This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot crunches numbers and squishes a few folks by throwing even more flesh into the fray.
Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me ever open to new things.
Eden looks up at me mid-sex to ask if I’ve developed something of a foot fetish. I remove her toes from my mouth and sheepishly confess it to be so.
Jocasta stops by with rope, sex toys and a timid ass in need of reassurance.
Bridget . . . well, Bridget makes Muppets sing.
Erotic romance author Celia Kyle offers a review of this blog at A Cheeky Changeling, kindly saying that yours truly “writes damned well about the damned sex. Damnit.” Thanks for that, Celia, and beware of low-flying unicorns.
February has arrived and with it comes the official close of my birthday month offer to get off forty-five people. This final week pushed us well over the finish line with the help of the good members of the Bukkake Social Club. Eliza and William dreamed of putting on a live sex show for an audience of naked men. As it happens, I know many naked men, so I called together ten to watch and stroke as our exhibitionist couple “yummed” and “yes, babied” their way through a steamy turn in my overheated bedroom. Eliza, dear Eliza, took a terrible drenching at the dénouement.
There were some participants whose birthday month requests will be realized in coming weeks. Never fear, the fun continues—we’ll just go overtime and surpass projections, that’s all.
Now, it may seem odd to say this after acknowledging that I’ve seen to the sexual pleasure of over forty-five people this month, but I’ve been enjoying some solitude lately. My city refuses to come out from under gray overcast skies, and groundhogs report more to come, but for now, that’s no special bother to me. I’m content to wear black, drop the volume and muse, allowing space for winter’s melancholy to settle while reaching for the cigarettes I don’t smoke. As long as I’m not actually smoking, might as well make them Gauloises for effect. Filterless. In black and white.
Hang on one moment while I turn off the pop radio and put on some Leonard Cohen.
Brooding doesn’t come easily to me. However, solitude does, though in my life, I must make an effort to create it. Part of that comes in knowing how to make time to be alone and passing on offers of company, but more so, for me, in taking care about the company I seek when I am not alone, and in what I choose to do with others. Plenty of people require much from me as a lover, listener or actor in their personal dramas. Normally, this suits me—I would like to assert my abiding aversion to interpersonal drama, but it shows up enough for me to accept that I allow more than I believe I want. It’s as if my stomach constantly complains of lactose intolerance as my hands shovel in spoonfuls of ice cream. If drama truly made me sick, I’d be less indulgent of it. But I want to be someone who can sort through conflicts and make sense of them, to resolve them. And in order to do that, I must allow conflict to be presented.
Still, at times like these, I need to show the drama queens to the door. They can come back. I’m not changing the locks. But I do need to listen to my own voice for a time, and my own voice can be rather quiet by contrast to those around me.
This attitude plays out in curious allowances and changes. For example, I am more selective about what I will permit as concerns. My ears are willed to close on certain cues. Ask me now, and I can tell you that I know nothing at all about Tom Brady’s ankles, and I won’t check to be sure I correctly spell “Hukabee.” I know that these things won’t matter in a few days or weeks, and so I won’t be bothered by the shrill anxiety around them. Ephemera wash away. Likewise, I parse carefully on personal matters, asking more frequently, “Is this really a concern for me right now? And if so, do I really need to address it on anyone else’s timetable?” I recognize that taking on someone else’s priorities comes at the expense of time for my own, and for now, I’m a tad selfish of my resources.