Emma's Confessions

HNT: Ring.

2010-04-08T00:01:00.001-05:00

It occurs to me that I should've posted this in December but, honestly, I doubt that anyone even drops by here anymore anyway so I doubt anyone would've missed it or cared one way or the other.

But, for those interested in what's going on with me, there's my news.

Pardon my absence.

2009-10-27T14:46:00.002-05:00

You may have noticed that I haven't blogged much as of late, and if you're the type that keeps coming back here hoping to read something new from me, I apologize for that.

There are a lot of things that I could blame for me not writing. I've been a lot busier than I thought that I would be, trying to juggle class work and regular work and having a relationship and getting ready to close on a house and ...

While that's a great excuse, I guess, for why I haven't been blogging, the real reason is far more simple: I haven't really felt like it.

All of the busy-ness I have going on plays a part, sure. I have to pour energy into those activities that, during the summer, I could pour into blogging. But, even when I have time and energy to blog, I just haven't felt much like doing it.

I'm sure there are things worth writing about that you'd enjoy reading. There are many stories I've yet to tell. And, as soon as I find the time and the energy and the motivation to share them, I will.

Until then, thank you for stopping in. And, please pardon my absence.

TMI Tuesday #209

2009-10-20T10:09:00.001-05:00

1. Which ONE do you wish you had more of in bed... romance, experimentation or foreplay?
I have plenty of romance and we're never really lacking for foreplay (to the point that sometimes that's all we get to), so I guess I'd have to go with experimentation.

2. What is your worst habit?
I bite my fingernails some, but I guess my worst habit is that I talk about myself too much (go figure, right?).

Given the chance, I will entirely dominate a conversation talking about how whatever thing that was just mentioned is something that I've had some relatable experience with and spin that off into an entirely different and only tangentially related story until I realize that, rather than listening to what the other person had to say, I've managed to blab on entirely too long about myself.

3. Do you take compliments well?
No.

I tend to be of the mindset that, if someone is complimenting me, they obviously don't know the real me or they wouldn't be able to see whatever it is they're complimenting me on because of all of my other far more obvious deficiencies.

But, I'm working on it.

4. Do you think more about the past, present or future?
I've been firmly in future mode lately.

(Which is why blog posts here are kind of wavering from how and where I started. I'm not really thinking much about the past anymore. Sorry, guys.)

5. Do you feel everyone has a soulmate?
I haven't ever really liked the word "soulmate," necessarily, but I do think that everyone has a person out there that will understand them entirely and love them fully.

Bonus (as in optional): "Where Would You Wish To Wake Up?"
Today? Somewhere tropical with pale blue sky and golden white sand and a deep blue ocean that stretches to the horizon out as far as the eye can see. Ask me again tomorrow and it may be different.

Confession #40: The one that is purposefully ambiguous.

2009-10-19T15:41:00.001-05:00

Sometimes a kiss is, indeed, just a kiss.

TMI Tuesday # 207: A Repeat of TMI Tuesday #7

2009-10-06T12:18:00.001-05:00

1. What is your underwear "style" of choce?
This is going to be the most boring possible answer to this question, but here goes anyway: It honestly depends on what else I'm wearing.

Anything that would show a pantyline, I typically go thong (that is, after all, why they were invented). If I'm just going out in jeans to sit in class for three hours, I'm probably going to go with plain ol' cotton briefs (bikini briefs of boyshorts, if that helps those of you trying to visualize).

If I'm dressing "with intent" -- in other words, if I am planning for someone else to see them or take them off of me -- I'll go a little fancier; silky, lacey, mesh, or whatever depending on my particular mood and the mood I'd like to set for the encounter.

2. How old were you when you had your first sexual experience?
If you're talking about losing my virginity (or, really, anything else actively involving another person): Fourteen. Go read all about it.

If you're talking about just general sexual experiences, I discovered masturbation -- which I consider a sexual experience -- several years before.

3. What about a potential partner turns you on?
Smiles that you can see sparkling all the way to their eyes. Strong hands and forearms. The ability to so engage me in conversation that I lose track of time.

4. Have you ever played a game which may require you or others to disrobe?
Of course.

(You wanted more of an answer than that? Tough.)

5. Given or received finger scratch marks during sexual activity?
Given? Frequently, yes.

Received? Not so often, but once or twice.

More often, though, after a particularly rough or rowdy session, I find that I have bruises in the shapes of fingertips on my hips.

Bonus: How many times is the most you have ever had sex in a 24 hour period?
A dozen? I don't know.

Typically, if it's one of those kinds of things, I don't break it down into individual times and just count the whole day as "having sex." I mean, otherwise, you have to get all nit-picky about what constitutes "having sex" and what doesn't.

(For example: Do you have to orgasm for it to count, or is just plain penetration good enough? If it's not sex without an orgasm, couldn't it be potentially sex for one partner without it being sex for the other? If it's just penetration, does it have to be continuous penetration? If not, then shouldn't each disengagement, like for changing positions, count seperately? And, how long does he have to be withdrawn for it to count as actual disengagement? Could a prolonged all-the-way-out stroke before putting it back in be one? What if it slips out? Is that a seperate sexual event ... ?)

Honestly, I'd rather not detract from the event by analyzing and disecting it.

Confession #39: The one about Monday morning religion.

2009-10-05T10:27:00.000-05:00

I've tried to make no secret of the fact that I'm a religious person. It's one of the many things, I suppose, that make what I do when I'm not sitting in a pew such a stark contrast to who it is that I hope to be.

I hope you'll pardon me for a few moments while I share a few thoughts on what I've heard from the pulpit the last couple of times that I've been to church.

Yesterday, the pastor at P.B.'s church gave a rather good sermon in a series that he's calling "Mythbusters" (yes, based on the television show) in which he, like Adam and Jamie, takes a commonly held belief about religion or the church and attempts to prove it "Confirmed," "Plausible," or "Busted."

To give an example of how this goes, a few weeks ago, his chosen Myth was "Good people go to Heaven and bad people go to Hell." He used the following verse, Romans 4:5, to make his point:

However, to the man who does not work but trusts God who justifies the wicked, his faith is credited as righteousness.

His point was this: People who try to get into Heaven by being good -- or, at the least, being better than the guy next to them -- will never make it in.

Why? Because, as Romans 4:4 says, "when a man works, his wages are not credited to him as a gift, but as an obligation." God gives grace not because we deserve it, and not because we've somehow managed to earn it, but because He chooses to do so out of His love for us (See also: John 3:16, Romans 5:8, Galatians 3:11).

He wouldn't allow people into Heaven simply because they were good. Because He doesn't owe us, and He wouldn't allow His Heaven to be peopled with men and women who got there because of some obligation He owed them.

Instead, the verse clearly states that the people who get into Heaven are the wicked. The sinners. The people who, instead of polishing their own halos, understand that no amount of "good" that they can do will ever be enough to overcome the debt of sin.

Heaven is, therefore, filled with bad people. Bad people who rely on God's grace. Bad people who don't work to try to earn Heaven by being good. Whose faith is credited to them as righteousness and who are, thereby, justified.

He declared the "Good people go to Heaven and bad people go to Hell" myth "Busted."

We missed two of the intervening weeks, but this week's sermon was equally eye-opening. This week's sermon chosen Myth was "The church is full of hypocrites."

It's something that, based on survey's, somewhere near 72% of Americans say the believe. But, is it true?

To some degree, yes.

Everyone has likely had an experience with someone in a church that didn't meet the standard God sets. If you've had such an experience (and, if you have, I'm with you), it's important to know that when you're hurt by one of God's followers, He hurts, too.

But, the pastor explained, a lot of that particular perception comes from a misuse of the term hypocrite.

Hypocrite, you see, doesn't describe someone who claims to be a Christian (or any other religions followers) and still sins. The term for that is "sinner." And, honestly, being a "sinner" is a prerequisite for being a Christian (see also: Romans 4:8).

In that sense, the church isn't (and never has been) a private club for the Holy but is, rather, a hospital for the sick.

Hypocrite is a word for someone who pretends to be better than they really are. It means being two-faced. Preaching one thing while living another.

Jesus addressed those people frequently. Particularly in the last week of his life when he called the Pharisees "white-washed tombs" and told people to follow their teachings but to never live as they live.

One other thing to keep in mind is that not every butt in a church pew belongs to a believer. Just because someone is in a church doesn't make them a Christian. As Jesus said, there are plenty of weeds among the wheat (Matthew 13:24-30) and they'll be the first to be tossed into the fire.

But, more importantly, who among us hasn't pretended to be more than we are? To some degree or another pretended to be something we're not? In that regard, aren't we all hypocrites? No one is righteous (Romans 3:10), and we fool ourselves by pretending otherwise.

It was eye-opening to me, I guess, because I know that I've used what I considered the hypocrisy of the church to reject moral standards for my behavior and to reject Christ's claims on my life.

During the sermon, I was struck by the idea that letting hypocrites stand between myself and God still puts the hypocrites closer to God than I was.

It made me think. Hopefully, it'll give you something to chew on, too, and I'd love to hear your thoughts and discuss it with you ...

Confession #38: The one about inappropriate thoughts.

2009-10-02T16:09:00.000-05:00

Unlike the other post about Teagan and my obliviousness to the fact that I was flirting with her that I claimed initially would be short and actually turned out to be quite long, this post about Teagan will actually be short.

I masturbated just now and had the most intense orgasm while picturing in my mind what it be like to look down my body and push her bi-colored hair out of her face so that I could see her eyes the first instant that her tongue found my flesh.

Shh! Don't tell.

Friday Quickies

2009-10-02T09:59:00.004-05:00

I went on my second "date" with Teagan. Just lunch (yes, I paid), no kissing. We have a lot more in common than I would've expected and, were I not with P.B., there'd probably be some potential there.

She invited me (and P.B.) to go see to a club that one of her friends is DJing at this weekend. It sounds like it could be a good time, but we already had other (somewhat tentative) plans, so we'll see what works out.

I'm not sure if you've heard, but Starbucks is selling a new "instant" coffee called Via. I'm not a business major, but I would think that would have "Fail" written all over it as there aren't many people who like instant coffee to begin with and the people who do aren't likely to be Starbucks customers.

But, anyway, I taste-tested it this morning.

I'm such a coffee snob that I not only picked out (in one sip of each) which was which, but was also able to tell the barrista that the regular coffee was a darker roast and that the instant was a lighter, probably Columbian blend and that, if he really wanted to be fair, he'd switch the two as the darker blend might hide the slightly tea-ish aftertaste on the instant coffee a bit better and make for a fairer test.

And, yes, I was right -- not only on which was instant and which was regular brew, but also that the regular was a dark french roast and the instant was supposed to have been a medium Columbian.

Do they have coffee sommeliers? Is that a job? 'Cause I could do that.

The University of Florida has a disaster preparedness, not only for hurricanes and pandemics, but also for zombies.

The exercise lays out how university officials would respond to attacks by "flesh-eating, apparently life impaired individuals." It notes that a zombie outbreak might include "documentation of lots of strange moaning."

I don't think my university has one of those. I may have to transfer.

(Unfortunately, the plan has since been removed from the website. Oh well.)

P.B.'s offer on the house was accepted, including the current owners leaving behind some rather nice appliances. We're supposed to go over there for some kind of inspection next week and, if everything clears on that, he'll (we'll?) be closing on it at the beginning of November.

The very idea has my parents entirely too freaked.

However, they aren't panicking about my behavior to the point of hating him. In fact, my dad has actually invited him to go on a hunting trip with him and my brothers at the beginning of November, too. This little trip has always been a family-only, male-bonding-experience sort of thing. The fact that they're including him makes me incredibly happy.

(Though, the three of them taking him out to the middle of nowhere with firearms is mildly concerning ...)

In other relationship news, I sold Cheater's fiancee a bunch of bridal magazines the other day. I don't think she had any clue who I was.

I congratulated her (and actually meant it) and felt surprisingly not bitter about the whole thing. I honestly think that I'm past it.

What he did hurt, yes, and sent me into a downward spiral that it took me a long time to recover from. But, I think that my feelings toward him have matured to the point that I do honestly want him to be happy and I think finding the person that I know that I'm supposed to be with that isn't him makes it a lot easier for me to be happy for him being happy with someone that isn't me.

(If that makes any sense.)

And, finally, I ran across this story the other day, too ...

Sex in a Tufts University dorm is fine. Sex in a Tufts dorm with your roommate present? That's a no-no.

This semester, the school has a new policy banning sexual activity while a roommate is in the same room. Kim Thurler, a Tufts University spokeswoman, said the school issued the new rule after a dozen or so complaints in the past three years.

Not only did it remind me of precisely the reason why I don't live in a dorm, but it also raised a couple of questions.

First, shouldn't this be something that roommates address with each other?

I mean, yes, you go to college to learn and anything that actively distracts from that could potentially be an issue that college administrations should deal with. But, one of the most important things that you learn here is how to deal with other people. How to interact. How to communicate.

If you're either so obnoxious that you think having loud, rowdy sex in front of your roommate is appropriate, or you're so timid that you can't pull your roommate aside after the loud, rowdy sex has ended and say, "Look, I don't really want to see that. Can we come up with a system so that I know where you're going to be having sex with your boyfriend/girlfriend so I don't have to witness it ... ?" then you have failed at learning one of college's most important lessons.

The second question is: What if you're having sex with your roommate? Just sayin'.

(Special thanks to Gray for figuring out which picture I was talking about and where to find it! That's just one of several reasons why she's so awesome.)

Confession #37: The one where I explain why he's the one.

2009-09-28T10:38:00.000-05:00

Late last week, while chatting with a reader of my little blog, I was asked how it is exactly that I'm sure that, after just four months, I've found the man that I'm supposed to spend the rest of my life with.

And, I'm sure that there are a number of you out there who are wondering the same thing, even if you're too polite to ask outright and are just acting happy for me while thinking in your head that our relationship is doomed to failure.

(I know you do that because I know I do that and I'm not that weird.)

So, I'll share with you the answers that I shared with him -- and a few that I didn't -- so as to explain why I know that this is a forever thing.

I've been in a lot of relationships but I've never, ever felt as loved and accepted as I do when I'm with him.
If there is one thing that I can point it all back to, it's this. He knows me. I mean, really knows me. He's allowed me to feel comfortable enough with him to let down my guard entirely. Because we want a future together, I've shown him my past. I've allowed him to see my every fault and failure. And, in spite of everything about me that is unacceptable and unlovable, he still has the courage and grace to love me and accept me anyway.
I've never felt love toward someone else like I feel for him.
There are a lot of ways that I could explain this, I guess, but I think that the simplest way to state it is that the first thing that I want to do every morning and the last thing I want to do every night is see his face.
He knows exactly what I need when I need it.
Physically, emotionally, spiritually ... its like it's just instinctual to him. What words to say. When I need to feel his arm around me. When I want to speak my mind about something, whether it's something that he really cares about or not, he let's me. And when I just feel like being quiet, he knows. He just knows.

But, it's more than that.

I'm going to paraphrase a line from Gerry's last letter in P.S. I Love You (because I watched that for the umpteenth time last night): Whenever I'm sad or I'm unsure of myself or I lose all faith, he makes me see myself through his eyes. He makes me smile. He makes me confident. He makes me feel like there isn't anything I can't do because he believes in me.

I'd like to think that I do the same things for him.
As cheesy as the line was when I first heard it in "The Wedding Date," I know that he's the person that I would've missed even if we'd never met.
I was tempted to let that one stand alone, but I won't.

He's my best friend. He's my lover. And now that I know him I also know that, had we never met, I would've never known what it felt like to feel complete. He makes me whole.

(And, yes, I realize that sounds ridiculously co-dependent but that's the only way that I can explain it.)
I can't see my future without him.
It's one of those things you're asked to do as a college freshman. Answer the questions: "Where do you see yourself in five years? In ten years? In twenty?" And, I used to think I knew. I had a vision of what my life would be like. I had it all planned out.

Even when I was practically engaged to Cheater, I couldn't ever really see myself having children with him. We talked about it, yes, and I was sure that it would likely be a by-product of being married because, you know, that's what you're just supposed to do when you're married and want children. But I couldn't ever really visualize it and trying to do so made me feel like I couldn't breathe.

I can't not see my future and my children without P.B. there. I can't see my life without him in it. In five years, and in ten and in twenty.

And that's how I know.

Confession #36: The unexpected tale of obliviousness.

2009-09-25T15:16:00.000-05:00

This will be short as it is simply to illustrate how oblivious I am to what's going on around me sometimes.

There is a girl in one of my classes whom I'll refer to here as Teagan, despite that not being her real name, because that is how some of my readers will already be familiar with her.

Imagine my exact opposite and you'll have Teagan.

Outwardly, she has an affection for leather, and cares little about fashion. She has multiple visible piercings and, I think (based on conversations not my ever-wandering imagination, thank you), most likely a few that are hidden from view. She wears a lot of dark eye make-up. Her hair is dyed black on top and blonde underneath; neither of which, I'm sure, are her natural color.

However, she is far more than her outward appearance. She has a very dry sense of humor and is ever-ready with a sarcastic remark that, inevitably, lands at just the right time to make me laugh inappropriately in class. She seems introverted, because people tend to judge her based on that outward appearance, but is extremely gregarious once you get to know her.

But, despite our apparent outward opposite-ness, we have managed to forge a friendship. She and I have been friendly since the start of the semester. We've chatted before and after class. We've borrowed each others notes when one of us has missed class. We've discussed the answers that we've given on tests to see whether or not we'd missed it.

During one of those discussions, today, she said, "Hey, if you're not doing anything right now, do you want to go grab some lunch?"

It's an entirely normal thing to say, right? I mean, I can't count how many times I've made that exact same suggestion when I was chatting with a friend and feeling hungry but not wanting the conversation to have to end. No big.

So we went to lunch.

I'm well aware of the fact that I tend to flirt with guys without realizing that I'm even doing it. It's just how I am. (And, yes, P.B. is well aware of it, too, and generally thinks it's funny.) Apparently, however, my flirtatiousness isn't actually limited to guys.

We talk about all sorts of stuff that isn't school related. Relationships and weekend plans and such.

Now, I've been with annoying friends who do nothing but gush over guys that they're with and I know how boring it is to be on the other end of that, so I briefly mention P.B. but I don't make a big deal out of it.

I don't talk about possibly marrying him or the house thing or any of that because she's not talking about anyone significant in her life.

Lunch is over, and she grabs the check. I tell her that I can get mine, and she says, "Nah, it's okay. I've got it. You can pay next time." So I let her pay.

Are you registering that she thinks this is an impromptu date yet?

Because I wasn't.

Because I am that oblivious.

So we leave the restaurant and she walks me to my car. We stand there and talk some more and, as she's leaning in to kiss me, I realize that we've been flirting this entire time.

I stop her and awkwardly apologize and say that I have a boyfriend.

"Shit," she says, "I guess I completely misread this, huh?"

And so, then, after awkwardly interrupting her mid-lean and awkwardly apologizing for awkwardly interrupting her, I go on to awkwardly explain that, no, she hadn't completely misread me and that I think she's fun and funny and I'd be cool with it were I not seeing someone and that I should've probably been more clear about my seeing someone else but didn't want to be annoying about it.

When I stopped babbling, we both laughed about how stupid we felt and then I squeezed her hand and gave her a hug and thanked her for lunch and told her that I still intended to buy her lunch "next week," and she smiles and walked back to her car.

And I get into mine before realizing that I've just promised a second date -- because, yes, I am that oblivious -- and established a timeframe within which that date would occur to a girl who I'd just stopped from kissing me because I was dating someone else.

I'm starting to think I shouldn't be let out into the world on my own.

As something of an epilogue, before driving away and while still kicking myself over that whole "second date" thing, I texted P.B. and said, "So, how often, exactly, do I flirt without knowing it?"

He responds, "Why?"

I explain, "Because [Teagan] just tried to kiss me."

He asks, "So did you kiss her back?"

I respond, truthfully, "No." Because I don't kiss other people when I'm dating someone. Flirt, yes. Send explicit sexual emails, yes. Kiss, no.

And he, apparently being a guy first and a boyfriend second, asks, "Why not ?!"

That's why we work, I guess.

Confession #35: The one that paid me.

2009-09-25T11:06:00.000-05:00

This was actually written quite a while ago, following a conversation with Ric of My Expressions LIVE about loneliness, but I never got around to posting it. So, just so that this week won't go by entirely without a Confession, here it is ...

The first thing that Jack ever said to me was, "I don't know what I'm even doing here."

Prostitution is rarely thought of as anything praiseworthy. Shameful, yes. Demeaning to both the prostitute and her client, sure. There is an entire blog devoted to letters from people who've paid for sex and who have, most typically, felt anything but good about it after.

So, it may come as a surprise to you that the one time -- the only time -- that I've ever been paid for sex, stands out in my memory as a good experience.

I was working the floor, though it was slow even for the day shift, when I saw him.

He was sitting in a darker corner of the club where I was working days as a dancer, struggling to make enough money to both cover my rent and pay Heroin's half of his.

Jack had ordered a drink, but hadn't touched it. He was staring at the inside rim of his glass, rather than the girl performing on the stage, when I approached.

I asked him if he wanted a dance.

"I don't know what I'm even doing here," he said. He was nervous. He wasn't one of the guys you'd typically see in a club like this one in the middle of the day. It was pretty clear, really, that he'd never been in a club like this before at all.

I found an odd inverse relationship when stripping between my customer's comfort and my own. When they seemed too much like they were familiar with that kind of environment, I got incredibly nervous. When they were nervous, though -- like Jack was -- I found it much easier to be calm because, then, I was the one in control.

I gave him my made-up name, Caitlin, and my best fake smile and stuck out my hand. We made small talk as I tried to calm him down as best I could standing before him in only a thong, a ratty pink wig and platform heels.

It was my job to make him feel comfortable, this absolute stranger who I would never know. It was up to me to make him want me. To convince him that it was worth it to give me that $20 bill he'd tucked away in his pocket so that I would let him see what I had hidden under my skirt. To make him realize how lucky he was that, of the three or four other guys (all of whom were particularly skeezy) in the bar, I'd chosen him.

When it was clear that we would be talking for a bit, I sat down next to him even though he hadn't actually asked me to and, when we ran out of things to talk about, I asked if he wanted a lapdance. He shook his head.

"Okay," I said, and got up to head back to the bar to await the next potential customer.

He stopped me and reached into his pocket and pulled out my $20. "Can we just go somewhere and talk?"

