Halloween Costumes

Today is Halloween. No shocking news here. And I want to talk about costumes. Actually, I really don't but it is Halloween, and occasionally, I just write about "what I am supposed to." Hey, I grew up a good, Catholic girl. I do what I am supposed to do. Thinking to add "at times" under my breath.

Anyway, I normally have the lamest costumes. I have been a witch more times than I can remember. Whenever I don't have time or don't feel like thinking of something, I have the black dress [why do we all have like three black dresses? could it be their slimming properties?], the hat, the wig, the broom. When I don’t give a flip, I am a witch. And there are all sorts of witches – humerous, sexy, wicked. I play a bitchy witch well.

I have other costumes, but I would not wear them in public. French maid – why do men fantasize about a woman that can fulfill their desires and clean a room afterwards? Another random fact that proves this is a man's world.

The last few years, I have watched what others wear – and if I were ever the parent of a teenage girl, I would never let my children wear what I am seeing. When did dressing up like a whore qualify as something a 13-year-old should wear? There are girls on the street between 13 and 17, and I can guarantee that the older ones will all wear sexy costumes (they are going to parties afterwards), and even some of the younger ones are wearing sexy costumes.

And a costume that continues to amaze me is the "school girl" costume. Last year, one of the secretaries here wore a "Catholic school girl" to work. The cross around the neck, the "prayer beads" as she called them (Rosary beads, thank you very much), the ponytail, the short skirt, the knee high white socks. She was probably 25 years old, and she was trying to look 15. Guess I am a little sensitive because of my upbringing, but I swore my boss was looking lustily at her for a moment. It is like all guys want to mount a high-schooler. And Halloween gives us a chance to be someone we aren't for a day.

Two year's ago, a teenaged boy dressed up as a letch. That's what he called himself. He had on a Trench coat, dark glasses (I thought he was going to trip over something in the dark), and colored his cheeks to make it look like he has a scraggly beard. For a teenaged boy, I guess it was a perfect guise – heck, he could leer at the whore girls and be "in character."

Some people say that Halloween is the "Devil's night." I can't really see that. If you look at the history of the evening, it seems like it is rooted in the Church – taking a pagan holiday and turning it into a Christian holiday.

What will I be this year for Halloween? Still deciding between the witch and the French maid. I am sure hubbie wants me to be a French maid later in the evening. Or if he is the police officer, I am sure I will be the handcuffed suspect. Give me a break, I married the guy – the least I can get is a little bit of light bondage.

Duct Tape

Okay, I have caught something from fellow bloggers. I have caught the blahs. A co-worker would say, "I'd rather have a hole in the head than the blahs." I don't know much about anatomy – well, I know a lot about penises, but that's another story. Where was I? Penises. No. Must have self-control.

I don't know much about anatomy, but I know I don't want a hole in my head. I'd much rather have many, many other things than a hole in a head. But I guess if I had a hole in the head, I would have something to blog about.

Now my entry for today: I want to know how many people know that it is duct tape and not duck tape. I thought I was fairly smart, and then this fact comes and bites me in the arse. I wrote this on Bored Housewife's blog today, and it got me to thinking – if I am wrong about this, what else do I think I know that I don't know about.

What if, for instance, my perception of why it rains is all wrong. Maybe we live under some big clear dish, and rain comes from condensation on the top of the dish. What if gravity doesn't really exist?

And I don't even know how the electrons I type end up on the "web." Oh, my head hurts.

Mimeograph paper

I absolutely love the smell of warm Mimeograph paper. I read lorelia gilmore's post the other day, and it reminded me of getting warm Mimeograph paper when I was a little girl.

I did not know it at the time, but the reason that the paper was usually warm was that my teachers must have been procrastinators. I would be all nestled in my chair, perky and ready to learn (unfortunately, I could probably be classified as a spring-butt). And then the teacher's pet – every class had them, usually some cute girl with shoulder-length nutmeg hair and glasses – would give the first person on each row five or six pieces of paper, one to keep and the rest to pass back.

And I would just enjoy holding the slightly damp, toasty piece of heaven. I would take a deep whiff, and I am sure the teacher would be thinking, "future druggie." The druggie part never came to being, unless the chemical particles from that paper are still bouncing around my system.

