Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Wunder Lust

You know, looking back on my posts from the last few days, and it occurs to me. I have not had sex in several days, and it shows in my writings. Now I know what they mean by a bitch in heat.

Several years ago, I had an "administrative job" at a non-profit organization. If you are clever, you probably know the business, and I no longer work there (from the looks of things, hardly anyone who once worked there is there now). But you have to know Savannah.

Anyway, the job was sort of menial. It really was. The pay was not great, but I would have to really bust my ass for another $2 to $4 thousand per year, and being the astute person that I am, I thought to myself, "I can either sit on my ass, fuck around (and I do mean fuck – I got paid a salary for sneaking off and fucking) and not get fired, or I could find a job where I would make $2 to $4 thousand more, work my ass off, and they would expect results." I learned about these decision trees in college, but it was a no-brainer for me. Stay in this entry job and have a good time. Hey, I was a giving girl, and I mean giving (wink).

So, every year our non-profit would get audited (not a bad thing, just how things were), and the first year I was there, I was called on to "babysit" the auditor. We were between accountants (I think the title was CFO, but he was an accountant because the pay was measly all around). So my job was to help out the auditor.

The instruction (singular, not plural) I was given is, "If you don't know the answer, don't guess, just say you don't know, and suggest that she ask the president." Since I knew next to nothing (recall, I was screwing in the back room?), I knew I was going to say that a lot.

And then I met the auditor. She was about the same age I was, very attractive, and very nerdy. I am not really all that turned on by women, but every once in a while, I get some sort of girl crush. This was one of those times.

I remember watching her set up her pencils, pens and paper. Everything was so neat, and it appeared that she needed things in the order she placed them. I am OCD, but she was like the ultimate OCD person in Savannah, perhaps the state of Georgia. And she was so nerdy that she had no idea how beautiful she was.

I would watch her as she licked her thumb before inspecting mountains of papers. I watched as she fidgeted with her laptop. She changed the background, changed where the icons were place, tucked loose hair behind her ear, lightly bit her lip and continued to fiddle with the laptop. A new laptop with someone who has a major case of OCD is less than a blessing.

We spent two weeks together, me sneaking glances of this auditor, me not making my move. Not that I was afraid of losing my job – I had already compromised that with no ill effects.

I don't get girl crushes much, but I did those two weeks. Next audit season we had our accountant nerd and I was jealous of him getting to spend his time with her. Here I was married, getting mounted by every Tom, Dick and Harry, and jealous of a co-workers time with a nerdy goddess.

I am married, have only had a few brief lesbian encounters, and I have come to the conclusion that although I really like sucking dick, there is a small part of me that every once in a while is stirred by an occasional and unforgettable woman. Does that make me a lesbian? Probably not, probably. I don't know, and it really does not matter. All I can tell you is that she stirred something inside me, something that is normally quiet and calm. Oh, and that made my week, my month, my lifetime.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005


I have a fear. One day I will wake up, go to the computer, log on, and have nothing to say. That will be it – I will be facing my three-year-old blurry picture, my cookie-cutter blog, and think to myself, "I have nothing else to say. I am tapped out."

When I started this – I was just looking for a place to hang my 15 stories (actually, there were only 11 – one was a 4-parter, one was a 2-parter). That's all I wanted. I took time on those stories – and I enjoyed writing them. I mean, I really enjoyed writing them (hitting the reader over the head, please read: "I masturbated while writing them – they are my erotic dreams, perhaps the dreams of a sick woman.")

And no one cared.

Then I started writing my tripe, and people came by to say how dumb I was, how funny I was, whatever. Attention. And like any good attention whore, I was hooked.

And now I am thinking – now, I can hope interest for a week, a month, maybe, but I am not all that interesting a person. I am really not. One of these days I will run out of ideas, and that will be the end. Synapses will stop firing in new patterns, and I might start writing something, and then think, "I have already written that."

I started around the first of September – and already I have seen a couple of virtual friends drop out of this blogging marathon that we do.

This occurred to me when I was thinking of how different our lives are – as apposed to a dozen years ago (had I written this on, I would be more right since the majority of them were in diapers).

We are unlocking so many mysteries, medical, technological, all sorts of mysteries. The Lock Ness Monster was a fake (I hated finding that out), people are working on an AIDS vaccine (still wear condoms, not fully tested). All sorts of things.

Coming into work today I was thinking to myself, "Why have they not found out how to mimic an orgasm?" I mean, men can take a pill to get stiffy (and blue vision, a bonus side effect for some of them). We should be able to mimic an orgasm.

But then I began to think – holy smoly, if someone did come up with a device, a pill, a something, it would be the end of society as we know it. I can picture women in dark alleys, mechanical devise in their vagina, just enjoying multiple orgasms. People would starve or steal or whatever, just to get those magic Os.

Heck, if I had such a devise now, I would have it in, start to blog, and then have an O, have another O, and then think, "Holy smoly, who the heck cares about blogging, when I can feel this good." I mean, there would be a disciple of science set up just to take care of the side effects – something for the nipples, because with all of those Os, you know you would have sore nips.

Or men, you would have – well, I don't know, a sore stiffy. I was always told about blue balls – never saw any, but I am not sure that men "need to release every once in a while." I think it is a ploy to get a random blow job.

I was just thinking . . . . guess I am not out of ideas yet. One good thing about brain spasms. But until they invent the magical orgasm devise (I would definitely be an addict) or I run out of ideas, I guess I will pour them out somewhere.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Great Expectations

Okay, on Friday I sort of let it all hang out and posted what I thought was going to be this truthful post that everyone was going to hate. See, it was about porn – and not about how I love to watch porn with hubbie while he mounts me from behind. It was a grimmer view of an industry that has given joy (or at least a release) to millions. Perhaps billions.

You see, we all have a mental picture of the world, whether we realize it or not. Steven Covey calls it a road map or a map or something. I read one of his books – maybe two of them – more than a dozen years ago, well a long time ago – and you know I don't like researching stuff. It is much quicker to make stuff up. Anyway, this overcompensated business expert (or book seller, based on your views) says that we have this map of how the world works. You have a map, I have a map, and they are probably different maps. Now, Ddot would have you adopt his map – so we would all be on the same page, so to speak. Ddot has a good map – just read his blog for yourself to see – but his map is probably not your map.

