Just because Shannon asked if I was back. A second entry for today:
Traditions remind us, bind us, keep some things constant in our lives. Some people pick out their Christmas trees the day after Thanksgiving, sometimes even killing, I mean, chopping down the trees themselves. Traditions are important, and it seems that this time of year, traditions are more evident than at other times. Family comes over to repeat whatever scripts are part of their tradition, dysfunctional and all.
As I have posted, perhaps more in comments, is that one of my Christmas traditions is to give my hubbie a BJ near the Christmas Tree. It started when we were newlyweds, not as a tradition, but just on a lark. You know newlyweds will try anything once in every room of the house.
And my hubbie always gets a tree, partly because of this tradition. Makes sense.
Well, this year we were at the in-laws for Christmas. Have been there before, but this is the first time with lots of people, lots of children. How the heck do we pull it off this year?
Hubbie volunteers to set up everything after everyone goes to bed. My hubbie is pure brilliant. Either that, or he wants to make sure he gets his Christmas treat!
I don't know about you (talking to the girls/women in the reading audience), but I have to plan my outfits when visiting. I make sure my sleep clothes are not revealing. You can always tell when your nipples are poking through too thin of cloth because people stare at your chest, not at your face or in your eyes. Well, I also wear dark tops so my areoles are not showing – I know, I am a prude, but I just don't want relatives looking at my tits. I am not that strange.
Well, this year after everyone goes to sleep, hubbie and I continue watching something. We really don't want to get caught, because the episode would be recounted on future Christmases – something I just did not want at all.
So we wait another 40 minutes to make sure everyone is asleep, and he asks, "Present time?" He goes to the tree, and all the lights are off but the Christmas tree – absolutely beautiful in the living room, and my hubbie at the base of the tree.
I stroke his penis through his pajama bottoms, and he is rock hard. It is always a thrill to know that you stiffen your hubbie after all of these years. Then I fish his penis through his PJs – and I have to snake it out of his undies also. I won't go into the particulars because we are married, but let's just say that I took him all in under that tree, and he tasted so strong.
Afterwards, we started getting out everything for all of the stockings. Not ten minutes after we finished, his mother came into the room.
"Y'all still up?"
My thought was, "Your son is no longer up, thanks to me."
I could still taste hubbie in my mouth, and I responded that we would be done soon and off to bed.
Ah, traditions.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Last Phone Call
Merry Freaking Christmas. My post on December 21 talked about Christmas presents I would give some of my more regular posters. But we know those gifts are not in the mail. Never will be. That is just how it is.
If you are reaching my "home page" without reading that post, please take a minute to read it. Not that it is good or bad, but it is regular Leesa. Appease me, please.
But what I tried to do is make a few erotic stories for this time of year. I was not sure I should do this – as I am moving away from wanting to write them. Bottom line: these could suck. They really could. So I am giving you fair warning:
1. These stories are not as good as my previous ones; some are a bit forced. And I tried to vary things up. I have used some words I am uncomfortable with for a couple of stories (on purpose). One works, one might not.
2. The stories are not for youngsters' eyes. So if you are under 21, please visit another site.
3. I really wanted to write a lesbian story, but I ran out of time. One of them has a girl-girl kiss, but nothing else. I am sort of shy about writing girl-girl stuff, partly because I don't want to cheapen my own experiences (of which I would surely draw, even if I tried to fence off those experiences).
So without further ado, I give you a few stories:
Men are Pigs Part I
Men are Pigs Part II
Roomie Problems
Christmas Money
Whipped
Last Flight to Savannah
If you are reaching my "home page" without reading that post, please take a minute to read it. Not that it is good or bad, but it is regular Leesa. Appease me, please.
But what I tried to do is make a few erotic stories for this time of year. I was not sure I should do this – as I am moving away from wanting to write them. Bottom line: these could suck. They really could. So I am giving you fair warning:
1. These stories are not as good as my previous ones; some are a bit forced. And I tried to vary things up. I have used some words I am uncomfortable with for a couple of stories (on purpose). One works, one might not.
2. The stories are not for youngsters' eyes. So if you are under 21, please visit another site.
3. I really wanted to write a lesbian story, but I ran out of time. One of them has a girl-girl kiss, but nothing else. I am sort of shy about writing girl-girl stuff, partly because I don't want to cheapen my own experiences (of which I would surely draw, even if I tried to fence off those experiences).
So without further ado, I give you a few stories:
Men are Pigs Part I
Men are Pigs Part II
Roomie Problems
Christmas Money
Whipped
Last Flight to Savannah
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Last Flight to Savannah
Last call for the evening flight to Savannah. It was a grueling week, and I cannot wait to get home. I will get a free weekend, not having to work on the first weekend of the month. The plane looks deserted and as the flight attendant I am relieved; it will make my evening easier.
We are about to close the door when I see you, such a handsome stranger hurrying down the corridor. I know the type – you are on planes half your life, very low maintenance for a flight attendant. You smile at me with an impish look, brushing past me, moving to your seat in the rear of the plane, very near my station.
This could be an interesting flight after all, maybe even be able to have an intelligent conversation. There are no other seats filled in this section of the plane, so I will be serving peanuts and beverages for one low maintenance guy.
I nod and smile at you as I pass by to take my seat for the takeoff.
As the flight progresses I forget about everything, immersed in my work, cleaning the galley and taking care of small details. Guess the week just wore me out. My neck is stiff and my back beginning to ache a little with the bending and twisting in such a small space. I rub it trying to relieve some of the ache I feel.
"Miss...." I turn around startled.
You are standing there with that smile on your lips.
"Oh I am sorry", I stammer, suddenly very self conscious, feeling a slight blush come to my face. This interruption brings me back to reality.
"Can I get you something?" It seems to take me awhile to get the words out.
I wonder what has come over me. You stand there with that boyish grin.
"I just wondered if I could have some water," you ask me, politely enough.
I turn around to reach for the glasses and knock a tray off the counter. I stoop quickly to retrieve the mess, and you move close and pull me up by the arms, your touch like electricity.
"Let me get that. I think you're a little sore, aren't you?"
I imagine you have been watching me for awhile. I step back out of your way while you get down on your knees. The quarters are cramped and you move closer to me, picking up all the small items. I back into the corner trying to avoid you. You peer up at me with a slightly devilish look, seeing my discomposure.
"There I think I got most of it" but you remain kneeled down, too close.
I try to get around you when you rise to your feet quickly, stepping out of my way.
"I will bring you your water in just a minute," I stammer again. Ms. Professional, I am not this evening.
I suddenly feel very warm, just being close to you; you turn and go back to your seat.
I check my hair and my makeup before carrying the glass of water to you.
"Are you sure that you don't want something else?"
As soon as the words leave my lips I know how it sounds. Suddenly I am blushing again. Your smile is comforting though, letting me off the hook.
"No, water is all I want. But it would be nice if you could join me for a little while. It's very lonely here all by myself. Feel like I am alone on the whole plane. Just hope there are pilots up front."
You seem sincere and just a little witty. I decide that it wouldn't hurt for me to take a break and sit down. After all, I have no other passengers in my area of the plane.
"Your neck seems to be bothering you."
I had unconsciously started to rub it again.
"It is just a little bit stiff. All that close work I have to do."
You smile again.... "I mean.. I mean in tight places... no I mean in the galley."
I know then that my composure and my sensibility has completely left me. You reach out your finger out to silence my lips.
"Why don't you let me rub it for you? Maybe you need to be taken care of for a change."
You won't take no for an answer, turning me around so you can reach my neck. Your fingers feel so wonderful, digging deep and releasing all the tension I feel. I begin to feel like I am melting, all stress is gone.
You reach around me to slip my uniform jacket off and down my bare arms. Your hands begin to lightly run up and down my arms.... your touch sending delightful shivers down my spine. I feel my nipples responding, a little embarrassed at the effect you are having on me but I am powerless to stop you.
You return to my neck and shoulders and relieve all the stress from them. I try to pull away, thanking you for the wonderful back rub but you aren't finished yet. You pull me back and slowly run your fingers on my neck, pushing my hair away, and following them with light feathery kisses. Your hands traveling to the front of my blouse, just brushing across my nipples. They are so erect, and your light touch sends shock waves through my body. Delightful tingles that make me a little wet down below. I pull away to turn to look at you. The lusty look in your eyes seduces me, and I lean forward to kiss your tender lips. Suddenly very hungry, we press together in a heated and passionate kiss. You kiss my face and my eyes and then my lips again.
I take you by the hand and move back into the galley. You press me up against the counter, picking me up and setting me there. Continuing to kiss me while your hands fumble at my blouse buttons. Finally slipping it off my shoulders, no bra to contend with you lower your mouth to my breasts. Instead of braless Tuesday, it was a braless Friday. Licking and sucking with intense hunger I find so arousing. Biting them and kissing them, your hands holding them, pressing your face to them – you almost make love to my breasts.
You kiss your way down my stomach, pushing my skirt up my legs. Then you start on my stocking-clad legs kissing your way up. I am squirming, knowing I want to feel your hot tongue on my secret place. You push my legs apart, my resistance only feigned. I lean back as you bend my legs and place my feet on the counter, my red panties exposed for your view.
You grin your devil smile again - knowing that you have me where you want me. Your fingers slowly slip their way up my legs, so lightly it is almost a tickle, past the tops of my stockings to my bare skin, and over my thighs, ever closer to my wetness. Maddingly slow, teasing me to gush new wetness, a dark stain showing on my panties. Your fingers just brushing the crotch of them making me gasp with a quick intake of breath.
You pull them aside exposing me for your viewing. You hum and lick your lips as your fingers just slide into my velvet wetness, oh, I can't breath for a minute. Your fingers working their way inside me and your thumb rubbing my drenched lips.
So juicy and sweet, you lick your fingers and lower your mouth, pushing my naked lips apart just reaching out with the tip of your tongue to touch my clit. I squirm and try to pull away but I have no where to go. Your mouth drinks up my wetness, sucking my lips across yours, driving me towards a climax, then backing away to tease me for a little while.
The intensity picking up again, thinking I will go mad before you let me cum. You havce your fingers stroking in and out in time with your hot tongue. I press forward, pulling your face into me, so afraid that you will draw away again, but you move your mouth and tongue quickly.
My orgasm begins to mount . . . and I cum and cum and cum. My pussy pulsates and I feel it all over my body. I have to stifle my cries and whimpers. I am spent.- in disarray.-.sitting on the galley's counter. For a moment, I forget where I am.
You rise up and slide me towards you, covering my breasts and neck with soft kisses. You pull my mouth to yours, our tongues mingle, the sweetest of kisses, the taste of me on your lips. Your fingers twisted in my hair. Your kiss intensifies and you pull me so my hips straddle yours. I can feel your hardness waiting to be liberated.
I fumble with your belt and unzip you. Brushing my nails down, lightly scratching your balls, I find your hard shaft and wrap my hand around it. It so thick and I want to see it.
I push you away from me and slip off the counter, going to my knees tugging your pants down with me. It springs forth, a handsome fellow he is with a touch of moisture glistening on the end. Oh yes, I want to taste you.
I gently fondle your balls which are so hard and slip my hand back and forth on your hot marble pole, pulling you closer to my mouth. Gliding the head over my lips with my tongue swirling all around, sucking on the head with my tight mouth. I let it slip over my tongue and pull back a little, treasuring the feel and the smoothness. You moan enjoying the sensation of my soft mouth dipping your hard dick down my throat.
My left hand begins to tug at your balls and my right hand begins to stroke you in accompaniment with the tempo of my mouth. In an instant, I begin sneaking your penis almost out of my mouth and then back down quick and deep. Oh yes! You begin to thrust it in and out.. Faster and faster, all the while I am thinking how much I enjoy blowjobs.
I know that you want to fill my hot mouth with your cum but you pull away, squeezing the base of your dick to shut down the flow. You pull me up and kiss me again. You turn me around and bend me over the counter roughly pushing up my skirt and pulling my panties to the side so you can access my waiting, wanting pussy.
You ram it into me with a quick thrust, so hard, I feel like I am being slip apart. I cry out with the force of your passion. You continue to fuck me and I am immediately close to cumming. One last slam to the depths of my vagina and I feel your hot cum filling me and releasing my orgasm with yours. Time to land.
And as you leave the plane you slip me a card with your hotel room number on it.
Looks like my weekend plans just changed. In the car on the way home that evening, I was further reminded of you when your warm cum exited unexpectedly into my panties. Guess I will buy condoms on the way home.
We are about to close the door when I see you, such a handsome stranger hurrying down the corridor. I know the type – you are on planes half your life, very low maintenance for a flight attendant. You smile at me with an impish look, brushing past me, moving to your seat in the rear of the plane, very near my station.
This could be an interesting flight after all, maybe even be able to have an intelligent conversation. There are no other seats filled in this section of the plane, so I will be serving peanuts and beverages for one low maintenance guy.
I nod and smile at you as I pass by to take my seat for the takeoff.
As the flight progresses I forget about everything, immersed in my work, cleaning the galley and taking care of small details. Guess the week just wore me out. My neck is stiff and my back beginning to ache a little with the bending and twisting in such a small space. I rub it trying to relieve some of the ache I feel.
"Miss...." I turn around startled.
You are standing there with that smile on your lips.
"Oh I am sorry", I stammer, suddenly very self conscious, feeling a slight blush come to my face. This interruption brings me back to reality.
"Can I get you something?" It seems to take me awhile to get the words out.
I wonder what has come over me. You stand there with that boyish grin.
"I just wondered if I could have some water," you ask me, politely enough.
I turn around to reach for the glasses and knock a tray off the counter. I stoop quickly to retrieve the mess, and you move close and pull me up by the arms, your touch like electricity.
"Let me get that. I think you're a little sore, aren't you?"
I imagine you have been watching me for awhile. I step back out of your way while you get down on your knees. The quarters are cramped and you move closer to me, picking up all the small items. I back into the corner trying to avoid you. You peer up at me with a slightly devilish look, seeing my discomposure.
"There I think I got most of it" but you remain kneeled down, too close.
I try to get around you when you rise to your feet quickly, stepping out of my way.
"I will bring you your water in just a minute," I stammer again. Ms. Professional, I am not this evening.
I suddenly feel very warm, just being close to you; you turn and go back to your seat.
I check my hair and my makeup before carrying the glass of water to you.
"Are you sure that you don't want something else?"
As soon as the words leave my lips I know how it sounds. Suddenly I am blushing again. Your smile is comforting though, letting me off the hook.
"No, water is all I want. But it would be nice if you could join me for a little while. It's very lonely here all by myself. Feel like I am alone on the whole plane. Just hope there are pilots up front."
You seem sincere and just a little witty. I decide that it wouldn't hurt for me to take a break and sit down. After all, I have no other passengers in my area of the plane.
"Your neck seems to be bothering you."
I had unconsciously started to rub it again.
"It is just a little bit stiff. All that close work I have to do."
You smile again.... "I mean.. I mean in tight places... no I mean in the galley."
I know then that my composure and my sensibility has completely left me. You reach out your finger out to silence my lips.
"Why don't you let me rub it for you? Maybe you need to be taken care of for a change."
You won't take no for an answer, turning me around so you can reach my neck. Your fingers feel so wonderful, digging deep and releasing all the tension I feel. I begin to feel like I am melting, all stress is gone.
You reach around me to slip my uniform jacket off and down my bare arms. Your hands begin to lightly run up and down my arms.... your touch sending delightful shivers down my spine. I feel my nipples responding, a little embarrassed at the effect you are having on me but I am powerless to stop you.
You return to my neck and shoulders and relieve all the stress from them. I try to pull away, thanking you for the wonderful back rub but you aren't finished yet. You pull me back and slowly run your fingers on my neck, pushing my hair away, and following them with light feathery kisses. Your hands traveling to the front of my blouse, just brushing across my nipples. They are so erect, and your light touch sends shock waves through my body. Delightful tingles that make me a little wet down below. I pull away to turn to look at you. The lusty look in your eyes seduces me, and I lean forward to kiss your tender lips. Suddenly very hungry, we press together in a heated and passionate kiss. You kiss my face and my eyes and then my lips again.
I take you by the hand and move back into the galley. You press me up against the counter, picking me up and setting me there. Continuing to kiss me while your hands fumble at my blouse buttons. Finally slipping it off my shoulders, no bra to contend with you lower your mouth to my breasts. Instead of braless Tuesday, it was a braless Friday. Licking and sucking with intense hunger I find so arousing. Biting them and kissing them, your hands holding them, pressing your face to them – you almost make love to my breasts.
You kiss your way down my stomach, pushing my skirt up my legs. Then you start on my stocking-clad legs kissing your way up. I am squirming, knowing I want to feel your hot tongue on my secret place. You push my legs apart, my resistance only feigned. I lean back as you bend my legs and place my feet on the counter, my red panties exposed for your view.
You grin your devil smile again - knowing that you have me where you want me. Your fingers slowly slip their way up my legs, so lightly it is almost a tickle, past the tops of my stockings to my bare skin, and over my thighs, ever closer to my wetness. Maddingly slow, teasing me to gush new wetness, a dark stain showing on my panties. Your fingers just brushing the crotch of them making me gasp with a quick intake of breath.
You pull them aside exposing me for your viewing. You hum and lick your lips as your fingers just slide into my velvet wetness, oh, I can't breath for a minute. Your fingers working their way inside me and your thumb rubbing my drenched lips.
So juicy and sweet, you lick your fingers and lower your mouth, pushing my naked lips apart just reaching out with the tip of your tongue to touch my clit. I squirm and try to pull away but I have no where to go. Your mouth drinks up my wetness, sucking my lips across yours, driving me towards a climax, then backing away to tease me for a little while.
The intensity picking up again, thinking I will go mad before you let me cum. You havce your fingers stroking in and out in time with your hot tongue. I press forward, pulling your face into me, so afraid that you will draw away again, but you move your mouth and tongue quickly.
My orgasm begins to mount . . . and I cum and cum and cum. My pussy pulsates and I feel it all over my body. I have to stifle my cries and whimpers. I am spent.- in disarray.-.sitting on the galley's counter. For a moment, I forget where I am.
You rise up and slide me towards you, covering my breasts and neck with soft kisses. You pull my mouth to yours, our tongues mingle, the sweetest of kisses, the taste of me on your lips. Your fingers twisted in my hair. Your kiss intensifies and you pull me so my hips straddle yours. I can feel your hardness waiting to be liberated.