I told him that if he wanted more privacy, there were rooms available for private dances and gave him the rates. He handed me another handful of bills and I took him by the hand and lead him to one of the small, blacklight lit rooms in the back.

He sat on the vinyl bench as I stood in front of him and gave him the "rules." You will not touch my boobs. You will not touch my pussy. I knew, even as I was uttering the rehearsed words, that it wouldn't be a problem with Jack.

It was the first time that I really got to look at him. He was dressed neatly, in a business suit that I couldn't quite tell the actual color of in the odd lighting. He had short, dark hair that was graying at the sides, neatly combed and looked as though it'd been so hair-sprayed that it would be brittle to touch. He wore glasses with thin, black frames and he had a face that looked worn with time.

I started dancing for him but as I bent over, my back to him to give him the best view as I peeled off my thong, he stopped me. He asked if, instead, I could just sit with him and I do.

Now, if you're a patron of strip clubs, I'll share a secret with you may already know but certainly won't hear spoken there: We're paid to dance, not listen.

Now, it may seem as though we're truly paying attention. We may even act interested. But, when you think we're looking in your eyes and hearing your words, we're not. We're focused on that weird mole on your forehead. Or, sometimes, our own reflections in the mirror behind you, checking ourselves to make sure that we don't look too bored.

We don't get involved in your stories because with involvement comes attachment and we're not paid to get attached. So, we don't listen to you. Not those of us who are good at our jobs, anyway.

Unfortunately, I was never very good at the job.

He tells me that he's married. His wife is beautiful, he says, and he loves her more than anything. But she has lost interest in sex. He hasn't, and he misses it. Not just the physical act itself, but the intimacy of it.

"Sometimes," he says, "I just want to hold her. I just want to lay next to her and have her in my arms and feel her against me and she just ... dismisses me."

I know the kind of loneliness he's describing. It's one thing to ache to feel someone next to you. It's far more painful to have someone there and still feel alone. I feel the same way every time I'm with Heroin.

"She treats sex with me like it's a chore. Like it is just one more thing that she has to cross off her to-do list if she's not too tired or can find time. How is that supposed to make me feel?"

I don't know if it's her intent, but I can understand with what he's feeling. She sounds, I think, like my mother. The words he's uttering could be coming from my father's mouth.

She makes him feel like a pervert, he said, for expressing desires that seem to him to be entirely natural. She makes him feel like some sort of freak for wanting something that he shouldn't feel like a freak for wanting. Something that is a basic, human need. To feel connected with someone. To know that you're needed. That you're wanted.

I tell him that I understand. I tell him that he's not a freak. I tell him that it's okay to want to look. It's okay to want to touch. Everybody wants that. I tell him that I understand. I tell him that I understand because I've felt it, too.

He checks the time and tells me that he has to leave. He is in town on business and has a meeting with a client scheduled soon. He gives me one of his business cards, complete with his real name and real phone numbers, and writes down the name of his hotel and his room number on the back. He tells me that he knows its probably against the rules but that he would love to see me again before he left town.

I give him another fake smile and tell him that it was, indeed, against the rules and that I don't do that sort of thing, but I still take his card and fold it into the handful of twenties he's given me and tuck it all into the rubber band around the arch of my high-heeled shoe.

"If I don't see you again, Caitlin," he says, "It was very nice to meet you."

"It was nice meeting you, Jack."

When my shift ended a few hours later, I called Heroin to see what he was doing and to ask if he'd eaten so that I'd know if I needed to bring anything back for dinner. He'd eaten wihtout me, it turned out, and I was fending for myself.

In that moment, I felt tremendously alone.

I thought of Jack. Of the loneliness in his eyes when he told me about his wife. I thought of the sorrow in his voice when he talked. Of the yearning for simple companionship that had dug so deeply into him that it sounded as if it were slowly killing him from the inside out.

And, then, I lied.

I told Heroin that I had been asked to cover a shift that night for someone who couldn't make it in and, since he'd already eaten, I'd find something on my own and just see him when I got home later.

And then, after I hung up the phone, I took Jack's business card from my purse and dialed his cell phone number.

"Hey," I said.

"Who is this?" he asked.

I almost gave him my real name before realizing he wouldn't recognize it. "Caitlin," I answered. "You said maybe you wanted to see me again and my shift just ended so ..."

I could hear a smile in his voice when he asked if I'd had dinner. I told him I hadn't and that I was starving. He told me there was a restaurant in the lobby of his hotel and that he'd love to buy me dinner if I could meet him down there.

There was a smile in my voice when I agreed.

I found him waiting for me at the restaurant's bar and he didn't recognize me without the pink wig and in my regular clothes even though, back then, they weren't all that much different than what I wore when I was working.

He gave me a smile and a quick hug, as if we were some sort of old friends or distant relatives meeting in an unfamiliar city after not having seen each other for years.

After our drinks had arrived and while we waited for our food, he asked how it was that a "beautiful girl like me" found herself dancing in a club for money.

It was a savior question and I hadn't pegged him as the savior type.

"Saviors" are the kind of guy who thought somehow that, if only circumstances had been just a little different and any number of rather obvious impedements hadn't been in the way, that he could somehow have rescued you from this horrible life that you'd chosen for yourself.

To tell the truth, I didn't want to be rescued. But, I didn't tell him so. You never tell them so. If we were still in the club, I would have just smiled and nodded and agreed with all of the "if only's" and then taken his money and tucked it away and walked.

But, I didn't. Instead, I told him bits of my story. Enough to satisfy his curiosity, at least, and then I changed the subject and, thankfully, he took the hint that at least that part of my personal life wasn't something I wanted to talk about.

Through dinner about all sorts of things. About his job. About school. About his wife. About my mother. About loneliness and rejection.

The waitress brought him the check and, after he'd paid, he asked if I was ready to go. I said yes.

I found myself on the elevator with him before I'd even firmly decided if I was going back to his room and I lied to myself by trying to make myself think that I had no idea what he'd expect when we got back there.

I wasn't a whore, despite what Heroin called me.

But I didn't ask Jack what he'd intended for the rest of the evening. I didn't want to.

His room was large, with an armchair and ottoman in one corner and a desk with an office chair in the other and a large, flatscreen television at the foot of the bed.

I felt suddenly uncomfortable in the quiet of the room, as if interacting with him outside of the club's flashing lights and loud music or the restaurant's crowd and clanking silverware is too much for me to process. I asked if it was alright if I turned on the television or some music, just for background noise.

He smiled as though he were feeling uncomfortable, too, and was relieved that I'd asked.

I noticed that, among the other channel options, there was a large selection of music channels and I quickly found one that seemed like something that I thought he might like -- Sinatra and Martin and other older, big band classics -- and turned to it.

"Is this alright?" I asked.

He smiled again, "Not the kind of music I would've thought you'd like."

I sung a long to a few bars of "I've got the world on a string" to show him that I wasn't just picking old music because I thought he was old and, while it may not be one of the quick select buttons on my car radio, it certainly wasn't unfamiliar.

He sat down in the chair and I asked if he wanted the dance he'd paid for but had never gotten. He smiled and said "Okay."

I moved the ottoman against the edge of the bed to make room. I wound up somehow mis-timing the song and took my clothes off too quickly. I was saved by Michael Buble's oddly appropos and upbeat "It had Better Be Tonight." I'm not great at dancing to a Samba beat, but I've seen Shakira and can mimic well enough what she does to fake my way through it.

After, I knelt down in front of him on the floor between his legs, my forearms braced on his thighs, and he reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear.

"You really are beautiful," he said.

I blushed, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure of myself. As if we were back in the club and he'd wrested my self-confidence away simply by finding his own.

"Would it be alright if we laid on the bed?" he asked. I nodded. He asked if he should undress, the first actual indicator that he was expecting something far more than just a dance, but I told him I'd rather he didn't.

We laid there on the bed for what seemed like hours. Facing each other, but not daring to look the other in the eyes out of fear that what was happening might quickly become too real.

I looked at his face first when he finally touched me. I watched his expressions as his hand reached out and moved ever so slowly down my arm. He took his time, as if drinking in the sensation of human contact. My arm. My stomach. My back. My thighs.

I simply laid there and let him. I reached up, finally, and put a hand on his chest.

When his eyes finally met mine, they were welled up with tears. Seeing the first one escape and roll across the bridge of his nose and drip down onto the pillows we shared made my eyes well up, too.

His hand brushed my cheek and his thumb wiped the tear from my eyes and he chuckled softly -- surprised, I think, at being with someone who felt compassion, who empathized with his pain.

That moment was so incredibly intimate. Far more so than any sexual act.

There was no shame. There was no fear. There was only two people, connected at a level far beyond the physical.

There were no words exchanged. We didn't need any.

I kissed him. He kissed me. Eventually, after a few minutes of laying there together, side by side, I pushed him over onto his back and straddled his thighs.

He watched me as I unbuttoned each button of his shirt. I unbuckled his brown leather belt and undid the sliding metal clasp on the front of his suit. His eyes closed and he trembled ever so slightly when my hand slid inside the waistband of his boxers.

"Let's get these off of you," I said, and he raised his hips just enough to let me pull off his slacks and underwear. And then, I took a condom from my bag and rolled it onto him and moved back over him and lowered myself onto him.

I took pleasure in the pleasure I was giving, even while thinking that maybe I had given up too much. But sex didn't seem like it could've possibly been any more intimate than what we'd already shared. It was more like expressing physically that emotional bond we'd formed.

After we were finished, I laid with my back to him.

Both of us naked, now. His skin to my skin. I remember thinking how warm and solid his chest felt against my back. Strong. Like something I could rest against. Could find comfort and solace in.

I couldn't imagine how his wife could have ever felt anything different. Couldn't imagine how she could ever give this up.

He had pulled me tight against himself. He'd wrapped his arms around me, underneath my breasts. And he wept.

And we laid there like that until, a little after one o'clock, he told me that he needed to get to sleep.

I sat up and gathered my clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed with him watching as I got dressed. He got up and found his wallet and handed me a pile of money that was more than enough to cover the rent two times over.

As I took it, things got cold. It reminded us both that the moment we'd just had was nothing more than a business transaction. It made it seem hollow. It made the loneliness come rushing back.

I took his hands, both of them, and held them in mine -- looking at him until he looked me in the eye -- and letting him know that the affection that I felt for him, that the kindness that I gave, that the moments that we had shared were not something that I had expected him to pay for.

He nodded, but he put the money in my purse anyway.

I kissed him one more time, on the cheek, before leaving his room. I listened to the uncomfortably loud clacking of my shoes against the tile as I crossed the hotel lobby and felt the weight of the stares from the night attendant at the front desk.

I felt as if they knew what I was here for. What I had done. But I didn't care. I smiled at the man behind the counter and told him to have a good night. He didn't smile back.

Even as I got in my car and made sure my make-up wasn't a mess, I didn't feel like a prostitute. I didn't feel like a whore.

That feeling came later, after I'd showered and cleaned up the mess that Heroin and his friends had made of the living room and crawled into bed beside him and, in my own loneliness, cried myself to sleep.

TMI Tuesday #205

2009-09-25T09:42:00.000-05:00

This week has been incredibly busy.

Between tests and work and freaking out about houses and projects coming due and just generally trying to manage life and friendships and relationships, this is actually the first time that I've had time to sit down and really do anything substantive online.

The weird thing? I didn't miss it. I mean, I missed talking to people that I've made friends with on here, yes. But, I didn't miss writing. I didn't miss Confessing things.

I'll analyze that more later, perhaps, because I think there's something significant there. But, for now, it's time for TMI Tuesday (on a Friday!) ...

1. You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence. Which one will it be?
You know, I'm really not sure.

The only music that I really can't stand is probably hardcore "gangsta rap," but I'm not familiar enough with it to pick just one artist that should go.

Can I wipe out that entire genre instead? Please?

2. You seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Holy crap, a hundred bucks! How are you gonna spend it?
Old Navy, here I come.

3. Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-traveling phone booth. You can go anytime in the PAST. What time are you traveling to and what are you going to do when you get there?
I'd go to the early 1800's, to south Devonshire, England to see Jane Austen meet the young man who would inspire Persuasion.

4. What is your favorite curse word?
I tend not to curse, actually (except during sex, I guess). Though, when particularly suprised, I've been known to let an F-bomb fly now and then.

5. You have the opportunity to sleep with the movie celebrity of your choice. We are talking no-strings-attached sex and it can only happen once. Who is the lucky celebrity of your choice?
I only get one? That's a tragedy.

If I had to choose just one, it would be Matthew McConaughy. Though, my "list" is substantially longer. And more interesting. But, you don't get to hear it because this question limited me to one. Sorry.

Bonus (as in optional):You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what's even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What's it gonna be?
Initially, I wanted to be a telepath like Jean in the X-Men movies. Able to read minds and move things around with my mind and stuff.

And then I met Sookie Stackhouse who had that ability (or, at least, the reading minds part) and was constantly exhausted trying to not listen into people's thoughts and completely inable to have a relationship with a "normal" person because she knew what they were thinking. And, honestly, I think that's something I'd have a problem with, too. Knowing someone's most disgusting thoughts can, I would think, make it sort of hard to maintain emotional attachment and I have enough difficulty with relationships without adding that to the mix.

So, I think I'd like to be like Violet on the Incredibles: force fields and invisibility.

Either that, or able to heal any injury like Wolverine and Claire Bennett.

Or, Superman. If I could have all of Superman's powers because, you know, those first couple landings on your first few flights without invulnerability would really suck. But, I think that's probably more than what radioactive vegetables could be expected to do (and, it reading the question, it seems to imply that the power granted is singular, not multiple).

Confession #34: The one about the house.

2009-09-17T10:45:00.000-05:00

If you're looking for one of my normally sex-filled Confessions, I'll warn you up-front that this isn't going to be it.

This isn't going to be it because, you see, yesterday I received a surprise. A surprise that has me both excited and in a mild state of panic.

Perhaps I should explain.

Yesterday, mid-afternoon, I got a call from P.B. "Are you doing anything right now?" he asked. I wasn't. "I've got something I want you to see," he said, "I'll pick you up in 20 minutes."

A little less than 20 minutes later, I was getting into his car. He refused to tell me what it was that he wanted me to see. Any inquiry was met with the same response: "We'll be there in a couple of minutes."

He drove until, after a few turns, we pulled up and he stopped the car in front of a house. A house in a nice looking neighborhood. A house with camel-colored paint and beige trim and a big burgundy front door, with an attached three car garage and a fenced-in yard in the back.

And a smiling realtor standing on the sidewalk in front, waiting for us.

The big burgundy door opened to a great room with a fireplace to the front, a large kitchen with hardwood floors and a breakfast nook and an island with a cooktop to the left, and stairs to the left that led up to a second story and down to a finished basement.

With a first-floor master bedroom with vaulted ceilings and a huge master bathroom with two sinks and two closets and a separate area for the toilet and tub.

With four other bedrooms, too -- two upstairs and two down -- with two other full bathrooms on those floors, and another half-bath for guests just off of the living room.

"So," he asked. "Do you like it?"

"It's really nice," I said. "Kind of big, though, don't you think?"

"For now," he said. "But I think we'd grow into it. Do you think you could live here?"

Now, I have a key to his place, he has a key to mine. We'd talked about moving in together, but I didn't want to leave Roomie on her own to cover rent and we've just recently re-signed a 1-year lease on our apartment.

We've also talked about what I want in a dream house and the things that I would look for. Like a big, open floorplan so that, even in separate rooms, you could still be "together" and talk to each other and see each other. And a kitchen where I could cook and where we could sit on Sunday mornings and read the paper together and a dining room where we could have family dinners every night.

A huge bedroom, just for us, where we could go together to escape from the world. A big tub where I could soak and relax and read. Enough bedrooms so that each of the children I hope to give him could have their own.

A garage big enough for us to both park our cars inside and for him to have a workshop that he'd never use.

A yard big enough for the dog we don't have yet and a garden and a swingset with swings where he could push the children we would have together and I could watch, my toes in the cool green grass, and listen to them giggle.

He'd listened.

And then he'd gone out and found it.

Exactly it.

The realtor explained that it wasn't technically on the market yet. One of her other clients was relocating his family to California, but was hoping for a quick sale as he'd already found a place out there and didn't want to juggle two mortgages. She knew it was almost exactly what P.B. had said "we" were looking for, and it was within the price range that he said he could afford, so she wanted to give him the first look at it. She would be listing it within the next day or two ... unless we wanted to put an offer on it.

I was, apparently, shaking a little.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I managed to stutter out, "Yeah." He could tell I was a little shocked and asked if we could walk around one more time and talk. The realtor said yes and we excused ourselves.

I asked if he was actually seriously talking about buying it. He was, yes. He'd done the math on it and could afford it; the mortgage payments would, suprisingly, only be about $300 more each month than his current rent. A difference that wasn't more than what I pay as my half of rent on my apartment.

I didn't even know he'd been looking at houses, much less contacted a realtor. He wanted to surprise me, he explained. Besides, he said, he hadn't been looking seriously because, so far, there had been nothing on the local market that had everything I'd said I wanted. Apparently, the perfect house is hard to find.

This time, as we walked around, we talked about what it would be like if this were ours. If we bought this house, what would we change. What would we put where. Which closet I would get. Which of the bedrooms might make the best nursery.

I started looking for flaws, too. Some fatal thing that would make me think that this was anything but perfect. The biggest thing I could find to complain about was that I would've preferred that the laundry be on the first floor, but since I already haul laundry up and down several flights of stairs this would actually not be altogether different than that. If anything, the distance was shorter.

I could see in my mind how it would be decorated for Christmas. With a tree in the corner with white lights and gold ornaments and a big wreath interlaced with white ribbon hanging over the fireplace and stockings hung under the mantel.

I could see big family dinners around the table. Thanksgivings with my family and his family and all of us busily trying to get things ready to sit down and stop the children from running circles underneath our feet while we're carrying food to the table.

I could see us helping our kids with homework at the kitchen table and hear myself telling our kids to go clean up the mud they'd just tracked in and reminding them to take their shoes off outside. I could see our daughter coming down the stairs for her first date and hear our son asking if he could borrow the car.

"Can you see yourself living here?" he asked, again.

I smiled. "I definitely can."

I wouldn't move in immediately, of course. I made a commitment to Roomie and my name was on a lease until next summer and me moving out wouldn't be fair to her.

And, on top of that, my parents would rather strongly frown upon that and, with our relationship actually defrosting some after years of alienation, I didn't want to do anything that would bring back the chill. They also seemed to really like him and it was, oddly enough, kind of nice to have my parents like the guy I was dating.

"You know you'll have to marry me before I can move in though, right?" I said, half-joking.

This time, he smiled. And said, "I know."

TMI Tuesday #204

2009-09-16T14:20:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know it's Wednesday. Better late than never, right?

1. Have you ever shared sleeping accommodations with someone without anything steamy happening? (Opposite sex for breeders, same sex for homosexuals).
Yes. It usually involved friends crashing here after we'd gone out and me not wanting them to drive home intoxicated.

I've been told that there was one instance of me getting a little over-served and crashing at someone's house, too, and he wanted something to happen but I was sending mixed signals (saying "no" while, at the same time, grinding into his hand and kissing him, for example). He ultimately decided that he'd feel like he was taking advantage of me and we wound up just snuggling all night. We never did wind up hooking up.

2. Have you eve streaked, flashed, or otherwise partially or totally exposed yourself in public before (or after) an informal, unofficial gathering of people?
I have not streaked, but I have flashed and otherwise exposed myself in public.

3. Have you had dates with multiple people in the same weekend (or consecutive nights or the same night) while not all of your dates were aware of your actions?
Yes.

The example that most appropiately fits this question, I think, is the time that I had a really horrible date with a really cute guy and, after Cute Bad Date dropped me off, called Fuck Buddy #2 and hooked up with him instead.

But, in general, if we're not officially dating and we're just going out for whatever reason, I don't necessarily feel any obligation to tell you that I'll be going out with someone else later that weekend (or, you know, that night).

4. What is the most "romantic" you have ever gotten in a movie theater?
It wasn't particularly romantic, by any means, but I've given oral and been the recipient of a "manual orgasm" in a movie theatre. I haven't ever had sex in a theatre, but it's on my list.

5. Have you ever had sex when you knew a non-participating adult was watching?
Yes.

And as much as I hate most everything about that particular era of my life, I have to admit that there's a part of me that still thinks that having sex with one of Heroin's friends while Heroin watched us and I watched him was incredibly hot.

Bonus (as in optional): If you could say anything you wanted anonymously to anyone, without identifying that person, what would you say?
There isn't a single day that goes by that I don't think about you. I miss you and I love you and I look forward to the day when I see your face.

Confession #33: The one about fear and flaws.

2009-09-14T11:29:00.002-05:00

I took a photo for HNT last week.

No, you didn't miss it.

You see, last week, Another Suburban Mom came up with the idea to do a HNT theme called "Flaws." It took me most of the week and, frankly, far more scrutiny than I wanted to endure of what I thought my own personal flaws were, before I finally getting out the camera and taking a series of potential photos.

But, when Thursday came, fear kept me from posting it. I wasn't brave enough to do it.

I've been frustrated with myself ever since.

It's like being at the amusement park and waiting in line for the roller coaster only to, at the last minute, deciding that you're too scared to go. So you step aside and wait as your friends ride. No one scorns you for backing out (at least, not out loud) because we all understand fear. But, nonetheless, you feel as though you've somehow failed as they walk down the ramp after the ride having conquered their fears while you gave into your own.

The fact is, I see flaws everywhere.

My belly button, for example.

I wore a one-piece bathing suit until I was 17, not because I didn't think that the rest of me looked alright in a bikini but because I didn't want people to see my belly button.

I feel like it can't decide if it wants to be an innie or an outie and I hate it so much that, while a lot of my friends went out and got theirs pierced, I didn't want to add jewelry to it to "pretty it up" because then people would actually be looking at it. The jewelry would draw too much attention to it.

I have a pooch (and, yes, I know that everyone except anorexics and pregnant women do, but that doesn't make me like mine any better). I have done thousands upon thousands of crunches and the stupid thing, no matter how toned the rest of my stomach might get, just won't go away.

The only time it goes away is when I'm laying flat on my back. Turn to the side, even just a little, and the flab seems to sag that direction. I hate it.

I hate my shoulders, too. They are too thick. I blame swimming. The rest of my arms I'm pretty alright with, but then you get to the top and my shoulders get all bulky and ... ugh.