Anyway, we evaluate (some would say judge) things with our own maps and own values. A map is how we see the world, and a value is how we want the world to be – or I guess, what we find particularly good about the world.

When I was in college, for instance, I really did not have a high opinion of strippers. Why? Was it my Catholic upbringing? Probably not. Once I was told that if I kept a penny between my knees, I could do anything I wanted on a date. I was told a lot of bizarre things as a maturing Catholic girl. But why did strippers bother me? Well, I was a young woman, I had a good bod, and here there were girls/women with comparable bods taking off their clothes, and all you had to do was pay $6 a drink for watered down booze. Instead of buying me several dinners, including drinks, and then you would get to see an amateurs' bod for a heck of a lot more money. So strippers were really my direct competition – and for boys/men with math skills, I was in trouble. But strippers aren't supposed to let you touch – a benefit from dating me, and if I was particularly horny or drunk, you got to touch quite a bit.

Now, lately prata has been coming by and reading my dribble. And I will have to admit, it has been hard for me to explain myself to him. Part of the reason is that our two maps are so different. And, KyuBall posted a response to my last blog entry that said it much more succinctly than I ever could have: "The reason I can still get it up for these fine films is because I can turn off my conscience for 10 to 15 minute 'spirts'". In prata's mind, we always do rational things. Why did I cheat on my hubbie when I said I loved him? Perhaps I became good at turning off my conscience for, well, an hour at a time. And, looking back, some of the things my occasional lovers and I would talk about was weird – their spouse, their kids. Why the heck do those things come up – but I have been told that that is a natural subject by my therapist. And he probably has seen all sorts of stuff.

So, the other day, I expected the blogging world to say, "Hey, don't take away my porn." Not that my post suggested that at all. But instead, I got some very thoughtful comments. My map is that all people who use the Internet are porn junkies – and the map is incorrect. But with my map, I expected an outcome that I did not get.

I think I am babbling now. I should stop. Maybe I will get some porn. Just joking. But seriously, I used to like to go into movie rental stores that have an adult video section, linger behind the curtain for a while and come out. Invariably the clerk (a middle aged man in all cases) would ask if I needed help. I would go to the counter, lean over and whisper, "No thanks. Sometimes I just come in to masturbate to the video jackets." And then I would leave. But I cannot take credit for this – a girlfriend showed me that trick years ago. I just love the shocking expression the clerk has! Priceless.

Friday, November 25, 2005

P(opping C)orn

You know, I started out today wanting to talk about a particular topic. Then I started writing about a safer topic. After a couple of hair flips and the scratchin' of my ol' noggin, I decided, what the heck, this is my blog. Bite my ass, if you don’t want to read about this. And as long as you are biting my ass, you may want to take a hunk of flesh while you are at it – because I am not timid about scratching and kicking myself.

I want to talk about porn. Now I am no prude – you sort of lose prudish behavior after you suck a co-worker's dick for the first time, or the first time you have to throw out your panties because of an incriminating cum stain. The guild is off the lily, so to speak. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. And I hesitate to say this because I am guessing a lot of people are surfing for porn today. Big shopping day. Probably a big porn day, especially if the football games start to suck. You know, if the football games suck and wifey is out shopping, most men are going to want to see pictures of other people sucking. Actually, I am not sure if guys want to see women sucking off all sorts of penises. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. Disclaimer: I actually know someone (related by marriage) that was part of the porn industry. She was a "model," and yes, I have seen her pictures. The whole family has. See, she was a shy girl in high school, pretty but shy. Pretty but not terribly smart. She entered the workforce at 18 with a high school diploma and a taste for expensive things (upbringing). Well, McDonalds does not give high schoolers a six digit income for being the fry girl, and she was a bit taken aback for how expensive it is just to get by. Even the Gucci knock-offs were a bit out of her range. So what is a girl to do? Hint: it involves poles. Yes, our sweet 18-yr-old starts stripping at a local gentleman's club. Stripping, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. She starts out stripping (and, yes, family members eventually found out – even saw her strip). Now, I don't know much about stripping – although I am guessing it does not take many brain cells to do – but it is not necessarily as "clean" as I once thought. By 19, she is making boat-loads of cash. And she has friends – strippers – in the same demographic, making boat-loads of cash. Think of this – teenagers, lots of cash, lots of idle time during the day. Hmmmm. Well, then she got involved in drugs. Her choice, I understand, but drugs nonetheless. I am not a real expert on drugs, but with the drugs came seedy boyfriends as well. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. That's it. So my stripper-in-law continued to strip for cash, but needed more cash to buy expensive drugs. And we are not talking about Claritin. So she starts giving "private shows" after stripping. And we are talking about more than lap dancing. More like lap lapping. And then she also gets involved in porn. I have seen pictures of this beautiful girl – and from the pics, I would not have guessed that she was in a drug-induced stupor when she was at the photo shoot. But for a while, the pics were on the web for anyone to see. More money, more drugs, more nudity. A sort of dirty picture is beginning to evolve. Now, after work she is sucking off guys in cars for $20 a pop. Oh, penises, cum. Wait, what was my train of thought?

Oh, yeah, porn is bad. Now I know, all of these are her choices. Baptist girl gone bad story. But every time I see a professional porn pic, I wonder what drug this girl is on, who she is sleeping with, sometimes for money.

And I am an enigma myself. I love writing erotica – but I am not selling it for drug money. I am not sucking off men in cars for money (ironically, though, I used to do that for free). Puts me on some moral high ground (laughs half-heartedly, indicating tongue-in-cheek comment).