I fumble with your belt and unzip you. Brushing my nails down, lightly scratching your balls, I find your hard shaft and wrap my hand around it. It so thick and I want to see it.
I push you away from me and slip off the counter, going to my knees tugging your pants down with me. It springs forth, a handsome fellow he is with a touch of moisture glistening on the end. Oh yes, I want to taste you.
I gently fondle your balls which are so hard and slip my hand back and forth on your hot marble pole, pulling you closer to my mouth. Gliding the head over my lips with my tongue swirling all around, sucking on the head with my tight mouth. I let it slip over my tongue and pull back a little, treasuring the feel and the smoothness. You moan enjoying the sensation of my soft mouth dipping your hard dick down my throat.
My left hand begins to tug at your balls and my right hand begins to stroke you in accompaniment with the tempo of my mouth. In an instant, I begin sneaking your penis almost out of my mouth and then back down quick and deep. Oh yes! You begin to thrust it in and out.. Faster and faster, all the while I am thinking how much I enjoy blowjobs.
I know that you want to fill my hot mouth with your cum but you pull away, squeezing the base of your dick to shut down the flow. You pull me up and kiss me again. You turn me around and bend me over the counter roughly pushing up my skirt and pulling my panties to the side so you can access my waiting, wanting pussy.
You ram it into me with a quick thrust, so hard, I feel like I am being slip apart. I cry out with the force of your passion. You continue to fuck me and I am immediately close to cumming. One last slam to the depths of my vagina and I feel your hot cum filling me and releasing my orgasm with yours. Time to land.
And as you leave the plane you slip me a card with your hotel room number on it.
Looks like my weekend plans just changed. In the car on the way home that evening, I was further reminded of you when your warm cum exited unexpectedly into my panties. Guess I will buy condoms on the way home.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Whipped
The girl stood, naked, in front of him.
"Tonight, sweet one, I am going to pussy-whip you. Stand with your legs apart a bit more than that."
The girl was wondering exactly what he had in mind. She trusts her lover, of course, but she was not used to such forceful language. She was excited, however, whatever was eventually going to happen. And "pussy whipped" was such a strange phrase – she had heard it in reference to her lover recently, a friend telling him that she pussy whipped him.
He produced two long nylon ribbon-like straps and threaded them between her legs and up over each shoulder. Pulling the straps tight, so that they slipped deep into her creases, he fastened the two red ribbons behind her back.
"Put your hands up to your tits," he commanded.
Mutely the girl obeyed, and he strapped them onto the ribbons. She never liked the word, "tits," she thought. It made her breasts sound more cute than sexy. She could not move her hands up without the ribbons pulling on her cunt, reminding her of her predicament.
"I'm going to blindfold you tonight, but leave your mouth free."
He slid a tight-fitting hood over her head, cutting off her vision, then he led her into his domain.
He propelled her to a modified prie-deux (somewhat like a kneeler in Church); instead of kneeling down it had been raised so that one could stand at it but have somewhere to lean ones knees. She leant forward, hands just able to reach the upper part of the structure, knees leaning on their supports, and waited. And waited. What was going to happen next?
The ribbons were pulling tight across her crack, burying themselves deeper in her flesh, and she was aware of stirrings inside her. It was going to be a long session, she knew. She fidgeted, pulling on her cunt.
"I did not tell you to move! Stop it!" the man said sharply. "However, as you are impatient, we will begin."
Clipping a hoist to the shoulder straps, he lifted her up slightly. The ribbons of nylon sank deep into her soft flesh between her legs and she moaned. Almost without thinking, she moaned.
He raised the hoist a fraction more so that she was actually being supported by the ribbons and then stepped forward to touch her shaven cunt with his finger-tips. The feather-light touch was too much for her and she came quickly.
"Good girl. That is what I want to see tonight. Immediate obedient response."
He continued to stroke and probe her lips, bringing another orgasm to her body. He moved the ribbons so that they really pressed against the now-open bud of her woman-hood and then raised the hoist another inch. She gasped as the pressure of the ribbons pushed another, weaker, orgasm out of her.
"You're slowing down. Let's see whether this will improve your performance."
The man slid a cold hard thing against her cunt, inside the ribbons, and turned it on.
"Oh my God! Oh my God! I'm being torn in half. Fuck me - please!" the girl screamed as the vibrations rammed her to yet another climax.
"All in good time, my little sweet one. I'm getting turned on just by watching you tonight."
He ran his hands over her arse as she came again, screaming her torment.
"Fuck me - please - I beg you. I need to have you in me. Oh fuck me please."
This was so different than she ever experienced. He was experimenting with her, not participating in a mutual lovemaking session.
In reply to the girl's request, the man lowered the hoist, and worked the pulsing vibrator into her cunt. Turning it to its top speed, he said, "This will have to do for now."
Watching her writhe as she was pushed into another powerful climax did turn him on. She wanted to be lowered and her lover to please her like he always had done before, but he was experimenting with her. She felt uncomfortable.
He rubbed his penis through his clothes; time enough to undress, he thought. This was going to be one hell of a fuck when he let himself go. At last he lowered the girl to the floor. She lay shuddering with repeated orgasms, but desperate to have him in her.
Loosening the ribbons slightly, the man kissed her hot cunt gently before picking her up to carry her to the bed.
There was a long pause.
The girl couldn't take her blindfold off, her hands would not reach that high, so she waited in darkness for the pleasurable torment to resume.
Eventually she felt a mouth at her fiery cunt, licking it gently, cooling it. She sighed with pleasure. The mouth knew where to touch her to coax her body back to life. This felt more like what she knew. She arched her back, forgetting that that would increase the pressure on her bud.
A smack on the leg, together with the ribbon pressure, caused her to relax again. He definitely wanted to be in control, to pussy whip her, as he had originally said.
Suddenly a second mouth was sucking her tits. What the crap was that – a second person in the room? She didn't know who was touching her where but she didn't care. She was enjoying this too much.
"More. Please. More!" she begged the unseen mouths.
They obliged, and she was soon being driven to a climax again. Her tits were sucked, nibbled, pulled, chewed to provide a deep-down sensation in her belly which responded to the probing tongue in her clit. She opened her thighs wide, welcoming whoever it was who was attending to her there. The person slid a finger into her. It moved inside her. She moaned, "Fuck me please!"
"Soon, sweet one. Soon."
The man's voice came from behind her: so he wasn't touching her, he was still watching. So her lover was not the one who was satisfying her. At least she knew that. And there were two people in the room besides her lover, a new piece of information that scared her a little. She was being touched in her most private area by, perhaps, someone she had never ever seen. Or it could be someone she really did not want to touch her. Impossible to tell.
"Carry on. I want her to come many more times before I take her tonight."
The girl felt the finger being withdrawn. Then a large plastic penis nosed its way into her. Slowly at first, despite her being soaking wet from cum down there, the thing eased itself into her. It was torment, pure and simple. She wanted the real thing but was being deprived of it. All she received was a substitute.
"Why?"
"You wanted a fuck," the man said.
There was no smile in his voice now. She shuddered, knowing that she had just stepped over the line. He was not the love she knew. He was somehow different.
"Fuck her hard with it. And you, sweet one, keep your mouth shut."
The thing was moving quickly now, ramming deep into her. It hurt her, almost like the person on the other end of the substitute penis didn't care whether she was ripped or not.
The other mouth continued to keep her breasts occupied, and she felt her body open in two with the building climax. She was struggling to keep her moans to herself when one bite caused her to cry out.
"Stop!" The man barked the command. Her lover was being cruel with his requests. How could she not call out.
"I told you to be quiet. As you were not, I will have to punish you. Out!"
The two people left the room.
"Lie exactly as you are, while I get the whip."
She heard him go to the cupboard and take out a short, flick-whip that he kept for these occasions. He traced a pattern with the end of it on her body.
Suddenly he flicked it sharply and the end bit her left nipple: she yelped. It stung, partly because it was a whip, partly because she could not anticipate when it was going to strike her.
"Good, instant obedience again.
Pity you didn't do that earlier, isn't it?"
She nodded, remembering not to break that rule.
He flicked the whip again. It lashed her right breast. Then he turned his attention to her cunt. Delicately flicking the whip, he made it land on her mound, her outer lips, and then her bud itself.
"That really hurt!", she screamed. She didn't care that she yelled; she was hurting.
"I told you I'd pussy-whip you tonight, sweet one."
With that he landed three more strokes on her tender flesh before bending to suck the soreness away.
He pressed a buzzer beneath the bed, to summon the two mouths.
"Continue. She will be quiet now - wont you?"
He tickled her chin with the whip. She nodded.
She felt the plastic penis re-inserted into her now-sore cunt. Or was it an even bigger one, she wasn't sure. It began to thrust into her viciously, trying to make her cry out as she was rammed towards that delayed orgasm. Her breasts were suckled and kneaded in rhythm with the plastic shaft. All the time, he tickled her chin, throat and cheeks with his flick-whip, warning her not to make a sound. She did not make a sound, and this ticking delayed orgasm for some time.
The orgasm exploded out of her, and she felt as if she had been ripped in half. Instead of stopping there, the person wielding the penis began fingering her clit, squeezing yet another two climaxes from her. She nearly moaned then, but bit it back in time.
"Enough," the man said. "Leave us."
He waited till they were alone before dropping his trousers. His shaft jumped out proud and he rubbed it briefly. It had been a long but enjoyable wait, but now it would be his turn to pleasure his sweet one.
"Scream your pleasure now, my gorgeous one," he murmured. "I want to hear your enjoyment as well as feel it."
He knelt between her open thighs and gazed at the red-pink flesh that was going to encircle him any moment.
He kissed her belly, her mound, then drank deeply from her still be-ribboned cunt.
She groaned her pleasure, "Fuck me please. You're so good! More. Oh, oh, oh-h-h! Oh my God! I'm coming, I'm comi-i-i-ng! FUCK ME!"
She came for at least the seventh time that session, not caring that as she arched her back the ribbons dug deeper into her flesh. As the after-shocks subsided, the man reached behind her to unbuckle the ribbons. Freeing her hands first, he carefully peeled the long ribbons off her, watching her skin release the fabric from deep within its folds and creases.
Unbound by the red ribbons, her cunt was red and painful. He kissed it gently, loving the feel of the soft wet flesh. She pressed herself towards his mouth, eager for his touch on her raw flesh. His tenderness brought another climax before he at last slid his engorged, pulsating, dripping penis into that hot hole.
"Oh my God! You are wonderful, woman." the man groaned.
"I'm going to ram myself right up to your neck and screw you so quickly you won't believe it. I've waited hours for this."
"Yes, fuck me silly. Please. Oh-h-h, my God, you're so big and hard! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."
He rammed his penis into her hole, pulling back only to push deeper and further with the next thrust. She soon stopped saying anything except 'fuck me, fuck me, fuck me' over and over. She gave up on anything except taking her man as deep into her as she could, straining her muscles open and relishing the impending tidal wave of sensation.
He held back as long as he could, but in the end, nature got the better of him and with three sharp thrusts, he exploded deep in her. An answering explosion from her followed and they lay, tumbled in a heap, exhausted.
Removing the blindfold at long last, he said, "Well, was pussy well whipped? Or do you want more?"
"Pussy has been well tamed, my love. Thank you. I love you."
"Tonight, sweet one, I am going to pussy-whip you. Stand with your legs apart a bit more than that."
The girl was wondering exactly what he had in mind. She trusts her lover, of course, but she was not used to such forceful language. She was excited, however, whatever was eventually going to happen. And "pussy whipped" was such a strange phrase – she had heard it in reference to her lover recently, a friend telling him that she pussy whipped him.
He produced two long nylon ribbon-like straps and threaded them between her legs and up over each shoulder. Pulling the straps tight, so that they slipped deep into her creases, he fastened the two red ribbons behind her back.
"Put your hands up to your tits," he commanded.
Mutely the girl obeyed, and he strapped them onto the ribbons. She never liked the word, "tits," she thought. It made her breasts sound more cute than sexy. She could not move her hands up without the ribbons pulling on her cunt, reminding her of her predicament.
"I'm going to blindfold you tonight, but leave your mouth free."
He slid a tight-fitting hood over her head, cutting off her vision, then he led her into his domain.
He propelled her to a modified prie-deux (somewhat like a kneeler in Church); instead of kneeling down it had been raised so that one could stand at it but have somewhere to lean ones knees. She leant forward, hands just able to reach the upper part of the structure, knees leaning on their supports, and waited. And waited. What was going to happen next?
The ribbons were pulling tight across her crack, burying themselves deeper in her flesh, and she was aware of stirrings inside her. It was going to be a long session, she knew. She fidgeted, pulling on her cunt.
"I did not tell you to move! Stop it!" the man said sharply. "However, as you are impatient, we will begin."
Clipping a hoist to the shoulder straps, he lifted her up slightly. The ribbons of nylon sank deep into her soft flesh between her legs and she moaned. Almost without thinking, she moaned.
He raised the hoist a fraction more so that she was actually being supported by the ribbons and then stepped forward to touch her shaven cunt with his finger-tips. The feather-light touch was too much for her and she came quickly.
"Good girl. That is what I want to see tonight. Immediate obedient response."
He continued to stroke and probe her lips, bringing another orgasm to her body. He moved the ribbons so that they really pressed against the now-open bud of her woman-hood and then raised the hoist another inch. She gasped as the pressure of the ribbons pushed another, weaker, orgasm out of her.
"You're slowing down. Let's see whether this will improve your performance."
The man slid a cold hard thing against her cunt, inside the ribbons, and turned it on.
"Oh my God! Oh my God! I'm being torn in half. Fuck me - please!" the girl screamed as the vibrations rammed her to yet another climax.
"All in good time, my little sweet one. I'm getting turned on just by watching you tonight."
He ran his hands over her arse as she came again, screaming her torment.
"Fuck me - please - I beg you. I need to have you in me. Oh fuck me please."
This was so different than she ever experienced. He was experimenting with her, not participating in a mutual lovemaking session.
In reply to the girl's request, the man lowered the hoist, and worked the pulsing vibrator into her cunt. Turning it to its top speed, he said, "This will have to do for now."
Watching her writhe as she was pushed into another powerful climax did turn him on. She wanted to be lowered and her lover to please her like he always had done before, but he was experimenting with her. She felt uncomfortable.
He rubbed his penis through his clothes; time enough to undress, he thought. This was going to be one hell of a fuck when he let himself go. At last he lowered the girl to the floor. She lay shuddering with repeated orgasms, but desperate to have him in her.
Loosening the ribbons slightly, the man kissed her hot cunt gently before picking her up to carry her to the bed.
There was a long pause.
The girl couldn't take her blindfold off, her hands would not reach that high, so she waited in darkness for the pleasurable torment to resume.
Eventually she felt a mouth at her fiery cunt, licking it gently, cooling it. She sighed with pleasure. The mouth knew where to touch her to coax her body back to life. This felt more like what she knew. She arched her back, forgetting that that would increase the pressure on her bud.
A smack on the leg, together with the ribbon pressure, caused her to relax again. He definitely wanted to be in control, to pussy whip her, as he had originally said.
Suddenly a second mouth was sucking her tits. What the crap was that – a second person in the room? She didn't know who was touching her where but she didn't care. She was enjoying this too much.
"More. Please. More!" she begged the unseen mouths.
They obliged, and she was soon being driven to a climax again. Her tits were sucked, nibbled, pulled, chewed to provide a deep-down sensation in her belly which responded to the probing tongue in her clit. She opened her thighs wide, welcoming whoever it was who was attending to her there. The person slid a finger into her. It moved inside her. She moaned, "Fuck me please!"
"Soon, sweet one. Soon."
The man's voice came from behind her: so he wasn't touching her, he was still watching. So her lover was not the one who was satisfying her. At least she knew that. And there were two people in the room besides her lover, a new piece of information that scared her a little. She was being touched in her most private area by, perhaps, someone she had never ever seen. Or it could be someone she really did not want to touch her. Impossible to tell.
"Carry on. I want her to come many more times before I take her tonight."
The girl felt the finger being withdrawn. Then a large plastic penis nosed its way into her. Slowly at first, despite her being soaking wet from cum down there, the thing eased itself into her. It was torment, pure and simple. She wanted the real thing but was being deprived of it. All she received was a substitute.
"Why?"
"You wanted a fuck," the man said.
There was no smile in his voice now. She shuddered, knowing that she had just stepped over the line. He was not the love she knew. He was somehow different.
"Fuck her hard with it. And you, sweet one, keep your mouth shut."
The thing was moving quickly now, ramming deep into her. It hurt her, almost like the person on the other end of the substitute penis didn't care whether she was ripped or not.
The other mouth continued to keep her breasts occupied, and she felt her body open in two with the building climax. She was struggling to keep her moans to herself when one bite caused her to cry out.
"Stop!" The man barked the command. Her lover was being cruel with his requests. How could she not call out.
"I told you to be quiet. As you were not, I will have to punish you. Out!"
The two people left the room.
"Lie exactly as you are, while I get the whip."
She heard him go to the cupboard and take out a short, flick-whip that he kept for these occasions. He traced a pattern with the end of it on her body.
Suddenly he flicked it sharply and the end bit her left nipple: she yelped. It stung, partly because it was a whip, partly because she could not anticipate when it was going to strike her.
"Good, instant obedience again.
Pity you didn't do that earlier, isn't it?"
She nodded, remembering not to break that rule.
He flicked the whip again. It lashed her right breast. Then he turned his attention to her cunt. Delicately flicking the whip, he made it land on her mound, her outer lips, and then her bud itself.
"That really hurt!", she screamed. She didn't care that she yelled; she was hurting.
"I told you I'd pussy-whip you tonight, sweet one."
With that he landed three more strokes on her tender flesh before bending to suck the soreness away.
He pressed a buzzer beneath the bed, to summon the two mouths.
"Continue. She will be quiet now - wont you?"
He tickled her chin with the whip. She nodded.
She felt the plastic penis re-inserted into her now-sore cunt. Or was it an even bigger one, she wasn't sure. It began to thrust into her viciously, trying to make her cry out as she was rammed towards that delayed orgasm. Her breasts were suckled and kneaded in rhythm with the plastic shaft. All the time, he tickled her chin, throat and cheeks with his flick-whip, warning her not to make a sound. She did not make a sound, and this ticking delayed orgasm for some time.
The orgasm exploded out of her, and she felt as if she had been ripped in half. Instead of stopping there, the person wielding the penis began fingering her clit, squeezing yet another two climaxes from her. She nearly moaned then, but bit it back in time.