Sorry I don't have any more to say today. Guess I feel as if I am spent after a hot fuck. Not even having the energy to dial for Chinese food. You know, you don't want to spend anymore energy, and the guy is putting on another condom. F-ck it, the guy is going to have to do all of the work, and you hope to hell you don't hurt in the morning. Not sure how I turned a sweet thought raunchy, but there you have it.

Thanks, Nicole

I was reading an article on the Nicole Richie-Paris Hilton cat fight, and the following just blew my mind:

"Nothing people say really bothers me, but that bothers me because I wouldn’t want somebody younger than me, someone who looks up to me, to believe it," Richie said.

Okay, this is disappointing on several fronts:

1. I am writing about Paris Hilton. Ewww. I never thought I would make a comment that had anything to do with this bitch-whore.

2. I am a woman, and these two women highlight everything that is wrong with our fair sex.

3. Look at the words she uses. Again, I know, I am a word whore. But look at this – she is commenting on what others are saying and she says, "Nothing people say really bothers me" but this does. It is like saying "I don't eat Klondike bars." But you have a chocolate smudge on your face and the wrapper in your hand.

Ms. Richie, you care very much what others say. You know you do.

When I make an entrance at a party, I can say, "I don't care what others think about the way I look" but darn-it, I want the waiter to drop a tray because I am just that gorgeous. I want the 19-year-old hunk to whistle at me. I do.

Then the article says:

"I want our wedding to be huge. And I want everyone to come, and I want it to be the happiest day of my life," she [Nicole Richie] said.

Nicole, sweetie, you want everyone to come and talk about how freakin' beautiful you are. And that's why you dropped your weight. Sure, you are busy, but it is not like you are forgetting to eat. She claims she is dropping weight because she is so busy, and her father suggested it is because she is nervous about the wedding.

And sweet Nichole threw her father under the bus. How can you throw your father under the bus? And someone who sang "All Night Long," "Penny Lover," "Stuck On You," "Love Will Find A Way," "Running With The Night" and "Hello." Your father was a mellow dude, Nichole.

Oh, Nichole, I hope Paris scratches your eyes out. And I think Paris is a bitch-whore.

Brass Balls

Keeping with the theme of balls. See my previous post – I mention tits and everyone talks about balls; definitely a man's world.

Two days ago, someone called me balls-y. And several, over the years, said I "had balls." Well, what elicited the "balls-y" comment was nothing really – I just called some big shot at the University where I work by his first name. Yes, I work in a school of higher education, but I am in Georgia, people! We are not talking about Harvard. And we are a second-tier school. This is not Georgia Tech or the University of Georgia, for heaven's sake. So I called this man by his first name – by what other people said to me afterwards, you would think that he pooped marble.

I was going to say that all of these comments don't make sense because I don't have balls. True, I was not born with balls, but I married them. And now I act as if I own them.

Dream sequence. It would go something like this:

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Hubbie: Ooo. I like that.

Leesa moving from a now rock hard penis and gently sucking on one testicle dreamily, then moving to the other, cupping each in her warm mouth, not really thinking about her husband at this moment. Just his penis and his two testicles.

Hubbie: Oooooooooo. [My hubbie is that articulate in the bedroom.]

My tongue dances around his scrotum, as if exploring some new life form. My probing is that intense. I pause to smell his penis, its aroma is so animal and it intensifies my pleasure. I smirk as I think of what I will say next.

Leesa: Hun, who do you love?

Hubbie: You.

I move from his scrotum to the head of his penis, and he groans.

Leesa: And sweetie . . . .

I pause.

Hubbie: Ye – s.

I gently kiss his scrotum lovingly.

Leesa: Do I own your balls?

Hubbie: Ye – s.

I wrap my lips around his penis. Conditioning, you see.

Leesa: I want you to say it. Say I own your balls.

Hubbie just now realizes what he said yes to, but since it is the privacy of our bedroom complies.

Hubbie: Sweets, you own my balls.

---

And now I am balls-y.

As cold as . . . .

I have said several times that "words matter." I guess it should be my mantra. Either that, or "want to be" writers chose their words carefully. Think words don’t matter. In my checkered past, my hubbie called me from his convention to say: "What did you do last night?" My answer: "Out with the girls." Had I said "out with the guys," do you think he would have had more questions for his sweet, innocent bride?