And, then there's my complexion. Hormonal birth control is supposed to help with that, but it hasn't helped much with mine. I still get break-outs, and they're always in the most obvious places (my chin, forehead or nose) at the most inopportune times.

But, those flaws (and the dozens of others that I haven't bothered to elaborate on) aren't what I opted to take a picture of.

What I chose to take a picture of -- or rather, what I let P.B. take pictures of -- was the two of us having sex.

Perhaps it is the fact that I spent the weekend with my mother that dredged it back up. Or, perhaps its the fact that I've had four times as many sexual partners as P.B. -- four times, as in you have to take his number and multiply it by four to get my number (and that's just the people that I've had actual intercourse with) -- that's causing my guilt to spark up. Or, perhaps it's because I'm Irish and Catholic and we're just naturally good at finding things to hate ourselves for anyway.

But my sex life is what I've chosen as my flaw. The fact that I've given myself to so many people, often far too easily.

I know, at least in my head, that God has forgiven me for those "sins." I know that P.B. says that he doesn't care about my past and that it doesn't matter what I've done.

And, honestly, most of the time, it doesn't bother me at all; in fact, most of the time, I'm more than willing to add more to that number. But for whatever reason, for right now, to me, it matters.

A scar on my psyche, on my conscience rather than on my skin. A mark I can't cover over or hide away with make-up or clothing. My flaw.

Where were you?

2009-09-11T07:43:00.042-05:00

I was 14 years old. I was in first period Biology. We were all talking about a quick news blurb that we'd heard on the radio on our way in to school: A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.

There weren't any more details than that at that point, and it hadn't been more than a single sentence mention on the news. We were sure that it must've been an accident. After all, those towers were too big for someone not to see. A pilot of a small private plane had a heart attack, we surmised.

By the end of first period, the school was buzzing.

Those of us with cell phones had been called. The reports were scattershot. Unconfirmed bits of information reported by news sources trying to be first on the story and passed on from parent to child and filtered through to friends. By the time most of us heard anything, it was almost entirely inaccurate simply because of how many people it had passed through.

But, the basics were there.

It wasn't a plane, it was a commercial air liner. It wasn't just one, but three. Both of the World Trade Center towers had been hit, as had the Pentagon. The towers were on fire, but were still standing.

The principal came over the intercom after the start of second period and said that there had been what was believed to be an attack on the World Trade Center and on the Pentagon. Students could contact their parents and, if they wanted, could be excused for the rest of the day.

My brother was already at the door of my classroom. He was the one of the three of us who had been given a cell phone to use "in case of emergency." Mom had called him and told him to get us home.

When we got there, mom was teary-eyed. She had two televisions on different news stations. The first image I saw was the "this just in" new footage of one of the planes hitting one of the towers, shot by a handheld camcorder by some firemen on the street.

A silhouette of a plane. An explosion. The fire and the black smoke and the debris.

The news channels reporting that some of the debris that we saw falling wasn't just broken bits of building, but people jumping -- trapped on the upper floors, cut off from escape by the fire, choosing to plummet hundreds of stories rather than burn to death.

And then, not more than a few minutes after we got home, it fell. Tons and tons of concrete and steel and glass and people who couldn't escape came crashing down.

I couldn't understand it. I couldn't comprehend it. I couldn't stop the tears.

The text is Dutch and it reads:
"The day we never would forget"
"In memory for those who died - d. 9/11-2001"
"2947 lost their life that day"
"may they rest in peace"

I hope that you'll all take a moment to pause and remember.

Remember where you were. Remember who you were with. Remember how you felt.

Remember those who were lost. Those in the towers and on the planes. Those who simply went into work that day, expecting nothing more than a typical Tuesday, whose lives were shattered. Those members of the New York Police and Fire Departments who were last scene going back into the burning, crumbling building hoping to save one more. Remember, too, in your thoughts and in your prayers, their families and friends who are remembering them today.

I swore, that day, that I would never forget. That I would never forget any of it. I haven't. I hope you haven't either.

Confession #32: The one about my own medicine.

2009-09-09T08:07:00.001-05:00

I wanted it back the moment I'd hit send.

Hot Co-worker and I had been exchanging emails back and forth, each progressively more flirtatious, each filled with slightly more innuendo than the one before. And it wasn't the first time we'd done this.

No, this was a game we'd played several times before. Each of us eager to tease the other with our words to a point where touch wasn't just desired, it was a requirement.

My goal was to tease and nothing more. To leave him wanting more. Leave him so worked up that he would be literally aching for release. Leave him to figure out on his own how deal with it.

His goal, as always, was to get me to the point where I would give in. Where I would agree to his suggestion that giving in, just once, would get it out of our systems.

I figured that this game was safe because, at least before, each time we'd played this game before, I'd won. But, on this particular day, my resistance was weakened and, frankly, he was playing his game better than I was playing mine.

He had caught me sitting in class, you see. Unable to seek my own release. Unable to let my fingers do the touching he described. Unable to make the desire disapate on my own.

He was doing to me what I'd, so often, done to him. Rather than being able to orgasm and be done with it, keeping our virtual flirtations nothing more than words on a screen, I was left there to comtemplate what that touch would feel like. To soak and simmer in it. To feel the desire for it and for him welling up inside me like steam in a tea kettle on a hot, hot burner.

We went back and forth, describing what might happen; if I did X to him, he would do Y to me.

We tortured each other with our words. With the scenarios of things that could be. The things that we could do. The things that we would do, if only I would stop resisting.

I wrote:
"So, let's say I say 'Yes.' Tell me how you see this going down exactly."

And I hit send.

The instant it was gone, I wanted it back. I wasn't asking for enticement anymore, I was asking for a plan.

He responded:
"First, you're going to come here rather than me coming your place. Because, here, there are no roommates and there won't be anyone calling you. There won't be any interruptions. It will just be us.

"The door will be left unlocked for you. You won’t be shy at all in opening it or about stepping inside, where you'll find me waiting.

"We've both been in this situation before and I’m sure we both know how it will start. After five or six polite words, you'll find yourself looking at me. Wondering when I'm going to make my move. When I'm going to kiss you. When I'm going to undress you. When I'm going to take you. And, in that wondering, you'll realize that I'm the one in control here and that you've already surrendered yourself to it.

"After a few long, tense moments, I'll grab you by your hair or by the back of your neck, and pull you to me. Positioning you just as I want you. To show you who is in control. To have you close enough to finally kiss you ...

In my mind, we were left standing there in his hallway, his hand at the back of my neck, his fingers tangled in my hair. In my mind, we were just close enough that I could feel the warmth and moisture of his breath, but just far enough apart that my lips couldn't find his.

In my mind, we were looking at each other. Staring at each other. Wondering who would move first.

In my mind, I was already lost.

It continued:
"But I won't. I'll make you wait for it. Until your lips become pouty. Until you are asking me for it. And, even then, what I'll allow you to have won't be enough to sate you. It will just enough to make you want more.

"With one hand, I will hold the back of your neck. With the other, I will undress you. Undoing the buttons of your shirt, then pushing it off of your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Unbuckling your belt. Unbuttoning your shorts, and giving them the slightest push so that they join your shirt.

"You'll stand before me undone.

"We'll have not yet moved. Not yet kissed. You won't have touched me and, even if you've tried, I won't let you. Not yet.

"You'll be left in nothing but your bra and panties and shoes and socks. You'll be quivering, but we both know it isn't because you're cold.

"My hand will trail up your back. You will feel the release of your bra. You will feel it loosen and you will shrug your shoulders forward just enough for its straps to slide down your arms. You will catch it in your hands, stopping it from joining the rest of your clothing on my floor.

"Instead, you'll hand it to me. A gift to me. An offering. Symbolic of yourself.

"You're revealed to me.

"Mine."

I'm not his though, my mind tells me. I'm not.

But my body isn't responding that way. No, it's already readied itself for him. It is, in this moment, entirely his. Wantonly his. Eager to do the very things his words are describing. Eager to feel his words made reality.

Summoning my last reserves of resolve, I respond.

I write:
"You know I can't really do this."

Not if I ever wanted to be able to look P.B. in the eyes again. Not if I ever wanted to look at myself in the mirror.

He responded:
"You can. Skip your next class. You know where I am. The door will be unlocked ..."

Confession #31: The one about family drama and unexpected surgeries.

2009-09-06T08:30:00.003-05:00

This isn't the way we're supposed to be spending this weekend.

We were supposed to go have fun at the Renaissance Festival yesterday. Supposed to enjoy large turkey drumsticks and micro brewed beers and people dressed up like knights and Celts and pirates and comedy shows and magic and fire-eating and sword-fighting and jousting and ...

For the most of the afternoon, that's the way it worked. Then my cell phone rang and my father's voice told me that my mother was in the emergency room and that they were getting ready to admit her and that she'd be having surgery.

The debate over what we'd do this weekend, whether we'd go to my brother's barbecue and deal with the potential for drama so that they could finally meet P.B., ended with a phone call.

We left the Festival and hurried back home, packed up a couple changes of clothes, and drove multiple hours, first to pick up my grandmother and then the hospital. Now, we're waiting while the doctors do their thing.

If you're the praying kind, I'd appreciate whatever prayers you can find time to lift up for her ...

Update: After multiple blood tests and CT scans, they determined that she had a kidney that was infected and beginning to fail due to a blockage caused by a large kidney stone. They've inserted stents and have used sound waves to blast the stone down to a size that it should pass now.

They want to continue to monitor her until tomorrow, so they'll be keeping her overnight. But, they're hopeful that the worst part is over.

Update 2: The doctors seem to think that the stone (or, more accurately, the smaller, more easily passed remnants of it) is gone enough that she can go home later today.

They said that the pain of actually passing the stones from kidney to bladder would be similar to childbirth, except without the benefit of a spinal block. On their way out of the bladder, my mother has informed us, that it feels like peeing razor blades.

They'll have her come back in next week to have the stents removed and to check her kidney function to assess how much damage (if any) was done. I think, right now, she's just eager to get home and sleep.

So, we're currently planning on leaving here to start our own drive home in a couple hours after she's officially checked out.

Thank you, everyone, for the prayers and good thoughts and well wishes.

Confession #30: The one about curiosity and penis envy.

2009-09-03T13:08:00.205-05:00

Don't get me wrong: I love my pussy.

I love everything about her and I'm not shy about showing her. I always make sure she's well taken care of. She's always clean and well-groomed; I don't feel like I'm looking my best unless I know she's looking hers. I keep her dressed in only the finest; I'm well aware that it's Victoria's Secret or nothing for her.

I take care of her when she's feeling down; I'm not happy when she's not happy. And, whether it's a shiny new toy or a new playmate or even just a little bit of quality time by ourselves, I know I spoil her rotten. I give her everything she wants.

We're quite close, pussy and me.

We've been practically inseperable our entire lives.

But, even so, there have been times -- more of them, in fact, than I'd ever admit -- when I've had a cock in my hand and watched as it responded to my touch and silently wondered what it would be like to have that instead.

It's something that I've alluded to before, I think: The feeling of power I get when I imagine fucking someone rather than being the one being fucked.

To strap on a synthetic cock is one thing but to wake one morning and slide a hand down there and discover that, rather than my dear friend pussy, I was the proud new owner of a glorious cock would be something altogether different.

I find myself wondering what it would be like to touch it and actually feel my touch in the pleasure centers of my brain.

To run my fingertips along it and, instead of merely watching it spring to life, actually feel it.

To wrap my fingers around it and feel myself enveloped.

To feel it warm in my hand as my blood rushes into it, engorging it.

To lose myself in those first, new sensations as I stroke it.

Freud formulated the idea of penis envy; the psychosexual developmental theory that, about the time we reach puberty, girls discover the differences between themselves and boys and, as a result, we desire a penis and the power it represents.

(It's a horribly flawed, incredibly misogynistic and patriarchal theory; but it has its merits, too.)

I don't know that I'm envious, per se, but I certainly am curious.

Curious to the point of fantasizing about it.

Curious to the point that even my subconscious mind often embraces the fantasy, too, and graces me with my very own cock in my dreams.

And each time, the dream is the same.

I'm with her. That beautiful girl that served me coffee this morning, or the one from the club last week with the tattoo on her hip that peeks out over the top of her jeans as she moves.

It doesn't matter which her, necessarily, as her faces are never ones I recognize.

I've somehow managed, with my wit and charm, to convince her to come back to my place and we're both honest enough to not try to hide what we're there for.

We're kissing.

She can't wait to kiss me. In my hallway, first. Her lips on my lips.

Then, as we start to tug at each other's clothes, we move to the bed. Or the couch. Or just the floor. In truth, anywhere will do at that point.

She's on top of me, straddling my thighs. Grinding herself into my lap. Kissing with intent. Intent for it not to remain simply kissing.

Clothes begin coming off. I tug her shirt up and over her head. She unfastens her own bra and shrugs it off, tossing it aside.

Then, it happens.

She unbuttons and unzips my jeans. Her hand slips inside and my body and my mind expect to feel her fingers touching me; slipping over me and into me. Its the response my mind is trained for. The feeling that I'm accustomed to.

But they don't.

Instead, they wrap around me.

The sensation of it makes my breath catch in my throat. That first feeling of her flesh pressed against my flesh. Gripping it. Grasping it.

She moves herself off of me and takes position between my legs, this girl I barely know. Eagerly grabbing at the waistband of my jeans and tugging them off over my hips, revealing me.

As it springs free, my cock, I'm shocked by it. She's enthralled.

I'm shocked because my brain isn't used to having such an appendage there. It's not what I've known. My body is built, biologically, to take. To receive. To be invaded. To accept.

This new thing between my legs is foreign. It's built to enter. To invade and thrust. And, yet, there is something so vulnerable, so altogether exposed, about having it there. Outside of me.

I can almost argue that my desire to put it inside of her is as much to hide it away, to protect it, as it is to bring my own pleasure. I could almost argue that, but it'd be false.

It's foreign to me, yes, but I find myself eager to see just what exactly it can do. What I can do with it.

I want to feel it fucking her. I want to look down my body and see it and see it sliding into her and out of her. I know, already, that I would be expert with it; after all, I already know what she's feeling. I know where to put my hands and what ways to move it to bring her the most pleasure.

But we're not ready for that.

Not yet.

She, like me, is entranced by its strength and power. If she weren't already there, touching it, trailing her fingers up the underside and around the ridge of its head, watching it twitch in response, I'd be tempted to do so myself.

She smiles up at me and I see a twinkle in her eye but, in truth, I'm not looking at her. I'm too enamoured by this new, unfamiliar pillar of flesh standing between us.

I can't contain myself, moaning aloud as the tip disappears into her mouth. The warmth and moisture of her lips envelops me.

The sensation quickly overwhelms. I warn her that, unfamiliar with these sensations and unable to adequately control my response, I'm about to cum.

She smiles, stopping what she's doing, and says that I can't. Not yet.

She's naked now, having somehow lost the remainder of her clothes while sucking my cock. She stands before me and I admire her body, with its long lines and smooth curves and warm, pink flesh.

I reach for her and find her just as aroused as I am.

Wet for me.

Eager for me.

Wanting me.

She pushes me back on the couch or the bed or the floor and again straddles me. I watch her body hovering over mine. I see her hand slip between us and again grasp me. She steadies me. Positions me.

I watch as I press against her, dividing her, not yet inside of her but so very close.

Instinctively, I rise up against her. My hips press up to find hers. My cock aching to find its way inside. It takes a moment for her body to accept mine; but it does.

Inch by inch, I slide ever-so-slowly inside, enveloped by her body until my cock has disappeared into her completely. Our bodies merging, fully, in a way I've never experienced; at least, not like this ...

I try to watch it, not wanting to miss a moment. I want to see everyting from this new perspective. Sometimes I'm able to; other times the pleasure is so intense that my eyes close involuntarily, bathing my senses in the feeling of me inside her. Enjoined with her. One with her.

She leans forward, resting her hands on my chest, bracing herself against me as we find our rhythm. Her hair brushing against me, back and forth against my face, as our lips meet.

For a few moments, I'm content to enjoy her body. To enjoy the sensations I'm experiencing. The feeling of her gliding up and down on me. Then I allow the urge to fuck her to take over.

After all, I've been with guys who just sit there and enjoy it and, if I'm only getting one shot at this, I don't want it to be as that guy.

I push her off of me, sitting her next to me on the couch. I stand for just a moment before kneeling between her knees, pulling her body to me. Her hips are just off the edge of the couch -- a position I've always been particularly fond of when I was the one on the receiving end -- allowing her freedom of movement.

I take my cock, still slick with her, in my hand and guide it to her. I press forward, gliding back into my place inside of her, merging with her once again.

My pace increases gradually. Each thrust, each successive in-and-out, coming slightly faster than the one previous. One hand braces myself against the couch, the other's thumb is rolling slow circles around her clit.

Her hands are clenching my arms, her nails digging into my skin, leaving tiny crescents in my flesh as I watch her orgasm cascading over her. I know what she feels because I've felt it.

But the sensations of it, the visuals of it, from this new perspective are entirely overwhelming.

I can feel her clenching me, clutching me. And then, finally, I feel my own orgasm. I feel my whole body quake and tremble as my cock grows and throbs and pulsates, leaving my cum deep inside of her.

She smiles as she recovers, kissing me one more time as I struggle to catch my breath. After a few long moments, I withdraw from her, small and soft and spent, and the evidence of my orgasm -- the evidence of my entry and invasion of her, of my taking and thrusting and cumming -- drips from her onto my couch cushions.

The fantasies (and dreams) are so powerful, the images so vivid in my mind, that I'm entirely unable to touch myself while thinking of it else I come too soon.

And after I've envisioned it, even now as I'm writing about it, my body is so responsive that the slightest sensation -- a finger merely trailing along the seam of my jeans -- is enough to push me over the edge.

No, I'd never part with pussy. I wouldn't trade her for anything. But there are times when I am curious ...

... and, given her eager response to my imaginings, I think she is, too.

Given the previous month's worth of confessions were about me, a girl who considers herself "100% straight," enjoying sex and intimacy with another girl, I figured that this was probably as good a time as any to share one my twisted, gender-identity confusal fantasies.

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed getting it all "on paper."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go clean myself up ...

HNT: Lines and Curves and Dots.

2009-09-03T00:01:00.003-05:00

During a particularly boring lecture this week, while staring at my hand-written notes, I began to wax philosophic on this basic element of communication. I wondered at the simplicity of it, the strokes of the pen on a piece of paper. Lines and curves and dots that, when put together in a certain way, become something far more.

Lines and curves and dots that became letters. Letters that became words. Words the would become sentences, then paragraphs; communicating thoughts and feelings and emotions and needs and desires.

It's something universal, transcendent.

Roman letters or Cyrillic. Chinese or Japanese pictographs. Arabic or Hindi. Cave drawings and hieroglyphics and, even, musical scores. Whether we are able, ourselves, to understand the languages or not, the basics of their communication are unchanged; it all comes down to lines and curves and dots.

lines and curves and dots

直線和曲線和點 (Chinese)

الخطوط والمنحنيات والنقاط (Arabic)

लाइनें और वक्र और बिंदु (Hindi)

線と曲線とドット (Japanese)

линий и углов и точек (Russian)

We are trained, from the youngest of ages to see them. To know them. To read them and interpret them. To understand the meanings implicit within them. Until we've internalized them, and until understanding the meaning implicit within them is second nature. Until, eventually, we only see the meaning and no longer really see the lines and curves and dots anymore at all.

Leaving me to wonder, while sitting bored in a lecture hall, what meaning you see within my lines and curves and dots ...

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!

TMI Tuesday #202 - Location, Location, Location.

2009-09-01T09:00:00.001-05:00

1. If you could have monumental sex where would it be (i.e. on Lincoln's lap, the stairwell of the Statute of Liberty)?
I think that, if I had to pick a single monument anywhere in the world, it would have to be at the top of the Eiffel Tower at night with the lights of Paris all around us.

If it were here in America, I think I'd go a bit simpler and go with Four Corners monument, just so that I could say that I attained the unique distinction of having had sex in four different states -- Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona -- simultaneously.

2. Have you ever "played" with your food (i.e. a blowjob under booth #9 at Denny's, finger banging by candlelight at Spago)?
Oh, yes. Several times.

If you're a regular reader, you already know about an adventure that Mollie and I had at a local steakhouse, and I had a similar, but far less discreet adventure with a boyfriend in high school in a booth at a local taco shack.

3. Have you ever had sex in motion (i.e. the lavatory on Virgin Air, the back seat of your Chevy Suburban)?
Alrighty, so I guess we're just laying it all out there on the table today, huh?

Yes. In the back seat of a church van (under a blanket, in the dark), I gave oral on the way back from a church retreat. That probably could have been a Confession on it's own, but now that I've mentioned it here, I'll probably just leave it alone.

4. Have you ever had sex worthy of a confessional (i.e. a stall in the church bathroom, on the desk in your boss's office)?
I think that all of my sex is worthy of a confessional; thus, this blog.

5. Have you ever had sex under the stars (i.e. in the alley behind Scores Gentleman's Club, the roof of your South Beach condo)?
I have, yes. I can't even begin to count how many times or how many locations; at least not until after I've had a lot more coffee than what I've had this morning.

Bonus: What's your favorite place (of all places) to have sex (i.e. The Bunny Ranch, Las Vegas)?
You know, I've never been to the Bunny Ranch (but I guess it looks interesting). I know this is going to be terribly vanilla of me, but I'm going to say that I'm happiest just having sex in a bed. His or mine.

Sex in all of those other places is great every once in a while and I'm certainly willing to give anything a try once, but I'm perfectly fine with just being comfortable in a place that I feel most secure.

Confession #29: The one about the power of memories.

2009-08-31T13:25:00.278-05:00

The computer screen glowed in front of me.

It had been a long day at work; retail after Thanksgiving is never a pleasant experience, particularly if you're one of the ones actually dealing with the incessant rush of customers.

But the work day was over. I needed refreshment. I needed rest. I needed some sort of relief from the stress that seemed to ooze out of my every pore.

A glass of wine. A long hot bath. A new book. Perhaps some "alone time" with one of my favorite toys.

While I waited for the tub to fill, I stripped off my clothes and sat in my chair in front of my computer.

Looking at photos of men and women that had accumulated in my Google Reader account. Some erotic, others explicitly pornographic. I quickly scrolled through them, stopping only long enough to appreciate a few.

An email from Mollie waited for me in my inbox, telling me about her holiday with her family and joking about how her tongue still ached from our adventures together a few days before made me smile, thinking of her and I here in this room.