"Enough," the man said. "Leave us."
He waited till they were alone before dropping his trousers. His shaft jumped out proud and he rubbed it briefly. It had been a long but enjoyable wait, but now it would be his turn to pleasure his sweet one.
"Scream your pleasure now, my gorgeous one," he murmured. "I want to hear your enjoyment as well as feel it."
He knelt between her open thighs and gazed at the red-pink flesh that was going to encircle him any moment.
He kissed her belly, her mound, then drank deeply from her still be-ribboned cunt.
She groaned her pleasure, "Fuck me please. You're so good! More. Oh, oh, oh-h-h! Oh my God! I'm coming, I'm comi-i-i-ng! FUCK ME!"
She came for at least the seventh time that session, not caring that as she arched her back the ribbons dug deeper into her flesh. As the after-shocks subsided, the man reached behind her to unbuckle the ribbons. Freeing her hands first, he carefully peeled the long ribbons off her, watching her skin release the fabric from deep within its folds and creases.
Unbound by the red ribbons, her cunt was red and painful. He kissed it gently, loving the feel of the soft wet flesh. She pressed herself towards his mouth, eager for his touch on her raw flesh. His tenderness brought another climax before he at last slid his engorged, pulsating, dripping penis into that hot hole.
"Oh my God! You are wonderful, woman." the man groaned.
"I'm going to ram myself right up to your neck and screw you so quickly you won't believe it. I've waited hours for this."
"Yes, fuck me silly. Please. Oh-h-h, my God, you're so big and hard! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."
He rammed his penis into her hole, pulling back only to push deeper and further with the next thrust. She soon stopped saying anything except 'fuck me, fuck me, fuck me' over and over. She gave up on anything except taking her man as deep into her as she could, straining her muscles open and relishing the impending tidal wave of sensation.
He held back as long as he could, but in the end, nature got the better of him and with three sharp thrusts, he exploded deep in her. An answering explosion from her followed and they lay, tumbled in a heap, exhausted.
Removing the blindfold at long last, he said, "Well, was pussy well whipped? Or do you want more?"
"Pussy has been well tamed, my love. Thank you. I love you."
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Christmas Money
It was my first time home after starting college, and I was home with my family. I was a bit tired, having crammed 328 hours of studying into the last week of finals, but there I was, ready for Christmas.
After getting home, my mother asked if I would baby-sit for a neighbor. You know, earn some Christmas cash. "Sure, Mom," I said and thought, "I just want to sleep until Christmas morning.
It was down the street, and I really did not know the new occupants of the house. I knew they were friends of the family, or I assumed as much.
I knocked on the door, and a very handsome thirty-something black man answered the door.
I extended a hand, and said, "Hello, Mr. Thomas."
"Derrick. Call me Derrick. Please come in."
I entered the house, and the house was immaculate. It was absolutely beautiful, with no clutter at all. Does Mr. Thomas actually live in the house? I start to wonder.
At that moment, a cute little girl starts bouncing down the stairs. Molly is cute.
We exchange pleasantries, he tells me to help myself to food, and that he will be back later that evening. I was sort of wondering about Mrs. Thomas after he left by himself.
Molly and I play for a while, I get her dinner, she bathes and is in bed by 7:30 pm, a little earlier than I thought.
At 8:00 pm, I know she is asleep, and I go downstairs to read a book I brought on the couch.
I crack open Plato's Republic. I had taken Philosophy during my first semester, sort of a mistake actually. I had bought Cliff's Notes for Republic and promised that if I passed the class, I would read the book.
So I was going to read the book over Christmas break.
I was nudged awake at about 11:30 that evening. I had fallen asleep on the couch. The copy of the book had fallen to the floor.
"Mr. Thomas, sorry, I must have dozed off." Oh, I was tired and disoriented.
Mr. Thomas was gracious, and we went to the kitchen to drink some tea. I needed to get a little less groggy so I could safely walk home.
"So," Mr. Thomas said, "I see you are reading Plato. Let's see if I remember this one. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet. Or something like that. Plato, right?"
"Yes, Mr. Thomas, you are right." I said. I was not sure it was Plato, but I wanted to appear smart.
"What is this Mr. Thomas. My name is Derrick."
"Yes, Derrick." I felt so grown-up. And we talked about my first semester, my thoughts my dreams. I was gabbing away, with soft Christmas music playing in the background. Old music.
"How was the party, Derrick?"
"Well, it was a work party, and they had Christmas carols that we were expected to dance to. Imagine a room full of stuffed shirts dancing to Christmas songs. Not my idea of fun."
"I don't know," I offered, "you can dance to almost any music." I was often disagreeable in school, and I guess it did not wear off when I was out of school.
Derrick looked puzzled.
I'll Be Home for Christmas was playing on the stereo, and I suggested we dance so I could show him. Derrick held me in his arms, and we slow danced. Goodness, it was comfortable.
At the end of the song, I looked up at his deep brown eyes, and he said I was right. You could dance to Christmas carols. I don't know if it was the slow dancing, the beating of his heart, or me feeling more like a woman than a girl, but I kissed him.
He was shocked at first, but he did return the kiss.
After our lips parted, Derrick said, "Leesa, I am flattered, but I must be twice your age. You're only 19 years old."
I was actually 18 at the time, but I did not correct Derrick this time.
"Derrick, we are both adults, and I was just feeling close to you. I like the kiss. Oh, but I forgot, you are married."
Derrick told me how he was divorced, and that Mollie was staying with him over the holidays. I felt a bit rejected, rejected because it appeared as Derrick was wanting to be safe. What the hell could I try? I just wanted to be close to Derrick.
I pulled my sweater over my head, and as my hair was falling back into place, me there in my white bra with a little flower embroidered between the cups, sort of a young-looking bra, darn it, I said, "I am not asking for a commitment or for sex, I just want to neck with a handsome man."
Derrick looked at me, looked at the stairs, and looked back at me. I don't think he knew what to do at that moment.
He was about to say something and I stopped him with another kiss, reaching up to kiss his wonderful mouth. And I stopped whatever he was going to say, and I may have stopped what he was thinking as well.
We kissed and kissed and kissed. When our mouths broke, oh how I wanted to kiss him again. But he was worried about Mollie finding us in each others arms. He asked if we could kiss in his bedroom, so he could lock the door, just in case. I agreed.
We sat on the bed and kissed for quite a long time. Oh, how I loved it. And then, me still in my bra, felt his strong hands start to pass over my breasts, slowly – cautiously – at first, and then more aggressively.
The next several minutes were a blur. I know I had to talk Derrick into doing more. I remember running my tongue over Derrick's perfect penis. His penis was lighter than I would have imagined. And it was the largest penis I had ever seen, not that I had seen that many.
I loved tasting the pre-cum, and quickly licked it off. I did not take him fully in my mouth, but I did tease with my tongue, breath, and lips. I was not a master at the blow job, and I wanted to hide my amateur-ness.
He produced a condom from the bedside table – was Derrick a player and I didn't pick up on it? I didn't want to hazard to guess. He placed the condom on him – to a relieved Leesa. Again, it would have been more awkward for me.
He took me, missionary-style, wondering if he did this because of my perceived innocence, real innocence or what. But he buried himself in my small, tight place and he methodically, slowly, wonderfully fucked me.
Every once in a while, he would pause to place a kiss on my neck, my face, my breasts. And he completely satisfied me down there. Oh, how he came, slowly and fully. Although I did not orgasm, I faked it convincingly.
We returned to reality – and he offered me a drink. I wondered if it were to compensate for his guilt of fucking a college co-ed or what. I declined, knowing I needed to get home soon.
And then it hit me, I was his babysitter. And he had not paid me for the job I performed. Oh, no, and now I did not want money to cross my palm. I would feel like a freaking whore. What to do, what to do.
As I was getting dressed, I think the same thing occurred to him.
"How much do I owe you for babysitting," he finally blurted out.
"Oh, I couldn't accept any money, Derrick. I just couldn't."
He disappeared and reappeared in a moment. He placed a necklace around my neck while saying, "I want you to have this."
It was coral – but I did not know it at the time, and oh, so beautiful. It must have cost much more than anyone gives for babysitting, or for whoring, for that matter.
I kissed Derrick for the gift, and left soon-thereafter. At other Christmas breaks and summer breaks, I would darken his doorstep and we would fuck like young lovers. Three years later, he moved, and I heard he remarried afterwards. But I still will fondly remember Derrick – and every time I hear I'll Be Home for Christmas on the radio, I get weak in the knees.
After getting home, my mother asked if I would baby-sit for a neighbor. You know, earn some Christmas cash. "Sure, Mom," I said and thought, "I just want to sleep until Christmas morning.
It was down the street, and I really did not know the new occupants of the house. I knew they were friends of the family, or I assumed as much.
I knocked on the door, and a very handsome thirty-something black man answered the door.
I extended a hand, and said, "Hello, Mr. Thomas."
"Derrick. Call me Derrick. Please come in."
I entered the house, and the house was immaculate. It was absolutely beautiful, with no clutter at all. Does Mr. Thomas actually live in the house? I start to wonder.
At that moment, a cute little girl starts bouncing down the stairs. Molly is cute.
We exchange pleasantries, he tells me to help myself to food, and that he will be back later that evening. I was sort of wondering about Mrs. Thomas after he left by himself.
Molly and I play for a while, I get her dinner, she bathes and is in bed by 7:30 pm, a little earlier than I thought.
At 8:00 pm, I know she is asleep, and I go downstairs to read a book I brought on the couch.
I crack open Plato's Republic. I had taken Philosophy during my first semester, sort of a mistake actually. I had bought Cliff's Notes for Republic and promised that if I passed the class, I would read the book.
So I was going to read the book over Christmas break.
I was nudged awake at about 11:30 that evening. I had fallen asleep on the couch. The copy of the book had fallen to the floor.
"Mr. Thomas, sorry, I must have dozed off." Oh, I was tired and disoriented.
Mr. Thomas was gracious, and we went to the kitchen to drink some tea. I needed to get a little less groggy so I could safely walk home.
"So," Mr. Thomas said, "I see you are reading Plato. Let's see if I remember this one. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet. Or something like that. Plato, right?"
"Yes, Mr. Thomas, you are right." I said. I was not sure it was Plato, but I wanted to appear smart.
"What is this Mr. Thomas. My name is Derrick."
"Yes, Derrick." I felt so grown-up. And we talked about my first semester, my thoughts my dreams. I was gabbing away, with soft Christmas music playing in the background. Old music.
"How was the party, Derrick?"
"Well, it was a work party, and they had Christmas carols that we were expected to dance to. Imagine a room full of stuffed shirts dancing to Christmas songs. Not my idea of fun."
"I don't know," I offered, "you can dance to almost any music." I was often disagreeable in school, and I guess it did not wear off when I was out of school.
Derrick looked puzzled.
I'll Be Home for Christmas was playing on the stereo, and I suggested we dance so I could show him. Derrick held me in his arms, and we slow danced. Goodness, it was comfortable.
At the end of the song, I looked up at his deep brown eyes, and he said I was right. You could dance to Christmas carols. I don't know if it was the slow dancing, the beating of his heart, or me feeling more like a woman than a girl, but I kissed him.
He was shocked at first, but he did return the kiss.
After our lips parted, Derrick said, "Leesa, I am flattered, but I must be twice your age. You're only 19 years old."
I was actually 18 at the time, but I did not correct Derrick this time.
"Derrick, we are both adults, and I was just feeling close to you. I like the kiss. Oh, but I forgot, you are married."
Derrick told me how he was divorced, and that Mollie was staying with him over the holidays. I felt a bit rejected, rejected because it appeared as Derrick was wanting to be safe. What the hell could I try? I just wanted to be close to Derrick.
I pulled my sweater over my head, and as my hair was falling back into place, me there in my white bra with a little flower embroidered between the cups, sort of a young-looking bra, darn it, I said, "I am not asking for a commitment or for sex, I just want to neck with a handsome man."
Derrick looked at me, looked at the stairs, and looked back at me. I don't think he knew what to do at that moment.
He was about to say something and I stopped him with another kiss, reaching up to kiss his wonderful mouth. And I stopped whatever he was going to say, and I may have stopped what he was thinking as well.
We kissed and kissed and kissed. When our mouths broke, oh how I wanted to kiss him again. But he was worried about Mollie finding us in each others arms. He asked if we could kiss in his bedroom, so he could lock the door, just in case. I agreed.
We sat on the bed and kissed for quite a long time. Oh, how I loved it. And then, me still in my bra, felt his strong hands start to pass over my breasts, slowly – cautiously – at first, and then more aggressively.
The next several minutes were a blur. I know I had to talk Derrick into doing more. I remember running my tongue over Derrick's perfect penis. His penis was lighter than I would have imagined. And it was the largest penis I had ever seen, not that I had seen that many.
I loved tasting the pre-cum, and quickly licked it off. I did not take him fully in my mouth, but I did tease with my tongue, breath, and lips. I was not a master at the blow job, and I wanted to hide my amateur-ness.
He produced a condom from the bedside table – was Derrick a player and I didn't pick up on it? I didn't want to hazard to guess. He placed the condom on him – to a relieved Leesa. Again, it would have been more awkward for me.
He took me, missionary-style, wondering if he did this because of my perceived innocence, real innocence or what. But he buried himself in my small, tight place and he methodically, slowly, wonderfully fucked me.
Every once in a while, he would pause to place a kiss on my neck, my face, my breasts. And he completely satisfied me down there. Oh, how he came, slowly and fully. Although I did not orgasm, I faked it convincingly.
We returned to reality – and he offered me a drink. I wondered if it were to compensate for his guilt of fucking a college co-ed or what. I declined, knowing I needed to get home soon.
And then it hit me, I was his babysitter. And he had not paid me for the job I performed. Oh, no, and now I did not want money to cross my palm. I would feel like a freaking whore. What to do, what to do.
As I was getting dressed, I think the same thing occurred to him.
"How much do I owe you for babysitting," he finally blurted out.
"Oh, I couldn't accept any money, Derrick. I just couldn't."
He disappeared and reappeared in a moment. He placed a necklace around my neck while saying, "I want you to have this."
It was coral – but I did not know it at the time, and oh, so beautiful. It must have cost much more than anyone gives for babysitting, or for whoring, for that matter.
I kissed Derrick for the gift, and left soon-thereafter. At other Christmas breaks and summer breaks, I would darken his doorstep and we would fuck like young lovers. Three years later, he moved, and I heard he remarried afterwards. But I still will fondly remember Derrick – and every time I hear I'll Be Home for Christmas on the radio, I get weak in the knees.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Roomie Problems
I arrive back to the dorm this evening, books in hand, it being cold outside, and I see a sock tied to the doorknob. Thomas must be visiting my roommate. Come on, Lisa, I have to study; please stop banging your boyfriend. Argggggg.
Instead of going to my room (where I actually pay for the room, part of that monthly room and board I am just not getting accustomed to paying), I go down the hall. I knew this was a mistake – I mean, the first time I met Lisa, I thought, "crap, she is Lisa, I am Leesa, and people are just going to confuse us, or worse, call us the two Lisas." The worse part was the phone calls – sometimes it is hard to tell what people are really saying. Even without marbles in one's mouth.
So I go down the hall and knock on a neighbor's door.
"Come in," Deb offers.
"Can I crash here tonight?" I ask. It is not the first time I have slept in their room on the floor.
I change into a borrowed t-shirt, clean my face and fall asleep on the uncomfortable floor.
Half-way through the night, I awake. Yeah, I always have to pee half-way though the night. I gather my things, because I am sure Lisa and Thomas have said goodnight, and he never spends the night (our little rule). I go to the community bathroom, pee and then off to bed.
Sock is off the door; and I use my key and sneak inside, trying carefully not to wake up Lisa (not sure why, the little bitch, I mean witch).
As I am placing my things on my side of the room, I hear Thomas saying – more like mumbling, "Is that you, Lisa?"
"Yes," I instinctively say, my ears hearing Leesa. "Thomas, why are you still here?"
I cross my arms, partly because I am angry, partly because I am wearing a t-shirt and panties, and I don’t want him to see my nipples.
It is not that I didn't like Thomas. I did. He was a very attractive guy – and he was smart. Lisa was dating him because of this, and partly I think because he was rich (or his parents were). I know, when you major in Psychology, you analyze everyone. I just was peeved because he and Lisa had been encroaching on my time in the room. Plus I had not been getting any for a while, and I was a little bitchy.
Thomas, after looking me over, replies, "Lisa will be back soon. She and I will be spending the night together. Just the three of us."
His comment was pure saccharine. He know I did not want him spending the night. And it was like he was rubbing my nose in dog doo. Son-of-a-bitch.
"Move over then, Mr. Thomas," I said as I started taking off my shirt. If he is going to tease me, I am going to get him in trouble with roomie.
His eyes nearly bugged out. It was so funny, I thought.
"Hey, bitch, I was just joking," was Thomas' comeback.
"Thomas, didn't Lisa tell you that she wanted to share you with me?", I lied. I was going to get him caught for good.
"W-what," was his only response. He was virtually speachless.
I told him that the reason I did not want him to stay overnight in the past was because I was jealous. And Lisa agreed to share when Thomas spent the night. Not sure if he completely would have bought it if I did not have my shirt off, but he bought it.
He started sucking my breasts so quickly. And I was counting on Lisa coming back soon. Where the crap was she, the little bitch?
"Wow, big guy. What is the hurry," I offered.
He took a step back, and said, "Hey, I am already ready," as he was reaching for his condom. He slipped it on in an instant.
"How do you want me?" I asked. Surely roomie would come in soon.
"Doggie style, on Lisa's bed," was his curt answer.
So I assumed the position and it took him a minute to put himself inside me. Truth-be-told, it felt damn good, once he was inside.
Still waiting for the door to open, he starts doing me doggie style. I did not get a good look at Thomas' penis, but he knew how to work it once he was inside.
I kept my head near the bed, not wanting to catch the look once Lisa bolted through the door.
His thrusts got faster and faster, bringing me closer and closer. Then he slowed down a bit, but continued fucking me from behind. He grunted once, twice, and then I knew he was coming. The condom caught his load, and my roommate did not enter the room.
I asked him to stay in, but he reminded me that he needed to come out before he got soft. And he was right.
Afterwards, he continued to kiss my breasts, squeeze them, and I started just wanting this to end.
Then he asked me to get my shirt back on.
He dressed completely, telling me how incredible the fuck was to him.
And then he said, "Leesa, I think you lied to me. I don't think Lisa wants to share me."