So today, boys and girls, I am going to talk about a saying that I have heard all of the time (and used occasionally, especially at this time of year), and I have no idea of where this saying came from. Drum roll, please: "As cold as a witch's tit."

Okay, I will have to admit I have not met any witches, and if I had, I think my first thought would be to splash a bucket of water on said witch, praying to God that "The Wizard of Oz" was really a cleverly filmed documentary and is factually accurate. My first thought would never be to grab the witch's left breast.

It is cold in Georgia right now, not Minnesota plug-your-car-into-an-electric-socket cold, but cold for our standards. Because of the weather, I think our blood is thinner than Minnesota blood. So even though it is not freezing, it is cold as a witch's tit in the great state of Georgia this morning.

The phrase still puzzles me, but it doesn't keep me from saying it.

Rich Men

Words are important. I have written about this before when I discussed the P-word.

This is about another word. I have a co-worker named Richard. He goes by Dick. And for the life of me, I dance (pussy-foot) around his name. Because I just don't want to call him by Dick.

Now I don't know how the name Richard changed. I mean James to Jim (starts with the same letter), and William to Bill (sounds similar with the double-L). I get those. But Richard to Dick. How the heck does someone say, "the IC in my name is precious to me, I think I will keep it." Oh, crap, I forgot to use my MAN VOICE. Men don't use the word "precious". But you get the point. A little plug: I did write about a guy with computer name IC in a previous post. Maybe his real name is Richard.

The names just don't sound similar at all to me. Was there some well-hung stud named Richard a long time ago, and when the women would gossip about him, it went something like this.

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Victoria: "I saw Richard again last night. He rode me like bronco. Goodness, I loved him mounting my arse."

Henrietta: "Richard. Not sure I know that stallion." (Leesa note: I know nothing about horses, and I hope stallion is a male horse.)

Victoria: "He lives in Windsor. He has some grey in his side burns."

Jillian: "I don't know him either."

Victoria: (blushing) "And he has the biggest dick."

Henrietta: "Oh, that's his name. We just call him dick."

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Why can't I just call Richard something like Rich. That seems to be a nice name. And I like rich guys!

When Blogging is not Enough

I have been blogging for a month or more, and I just read the most disturbing blog. I sometimes wonder why people blog. When you think about it, we spend a few minutes per day to write the blog; maybe even half-an-hour if it is long, or we have a touch of a writer's block (me for the last two days).

I just don't feel like being witty, sexy or humorous. But I have been poking around some other friend's blogs, and I have seen two blogs today that were very disturbing. One blog poster seemed suicidal and another one seemed clinically depressed. I am in a sort of funk, and I don't know why, but my heart bleeds for these two digital friends.

Sometimes I wonder if I should blog at all. And then I get some wonderful comment that makes me hold myself up higher, and I am hooked again. Not today, but probably some day soon. Some of us may use our blogs for counseling purposes – not what I am doing at all. I want to impart my experiences and what I have learned on others. Because I really don't want others to follow some of my paths. Everyone has the right to screw up, but it may be a more painful way of traveling through life. If I tell you the stove is hot, perhaps you won't burn your fingers like I did.

But right now I just hope my digital friends are okay.

Perception verses Reality

Coming into work this morning, I heard that 70% of all Hip Hop related sales (tickets, merchandise and the like) are bought by white people. That is reality. Perception is quite different. Granted, I grew up in the 80s, so I like God-awful music. Why, because I grew up and had my preferences set in an unfortunate time in the history of music. I will admit I don't get Hip Hop, but I have read some lyrics, and the lyrics are very good.

Then we get into other areas that surprise me – for instance, I figure I pay "my fair share" of taxes to help fund our government. Wrong-o. Well, maybe my fair share (don’t want Uncle Sam to hound me down), but people in my income range don’t pay much of what it takes to keep the government humming. I read somewhere (don’t look this up, I am guessing here) that the top 1% of income earners pay about 40% of all individual taxes paid, and the top 5% pays like 80% of all taxes paid. What I don't know is how people who get money back (not from withholding, but with credits like Earned Income Credit) are counted. Regardless, the super-rich pay most of the income taxes (social security tax is another story).

