Block

Let’s talk about writer’s block. A more twisted and diabolical condition I know not of.

Nine months ago, I began a little experiment.  My husband and I decided to open up our marriage, and after friends, neighbors, and coworkers failed to fall naked into my lap, I decided to give a few of those dating websites the old college try.  I made profiles on many and varied sites, not even sure what I was looking for.  The possibilities were endless, it seemed, and I wouldn’t know what or who would tickle my fancy until it was presented to me. I met a few people this way, chatted online, exchanged a few emails.  Soon, I found myself entranced.  I had happened upon what I wanted, and believe me, I was more surprised than anyone by what it turned out to be.

I’ve been writing a series of novels for the past few years, filled with every fantasy my demented little mind could come up with, and yet I didn’t see the forest for the trees, the ultimate fantasy upon which the whole first book is based: my main character falls in love with two people, and doesn’t feel the need to choose.  Yes, dear pervert, I have taken a sharp right turn off of Swingers Street and ventured onto Polyamory Avenue, with all its bumps and potholes, as well as its sublime view.  I’ve fallen for a married couple, and I know that sounds kind of strange; at one point I would have raised my eyebrow, too. But I’ve come to realize that for me, it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’ve lucked into three beautiful romances, and it just feels right.

Anyway, because I can’t make anything easy for myself, the relationships I fell into are not only precarious and mind-blowingly complex, but also long-distance.  And so we have turned to our good friend, the interwebs, for much of our communication.  I’ve written letter after letter, day after day, month after month.  And with Dionysus especially, I have created a very comfortable space to express my thoughts in writing.  A safe place of perfect acceptance and appreciation.

And then I turn to Scratch.  Like a wide gaping maw, teeth sharp as razors, the void of the Internet demands to be fed more, more, that my words might be chewed up and spat out, or just disappear into oblivion, never acknowledged.  And I shrink from it.  My writer’s block is a knot of anxiety in my stomach.

I’m sure you understand that it is difficult for me to expose my perversions in a forum like this.  Most of the time I can walk around without a care in the world and be all: oh, I  have a piss fetish, la di da.  But this post has been a long time in coming, and it’s been hardest of all for me to write, letting you in on this part of my life.  It’s sometimes a little too easy to think of this space as a diary, and so I overcompensate.  I remind myself constantly: there is a remote possibility that what I say here could adversely CHANGE THE WORLD: my sexy talk devastating downtown Tokyo, like Godzilla on MDMA.

What? It could happen.

But also, I know that what I say here could vanish into the ether, words lost on the wind, to have no affect on anything. And I honestly can’t tell you which prospect is more terrifying for me.

I’m tired of making promises to you and to myself that I can’t keep.  I want to write here, I really do, and I will endeavor to continue to do so.  I will beat off this devilish block inside of me, and do it just as lasciviously as that phrase sounds.  I want to continue to expose all my naughty bits to you, because it does thrill me oh-so-much, but you’ll have to be patient with me.  What’s that they say?  Distance makes the cock grow harder?

Besides, I think that by disappearing for two months, I finally figured out how to get comments out of you.

Image found here.

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Eating Out

I feel obliged to make some note of the fact that today is 6/9.  So noted.

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Box Jumper

Have I told you that I was once a magician’s assistant? For three years in high school, I performed with Roderic the Magnificent and two other young girls. And I did not simply prance about in a skimpy outfit and wave my hands dramatically, as you might imagine. I helped to create the illusions that so entranced the audience. Roderic was in his seventies, and his fingers were not as nimble as they once were, and the parts in his act written for the assistants were just as important as his own.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and three lovely teenage assistants rehearsing and performing magic regularly with a septuagenarian man was really not as creepy as it sounds. Completely innocent, as a matter of fact. In all my time with him, Roderic never once asked me to make my clothes disappear. (Christ on a cracker, you’re such a pervert. I know that’s what I love about you, but still.)