I typed my response, pressing the keys that would translate into words and then holding down the Backspace key and erasing them all. Over and over. A few simple sentences that I was frustrating myself with my inability to write. Wanting to say so much but unable to find the appropriate words.

As I read back over the lines of text, I felt a touch. As light and gentle as a breath brushing against the skin of my breast. The sensation was not intimidating or disturbing, except in its intimacy.

I was puzzled by the sensation. Motionless, I sat. Unsure of what I'd felt. Waiting to see if it'd happen again.

And, again, I felt it. Just the whisper of a touch; as if a whisp of hair had trailed its way across my breast and bare nipple.

I looked down at my breast, but found no reason for the sensation. My hair was too short to reach it. There was no spider (thank God) crawling across my skin. It was as though my body was simply remembering her touch.

I realized that the tub was likely full by now and I again deleted the lines of text I'd written, convinced I was going to be unable to satisfactorily express myself right then and content to try again later.

I picked up my glass of wine and walked across the hall into the bathroom.

I grabbed a scrunchie from near the sink and pulled my hair up into a high ponytail to keep it from getting wet in the bath and, after, it felt as though someone were sliding their fingers up my neck and then through my hair.

I love that sensation, it makes me melt every time.

I didn't realize I was feeling it, though, until I found myself reacting to it. My head rolling forward and then to the side, as if seeking out fingers that weren't there.

The bath was hot. That perfect temperature that penetrates muscles, melting your cares and stress and relaxing every part of your body. I sat there for a long while, drinking my wine slowly. My book lay beside the tub, unopened. I laid back, relaxed.

My thoughts drifted to her. Hazy visions of her body, distinct in its curvature. Her eyes. Her lips. Her smile.

Eventually, long after my thoughts had grown suggestive, I climbed out of the water. The warmth of the water remained with me, even as the cool air met my naked skin. My pajamas lay folded, just where I'd left them but I chose to simply carry them back to my room rather than wear them.

There was something about the exposure of my skin to the slightly cool air. It made me feel vulnerable and open. Naked. Just as I'd felt with Mollie and, in that moment, I wasn't ready to give that up.

My bare skin felt as if it were and invitation. Open to be touched. The entire length of me -- face and lips, breasts, back and hips, between my legs and down my thighs, legs to my feet -- exposed and available. Asking for the memory of her, that faint whisper of a touch my mind was convinced it had felt, to return again to me.

I sat on my bed, leaning back into my pillows. In the dull light of the room, I tried to remember her here. See her in this same place. Laying here, after we'd just had sex, masturbating for me. Remember what it was like as I watched her. What I felt within myself as her fingers danced over her own skin.

My arms spread slightly apart from my body, resting on top of the sheets; my legs were stretched in front of me, slightly spread.

After a moment I felt the most unusual and erotic sensation of my nipples growing hard, without anything or anyone touching them. Nothing was there, but I could feel the nipples growing more sensitive. If I concentrated hard enough, I was almost certain that I could actually feel moist caresses around the areola and spreading across my breasts.

My breath sucked in involuntarily, and was exhaled as a sigh.

As the sensations became more distinct, my breathing quickened. My nipples were rock hard now, and it was as if I could actually feel her touching me.

Her fingers stroking the sides of my breasts and up the inside of my arms.

The room went murky as my eyes glazed over, closing as I concentrated on the light touch that was tracing my most sensitive areas.

I gently and instinctively began rhythmically moving my hips, as if I were already anticipating that some sort of penetration that would come.

Something that felt like arms wrapped under me, beneath my thighs, and, as my back sank back down into the bed and I thrust my hips up to meet them, the tingle of gentle lips and a firm, moist tongue probed between my legs.

My knees drew up automatically, spreading further, though I knew she did not need me to expose myself in this way because she wasn't really there; it was only the memory of her that was with me, alone in my room.

Her presence with me was tangible. Though I wasn't touching her, though all I had with me was a memory, I could feel it. I could feel her. Her personality. Her physical shape. Her state of mind.

Her soft touch ran along the inside of my thighs and down to the folds between them, and then spreading my flesh gently, entered me. Her fingers weren't there, but I still felt them.

The entry caused a shiver in my body, and another moan from deep inside my chest. I was soaking wet with my arousal, though she did not now need this lubrication.

Her penetration was smooth, deep, and quickly created the sensation of invading not only the cavity of my vagina, but it was as if she was inside my very being. As if she were soaking into me from the inside.

My hips moved involuntarily, my hands gripping the sheets. When my eyes finally opened again, I could almost see her there, between my legs.

Intangible lips against my flesh. Ethereal hands stimulating me. The memory of her presence, of her touch, causing an orgasm to build that I could feel throughout my entire lower body.

When climax finally came, in that moment when my fingers replaced the memory of her mouth, my whole body shuddered. I'm certain I cried out, unable to hold the expression of my ecstasy inside.

Finally she let me go, the climax subsided and, as I lay there recovering, I cried. The intensity of the release, the incredible intimacy we had achieved together, the memory of her touch, the ache I felt in my entire being with her once again gone all came together and I sobbed.

My hand, not hers, wiped the tears from my cheeks. I ached for her lips, not just the memory of them, to touch mine. Her kiss always felt so natural, so soft, so right. I wanted to reach out my arms and find her there, to be able to surround her in me, to just hold her.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing more tears to trickle down the side of my face.

She was gone, though, and the memories were all that I had.

The memory of the softness of her touch. The memory of the tenderness of her kiss. The memory of her knowing my body as well as I do. The memory of a passion that matches my own.

The memory of being with a complimentary soul. Of someone who understands me and combines with me completely. Of the union that we share.

Life continued and continues.

Relationships have formed and passed.

And through it all, despite the distance between us, she is here, with me, reminding me of what we've shared and that we'll always be a part of each other.

Snippets: Last night.

2009-08-31T10:04:00.000-05:00

When he walked into the room, I wore nothing but a towel. He showed his appreciation with his lips on my shoulders and his hands searching me out. I'd kept him waiting all day.

"My show starts in 11 minutes. Can you be done that fast?"

"I can, yes. Can you?"

"Let's find out."

* * * * *

"Turn around," he said, as I leaned against the bathroom sink. "I want you to watch yourself while I'm fucking you."

* * * * *

I was laying on the side of the bed. My ankles were on his shoulders, my knees splaid so that he could look down between us and watch my fingers rubbing slow circles around my clit just inches from where our bodies were merging ...

* * * * *

His tongue pressed into me, tasting the blend of our lust. Mine rising and his own just completed. The flat of his tongue grazed my flesh, replaced a moment later by the tip.

I felt the heat welling within me. I clutch for anything I could find -- the sheets, his hair, the footboard of the bed -- as my body begins to tremble ...

Confession #28: The one about the day after the day before.

2009-08-28T16:04:00.000-05:00

I couldn't remember quite how I'd gotten back here. I was groggy enough that it took me a moment to realize that I was actually in my own bed.

I was waking up slowly between my soft sheets. The sun was already pouring in through the cracks in the blinds, too bright for the pain in my head. I could hear that my television was on.

After dinner, we hadn't come straight home.

Mollie had already spent most of the day in the little apartment I share with a roommate and a cat. She had wanted to meet my friends and see my world. And despite many of my friends being gone or, by then, having other plans, I did what I could to make that happen.

So we drove to one of the nicer bars in town. Close to campus, it tends to be full of students most every night. With many of the students gone, it was still busy even if it weren't as full as usual.

We'd gotten drinks, and we'd danced. We'd danced with each other. We'd danced with cute boys. We'd danced with each other with cute boys.

The rest of the night, though, was like a blurry picture; clouded by an alcoholic haze.

I was only hoping, in that moment, that I hadn't made an ass of myself.

That hope dwindled when I moved my hand down over my body. My breasts were bare beneath the sheets and blankets. That wasn't a good sign. Had I put myself to bed, I'd have been at least partially clothed. Even at my drunkest, it was too cold outside not to be wearing something.

Farther south, I discovered that I was still sensitive and still sore.

Nothing shakes you from the groggy haze that follows a night out drinking like waking up to realize that you have, apparently, had sex that you can't remember.

Except, you know, realizing that your partner from the night before is still in bed with you and that you're not entirely sure who it is.

Looking back, the situation is somewhat comical.

I was busily cursing myself while desperately trying to recall if I had, indeed, actually brought the boy who I'd danced with home.

He was cute, yes, with his odd combination of dark hair and blue eyes. Or, at least I thought that I remembered that he was cute. And that his eyes were blue.

I remembered, I thought, that he'd given me his number which, in most cases, means that was the end of our interactions that night. I mean, normally, you don't say, "What's your number? I'll call you." unless you're not planning on seeing the person any more that night and are, you know, wanting to call them to continue pursuing things later.

But then, I thought, I remembered him and a friend of his, who may or may not have been the guy that Mollie had been dancing with, talking with us at our table after I'd gotten his number. Which would mean that there was some interaction later.

Wasn't there?

It was possible, I guessed, that I was just jumbling the timeline in my head. And, I was reasonably certain that, had Mollie not been there, I would've been open to the idea of bringing him home with me. Which meant that, with both of us drinking and not exactly using our best judgment, I couldn't entirely preclude the possibility that, even with Mollie there, I brought a boy home.

Which would make me the biggest ass and worst lesbian girlfriend ever.

I was close enough to the edge of the bed that I could escape, though. Get up, strategically grab some of my previously discarded clothing and get to the bathroom. Steal a quick glance along the way to see who was in my bed with me.

I tried to scan the floor for my shirt. Or my panties. Anything. Nothing was in sight. I might've cursed. (I remember thinking a swear word or five, I'm just not sure if any of them actually escaped my lips.)

So, I tried to slip out of bed without rousing whomever it was sleeping next to me.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," the voice behind me said. I jumped, so startled I nearly fell out of bed and, that time, I did curse.

She laughed. I laughed, too, before sitting back down on the edge of the bed, facing her, one leg curled up beneath me.

"How long have you been up?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "An hour or so, I guess. My parents called my cell to tell me they were on their way. There's coffee ready if you want some."

Her parents were on their way. Which meant our time was almost up. Which meant that we'd have to say good-bye soon. I hated good-byes.

I could feel tears already welling up as she tucked a long, wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Stop," she said. "Don't you do it."

I laughed at her. At her insistence that I not cry, as though I could just not miss her or that somehow just say good-bye and not feel it. "I'm not trying to," I said. "It just happens."

She slid her hand across the bed and onto mine, taking my hand in hers and pulling me toward herself, back down onto the bed with her, and into a hug. "I'm not going to be gone," she said, softly. "I'm just not going to be here."

She wiped the moisture of a tear from my cheek with her thumb and we sat there for a few long moments just staring at each other. Her hand rested on the small of my back. Our legs had interlaced. I could feel the softness of her breasts against my own.

"Stop that, too."

"What?" I asked.

"Trying to get me to kiss you."

I couldn't help but smile again. "If I wanted you to kiss me, I'd kiss you."

We went back and forth like that, teasing one another. Making one another laugh. Appreciating each other and this wonderful thing that we'd found together that was so much deeper than mere friendship and how easily and how comfortably we could fall back into it, as though we'd never spent a day apart.

Her fingers trailed up my sides. Mine traced along the curves of her breasts. Everything about her touch, and about touching her, felt so sensual. So open.

I had permitted her to explore everything about me. Not just physically, but emotionally. I had given myself to her to do with as she wanted, trusting her completely with every aspect of myself.

Her fingers found my nipples, feeling around each. She touched my lips, tracing their outline. She touched my sides, her fingertips moving up and down over the hills and valleys of my ribs and my waist and my hips.

She slid between my legs, her fingers spreading to explore between the folds of my flesh.

I was so focused on her fingertips that it took me a few moments to realize that we were kissing. And that my fingertips were exploring her, too.

Everything about it was soft and slow and tender. It was as though our sharing simply extended, simply flowed, from her to me and from me back to her. Our bodies were pressed into one another; our hands reaching to touch the other and caught in the crush of our hips.

My body was hers. Her body was mine. For the second time in as many days, we orgasmed simultaneously. A long, slow, warm, soft climax that seemed to last a few minor eternities.

My face buried in the crook of her neck, I realized that tears had come to my eyes as the glow began to subside. The wetness of my body on her fingers, the wetness of my tears on her shoulder combining to form the perfect expression of my feelings.

And as we laid there, her holding me and me holding her, I realized that she had cried, too.

Thing I just don't get #1: Japanese Torture Porn.

2009-08-28T09:49:00.001-05:00

I've made no secret about the fact that I'm something of a connoisseur of interesting pornography.

I have several Tumblr sites that I've subscribed to in my Google Reader that provide me, each day, with a new selection of erotic photos to enjoy at my leisure.

I tend to gravitate toward black and white photography (the kind that I tend to repost here within my stories). I tend to find most appealing the photos that seem to tell a story of their own, that appeal to my imagination rather than just my sex drive.

Recently, after seeing a few pictures -- all of them particularly subtle or interesting -- referenced or reposted elsewhere, I added a new site to my subscriptions.

It is in Japanese. I don't understand Japanese.

The language, I mean. I don't know what the words under the photos are. I don't know if they're making comments about what they've posted or if they're saying something about the models in the photos or if they're simply saying where they'd found the pictures originally.

Because, as I've said, I don't understand Japanese.

However, after having been subscribed to this photo feed for a few days, I have discovered that they (or, at the very least, the person maintaining this particular photo feed) are very serious and very diverse in their tastes in pornography.

There have been the usual photos that you'd expect to see. The erotic and artistic ones in black and white that first drew me to their feed.

But, there are others, too.

There are lots and lots of photos posted of girls in what one might think of as traditional Japanese schoolgirl outfits. Fair enough. I've been around long enough to understand the appeal of wanting to be with a younger women. So, that's fine. There are more photos in that category than I care to see, but I can easily scroll past them.

(Not girls, mind you. Young women.)

There seems to be a subcategory of girls in swimsuits. Not bikinis. Swimsuits. The kind like you'd see on an olympic swimmer that cover everything. These pictures also tend to have the girl spraying herself down with water; so, I'm guessing that swimsuit porn is only determind to be good if the swimsuit is wet.

There is a bondage category there, too. And, not that I enjoy bondage photography (because, honestly, it's not really my thing), but I've noticed that they tend to be more intricate in their ropework. It's not simply hooking a rope to some piercing and pulling, as so much American fetish photography seems to tend toward; it's intricate, carefully planned loops and knots and putting the person involved in a position that leaves them vulnerable and exposed. It's truly artistic, in a very weird and shocking sort of way.

There are, of course, a lot of animated images, too. Most of these images are pretty much what are seen in the categories above -- schoolgirls and bondage and such -- except that the women are impossibly proportioned and perfect looking.

And, then there's what came across my feed this morning ...

(I've kept these photos small here so that you can get the general idea without seeing all of the detail. If you click on any of these photos to enlarge them, please be aware that these images are particularly disturbing and graphic. You've been warned.)

Now, I realize that there are some things that other people are in to that will just never appeal to me. There's no way, for example, that anyone will ever convince me that urinating on them (or having them urinate on me) during sex is a fun idea.

I get that.

I don't get how anyone, though, would find that sort of thing appealing. To me, it seems as though the only audience it would appeal to are those that should be in shackles and muzzled alongside Hannibal Lecter.

I will readily admit that I'm biased likely somewhat biased, seeing myself far more likely to be the woman who wakes up dismembered than ever in the role of the one with the scalpel.

Yes, I know that the stuff that came across my feed this morning is just animated. It isn't as if there's a real, living model that went into a photoshoot, and woke up chained to a wall and missing three of four of her limbs.

But the fact remains that, regardless of how disturbing I find them, these are images that are posted right alongside the girls in blue skirts and white panties and the intricate, artistic knotwork as though this sort of fascination, this desire to mutilate women, is every bit as normal and acceptable as the desire to see up their skirts.

And I think I find that even more disturbing than the images themselves.

Confession #27: The one about dinner flirtations and public displays of affection.

2009-08-27T16:54:00.000-05:00

The restaurant that we decided on was comfortable; a local microbrewery famous for its barbecue ribs and steaks. Dimly lit. Quiet enough that we could talk, but busy enough that we wouldn't be noticed.

On the drive over, we'd talked a bit about possibly going out after dinner with some of my friends, people that I'd mentioned in emails that I'd wanted to introduce her to, if only so that she could associate faces with the names she read.

I remember thinking, as she walked up the steps in front of me, how sexy she looked. She was wearing dark jeans and, under her quilted coat, a nice knit top that was reasonably discreet, but hugged her in just the right places to show off her figure. And her hair ... she always managed to wear it in a way that framed her face so perfectly, always looking just mussed enough to seem casual, but still looked elegant.

As we sat in the waiting area as they cleared a table for us she kept smiling at me. Smiling like she knew a secret about me, or like I knew one about her. I found myself grinning in return, unable to help myself.

She leaned over to say something to me, but did it in a way that made me think she was going to kiss me. Right there, in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I didn't want her to kiss me there, to announce the intimate depths of our relationship so publicly. But, as unsettling as that feeling was, I found myself even more unsettled by the disappointment I felt when she actually spoke, rather than pressing her lips into mine.

She smiled again, knowing the reaction she'd inadvertantly caused. Knowing what she'd just done to me. I felt the heat of my blushing spread across my face as the hostess, holding our menus, interrupted our little moment.

Have you ever felt that? That feeling of skin brushing yours when you know it wasn't an accident, but are helpless to do anything about it? That energy that takes you and swirls you around and sparks something inside you, making you burn? Making you willing to do almost anything to release it?

I was flustered. I was blushing. We got to our table and sat down --opting to share a single bench seat in the booth so that we could talk quietly with each other if necessary -- before going about all of the normal pre-dinner activities; unrolling napkins and putting them in your lap, checking the drink and dessert menus.

There was a group of four in front of us, our view to them mostly obscured by the back of the seat opposite ours. Across from us were a couple, on a date or celebrating an anniversary or somesuch, though there were several times that I thought that the woman looked terribly bored by his company. I couldn't really tell who was behind us, apart from hearing ocassional laughter.

She touched my hand, asking if she'd embarrassed me earlier. She said she hadn't meant to, as she looked back at her menu. She said that she really was just intending to say something but then, as she got closer, there was sort of a natural instinct and she caught herself midway there. It wasn't something she'd planned, really. Just that I was there and she forgot herself and where we were and ...

She stopped and looked up.

I hadn't realized it then, but I must have been smiling because, the moment she looked up, she smiled, too. I touched her hand, my fingers running right between the slight undulations of her knuckles.

There was no need for apology or explanation. I thought, with that, it would be over.

We ordered dinner; salads and chicken (yes, at a place famous for it's barbecue and steak) and bread and cheese. We ordered a sampling of their beers, just to say that we'd tried them all.

The more time that we spent together, the more comfortably we touched. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was just that we had both so enjoyed the "re-connecting" that we'd done earlier that we wanted more. Or, perhaps I was just overly conscious of her touching me.

The more we touched, the more natural it felt to do so and, eventually, between us and out of view of everyone else, my hand found hers and our fingers wrapped together; that is, until the waiter returned and we quickly tried to make it look like we'd been doing anything but holding hands.

She leaned over to say something to me about him as he left and my hand rested, for just that moment, on her thigh.

I have always loved her thighs, particularly when they are wrapped around me in some manner. Intertwined with my own thighs. Encircling my hips or stomach as we kissed. Or, even, when they were squeezing against the sides of my face ...

I was only slightly embarrassed by the thoughts I was having. She and I both realized how long my hand had rested there, feeling the well-worn, soft denim and the warmth of her skin beneath it.

I expected her to move my hand, but she didn't. I decided to press the line a little farther back, to see how much she would allow me to do in this semi-public place, and my hand slipped down to her inner thigh. Still nothing.

My hand stayed there, tucked between her thighs. Pressing slightly. Squeezing slightly.

I knew the desire that could come from having a lover's hand close, but separated from me. I could feel a moist warmth developing, not only beneath the fabric of her jeans but also inside my own.

Her refusal to stop me was almost as though she'd dared me to continue and I, in continuing to push the line farther and farther, was daring her to stop me. And I am competitive enough that I was determined not to lose.

I felt a slight shudder as the back of my hand slid up over her zipper, under her shirt and over the soft, warm skin of her stomach before my fingers, finally, tucked into the top of her pants. But, still, she didn't stop me.

There, I could feel nothing but the flat bareness of her stomach. I had to be lower. I pushed hard, my fingers seeking that place where her flesh would fold, for that slit that I could spread, for any hint of wetness.

But, her jeans were simply too tight. She leaned forward a bit, resting her elbow on the table and her head on her palm and smirked at me. She was well aware of this little game we were playing.

She'd thought she'd won.

I conceded the ground I'd gained and pulled my fingers out of her jeans and her smile broadened. Until I undid her button. And then I tried again.

Her zipper gave way, easing downward as my hand forced itself inside her jeans with a slow, methodical preciseness. Another inch down, pulling her skin under my fingertips. Then another inch. And then, all at once, I could feel where her flesh separated into the beginning of a warm (and very wet) canyon.

The moment my fingers found that soft, wet flesh, her lips parted and her eyes closed involuntarily. I giggled.

She cleared her throat and asked if I was cold. I wasn't. "I am," she said. "Can you hand me my coat?"

I smiled as I handed it to her and she spread it over her stomach and lap. I'd won.

Her hips slid forward on the seat ever so slightly as she leaned back. Her thighs were tense. She was leaning against me, her breast pressed up against my arm.

I moved slowly. I didn't want the movement to be noticable under her coat. My fingers, though, were still pulling and pressing and probing, feeling the way her flesh responded to my touch.

She was trying to be careful, too, I could tell. I knew her well enough that I knew that her instinct was to spread her legs farther, to move her hips to match my movement, to press against me. But, she didn't. Instead, her feet were pressing against the bench in front of us. I could feel the muscles in her thighs tense as she pushed.

My middle finger, all at once, entered and slid and plunged into her. She let out a soft, whimpering "ungh." It was the first sexual sound she'd made in our little game, but it was enough to bring me suddenly back to where we were.

In a restaurant. With a couple across the aisle from us, and others nearby. It was night and the restaurant was only dimly lit anyway and we had a coat over her lap, but was that enough? If someone walked down the aisle next to us, would they see what we were doing? Would we be better off going to the restroom to finish this, or would that be more well lit? And, if anyone else came it there, it would be pretty hard to adequately explain why we were in that stall together ...

