yah OK so, what’s new? Work IS submission, right? Submission to the clock, to the almighty dolla bill, y’all, dolla bill y’all. But I had an additional little extra frisson in that I actually kind of enjoyed it. It felt good, to me, to be able to take that adjustment in stride, to remain on task. It mirrored other branches of submission.
I let go and managed, somehow in the relinquishing of my ego, just for a little bit there, to see that what I wanted, and my own pride in purpose, was perforce secondary to the larger vision, which wasn’t necessarily mine at the time. That type of release is something I am not often aware that I do when in a submissive mindset, because that IS one of the pillars of my submission. But for me, submitting is dissolving into a larger spiritual lattice. I am losing my focus on submitting to a person, in total and finding that I submit to my life itself. To what I do, and to what I do not do. To people who are in and around and throughout my life.
But not in a way that permits them to abuse me, not by a longshot. In fact, when I take stock, I feel more honored and loved and respected than I have in a long time.
But there is something to submitting to one’s own life.
I hear so many people talking, myself included, about “managing their lives.”
Increasingly this sounds like so much bullshit.
You can’t manage it. You can only ride it. Submit to it.
And in doing so, with the fight between me and destiny and pain slowly grinding to a standstill, the quiet is filled with some really strange and beautiful music.
I’m sure I won’t hit mental subspace each and every time I am smacked down for a decision that is at odds with the position of someone in authority over me, and that is OK.
Because even the occasional emotional smackdown is sufficient to help me to “get it.”
…and frankly, it doesn’t hurt to get the “correction” from someone wearing Engineer style motorcycle boots.
I will say that I have some expertise in the online dating thing. As an employee now for a site in which I’ve been an active member for almost 12 years and continuously since July 27th, 1998, and furthermore as an avid info-vacuum, I have gleaned much and winced repeatedly.
I’m gonna throw down some occasional knowledge here, for free and shit.
My public service, to you.
CHOOSING YOUR HANDLE
OK! *rubbing hands together vigorously*
Look, people. We all know there is a shitload of cross-over between the Geek / Nerd / Gamer / Ren Faire / SCA / Steampunk community and Perverts.
But please, in the words of the immortal Mick Jagger in the seminal classic Sympathy for the Devil, “Show some dignity, and some taste.”
Dropping in “69″
UNLESS YOU WERE BORN in 1969, and even then, sparingly, DO NOT numeric your fucking handle with “69.”
I’m not going to detail this. Just don’t bloody do it, man.
i.e.: SexySadist69 = FAIL and … we will, we will, MOCK YOU. *stomp stomp clap*stomp stomp clap*
Self-Awarded Titles
You may well feel like titling yourself. You may fancy yourself a “Master” or a “Sir” or a “Mistress” and that is your prerogative. Go ahead, but know that it is ABSOLUTELY THE RIGHT of anyone responding to you to NOT address you thusly.
You aren’t MY Sir / Master / Mistress so I am not going to add that to yer name in a conversation, so don’t get snippy about it or I’ll disengage from you fast you’ll wonder where that singed feeling in your eyebrows came from.
I do have boundaries.
Like other titles and terms.
And other words.
This veers a bit into pet peeves, but these peeves are the result of a saturation of people using these names. If you happen to have the handle “LordBloodStar” and have since you first started posting on alt.sex.bondage, cool. But your e-descendants are making me crazy, and I am not alone. I posted on Twitter and had a lively exchange on this topic. Even hardcore gamers know this is teh phailz.
Too many references spoil the Soup
Rethink your game if you are using any / several of the following in your profile handle:
Lord
Blade
Wolf
Dark (Yep, totally guilty on this one. But you know what? I AM. DARK. Not just in my ^@%$ mind / heart / soul)
This question on Formspring is interesting to me, but there is no room for discussion there. I’m posting it here, first to see if I can get some bounceback from other folks who struggle with intimacy and emotional availability and secondly because I’m in “Don’t. Get. Attached!” mode with someone with whom I recently hooked up. [...]
It looks as though one of San Francisco’s last public pansexual Sex Club and BDSM playspaces,The Power Exchange, is at risk. The owner of the building is selling, and the future of the place is uncertain. On those nights where the filthynastypiglut in you wants to be ogled and leered at and objectified by complete [...]
I didn’t break down crying. There were no other witnesses. I felt no cosmic upheaval. It was the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the country and I was in the middle of his dining room, in the middle of errands. We had been taking, since the day before, about expectations. He had [...]
The cast of the show I’m rehearing now, 
Hey fuck you I can too do femme.
…SPA BUKKAKE!!
I realized, pretty late, that my dietary needs today had been met by caffeine and Red Velvet Cupcakes.