Women earn less than men for the same job. I have even written about it here. Guess what, kiddos, I was wrong. I always thought perhaps that "years experience" was not figured into the studies I have read about, but that is not the case. Women tend to take time off during the child-bearing years. You know, guys, you knock us up and we have to take time off to care for the bundles of joy. Well, our hormones are partly responsible – guess we get all maternal and away we go. I heard that a recent study was done that took "hours worked" and other factors (amount of risk, for instance), and well, it looks like women may be better paid than men for certain work. Crap. One less thing to bitch about.

Now, the cynic in me is thinking half of these managers who are logging in long hours at work are simply nailing their secretaries and should not be compensated for the effort (well, depending on the performance, perhaps they should be compensated). Again, perception is that women are not as highly compensated for the same work – reality, damn, it seems we are!

Perception, often, is more important than reality. But sometimes it is just wrong!

Slut Radar

Anyone who has read all of my posts can piece together the following:

1. I started out a fairly good Catholic girl.
2. I got married and was a good Catholic wife.
3. I got lost, had mucho sex, and now feel bad about it.
4. I am now becoming a good Catholic wife again.

What I will talk about today is a transformation that occurred in me from being "fairly normal" to slut-de-jour.

After I had seven or eight different men in the course of a year, I developed a sense for the good boys and the bad boys. A sense I never had before. I know, some call it some super power, but it was more like a different sense. I could just hold a conversation with someone, and sort of tell if that person would easily bed. And I thought of it as slut radar.

I can remember vividly meeting someone at the shop where I worked, talking about whatever, and knowing inside of ten minutes if I made some excuse to go to my office for "some paperwork", if he would follow. If he did, chances were high that by the end of the hour, he would have used one of my condoms that I kept in my filing cabinet under "P." The P was for personal, but I guess subconsciously, it could have been for penis.

And I think they could sense it as well. At work with co-workers, it had to be more subtle. Complaining that the hubbie would be out-of-town on the weekend and my car really needed an oil change. Yeah, I got the free oil change, but that was not all that was greased and lubed that weekend.

I have gotten some personal e-mails since I have been blogging, and I know exactly who have more liberal strike zones, if you know what I mean. Sorry, baseball playoffs (people go ape over Atlanta around here, mostly for the second round of the play-offs). I am sure if I had a business trip to Minnesota, for instance, I could make some kind of excuse to visit a photographer friend who would do me if his wife went to a neighbors to borrow sugar. Just the way things go.

I do believe that this slut radar that I have developed is still working. I am in a very administrative position, but I have been asked several times to attend conferences. For my job, there is no reason for me to network. A reward, they say. But the various managers and I both know all they really want is an opportunity to spend a few hours of hot sex with the office slut. Not that I am a slut now, but I think I still probably give off the subtle aroma of a girl that has done a few things she wish she hadn't.

So playboys, beware, my slut radar can sense you coming a mile away. Although you just promise a staple through the navel and instant fame, all you really want is to nail something.

Spam, Horses and Evolution

Oh, how I hate spam. I really do.

I never open spam, but I do read the titles so I know to delete it right away. And, I do have some pretty good spam filters, so I only get it occasionally (never at my home address, almost never at work – though I have a chance to help someone launder money into the US and in return he will make me rich – and once per week in my web account (always get it on Monday).

And I think the spam I get is from the same source (always a different web server, probably spoofed). And the subject line always makes me uncomfortable. You see, it is from a site that has pictures of bestiality. When writing my super hero entry the other day, I thought of one super hero I did not include – Underdog. Well, I probably thought of a few, but I did not include him because, well, bestiality is just gross. Loreli mentioned people saying "ew" at her gay porn stuff, and I hope people think "ew" at this. And "ew", not ewe (ewe, promounced you, is a female sheep for those of you who did not major in animal husbandry)! I learned about animal husbandry from a line in Doc Hollywood.

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Nancy Lee: There's something else I wanted to ask you. Do doctors know more about...sex than normal people?

Ben: I need...I need some ketchup.

Hank: I have a fair knowledge of animal husbandry. It's all pretty much the same thing.

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Back to my bestiality spam – and, no, I will not forward it to your e-mail address.

Well, this time it had to do with horses. I actually heard about bestiality first in school (thanks, public education system – some don't talk about evolution, but they talk about bestiality.