In defense of my lack of judgment, I was probably almost as aroused as she was and that was having more than a little influence on how clearly I was thinking. I knew we shouldn't be doing what we were doing but, in some odd way, that only added to the excitement of it.

As all of this was going through my head, her breathing was getting faster. She was doing a remarkable job of keeping silent, I thought to myself. I wondered, as I went from one finger to two, if I would've done as well were our places switched.

Under the coat, her hand joined mine. Pressing against mine through the denim and cotton. Pressing my fingers in harder. Urging it on. Her other hand found my thigh. Held it. Gripped it.

I remember thinking, when I knew she was going to come, that I hoped that she didn't make noise.

I looked at the coat, observing the small movements that belied what was going on beneath. And I looked at her face. The look of concentration and, at just that moment, felt the shiver and the tensing, the slight shaking and then relaxation of her thighs.

She turned her face up to mine and kissed me, hard and deep. If it was either that or scream in the restaurant, I much preferred the kiss.

I left my hand there, inside of her jeans and inside of her body, until I knew her climax had faded. Almost as quickly as I had withdrawn it, her hands went to work beneath her coat, buttoning and zipping her jeans.

"Are you ladies doing okay?" the waiter asked.

She blushed. "We're good," I said. She nodded. I thought, immediately, that he'd known what we were doing and that he was going to ask us to leave. I was only half right.

"Okay," he said as he left us with the leather folder with our bill, "I hope you ladies have a great rest of your night."

"Thanks," Mollie finally mustered, "We will. You, too."

As I looked at her, I noticed that she had the slightest sheen of sweat on her face. She may not have been moving under that coat, but she'd certainly been working.

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't impressed with myself. Not only had I just given her an incredible orgasm, but I'd just done it in a restaurant. With people around. Without drawing attention to ourselves.

We argued over whether or not she would pay before I convinced her to just split it with me.

As we stood up and collected our things, I glanced for the briefest of moments at the couple that had been sitting across from us. The girl caught my eye, just for a moment, and grinned at me in a wistful and very knowing way. And as Mollie's arm linked with mine and we started to leave, I found myself smiling back.

TMI Tuesday #201

2009-08-25T09:20:00.000-05:00

I've just got a few minutes before I have to run out the door to class, but I've got time to get a few quick answers up.

1. Do you have "your" side of the bed? Which side?
I do. Typically, sleeping near the door makes me nervous; I'm extraordinarily paranoid about home invasions by strangers (... and zombies, but that's a story for another day) so I tend to sleep on the side farthest from the door.

In PB's bed, that equates to the right side. In reality, though, even when I fall asleep on the right, I wind up in the middle and he winds up clinging to the mattress on his side to keep from falling out of the bed.

2. How old is your pillow and what condition is it in?
I've got a pile of pillows, but the one that I've had the longest has been with me since junior high school and is flat in the shape of my shoulders and head.

I tend to sleep with it on top of some other pillow(s) because it's too flat to be comfortable on it's own anymore.

3. What is your favorite position to sleep in?
My favorite? Nuzzled against someone, my head resting on his shoulder, right where his arm becomes chest, with my arm draped across him.

I like to fall asleep that way, at least, but then I tend to wake up having turned back over on my other side, facing away from him and curled up in to a fetal position with one arm under my head and pillow and my knees pulled up toward my chest.

I'm sure there's something there for an amateur psychoanalyst to delve into, but I'm not sure I really care to explore it too deeply.

4. How often do you change your sheets?
Once a week, on either Friday afternoons or Saturday mornings typically (that's when I tend to do laundry) ...

... you know, unless they get particularly messy before then.

5. What helps you fall asleep when insomnia strikes?
Benadryl knocks me on my butt. Warm laundry, fresh from the dryer, piled on top of me works, too. Sometimes if I can't sleep, I just read until I can't keep my eyes open anymore.

6. Does sex make you sleepy or energized?
Honestly, it just depends.

7. What is the minimum amount of sleep that you need to be functional the next day.
To be functional? I can get by on about three hours if I know I've got time for a nap later in the day. I'm best, though, if I get about six to seven hours.

Bonus (as in optional):Describe your most vivid dream.
That's actually going to be a Confession that you'll have to wait until next week for. I've already got it drafted because I've had that particular dream a few times this past month and it's really good (for me, anyway -- you'll all probably just think it's weird and kinky).

So, check back a week from Thursday ...

Emma the Dominatrix.

2009-08-24T14:04:00.000-05:00

I've always considered myself submissive. Not just sexually, but as a general personality trait. I tend to respond to what those around me want me to do; I don't have a problem with subverting my desires to please someone else.

Yesterday, I was showering with my beau. "You finish first today," I said, long before the topic of shower sex had ever even arisen.

We tend to argue over who gets to come first, so telling him up front that it was going to be him was something of an agressive move, I suppose, but I didn't consider it anything more than calling shotgun on a road trip at the time.

After I asked if he wanted me to wash him. After he enthusiastically said yes, I turned him so that he was facing the showerhead and I was behind him, my stomach to his back.

I washed his chest and his shoulders, his arms and his back, his butt and then his cock. He was hard already, and the feeling of my soap-slicked hands over his skin made him gasp. So, I decided to forego washing his legs to focus, instead, on his pleasure.

He reached behind himself to find me, his hand going immediately to my pussy. At first, I didn't stop him. I just enjoyed the sensation of his fingers and his touch.

His eyes closed and leaning back against me, he remarked something about how that must be what a threesome would be like; being able to feel a pussy behind him while, at the same time, feeling like he was fucking someone in front of him.

But, when it became clear that he was trying to make me come, I used the hand that wasn't stroking his cock to put both of his hands, one at a time, on the wall of the shower in front of him.

I was almost continuously altering my technique, listening to his responses. I'd kiss his neck and his shoulders while holding one arm across his chest, pulling him tight to me. I'd use both hands to stroke him. Then one to stroke him while I would gently grasp and clutch and pull at his scrotum.

His hands dropped from the wall to find me again and I stopped to put them both back, biting his ear lobe and saying through clenched teeth, "If you move them again, we're done playing tonight."

It wasn't meant to be dominating, really. It was more out of frustration that he wasn't playing by the rules that we'd established that he was going to cum first. But, that isn't how he took it.

"I never knew you were a dominatrix," he said.

"Do you want me to stop?" I asked.

"No," he said. "Actually, I kind of like it."

"Then," I said, slipping into the role easier than I thought I would, "Shut up and put your hands back on that wall."

I re-soaped my hands and went back to work on him. Having the sudden urge to do something kinky (I was, after all, his dominatrix now), I slid my fingers between between his buttocks.

"What are you ..."

"I think I told you to shut up," I said, firmly clenching his cock, my grip just hard enough to border on painful.

When I was sure he wouldn't keep talking, I continued; one had stroking him while, with the other, I pushed my middle finger into him. "You liked playing with my ass," I said. "I'm just seeing what it is you find so fascinating about it."

His legs shook a little as my finger sunk fully inside.

Then, when I could tell he was relaxed enough, I went for a second.

"See," I said, "This is what a threesome would be like."

His ass was clenching around my fingers, and I commented on it. "I can't help it," he said.

"Good," I said. "That must mean I'm doing it right."

He was unable to keep his legs from shaking at that point. He took one hand off of the wall to reach for me again. I said, "If you touch me before you cum, it will be the last time you touch me tonight. I'll find some other way to make myself come and you'll just have to watch. Now put your hand back on that wall."

He did.

"Good boy," I said.

His head fell forward, resting on one of his forearms. I could tell from his ragged breathing that he was getting close. "I'm going to count to five," I said. "If you cum before I get there, I'll let you make me come with your mouth. Five ..."

He groaned.

"You want to taste me, don't you? Four ..."

His hips bucked into my hand. His ass clenched tight around my fingers.

"You want me to let you lick me, huh?"

His cock swelled and his body shook and he came before I ever said 'Three.'

I've never considered myself anything but submissive, but I have to admit that it was a lot of fun to put on the aggressor hat for a night. To take control. To be the dominatrix.

And based on his response to it, it seems like we've added something else to the list of things we might have to explore more when the mood strikes ...

Confession #26: The one about drying off.

2009-08-20T16:04:00.000-05:00

We were getting pruny.

We were clean, of course, having washed each other's bodies at least twice in an effort to make sure that not an inch of skin anywhere was missed.

But now the water was getting cold.

I got out first; because her hair was longer, she wanted to make sure that she'd gotten all of the conditioner rinsed out. I grabbed one of the white bath towels and began drying off, starting with my hair and then moving down my body.

After hearing the water shut off, I caught her glancing over at me. Watching as I wiped the water away. I playfully stuck my tongue out at her, and she giggled.

I loved her giggle.

As she stepped out of the shower, I held the towel open for her. My towels, you see, are more like bath sheets; extra large and soft, as there are some comforts your simply shouldn't skimp on. She approached with a smile and I wrapped it around both of us.

Our bodies pressed together once again for what was, I'm sure, at least the hundredth time that day. As my arms wrapped the towel around both of us, she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me slightly, playfully. My lips touched hers. And then, when she knew she had my interest and I moved in and pressed the kiss, she'd pull back, leaving me to chase her.

We went back and forth, just kissing, playing with each others lips as only two girls can do.

We ended up laughing so hard we had to separate and dry off on our own. I accused me of getting her wet again. She playfully accused me of seducing her.

This playing, this bonding together, was amazing. We would go back an forth, eliciting laughs and giggles until, wrapped in our towels, we scampered back across the hallway to my room.

I plopped down on the bed, mostly naked, feeling as comfortable and happy as I had in ages. We talked about where we would go for dinner, but only briefly, for during the conversation she, too, had sat down on the bed, facing me.

We managed to arrange ourselves, facing each other, in such a manner that each of us had one leg over one of the other's. Our faces and bodies were close, but not touching except our legs.

We talked more -- talked, giggled, shared, laughed -- but, as we did, she played with my wet hair, still dark and still sticking to my shoulders. Then she touched my face, looking for and counting every freckle.

Her hands eventually trailed down my neck, and over to my breasts. At points we stopped talking to simply look at each other, admire each other, appreciate each other.

We began kissing.

"I thought we were supposed to be getting food," I said even as we scooted our bodies closer, and our breasts touched.

"We are," she said. "Let's go."

But her lips were still on mine. I knew that I couldn't resist her kiss, I had missed it too long that now that it was here again, I wanted to have and keep every one she offered. And, I had a sense that she couldn't resist mine.

We'd gotten so close together that our stomachs touched. We pressed closer, scooted closer, until the softness between our legs touched.

You've seen it, I'm sure; "scissoring." I never knew what it was and, in all of our times together, had never thought to even try it until right then.

The arousal built slowly, with slow, persistent movements. We were still sitting, facing each other and kissing passionately, but she would shift her hips ever so slightly, her body grinding against mine. Each movement caused my whole body to tremble and quiver, making her smile.

Her hands never touched me. The whole time, they remained crossed behind my neck as we kissed. And, I was sore enough at that point that I'm not sure I could've stood to be touched anyway.

But even with only the pressure of our hips pressing against each other, I felt a climax coming. Slowly welling up and surrounding me. Its warmth engulfing me.

I came, shuddering while she pressed against me.

She knew, even without using her hands, how to touch me just right and make me come.

After the warmth and glow began to recede, she smiled. "Now let's go get some dinner."

"But, you didn't come, did you?" I asked. I have always found it hard to just let it go when my partner doesn't climax; it's as though it's an incomplete act without it, whether I manage to come or not.

She looked at me and smiled and told me that I'd already made her come more times that day than she had with any other person ever and that just seeing me come and feeling it happen as her body pressed against mine was enough for her.

"Besides," she said, still smiling as she got up from the bed and unzipped her travel bag to find her lotion. "I'm hungry ... and I'm sure I'll get to come again later."

Confession #25: The one about the shower.

2009-08-20T12:16:00.002-05:00

We had been laying in bed together, naked, for most of the day.

We had talked of getting up, of going to get something to eat, of spending time elsewhere, doing something other than this. But we hadn't yet had the willpower to tear ourselves away from each other.

Part of that was because of the chill in the air. The radiator by the window did it's best to warm the room, of course, but in the cold of the November evening, the only warmth I was feeling was hers.

The contrast between the cold air of the world outside and her wonderful, warm, bare skin was stark. And despite pulling her closer to me, pressing a few more precious inches of her warm flesh to mine, the cold still intruded.

"If we're going out," I said. "I'll need to get a shower first." Cold or not, she'd gotten me sweaty. And sticky.

(I had, of course, done the same to her and, for whatever reason, neither of us had ever once complained about it.)

"I'll need one, too," she said.

"Mmm. We should conserve water," I suggested, playfully.

I could feel her smile against my shoulder. "I was thinking that, too."

Reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed, we both crawled out at the same time. I scurried across the cold hardwoods and onto the colder tiles of the bathroom floor, quickly pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the water, holding my hand inside so that we could get in (and out of the cold) as soon as it had warmed.

She busied herself, gathering towels and laying them nearby, and then doing a cute "I'm cold" dance with her hands clasped under her chin, her arms doing their best to cover her breasts and stomach, to shield them from the chill.

The second the water was warm enough, she stepped in. I followed.

She was under the water, wetting her hair. A simple motion and something I'd watched her do hundreds of times before as we'd shower next to each other in the communal showers at St. Nicholas, but it was still lovely.

Her hair, which normally can't decide whether it wants to be dark blonde or light brown, darkened in the water. Her chin lifted, exposing her neck. Water flowed gracefully down the sides of her neck, along the long muscles and smooth skin and trickled over her collar bone.

There is something entirely unique and erotic about water flowing over skin. It emphasizes each curve, every jutting bone. It changes course with the smallest of movements as your muscles shift. And I remember standing there, just watching, as the water cascaded over her.

One of the loveliest things about sharing a shower in this manner is that there is never enough hot water to satisfy. You are forced to constantly maneuver, to press against one another in new and different ways, in order the share the limited warmth.

Opening her eyes after sufficiently wetting her hair, she realized that I was outside of that warmth. She stepped back ever so slightly and made room for me to join her.

Her hands and arms were again raised; this time, as though they were a sacred chalice or, at the least, were holding one in a Renaissance painting. Channeling the warmth of water towards her chest and stomach.

As I drew near, a grin broke across her face and her hands quickly turned and splashed my face with the water. She laughed. I kissed her.

She laughed more, of course, knowing that she was being kissed and couldn't respond. I kept kissing, knowing that I was making her laugh. My lips met her teeth and, eventually, she tickled my ribs so that we were both laughing together before, finally, kissing again under the flow of water.

Despite having showered together, next to each other, more times than we could count, this was the first time that we had showered together.

This was the first time that we had experienced, together, the warmth of the water flowing first over one of us and then the other. The first time that the droplets would form on my skin, and then flow down and pool with the droplets on hers.

She picked up my shampoo and we took turns working it into each other's hair. Her hair was longer than mine; my hair is shorter, easier. As I washed hers, she turned and leaned back, allowing me to work the shampoo into her hair. When it was my turn, I did the same. She took extra time to massage my scalp with her fingertips. I couldn't help but close my eyes and simply enjoy the care she gave.

I reached for my loofah to wash her; letting her choose which scent she wanted from my (embarrassingly large) selection of Victoria's Secret and Bath and Bodyworks soaps.

We took turns slowly washing each other's bodies; shifting and moving, slickened skin against slickened skin, as we soaped one another. Carefully moving our hands over breasts and backs. We barely spoke, simply moving. Exploring. Touching.

Together.

Somewhere between escaping the chill of the November air and gently lathering one another's skin, the shower had taken on an emotional quality. Quiet sharing had become intimacy. There was a sense of trust in our movements. Each touch connected, somehow, far deeper than mere skin on skin.

Without saying a word, and in near-complete unison, we kissed.

The desire I felt for her wasn't because I somehow needed sex. We'd had plenty of that already earlier and, honestly, I was getting a little too tender in places to want sex. But, in that moment, it was the only way to physically express the sense of connectedness I felt with her.

My fingers found her quickly, going straight to the places that I knew would most quickly turn her on. Her leg raised against mine almost instantly, bracing against the edge of the tub behind us.

A low moan rose from her throat. Her head fell back, her neck begging for contact from my lips. With a finger on each side of her clit, I stroked her. Up and down. Back to front to back.

Her words failed her. Sentences came out in fits and starts -- "That's so ..." and "More ..." -- before eventually failing to come out at all, what used to be words escaping only as whimpers and gasps.

As she got nearer, her arm wrapped across my shoulders so that she could steady herself. As the intensity of her pleasure grew, so did the intensity with which her fingernails bit into my shoulder.

A final gasp. Her lower lip held between her teeth. Her leg stiffening. And then, finally, a shudder.

I saw every moment of it because I was watching her so intently. Concentrating solely on her. I watched as her gaze became unfocused. I saw the flush in her cheeks and her chest.

I felt her grip me and draw me in to her hard, pressing as much of herself to me as she could. I felt her hips moving and pushing and rocking against my hand, leading up to that final shudder.

I kissed her cheek and her neck, my lips following the trail of water down over her collar bone and to her breasts, returning to her mouth as her orgasm waned.

Slowly, her eyes regained focus. She smiled, her lips against mine.

"Wow," she said.

I responded in kind. "Wow."

The transmission of heat, physical and emotional and otherwise, from her body to mine and my body back to hers, had made her the only thing in my world and had made me the only thing in hers.

Neither of us even noticed that the water had gone cold.

True Blood Season 2 Review: "I Will Rise Up."

2009-08-19T17:02:00.001-05:00

There is one scene in this episode that can only be summed up in a single phrase: Oh. My. God.

But, I'll get to that in a minute.

This week's episode began right where last week's ended: with Luke blowing himself up real good inside Godric's lair while the vampires were having their celebration about Godric's safe return.

Outside, just before the explosion, Bill tells Lorena that it's over. OVER over. That he hasn't loved her and that he will never love her. She cries blood and says he hasn't seen the last of her before zipping away in that super-fast way that vampires on this show zip.

Then ... BOOM!

Bill runs inside to check on Sookie and finds that Eric had dove on top of her, shielding her from the blast with his own body. Bill chases down one of the two Fellowship members waiting outside and tears into him. But, he stops short of draining the kid and tells him to go and tell his people that a vampire showed him mercy when they themselves had displayed none.

Inside, Eric tells Sookie that he's dying because of the silver bullets and convinces her to suck them out. He is, of course, faking. But, Sookie doesn't know that and, since he just saved her life, she feels obligated to do the same for him.

Bill arrives, just as she's spitting the last of the silver bullets onto the floor, and informs her that she's been tricked. Eric was already healing and, silver or not, the bullets would've pushed themselves out. But, now that she's swallowed Eric's blood, you see, he'll have a connection to her.

Bill: He'll also be able to sense your emotions.
Sookie: [hitting Eric] You big, lying a-hole!
Eric: You're right, Bill. I think I can sense her emotions.

Godric surveys the damage Luke's bomb had done, learning from Isabel that several of their nest-mates (including cowboy Stan) were killed. He informs everyone that Hotel Carmilla has been informed of what transpired and has security on alert and that they should all be able to find safety there.

Back at the hotel, after Sookie has showered, Bill also explains that that's not the only connection she and Eric will share. She'll likely also feel sexually attracted to him, too.

Sookie doesn't believe it but, of course, has a rather explicit dream about him. Words don't do it justice (so, luckily for you, I found pictures).

This was, of course, just a blood-induced fantasy. But, I have to think that there's going to be an actual encounter a lot sooner than Bill would like to think.

(Next season, if the show continues following the books, you can look forward to a lot of Eric and Sookie nekkidness.)

Either way, Sookie wakes up after the dream and quietly gets out of bed, leaving a sleeping Bill behind, and leaves the room.

Instead of going to Eric, however (as that would've been too predictable), she goes to Jason's room and they have some brother-sister bonding time. After all of the losses they've experienced, they are all that the other really has left in this world.

Back in Bon Temps, Hoyt is sitting with Jessica and consoling her about her perpetual virginity and the fact that her hymen will grow back after every sexual encounter (I've mentioned how much that would suck, right, because that would truly suck). She tells him that he should just dump her but, instead, he says that he's going to build her a "tricked-out double-wide" and introduce her to his mother and then sings her to sleep.

After Tara and Eggs blacked-out punch fest of the previous episode, they stumble into Merlotte's. Lafayette notices the bruises on his cousin's face and confronts Eggs about it. They exchange some rather strong words and, in the ensuing scuffle, Tara catches another of Eggs' fists to her jaw and Lafayette winds up chasing the domestically violent Eggs from the place to the cheers of the crowd.

Tara and Eggs discuss it the next morning with Maryann who claims that maybe their blacking out is just them finally rising to a higher state of consciousness and likening it to the priests of various cultures who every thinks are crazy for wanting to "dissolve into the infinite" and commune with their gods.

Eggs considers the idea, but Tara has been too up-close-and-personal with a woman who spent months blacked out to consider being too wasted to remember what you've done to be a part the path to spiritual enlightenment. Her mother went down that path with alcohol and she wants none of it.

Meanwhile, across town, Hoyt tells his mother that he wants her to meet Jessica but, of course, she isn't fond of vampires. For that matter, she isn't really fond of anyone. According to her conversation with Hoyt, she hates "Methodists ('I have my reasons.'), Catholics ('Just priests ... and nuns.'), African-Americans ('That's a secret!'), women who wear red shoes ('They just look trashy.'), people who drive too slow" and a whole host of other things.

As you can likely predict, her first meeting with Jessica doesn't go well.

Jessica does her best to relate to Mrs. Fortenberry, but it all goes downhill when Mama Fortenberry mentions that the reason she was twenty minutes late is that she couldn't decide what to wear and Jessica says she knows what that's like, not knowing if you should wear the black shoes or the red ones.

That spirals out into Mama Fortenberry telling Jessica that she doesn't want her seeing her son anymore and Jessica saying that she can give him anything a human girl could and Mama Fortenberry pointing out that she couldn't give him babies.

Deborah Woll, the actress is that plays Jessica, does an amazing job with this scene. You could see the heartbreak -- her heart break -- as those words came spilling out of Mama Fortenberry's mouth. It was almost enough to make you want to cry with her.

She got up and ran out and Hoyt went with her, telling his Mama that he wasn't ever coming home.

Maryann arrives at the jail, looking for Sam. In the cells next to him are almost all of the people from Maryann's crazy devil orgy the night before. Maryann asks Sheriff Dearborn what's going on and he explains that the whole town seems to have gone crazy, that the people being locked up have no idea what they did wrong.