And I don’t think there is anything wrong with HNT (half-nakid Thursday), or Bored Housewife's Braless Tuesday). Seems like harmless fun to this prude. I guess when I see a picture of a young woman spreading her labial lips so you can see her sweet spot, I wonder about her family, her decisions, her life. And I wonder if the porn industry is taking advantage of her. Addicts have a much harder time making informed decisions. And while her pussy may be pink, her soul may feel black.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Pencil Sharpener

A few weeks ago, I wrote a piece that elicited some responses concerning penis size (I did not mention size, but some responded by discussing penis size). I did not comment at the time, but it got me to thinking about a liaison I had when I was in college.

When I was a freshman in college, I lived in a dorm. There were, I think, 24 of us who all lived in one hallway – 12 rooms, two per room. One night, three of us were chatting about sex, and it came up that three of the four of us had actually had sex with the same guy. We were all freshmen, and at the time, I think we were very picky about who we went to bed with. But, lo and behold, three of us all had the same guy.

I did little of the talking – mostly listening and agreeing. I was, and to some extent, am still a bit shy. Well, we sort of broached the subject of his penis size. And we all giggled.

This guy was handsome, and looking back, a bit of a jerk. But he had the thinnest penis we had ever seen (but the length was average length) – not that I had seen many at the time, but we sort of nicknamed him pencil penis (got to love the alliteration). We just did not want to be called pencil sharpeners.

Here we were making fun of the guy, and at the time, I was thinking to myself, "Should we really be laughing. He nailed three of us already." And that was three of four. The forth was another notch on his belt, perhaps because of the conversation, who knows. And I am not sure how many other conquests he had on the hall.

Since then, I have had lots of men. Not necessarily proud of that fact, but it is a fact. And I have never seen such a skinny penis. I wish I had a picture of it to share!

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

The Scarlet Alphabet

I have written several times about infidelity. And the reactions in the comments have been from: (1) relax, we are all sinners, to (2) it makes no sense to cheat if you value your marriage.

And my response to those comments, for the most part, has been to be silent. Which is hard for me to do. But I cannot fully express my feelings in a paragraph or a pithy note.

I could make excuses for my indiscretions. I could blame it on my OCD – sweetie, I just had to have everyone in the office inside me, you know I collect things uncontrollably. And once I had everyone in the office, I had to have everyone on the block. And so forth. I mean, I did not trip, my skirt fly up, and me land on some random guy repeatedly. And do this for a long time, mostly during lunches at their vacant homes.

This world is full of choices. When I was young and married, my choice was to fully love my husband. Even when he was a jerk or wrong or whatever. I still fully loved him, fully was in love with a newness of our marriage. Over time the luster of our marriage faded a bit. But I still loved him, more of a smoldering love, but richer, deeper. And all was well.

Then some things happened. Life, I suppose. We drifted apart. We did not work as hard as we could have. We made choices. Unfortunately, my choices involved straying. A lot. I guess some of my choices changed my view of the value of my relationship with my husband. I valued it less. I hurt more. I strayed. Does that make my unfaithfulness right? No. Does it make me human – I was human before I was unfaithful.

I hurt my husband – but incredibly, the healing in some ways brought us closer together. Something was painfully wrong with our relationship, and we were not doing anything about it. Now, because of my unfaithfulness, there are aspects of our relationship which will never be the same. I am an adulterer. And I will always be one, for the rest of my life. And I will have a scarlet alphabet tattooed across my heart. My infidelities may make titillating reading, but the cost was enormous.

We make choices. And, if I had to do it all over again, I may have made other choices. I hope I would make other choices. And I don't give a rat's arse if you judge me unfavorably for my indiscretions. Funny thing is that before I cheated, I was very judgmental. I am still judgmental, but I am much more compassionate.

Every morning I wake up and I have thousands of choices. We all do. I wake up next to the man I love and every day I have the choice of giving him one-hell-of-a-blow-job. And now-a-days, I tend to wrap my lips around his penis more often in the morning. Choices.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Clothing Optional

The difference between myth and history is perspective (I just made that up, and it sounds real nice until you think about it, and then it sounds sort of like crap). But today, boys and girls, I will tell you why we wear clothes. A historical perspective.

A long time ago in a far off land, was a kingdom. Like most kingdom's it was ruled by a king who thought very much of himself, though he was a very ordinary man. But in this kingdom, no one wore clothes.

Being an ordinary man with ordinary features (Leesa's shooting a glance at his very ordinary privates), he and others could easily gage his worth among others. One did not need a measuring stick to know that he had but an average stallion with which to mount the ladies.

One day, he made a proclamation that anyone who was larger than he would either need to leave the kingdom or become one of his court eunuchs (you think spelling ambulance is bad, Bored Housewife, try spelling eunuch). Well, many of the better endowed men left the area, and some of the women followed.

In time, he fathered a son. And his son was less endowed than the father. Many were worried about the son wanting to carry out the same edict as the father because we all know that kings are powerful and ordinary men, wanting to appear to be better than their subjects.

The court advisor thought that if the men could hide their collective manhood somehow, they could keep the young prince from driving out more of the men and the women who would follow them.

One day the court advisor appeared in court in pantaloons. They looked smashing, and they hid the advisor's penis well. The king asked about them, and the advisor said they were the newest thing, something called clothes. That all of the women were wild about them, that the women loved ornately decorated pants – though the peasants could merely afford more drab coverings.

The king loved this idea, and thought that because of his wealth, he would be more desirous than any other man. He made a decree that all men henceforth should be clothed. And we have been clothed since this day.

Another example of how men – or more practically – their penises shape the world.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Prize Fight

This is pure fiction – a fantasy, but I am not sure it is my fantasy. It is really written for Ms. Georgia Peach – I have not felt like writing any of my erotic stories lately (heck, I don't talk about hubbie often, but the more he "services me," the less apt I am to write erotica). I hope this is not forced dribble – and if it is, I will blame Bill Gates. Darned MS Word, screwing up my thoughts again.

I found myself in Las Vegas one weekend with a boyfriend. I had never been in sin city, and I was taken aback by everything. The lights, the noise, the shows, the excitement. I was jazzed.

I was in college, and boyfriend – let's call him Jim – knew I did not have lots of cash. Being in Las Vegas with no cash is no fun. So he bankrolled me and I had a blast.