"Why is that, Thomas."
"Because I am suppose to meet her at my apartment in 30 minutes. I was just taking a little nap."
Son-of-a-bitch, got my ass and I didn't even get him in trouble. Lisa would never believe he nailed me in her bed.
Instead of going to my room (where I actually pay for the room, part of that monthly room and board I am just not getting accustomed to paying), I go down the hall. I knew this was a mistake – I mean, the first time I met Lisa, I thought, "crap, she is Lisa, I am Leesa, and people are just going to confuse us, or worse, call us the two Lisas." The worse part was the phone calls – sometimes it is hard to tell what people are really saying. Even without marbles in one's mouth.
So I go down the hall and knock on a neighbor's door.
"Come in," Deb offers.
"Can I crash here tonight?" I ask. It is not the first time I have slept in their room on the floor.
I change into a borrowed t-shirt, clean my face and fall asleep on the uncomfortable floor.
Half-way through the night, I awake. Yeah, I always have to pee half-way though the night. I gather my things, because I am sure Lisa and Thomas have said goodnight, and he never spends the night (our little rule). I go to the community bathroom, pee and then off to bed.
Sock is off the door; and I use my key and sneak inside, trying carefully not to wake up Lisa (not sure why, the little bitch, I mean witch).
As I am placing my things on my side of the room, I hear Thomas saying – more like mumbling, "Is that you, Lisa?"
"Yes," I instinctively say, my ears hearing Leesa. "Thomas, why are you still here?"
I cross my arms, partly because I am angry, partly because I am wearing a t-shirt and panties, and I don’t want him to see my nipples.
It is not that I didn't like Thomas. I did. He was a very attractive guy – and he was smart. Lisa was dating him because of this, and partly I think because he was rich (or his parents were). I know, when you major in Psychology, you analyze everyone. I just was peeved because he and Lisa had been encroaching on my time in the room. Plus I had not been getting any for a while, and I was a little bitchy.
Thomas, after looking me over, replies, "Lisa will be back soon. She and I will be spending the night together. Just the three of us."
His comment was pure saccharine. He know I did not want him spending the night. And it was like he was rubbing my nose in dog doo. Son-of-a-bitch.
"Move over then, Mr. Thomas," I said as I started taking off my shirt. If he is going to tease me, I am going to get him in trouble with roomie.
His eyes nearly bugged out. It was so funny, I thought.
"Hey, bitch, I was just joking," was Thomas' comeback.
"Thomas, didn't Lisa tell you that she wanted to share you with me?", I lied. I was going to get him caught for good.
"W-what," was his only response. He was virtually speachless.
I told him that the reason I did not want him to stay overnight in the past was because I was jealous. And Lisa agreed to share when Thomas spent the night. Not sure if he completely would have bought it if I did not have my shirt off, but he bought it.
He started sucking my breasts so quickly. And I was counting on Lisa coming back soon. Where the crap was she, the little bitch?
"Wow, big guy. What is the hurry," I offered.
He took a step back, and said, "Hey, I am already ready," as he was reaching for his condom. He slipped it on in an instant.
"How do you want me?" I asked. Surely roomie would come in soon.
"Doggie style, on Lisa's bed," was his curt answer.
So I assumed the position and it took him a minute to put himself inside me. Truth-be-told, it felt damn good, once he was inside.
Still waiting for the door to open, he starts doing me doggie style. I did not get a good look at Thomas' penis, but he knew how to work it once he was inside.
I kept my head near the bed, not wanting to catch the look once Lisa bolted through the door.
His thrusts got faster and faster, bringing me closer and closer. Then he slowed down a bit, but continued fucking me from behind. He grunted once, twice, and then I knew he was coming. The condom caught his load, and my roommate did not enter the room.
I asked him to stay in, but he reminded me that he needed to come out before he got soft. And he was right.
Afterwards, he continued to kiss my breasts, squeeze them, and I started just wanting this to end.
Then he asked me to get my shirt back on.
He dressed completely, telling me how incredible the fuck was to him.
And then he said, "Leesa, I think you lied to me. I don't think Lisa wants to share me."
"Why is that, Thomas."
"Because I am suppose to meet her at my apartment in 30 minutes. I was just taking a little nap."
Son-of-a-bitch, got my ass and I didn't even get him in trouble. Lisa would never believe he nailed me in her bed.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Men are Pigs Part II
The next morning, I arrived at work very early. I knew Charles (Mr. Religion) arrived by 6:30 am. Most of us did not arrive until 9:00am, and we knew he liked having the first hour or two to perform his accounting functions in peace and quiet. Normally, I dressed fairly conservatively, but today I needed to wear something that might be sexy but still appropriate for work – a short plaid skirt, white blouse, knee-high socks. Yes, I looked like a Catholic school girl. And I thought it was the proper fantasy for Mr. Straight Laced Accountant.
I heard him arrive like clockwork, precisely at 6:30 am. After giving him five minutes to settle into his office, I knocked on the door.
"Yes," Charles said.
I entered the office and shut the door behind me.
"Charles," I started, "How are you this morning?"
"F-fine," he stammered. He seemed a bit nervous. I knew he would be since he spends his mornings by himself.
Charles was an accountant, and the rest of us were "touchy-feely" people. And I had to figure out how to get him from behind his desk or my dare would never work. Oh, what to do.
"Charles, can you help me with something?" I said, trying to take the coyness from my voice.
"Sure, what?" was his short answer. I could see he really did not appreciate the interruption in the morning.
"Well, Charles, I need you for a sec. I am trying to practice a trust exercise, and I just need you for a bit."
Charles rounded the table.
"Okay, Charles, stand right there. Okay."
And I position himself at a particular place in the office. I turn my back to Charles.
"Now, Charles, I am going to fall backwards, and I am trusting that you will catch me? Can you do that for me?"
"Yes," came Charles' answer, and I started falling backwards.
Just as I expected, Charles caught me. And it felt good in his arms.
"Charles, you caught me," I said. "Thanks, sweetie."
And now I will try and trust you. Charles, a bit confused, just looked at me.
I took a deep breath, and then I reached down and touched his crotch area, trying to massage his penis through his pants.
"Can I do this, Charles?", as I continued to touch his penis through his pants.
"W-what are you do-oing?" he stammered.
"Shhhh," was my answer. "Can I continue, sweetie. I will only ask once."
"Oh," he was hooked, "Y-es. Ppplease."
I swiftly unbuckle his belt, and his pants were down. He had on boxers and I fished his penis through the opening in the boxers.
His penis was stiff and there was already pre-cum for me to lick. I gently licked the pre-cum from this married man's penis. Angie was right – he had not even made a pass at me before, and here we were in his office, me about to give him such a wonderful oral gift. How could this be?
I circled his penis with my tongue. Oh, how I loved running my tongue along a man's penis. Oh, and little did he know that I was getting so wet down there. Heck, he probably did not care, knowing him. He was getting a BJ!
I took my hands off of his penis, digging my claws into his accounting butt. I could tell he liked my fingernails. I continued with my tongue bath, focusing around the head and ridge of the penis. How I often wondered what that ridge was called. I considered it my tongue's play area.
In an instant I took him in my warm mouth. We were at work, and I could tell he was near erupting. And I did not want him cumming all over me. Not in my work clothes. More quickly than I thought, his penis started spewing cum into my mouth. And I took it all in. I had practiced this, knowing that guys love it. The hardest part is when the guy moves uncontrollably, knowing which direction to follow his penis.
I performed this expertly. And nearly as soon as his volcano of a penis erupted, it became flaccid. He was spent, and he was drifting back to reality.
He was a scared rabbit now, not knowing what to do next. I told him that we would never talk about this, that no one would ever find out. Well, Angie would know, but he did not have to know that I would tell her every detail, from the shape of the penis to how quickly he came. How willing he was to cheat on his wife for a quick BJ. But we never kissed, he never planted his stake in my vagina, he never even saw a tit. It was almost like I was a whore, as efficient as I was. But money never crossed my palm.
I heard him arrive like clockwork, precisely at 6:30 am. After giving him five minutes to settle into his office, I knocked on the door.
"Yes," Charles said.
I entered the office and shut the door behind me.
"Charles," I started, "How are you this morning?"
"F-fine," he stammered. He seemed a bit nervous. I knew he would be since he spends his mornings by himself.
Charles was an accountant, and the rest of us were "touchy-feely" people. And I had to figure out how to get him from behind his desk or my dare would never work. Oh, what to do.
"Charles, can you help me with something?" I said, trying to take the coyness from my voice.
"Sure, what?" was his short answer. I could see he really did not appreciate the interruption in the morning.
"Well, Charles, I need you for a sec. I am trying to practice a trust exercise, and I just need you for a bit."
Charles rounded the table.
"Okay, Charles, stand right there. Okay."
And I position himself at a particular place in the office. I turn my back to Charles.
"Now, Charles, I am going to fall backwards, and I am trusting that you will catch me? Can you do that for me?"
"Yes," came Charles' answer, and I started falling backwards.
Just as I expected, Charles caught me. And it felt good in his arms.
"Charles, you caught me," I said. "Thanks, sweetie."
And now I will try and trust you. Charles, a bit confused, just looked at me.
I took a deep breath, and then I reached down and touched his crotch area, trying to massage his penis through his pants.
"Can I do this, Charles?", as I continued to touch his penis through his pants.
"W-what are you do-oing?" he stammered.
"Shhhh," was my answer. "Can I continue, sweetie. I will only ask once."
"Oh," he was hooked, "Y-es. Ppplease."
I swiftly unbuckle his belt, and his pants were down. He had on boxers and I fished his penis through the opening in the boxers.
His penis was stiff and there was already pre-cum for me to lick. I gently licked the pre-cum from this married man's penis. Angie was right – he had not even made a pass at me before, and here we were in his office, me about to give him such a wonderful oral gift. How could this be?
I circled his penis with my tongue. Oh, how I loved running my tongue along a man's penis. Oh, and little did he know that I was getting so wet down there. Heck, he probably did not care, knowing him. He was getting a BJ!
I took my hands off of his penis, digging my claws into his accounting butt. I could tell he liked my fingernails. I continued with my tongue bath, focusing around the head and ridge of the penis. How I often wondered what that ridge was called. I considered it my tongue's play area.
In an instant I took him in my warm mouth. We were at work, and I could tell he was near erupting. And I did not want him cumming all over me. Not in my work clothes. More quickly than I thought, his penis started spewing cum into my mouth. And I took it all in. I had practiced this, knowing that guys love it. The hardest part is when the guy moves uncontrollably, knowing which direction to follow his penis.
I performed this expertly. And nearly as soon as his volcano of a penis erupted, it became flaccid. He was spent, and he was drifting back to reality.
He was a scared rabbit now, not knowing what to do next. I told him that we would never talk about this, that no one would ever find out. Well, Angie would know, but he did not have to know that I would tell her every detail, from the shape of the penis to how quickly he came. How willing he was to cheat on his wife for a quick BJ. But we never kissed, he never planted his stake in my vagina, he never even saw a tit. It was almost like I was a whore, as efficient as I was. But money never crossed my palm.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Men are Pigs Part I
Okay, this will turn out to be a two-part story, partly because I know guys just take a few sentences to – ahem – please oneself, and partly because the first part of the story is essentially true, the second part is all story.
Angie and I were in the shop, and as usual, there were few customers. The Autumn rush to purchase girl's uniforms was over, and school had started. Like clockwork, they opened their doors at 10:00 am, and also like clockwork, they would probably see their first customer around lunchtime. The mornings were theirs to chit chat.
There was no polite way to put this: Angie and I were sluts. I had been working at the shop for about six months, having been promoted from an administrative job in the other office location. I liked the promotion because it meant more money and less oversight – sometimes a frightful combination. I actually did not hire Angie – she was hired by the Executive Director. She was still in school (part time) and worked hours in the shop for schoolbooks and spending money.
She was years younger than me, but she seemed to be the master, I the pupil when it comes to our sexual exploits. And we talked about our sexual exploits during those times in the office before anyone opened the door, ringing the bell fastened to the ceiling.
Today, we were talking about men – as usual. And the conversation went something like this:
" . . . . and as he was in the bathroom, I started looking around his place. He told me he is in the process of getting a divorce, but I knew differently. Someone called during sex, and I could see panic in his eyes. Like he was in danger of getting caught."
"Leesa," Angie replied, "you are too much. Did you really think he was getting a divorce?"
"No," I admitted, "or else I would not have been fucking the bastard. I don't want some man getting between me and my husband."
"Honey," continued Angie, "like I have been saying, most men – married or single – just want to mount your skinny ass." Angie always made reference to my skinny ass. She was a little more rotund, and she liked the contrast.
"Angie, you know you don't have the same problems or obligations I have. I have to be careful."
"What 'cha mean?", Angie looked puzzled. "It is not like most guys want to spend the time and energy prying you away from your man as long as they get their samples."
Angie laughs. She is always so blunt, and she has a philosophy when it comes to men – that all men are dogs.
"Yeah, I know, Angie, all men are dogs."
Angie shifts positions, and I know she is going to say something of note.
"Leesa, actually, I think all people – men and women – will do almost anything as long as they know they won't get caught."
I thought about this for a minute. And then I thought about it some more, thinking of examples.
"Angie, sorry to burst your bubble, but I think you are full of it." In my mind, I said she was full of crap.
Then she does something unexpected. She kissed me, and I returned her kiss, hesitantly at first, and then wholeheartedly.
As our lips parted, Angie smiled.
"See, Leesa, you kissed me. You are not a lesbian or bi, but you just kissed me right now."
She wiped the saliva off of her lips with her forefinger and thumb, and all I was thinking was that I wanted to lick her fingers. Oh, my. Then reality came crashing it – she did not feel that way about me, she was making a freaking (fucking!) point.
She talked more about how people just don't want to disappoint – that's why I returned the kiss, she said. Or that as long as we don't get caught, we will do almost anything. Then we talked about our accountant – Mr. Religious. What would he do? I was going to find out the next morning.
Angie and I were in the shop, and as usual, there were few customers. The Autumn rush to purchase girl's uniforms was over, and school had started. Like clockwork, they opened their doors at 10:00 am, and also like clockwork, they would probably see their first customer around lunchtime. The mornings were theirs to chit chat.
There was no polite way to put this: Angie and I were sluts. I had been working at the shop for about six months, having been promoted from an administrative job in the other office location. I liked the promotion because it meant more money and less oversight – sometimes a frightful combination. I actually did not hire Angie – she was hired by the Executive Director. She was still in school (part time) and worked hours in the shop for schoolbooks and spending money.
She was years younger than me, but she seemed to be the master, I the pupil when it comes to our sexual exploits. And we talked about our sexual exploits during those times in the office before anyone opened the door, ringing the bell fastened to the ceiling.
Today, we were talking about men – as usual. And the conversation went something like this:
" . . . . and as he was in the bathroom, I started looking around his place. He told me he is in the process of getting a divorce, but I knew differently. Someone called during sex, and I could see panic in his eyes. Like he was in danger of getting caught."
"Leesa," Angie replied, "you are too much. Did you really think he was getting a divorce?"
"No," I admitted, "or else I would not have been fucking the bastard. I don't want some man getting between me and my husband."
"Honey," continued Angie, "like I have been saying, most men – married or single – just want to mount your skinny ass." Angie always made reference to my skinny ass. She was a little more rotund, and she liked the contrast.
"Angie, you know you don't have the same problems or obligations I have. I have to be careful."
"What 'cha mean?", Angie looked puzzled. "It is not like most guys want to spend the time and energy prying you away from your man as long as they get their samples."
Angie laughs. She is always so blunt, and she has a philosophy when it comes to men – that all men are dogs.
"Yeah, I know, Angie, all men are dogs."
Angie shifts positions, and I know she is going to say something of note.
"Leesa, actually, I think all people – men and women – will do almost anything as long as they know they won't get caught."
I thought about this for a minute. And then I thought about it some more, thinking of examples.
"Angie, sorry to burst your bubble, but I think you are full of it." In my mind, I said she was full of crap.
Then she does something unexpected. She kissed me, and I returned her kiss, hesitantly at first, and then wholeheartedly.
As our lips parted, Angie smiled.
"See, Leesa, you kissed me. You are not a lesbian or bi, but you just kissed me right now."
She wiped the saliva off of her lips with her forefinger and thumb, and all I was thinking was that I wanted to lick her fingers. Oh, my. Then reality came crashing it – she did not feel that way about me, she was making a freaking (fucking!) point.
She talked more about how people just don't want to disappoint – that's why I returned the kiss, she said. Or that as long as we don't get caught, we will do almost anything. Then we talked about our accountant – Mr. Religious. What would he do? I was going to find out the next morning.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Christmas Presents
Okay, like I said yesterday, I am not in the Christmas spirit. I am just not. But I thought of something clever; clever idea, let's see if Ms. Leesa can deliver. I thought it would be fun to list items that I would give you – if money was no object. And the cost of the object would in no way reflect how valuable you are to me.
Ddot
Ddot would be hard to shop for, but I would want to buy ddot some sexy undies. Not because I think he needs them – I just like the idea of him getting his game on and perhaps thinking of me, if for a brief moment. In real life, I would probably buy him a sweater. I love buying sweaters, so it sucks that I live in Georgia (where we only need sweaters for like a month).
Arson
Season tickets to the Redskins. Heck, if cost is no object, how about Box Seats; and if the 'skins are going to the playoffs, I will cough up some money for the playoffs. 4 tickets so you can tease your friends on who gets to go.
Georgia Peach
I would like to buy Ms. Peach a pole for her bedroom. GP wrote recently about wanting a stripper pole in her bedroom, and I laughed for hours. I would buy her one for two reasons – so see the look on her face when she gets it, and two, because I think she might videotape a dance and place it on her blog. As Mastercard suggests: priceless.
Storm
I would buy Storm a leather journal and a matching pen. I love the way she writes, and I would want her to write in a notebook, whenever she did not have access to a computer. I was thinking of getting a clasp to lock up her thoughts, but I thought better of it. I don't want her to lock up her thoughts.
Video X
VX needs a boyfriend. But in the US, you can't buy boyfriends. So I would get her one day at a spa – full treatment, including massage. Hey, the massage is better than a boyfriend, because you don't have to give the masseur a blowjob afterwards. Well, I guess you could if you wanted. Check with the rules before trying this, VX.
Thomas
I would buy Thomas a weekend on the Cumberland Islands in Georgia at the Greyfield Inn (think Carnegie's). He and wife could play all weekend.