She tells him that she wants to talk to him about releasing Sam Merlotte, but he refuses saying he's a suspect in a homicide. She blacks his eyes over, putting him under her spell, and takes his keys and goes to get Sam herself.

He's gone.

Hearing her in the building and seeing the subsequent near-riot of the prisoners when they here her voice, he sees a fly in his cell and transforms himself into one, too, and is gone when she arrives.

(Now, I realize that this is a world in which we're discussing vampires and shape-shifters and maenads and whatnot, but isn't there some physical law about the conversation of mass that would prevent a 170lb man from transforming himself into a .005 ounce fly? Just askin'.)

So, instead, she lets all of her crazies out.

He follows her back to Sookie's where he is, quite literally, a fly on the wall as she and Eggs and Tara play cards and drink. Lafayette and Tara's mother show up to confront the trio.

Tara flips out first, her eyes glazing over black as she attempts to strangle her mother (this after Maryann's attempt to woo Mrs. Thornton back to her alcoholism failed). Lafayette quickly puts the beatdown on Eggs before throwing a shrieking Tara over his shoulder and escaping.

Maryann tells Eggs to let them go, saying, "She'll come back, and she'll bring them with her."

Having seen all he needs to, Sam buzzes away and ends up naked on the doorstep of (suspended) Detective Andy Bellefleur and, I suspect, they're going to start comparing notes and determining how to get rid of Maryann. Andy, you'll remember, has seen Maryann's weird orgies; it's just that no one but Sam believes him about it.

Now in full-on maenad rage, Maryann storms into Merlotte's, announcing "The God Who Comes demands his sacrifice! Where is Sam Merlotte?" None of the patrons know, of course, because Sam hasn't come back since escaping from jail. Maryann works her magic and their eyes all glaze over black anyway ...

Back at the Hotel Carmilla in Dallas, the head spokeswoman for the vampire's integration into society, Nan Flanagan, confronts Godric, Eric, Isabel and Bill over their involvement in the debacle with the Fellowship of the Sun and Steve Newlin's assertion that Godric is the one who came to them (earlier that evening on television).

They come to an agreement over how best to handle the situation, giving a small glimpse into vampire politics, and Godric resigns his position as sheriff.

At the meeting, it is revealed that Godric, weary of his existence, figured that the Fellowship would've captured one of them eventually to sacrifice and, as he was willing to die anyway, thought that he'd be doing the others a favor by giving himself up in such a way.

Before they go, though, Bill confronts Eric and punches him and tells him to leave Sookie alone. Eric tells Bill, simply, "It's too late. I'm a part of her now."

Eric follows Godric to the hotel's roof and begs him not to go through with his plans of "meeting the sun," tearfully falling at his maker's feet. Godric's mind is made up, though. As dawn approaches, Godric commands Eric to leave him and go back inside.

Sookie arrives at the roof and, witnessing Eric's pain, tells him that it's okay and that she'll stay with Godric until he is gone. She and Godric have an exchange about God and forgiveness and, as the sun rises, Godric joyfully and finally moves on to meet his Maker.

... and roll credits.

We got a lot of Eric in this episode, and I loved it. We got to see the tender side of him that they've been hinting at for weeks when it came time for Godric's end, and we got to see, well, all of the rest of him in bed with Sookie.

As I'd said earlier, if they stick with the general plot of the books, we should expect to see a lot more of Eric and Sookie together next season, too. And, I'm glad they're finally developing his character more as, in the books, he's one of the most interesting.

And, as for next week's previews, it looks like this episode was meant to the calm before the storm rolls in ...

Thanks, HBO!

The song.

2009-08-19T15:19:00.002-05:00

When I'm in a relationship, I'm not typically one to pick out a specific song and deem it "our song." I know people that do (and I certainly don't judge them for it) but it's just never been my thing.

Instead, I tend to pick out songs for specific people. There are certain songs that remind me of certain people or situations. That I associate with people. Words and lyrics spark a memory, and suddenly all I'm seeing in my head is that person or a time that I'd shared with them.

Cheater, for example, has several songs: "White Horse" by Taylor Swift and "Best Days of Your Life" and, more recently, "Rocks instead of Rice" by Kellie Pickler are just a few.

I hadn't found a song that I'd really associated with P.B. There just weren't any songs whose words I connected with him. There weren't any lyrics that I heard and immediately had his face spring to mind.

Until this weekend.

I had CMT on in the background while I was making my bed and folding laundry and they played Martina McBride's new song "I Just Call You Mine."

I pinch myself sometimes to make sure
I'm not in a dream; that's how it seems.
I close my eyes and breathe in the sweetest moments
I've ever known; it feels like home.

And here I am, I want to be your everything.
There you are turning winter into spring.

And everyone that sees you always wants to know you,
And everyone that knows you always has a smile.
You're a standing ovation after years of waiting
For a chance to finally shine.
Everyone calls you amazing, yeah, I just call you mine.

I fall apart and just a word from you somehow seems to fix
Whatever's wrong, oh, you reach into the weakest moments
And remind me that I'm strong; You've gotta know
I'd be a fool not to see or even worse
To forget that you're more than I deserved

Cause everyone that sees you always wants to know you,
And everyone that knows you always has a smile.
You're a standing ovation after years of waiting
For a chance to finally shine.
Everyone calls you amazing, I just call you mine.

Nothing makes sense when you're not here;
As if my whole world disappears.
Without you what's the point of anything?

'Cause everyone that sees you always wants to know you,
And everyone that knows you always has a smile.
You're the dream that I've been chasing after years of waiting
For a chance to finally shine.
Everyone calls you amazing, I just call you mine.
Everyone calls you amazing, yeah, yeah I just call you mine.

I thought of him as I listened to the lyrics and folded socks and, for the first time in our three-month-old relationship, I had a song for him.

Later that night, we were driving to dinner and the song came on the radio. We reached, almost simultaneously, to turn it up. "Have you heard this?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "It reminds me of you."

And, I looked out the window and held his hand as the song I'd heard just hours before, the one that was to be "his," note by note and word by word became "ours."

TMI Tuesday #200 - Happy Anniversary!

2009-08-19T12:19:00.000-05:00

Yes, I realize that it's Wednesday and that, as such, this isn't technically a TMI Tuesday post.

(You'll also note that I didn't get my typical Monday confession up either. That'll likely go up sometime later today. Hopefully.)

My final year of college starts this week and, because of that, this week has been crazy -- reconnecting with old friends, making sure I've got everything I need for classes (including, ugh, $400+ worth of books), watching the new boys move into the apartments, and other activities going on on-campus.

So, please forgive my tardiness.

1. What is the longest you have been in a monogamous sexual relationship? [For the purpose of this question monogamous is defined as no sexual partners that your significant other does (did) not know about.]
Continuously? I have yet to successfully hit the two-year anniversary in any relationship.

2. If your current relationship would fail, do you have a back-up for physical or emotional comfort?
I do have several people I could call for "physical comforting" should the need arise, yes, but I don't intend for my current relationship to fail.

3. Can you be "just friends" with someone when there is an unrequited sexual attraction?
Of course. I've been in a bunch of friendships where there was that sort of attraction (either me for him or him for me) there but we've managed to remain "just friends."

Despite the nature and general theme of this blog, I don't have sex with everyone I know or meet. (Just, you know, a lot of them.)

4. In a assumed monogamous sexual relationship have you ever cheated, been cheated upon or been a knowing third party to the infidelity? [For the purpose of this question monogamous is defined as no sexual partners that a significant other does (did) not know about.]
Yes; to all three.

I've been the person cheating (or, more accurately, have been someone's "other woman"), I've been cheated on and I've been aware of it several times when friend were cheating on their boyfriends or girlfriends.

5. Historically, what has caused the most arguments in your relationships?
Arguments? Most of my arguments with Cheater were about money.

But, I think, if you really go back and analyze things, most arguments can be boiled down to two things: Men want to be respected, women want to be loved.

When men aren't feeling respected, they'll tend to be upset and argue about the things that are making them feel disrespected.

For me, though, "love" translates to feeling secure with the person and when I feel insecure about something, that's when I'll tend to pick fights. If I don't feel financially secure, I'll pick fights over money. If I don't feel secure in our relationship, I'll pick fights about that girl you just friended on Facebook.

Does that make sense?

Bonus (as in optional):What do you want from a partner in a long term relationship?
I think I sort of just answered this but, in a word, "security."

I want to feel safe with someone. I want to feel as though I'm taken care of, and that can cover a range of things: protecting my emotions, taking care of my physical needs, making sure that I feel "okay" with our finances (I don't have to be rich, but I'd like to know I can pay my bills), etc.

Confession #24 (Bonus!): The one about that thing I finally did.

2009-08-14T16:52:00.001-05:00

When I first mentioned it was something I'd wanted to try, I was told I should practice.

Ironically, I hadn't told my boyfriend. I'd told an online acquaintance. I'd mentioned that anal sex was one of the few things I'd yet to experience sexually, but that I was curious. The thing that was stopping me was the fear of the pain involved for, as adventurous as I can be, pain is not a thing that turns me on.

My friend told me that I should practice it first. First with my fingers, then with my favorite dildo.

And practice I had.

I had done it by myself when the mood struck for "something different" than my usual routine. But, I'd also been gaining some experience with another doing it as well.

You see, a few weeks back when I shared with my beau how, precisely, I enjoyed pleasuring myself (with my right hand from the front and my left providing penetration from behind, if you're curious), he seemed to have thought that my thumb, tucked under and across my palm, had actually been tucked away somewhere else entirely.

And so, one evening as we're making out and he's attempting to mimic what he'd seen, I'm surprised to find his thumb pressing into me there. I was a bit shocked at first.

It didn't hurt, really. Perhaps I had just managed to condition myself enough that my body was more accepting than it otherwise would've been of such an intrusion.

"Is that okay?" he asked, realizing, I think, that he was entering new territory for me. Without speaking, I simply nodded.

From there, it became something semi-regular. It wouldn't happen every time, perhaps once a week at the most. But it had happened, and it continued to happen often enough that I got the sense it was something that he was as interested in exploring as I was.

But, apart from the ocassion "extra surprise" now and then, we never spoke about it one way or the other.

We were fucking on his bed. We were trying a new position (at my suggestion); I was on my stomach, with him on top of me. It's working incredibly well, with him at just the right angle for each thrust to make me shudder.

He slides out of me, sitting up and kneeling for a moment between my thighs. His hands spread me, his fingers exposing the pussy still upset by his sudden departure and my asshole to his view. I'm mildly disappointed to have his fingers replace his cock but, while I am attempting to make my displeasure known vocally, my hips are still pushing back to meet him.

"Do you like that?" he asks.

My body is grinding against him, seeking him out, making it impossible for me to say "no." Besides, I do like it. I just don't like it as much as what he was doing before.

"I liked your cock better," I reply.

A moment later, he's hovering over me again. Entering me again. Fucking me again. Hitting just the right spot again.

He lifts himself off of me just enough that his hand can slide between us. Just enough that, while his cock is deep inside me, one of his fingers can slip into my ass.

My orgasm is nearly instantaeous. My body clutching and releasing his finger with the same muscular rhythm that it's clutching and releasing his cock.

"Do you want to try that?" he asked.

I wasn't sure what he meant. I'm not even entirely sure I heard his words. I was still in that not-really-thinking, post-orgasm high. But, I nodded anyway.

A moment later, I'm empty again. His cock and his fingers suddenly gone. I heard him rummaging through the drawer of his nightstand. And, in that moment, my haze lifted enough to realize what he'd asked. And what I'd responded.

I was suddenly a bit scared.

My stomach knotted. The thoughts of the potential for pain, and my distaste for anything painful, came rushing over me like a tidal wave. But, I can tell that he's so excited to try -- like a child with a new toy at Christmas -- that I don't want to spoil it by suddenly backing out.

Besides, I've practiced.

And, if I weren't practicing for this -- to do this -- than what exactly was I practicing for?

"Slow. Okay?"

His wonderfully dextrous fingers spread my cheeks and I felt the cool lube on my skin. I even helped him apply it to the shaft of his cock.

I take a deep breath as I feel the tip of his cock playing there. I know what's coming. He's slightly larger than my toy, but only slightly. He holds himself there, guides himself there and, after a moment, I feel myself relax just enough, and ...

He's inside.

With one long and smooth and even and deep stroke, my last innocence is impaled by him. Deflowered by him. Lost to him.

My moan reminds me I hadn't been breathing. He's trembling so much he can barely hold himself above me.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I nod. I don't want to speak, for that would require taking concentration away from my efforts to relax and my remembering to breath.

He slides slowly back out before stroking deeper. Once, then again. Then again. I'm surprised each time that he can actually get deeper than he had just a moment before. My only sounds, I can hear, are ragged gasps and an ocassional near-breathless "ungh."

After a few strokes, when he's finally and actually in as far as he can possibly be, he kisses my neck. His motion stops. I've learned that he often does this when he's near orgasm, saving himself from cumming right then so that he can continue longer.

We lay like that, interlocked, as he kisses my neck. My breathing, I've found is returning to normal. His lips find a ticklish spot on my neck, sending a shiver down my back and causing a wiggle in my hips which, I find, actually feels kind of good.

He moans behind me.

"Do you like that?" I ask, wiggling my hips again as I watch him over my shoulder. He's the one, this time, who can only nod.

"You like having your cock in my ass?" I ask, clarifying.

We so rarely actually use words like cock and ass together in our everyday conversations that when we do, in moments like this, his response is nearly feral.

His "Yes" is almost a growl.

"Then, don't just lay there," I said, pushing my hips back, forcing my ass against him, "Fuck me."

And, he does.

His hands next to my shoulders, holding his body up and off of mine. Our only contact is the skin of his hips against my butt and the thick, hot meat of his cock in my ass.

"God, it's so tight," he says.

He slides out almost all the way before pushing back in. Again, and then again. His rhythm steadily increasing.

More words, too raunchy for polite conversation spill forth from my lips.

At this angle, he's hitting almost the same spots he was when he was fucking me earlier. I'm sure I can come again. I slide a hand beneath me to help myself along. It's just a question of which of us will get there first.

"Do you think you can make me come again?" I ask.

He nods. I can feel his testicles slapping against me with each thrust.

"Make me come," I command. "Fuck me. Fuck my ass."

It's becoming harder to speak. It's a struggle to form words. My breathing is again becoming ragged gasps but, this time, it isn't from discomfort.

A moment later, I shake. My body spasms. My muscles clenching and contracting as the warm wave of orgasms spreads over me.

I hear him grunt behind me, the clenching and gripping and trembling of my orgasm triggering his. His cock throbs inside of me.

I am suddenly, again, in pain; I'd taken much joy in watching his cock swell and throb in orgasm before but, when it was buried in a place unfamiliar with it, its sudden increase in girth was ... unpleasant.

I bit my lip to keep from crying out; holding him, clenching my muscles around him until he was completely spent.

Even after we'd both climaxed, we remained there. We rested beside each other until, finally, he was soft enough to slide out without effort. Riding out the sensations.

My last innocence still impaled by him long after the act was completed.

We won't be doing it everytime but, after overcoming my fear and trepidation and learning to enjoy it, I think it's certainly something we will be doing more often ...

Confession #23: The one about one-ness.

2009-08-14T14:36:00.000-05:00

We were laying next to one another, naked and relaxed, both exhausted from an afternoon of sex and knowing we knew we didn't need to get up just yet.

By now, it was early evening. The last rays of the November sun were streaming in through shades, giving the room a soft red-orange glow.

I felt the touch of her touch, her leg touching mine. I rolled over and put one arm lightly over her body as I faced her.

"We should eat," she said, her eyes closed.

"Do you want to go somewhere for dinner?" I asked.

She shrugged, "Sure."

She looked at me, and I could tell she was examining each little feature of my face. Freckles on my nose. Wrinkles on my lips. The non-descript blues and grays of my eyes. My hair, messed from our activities.

It is amazing, in retrospect, how far she and I have come since that first kiss. How relaxed we feel together, how we are so in sync with each other.

I could tell she felt the same emotions I was feeling, but I knew the moment begged for more than the simple loving gaze or the I love you that we exchanged so comfortably and routinely.

I scooted over, and held her closer, giving her the kiss that was the initial expression of my love. She returned the kiss, gently but passionately.

It was meant to be just that. Just a kiss. Just an outward expression of our inner feelings during a break in the conversation over whether or not we should go get dinner.

But it was more.

One kiss flowed into another. A few more kisses, and we began the familiar process of exploring each other's bodies. That initial touch invoked the familiar feelings of arousal and physical merging, and in a few moments we were lost again to anything but each other.

My world was her.

I scooted up, just a bit higher in the bed, and urged her to roll on top of me. She was already inside of me, her arm between us and her fingers moving in a rhythm that matched mine.

My knees raised and accepted her to me, my ankles crossing behind her thighs to draw her closer. My arms surrounded her in an embrace the held her to me.

As my rhythm increased, she worked within me, her hands stimulating areas that she had come to know so well and intimately. My climax came quickly.

She smiled at me, enjoying my enjoyment and relaxing on top of me, laying with me. We had not spoken. We did not need to.

When we finally moved, I sat up, propping pillows against the wall. I lay back in a seated position and spread my legs wide. I pulled her up, so that my mouth could have her mouth.

My hands urged her to turn, to sit with me. Her back against me, sitting between my legs, both facing the end of the bed.

As she leaned back, her shoulders against my breasts, my arms again surrounded her. My lips went to her neck, kissing first her ears and then down to her neck and shoulders. Her head fell back, resting against my shoulder. I put my legs up and over her thighs, which urged her to spread them.

There we sat, as she leaned back against me, and my legs and arms surrounded her from behind.

My hands explored her; as she simply rested and experienced my touch. I could feel her shudder or, perhaps, even giggle a little as I touched sensitive places.

I teased her that way for several long minutes, my fingertips trailing up and along the insides of her thighs before, at the last moment, diverting and going up over her stomach to her ribs.

Finally, when she'd had enough, her hand took mine. My hand under hers, she guided it, showing me the rhythm she wanted, showing me the stroke. She was mine, sitting back against me, and using my hand to stroke her in just the right way.

As she approach climax, she began pushing back against me, and she pushed my fingers deep within her.

As we moved, I spread my fingers, allowing hers to interlace with mine. Her fingers and mine touched her. My fingers and hers plunged inside of her wetness.

We were one, positioned together, working together, bringing her to climax together. I saw the flush on her chest, as her climax began. Her fingers had moved to her clit as mine moved inside her.

As she came, she pushed against our hands. We gasped aloud as the sensations of orgasm came. I was in such total harmony with her, we were one, stimulating and arriving at climax. Together.

To my surprise, I had come, too. I had reached climax, not by stimulating myself, but by stimulating her. I had an orgasm because she had an orgasm, and though we had been so thoroughly and perfectly joined.

We sat together, catching our breath. She turned her head to reach me, kissed me. We smiled in our kisses, said our "I love yous" and decided it was time to shower so we could go eat ...

True Blood Season 2 Review: "Timebomb."

2009-08-12T12:18:00.007-05:00

For as bad as I thought last week's episode was (after the initial viewing, anyway), I think this week's episode recaptured that magic.

At this point, we're on Episode 8 of the 12-episode season. Plot threads have been developed and advanced and here's where we start tying them up and drawing stories to a close.

We'll start (and end) at the Fellowship of the Sun church (aka: Creepy Cult Camp). We left last week with Sookie about to be raped by Gabe, only to have Gabe stopped at the last moment by Godric. Gordic doesn't look like he's imprisoned. He looks like he's there willingly. Just the same, Gabe says something to him and Godric snaps Gabe's neck.

Eric shows up and an alarm sounds throughout the facility. Apparently, Eric wasn't particularly stealthy in his entrance. So, the church and all of the congregants there for the lock-in and subsequent "holy (vampire) bonfire at dawn" go into lockdown mode.

Outside, we find out that Sarah's weapon actually was only a paintball gun (as I'd predicted). She is upset because he tried to run when she told him she loved him after breaking her marriage vows with him.

He told her that he wasn't running from her, he was running from her whackjob husband with all of the guns.

Sarah: You're worse than Judas!
Jason: Why? What did he do to you?

Firing a paintball into his kibble and bits, Sarah moves on to her second grievance which is, of course, that his sister is a "dirty vampire fucker."

When Jason asks how they know about his sister, Sarah blabs that they've got her locked up back at the church. He wrestles Sarah's paintball gun away from her, knocking her to the ground, and warns her that if they've done anything to Sookie he'd be coming for them all "and it won't be with no fucking paintball gun!"

This marks two weeks in a row that we see Jason get more than just a little big brotherly when he thinks his sister is in danger. I like it.

Back at the church, Godric has instructed Eric to get Sookie to safety and to not spill any blood doing it. They make it to the front door, which is guarded by three Fellowship recruits armed with stakes.

Sookie: Why didn't you send Bill?
Eric: His feelings for you make him irrational. He'd kill every child in this place to save you.
Sookie: Why don't you?
Eric: I'm following Godric's orders.
Sookie: He's your maker, isn't he?
Eric: Don't use words you don't understand.
Sookie: You've got a lot of love for him.
Eric: Don't use words I don't understand.

Eric feigns a horrible "hick" accent and poses as their relief to try to get the men to leave, but they don't buy it. So, he attempts to glamour one of them and manages to get that guy's stake away from him just as the other two realize what he's done and that the big pale guy in the all-black outfit might, you know, be the vampire they're looking for.

He fights them off, but the door is locked and he and Sookie to try to escape through the Sanctuary.

Inside, they're met by Steve Newlin in an all-white suit (see what they did there? Steve in white, Eric in black?) that looks like something a televangelist would wear and Steve announces that they're too late and that the war has begun.

Jason shows up outside and tells the guys guarding the door that he's a special ops agent with the Light of Day Institute and that he's there to slay the vampire. He offers his paintball gun as proof, which doesn't fool the guys guarding the door any more than it fooled me last episode. But, he manages to fight them off (Eric softened them up, you know) and sneak into the church.

Back at the hotel, Lorena is still holding Bill hostage. She also, as he was distracted by the whoosh of air as Eric had left to go save Godric, had grabbed Barry from the hallway. Clutching Barry by the throat, she offers Bill the first bite. He declines, so she bites him.

This gives Bill the opening he needs and he smashes Lorena over the head with the giant plasma screen TV. Twice. But, instead of staking the psychotic bitch while she's laying there unconscious in a growing puddle of her own blood, he tosses Barry over his shoulder and escapes.