Specifically, Catherine the Great. We were told in school that Catherine the Great liked horses. I mean, she really like them. But instead of her mounting the horse, the horse mounted her (get my drift, as I hit you over the head with this). Okay, before I get responses about how this is not true, well, I know, Catherine was not killed because the horse fell on her.

Not sure I want to add to this, but, what the heck, I can be irreverent. Male horses have huge equipment. Grossly huge. I have never been fascinated by huge penises anyway (oh, crap, occasionally, but not for a long-term relationship). I mean, if you really think about it, the clit is oh so small, and trying to stimulate it with a horse piece would be like killing a mosquito with a cannon! Ouch.

Back to the real message – so some schools don't teach Evolution but do teach something that didn't happen about C the Great and a horse. There is something rotten in Denmark – but for the love of Pete, don't mount it, take a picture of it and spam me!

The Price of Sizzle

After several years of a wonderful marriage, I explored certain areas of my sexuality that went previously untapped. This exploration was done outside of marriage. How I long for days where I was less "experienced." I have crushed the man I love and diminished my feeling of wholesomeness and specialness. I am on the right track now, but I wish I did not take this detour. Some of my stories and experiences seem really spicy – they are, but at a price.

Earlier today, an elderly gentleman started talking with me. He is a janitor who I have said "Hello" to on occasion – works in my building – and I am relatively sure he has never seen my blog. He has white hair, served in WWII, and seems so gentle. But today he told me the story of how his wife straightened him out more than 50 years ago. The story is not important (okay, it is very important, but I will not paraphrase it here). His wife has been dead ten years, and he gave me a gift today. He opened up to me, told me that she set him straight, and they had 55 years of a "good marriage." That is what I want. Much more than any roll in the hay I have had.

I am irreverent; I really am. But I am also faithful. Now, at least. And I hope I am becoming trustworthy again.

Superhero Lover

I sometimes think about bizarre things. Fanciful things. Stupid things. This is one of those days.

I was thinking about superheroes, and if they were real, which super hero would be the best to bed. Here is what I came up with:

Superman
Let's face it; Superman is the biggest stud among super heroes. If I were a damsel in distress, he is the one I would want to rescue me. Unless there was kryptonite around. [You would think that the other superheroes would gather up all of the kryptonite and let Superman do the heavy lifting.] But as a lover? P-lease. First off, I would want to be number one, and we all know he has a thing for Lois Lane. Secondly, I would be a little concerned he would crush me. Know what I mean? And I would not want to be Lois Lane (how can she not know Clark Kent and Superman are not the same person?).

Batman
Batman has a lot going for him – really. He is handsome, rich, and well-mannered. But let's face it, he is a bit of a wuss. I mean, fighting villains like the "Penguin", the "Joker" and the "Riddler." He is better than many superheroes, but I would pass.

Robin
Number one: I think he is gay. Number two: see number one.

The Thing
Not sure if I got the name right, but he is one of the Fantastic Four (I have not seen the recent movie; is it out yet?). The guy who looks like he is built from a rock. He has some things going for him as well – he has broad shoulders and a big chest. Dreamy. Plus I think he would always be "hard." Hey, we are talking lover, not husband here. But I would be limited to one position – me on top, always doing the work. No thanks. I like a little more variety than he could provide. Hey, I am one tough bitch when it comes to picking a superhero lover.

Elastic Man
This is an interesting pick. Women, I wonder what an elastic penis would feel like. He can change sizes – and I would guess quickly. But he just looks like a guy who would answer the phone with his elastic long arms while he was humping me. No thank you, you inconsiderate elastic prick.

Wonder Woman
I am not a lesbian, but if I were, I am not sure I could bag Wonder Woman. I am 5'2", and she is an Amazon. She would intimidate me. Plus her breasts look like you could use them as a hat rack.

Others
Then there are the comic book characters from the 80's and onward. The X-men, Power Rangers and so forth. I don't know much about these characters, but it seems to me that they are always plural – and I am not sure I would want a bunch of superheroes having sex with me at the same time. Too confusing, potentially too painful, too weird.

Aquaman
My pick would be Aquaman. As I recall, he could be underwater for hours, doing his telepathic stuff – telling porpoises and sharks to "whale" on the bad guys (couldn't resist that pun). I would like a superhero to go down on me for hours at a time. Plus he could order up some seafood to jump into a pot of boiling water. Hey, fish eat each other all of the time – he has to know that. He shouldn't feel squeamish about making sure his main squeeze got her seafood.