That evening, was my turn to repay the kindness. A girlfriend of mine let me use her boxing gloves and suggested a "playful way" to use them. That is what this story is about.

We got back to the room that evening, and I suggested we play a game. We stripped down to our undies (his boxers, my panties), and then he laced my gloves for me. I had never worn boxing gloves and they were a bit heavy. I am sure I looked funny in cherry red boxing gloves – and he was pitching a tent, if you know what I mean. By the time I finished explaining the rules, there was a bit of a wet spot on his boxers.

He would try and catch me, fuck me, whatever. And I could use my – ahem – brute strength. Well, I could at least use my boxing gloves to defend what was left of my honor. The only ground rule that he made was that I could not attach his groin area. Seemed fair.

So we started in our "corners" of the bedroom. Jim approached me, and I could see the wheels turning. How was he going to get me.

My first blow was awkward. I did not want to hurt my boyfriend. I used the side of the glove to hit the left side of his head. A glancing blow, an ineffective blow. Jim knew my heart was not in this night.

"That the best you can do, Leesa? Doesn't bother me, sweetie."

He moved towards me.

"Just easier to get inside of your pussy, that's all. I mean, it makes it easier to fuck your cunt."

Oh, how I hated that word. And I punched him – I punched Jim – in the middle of his chest. I wanted him to back off.

Not sure, but the gloves seemed to pad the punch. I thought I had punched him hard, but he was still coming.

"Hey, sweetie, you will need to hit harder to protect that sweet pussy of yours."

I hit him again, this time right on the nose. Oh, my goodness, I hit Jim, and it felt good.

I ran around to the other side of the room and jumped on the bed, and it was a bit tricky, but I regained balance. It was harder to balance with the two gloves strapped to my hands.

Jim jumped on the bed as well, although he was a little slower. The hunter can take his time, while the prey needs to be more nimble, I suppose.

"So," Jim looks at me, "you have decided to give up, lay on the bed and surrender what is mine."

Oh, he was egging me on, my bastard of a boyfriend.

I jabbed at him again, lost my balance, and tumbled off of the bed, catching myself with my padded fists.

He jumped off of the bed and caught my arms, pinning them behind my back. I could feel the coolness of the gloves on the upper portion of my legs. Then he forced me over the side of the bed, whispering in my ear, "Tag. You're it. Oh, I forgot to tag your pussy."

Each time he used the word "pussy", I was both excited and infuriated. He pins me against the bed, and rips – not removes – my panties off. It stung a little, but there was no other way for him to remove them really.

As he ripped them, I struggled to get loose, trying to hit him with my elbow. Not sure if I surprised him, or he was looking at his capture to savor the moment, but he lost balance, and I was free.

I jumped up quickly and smiled.

As I made my way to the more open part of the room, I screamed and then shut my mouth. I did not want our neighbors to know what we were up to.

Jim followed closely and I hit him again. He tackled me and I could hit him no more. My arms were pinned again, and he placed his knees on my arms. I could not move.

He then reached around and touched me there. I bucked up, but he would not budge. He was so much heavier than I was.

"I have you now. Will you come willingly?", Jim asked.

"Yes," I said, and he started to get up. I, too, arose, and I hit him again.
"You prick," I said.

Then he stumbled. I again got up on the bed – higher ground gives one an advantage, I thought.

He tacked me by my legs and I tried hitting him again. Then he pinned my arms again. Damn, I thought, he is strong.

He started swatting my bottom and saying, "Bad girl!"

He turned me over, pinning my arms again, and positioning me to accept his manhood. It took him a moment to remove his boxers, and he was ready. But I wasn't.

I stuck my butt out, then in, then out. He could not hit this moving target.

Then he grabbed a fist full of hair with one hand, taking care to keep both arms pinned with the other. "Come easy or I pull." And he tugged on my hair.

He would have pulled my hair, I knew that. So I relented. Besides, in the haste of the evening, he was unsheathed, and I did not want to be known as Mother Leesa.

By the time his penis was inside of me, I wanted it there. It took him but a moment to shoot his load inside of me – well, actually he shot into a trusty condom. But I could actually feel him so well.

Jim didn’t hit the jackpot in the casino, but he certainly did in the hotel room.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Living your Values

I have been thinking about values of late. I have come to have known many interesting and diverse people, who have different backgrounds and different values.

Money or Modesty
When I was in college, I was friends with someone who sold equipment to companies to earn money for college. I am not sure exactly what he sold – but he asked if I wanted to accompany him to a strip club one day. I think he just wanted to impress me that "he was dealing with a strip club." Anyway, I had never been to one, so I said, sure, let's go.

I was a little sheltered, so this was the most degenerate thing I had done to date. Remember, in college, and I degenerated afterwards. Well, the club had not opened yet (I thought they were open all of the time), so it was like any other shut-down bar, except there was a stage or runway or whatever.

My friend was meeting with the manager who had been talking with two women (girls?). Both looked young to me, younger than me – who could not be in the establishment when open since I was under the drinking age. I could not believe they were 21.

Well, when the manager went to do something else, my friend and I had an opportunity to talk with these two. They needed money for college – and thought stripping was an easy way to do this. Sally-Mae, move over, gentleman's club to the rescue. And my friend, I had thought, was just a normal guy, and I assumed that he thought stripping was okay. Well, while we mingled (not sure if it was the right word, but as it implies, we were engaging in small talk), my friend started to ask the girls if they really wanted to strip for money.

He was asking them about their values – he did not use these words, but in fact, he was asking "Do you value money more than your modesty?" Or maybe other things. The respect of others. I know if I was a stripper, any one I dated would think they would "get some", if you know what I mean. Okay, I am blunt, so everyone should know what I mean.

There are trade-offs.

Money or Relationships
I read of someone who had a goal of making one million dollars in one year. He was a salesman, and it was an ambitious goal for him. He concentrated on his one goal, and he achieved it. But his wife divorced him, one of his children turned to drugs and he damaged relationships with other family-members. He valued money – something that his goal of making $1 Million in a year brought, respect from other salespeople, or whatever.