He stops at Jessica's room where Jessica and Hoyt are in the middle of losing their virginities together.

Hoyt: I don't know what you think you heard, but those were screams of pleasure ... right?

Jessica is embarrassed. Bill is too intent on getting to the Fellowship church to waste any time on Hoyt, so he instead tells Hoyt that, if he really cares for Jessica, he needs to put her in his car and drive her back to Bon Temps before sunrise. Hoyt nods and Bill is gone.

Surrounded by Fellowship nutjobs with silver and stakes, Eric surrenders himself if Steve will let Sookie and Godric go. The problem is, he made that particular bit of the demand known only after he'd already been laid on the alter and draped in silver chains (which are kinda like kryptonite for vampires).

Steve declines Eric's offer, saying that he was actually thinking of chaining Sookie to Eric so that they could burn together come sunrise. He then calls Sookie "evil whore of Satan" and puts a gun to her head.

This is a bad idea for two reasons. First, Jason is in the church. Second, Bill is, too -- and while he may not have Jason's nifty paintball gun, Bill is fangy and entirely pissed.

He bursts through the doors and announces, "If you shoot her, everyone in here will die." At that moment, from the balcony, Jason puts a green paintball right between Steve Newlins eyes, sending him reeling.

Sookie runs to the stage and takes the chains off of Eric who is, also, now fangy and entirely pissed. He grabs Steve Newlin and is just about to kill him when the doors burst open again.

(For being in lockdown mode, there are sure a lot of people getting in.)

This time, it's the entire posse of Dallas vampires. And, you guessed it, they, too, are fangy and pissed. Stan stares down Steve Newlin, who is still being held by Eric, and announces, "Destroy them. All of them."

Steve Newlin and his entire congregation are about to learn the hard way why you don't piss off vampires when Godric appears.

"These people have not harmed me," he announces. He orders the vampires under his watch (which would be all of them -- the Dallas vampires answer to him directly, as does Eric because Eric is his "child," and Bill because Bill is under Eric's jurisdiction back in Bon Temps) to stand down and leave the humans be.

Godric attempts to appeal to all -- vampires and humans alike -- that they can coexist. Steve Newlin won't have any of it, though. Steve goads Godric, but Godric doesn't budge.

Steve: I will not negotiate with subhumans. Jesus will protect me.
Godric: Actually, I am older than your Jesus. I wish I could have known him, but I missed it.

Godric holds Steve off of the ground and asks which of his followers are willing to die for Steve's madness. One by one, they realize that they hold their lives more dear than they hold their hatred and leave. All of them. Even Luke, who looks the most reluctant to let it all go.

As Jason is leaving, Newlin shouts something at him about Jason going to Hell and Jason gets in his face and informs him that he's already been to heaven, and that it was inside Steve's wife, and then lays Steve out with a roundhouse punch.

Steve, his followers gone and his marriage in shambles, sits crying and alone on the stage in what I would hope is his last appearance on True Blood.

That storyline wrapped up in a most satisfactory way, let's go back to Bon Temps ...

At Merlotte's, Lafayette is reading Tara's tarot cards and, when telling her her future, sees the Justice card and it spooks him.

Now, I was so curious about what exactly that all meant that I went to Google to search it out. The Justice card, it turns out, represents Athena. Athena was called upon to empanel the first jury, according to mythology anyway, to put an end to the cycle of violence that had taken the lives of Agamemnon's family.

Justice (and, in this case, Athena -- who is a Greek deity, just like the maenads and Dionysus) represents right and duty. Unlike tarot's High Priestess (portrayed by Persephone, queen of the Underworld), Justice is decided in the open, with intellect and intuition. It is connected to the Judgement card, representing the ultimate weighing of souls.

Sounds like something of an ominous portent for Tara, eh? Or, perhaps, it's showing us her future in that she'll figure out Maryann's identity and be the one to finally end Maryann's immortality.

But, I digress.

Just as Lafayette is trying to not tell Tara what her future is, Eggs shows up. He's upset because he just lost a bunch more time and woke up in the woods. That's what happens, it seems, when you're manipulated by a demon and forced to kill a shape-shifter and former friend.

Tara takes him home.

Sam is hiding somewhere in the woods, sleeping in his SUV with his gun in his hand, when he gets a call from Merlotte's. The caller, whomever it is, just hangs up.

Sam, not apparently having read any mystery novels and also not seeming to remember that there's a supposedly unkillable demon woman wanting to cut his heart out, takes his gun and goes back to his bar to investigate.

Of course, it's a trap.

Sam finds the place empty and discovers Daphne's heartless body in the freezer. His first instinct is to bag the body up and dispose of it. His second instinct is to call the police and tell them he found her. As he's on the phone with the 911 operator, though, there are already flashing lights outside and Sheriff Bud Dearborne is already knocking on his door.

Sam explains that he's being set up, but Bud doesn't buy it. The sheriff points out that this is the second woman in as many weeks who's shown up dead at his bar with their hearts cut out and that, unfortunately for Sam, nothing about his past ever seems to check out. No high school. No Social Security number. No nothing.

Andy, still filthy, shows up and tells the sheriff that Sam is the victim here. He'd seen, after all, Sam almost get his own heart cut out the night before.

Bud: By who?
Andy: The bull!
Kenya: The what?
Andy: The bull ... in a dress. With the claws ... I'm corroborating, Sam. Help me.
Sam: [to Bud] If I told you that's what happened, would you believe me?

As helpful as that all was, Bud locks Sam up anyway telling him that, if it's true that someone is trying to kill him, the jail is the safest place to be. Though, in the cells nearby, Sam sees a bunch of people from the orgy the night before, all arrested for odd behavior that they themselves don't remember.

Hoyt arrives back at Bill's with Jessica and they decide to finish what they'd started back in Dallas; they start to go at it again and Jessica squirms away because it hurts. She quickly figures out that, when you're a vampire, everything heals. Which means that, you know, she's going to get to experience the pain of her first time every time and holy crap would that suck.

Back at Sookie's house, we are treated to a rather graphic scene of Maryann cutting up and frying Daphne's heart. Way, way too graphic.

In the living room, Eggs is confessing to Tara that he's starting to think that he may have done something really bad during his blackout and she tells him that it may not be a coincidence that so many people are blacking out all over town ...

(Ding ding ding! We have a winner!)

Maryann sticks her head in and suggests that they stop partying so much and offers them "hunter's souffle" for dinner. It looks like it bleeds as Tara cuts into it and she and Eggs become increasingly weird as they start devouring it.

They start making weird threats to each other while simultaneously getting more suggestive. Tara starts hitting Eggs until he's wiping blood from his mouth and his eyes go blacked-over, and then, instead of running, she asks him to do the same to her. They wind up going at it on the hallway rug and Maryann watches, pleased.

Back in Dallas, the vampires (and Jason and Sookie and the other human cohorts) are celebrating Godric's safe return at his lair. Bill is attempting to explain to Sookie why he couldn't come to her rescue sooner. Jason interrupts, asking to speak to Bill outside.

He apologizes to Bill for his actions and for, you know, joining a vampire-hating group. Bill tells him that it's okay because, in the end, Jason saw them for what they were and overcame it. Jason gives him an awkward hug.

Going back inside, Bill confronts Eric and tells him to stay away from Sookie. For good. Eric isn't impressed.

Isabel arrives and drops Hugo at Godric's feet, announcing somewhat tearfully that he is their betrayer. Godric asks if she loves him. "I suppose I used to," she answers. He points out that her tears are evidence that she does still and, because of that, pardons Hugo.

Stan is incensed and demands blood. Godric tells him that he's already given his verdict and has Eric usher Hugo out. Once safely in his car, Eric tells Hugo to not stop driving until he gets to Mexico.

When Eric privately asks why Godric was so benevolent with Hugo, Godric explains to Eric that he doesn't see any reasons why humans shouldn't be treated as their equals. After thousands of years, vampires haven't evolved like humans have. If anything, vampires have only become more savage and predatory.

That is Lorena's cue. She enters the party and accosts Sookie, calling her nothing more than a blood bag. Sookie responds with more than a few words of her own, pointing out that Bill never loved Lorena and that Lorena knows that or she wouldn't have to use her power as his maker to force him to do things.

Lorena is about to kill Sookie when Godric intervenes. He points out that Sookie is a friend and that they were in his nest and in his territory and that, if Lorena valued her existence, she would find somewhere else far, far away to be before the sun rose in two hours. Godric asks Bill if he knows Lorena and then tells her to escort her out.

With Bill and Lorena making their not particularly tearful (for Bill anyway) good-byes in the driveway, we see someone else coming into the party: Luke.

Jason approaches him and Luke tells him to get out of there, before opening his coat to reveal that he's wearing a suicide bomb vest covered in silver chains and wooden bullets and stakes and such.

Luke announces to the vampires that have now, obviously, noticed him, "I have a message for you all from Reverend Steve Newlin." And, before they can react, he lifts his hand and pushes the button and ...

Roll credits.

I have to say, this episode was amazing stuff. It was a great wrap to the Fellowship story line. It provided and awesome bridge between the two books this season is based on and, I know I've said it before, but I think Alan Ball is doing this story better than Charlaine Harris did originally.

(My only disappointment is that, in keeping this strictly within the context of Dallas and blending the two stories, it's starting to look like we're not going to get introduced to the Weres of Shreveport -- Alcide Herveaux and his group. Hopefully, they'll find some way to bring them in next season as they're really an interesting group.)

But, until next week, check out the teaser for episode 9, "I Will Rise Up:"

Thanks, HBO!

TMI Tuesday #199: Love and Lust edition

2009-08-11T09:58:00.003-05:00

1. How do you differentiate between love and lust?
Love is a commitment as much as it is an emotion. It's deciding that, no matter what, that other person is important enough to you for you to make them a priority, to put them first, to care as much about their well-being as you do your own.

Lust is that bright fire of want. It's infatuation. It's wanting the idea of the person more than the person itself, and it tends to fade quickly after you get what you want.

2. You are happily married, engaged, or committed in a relationship, yet you have a hot sexy dream about someone you have always wanted to do it with. Have you cheated at least in your mind?
I don't think so, no.

Dreams are your subconscious mind doing things that you don't have any control over.

If you're actively fantasizing about someone else while rubbing one out (or, you know, even mid-act with your partner), then I think that is "mental cheating," yes, but I don't think you should or can be held accountable for what you dream about.

3. Do you trust your significant other?
As much as I trust anyone, yes.

4. How important is your Husband or Wife wearing their Wedding bands? Is it important to you and why?
I would say that it's pretty significant. It is an outward symbol not that their your property, but of the vow that they made to you and a symbol of your love for them.

Taking that off -- removing your love and their vow -- is sort of a big deal.

5. Do you feel that flirting is OK if you are taken?
I know that I do it, but I try to avoid doing it for a couple of reasons.

The first reason is, obviously, because it's not exactly being entirely faithful to the person that you're with. Sure, most of the time it's harmless. But, if it's not something you would be doing with your significant other sitting there, it isn't something you should be doing when they're not.

The second reason is that I have a lack of willpower and very little impulse control when it comes to sex (who knew, right?). There has been more than one occasion upon which "harmless" flirting led to nudity and moaning.

Bonus (as in optional): If you were 100% guaranteed not to get caught having a one night stand with someone else, would you?
I assume you mean if I were in another relationship. The answer is yes, because I would and I have. However, just because I've done it doesn't mean that I think it was the right thing to do.

Confession #22: The one about watching her (and her watching me).

2009-08-10T14:13:00.001-05:00

An afternoon of sex had left me tired.

It was the first time I'd seen Mollie in a couple of years. I had met her plane at the airport and we had decided to spend the afternoon grabbing a quick lunch and spending time together talking and walking and shopping.

We sat across the table from each other and, over a salad and munching, the sexual tension between the two of us was overwhelming.

I kept thinking that her hair, down over her shoulders, was practically begging to be touched. The way she reached up and tucked a wayward strand behind her ear melted me.

I also knew that I was doing my own fair share of non-verbal flirting. My lips, moving as we talked, were finding themselves constantly moistened, enticing her to kiss them. My hands, too, were fidgeting with jewelry, crying out for her to quiet them with a her own.

She didn't disappoint.

As we were walking through stores, my hand brushed hers. Then, the next time, hers brushed mine and held it for a moment. She found something she wanted to try on and suggested that I go into the dressing room with her.

Kissing there quickly set the course of the rest of our day.

We walked back to the car. The car drove itself back to my apartment.

I'm not sure if she even said a word on the way back; I was too distracted by the light stroke of her fingertips over my thigh, too aware of her stealing glances at me as I drove, to notice any words that might've been spoken.

Once inside, knowing that we had the place to ourselves, we removed each other's clothing a little at a time. A string of them marked our path to my bedroom where we fell beside each other, laughing and nuzzling.

The sexual tension was finally broken, and the afternoon alternated between one or the other or both of us exploring and touching and kissing and pushing and playing and caressing. Our orgasms flowed together, until mine seemed as though they merged with hers, in a way that surpassed the physical.

But now, here, I needed to rest.

Just for a moment.

I needed time for the sweat to dry. Time for my muscles to figure out where they were sore. Time to simply be apart for a moment, because in our togetherness I had begun to lose myself and the rest of the world.

I walked, naked, to the kitchen and got two bottles of water from the refrigerator and came back to my room, sitting in the chair at my desk near the bed where she lay.

Simply breathing regularly -- and watching the calming rise and fall of her breasts as she did, too -- was wonderful. She was so beautiful.

I found myself taking mental pictures of her body, storing up memories for when she was no longer there. The gentle slope of her neck. The way her skin stretched over her shoulders. The valley of her clavicle. The soft curves of her breasts. The slight depression of her abdomen. The sleekness of her thighs.

She had not felt the need for rest, though she understood mine. She was still aroused, still hungry. I could see it in the hardness of her nipples. In the slight far away look in her eyes. In the way her hand crept down and her thighs slowly spread.

I watched with fascination.

We had masturbated together before. In the darkness of our room, long before our relationship became physical, we would touch ourselves while the other told stories of things they had done or had wanted to do.

I knew she had done it, but I had never actually seen her do it.

In all my time with her, or anyone, this was new.

At first, it was slow and persistent and methodical. Fingers reaching down and slowly playing. Absent-mindedly touching and pulling her own flesh.

Her legs spread ever so slightly and I could see her clearly.

I became more and more absorbed in what she was doing. How she moved. Where she touched. I imagined and related her movements to my own experience with those very same fingers just moments before.

I knew what it felt like. But, though familiar, it was also different.

Her stroking was more careless in some ways and, in others, it was more assured and focused. I could see her slender fingers spreading layers, slipping down folds. Touching and gliding over some areas, attention focused on others.

When her fingers made that first slow circle around her clit, my breath almost caught in my throat.

I felt like a voyeur. Watching her was more erotic, more arousing that anything I had experienced in a long, long time. Watching her stimulate herself, slowly building her arousal. Watching her as her fingers worked, past and through and inside.

Watching her made me feel like I was exploring some private aspect of her body that had just been discovered.

She was looking at me, seeing me watch her. Feeling my eyes on her. Yet there was no hesitation has she continued her pace. In fact, her breathing only quickened.

Her eyes moved away from mine for a moment, sliding down my body. She wanted to see me, too. To see me doing what she was doing. In response, my hand moved down between my legs as well, to give her what she wanted without her having to ask.

Just as it was something that I'd never seen, it was also something that I'd never done for anyone; not in person, anyway. I was surprised with how natural, how intimate, it felt. As if I were revealing something to her that I'd never shared with anyone else.

She watched me, and we fed off of the other's movements.

Her back arched a little and her hips pushed up, seeking something or someone that was not there. My hips, too, were making the small unconscious rocking motion she'd become familiar with in years past. Her mouth was parted, lips relaxing. A slight noise escaped mine, and I licked them.

For a few moments, we seemed to keep a common rhythm, moving hips and hands with each other. My fingers slipped inside as hers did. I felt the moisture that she was feeling. I reached for my breast at the same time as she'd reached for hers.

I sat with my legs wide to her; she lay with hers wide to me. Her eyes, now concentrating on my face now, became glazed. I saw only her eyes and the flush in her face as she moaned again, a soft whimper that I had already heard several times that day. She was close, but not there.

Not quite.

Not yet.

My movements became more and more urgent, as did hers, and gradually our rhythms diverged. A harmony now instead of a single tune.

I saw the muscles in her stomach clench as she came, almost hard enough to make her sit upright. Watching her orgasm triggered mine, bringing me to climax just as hers was fading.

Her eyes were on me. Mine were on her.

As I climaxed, the world faded to nothing more than her eyes and the feeling flooding my body.

I slowly relaxed and slumped back in my chair, realizing only then that my hips had been pushed forward so far that I'd nearly slid off onto the floor.

She rose from the bed and knelt in front of me, placing her arms around my back and drawing me into a kiss. It was perfection.

Bad, bad things.

2009-08-10T12:49:00.000-05:00

I'm debating what, precisely, I should post today.

There is the post that I'd been working on, continuing the "month of Mollie."

There is something that I have done, recently, that I know that a few specific members of the reading audience will want to hear about.

There is something that I shouldn't have done that I did that probably should be shared, but likely won't be.

And, there's the review of last night's True Blood (which may wait until tomorrow anyway).

Something will go up today and it'll likely be the Mollie story (since it is the most complete at this point), but there are so many other things I'd like to share ...

Congratulations, Derrick.

2009-08-07T12:34:00.005-05:00

If you've read much of this blog, you know I'm a sports girl.

I grew up with a dad and two brothers who ate, drank, lived, breathed and played sports and, as a result, I did, too.

Winters were basketball. Particularly college basketball. March Madness would come around and we'd fill out brackets and see who could do the best at predicting the winners (I've won the past two years, if you're interested, and I'm willing to go on the record right now saying that ~~the~~ my Kansas Jayhawks will win it all again next March).

As soon as that ended, it was time for spring training and baseball season. For as far back as I can remember, my brothers both played and, at least until the All-Star break when our team was already hopelessly behind in the standings (every stinkin' year), we'd go to games and watch them on television.

But that disappointment was tempered because, by then, it was time for football ...

Off-season training was underway by then and it was only a few short weeks before NFL training camps would start opening up and then, in early August, the preseason would begin and the excitement would build.

I love football. I love watching it. I love reading about it. I even love playing it.

For as long as I can remember, I've been a Chiefs fan.

My family would watch the games on television every week and, every couple of years, my dad would manage to get enough tickets for all of us to actually go to Arrowhead and see a game.

One of the players that I remember most, growing up, was Derrick Thomas. I learned early, just based on my dad's and brothers' reactions, that whenever #58 was on the field, he was the guy to watch.

Derrick played his entire career in Kansas City so, though I wasn't old enough to remember the day he got his 7 sacks in a single game (against the Seattle Seahawks), I was around for most of the rest of his amazing career.

Though time has dimmed the memories somewhat, Derrick was always a force. From the start of his career to the end. He was sent to the Pro Bowl his rookie season, and was selected as the Defensive Rookie of the Year.

During those 11 seasons, he recorded 126.5 sacks (26 of which were against Denver's John Elway). He caused 45 fumbles, recovering 19 of them and returning 4 of them for touchdowns. He established Chiefs' records for sacks, safeties, fumble recoveries and forced fumbles.

We were actually at the game against the despised Oakland Raiders in 1998 when Derrick, approaching his own record for sacks in a game, signaled that he would tackle Oakland's quarterback for a safety and, on the next play, did exactly that.

I'd never cheered (or laughed) so hard.

I remember hearing afterward that, during the game, Oakland's QB had actually asked Derrick if he could stop sacking him so much. "Do you have to come so fast every play?" or somesuch.

He would've broken his own amazing sack record that night. He would've shattered it. That sixth sack came early in the third quarter. But, in order to not 'run up the score' and embarrass the Raiders too badly, they pulled Derrick out after that and he never for one moment complained about it.

I remember, too, how much he gave back. Derrick had a rough childhood, and he wanted to use his position and his money to help those kids who were facing the same kinds of things he'd faced to be able to overcome it.

For his charitable efforts, he was selected as the Edge NFL's Man of the Year (1993), the Walter Payton Man of the Year Award recipient (1993), the Genuine Heroes Award recipient (1994), the Byron "Whizzer" White Humanitarian Award recipient (1995), the Veterans of Foreign Wars Hall of Fame Award recipient (1999), was the 832nd of President George H.W. Bush's "A Thousand Points of Light" (and the only athlete named), and was awarded numerous 'role model' and 'good sport' awards by the Boy Scouts of America, Sports Illustrated for Kids, and others.

Nine years after his death, Derrick's "Third and Long Foundation" is still active in the Kansas City community, continuing the reading and scholarship programs he started and there is a tuition-free, public charter school named for him in Kansas City.

I still remember crying on February 8, 2000; the day that Derrick Thomas died.

He'd been injured in a single-car accident on an icy road near the airport in Kansas City on January 23rd but, though he'd initially been left paralyzed by his injuries, doctors had indicated that they expected him to make a full recovery.

On February 8, part of the blood clot that had left him paralyzed broke free and traveled to his lungs, causing a pulmonary embolism and cardiac arrest. He died in his mother's arms.

Tomorrow, Derrick Thomas enters the NFL Hall of Fame.

Congratulations, Derrick. We miss you.

Confession #21: The one about reconnection.

2009-08-06T12:22:00.001-05:00

We had been separated for too long.

When Mollie and I first met, both outsiders stuck in a place neither of us wanted to be, we had quickly become friends. We learned each other; our styles, our likes and dislikes, our values and how the other thought and reacted.

In our learning, we had also influenced each other. Our values, likes and dislikes had begun to grow together.

It was only natural. After all, when you find yourself falling in love with someone, you strive to learn and adapt and understand them.

In all of those months while we were separated, I think what I missed most of all was her touch.

Thanks to technology, I could her voice nearly any time I wanted. I could read her just as easily. I could see her smile and the sparkle in her eyes in photographs. But, her touch ...

She had so many.

There was the kind of touch that she had back when we'd first begun to hold hands when we walked across campus together; her slender fingers, strong and yet gentle, would intertwine with mine. The skin was soft, and had a delicate warmth. Her hand closing around mine gave me the feeling that she was holding me; not only just my hand, but my heart, my being.

Her hair had a touch all it's own. When she lay her head on my shoulder, I could feel it on my neck. When she would kiss me, I could feel it brushing against my face. The simple pleasure it brought would entice me to do similar to her; I would enjoy knowing she could feel my hair brushing her shoulder, her neck, or even grazing ever-so-lightly against her breasts.

