Fleshbot and Secrets! Conspiracies!

This week’s Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot tells all when it uncovers the secrets of sex bloggers. True! Unexpurgated! And entirely entre nous, y’all.

Those of you who enjoy stalking me will find me offering sympathy, receiving a love letter, and cooling my heels in the drunk tank.

“As for my ex, all I can say is that I loved him until I couldn't. I wish I could say more than that, but I can't. I hope I can be forgiven for that.” Eden shows up at my place feeling conflicted upon learning of the accidental death of the man who abused her. Not to draw comparisons, precisely, but I wish I had authored those sentences, Eden.

Wendy calls me a “frood” for forgetting my towel, earning her this week’s award for “Most Proper Use of Geek Vocabulary.” Bone up, Wendy, and you’re a shoo-in for the SATs at Hogwarts.

Jocasta finds herself breathless fucking another man and thinks of me. She goes on to attempt a flow chart of who has fucked whom in our gang. She might just as well hitchhike the galaxy.

Where’s Mark Lombardi when you need him? Our gang would’ve would have been a breeze to graph for the artist who connected the dots between then-Governor George W. Bush and Osama bin Laden prior to the artist’s death in two thousand. You know, before Al Gore or nine eleven. See how simple it was for Lombardi?



George W. Bush, Harken Energy and Jackson Stephens,
circa 1979-90, fifth version, 1999.

Here’s a detail.



Three degrees of money! That's even better than my own five degrees of sex from Elvis—and that’s via Ann-Margret. I'm very proud of that.

Lombardi's work benefits from spy glasses. It's mostly gibberish online, but you get the idea, right? Those who want to follow our gang may want to sharpen your pencils, break out the index cards and cancel plans for graduate school. Better you read Finnegan's Wake and take the easy A.

Those interested in misuses of power will appreciate Anna Smash being carded, considering the circumstances. This was my laugh-out-loud moment of the week.

Or perhaps this was my weekly LOL? Sinclair relates a night in lock up that, for the life of me, I just can’t remember. Thank goodness she was there to witness my get-out-of-jail-free blowjob. That’s what I get for being the wingman to a stud like Mister Sexsmith.

Or was this the one that ached my tickle bone? Lynsey decides that following my example may not be the best way to get laid, and calls for a Plan B that begins by shaking her sticks at nineteen eighty-four at the Pyramid—a place I may have last visited in the aforementioned year. I spent a night there with John Waters around that time; I was young and pretty, and both of us were going straight to hell at a fundraiser for a cum rag of the same name. This before I married, of course.

Moments from back in the day remind me of my Marcus, who sends a well-timed Valentine to my ass. Which he apparently owns.

Stay tuned to the Smut Turntable, where I continue to plug in the spins selected by Tilda. Her playlist was submitted right on time—really, the only thing you can’t beat this girl with is a deadline—but I’ve been too swamped this week to be an effective producer. I swear, my smut keyboards are as tetchy as a neglected cat.

I’ll make it all better, promise. After New Year’s, I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to. You’ll cream.

Thanks to all of you who offered to pitch in for this year’s end to eXmas. Ding, dong, henceforth my children will have two Christmases—sane and mom’s. Story to follow.

For now, since you asked, I’ve started an Amazon wish list for the children. It will develop as I glean info from the kids who have no idea they have so many friends. God bless us pervs, one and all.

One Christmas, Take Two.