Muse
I would get Muse the famous Victoria's Secret bra. Personally, I would sell the $15 Million Dollar bra, but I think she would like to tease hubbie with it. Some would think this would be wasteful – maybe it is. But just think how you would feel in this much luxury. Maybe I could borrow it if Muse is a 36C!
Lilac Thief
I would buy Lilac Thief a coupon book for 12 nights out – babysitter included – so she could kick up her heals one day per month. Sort of re-juice her batteries.
Kathi
I would buy Kathi a state-of-the-art digital camera. I would love to see the pictures she takes of the world through her eyes. Plus she can snap and share pics of the kids with us.
~Deb
I would have Deb's blog published in book form – just one copy, so that she remembers what she was blogging about in her old age. Many years from now, but something a little more permanent than the Internet. And she would not have to edit it herself. That would be the real gift.
Dax
I would buy Dax a new shotgun and set him up on a guided hunt. Heck, the guide would even clean the game. Note to Animal Rights Activists: No animal was harmed in the typing of this post.
Mark
I would buy Mark a lens that he always wanted, maybe two lenses. If there was a Zeiss to fit his camera, I would probably pick that brand. I hear the lenses are exquisite. And I would love to see his pictures as well. Kathi for her subjects, Mark for his artistry.
Prata
I would get Prata the 100 Greatest Novels, listed by Random House. Okay, he may have some of these. But I doubt he has all of them. And I would also get him the biggest, fattest dictionary I could find. Just because.
KyuBall
I want to give kyuball a camera, too. One of those small, digital cameras that he can keep in his car and take pictures of things to amuse his blog public. I am sure he sees lots on the road, and this would be a fast way to document the occurrences he sees. I think it would be a hoot.
Ken
I would want to buy Ken a John boat. He is from Louisiana, and I just think of slate grey John boats when I think of Louisiana.
Mallory
I would buy Mallory a miniature oil derrick for her front yard. Not a tacky oil derrick, but a really nice one. The parts would move but it would not pump out real oil. I would hate it if her house was swallowed up by a sink hole. And I would feel partially to blame as well.
Mwabi
A trip to Disneyworld for Mwabi and the kids. Okay, Disney is commercial as all get out, but it is still a fun place for kids of all ages. Acuna Matata.
Boris
I would get Boris a tape recorder. I think Boris is the kind of guy that has lots of thoughts all day. And I don't want those thoughts escaping. Plus he lives in a small town. I would love him to, after getting back in his car or truck, and hitting the record button, saying, "Oh, Ms. So and So, ran into her today. She told the most interesting . . . .' I just want Americana to be captured.
Monica
I would buy Monica a beautiful black dress – she probably has three already. But this one would look like one that Grace Kelly wore once. She would turn heads. And to make it a real gift from me, a pair of crotchless panties. Nothing hits a man over the head like crotchless panties. Your hubbie can write the Thank You note.
Grant
I would have to be careful with Grant's gift. Anything I gave him might be used in a different way than the original directions would suggest. Any gag gifts would be used on innocents.
The Seeker
I would set The Seeker up with a literary agent. I just want to read the book he comes up with. So this gift is more for me than he. Perhaps that and a blow up doll to decorate his office. It could be his Leesa Doll, and he could dress it up for different occasions.
Joe
I would buy Joe a tuxedo. I love tuxedos but hardly anyone owns one. Joe needs a tux, and I want him to wear it on dates. It would make the girl feel special too, not that she would not feel special when she is out with Joe.
Greg
I would like to buy Greg a new computer. Probably a new Dell. Something not too snazzy though; not anything with two processors like a work station. Just something that is really fast (today). Next week it will be out of date, of course, but something that will keep on humming.
Canadian Rose
I would buy Rose some old De Sade books. They are really interesting. Very intellectually stimulating as well; I promise.
Bert Ford
I would buy Bert a night out with the Grateful Dead. Again, more for me than for he. I just want him to have wonderful experiences and write about them.
Lisa
I want to buy Lisa a see-through top, in the hopes of her wearing it on braless Tuesday. Maybe she can wear it with a camisole. Not sure I want to see nipple, but I want to see skin through the top.
SJ Blogger
I would give him $400 in cash and a three day weekend in Vegas. Then I would hope he had a good time, whether he invited his wife of not. And I would wonder what he spent the $400 on – personally, I bet on red.
Mike
I would give Mike a trip to Europe, just because. I would want him to travel for one month, partly because I would like him to experience all of the sights, sounds, smells and people he can find, partly so that the Europeans can see a nice American on vacation. I am afraid most of them representing us are not doing such a hot job. And then I would read his random thoughts.
Oriole
A nice pair of binoculars. Oriole is a birder. Not for looking at Lisa's breasts through her window. Get your minds out of the gutter, gentle readers.
Heather
There is a book known as the Louis Waynai Bible. Some think it is the world's largest bible. Okay, to get the book, I would have to heist it from the Abilene Christian University's Library. Sure, the job would be easy (how much security could there be), but would this be a sin. I think so.
Devilgyrl
For DevilGyrl and Cannon Fodder, matching silk PJs. Though I have a hunch DevilGyrl sleeps a la natural.
Goddess
I would give goddess 15 minutes of fame. Perhaps have a TV camera go to her house; interview her about her experiences with blogging. Just give her some exposure.
Okay, I did this post for me, not you guys. I thought it would get me in the Christmas spirit. Crap. Guess I will have to hit the eggnog later today.
Ddot
Ddot would be hard to shop for, but I would want to buy ddot some sexy undies. Not because I think he needs them – I just like the idea of him getting his game on and perhaps thinking of me, if for a brief moment. In real life, I would probably buy him a sweater. I love buying sweaters, so it sucks that I live in Georgia (where we only need sweaters for like a month).
Arson
Season tickets to the Redskins. Heck, if cost is no object, how about Box Seats; and if the 'skins are going to the playoffs, I will cough up some money for the playoffs. 4 tickets so you can tease your friends on who gets to go.
Georgia Peach
I would like to buy Ms. Peach a pole for her bedroom. GP wrote recently about wanting a stripper pole in her bedroom, and I laughed for hours. I would buy her one for two reasons – so see the look on her face when she gets it, and two, because I think she might videotape a dance and place it on her blog. As Mastercard suggests: priceless.
Storm
I would buy Storm a leather journal and a matching pen. I love the way she writes, and I would want her to write in a notebook, whenever she did not have access to a computer. I was thinking of getting a clasp to lock up her thoughts, but I thought better of it. I don't want her to lock up her thoughts.
Video X
VX needs a boyfriend. But in the US, you can't buy boyfriends. So I would get her one day at a spa – full treatment, including massage. Hey, the massage is better than a boyfriend, because you don't have to give the masseur a blowjob afterwards. Well, I guess you could if you wanted. Check with the rules before trying this, VX.
Thomas
I would buy Thomas a weekend on the Cumberland Islands in Georgia at the Greyfield Inn (think Carnegie's). He and wife could play all weekend.
Muse
I would get Muse the famous Victoria's Secret bra. Personally, I would sell the $15 Million Dollar bra, but I think she would like to tease hubbie with it. Some would think this would be wasteful – maybe it is. But just think how you would feel in this much luxury. Maybe I could borrow it if Muse is a 36C!
Lilac Thief
I would buy Lilac Thief a coupon book for 12 nights out – babysitter included – so she could kick up her heals one day per month. Sort of re-juice her batteries.
Kathi
I would buy Kathi a state-of-the-art digital camera. I would love to see the pictures she takes of the world through her eyes. Plus she can snap and share pics of the kids with us.
~Deb
I would have Deb's blog published in book form – just one copy, so that she remembers what she was blogging about in her old age. Many years from now, but something a little more permanent than the Internet. And she would not have to edit it herself. That would be the real gift.
Dax
I would buy Dax a new shotgun and set him up on a guided hunt. Heck, the guide would even clean the game. Note to Animal Rights Activists: No animal was harmed in the typing of this post.
Mark
I would buy Mark a lens that he always wanted, maybe two lenses. If there was a Zeiss to fit his camera, I would probably pick that brand. I hear the lenses are exquisite. And I would love to see his pictures as well. Kathi for her subjects, Mark for his artistry.
Prata
I would get Prata the 100 Greatest Novels, listed by Random House. Okay, he may have some of these. But I doubt he has all of them. And I would also get him the biggest, fattest dictionary I could find. Just because.
KyuBall
I want to give kyuball a camera, too. One of those small, digital cameras that he can keep in his car and take pictures of things to amuse his blog public. I am sure he sees lots on the road, and this would be a fast way to document the occurrences he sees. I think it would be a hoot.
Ken
I would want to buy Ken a John boat. He is from Louisiana, and I just think of slate grey John boats when I think of Louisiana.
Mallory
I would buy Mallory a miniature oil derrick for her front yard. Not a tacky oil derrick, but a really nice one. The parts would move but it would not pump out real oil. I would hate it if her house was swallowed up by a sink hole. And I would feel partially to blame as well.
Mwabi
A trip to Disneyworld for Mwabi and the kids. Okay, Disney is commercial as all get out, but it is still a fun place for kids of all ages. Acuna Matata.
Boris
I would get Boris a tape recorder. I think Boris is the kind of guy that has lots of thoughts all day. And I don't want those thoughts escaping. Plus he lives in a small town. I would love him to, after getting back in his car or truck, and hitting the record button, saying, "Oh, Ms. So and So, ran into her today. She told the most interesting . . . .' I just want Americana to be captured.
Monica
I would buy Monica a beautiful black dress – she probably has three already. But this one would look like one that Grace Kelly wore once. She would turn heads. And to make it a real gift from me, a pair of crotchless panties. Nothing hits a man over the head like crotchless panties. Your hubbie can write the Thank You note.
Grant
I would have to be careful with Grant's gift. Anything I gave him might be used in a different way than the original directions would suggest. Any gag gifts would be used on innocents.
The Seeker
I would set The Seeker up with a literary agent. I just want to read the book he comes up with. So this gift is more for me than he. Perhaps that and a blow up doll to decorate his office. It could be his Leesa Doll, and he could dress it up for different occasions.
Joe
I would buy Joe a tuxedo. I love tuxedos but hardly anyone owns one. Joe needs a tux, and I want him to wear it on dates. It would make the girl feel special too, not that she would not feel special when she is out with Joe.
Greg
I would like to buy Greg a new computer. Probably a new Dell. Something not too snazzy though; not anything with two processors like a work station. Just something that is really fast (today). Next week it will be out of date, of course, but something that will keep on humming.
Canadian Rose
I would buy Rose some old De Sade books. They are really interesting. Very intellectually stimulating as well; I promise.
Bert Ford
I would buy Bert a night out with the Grateful Dead. Again, more for me than for he. I just want him to have wonderful experiences and write about them.
Lisa
I want to buy Lisa a see-through top, in the hopes of her wearing it on braless Tuesday. Maybe she can wear it with a camisole. Not sure I want to see nipple, but I want to see skin through the top.
SJ Blogger
I would give him $400 in cash and a three day weekend in Vegas. Then I would hope he had a good time, whether he invited his wife of not. And I would wonder what he spent the $400 on – personally, I bet on red.
Mike
I would give Mike a trip to Europe, just because. I would want him to travel for one month, partly because I would like him to experience all of the sights, sounds, smells and people he can find, partly so that the Europeans can see a nice American on vacation. I am afraid most of them representing us are not doing such a hot job. And then I would read his random thoughts.
Oriole
A nice pair of binoculars. Oriole is a birder. Not for looking at Lisa's breasts through her window. Get your minds out of the gutter, gentle readers.
Heather
There is a book known as the Louis Waynai Bible. Some think it is the world's largest bible. Okay, to get the book, I would have to heist it from the Abilene Christian University's Library. Sure, the job would be easy (how much security could there be), but would this be a sin. I think so.
Devilgyrl
For DevilGyrl and Cannon Fodder, matching silk PJs. Though I have a hunch DevilGyrl sleeps a la natural.
Goddess
I would give goddess 15 minutes of fame. Perhaps have a TV camera go to her house; interview her about her experiences with blogging. Just give her some exposure.
Okay, I did this post for me, not you guys. I thought it would get me in the Christmas spirit. Crap. Guess I will have to hit the eggnog later today.
Labels:
blogger
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Spicing Up Ice Cream
I hesitate to say this, but I am not in the Christmas spirit this year. Not sure why. I have seen others who are not in the Christmas spirit as well.
I have read other posts – some of which talk well of Christmas, some of which are stressed because they have Christmas shopping to do, some of which have little money, some of which have dysfunctional family, all different Christmases.
I tried watching some old standards – you know, the usual contenders: It's a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 38th Street, A Christmas Carol. God Bless us, everyone, Tiny Tim. But I am still not in the Christmas spirits.
Now I have done some things. I got most of my Christmas shopping done. Everybody but my boyfriend – I mean, husband. All he wants is his "Christmas blowjob." Quick explanation necessary: when we were engaged, I started a tradition of giving him a BJ by the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve. I guess it guarantees that I will have a Yule Log each year – sorry for the pun. But he is so hard to shop for. The gift has to be thoughtful and not cost too much. And since he is a guy, he buys himself whatever he wants all year long. We put a moratorium on spending the day after Thanksgiving, just so I can get him something he wants. Really.
Now that I look at what I have bought, I will let you know that the people on my list that I don't even know made out better than blood relatives. Not sure why that is. Someone at the local Safe House is getting a very nice sweater – which cost more than any presents my nieces and nephews are getting. And a little 6-year-old girl is getting a warm coat and a Bratz doll, with many fashion accessories. I sure hope Bratz is in this year. The girl's mother only wanted the coat, but I want this little princess to get something else. Know what I mean? I also donated two sacks full of groceries for a Christmas meal for a family. And none of this giving has kick-started my Christmas spirit.
I really have nothing to complain about – we are both healthy, have enough money so that we are not worried about food, housing or clothing, we have good friends, a good Church. Just sort of blah this year.
I even had great sex last night – lots of passion, sweat, and sweetness afterwards. Hubbie outdid himself. But great sex does not necessarily put one in the Christmas frame-of-mind. It doesn't hurt, mind you, but it does not help that much either.
And I am not depressed, either. I mean, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas is also suicide season because some people are depressed. And that is not me, either. More of a vanilla ice cream feeling than anything. Just sort of blah, though sometimes vanilla ice cream hits the spot. You can always add fruit and turn it into a yummy treat. Guess I am looking for some fruit.
I have read other posts – some of which talk well of Christmas, some of which are stressed because they have Christmas shopping to do, some of which have little money, some of which have dysfunctional family, all different Christmases.
I tried watching some old standards – you know, the usual contenders: It's a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 38th Street, A Christmas Carol. God Bless us, everyone, Tiny Tim. But I am still not in the Christmas spirits.
Now I have done some things. I got most of my Christmas shopping done. Everybody but my boyfriend – I mean, husband. All he wants is his "Christmas blowjob." Quick explanation necessary: when we were engaged, I started a tradition of giving him a BJ by the Christmas tree on Christmas Eve. I guess it guarantees that I will have a Yule Log each year – sorry for the pun. But he is so hard to shop for. The gift has to be thoughtful and not cost too much. And since he is a guy, he buys himself whatever he wants all year long. We put a moratorium on spending the day after Thanksgiving, just so I can get him something he wants. Really.
Now that I look at what I have bought, I will let you know that the people on my list that I don't even know made out better than blood relatives. Not sure why that is. Someone at the local Safe House is getting a very nice sweater – which cost more than any presents my nieces and nephews are getting. And a little 6-year-old girl is getting a warm coat and a Bratz doll, with many fashion accessories. I sure hope Bratz is in this year. The girl's mother only wanted the coat, but I want this little princess to get something else. Know what I mean? I also donated two sacks full of groceries for a Christmas meal for a family. And none of this giving has kick-started my Christmas spirit.
I really have nothing to complain about – we are both healthy, have enough money so that we are not worried about food, housing or clothing, we have good friends, a good Church. Just sort of blah this year.
I even had great sex last night – lots of passion, sweat, and sweetness afterwards. Hubbie outdid himself. But great sex does not necessarily put one in the Christmas frame-of-mind. It doesn't hurt, mind you, but it does not help that much either.
And I am not depressed, either. I mean, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas is also suicide season because some people are depressed. And that is not me, either. More of a vanilla ice cream feeling than anything. Just sort of blah, though sometimes vanilla ice cream hits the spot. You can always add fruit and turn it into a yummy treat. Guess I am looking for some fruit.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Pausing in the ER
Not sure what I want to post today.
Actually, I was catching up on reading responses to my lurker post Friday. You see, I posted it, started to work a bit, and then I had to go to the ER (not me, accompanying a co-worker). You see, when you are part of the "support staff," you sort of have to do some strange things sometimes.
So I spent Friday in the waiting area of the ER for several hours, mostly by myself. I mean, I was not going to be in one of the rooms with the co-worker (not wanting to hear doctor stuff, because it is personal, just don't want the co-worker to die at work).
She is fine – by the way – but they did all kinds of tests on her. While she was being poked and prodded, put on machines, etc., I started reading magazines, and when I was a bit tired, I started looking around the waiting area, and people-watching was immensely more interesting than reading month-old magazines.
The first couple I saw was so sweet. The guy was a mechanic, judging from his oil and grease-stained uniform. Name-tag on the uniform said "Joe." His fingers were large, and I noticed them after the woman handed him her small diamond earrings. She must have been 19-years-old; fresh face, skinny, pretty. He held her close, as she was scared. Over time, I think she was waiting for Radiology, and me being the inquisitive type, I was wondering what was going on. Was she waiting to get an ultrasound because these love-birds were expecting their first child? Maybe they were worried about something. He seemed so loving – such a rugged guy, and it warmed my heart to see him care so tenderly for her. Young love at Christmastime, what a wonderful thing.
I saw two small children, both sick. Both had mothers who were waiting patiently. Children both looked small, like they did not feel good at all. You can tell when kids feel absolutely awful, where they are just hurting. That's how these children felt. I have heard that some people use the ER as their primary way to get healthcare, and I don't think that's what was going on here. The kids looked really sick, and both were whisked away quickly.
There was an indigent gentleman, with an old rag-wrapped hand. Not sure what happened, but I imagined he accidentally put his hand through a window. It took the heath care providers a couple of hours to get to him. He was patient, quiet, and no one would sit near him. He did smell, but I suppose if you lived on the streets, I guess you would smell, too.