Now I am not sure the salesman or the strippers did what was central to their values. I don't know their value system – and sometimes we do things that are not logical. How many men (or women) cheat on a spouse and threaten the thing they hold most dear?

I know I may get some criticism for using money and something else for the two examples. But I try and keep my entries short. Once could easily think of deciding between compassion and displaying intelligence. How many times have we heard a person say something that was true but cruel? And the only reason they made the statement was so that others would get a glimpse of their brilliance.

I know, not a lot of Tits or Ass in the post – even if it did have a strip club. Not my usual self. Perhaps I will get dirtier tomorrow.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Judgment Day

I have been thinking a lot about how others view me – and how I view others. One rallying cry that I hear is "No one can judge me." Well, pardon my French, but that's a load of crap. As the radio advertisement says, "People do judge us by the . . . . ." and it drones on to give examples. What was that advertisement about, and did it reach me? Hmmmmmmmm.

I make judgments all of the time. "I can't believe she is wearing that blouse with that skirt." Judgment.

"Oh, how I hate that witch. She came in 30 minutes late today and the manager did not catch her, again." Judgment.

"Food stamps. You must be lazy." Judgment.

People have the right to judge, or even if they don't, they judge anyway.

If have said before, either in this blog or as a response to someone else on their blog, that one of my favorite passages in the Bible concerns judgment – or more accurately the danger of focusing on judgment.

Matthew 7:1-5
Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you. And why do you look at the speck in your brother's eye, but do not consider the plank in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, 'Let me remove the speck from your eye'; and look, a plank is in your own eye? Hypocrite! First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye.

I am not a Bible scholar – don't pretend to be one – but I have my own opinions about what I read. I think Jesus is warning us against putting down others in order to make ourselves feel special and closer to God. For me, I have many faults, and at this point in my life, I find it more productive to focus on improving me rather than pointing out the faults of others.

In time, perhaps, I will gain some wisdom and will be able to help others when called to do so.

A grey day. Sorry the subject does not lighten it today.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005


I love to watch people. I really do. And not just striking or beautiful people. I love to watch interesting people.

Over the past month or so, I have seen some very interesting people – full of wonderful shapes. At these times, it would be good to be a gifted painter. I would love to paint these people.

The first person I would like to highlight is a monster of a man. He is probably 6'5" tall, but what makes his shape special is that his lower half of his body seems out of proportion (larger) than his upper half. He does not have wide shoulders – as one would expect of a man his size. In fact, his shape reminded me of a pyramid. A smallish head and a big rump. I am not making fun – we are all different shapes and sizes, but it looked somewhat peculiar on a man.

The second person was a woman – and she had the smallest waist I have seen in a grown woman. I have seen pictures – drawings of Victorian women with corsets that had little middles, but this was how she was made, not forced with bindings and cloth. She was not a short woman – had to be a couple of inches taller than my 5'2" frame. But her waist – her delicate waist. I could not begin to estimate how small her waist is. She looked like one should set her on a shelf as one places a china doll.

The third person was another woman. I viewed her for quite some time in one of the squares in Savannah. She was sitting, eating lunch, and she had the most magnificent nose. It was the largest nose I have ever seen on a woman; maybe even larger than any man's nose. I am not sure. The face can sometimes deceive. It was long and the nostrils were elongated and as large as the nose.

The forth person – or forth and fifth person were both hugely overweight. I am not talking about one hundred pounds overweight. Lots of people are overweight (most people in the US, as I recall). But several hundred pounds. Perhaps almost 4 times my weight. I am not trying to be morose – but if you think of it, I wonder how people can sustain that weight. I have seen pictures in a psychology class – and from talking with others, they have seen the pictures as well. Nude women (they are male professors; I assume that men have the same problems, too) with tummies that nearly touch the ground. To not be able to exit a home upon death, some of these people. It is so foreign to me – I guess I am amazed, in a way.

Oh, how I enjoy looking at people. Wondering how it is to be them.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Where oh where is Loreli?

The blogging community undergoes constant change. I used to read someone, loreliagilmore, and it appears that she left without a trace. Don't bother trying the link – it does not exist anymore.

I wonder why someone chooses to cancel their account. I do wonder about loreli – she seemed to be so interesting, sad at times, but we are all sad at times. Perhaps the WB asked Blogger to cancel the account? Who really knows?

I had a strange dream last night. Remember the person I wrote about – the lesbian who had both a husband and a lover? I had not thought about her for quite some time, and after writing the post, I dreamed about her. She was getting a divorce from her hubbie – and I did not understand why. I mean, it did not have to do with her sexual preference. Her husband enabled her to be "very comfortable" in her life. And sometimes we take comfort over love. In my mind, she had both comfort and love.

Perhaps loreli started mixing blogging and her personal life. When I awoke from the dream, the first thing I thought was "holy crap, am I a loony or what?" Sanity, I think, is fragile. How many times have we heard about sane, nice people that suddenly snap?

And about me? Is my sanity being challenged? Nah, I am not brilliant enough or odd enough. Sure hope loreli is alright, though. There seemed to be a brilliance in her writing, as spark of one at least.

Methinks, as I cackle. Debbie asked me in my last post if I would write about anything.

Monday: Killer P
Tuesday: Bathroom Sex
Thursday: Three Lesbian Friends
Friday: Shaving
Monday: Sanity.


Friday, November 11, 2005

Mammalian Traits

Every morning in the shower, I am reminded that I am a mammal when I shave my legs. I don't necessarily enjoy this ritual, but I succumb to it. I pluck and shape my brows, I shave my legs. Yes, I am a mammal trying to erase one of my mammalian traits.

I have thought about taking one week off, about not shaving my legs for more than one day. A sort of rebellion of sorts.

I don't shave down there. Never have, probably never will.

When I was in college, I dated a man who more than anything else wanted to shave me down there. He was obsessed with the removal of pubic hair, though I happened to notice that he did not shave himself down there. I think he wanted to be my barber more than he wanted to be my lover. Strange to me, and so we parted ways, without him claiming any of my hair. Probably the first person I had known who had any type of sexual fixation. Alas, he would not be the last.