So maybe the art of illusion isn’t as sexy as it once was. The drama of the stage doesn’t translate well into real life and it’s easy to poke fun at magicians in this day and age when we have become jaded by optical illusion in cinema and television. But just because it’s out of vogue at the moment, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t once the hottest thing going, and the assistant was generally the one who put the sizzle into the act. It was around the turn of the twentieth century that having a glamorous model to help showcase the conjuring became fashionable, and at that time, the role tended to fall into the damsel-in-distress cliché. Scandalous sensationalism was the watchword, and it brought the audiences in droves.

We can point a feminist finger at such acts and decry them as misogynistic, but I deal in porn here and that’s not a road I like to trek down often. It can get sticky, and while I do tend to enjoy being made sticky, not so much in this sense.

Besides, it’s a very unique perspective, that of the magician’s assistant. To understand and manipulate the mechanics behind the illusion is empowering, indeed. And when we transfer such vision to the world around us, all the misdirection in life becomes plain. Reality is but a projection, and I see what’s actually going on underneath. Do you?

And still I am constantly amazed by the magic of it all.

Image found here.

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Enraptured

So, Armageddon is not upon us, after all. Quelle suprise.

While I can’t be sorry I’m not wrong about something as stupid as Harold Camping’s prophecy, I have to say that I’m a little disappointed. A part of me often fantasizes about the collapse of civilization, and obviously it’s not an uncommon fantasy. Zombie Apocalypse is a popular enough meme.

(And, dude, can I say how hilarious it is that the common perception of the Revelations mythos has begun to incorporate zombies? I think that’s awesome.)

But when the world comes to an end, of course I find myself to be one of the survivors. This is my fantasy, after all. With the winnowing of the populace, the shackles of my corporate overlords fall from my wrists. I’m no longer a slave to my paycheck and my utility bill. The petty concerns of a mundane life are sloughed away as my focus is drawn to one thing: survival. I become constantly aware that I am truly alive and awake. I am forced to embrace and guard my own life in the face of the most gargantuan tragedy imaginable.

It is a fantasy of freedom, I think. Unrealistic, for obvious reasons. I’m pretty sure I’m unequipped to handle the end of the world should it come to that.

And so I shrug it off. Oh well. Life tomorrow will be the same as yesterday, and honestly I have very little reason to complain about that. The world goes on.

The world goes on, and so does Scratch. Apologies for the unannounced hiatus. My advance into a swinging kind of lifestyle has been… illuminating… and consuming. But concentrating on other parts of my life is finally becoming conceivable and desirable. I mean, I was even ignoring Porn for a little while, there. Can you imagine? Yes, I am sore ashamed.

So, Jesus isn’t coming back, but I am. I still have a story or two to tell you.

Image found here.

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!?

It has long been my belief that being an English major is less a title one wears for a few years until graduation, and more akin to a lifestyle choice. A state of mind, if you will. You can be an English major without actually majoring in English. My friend, Percival, was technically a linguistics major, but I let that slide. I have graciously welcomed him into the fold, despite the fact that he shakes his fist at me every time I call him an English major.

This state of mind gives birth to all sorts of behaviors, the likes of which an outsider might treat with disdain, and perhaps rightly so. Wordplay and puns are my weakness, no matter how much they make my friends groan. The need to blurt esoteric lines of poetry has garnered me many a look of dismay. I struggle with my grammar Nazi tendencies, knowing that I’m unquestionably imperfect myself, and that no one really wants me to correct the note they jotted off in passing, even if they did split an infinitive or misplace a modifier. Or wrote your when they really meant you’re. I should learn to forgive…

NO! No, I’m sorry, there’s really no excuse for that one. Like fingernails on a chalkboard, that is.

And of course my twisted mind takes wordplay in the same lascivious direction every time. Take this comic title, for example. I mean, how porn is that? Certainly tame by today’s standards, but it must have been met with a few giggles over the years.

But the main reason I chose this image of two blobby blobs blobbing at each other for my sex blog was that little piece of obscure punctuation at the end of the title. It’s meant to convey a question and an exclamation at the same time, and it’s called the interrobang. So fucking hot.

At least once in my life I want to be sexually propositioned in such a manner: “Interrobang!?” Grammar nerds are so sexy.

Image found here.

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Cream…

Happy Pi Day, perverts!  What’s sexier than a mathematical constant?

Pie.  Pie is the answer I was looking for.