I guess that day gave me time to pause. Christmas is so rush-rush-rush, that I don't sometimes take time to pause. As I was watching the people in the ER, I prayed for them. Guess I didn't have anything better to do – People magazine looses its luster when the news is one or two months old.
I was chit-chatting with some people in the waiting area, and one woman (daughter had a high fever) said before her daughter was real sick, she was home with her watching old Christmas movies.
Now I am not sure I would want a sick child to give me an excuse to pause, but it is nice to just curl up on the couch with a stack of old Christmas favorites and laugh and cry to the old movies. Or to sip tea and watch snow. Well, no snow where I am, but you get the idea.
Back to the hustle and bustle.
Actually, I was catching up on reading responses to my lurker post Friday. You see, I posted it, started to work a bit, and then I had to go to the ER (not me, accompanying a co-worker). You see, when you are part of the "support staff," you sort of have to do some strange things sometimes.
So I spent Friday in the waiting area of the ER for several hours, mostly by myself. I mean, I was not going to be in one of the rooms with the co-worker (not wanting to hear doctor stuff, because it is personal, just don't want the co-worker to die at work).
She is fine – by the way – but they did all kinds of tests on her. While she was being poked and prodded, put on machines, etc., I started reading magazines, and when I was a bit tired, I started looking around the waiting area, and people-watching was immensely more interesting than reading month-old magazines.
The first couple I saw was so sweet. The guy was a mechanic, judging from his oil and grease-stained uniform. Name-tag on the uniform said "Joe." His fingers were large, and I noticed them after the woman handed him her small diamond earrings. She must have been 19-years-old; fresh face, skinny, pretty. He held her close, as she was scared. Over time, I think she was waiting for Radiology, and me being the inquisitive type, I was wondering what was going on. Was she waiting to get an ultrasound because these love-birds were expecting their first child? Maybe they were worried about something. He seemed so loving – such a rugged guy, and it warmed my heart to see him care so tenderly for her. Young love at Christmastime, what a wonderful thing.
I saw two small children, both sick. Both had mothers who were waiting patiently. Children both looked small, like they did not feel good at all. You can tell when kids feel absolutely awful, where they are just hurting. That's how these children felt. I have heard that some people use the ER as their primary way to get healthcare, and I don't think that's what was going on here. The kids looked really sick, and both were whisked away quickly.
There was an indigent gentleman, with an old rag-wrapped hand. Not sure what happened, but I imagined he accidentally put his hand through a window. It took the heath care providers a couple of hours to get to him. He was patient, quiet, and no one would sit near him. He did smell, but I suppose if you lived on the streets, I guess you would smell, too.
I guess that day gave me time to pause. Christmas is so rush-rush-rush, that I don't sometimes take time to pause. As I was watching the people in the ER, I prayed for them. Guess I didn't have anything better to do – People magazine looses its luster when the news is one or two months old.
I was chit-chatting with some people in the waiting area, and one woman (daughter had a high fever) said before her daughter was real sick, she was home with her watching old Christmas movies.
Now I am not sure I would want a sick child to give me an excuse to pause, but it is nice to just curl up on the couch with a stack of old Christmas favorites and laugh and cry to the old movies. Or to sip tea and watch snow. Well, no snow where I am, but you get the idea.
Back to the hustle and bustle.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Lurker Fantasies
I was reading a blog the other day (by devilgyrl and Cannon_Fodder), and they called out all lurkers. I lurker is someone who reads but doesn't post. Now I don't want to call out lurkers at all. Why? What would happen if no one responded? I would need to double up on my medication. And I am not sure that would be a safe thing to do.
I like the idea of lurkers. I like to think that there are people reading me and not responding, so I can make up any number that I see fit. I can imagine thousands of lurkers reading me, laughing at my jokes, falling in love with my sweet personality. I have a good imagination. I don't want to know that I have 12 occasional lurkers who are in middle school and got to my site because they were hoping to see cum-soaked panties. If that is reality, I want my fantasy.
By the way, I was reading Ms. Peculiar (I am a lurker on her site, too). Funny thing is that my brain reads "particular" when I see "peculiar". Goodness, I hope none of you is a shrink. Anyway, her snow days post is absolutely beautiful. Sort of makes me want snow in Georgia, except I don't like to be cold.
What was I talking about? Fantasies? I know, you want me to talk about nylon rope and whipping cream, garter belts and crotchless panties. But I am talking about what is real verses what we think is real. Sort of.
A little while ago, I was in a public restroom on another floor. I heard someone talking on a cellular phone in the restroom. When I am talking to someone on the phone, I have a fantasy – that they are giving me their undivided attention. The reason I bring this up is that I flushed the toilet – and the toilet sort of freaked out. It kept flushing and flushing. Loudly. And all I could think was, "This person on the phone is busted because the flushing was so loud, the person on the other end of the phone had to know she was in the Ladies' Room."
When people are calling me, I expect their undivided attention. I don't want them to be using the restroom, masturbating, cleaning the kitchen floors. I know, a fantasy. Actually I sometimes wonder if the telemarketers are masturbating while trying to make me buy something. I mean, they seem to be saying, "Hello, ah, ah, Leesa." So are they masturbating or are they looking for my name on their computer screens. Impossible to say for sure. But then again, it is my fantasy.
I like the idea of lurkers. I like to think that there are people reading me and not responding, so I can make up any number that I see fit. I can imagine thousands of lurkers reading me, laughing at my jokes, falling in love with my sweet personality. I have a good imagination. I don't want to know that I have 12 occasional lurkers who are in middle school and got to my site because they were hoping to see cum-soaked panties. If that is reality, I want my fantasy.
By the way, I was reading Ms. Peculiar (I am a lurker on her site, too). Funny thing is that my brain reads "particular" when I see "peculiar". Goodness, I hope none of you is a shrink. Anyway, her snow days post is absolutely beautiful. Sort of makes me want snow in Georgia, except I don't like to be cold.
What was I talking about? Fantasies? I know, you want me to talk about nylon rope and whipping cream, garter belts and crotchless panties. But I am talking about what is real verses what we think is real. Sort of.
A little while ago, I was in a public restroom on another floor. I heard someone talking on a cellular phone in the restroom. When I am talking to someone on the phone, I have a fantasy – that they are giving me their undivided attention. The reason I bring this up is that I flushed the toilet – and the toilet sort of freaked out. It kept flushing and flushing. Loudly. And all I could think was, "This person on the phone is busted because the flushing was so loud, the person on the other end of the phone had to know she was in the Ladies' Room."
When people are calling me, I expect their undivided attention. I don't want them to be using the restroom, masturbating, cleaning the kitchen floors. I know, a fantasy. Actually I sometimes wonder if the telemarketers are masturbating while trying to make me buy something. I mean, they seem to be saying, "Hello, ah, ah, Leesa." So are they masturbating or are they looking for my name on their computer screens. Impossible to say for sure. But then again, it is my fantasy.
Labels:
panties
Thursday, December 15, 2005
I dare ya'
Okay, two days ago, Ms. Georgia Peach tagged me and Prata. And, after looking at this, it is sort of a dare. And both of us took Ms. Peach up on her little dare. I know I really did not want to do it, and I am certain Prata was not thrilled about it either. Though he responded beautifully.
I did this – and maybe Prata did as well – because we were sort of dared to do something.
Playing spin the bottle is a dare of sorts. You are all around a bottle and you are forced to kiss someone not of your choosing. Part of this is probably because you want to be forced to kiss someone, part of it is because you don't want to be in control. Some thing with the "5 minutes in the closet." Almost every boy I was in the closet with did almost nothing. A lot of giggling after a moment of quiet terror. And all I wanted was for a boy to cup my breasts.
Then in high school we played truth-or-dare. I sort of did not get the rules, because I always told the truth. Hey, I was a good Catholic school girl; what did I have to hide? I think it would have been more fun to do the dare even if I didn't mind telling my girlfriends who I liked, or what base I reached with Kevin (sadly, first base, and equally sadly, Kevin was not a very good kisser).
Then in college I was doing all sorts of daring stuff, but that was not because people were daring me. I was just out-there, experiencing life.
Then marriage. Is that a dare? Husband didn't dare me, but it seemed like a very daring thing to do. Best thing I have ever done, even after all this time and these mistakes.
Then the dark period. When I had "fallen from grace," I had sort of a girlfriend who we would tell things to one another. Okay, that last sentence seemed like it was in code. Here is what I was trying to say more plainly: When I was screwing every penis that came near me, I found this girlfriend who had similar experiences, and we would tell each other about what we were up to. It was not gossip, per se, because we were talking about our own experiences. It was sort of like a sisterhood of sluts, I guess. And there were only two of us. Hmmmm. Sisterhood seems like the wrong word to use.
Anyway, girlfriend and I would talk about what we did with which body parts involved in what locations. We had some lively discussions. And after a while, we would dare each other. On more than one occasion, I would go to work and girlfriend would dare me to go braless for the day. Which was a big deal because the cash register was on this old desk, so customers would be looking down on us as we took their money. When I went braless, there was a good chance the guys were looking down my blouse that day.
I know you are thinking that I liked the attention – and I really didn't. I just had such a good relationship with this chick that I did not want to disappoint her. Okay, not a lasting friendship really, but one of those feel-good friendships. If you were standing on a bridge contemplating jumping into the icy river water, you would not want her standing by waiting to save you. She probably would have been curious as to the size of your splash, and although she would not have pushed you off, she would have enjoyed seeing you hit the water. Thanks, sweetie, but you wouldn't be earning your wings and you wouldn't care.
She also dared me to wear some butterfly vibrator while working. And I chose not to do that. That was just too strange. The more I think about her, the more I think I will be reading about her in the newspaper. She is the type that might have a dungeon under her house, if you know what I mean.
I had to reread the first paragraph of this entry to figure what I was writing about. I had forgotten – and I was thinking, "Why am I writing about butterfly vibrators and dungeons? Did someone dare me?"
I did this – and maybe Prata did as well – because we were sort of dared to do something.
Playing spin the bottle is a dare of sorts. You are all around a bottle and you are forced to kiss someone not of your choosing. Part of this is probably because you want to be forced to kiss someone, part of it is because you don't want to be in control. Some thing with the "5 minutes in the closet." Almost every boy I was in the closet with did almost nothing. A lot of giggling after a moment of quiet terror. And all I wanted was for a boy to cup my breasts.
Then in high school we played truth-or-dare. I sort of did not get the rules, because I always told the truth. Hey, I was a good Catholic school girl; what did I have to hide? I think it would have been more fun to do the dare even if I didn't mind telling my girlfriends who I liked, or what base I reached with Kevin (sadly, first base, and equally sadly, Kevin was not a very good kisser).
Then in college I was doing all sorts of daring stuff, but that was not because people were daring me. I was just out-there, experiencing life.
Then marriage. Is that a dare? Husband didn't dare me, but it seemed like a very daring thing to do. Best thing I have ever done, even after all this time and these mistakes.
Then the dark period. When I had "fallen from grace," I had sort of a girlfriend who we would tell things to one another. Okay, that last sentence seemed like it was in code. Here is what I was trying to say more plainly: When I was screwing every penis that came near me, I found this girlfriend who had similar experiences, and we would tell each other about what we were up to. It was not gossip, per se, because we were talking about our own experiences. It was sort of like a sisterhood of sluts, I guess. And there were only two of us. Hmmmm. Sisterhood seems like the wrong word to use.
Anyway, girlfriend and I would talk about what we did with which body parts involved in what locations. We had some lively discussions. And after a while, we would dare each other. On more than one occasion, I would go to work and girlfriend would dare me to go braless for the day. Which was a big deal because the cash register was on this old desk, so customers would be looking down on us as we took their money. When I went braless, there was a good chance the guys were looking down my blouse that day.
I know you are thinking that I liked the attention – and I really didn't. I just had such a good relationship with this chick that I did not want to disappoint her. Okay, not a lasting friendship really, but one of those feel-good friendships. If you were standing on a bridge contemplating jumping into the icy river water, you would not want her standing by waiting to save you. She probably would have been curious as to the size of your splash, and although she would not have pushed you off, she would have enjoyed seeing you hit the water. Thanks, sweetie, but you wouldn't be earning your wings and you wouldn't care.
She also dared me to wear some butterfly vibrator while working. And I chose not to do that. That was just too strange. The more I think about her, the more I think I will be reading about her in the newspaper. She is the type that might have a dungeon under her house, if you know what I mean.
I had to reread the first paragraph of this entry to figure what I was writing about. I had forgotten – and I was thinking, "Why am I writing about butterfly vibrators and dungeons? Did someone dare me?"
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Cursing 101
Okay, last week I wrote about cursing. You see, I don't curse a lot. Maybe it is my southern upbringing, or it is because I am not good at it. I don't know, but I don't curse.
But then I started thinking of some common curse phrases, and I really don't understand them. Not sure if they are suppose to make sense, but they should, right? For this intellectual study, I will actually use the words. So all you kiddies, go away. Go surf for porn, or whatever you were doing when you tripped on this blog.
Fuck You
This, when I was in school, was the bad boy of curse words. Now it seems all so common. But it is shortened from the phrase, I think, "Fuck yourself." So when I hear this phrase, I think, okay, this person wants me to fuck myself. Seems like masturbation to me. Masturbation is pleasurable. This person is so sweet, he or she is reminding me to give myself an orgasm. What is wrong with that? I just don't understand how this could be bad.
Anyway, part of me thinks to respond, "Don't mind if I do. And perhaps a bit later, I will also have a spa treatment. Thanks for your kind suggestion."
Kiss My Ass
This one is not so harsh, though Kathi probably does not use this, unless she is guiding her husband in the bedroom. I thought an ass-kisser was someone who paid someone a compliment. So again, the person is saying, "Compliment me." Scratches head. Well, compliment me, too, sweetie. It just sounds like someone with low self-esteem or someone who is an attention whore. Not sure why this is bad.
Bite Me
I had a girlfriend (not a lover, a friend who happened to be a girl) who loved this phrase. And sometimes, I thought to myself, "pull down your skirt and show me your hiney. I will bite your ass, girlfriend." She said it all of the time, and I just wanted her to stop. But when I think of it, it sounds so sexual. Any mouth near my ass seems sexual. Am I strange?
So when someone says "Bite Me," it sounds like they want me to be sexual with my teeth and their ass. This really confuses me. If someone could guide me, I would appreciate it (really, not being a smart ass).
Mother Fucker
By definition, every father who is involved in coitus with their wife is a mother fucker. There has to be a mother fucker for the any mother having two or more children. Why is this a bad thing? I just don't understand. And anyway, I have known mothers who have bemoaned that their hubbies are just not as interested in sex anymore. If anything, they want their husbands to be the most fuckingest mother fuckers on the planet.
Oh, that felt good. I think I know why people like to curse. Can cursing bring one close to orgasm? Probably just for me and Kathi. But it seems like ~Deb brings her close with her poems.
But then I started thinking of some common curse phrases, and I really don't understand them. Not sure if they are suppose to make sense, but they should, right? For this intellectual study, I will actually use the words. So all you kiddies, go away. Go surf for porn, or whatever you were doing when you tripped on this blog.
Fuck You
This, when I was in school, was the bad boy of curse words. Now it seems all so common. But it is shortened from the phrase, I think, "Fuck yourself." So when I hear this phrase, I think, okay, this person wants me to fuck myself. Seems like masturbation to me. Masturbation is pleasurable. This person is so sweet, he or she is reminding me to give myself an orgasm. What is wrong with that? I just don't understand how this could be bad.
Anyway, part of me thinks to respond, "Don't mind if I do. And perhaps a bit later, I will also have a spa treatment. Thanks for your kind suggestion."
Kiss My Ass
This one is not so harsh, though Kathi probably does not use this, unless she is guiding her husband in the bedroom. I thought an ass-kisser was someone who paid someone a compliment. So again, the person is saying, "Compliment me." Scratches head. Well, compliment me, too, sweetie. It just sounds like someone with low self-esteem or someone who is an attention whore. Not sure why this is bad.
Bite Me
I had a girlfriend (not a lover, a friend who happened to be a girl) who loved this phrase. And sometimes, I thought to myself, "pull down your skirt and show me your hiney. I will bite your ass, girlfriend." She said it all of the time, and I just wanted her to stop. But when I think of it, it sounds so sexual. Any mouth near my ass seems sexual. Am I strange?
So when someone says "Bite Me," it sounds like they want me to be sexual with my teeth and their ass. This really confuses me. If someone could guide me, I would appreciate it (really, not being a smart ass).
Mother Fucker
By definition, every father who is involved in coitus with their wife is a mother fucker. There has to be a mother fucker for the any mother having two or more children. Why is this a bad thing? I just don't understand. And anyway, I have known mothers who have bemoaned that their hubbies are just not as interested in sex anymore. If anything, they want their husbands to be the most fuckingest mother fuckers on the planet.
Oh, that felt good. I think I know why people like to curse. Can cursing bring one close to orgasm? Probably just for me and Kathi. But it seems like ~Deb brings her close with her poems.
Labels:
language
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
List of Threes
Okay, normally I don't do tag things. I just don't. But when Ms. Georgia Peach tagged me as someone who would not do this, well, I did not want her to know how right she is.
3 screen names I have:
1. Leesa
2. Intentionally Left Blank
3. Intentionally Left Blank
I just have one screen name. I work full time and I don't turn on the computer at home (at all). Hubbie uses it for whatever at home. I just don't use it.
3 physical things I like about myself:
1. my eyes
2. my bellybutton
3. my neck
Most people like their own eyes – I think it is the "window to one's soul" sort of thing. You just don't want to have a poopy soul. My bellybutton is way sexy – it really is. But I am not going to post pictures of it on the Internet. I am all about writing on here. And I have a nice neck. Hubbie is a breast man, but I sometimes am self-conscious about them. Please don't stare when I am self-conscious (and guess what, I have no sign to tell you when that is).
3 physical things I don't like about myself:
1. my butt
2. my butt
3. my butt
It is not that my butt is that bad. But I am always self-conscious about it. If I eat an extra ounce of ice cream, it finds its way to my butt. And no matter how much my hubbie sucks on my butt, the size doesn't change.
3 parts of my heritage:
1. french
2. african
3. mexican
I know I have French and Mexican blood (25% each). And my family has been in Georgia for a long time. Odds are, great great grandmother or great great grand pappy was of African descent. That makes some people in Georgia uneasy, but it is more than likely true.
3 of my everyday essentials:
1. nipple rings
2. butt plugs
3. handcuffs
Okay, I am just teasing you, but really, this is probably what you wanted me to say.