Think before you comment
Okay, I admit it. I don't know too much about comic book characters. But before I get comments telling me why my blog entry does not make sense, take a minute and ask yourself, "Do I really want to be labeled as that much of a geek?" Remember, in Greece (the musical), there was a song about a "pussy wagon." No one with a comic book collection scored. It just is not natural.

Attention Whore

Okay, I have heard and latched onto a word this week. I heard about it eons ago, but several things made me think about it this week. I am, I have to admit, an attention whore. A few years ago when I was (cough) fully expressing myself with many other men, after a romp one guy was stroking my hair and said, "You really are an attention whore." Not "I love your hair" or even a simple "wow."

He was a bit of an ass anyway, but after careful contemplation after restraining myself from making a comment about his shrinking manhood, I decided he was right. I mean I probably fucked him because he was giving me attention (oh, and I am sure my shrink would say something about unmet needs) – and I would get mad if he had not given me attention. I wonder how many women spread their legs for attention – sure, you can call it love, or wanting to fill a physical need, but lets face it, a shiny new vibrator gets the job done more efficiently.

A warning from Kim

From Kim Komando's site:

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Come on People

Last month, seventeen-year-old Taylor Behl vanished from Richmond, Virginia. Today, police announced that a photo of an abandoned farmhouse on the alleged killer’s website led them to her remains. According to news reports, the teen met her killer online and exchanged messages regularly on two popular social networking sites, MySpace.com and LiveJournal.com, prior to meeting in person on several occasions.

According to today’s Washington Post, “Fawley and Behl met early this year, before she started college, and the two became online friends. They posted messages to one another on their Web logs. Her online writings captured the angst and mood swings typical among teenagers.”

Taylor’s family was not aware of her blogging, nor the revealing entries about her sexual relationship with the 38 year-old, unemployed, amateur pornographic photographer with a criminal history, who police are now expected to charge with her murder.

This sad situation may have been avoided had Taylor’s family been aware of her blogs. No one knew about this relationship, nor that she had posted such revealing and troubling information about herself.

Social networking sites like MySpace.com are becoming some of the most popular on the web, yet they are highly dangerous because millions of young girls are posting sexual photos and highly revealing information about themselves. It’s an open invitation for sexual predators, and parents need to know about this.

If you have a child, please, please make yourself aware of their activities on the internet. Go to these popular sites and search them. Do it today. You just might learn more about your kids than you ever could in conversation, and that might make all the difference.

If you don’t know how to find your child’s blog, click here for complete instructions. I actually wrote this about six months ago but the steps haven't changed. And if you know someone with a teenager, tell them to do the same. Please. Take a moment now to e-mail them a link to this page. Too many kids just don’t think anything that happened to Taylor could actually happen to them. As adults, we know better.

Warmly,
Kim :)

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You know, I had a myspace blog, and I just cancelled it, due in part to the above.

I am not kidding myself – not myspace's fault that Taylor Behl was killed. I know that. But even before I heard this, I felt uncomfortable about many of the people there (most of them are teenagers). Not that I have anything against teenagers, but they don't have the world experience that I have. I know there are predators here as well, but it seems somewhat different.

Closing up shop in myspace, still sticking around here. If any of you have teenage daughters (or sons), I would read the above. I normally don't quote other people's work, but I thought this was important.

I need my space!

This has happened twice in the last week – which is not normal. Twice this week, some guy accidentally brushed my breast. Well, to be fair, it was one male, one female. And here is the weird part; neither person said, "Sorry."

I was not thrusting my cleavage in either person's face – and both events seemed very accidental. But there was no apology and not even an admission that they invaded my personal space by touching me. Both were probably a little embarrassed; I get that. But why no apology? I am not talking about animal sacrifice here, or writing an "ode to my co-worker's nipple". Just one word, "Sorry." Maybe a half of a smile to show sincerity or embarrassment. That's all I ask.

I had a girlfriend once that would say, "Hey, if you are going to touch 'em, at least tweak 'em." That is not what I did. I would have probably have been counseled or something; she was a bitch but so good at her job. They would not have touched her. Well, you know, they did touch a breast, but I am talking about firing the hard-working bitch.