Image found here.

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Budding

While experimenting with this dating thing, I happened upon a young woman who piqued my interest. We started emailing each other, and I enjoyed the slow exchange. She’s really quite lovely and I think we have some interests in common, but…

She’s quite a bit younger than me. Probably too young.

“What’s the hesitation?” my good friend, Abiram asked.

I told him that, while certainly an adult, she didn’t pass the half-plus-seven rule of age disparity.

“Oh,” he answered. “Well, so long as she’s willing to put up with your 34 year-old decrepitude, I say hit that like the angry fist of god.”

“I hate you,” I said. “And you’re right.” He’s always right. You’d think he’d get sick of it eventually.

Later, Mordechai added, “That whole generation is über slutty. They’re fucking everyone every which way. You may as well get in on that action.”

Oh, I love my friends. And the argument raged on in my head.

Eventually, I began to see that the emails were rather one-sided. I would ask question after question of her, to which she’d return a polite and perfunctory answer, never probing into what makes me tick. It became dull. Plus, she punctuated every sentence with an emoticon. I can put up with a lot of shit, but that may be pushing it.

I’ve begun to realize that though I talk a big talk, I’m not so sure anonymous sex is for me. It’s very rare that I meet someone for whom I’m immediately ready to strip down to my skivvies. Without some emotional or intellectual allure, I’m as dry as the Sahara. I’m starting to see now that attraction builds slowly for me, and that’s not a bad thing.

I’m not saying I’d never fuck a pretty young thing if they were willing. I’d just first want to know if she believes in God or Truth or Justice, what he dreams of making of his life and if he can cook, whether she read comic books or was in the Girl Scouts or knows how to make origami swans. Also, being able to form a grammatically correct sentence wouldn’t hurt.

Image, along with a full gallery found here.  Original picture from the very hot arielsblog.

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Ping

Hello.  I’m still alive.  Here you go:

Provenance of the image unknown.

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Party Line

I resisted getting a cell phone until 2004, when I had to commute an hour each way through back country roads to get to school, and was terrified of breaking down, miles from any help. Otherwise, I never felt the need to stay constantly in touch and instantly reachable. The idea sort of horrified me, actually. And when smartphones became heavy players on the scene, I pooh-poohed them: “The only reason I need a phone is to make calls. I have games and the Internet on my computer. And who wants to watch videos on a three inch screen?”

Of course, I would rage and shake my fist at the sky when friends insisted on having conversations via texting. On my little number pad I’d mash the buttons with a little more ferocity than was technically required: 8-99-8-66-4-0-7777-88-99!!!!

It is yet another enigma of my lovely personality. The contradiction: that I am a neophile to an extreme, and yet, actual change sends me into paroxysms of fear. Technology moves so quickly these days. Everything is always more, better, faster. Buy the newest hotness and six months later, it’s obsolete. It always seemed more prudent to me to just step out of the race. Embrace the old fogey within and refer to everything the kids are playing with nowadays with the wrong article. “Can you view the porn on that thing there, sonny?”

Six days ago, though, I saw the light. I off-handedly mentioned to my father that I needed to get a new phone, and the next day he showed up at my door with an iPhone4. What can I say? I had to have inherited my awesomeness from someone.

Oh, my perverts, it is glorious. I am thinking of having it actually embedded into the flesh of my palm. I’ve had a great time exploring all of its uses and most of my dreams this week have featured people telling me about this app I just have to have. I’m sure it has many more mysteries to reveal to me. And I suppose I can even forgive it for not supporting Flash as soon as I figure out how to view the porn on this thing.

Image found here.

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Distraction

According to Sebek, there’s been an overabundance of boobs in my posts of late.  Every once in a while I like to throw him a bone (so to speak), seeing as how he foots the bill for ol’ Scratch here.

Brent Corrigan has been my favorite gay male porn star for some time. I’ve tried not to find out too much about him, ever since the Jeff Palmer incident. But man, this dude is HOT. He’s been featured in some ads on GayTube lately, and check it: the ads enthrall me more than the content.  And that’s saying something when the title of the video I clicked on is “Cum-Filled Straight Hole”.

Don’t judge.

Image found here.

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