Don't get me wrong – I know several of my blogging friends shave down there – even heard it called a Brazilian shaving (or waxing). If my hairdresser asked me about a Brazilian shaving, I would never have thought . . . . Just not for me. I even had an affair with a man who called me his NBV (naturally bushy vagina).

I have also said I will not color my hair, but at the first few strands of grey, I am re-thinking that stance. The strands are not noticeable to most – my husband can't even see them half the time I show him. Guess I am somewhat vain.

My hubbie, the sweetie that he is, says he doesn't mind my hair down there. "After all", he contends, "are not breasts a mammalian trait as well?"

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Lesbian Luster

When I was a freshman in college, I had an older friend, let's call her Pam. She was an upperclassman (upperclass-woman?) who had changed majors and was taking some of the same classes I was taking. And she was married. I kept hearing about her "Danny" – mostly about "Danny cooks for me," "Danny is away for the weekend," that sort of stuff.

One day – after several months of friendship – she tells me she is a lesbian. And what do I do? I just laugh. Oh, you kidder, I tell Pam. Later that day, I am talking to another girlfriend, and mention it to her, and she looks at me and says, "Yes, Leesa, she is a lesbian."

"But how," I ask. She is married to Danny.

Well, Danny is actually Danni, and she is in a committed lesbian relationship. I felt like such a fool. When I was in high school, I did not know of anyone who was gay or a lesbian – before I get the response, "you did, Leesa; you just did not know it," yeah, I know. But no one "came out." So when I went to college, it just did not occur to me that Danny was really Danni.

But I thought back to conversations, and she never used a pronoun with Danni. Never once called her "her." It was always "my spouse" or "Danni", and darned it, Danni sounds just like Danny.

My first experience with a lesbian.

And one thing that sort of bothers me is that the term lesbian or gay defines a person in our society. It really does. Not that I like it, but it does. When we think of Ellen Degeneres, the first thing most of us think of is "lesbian", not "Dory."

My second experience is private – not sure she was a lesbian. I know I wasn't. I have said a little about it on here already.

My third experience was at an office setting. I worked for a non-profit organization, and she worked at our Vidalia office. I really want to write more about this interesting woman in a later blog entry. She was/is married, as the first lesbian I knew, but this was a legal marriage to a man. I never met him, but he was important in the local community, they had three children together, but this woman has another relationship – her committed relationship, with another woman. She was tall, had such wonderfully full hair – reminded me more of a mane than a head of hair, and she seemed glamorous. Because she worked so far from our office, I saw her every other month or so. She would come into the office for an evaluation, or to pick up supplies, or for some other reason (sometimes training sessions), and she and I would go to lunch.

She was such a neat person, and I felt a bit honored that she wanted to eat lunch alone with me. Nothing sexual at all – just her spending time with me talking about this or that. We actually never broached any subject that was sexual in nature, which at the time was a rarity for me. I just enjoyed how she treated me.

Was I attracted to her – I am not sure. I wanted to be seen with her, but I don't think I was attracted to her as a woman. Heck, at that time, I was fooling around and was so sexually satisfied by men that I probably wasn't even thinking about women. Funny thing – and posting this on a Thursday is even worse – but I don't really enjoy HNT. I like the idea of all of these fun and interesting people exposing part of themselves to the world, and it was sort of cool initially for me, but it has lost its luster.

Do I think of each of the above women as lesbians first? The first woman, definitely. Not the second or the third, though. The second was a brief love of mine, and the third was a friend that made me feel special. Crap, am I growing as a person?

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Bathroom Break

I am not in a good mood. This blog entry will probably be sh-tty, and it is fitting, because I wanted to talk a bit about bathrooms.

Have you ever noticed that once in a while, you will hear or read something bizarre, then trip over another bizarre thing, and then another. Numerologists sometimes talk about the rule of three. Not sure I believe in that – though, I never knew I tended to be Buddhist until quite recently.

Well, I was reading one of Deb's posts recently – and the post concerned one of her dates, a trip to the bathroom and a very bizarre request. Read her blog entry entitled "Competing with a Man." But I have a couple of requests before you read Ms. Deb: (1) don't fall in love with the chick. She is in a monogamous relationship, and men and woman tend to lust after this woman; and (2) don't tell me, "thanks for the link. Looks like I will be reading her instead of you, second-class heterosexual witch." Why for the second one – it is just not nice, bad karma and all (another Buddhist comment – I started hedging my bets, what if I am wrong? Rooting for the wrong religion and all. Just kidding actually, but might as well keep an open mind.)

Anyway, after reading Deb's blog entry – oh, and by the way I learned another word: cha-cha. Much less embarrassing to say than the P-word. The Cliff's Notes version of what happened dealt with some seductive words exchanged in a bathroom after the heroine dodging kisses from the cute blond. The thing that puzzles me is why call it a cha-cha when you are that brazen to ask someone to wipe it?

Moving to instance two – heard on the radio about "Two NFL cheerleaders arrested in bathroom sex incident." Sports Illustrated has the full story here, but let's just recap it for you: two women were having sex in a bathroom stall, a third woman, probably doing a pee dance, just wanted in the stall (not for the sex, but to void urine, imagine using a stall for its intended purpose), and complained to management. She must have really had to go.

Heck, I can see going to the men's room – men are so cool about clearing out for women, they really are. Then she could have peed, and returned to the performance area in the other restroom. Makes sense to me.

Numerology – everything in threes. Numerology is – no pun intended – crap, but people think this way. The third event actually was bouncing around in my head. Not sure I want to relay all of the sordid details, but more than 2 years ago, I was at a club, the music was good, I was dancing with some random guy. "Cute as hell" guy – probably in college. To cut out the details, I ended up having unprotected sex in the men's room with this guy that night. Caught a STD – treatable with medication, shared it with hubbie, hubbie caught said STD, and he knew where he got it. I confessed to cheating, and as they say, "the rest is history."

Not sure why sex in bathrooms is so rampant. Because for each time you hear about it, it is happening other times as well. And bathrooms are dirty. Yuck.