Breast Feeding Your Dollie

Yesterday, I was a bit bored so I was looking at other people's blogs. Normally I have a few that I see every day, and I don't venture that far outside of my "neighborhood." Well, I have seen this thing called HNT (half-nekid Thursday), and Video X gave a link to the "rules" on her latest post. [Side note: I predict half the men are now picturing me and Video X in a pillow fight at a sleepover. Men!] Well, I saw the rules (really guidelines), then I ventured to what could be the originator of this bizarre practice (bizarre in a good way, HNT, tags, and other things seem common words to this new blogging thing, all bizarre but good).

Well, she had a link to her flicker site, and I saw the most adorable picture ever. I don't want to post the picture directly on my blog, because it is definitely her picture – and so cute. It is a picture of her breast feeding, and her little girl breast feeding a doll at the same time.

Aside from being cute, it got me to thinking – you know, we pattern ourselves so our children (I am talking about society as a whole) to duplicate the things we want them to do. We give them allowance in hopes they get good at saving and using money thoughtfully. We give them money to put in the Church collection plate – heck, partly because we probably want other families to see how good we are doing as parents. Most of us try and refrain from cursing at cars when we are driving with our little angels in the car. But I don't see a push to pattern our little girls to breast feed (even though it is suppose to be so good for the growing baby).

Just a thought – sorry for the lack of gratuitous sexual chatter today. Guess I was not in the mood.

What were they thinking?

I was thinking about Woman's Lib the other day. Okay, I am too young to really remember the "golden age" of woman's liberation; I actually would have loved to grow up in the 1970s, mostly for the wardrobe.

To be more precise, I was thinking about Woman's Lib protesting. This had to do with a discussion my hubbie and I had concerning shaving – but I digress, what I really want to talk about today is protesting in the late 60's and early 70's. But before I do, I have to make two caveats:
(1) I am not really big on research, so anything I say in this blog is something that I think I have heard. But I have not verified it, and I trust that if you are reading this blog, you will similarly just trust me and not research the topic. Hey, I was a History Major at one time. How about them credentials?
(2) Please don't complain to me if I say something that insults Woman's Lib. I like what women were trying to do – heck, I probably owe them for helping to narrow the gender equity gap (instead of making 67 cents to the dollar for equal work, I now make about 78 cents to the dollar as compared to a man). And I have often wondered about how they know it is equal work. Men, try wearing panty hose in a meeting in Georgia in the summer. Heck, try finding your one good pair of hose to put on for the meeting. Equal work, my arse. I will move boxes, change laser cartridges, etc., if I don’t have to wear hose. Again, I digress.

Here is my beef with the women's liberation movement of the 1960's – what were you thinking with your protesting techniques. Okay, we women want this, that, and the other thing, and to protest, we are going to burn our bras and go braless. Okay, men, I was not around at the time, but I am imagining men were thinking, "look at 'em bounce" or "I see nips." They were not thinking, "Hmmmm, now we need to take women seriously.

Maybe it was the pot people were smoking – try reasoning with a pot-smoker, and you can see my point. I don't know. All I know is that going braless is not the way to protest against the male establishment.

Consider this – women got the right to vote in 1920 (again, no research here, but let's guess it was the 19th amendment). This was a huge obstacle. Again, I was not around to witness this (and I have not read this either), but here is my theory – women pressured their husbands to support this. And how might a woman pressure their hubbie? Hmmmmm. No support, no nookie. Again, guesswork, but men probably thought "what will my support do for this?" and "I want some." So women got the right to vote.

Fast forward to the proposed Equal Rights Amendment that was never ratified. Women thought, we will pressure men by not wearing bras. Come on ladies, what were you thinking? Men were benefiting from the "sexual liberation" or women and we protest by showing our titties.

Extra Entry Today - Joke

I just found this really cute joke I want to share:

Jane was sitting in anatomy class on day when her teacher asked her a question. He inquired, “What grows to 10 times its original size when excited?” Jane blushed and said that she didn't know. Jimmy raised his hand and said, “I know! The pupil of the eye.” The teacher replied, “Yes, very good Jimmy.” The teacher turned to Jane and said, “Jane I have three things to say to you: One -- you have a very dirty mind. Two -- you haven't been studying hard enough. And three -- you're going to be very disappointed!”