3 of my favorite musicians:
1. Stevie Nicks
2. Enya
3. Bob Dylan
If you ask me this question tomorrow, it will change. Although I really, really, really like Stevie Nicks.
3 of my favorite songs:
1 stand back
2. orinoco flow
3. the times, they are a-changin'
Okay, I just took three songs from the favorite musicians. I really don't have favorite songs. Or I have 200 of them, and then you should scratch your head and think to yourself, "How special are these songs if you have so many of them."
3 things I want in a relationship:
1. honesty
2. tenderness
3. interest
Okay, these may not be the top three, but they are important. Most people list honesty, and I had a time where that was not what I was giving in a relationship. But it needs to be tempered with tenderness. If I ask if I look good in a dress, sometimes I don't want honesty. I want to be told I am hot. Don't be the boy scout, raise those three fingers, and then give me the truth. And when you ask, "How was it for you, hun?", I am going to be as compassionate and tender and tell you that you complete me (true), and that I idolize your penis (not so true all of the time).
3 lies:
1. I love your mother
2. I'd rather go to your Christmas party
3. Don't get me anything special for our anniversary this year
Okay, I am glad hubbie's mother was born, had sex with hubbie's father and bore a son. I am grateful for that. But don't tell me about how wonderful other daughter-in-laws are (I know, you get grandchildren from her). I would rather stay home and snuggle than be on hubbie's arm for his Christmas party. Or I would rather just have a nice meal after watching the Nutcracker again. And hubbie knows the third is a lie.
3 of my hobbies right now:
1. blogging
2. looking busy at work
3. writing
3 things I want to do really badly now (with a special someone):
1. pee
2. water-ski
3. swim
Okay, I did not read the question before I answered "pee." Yeah, I pee when hubbie is shaving. But I had to pee and that's what leapt to the page. It is in the middle of winter, and I want to go somewhere very warm and water-ski and swim. The Caribbean? The Virgin Islands? Not sure exactly where is warm right now, but I want to be there.
3 careers I've considered doing:
1. housewife
2. writer
3. veterinarian
Under-qualified for the housewife thing. I have always wanted to be a published writer. I guess I already write. Now I just have to find someone gullible enough to print this crap. Nauseating I know, but I wanted to bandage up hurt animals.
3 places I would like to go on vacation to:
1. Antarctica
2. Spain
3. Galapagos Islands
The first and third because I know no one who has been. I just want to up those show-offs who vacation in Europe biannually. Spain because I want to see others run away from bulls. Lots of others run away from bulls.
3 kid's names I like:
1. Derrick
2. Sydney
3. Brianna
They all seem like cool names.
3 ways that I'm a stereotypical girl:
1. I hate spiders
2. I want someone else to clean my house
3. I love to pamper myself
If I had all the money in the world, besides kicking Bill Gates out of his house gleefully (if I had all of the money, it makes sense I would have his money too), I would go to the spa once per week where people would file, shape, buff, pluck, apply lotions, etc. to various parts of my body. It would be heaven. Well, not the religious heaven, but it would be very comfortable.
3 ways that I'm not a stereotypical girl:
1. I don't necessarily think that the picket fences and apron is in my future
2. I wish I could go to the store without makeup on
3. I like camping
The more I think about it, sadly, the more stereotypical I am becoming. When I was in college, I played flag football with the guys because it was different. Now I would want to be the cheerleader. Sis-boom-bah.
And I am not going to tag anyone. When I was in college, a male friend of mine would boast of the girls he tagged. And he meant something quite different than what is meant in blogland. And every time I hear about tagging, I can picture him grinning over the butt of some blond, getting ready to apply the tag. Oh, he liked blonds (and as a brunette, I was offended at the time). I am still a brunette, but now I am not offended.
3 screen names I have:
1. Leesa
2. Intentionally Left Blank
3. Intentionally Left Blank
I just have one screen name. I work full time and I don't turn on the computer at home (at all). Hubbie uses it for whatever at home. I just don't use it.
3 physical things I like about myself:
1. my eyes
2. my bellybutton
3. my neck
Most people like their own eyes – I think it is the "window to one's soul" sort of thing. You just don't want to have a poopy soul. My bellybutton is way sexy – it really is. But I am not going to post pictures of it on the Internet. I am all about writing on here. And I have a nice neck. Hubbie is a breast man, but I sometimes am self-conscious about them. Please don't stare when I am self-conscious (and guess what, I have no sign to tell you when that is).
3 physical things I don't like about myself:
1. my butt
2. my butt
3. my butt
It is not that my butt is that bad. But I am always self-conscious about it. If I eat an extra ounce of ice cream, it finds its way to my butt. And no matter how much my hubbie sucks on my butt, the size doesn't change.
3 parts of my heritage:
1. french
2. african
3. mexican
I know I have French and Mexican blood (25% each). And my family has been in Georgia for a long time. Odds are, great great grandmother or great great grand pappy was of African descent. That makes some people in Georgia uneasy, but it is more than likely true.
3 of my everyday essentials:
1. nipple rings
2. butt plugs
3. handcuffs
Okay, I am just teasing you, but really, this is probably what you wanted me to say.
3 of my favorite musicians:
1. Stevie Nicks
2. Enya
3. Bob Dylan
If you ask me this question tomorrow, it will change. Although I really, really, really like Stevie Nicks.
3 of my favorite songs:
1 stand back
2. orinoco flow
3. the times, they are a-changin'
Okay, I just took three songs from the favorite musicians. I really don't have favorite songs. Or I have 200 of them, and then you should scratch your head and think to yourself, "How special are these songs if you have so many of them."
3 things I want in a relationship:
1. honesty
2. tenderness
3. interest
Okay, these may not be the top three, but they are important. Most people list honesty, and I had a time where that was not what I was giving in a relationship. But it needs to be tempered with tenderness. If I ask if I look good in a dress, sometimes I don't want honesty. I want to be told I am hot. Don't be the boy scout, raise those three fingers, and then give me the truth. And when you ask, "How was it for you, hun?", I am going to be as compassionate and tender and tell you that you complete me (true), and that I idolize your penis (not so true all of the time).
3 lies:
1. I love your mother
2. I'd rather go to your Christmas party
3. Don't get me anything special for our anniversary this year
Okay, I am glad hubbie's mother was born, had sex with hubbie's father and bore a son. I am grateful for that. But don't tell me about how wonderful other daughter-in-laws are (I know, you get grandchildren from her). I would rather stay home and snuggle than be on hubbie's arm for his Christmas party. Or I would rather just have a nice meal after watching the Nutcracker again. And hubbie knows the third is a lie.
3 of my hobbies right now:
1. blogging
2. looking busy at work
3. writing
3 things I want to do really badly now (with a special someone):
1. pee
2. water-ski
3. swim
Okay, I did not read the question before I answered "pee." Yeah, I pee when hubbie is shaving. But I had to pee and that's what leapt to the page. It is in the middle of winter, and I want to go somewhere very warm and water-ski and swim. The Caribbean? The Virgin Islands? Not sure exactly where is warm right now, but I want to be there.
3 careers I've considered doing:
1. housewife
2. writer
3. veterinarian
Under-qualified for the housewife thing. I have always wanted to be a published writer. I guess I already write. Now I just have to find someone gullible enough to print this crap. Nauseating I know, but I wanted to bandage up hurt animals.
3 places I would like to go on vacation to:
1. Antarctica
2. Spain
3. Galapagos Islands
The first and third because I know no one who has been. I just want to up those show-offs who vacation in Europe biannually. Spain because I want to see others run away from bulls. Lots of others run away from bulls.
3 kid's names I like:
1. Derrick
2. Sydney
3. Brianna
They all seem like cool names.
3 ways that I'm a stereotypical girl:
1. I hate spiders
2. I want someone else to clean my house
3. I love to pamper myself
If I had all the money in the world, besides kicking Bill Gates out of his house gleefully (if I had all of the money, it makes sense I would have his money too), I would go to the spa once per week where people would file, shape, buff, pluck, apply lotions, etc. to various parts of my body. It would be heaven. Well, not the religious heaven, but it would be very comfortable.
3 ways that I'm not a stereotypical girl:
1. I don't necessarily think that the picket fences and apron is in my future
2. I wish I could go to the store without makeup on
3. I like camping
The more I think about it, sadly, the more stereotypical I am becoming. When I was in college, I played flag football with the guys because it was different. Now I would want to be the cheerleader. Sis-boom-bah.
And I am not going to tag anyone. When I was in college, a male friend of mine would boast of the girls he tagged. And he meant something quite different than what is meant in blogland. And every time I hear about tagging, I can picture him grinning over the butt of some blond, getting ready to apply the tag. Oh, he liked blonds (and as a brunette, I was offended at the time). I am still a brunette, but now I am not offended.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Babysitting Playmate
Okay, my blog is entitled "Leesa's Stories," and it is becoming a bit of a misnomer. I started out posting some stories on here. Stories that your kids should not read. And then I started chatting about all sorts of things.
Well, I am not going to tell a story today. Not one of those stories. But I want to talk about something – self-image, and I think I can best talk about this through a story.
When I was growing up, to make some extra spending money, I babysat. [Now I can here some disappointment from the guys, not a story about a playmate babysitting your little ones. You come home by yourself, your children tucked in bed, the babysitter in a babydoll reading Tolstoy by the fire. Cue the porn music.]
And those who have babysitters and who have never babysat may learn something here. For the most part, children don't want to play with their babysitters. So what did I do? I ate their food – the ice cream hiding beside the frozen peas in the freezer. And I looked around to see what kinds of people my neighbors were. First place I looked was in the parent's room – after making sure the children were playing well and safely. I went in their dresser drawers – cigarettes in the panty drawer would mean that the wife was probably a closet smoker. And more often than not, I would find the husband's stash of Playboys. All of the fathers on the block that I babysat seemed to read this tomb. Before long, I assumed that all men were "reading" Playboy.
I would return to the children, get them ready for bed, look in the kitchen for more food, eat a bit more, and put them to bed. Then I would find the Playboy or stash of Playboys and leaf through them. I would look at the glossy pictures, immediately turning to the centerfold, and look at this young woman. I looked at her with awe – I was going to look like this in a few years. I could hardly believe it or for that matter wait for the metamorphosis to occur. And I could hardly believe that a couple of inches in the chest would transform my less curvy figure to what I was staring at.
And then I would look at the biography. The playmate stats sheet. It was written in the woman's handwriting (I assumed – but heck, they airbrush, so they could get a secretary with good penmanship to write the playmate's bio), and I wondered if these would be my likes, dislikes when I was older. There was a place for "favorite book," and I had normally not heard of the books they were reading. Or at least telling others they were reading.
In my mind, I guess I was forming how I was supposed to look as I matured. Each playmate had perfect skin, and most of them had wonderful legs and butts. Each playmate had two legs and one butt – that last sentence could be a little misleading. At the time, I knew nothing about airbrushing or professional makeup artists and what they can do. Also, these women looked better than the Barbie's I had played with – I had less of a chance of toppling over.
There are two playmates that I remember from one house – they had years of Playboys in the closet. It was a treasure trove of naked women. One was Debra Jo Fondren (I had to look her up on Google (so you get a link to her site as well). By the way, her website has the following message: "Due to personal and financial reasons, my website will be shutdown until further notice. Debra Jo Fondren (03-16-2004)." Okay, I did not know she was Playmate of the Year, but she was a very memorable playmate. When looking at her, you first looked at her hair, her beautiful hair. Her hair was nearly as long as she was – beautiful hair.
The other playmate for those of us in Georgia all probably remember is – well, crap, I don't remember her name. She married a tennis player- Jimmy Conners, and she is linked forever with Jimmy Carter.
"I try not to commit a deliberate sin. I recognize that I'm going to do it anyhow, because I'm human and I'm tempted. And Christ set some almost impossible standards for us. Christ said, 'I tell you that anyone who looks on a woman with lust has in his heart already committed adultery.'
"I've looked on a lot of women with lust. I've committed adultery in my heart many times. This is something that God recognizes I will do--and I have done it--and God forgives me for it."
Okay, I looked for her name and I could not find it. Perhaps Jimmy was not linked with her, but with every playmate. But this post is not about Jimmy Carter with lust in his heart. It is about Playboy and self-image.
Sometimes I look at myself and see a gorgeous playmate, sometimes I see a woman who has seen better days. It all depends on my frame-of-mind. Think about it, women: after great sex, or when you get whistled at while filling up the car with gas, or even catching a guy stealing a second glance, you feel beautiful and sexy. You are a playmate. All you have to do is turn off that part of your brain that is thinking, "I have other assets, I am more than some man's play thing." Sometimes it is wonderful being a play thing.
Well, I am not going to tell a story today. Not one of those stories. But I want to talk about something – self-image, and I think I can best talk about this through a story.
When I was growing up, to make some extra spending money, I babysat. [Now I can here some disappointment from the guys, not a story about a playmate babysitting your little ones. You come home by yourself, your children tucked in bed, the babysitter in a babydoll reading Tolstoy by the fire. Cue the porn music.]
And those who have babysitters and who have never babysat may learn something here. For the most part, children don't want to play with their babysitters. So what did I do? I ate their food – the ice cream hiding beside the frozen peas in the freezer. And I looked around to see what kinds of people my neighbors were. First place I looked was in the parent's room – after making sure the children were playing well and safely. I went in their dresser drawers – cigarettes in the panty drawer would mean that the wife was probably a closet smoker. And more often than not, I would find the husband's stash of Playboys. All of the fathers on the block that I babysat seemed to read this tomb. Before long, I assumed that all men were "reading" Playboy.
I would return to the children, get them ready for bed, look in the kitchen for more food, eat a bit more, and put them to bed. Then I would find the Playboy or stash of Playboys and leaf through them. I would look at the glossy pictures, immediately turning to the centerfold, and look at this young woman. I looked at her with awe – I was going to look like this in a few years. I could hardly believe it or for that matter wait for the metamorphosis to occur. And I could hardly believe that a couple of inches in the chest would transform my less curvy figure to what I was staring at.
And then I would look at the biography. The playmate stats sheet. It was written in the woman's handwriting (I assumed – but heck, they airbrush, so they could get a secretary with good penmanship to write the playmate's bio), and I wondered if these would be my likes, dislikes when I was older. There was a place for "favorite book," and I had normally not heard of the books they were reading. Or at least telling others they were reading.
In my mind, I guess I was forming how I was supposed to look as I matured. Each playmate had perfect skin, and most of them had wonderful legs and butts. Each playmate had two legs and one butt – that last sentence could be a little misleading. At the time, I knew nothing about airbrushing or professional makeup artists and what they can do. Also, these women looked better than the Barbie's I had played with – I had less of a chance of toppling over.
There are two playmates that I remember from one house – they had years of Playboys in the closet. It was a treasure trove of naked women. One was Debra Jo Fondren (I had to look her up on Google (so you get a link to her site as well). By the way, her website has the following message: "Due to personal and financial reasons, my website will be shutdown until further notice. Debra Jo Fondren (03-16-2004)." Okay, I did not know she was Playmate of the Year, but she was a very memorable playmate. When looking at her, you first looked at her hair, her beautiful hair. Her hair was nearly as long as she was – beautiful hair.
The other playmate for those of us in Georgia all probably remember is – well, crap, I don't remember her name. She married a tennis player- Jimmy Conners, and she is linked forever with Jimmy Carter.
"I try not to commit a deliberate sin. I recognize that I'm going to do it anyhow, because I'm human and I'm tempted. And Christ set some almost impossible standards for us. Christ said, 'I tell you that anyone who looks on a woman with lust has in his heart already committed adultery.'
"I've looked on a lot of women with lust. I've committed adultery in my heart many times. This is something that God recognizes I will do--and I have done it--and God forgives me for it."
Okay, I looked for her name and I could not find it. Perhaps Jimmy was not linked with her, but with every playmate. But this post is not about Jimmy Carter with lust in his heart. It is about Playboy and self-image.
Sometimes I look at myself and see a gorgeous playmate, sometimes I see a woman who has seen better days. It all depends on my frame-of-mind. Think about it, women: after great sex, or when you get whistled at while filling up the car with gas, or even catching a guy stealing a second glance, you feel beautiful and sexy. You are a playmate. All you have to do is turn off that part of your brain that is thinking, "I have other assets, I am more than some man's play thing." Sometimes it is wonderful being a play thing.
Labels:
books
Friday, December 09, 2005
Assumptions about Posters
Okay, I was thinking about people commenting on my blog – and on other blogs. Well, I know I use assumptions to process the people making the comments. So here is a glimpse of how I see some (and I will forget someone, sorry) of my visitors. Also, there is no ranking assigned to the list, other than Ddot, of course. He is always number one.
Ddot
Okay, everyone knows I faun over Ddot. All the girls do – and he is just so obnoxious (read: sure of himself). He reminds me of someone I went to high school with. He made good grades – and was sort of the class clown. Then he went off to college, studied RTF (Radio-Television-Film), I think because he thought that major would get him laid more often. "Sure, Baby, I can use you in my next film. I almost hesitate to mention it, but there is a nude scene. I need to see you topless before I make my decision." And after moaning on the casting couch, the woman is history. But she does not feel that bad about it – he taped it. Just joking (I think). Last I heard, he got a job at a television station and now anchors the news in a smallish market. Not Savannah, but in a similar market.
Georgia Peach
GP is easy – at first, I thought she was me 10 years ago. But after reading her blog for some time, I know we are different in many ways. But I still see her as me – it is just stuck in my brain. Also, I have read some of her posts on other blogs, and she is so compassionate herself. Much more so than I was in my mid 20s.
Storm
She is a tough nut to crack. I really don't know anyone like Storm. I just don't. I don't know that many talented people.
Video X
VX is so freaking complex. She is smart – an engineer pursuing her masters degree in engineering (part time) while working with stuff I really don't understand full-time. I had a girlfriend after I was first married who was so smart it made me sick. She was a runner as well, further tying the two images in my brain. We talked about everything – she had been married a few years more than me, and we would drink wine into the night. Probably different, though, is that she talked about all of the bizarre stuff she and her hubbie did in bed (and she showed me her arsenal of sex toys). I was very sheltered then and she had to explain quite a few of them to me.
Thomas
Thomas reminds me of my girlfriend's husband (from above). He was smart and cute, and every once in a while would make off-hand sexual comments to me. I was, of course, flattered and a bit pissed at the same time. Not sure if he ever knew it or not, but I knew his sexual likes and dislikes (not too many dislikes). He was probably the first person I wanted to fuck (besides hubbie) since we were married. No, we did not do anything. All in my mind.