I need to take a shower. Maybe I will invite Deb.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Killer Peach Fuzz

I read one of the best articles the other day from Georgia Peach. And judging from the number of people who responded, this blog entry resonated with many people.

Deep breath.

Those who have read my blog since the beginning know I normally don't use the P-word. Well, I like calling it a vagina. Clinical, I know, but that is the word I like using. But in this instance, I will call it the P-word. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. I said it.

I sort of had to say it, because we are talking about "Killer Pussy." Click the link, and read the blog. It will be more entertaining than mine – because Ms. Georgia Peach wrote one heck of a blog entry. I normally don't taught other people's work (sort of anti-"look at me", aka attention-whore), but it is one funny and true entry).

Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. (Heck, I feel like I will climax before this entry is written.)

Like Georgia Peach, when I was in my twenties and early thirties, I thought I was – cough – very talented "down there." But the funny thing is that guys don't give extra credit for how killer our pussies are. Whether I just lay there – "done yet, hun?" – or am Ms. Freak, it makes no difference to a guy. He squirts and cums always. Some feminists say that God is a woman – not based on this little tidbit. Read that last part – he squirts and cums always. As reliable as old faithful. Okay, there are some medical conditions that don't allow some men to be old faithful, but there is a billion-dollar pharmaceutical industry making this right as I type this.

Back on the subject – killer pussy. Goodness, I love writing that word today. Pussy. Pussy. Pussy.

So for guys, all pussy is pretty much the same – heck of a realization, but there it is. I comfort myself in knowing that I give the best freekin' blowjobs in Savannah. I am sure my work number is on some bathroom wall somewhere – probably the courthouse with the types of guys I was seeing. Jees. Back to the subject at hand, so to speak.

We women know that not all penises are created equal. Now I have not gotten government money to field-test this idea, but from a woman's perspective, some guys are just duds (but they still orgasm; life ain't fair). I mean, they spew and all, but there is just not a lot of umph in their drive. Is that delicate enough? It's not that they can't locate the pussy; they just don't know really what to do once their head is buried in the prize. We all know the joke: "Why don't women cum more often. Answer: Who cares."

I freekin' care. I mean, on occasion after lovemaking, I have said to hubbie, "Is that all? Oh." Okay, I have said this twice – once because I was stupid, and the second time because I was frustrated.

Now, I have to believe that men want to please their women. When I was messing around, I would go out of my way for some nice, sweaty sex where the man knew what he was doing.

I find it so ironic that many women are good at doing their little pussy tricks (I deceived myself for so long as well), and men could almost care less. A little friction, a little moisture and most men are just orgasm-ing everywhere. Fill 'er up time. And men, who get theirs whether they are good or not, don't seem to know it is that important. It is like they enjoy the hunt – "gonna bad me some of that sweet tang this evening." (Note: I was that girl in school that said the word "sh-t, and it did not sound natural; typing that last sentence seemed the same way, a bit forced and unnatural.) They will spend lots of time setting up for the event, but once it is there, they figure "if I go really fast and strong, that'll be just dandy."

All, please head on over to Georgia Peach – her take on this is to die for.

Ladies, we are deceiving ourselves with our killer pussy – we really are. But I know some moves with my tongue that will make the one-eyed snake do tricks. It is just that "killer BJ" doesn't sound sexy and nasty at the same time.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Flunking the Test

Yesterday, I made a comment about Air Force people on my blog, and got a little grief. Earned, I am sure. But I go to this guy's site, and I take a little quiz. And I turn out to be Buddhist. And I never knew.

You fit in with:

Your ideals mostly resemble those of the Buddhist faith. Spirituality is the most important thing in your life. You strive to live by all of your ideals, and live a very intellectually focused life.

20% spiritual.
20% faith-oriented.

Take this quiz at

You think you know a soul, and you turn out to be Buddhist. Then I start to read about Buddhism – okay, I know little on the subject, and since the Internet is – cough – the best source to obtain reliable information, I am sure this is true as well. Okay, take this with a grain of salt – sort of like me saying Air Force officers are wimps (and each one of them can kick my ass). Instead of Ten Commandments (the real deal-breakers in most Christian religions), they have five precepts:

1. Kill no living thing.
2. Do not steal.
3. Do not commit adultery.
4. Tell no lies.
5. Do not drink intoxicants or take drugs.

Before I read them, I thought "5 rules are easier to follow than 10." Of course, the biggie I broke is still on there (drat, can't catch a break). Then I looked at the first one – ouch. Kill no living thing. Then I look at the list. Crap, I may have broken all five rules at once.

Consider one afternoon:

I took a long lunch at a salesman's house. No rules broken so far. Then we ended up having sloppy sex (rule 3 broken). I told him he had the most delicious cum I have ever tasted (rule 4 broken). We may have had wine (rule 5 broken). There was spermicidal lubricant on the condom (millions of living sperm were killed, no doubt – the ones that did not make their way into my tum-tum; heck, they were killed as well, rule 1 broken). And afterwards, when I was cleaning up, I probably sprayed a sprits of his wife's perfume on my neck (rule 2 broken).

Holy crap, I would be a rotten Buddhist.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

The Race Card

Rosa Parks died last week. It is almost the fiftieth anniversary of her defiant act, not surrendering her seat to a white man on a bus in Montgomery, AL. I have read a blog this morning, basically saying, "What's the big deal, it was only a seat." And I have heard others – some white conservatives – singing kumbaya, holding hands, and saying that everything is okay; there are no racial issues.

Then I hear about Coach Fisher DeBerry's comments concerning why his Air Force football team sucks. Side note: when ever I say that something sucks, I wonder about sucking the thing that sucks. Not even I would suck a whole football team – guess I will have to devote some time with my shrink on this subject. Crap.

Back to DeBerry. Lots of people thought this was much ado about nothing. Me, I was surprised that Air Force had a football team at all. I had heard about Army and Navy, but I think of those folks as he-men. Air Force reminds me of Larry Hagman on I Dream of Jeannie. He was a wuss. Then I think of what DeBerry said – subtle racism? Perhaps. Lots of people (former black football pros, and ddot) say, "no."