I got it from Bad Girl's Hotbox. I have not really poked around the blog, looks like something more professionally done (maybe to drive traffic to paid sites).

View my complete profile

Oh my goodness. I am such a skank. I wanted to see how popular I was (vain, I know, but there it is), so I hit ""view my complete profile", and oh, my. I am a skank.

Under interests, we find "writing erotica" (true), "reading" (true), "hiking" (true), "giving oral" (holy crap), "receiving oral" (duh, but holy crap as well), "blow jobs" (can't really admit this in public, but yes, it is something I really enjoy immensely), "reading erotica" (not sure if this is a holy crap, or a true).

I should rewrite the whole thing. Interests include learning French so I can read French novels of the 19th century, macramé, finding homes for stray kittens.

Oh, I am a skank.

Queen of Spades

I need to take a deep breath before starting this blog entry.

You see, this issue is personal to me. I mean, I touched on it recently, but I did not really go into it that much. Nervous babbling.

Okay, I did mention that I normally don't really find quickies all that exciting. My hubbie does – not rocket science since it takes me 20 minutes to get fully going, and him two minutes before blast-off. Not really, but pretty close.

So anyway, we have a problem. I love long lovemaking sessions, and occasionally, he just wants to get laid. And he is not all that concerned for me getting off as well (time constraints and all). So we developed a technique that has really helped things – and you probably have all of the materials necessary to do this at home yourselves.

Drum roll, please. All you need is a deck of cards, particularly one that does not have 52 cards in the deck. Remember that deck that you keep forgetting to throw away? Grab it. And take a card – I wanted the Queen of Hearts (predictable, I know). Had to settle on the Queen of Spades (works better actually, think about it).

Here is the deal in my household. I like oral sex . . . I really like it. So when my hubbie satisfies me, I give him the Queen of Spades. Then he has his quickie card. The deal is this – he presents me with the card, and he gets a quickie immediately. The only ground rules are that we don't perform in front of others, and he licks me a little first (for lubrication). That's it. And it works great. I don't worry about helping him cum (he can do this all by himself), and he doesn't have to think, "now I have to spend another 20 minutes pleasing her."

And sometimes it is even exciting.

One morning, I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom, and I hear hubbie get up. I figure he is coming to the bathroom for his morning pee (remember, we are an "old married couple"), and he just places the Queen of Spades on the sink. He takes my panties off, me still brushing teeth, and licks me wet (takes probably one minute or less). I rinsed and spit while he was doing this, and grabbed the sink while he satisfied himself. It was actually quite hot.

We actually lost the card once, and my hubbie buys another deck for the Queen of Spades. I don't play cards as much as I used to, but when I get the Queen of Spades in my hand, my heart skips a beat. Imagine that.

Striking People

Today I would like to talk about striking people – not hitting the crap out of anyone, but looking at someone and not being able to take your eyes off of them. Georgia is in a warm climate, and this climate has its advantages. For instance, there are a group of guys who jog at the same time each day. I am sure they are into some type of collegiate sports, and frankly, I don’t care which sport. All I know is that I see them jogging every day, and they are beefcakes. I hunger for them, I lust for them, I . . . am getting off track. But these young men are not necessarily striking.

I really think there are a few men and women who are incredibly beautiful, that you can’t help buy drink their images into your brain. And, I am not sure, but I think the experience is different for different people. I was on a square the other day, eating lunch, and I saw this one woman. As you know, I am no lesbo, but I do enjoy the female form. This woman sat on a bench near me – she had luscious red hair to her mid-back, crystal blue eyes and a complexion that was so clear, except for her light freckles. She was simply stunning. Now, I was not thinking, “I want to jump this woman.” I sat there silently eating my lunch and admiring her deeply.

It took me by surprise because I normally find men striking, but every once in a while, some woman comes along that is thrilling. I can remember once riding a bus in Chicago, and I sat across from this one man who looked absolutely perfect to me. Not a hair out of place, impeccably dressed, the kind of man you want to enter a room clinging on to his developed bicep.

I see what I consider a truly striking person perhaps, once every three or four years. It is like all of the stars are in alignment or something. I have never approached any of these people (men or women), almost as if talking to them would break some kind of spell. And it is not really sexual in the normal sense of the word. I don’t want to have sex with these people; never.

And even writing this entry, I cannot make some sexual quip; it would just cheapen the experience.