Muse
Okay, this is more superficial of a parallel, but again, this is how my mind works. She looks very similar to a girl I knew in high school. I was a freshman, and she was a junior. It was my first elective class. She was absolutely gorgeous – and she was a cheerleader. We had cheerleaders and a cheer squad, and the cheerleaders were the "in crowd." She was in the in crowd. She did not talk to me much – remember, I was a freshman. But I admired her – partly because she changed my view of cheerleaders. I always thought of them as sort of vapid, and she was witty, smart, and talented. The only thing that was sad was one day I overheard some of the boys talking about her being on "the pill." "Can you imagine," one boy said, "being inside her all day long. I would never leave." I did not know it at the time – still being a virgin and all – but he could not have parked himself inside of her "all day long." He was probably a virgin as well.
Lilac Thief
One of my best friends in middle school. She was so sweet – I guess most of us were then, and I loved her like a sister. We drifted apart over time, and I lost track of her. Her blog, to my taste, is really insightful. But she posts about 5 posts per month – and not on a regular day – which I guess makes the connection between the two stronger (throughout high school I only got bits and pieces of information about my friend, as we started hanging out with different people). Yeah, I was sort of a bitch sometimes.
Kathi
Kathi reminds me of one of my cousins. From her comments on all blogs, she is so encouraging – so open and honest and so comforting. We used to go to the beach in South Carolina and pick up guys. But that was before we really knew what that meant. I sort of want Kathi's view of the world sometimes.
~Deb
Deb reminds me of a woman I worked with at a different job. I have already briefly written about this woman in another post, and I really want to write more about this woman. There are several traits that are similar – she is a lesbian, she has a mane of hair, and she is very talented. I mentioned before that we would eat lunch together when she visited "the home office." I was honored to be her friend, and I respected her more than I can express. I sometimes joke about how I am attracted to Deb – but that is just fun. It is more of a warm admiration than anything. So Madelene has nothing to worry about – I don't want to explore every inch of her skin with my tongue (by the way, I have tried this once, not on Deb, but on a guy; not all its cracked up to be, your mouth gets really dry).
Mark
Mark was one of my first regulars. He doesn't comment often, but I always read his comments. He sort of reminds me of my favorite uncle. He grew up in the 1960s (my uncle, not Mark), and his sexual exploits were hinted at when I was growing up. I don't think my relatives knew that we knew a bit more than they thought we knew.
Prata
Okay, Prata. Prata reminds me of our salutatorian in high school. He was an extremely precise person, always correcting people when their definitions were off a little. He was in my biology class (not the AP class he took later, but the first biology class). He was funny, too, but not the class clown cutup. He paid attention in class, just in case the teacher needed help. That is where I learned the term, "spring butt." But even so, he was popular in school. His dad was a physician, and I don't know what happened to him, but I picture him as a surgeon. You know, precise, exact, and he liked to play God. Yeah, Prata, I know your views on God, but remember, these are my thoughts bumping around in my head.
Mallory
Another high school girlfriend. I think it is easier to think of people as high school friends, because I don't really keep up and can shape my view of them in my mind. She was the editor of the yearbook – smart as a whip. She took a college course at a local community college because she was so smart (and took all of the advanced courses while in high school). Funny thing is that I ran into someone I knew in high school once, and we were asking about people from high school. He did not know what she was doing, but he did say that he fucked her in college. Thanks for that mental image. I am not saying that Mallory screwed Ted, but if she did, I dished up the dirt first.
Monica
Monica, you remind me of someone, but I really don't want to say who. It is sort of personal – yeah, a cop-out, but there you go.
[Edited to add: When I was in college, I hung around with a group of friends (guess that is kind of normal). There were 6 or 7 of us that would go clubbing, and hang out together. Now, I am not saying that I think of Monica this way, but she reminds me of one of the women of the group. That, of course, would not be embarrassing at all. The embarrassing part is that it was the only true lesbian experience I ever had. Well, a woman once kissed me (not my idea), but this was a "real" experience.
Not sure what "being lesbian is", but neither of us considered ourselves lesbian. But after we "did the deed," we continued doing it for nearly a week (it was actually awesome, sweet, tender, you get the idea). We stopped because neither of us wanted to be "lesbian." To my knowledge, no one ever found out.
A bit embarrassing - so I did not want to submit the details (in the original post). I saw my friend a few years ago - she looked great, had a hubbie, two children and was very happy. She married someone who was doing something with computers, and she was staying home with the children.
Anyway, she was smart, funny and "girl next door" sexy. She is the type that you think PTA, but she may have had 'cuffs under the bed.]
Grant
Grant reminds me of someone in college. He was handsome, intelligent, and pre-med. He was also a roommate's boyfriend. I think she wanted to marry him, but his plans included Med School and beyond, and she was just a pit stop on the road to his real goals. Weird fact – his penis was the first one I saw (briefly) when in college. Sort of a sad fact – as I was a bit of a shy one for a while (and one would expect that the first penis I ever saw would belong to someone I was intimate with). No, I never had sex with him (or wanted to). I was a bit intimidated by him – he was taking Calculus, while I was stuck in "baby math." The last time I heard of him was that he was in medical school (thinking that he would go into Pediatrics). Again, the cynic in me is thinking that is a line – "women love children" after all.
The Seeker
When I worked at a non-profit, I was sort of the shop manager. Not my title, but that occupied much of my time. Well, I had lots of salesmen calling on me to buy stuff to sell at our shop. He sold me lots of stuff. And this married man was my lover for more than one year (my only long-term lover when I was being unfaithful). In my defense, let's just say that we got deep discounts (but realistically, if he was selling me horse manure in cellophane marketed as an air freshener, I would have bought it). By the way, you should never screw someone you are doing business with – common sense, but it did not make sense until after I experienced it. Oh, was I dumb.
Joe
This one is going to sound more trite than the rest, but Joe reminds me of someone I dated in college. Why? Because he is from NYC. Anyway, this guy was a really nice guy, but all I can remember is conversations with him about him wanting to shave me down there. And, boy, he wanted to do it. I was this conservative little Catholic chick, and he wanted to mow my lawn. Oh, and he used to say, "New York, New York. A place so nice, they named it twice," when people asked him where he was from. I broke up with him because of the shaving "controversy."
Canadian Rose
One of my friends when I was in college was from Spain. She had a Visa (I think that is the document) to go to school here, and then she was to return to Spain. She was blond, beautiful and smart. All of the guys wanted a piece of her. She actually had to borrow a swim suit of mine because all of her bikinis were one piece. She just had bikini bottoms when she arrived. It was enlightening listening to her talk about different standards regarding alcohol, nudity and sexuality.
Bert Ford
Every time I see Bert Ford, I think of George Harrison. I have no idea why, but that's what pops into my little noggin. Now I am sure Apple Records will sue me (how is that for a vague joke?).
Lisa
Lisa pops here every once in a while, and I absolutely love her bra-less Tuesday. It is very creative, inventive, sort of in-your-face (poke you in the eye). She reminds me of an Aunt of mine – she is a character. She is originally from Russia (well, Estonia, but let's just call it Russia) – and she married into our crazy family. Physically, she looks similar – she is thin with really large perky breasts. I want her freaking genes. She is in a good marriage, but she says things, and you wonder, "hey, she is a housewife, she goes to PTA meetings, and she said that. And she would never cheat on my uncle.
SJ Blogger
A college friend. He was a guy friend who never made it to lover. You know, when in college (or even afterwards), it is hard to jump from one list to the other. He was attractive, athletic and smart. He participated in intramural sports – both because he was good at team sports, and he really liked making friends. And he could make them quickly. So when I see sjblogger, I sort of smell sweat (I got more sweaty hugs from my guy friend than anyone).
Goddess
I am still getting to know Goddess. She seems to be fairly new here – I would check out her blog; she may be one of the "Blogs of Note" after she has been on for a while.
This post is about three times as long as a regular post – sorry. My guess is that people will look for their names and not read the rest. And some will think, "Hey, crap, I don't see me on this list." First, "crap" is a sissy curse word, Kathi and I are the only ones that use such sissy words. Second, either I forgot you or you are so incredibly complex that I could not encapsulate you in just a few sentences.
Ddot
Okay, everyone knows I faun over Ddot. All the girls do – and he is just so obnoxious (read: sure of himself). He reminds me of someone I went to high school with. He made good grades – and was sort of the class clown. Then he went off to college, studied RTF (Radio-Television-Film), I think because he thought that major would get him laid more often. "Sure, Baby, I can use you in my next film. I almost hesitate to mention it, but there is a nude scene. I need to see you topless before I make my decision." And after moaning on the casting couch, the woman is history. But she does not feel that bad about it – he taped it. Just joking (I think). Last I heard, he got a job at a television station and now anchors the news in a smallish market. Not Savannah, but in a similar market.
Georgia Peach
GP is easy – at first, I thought she was me 10 years ago. But after reading her blog for some time, I know we are different in many ways. But I still see her as me – it is just stuck in my brain. Also, I have read some of her posts on other blogs, and she is so compassionate herself. Much more so than I was in my mid 20s.
Storm
She is a tough nut to crack. I really don't know anyone like Storm. I just don't. I don't know that many talented people.
Video X
VX is so freaking complex. She is smart – an engineer pursuing her masters degree in engineering (part time) while working with stuff I really don't understand full-time. I had a girlfriend after I was first married who was so smart it made me sick. She was a runner as well, further tying the two images in my brain. We talked about everything – she had been married a few years more than me, and we would drink wine into the night. Probably different, though, is that she talked about all of the bizarre stuff she and her hubbie did in bed (and she showed me her arsenal of sex toys). I was very sheltered then and she had to explain quite a few of them to me.
Thomas
Thomas reminds me of my girlfriend's husband (from above). He was smart and cute, and every once in a while would make off-hand sexual comments to me. I was, of course, flattered and a bit pissed at the same time. Not sure if he ever knew it or not, but I knew his sexual likes and dislikes (not too many dislikes). He was probably the first person I wanted to fuck (besides hubbie) since we were married. No, we did not do anything. All in my mind.
Muse
Okay, this is more superficial of a parallel, but again, this is how my mind works. She looks very similar to a girl I knew in high school. I was a freshman, and she was a junior. It was my first elective class. She was absolutely gorgeous – and she was a cheerleader. We had cheerleaders and a cheer squad, and the cheerleaders were the "in crowd." She was in the in crowd. She did not talk to me much – remember, I was a freshman. But I admired her – partly because she changed my view of cheerleaders. I always thought of them as sort of vapid, and she was witty, smart, and talented. The only thing that was sad was one day I overheard some of the boys talking about her being on "the pill." "Can you imagine," one boy said, "being inside her all day long. I would never leave." I did not know it at the time – still being a virgin and all – but he could not have parked himself inside of her "all day long." He was probably a virgin as well.
Lilac Thief
One of my best friends in middle school. She was so sweet – I guess most of us were then, and I loved her like a sister. We drifted apart over time, and I lost track of her. Her blog, to my taste, is really insightful. But she posts about 5 posts per month – and not on a regular day – which I guess makes the connection between the two stronger (throughout high school I only got bits and pieces of information about my friend, as we started hanging out with different people). Yeah, I was sort of a bitch sometimes.
Kathi
Kathi reminds me of one of my cousins. From her comments on all blogs, she is so encouraging – so open and honest and so comforting. We used to go to the beach in South Carolina and pick up guys. But that was before we really knew what that meant. I sort of want Kathi's view of the world sometimes.
~Deb
Deb reminds me of a woman I worked with at a different job. I have already briefly written about this woman in another post, and I really want to write more about this woman. There are several traits that are similar – she is a lesbian, she has a mane of hair, and she is very talented. I mentioned before that we would eat lunch together when she visited "the home office." I was honored to be her friend, and I respected her more than I can express. I sometimes joke about how I am attracted to Deb – but that is just fun. It is more of a warm admiration than anything. So Madelene has nothing to worry about – I don't want to explore every inch of her skin with my tongue (by the way, I have tried this once, not on Deb, but on a guy; not all its cracked up to be, your mouth gets really dry).
Mark
Mark was one of my first regulars. He doesn't comment often, but I always read his comments. He sort of reminds me of my favorite uncle. He grew up in the 1960s (my uncle, not Mark), and his sexual exploits were hinted at when I was growing up. I don't think my relatives knew that we knew a bit more than they thought we knew.
Prata
Okay, Prata. Prata reminds me of our salutatorian in high school. He was an extremely precise person, always correcting people when their definitions were off a little. He was in my biology class (not the AP class he took later, but the first biology class). He was funny, too, but not the class clown cutup. He paid attention in class, just in case the teacher needed help. That is where I learned the term, "spring butt." But even so, he was popular in school. His dad was a physician, and I don't know what happened to him, but I picture him as a surgeon. You know, precise, exact, and he liked to play God. Yeah, Prata, I know your views on God, but remember, these are my thoughts bumping around in my head.
Mallory
Another high school girlfriend. I think it is easier to think of people as high school friends, because I don't really keep up and can shape my view of them in my mind. She was the editor of the yearbook – smart as a whip. She took a college course at a local community college because she was so smart (and took all of the advanced courses while in high school). Funny thing is that I ran into someone I knew in high school once, and we were asking about people from high school. He did not know what she was doing, but he did say that he fucked her in college. Thanks for that mental image. I am not saying that Mallory screwed Ted, but if she did, I dished up the dirt first.
Monica
Monica, you remind me of someone, but I really don't want to say who. It is sort of personal – yeah, a cop-out, but there you go.
[Edited to add: When I was in college, I hung around with a group of friends (guess that is kind of normal). There were 6 or 7 of us that would go clubbing, and hang out together. Now, I am not saying that I think of Monica this way, but she reminds me of one of the women of the group. That, of course, would not be embarrassing at all. The embarrassing part is that it was the only true lesbian experience I ever had. Well, a woman once kissed me (not my idea), but this was a "real" experience.
Not sure what "being lesbian is", but neither of us considered ourselves lesbian. But after we "did the deed," we continued doing it for nearly a week (it was actually awesome, sweet, tender, you get the idea). We stopped because neither of us wanted to be "lesbian." To my knowledge, no one ever found out.
A bit embarrassing - so I did not want to submit the details (in the original post). I saw my friend a few years ago - she looked great, had a hubbie, two children and was very happy. She married someone who was doing something with computers, and she was staying home with the children.
Anyway, she was smart, funny and "girl next door" sexy. She is the type that you think PTA, but she may have had 'cuffs under the bed.]
Grant
Grant reminds me of someone in college. He was handsome, intelligent, and pre-med. He was also a roommate's boyfriend. I think she wanted to marry him, but his plans included Med School and beyond, and she was just a pit stop on the road to his real goals. Weird fact – his penis was the first one I saw (briefly) when in college. Sort of a sad fact – as I was a bit of a shy one for a while (and one would expect that the first penis I ever saw would belong to someone I was intimate with). No, I never had sex with him (or wanted to). I was a bit intimidated by him – he was taking Calculus, while I was stuck in "baby math." The last time I heard of him was that he was in medical school (thinking that he would go into Pediatrics). Again, the cynic in me is thinking that is a line – "women love children" after all.
The Seeker
When I worked at a non-profit, I was sort of the shop manager. Not my title, but that occupied much of my time. Well, I had lots of salesmen calling on me to buy stuff to sell at our shop. He sold me lots of stuff. And this married man was my lover for more than one year (my only long-term lover when I was being unfaithful). In my defense, let's just say that we got deep discounts (but realistically, if he was selling me horse manure in cellophane marketed as an air freshener, I would have bought it). By the way, you should never screw someone you are doing business with – common sense, but it did not make sense until after I experienced it. Oh, was I dumb.
Joe
This one is going to sound more trite than the rest, but Joe reminds me of someone I dated in college. Why? Because he is from NYC. Anyway, this guy was a really nice guy, but all I can remember is conversations with him about him wanting to shave me down there. And, boy, he wanted to do it. I was this conservative little Catholic chick, and he wanted to mow my lawn. Oh, and he used to say, "New York, New York. A place so nice, they named it twice," when people asked him where he was from. I broke up with him because of the shaving "controversy."
Canadian Rose
One of my friends when I was in college was from Spain. She had a Visa (I think that is the document) to go to school here, and then she was to return to Spain. She was blond, beautiful and smart. All of the guys wanted a piece of her. She actually had to borrow a swim suit of mine because all of her bikinis were one piece. She just had bikini bottoms when she arrived. It was enlightening listening to her talk about different standards regarding alcohol, nudity and sexuality.
Bert Ford
Every time I see Bert Ford, I think of George Harrison. I have no idea why, but that's what pops into my little noggin. Now I am sure Apple Records will sue me (how is that for a vague joke?).
Lisa
Lisa pops here every once in a while, and I absolutely love her bra-less Tuesday. It is very creative, inventive, sort of in-your-face (poke you in the eye). She reminds me of an Aunt of mine – she is a character. She is originally from Russia (well, Estonia, but let's just call it Russia) – and she married into our crazy family. Physically, she looks similar – she is thin with really large perky breasts. I want her freaking genes. She is in a good marriage, but she says things, and you wonder, "hey, she is a housewife, she goes to PTA meetings, and she said that. And she would never cheat on my uncle.
SJ Blogger
A college friend. He was a guy friend who never made it to lover. You know, when in college (or even afterwards), it is hard to jump from one list to the other. He was attractive, athletic and smart. He participated in intramural sports – both because he was good at team sports, and he really liked making friends. And he could make them quickly. So when I see sjblogger, I sort of smell sweat (I got more sweaty hugs from my guy friend than anyone).
Goddess
I am still getting to know Goddess. She seems to be fairly new here – I would check out her blog; she may be one of the "Blogs of Note" after she has been on for a while.
This post is about three times as long as a regular post – sorry. My guess is that people will look for their names and not read the rest. And some will think, "Hey, crap, I don't see me on this list." First, "crap" is a sissy curse word, Kathi and I are the only ones that use such sissy words. Second, either I forgot you or you are so incredibly complex that I could not encapsulate you in just a few sentences.
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3. My Stories. Yeah, I have a few erotic stories here. I know, they are not all that good, but they were fun to write. Don't read them if this offends you (and they represent less than 1% of the content here). These stories have elements of truth and fantasy, some more true than others. Complain about something that is a bit more substantive if you must complain. I have lots of faults.