And then some Notre Dame football coach gets a 10-year-deal for getting off to a fast start – they are something like 5 and 2. I had to look up the coach's name – Charlie Weis. The last coach Notre Dame had was Tyrone Willingham – a black coach that was fired before his contract was up. Now I am paraphrasing from memory because I have already had to look up two names – Larry Hagman and Charlie Weiss, and I don't want this blog to be real work. So the rest of this is from what I had heard on the way to work the other day. Lots of people – well, some people – think it's racism because Tyrone Willingham started out 8 and 0 (8 wins, no losses) and he was not given an extension. Then a white coach starts out worse, and he is given an extension. I heard some black columnist on – forgive me, but I don’t know his name – it is sports, after all, and I don't follow sports. Anyway, this columnist admits that Weis is probably a better coach, but doesn't think he should have been given an extension so early.

Here is where I think a subtle form of racism may have crept in – Tyrone Willingham was let go early, and the previous football coach was allowed to finish out his contract. The Georgia Bulldogs are king around here, and I am not sure if people would be happy with 5 and 2. Heck, some would want the coach's head at 5 and 2. Doesn't bother me either way, as I am sort of an anti-Georgia fan. I like Georgia Tech. The Yellow Jackets are not anywhere as good as the Bulldogs, but pulling for Georgia if you have no real ties to the school is akin to pulling for Antonio Banderas to get laid. What is the point.

Guess I am thinking that after all of this time, things have improved with race relations – but they are not there yet. In sports, they are a lot better, but they are not fully there. I would think that few teams would not draft a player because of their race – and, sadly, that was not always the case.

Rosa Parks, rest in peace. Thanks for doing more than your fair share!

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Blowing Air up my Skirt

Not spiritual or sexy. Just different.

I was bored the other day, and so I was reading blogs. About twice per week, I read blogs. Not my standard blogs which I read nearly daily, but blogs outside my normal reading pattern.

So I am reading one blog, and I think I do something with my mouse and I am transported to Technorati. This site has all sorts of blogging tools, including something that shows you all of the blogs that link to your site (or any other site you place in the search box). Yeah, I know Google does this as well, but Technorati came back with more responses.

One of the responses was from Bad Bad Juju, and I was sort of flattered by the attention I was given (please recall me being an attention whore). Bad Bad Juju, just slip a twenty in my G-string, hun.

Here is the traffic about me:

Please Blogroll Me

Damn...I really want to be on that one.

This Chic has a sidebar that says:

Blogs that Dampen My Panties

I am fucking weak in the knees.

Posted by Yabu at October 27, 2005 03:24 PM

She can roll me anytime, Cat

Posted by: Catfish at October 27, 2005 04:27 PM

.. yeah, and she likes deSade... whoa...

Posted by: Eric at October 27, 2005 06:44 PM

seems like too damn much for me to handle...and I'm man enough to admit it.

Posted by: Frank L. at October 27, 2005 09:16 PM

And I start to think – these guys sound sort of like high schoolers. Guess I am less particular about who slips me the twenty than I thought I was.

Actually, the person who links more to me than anyone is Ddot. I respect ddot. He is way smart and multifaceted. Women like multifaceted men – because I think they are rare (one of the best lines in Good Will Hunting: "If you're not thinking with your weenie, you're working directly on its behalf.").

Then we have Video X. We all know she is a vixen (look at the difference between "video x and vixen"; have many of the same letters). And now she has been labeled a Blogger Hottie. If I get a bit of a good feeling with high schoolers drooling over my words, I am sure she got palpitations on being labeled one of the first blogger hotties.

Not much of a point in today's posting. Oh how I love the fall.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Saint or Sinner?

For those of you may have missed this, I am a Catholic girl gone bad. Trying to once again be good, but I did some awfully bad things. Today is a Holy Day of Obligation for Catholics – that means, you better get your butt to a Church today unless you have a very good reason.

Today is All Saints Day – a day in which Catholics honor the Saints and ask them to pray for us. Or as George Bush would say, a little Quid Pro Quo. I was never much of a Bush fan, but at least he gave me a Latin phrase to make me seem more Ivy League.

Anyway, one of the Saints that I have been fascinated about is Mary of Edessa. So instead of my usual low brow – for instance in the paragraph above, I mentioned I was not a Bush fan. I may have made some sort of lesbian comment that would have been both cute and titillating. Not today, though. Let me slide into my knee high white socks and educate the masses – sans ruler.

Mary of Edessa was the niece of Saint Abraham Kidunaia – and he was sort of a character in his own right. On the day of his marriage (he was a rich guy, think lots of pomp and circumstance), he seals himself in a small room with only a window from which his family can pass food or communicate with him. He says he is not coming out, that he wants to dedicate his life to his religion. They capitulate, and he only comes out of his room twice. The only thing I wonder is "what kind of waste removal was being employed." Think about it.

Back to our Mary of Edessa. Mary lived for about 20 years as an anchoress near Abraham's cell. In the middle ages an anchoress was a woman who lived in a small, sealed room inside a church; she would have visual access to the Sanctuary and to Holy Communion. Usually there was also a small side window at which she could converse with visitors, receive foods, and the like. End of vocabulary lesson.

In a moment of weakness, Mary of Edessa was seduced by a renegade monk who had turned from his vows. Think about this – an otherwise Holy woman starts having sex with this renegade monk, can't forgive herself, and starts making bad choices. She moves far away, and begins living a "a wild, dissolute, and sexually active life ". So anyway, here this woman is, having sex with all of these men (remind you of anyone?), and I am sure this news finds its way back to her family.

Saint Abraham (see above) hears about his niece, and for the only second and last time, leaves his room to talk with her. How does he do this? He disguises himself as a soldier and picks up his niece. He has been in that room for a long time – so I am sure she really doesn’t remember what he looks like anyway. And, no, he doesn't jump her. He is a Saint. She takes him back to her place, and then he says "girl, get control of yourself."

She converted and returned to the life of an anchoress, spending the rest of her days in prayer. An inspiring story for me. A woman who has redeemed herself.