We would often sit together, watching TV or reading or studying, and our feet would touch. Our toes would play as our feet moved, idly, against each other. It was simple, and most of the time merely playful rather than flirtatious, but I remember it clearly because the sensation of touch, her touch, made it special.

And her lips. That is, perhaps, the fondest of memories. Hers on mine. Gently or urgently. The moistness. The movement. The lust. The separation.

When her lips left mine, it was just the beginning. Lips -- her beautiful, full, soft lips -- on my nipples. On my stomach. On my thighs. And then, finally, reaching the flesh that was crying out for her ...

There was more than one occasion on which my thoughts of her resulted in my pleasuring myself while thinking of her touch and I often wondered if she had similar memories of me. The memories, though, were always only a mere shadow of the thing desired.

I stood at the gate, suddenly eager as people started coming off of her plane.

I still remember the smile that broke over her face and the light and joy and anticipation in her eyes when we finally saw each other again, face to face, after so long.

Our first touch of greeting was our hands, immediately squeezing, and then arms around each other in a deep, leisurely hug. I felt every muscle in her body melt into mine.

The seeds for what would happen later that day were planted right then; in that moment, we both experienced that same sensation. That reconnection.

We weren't worried about what others might think about our showing affection for each other in public. I'm not sure the thought ever crossed either of our minds.

(We were discreet, of course, but we didn't hesitate to demonstrate our affection for each other either.)

Our day didn't take us immediately back to my apartment; I had thought that would've been too presumptive. Instead, we went to a new outdoor shopping mall near the airport. We had lunch and talked and laughed; often reaching across the table for the other, enjoying once again the feeling of our hands together.

It wasn't until later -- after lunch and wandering around and, finally, her suggestion that she wanted to see my place -- that we found ourselves laying together, naked.

(No, this is not us.)

Our closeness was as natural then as it had ever been. It was simply accepted. It was who we were when we were "us." As we laid there, I was no longer relying simply on memories; rather, my mind was being filled with her, with new sensations of her touch.

Her fingers played idly with my right breast, one of her nipples pressed into my left.

Her legs were intertwined with mine in such a relaxed and natural way that it felt as if they simply merged together. Our feet touched, and I smiled when I felt toes.

My leg brushed against her lightly as I was moving it to hook under hers. The brief sensation of her soft, moist skin on my thigh seemed to linger there.

I reached and moved her hair, tucking it behind her ear so that I could touch her face.

I hadn't realized until right then how much I'd missed being able to touch her face. The soft curve of ther jaw. The indentation below the ear. Her nose and her lips.

Our entire bodies touched as one, it seemed the most natural and normal thing in the world; to touch her sexually, to arouse her and become aroused by her, were simply a physical expression of the love we shared for each other.

I had given my body to her, a long time ago. It was hers. And, in return, she had given her body to me as well.

Her touch moved to the wet parts of my body, stroking, finding those most sensative parts. She teased me, and slid and spread my wetness. It was the most wonderful and intimate feeling, of complete merging and vulnerability.

I wanted her there. I allowed her there. I accepted her there. And, eventually, I begged and whimpered for her to be inside.

As I lay there, her touch became my entire world.

I wanted nothing but the sensation of her skin and the skill of her lips. I was lost in it, and in the sensations of warmth that were building inside of me because of it.

The texture of her tongue on my pussy, pressing hard against me and urging me onward, the feeling of her fingers inside me, became more and more intense. I found my hands on her head, touching her hair, moving with her rhythm, pressing and urging her to move harder.

Finally, as I gasped and moaned and cried out with the intense pleasure, I found myself overwhelmed not only physically but emotionally.

As I slowly came down from climax, she was moving up my body until we kissed; a luscious kisses after the ultimate sharing. It sealed our affections and expressed that this pleasure we shared was not simply sex but something somehow even more intimate.

We rested there in that moment for a few moments before I became aware, again, of her body pressing against mine. Aware of our skin touching.

It was my turn to do for her what she'd done for me, to add blissful new memories to her old ones, to give physical expression to my inward emotion; she smiled and closed her eyes as I kissed her again and moved my hand down to touch her ...

HNT: Lost in Translation.

2009-08-06T00:55:00.000-05:00

When I first watched Lost in Translation, I was stunned by the opening image.

I sat, staring in awestruck wonder at Scarlett Johansson's butt clothed in peach-colored panties and silently debating whether or not her panties were actually semi-sheer or if I was simply staring so intensely that I'd developed x-ray vision ...

I attempted to recreate the scene but, whether it's because of my limited photographic capabilities or my lack of ScarJo's curves, I think I've fallen short of the goal; having, indeed, lost something in the translation.

Either way, I hope you all have a very happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!

Confession #20: The one about what we did that day.

2009-08-03T13:18:00.004-05:00

We were together most of the day and, for most of that time, we had been naked.

Mollie and I had been apart for nearly two years. We'd maintained contact, sure. We'd call at least once a week. We'd exchange emails. But until that morning, there had been a thousand or more miles between us.

After graduation, you see, she'd gotten accepted into a rather prestigious university in California. I'd chosen a university with, perhaps, slightly less prestige nearer to where I've always called "home."

She had come back to visit her parents and, because of my proximity to the airport she was flying in to, had made some extra time before she went to see them and I happily drove an hour to meet her at the airport.

She and I were lovers.

At least, we had been once upon a time.

When I found out she was coming and we both started figuring out how we could arrange to see each other, I hadn't made the assumption that anything would happen between us.

It wasn't until we were shopping and walking and laughing over lunch, when we'd quickly fallen back into that same comfort we'd had with each other that I started thinking those thoughts and, several hours later, it felt altogether too natural that we were once again entangled in each other's arms, naked.

We were not nude, mind you, because simple nudity only implies exposure or perhaps the mere absence of clothing. Nakedness is something more. It is vulnerability. Intimacy.

But for that one day, a cool Friday in late November, we were naked together for almost the entire day. We were in our own little world. A place in time in which only she and I existed.

For one day, it was just her and I, together.

For one day, we experienced so much.

Her body has always been hard and thin, but ever so warm. The feeling of her skin on mine, the entire length of our bodies touching is still entirely clear in my mind.

At this particular point, we both were sweating. I remember noticing that very early on. Feeling the wetness and slipperiness it caused. The sweat could have been unpleasant, but this wasn't.

There were times of rest, when we lay in each others arms, she and I. Where we touched. Where we lay exposed.

I remember the feeling of her breasts, particularly when her body was pressed against mine. When we rested, I sometimes shifted my body so that her breasts would rest against my body in different ways, just so I could feel their touch.

The softness of her skin was a delight. I remember moving my body, as we made love, in just a slightly different way, so that my skin could feel her skin, giving me more sensation.

I was constantly wet, and I was aware of just how wet I was. She was wet too, so much so that it felt slippery at times. I was amazed at just how long I remained wet.

There was one time I had to rest and got up to get myself a drink, but she wanted more and so she lay on the bed, touching herself. When I came back, I simply watched her. It was the most amazing experience, seeing how she touched herself, how she how her fingers moved.

I began watching carefully, observing her movements, and then touching myself in the same way. Of course, the result was that before long, I was imitating each of her movements, masturbating myself the way she did, feeling the same sensations and pleasure; not having sex, but having sex nonetheless. This was easily one of the most erotic experiences I can remember.

We touched and prodded and explored. I took my time each part of her body; scars, freckles, neck muscles, arms and fingers. I examined her scalp, massaging it as I went. Her ears were a fascination to me, especially as I experimented in how touching them and whispering in them and kissing them made her react.

I took my time with her body, memorizing it, storing away each detail for days like today when I would want to remember her and I and what we shared.

She would play with me, too, gently, as we looked in each other's faces and talked. Her hands roamed. It is rare that I feel within myself the level of trust and relaxation that I felt with her; she was free to insert fingers anywhere, experiment with sensations and discover how I reacted.

After several hours, she decided to shower and I joined her, not wanting to waste a single moment we were together. There is a simple but exquisite intimacy in washing another's body and hair.

Our passion cycled; facing each other as we explored, watching each others faces as orgasms flowed over us, followed by rest and idle play and then, as arousal peaked again, the cycle would begin anew.

We lost track of time that day.

Except to shower, since returning to my apartment, we had not left my bedroom the entire day.

By the time we went to dinner that night, my muscles had begun to ache, in certain spots and in certain ways, because of our activities and being put into positions to which they were unaccustomed. I would shift myself, move my weight and change sides, to keep the rhythm going.

My skin was becoming a little sore in a few places, but when the warmth of an orgasm is spreading, you push and urge and press and the soreness seems to mean nothing.

To try to describe this day seems so inadequate.

To be with her, to mix with her, our bodies touching and blending, the softer parts of our bodies pressing together, our legs straining to hold positions and keep stimulation going, was an altogether different world.

I was with a woman; a woman I love.

For one day, I left this world behind.

For one day, I was joined with her in nakedness, in vulnerability, in intimacy for a day.

For one day, we reached that point of merging entirely; physically, mentally, emotionally.

I cried more than once (those of you who have followed this blog know this is a tendency of mine; I still don't know quite why I do it). On this day, it was a bittersweet cry; one of enjoyment of our time together, but still filled with the knowledge that it would end all too soon ...

True Blood Season 2 Review: "Release Me."

2009-08-03T13:16:00.003-05:00

(Revised for clarity and accuracy on Thursday, August 6th, 2009.)

This episode was something of a letdown, frankly. Let me see if I can explain ...

This episode was kind of like one of those fireworks that you buy without really knowing what they do. The packaging makes it look amazing and, based on that, you're envisioning something that will shoot up into the air and explode and fill the darkness with sparks and wonder. You're disappointed, however, when after lighting the fuse and waiting in anticipation, to find that the box contained only a mediocre shower of sparks and a loud whistle or two.

Last week, you see, True Blood took all of the season's plotlines -- even the annoying ones -- and crafted them into something beautiful and terrifying. It made it seem as though everything was going to explode this week. Instead, all of that tension was released with very little in the way of satisfactory pay-offs. A fizzle, rather than a bang.

But, I'll walk you through it anyway because I know a few of you count on these to catch up on the supernatural goings-on in Bon Temps, which is (coincidentally enough) where we'll begin ...

Last week's show ended with Sam and Daphne escaping from Andy Bellefleur, before Sam was ambushed and Daphne lead him to his apparent doom at the end of Maryann's ceremonial blade. Apparently, though, we only thought that Daphne and Sam had lost the "Pig!"-obsessed (and more than mildly intoxicated) Andy in the woods.

They didn't.

He's still out there looking for the "Pig!" that ran in front of his car. He, too, hears the drums and odd noises through the trees and decides to investigate.

He stumbles into Maryann's latest orgy to discover the good folks of Bon Temps, naked and wild and chanting as the bull-masked Maryann is preparing to cut out Sam Merlotte's heart. He waves his gun around and orders everyone to stop and stay right where they are. Being in whatever sort of trance they're all in, though, they either don't hear him or just ignore him.

So, in an effort to get them to stop, he fires a shot in the air.

This startles the non-entranced people just enough that Sam has the distraction he needs to escape and bolts off through the forest. Maryann gives chase as all of the entranced people howl like they're suddenly in great pain.

Andy spots his cousin Terry and tries to get his attention, but Terry twists Andy's arm backwards and then shatters it, leaving Andy on the ground in agony as he stares up into the black-covered eyes of his friends and family.

Sam, meanwhile, is being chased by Maryann and, just as she's about to catch up with him with her long knife and equally cruel-looking three-clawed arms, he hears and owl and has the (brilliant) idea to turn into one and flies away, leaving Maryann enraged and without a sacrificial shape-shifter to slaughter.

Sam flees back to his bar, where he gets a gun out of a hiding place in his office.

The next morning, Eggs and Tara wake up on the couch back at Sookie's house, unable to remember how they got there. Eggs convinces Tara that they had to have just blacked out because of the joint they'd smoked together while wandering to find out what all of the clothes were from. Tara doesn't seem so sure.

Maryann walks in, her feet covered in blood (that appears to be her own, but I can't tell for sure), holding a dead rabbit. Tara remarks that it's disgusting. Maryann shoots back some odd "self-help" advice in the form of "Feeling sorry for things is just an excuse not to celebrate your own happiness."

As soon as she's out of the room, Tara remarks how weird she's acting. Eggs doesn't seem too concerned.

Sam takes his gun to confront Daphne, whom he finds at the dock where they'd shared a midnight swim a few nights before. He tells her that he trusted her more than anyone he's ever known and demands to know what, exactly, Maryann is.

Maryann, Daphne explains, is a god. Or, at least, the closest thing to it that humans will ever see. She goes through a list of things that Maryann has been called, including Lillith (Adam's supposed first wife and, in some legends, queen of the damned) and 'the horned god.'

She asks Sam if that rings any bells. He asks if she means like Satan. She says that's something of an over-simplification but, basically, yes. Maryann is a maenad, she explains. She channels violence and lust and excess and "all the other good stuff" ... oh, and she can't be destroyed.

She explains to Sam that Maryann's interest in Sam is because he's the one who got away. Maryann, you see, can control humans but not other supernatural beings. Shape-shifters like Sam and Daphne must follow her willingly and, well, since she had Sam once and he ran ... well, let's just say that when the devil wants something, she doesn't stop until she gets it.

Sam asks, if he gives himself up, if Maryann will leave Bon Temps. Daphne responds, "Not likely. She's having way too much fun here."

Back at Merlotte's, Lafayette is putting on make-up in the women's restroom while contacting his previous clients and trying to sell the V that Pam has given him.

Arlene pulls Tara inside, kicking Lafayette out, so that she can have a little privacy to tell Tara about her date with Terry. You see, we find out (despite Tara really not wanting to hear about Arlene's sex life) that she's afraid that she might've date-raped him. Except that she blacked out and can't remember it. And, she's pretty sure he blacked out, too.

Tara starts to put the pieces together that whatever happened the night before involved more than just her and Eggs.

Andy Bellefleur has, meanwhile, been back to the police station to explain what he saw (and how his arm was subsequently broken) to police chief Bud Dearborn, but his former boss is still just convinced that Andy's a drunk.

With no one believing his story, Andy decides to confront his cousin directly and shows up at Merlotte's, where he shouts at Terry that he's going to kick his ass so hard he'll be shitting boots and tells the "devil zombies" that they won't get away with what they did.

Everyone except Sam and Tara laugh him off.

Still at the dock, Daphne is greeted by Maryann and Eggs. Maryann kisses Daphne and thanks her for her service and, just as I'm thinking "Wow, that can't be good," Daphne's face starts to convey that she's thinking "Wow, that can't be good" and, just then, glassy-black-eyed Eggs plunges the ceremonial dagger into her chest.

I was unmoved.

Yes, I liked Daphne two weeks ago when I found out what she was and she and Sam seemed like they might be a 'happily ever after' sort of thing (you'll also remember that was the same week I predicted she'd die soon), but I stopped liking her last week when she turned out to be a traitorous bitch.

This week, when they killed her, I was actually just sort of mildly ambivalent.

Meanwhile, back in the basement of the Fellowship of the Sun church, Sookie and Hugo discuss who may've betrayed them. Initially, Sookie thinks it was Stan, setting them up and eliminating Godric as an attempt at grabbing Godric's position of Sheriff.

Bill is still trying to figure out how to get to Sookie, trying to outlast Lorena in a "who can stay up longest" battle against the drowsies; and we find out that, apparently, when vampires stay up too long after daybreak, they start to bleed from their orifices.

Now, if I remember correctly, Bill got an adjoining room for Jessica. How is it that, since the day previous, Jessica hasn't come to Bill's side of the hotel suite? I mean, yes, she's got Hoyt on her side of that door; but wouldn't she think it at least a little odd to have neither heard nor seen Sookie in two days?

But, I digress.

Lorena and Bill have a flashback in which the writers destroy any complexity we might've hoped Bill would develop as a character. You see, in the 1930's, he was already trying to not be a vampire anymore. He doesn't want the violent existence anymore. He doesn't like torturing humans for sport. Blah blah blah.

I liked murderous Bill better.

We get a bit of a flash of that when exhausted Bill promises Lorena that he'll outlast her and then drive a stake into whatever semblence of a heart she has left.

Eric and Isabel are standing outside of the Fellowship church. Eric remarks that Sookie and Hugo have been in there too long, but Isabel says that there's no sign of alarm and that she had a sense that Hugo was in danger earlier, but that it faded and she's sure he's alright now.

Inside the church, Jason and Sarah are enjoying the afterglow when Sarah starts crying because she's so happy. She then says that they need to go tell Steve what they did because, you know, just because she broke her wedding vows doens't mean she can lie about it.

Jason points out that they've got the lock-in the next night and that Steve has lots of guns and being locked in a building with a guy with a lot of guns right after revealing you'd slept with his wife didn't sound like his idea of a great time. So, Sarah agrees to keep it a secret, at least until after the lock-in is over.

Now, here's where I get confused because of some disjointed editing.

Since it's dark and the vampires are awake, that means that it is nighttime. For timeline purposes, this should be the same nighttime in which Sam was nearly killed and in which Andy discovered Maryann's orgy.

So, apparently, these scenes -- with Eric and Isabel and, then, with Jason and Sarah Newlin -- should've taken place before the scene with Bill trying to stay awake so that he could stake Lorena.

(Otherwise, Sookie and Hugo have been trapped inside the church for 36+ hours, which I don't think is the case.)

Jessica and Hoyt are discussing how their both virgins and want to be each other's firsts when dawn arrives and Jessica has to sleep. It's a cute scene, with Jessica snuggling up to Hoyt for her day-long nap and warning him not to freak out if she looks all dead and stuff.

(This apparently puts us back to the point where Bill and Lorena are having their little "I can stay awake longest!" stand-off.)

Eric and Isabel and Stan are in the hallway of the hotel and discussing what their next moves should be.

Eric, coming to the conclusion that there's no way that the ragtag Fellowship group he saw earlier could've held someone as powerful as Godric against his will for so long, thinks that his maker must've already been destroyed. If that is true, he states, then he's already lost everything and doesn't care anymore if Stan decides to kill the Fellowship (and, in so doing, obliterate the entire global vampire political agenda).

The next morning, Steve Newlin comes downstairs to chat with Sookie and Hugo. He tries to convice them that, if they'll just answer some questions for him, he'll feed them a hot breakfast and send them on their merry way.

Sookie refuses, obviously knowing that Steve has absolutley no intention of keeping his word to them, but Hugo tells Steve their names and their mission anyway.

Upon hearing the name Stackhouse, Steve immediately jumps to the conclusion that Jason must be a traitor, too. He and Gabe immediately leave to deal with him, arriving just in time to see Jason trying to leave the compound, bags packed.

Not knowing that Jason just finished sleeping with Sarah and is running because a) she told him she loved him and b) he thinks she's going to tell Steve what they did, Steve confronts Jason.

Jason thinks Steve already knows about him and Sarah and starts to apologize. When he realizes that Steve is actually thinking Jason is a vampire crony, Jason backtracks on his confession but, by then, Steve is certain Jason is lying about something, tells Gabe to dispose of him.

While trying to get him to calm down after a bout of claustrophobia, Sookie reads Hugo's thoughts and figures out that he is the traitor (just like in the books); which means that Steve and Gabe ought to know who Hugo is.

But, they don't seem to and, as Sookie points out, despite his feeding them information about her, they certainly don't show much interest in letting him go. To them, he's just another fang-banger.

Sookie, unsure why Bill hasn't come to her rescue, tries to send out a telepathic message to Barry to tell him to tell Bill she's stuck in the basement of the Fellowship church.

Bill, still sensing Sookie's danger, pleads with Lorena to at least let him send help to her; "Eric or someone."

(Except, hang on, isn't it supposed to be daytime?)

Lorena laughs and reveals to Bill that Eric is the reason she's there. "He wants the girl, William. Just let him have her."

Bill's face shows how hurt he is hearing of Eric's betrayal. I am, again, unmoved. (I think I might make a pretty good vampire because, apparently, I'm as stoic as the best of them.)

Just then, Barry knocks on the door.

Bill tries to answer it, but Lorena clamps a hand over his mouth and holds a stake to his chest, "taking a message" for him from whomever is there. Barry tells her that Sookie has been captured and is being held with Godric in the basement of the Fellowship church.

Eric, "sleeping" in his room across the hall, overhears and bolts out of his hotel room to race to her (or, is it Godric's?) rescue.

(And, again, isn't it still supposed to be daytime outside? Whatever.)

Jason and Gabe are in the woods, with Jason pleading for his life and trying to assure Gabe that it's all just a big misunderstanding. Just as he's about to cut Jason's throat, Gabe makes a comment about Jason's "mis-begotten whore of a sister" (or somesuch).

Apparently, though Jason's perfectly alright dying at Gabe's hands without really defending himself, trash-talking his sister is just something he will not tolerate. So, he fights Gabe and wins and takes Gabe's knife and starts running back to the compound to figure out just how, exactly, Gabe knew about Sookie.

As he's about halfway there, evening is falling and Jason is caught in the headlights of one of the Fellowship's golf carts. He's relieved when Sarah calls his name, so he stops running. As he's turning to her, she's stepping out of the cart brandishing one of Steve's really big guns.

You see, Steve told her that he'd found out Jason was a traitor. And, semi-psycho Sarah felt even more betrayed because of what they'd just done and how she'd fallen for Jason. So, she shoots him.

Again, entirely un-moved.

(Mainly because I remember the big gun that Steve had in his golf cart was a paintball gun and, though Jason's likely to have a nasty welt, I doubt his wound is fatal. His survival was also confirmed by the fact that he's in the previews for next week. Yay, spoilers.)

Gabe makes it back to the compound and he's pissed. He storms into the room where Hugo and Sookie are being held, presumably because he thinks that's where Jason is headed, and starts beating on Hugo.

For whatever reason, instead of trying to escape, Sookie decides to jump on Gabe to help Hugo, who is already beaten into unconciousness. Gabe responds by throwing Sookie to the ground, tearing her dress off and forcing himself on her.

Suddenly, he's torn off of her and is suspended, mid-air, by Godric. The end, roll credits.

In retrospect, the episode probably wasn't that bad. But, after such a great week last week of building tension, there were so many let-downs in this episode that I'm not even sure where to begin.

So, instead of dwelling on it, I'm just going to wait for next week and try to forget that this week ever even happened ...

Yes or no?

2009-07-31T12:27:00.004-05:00

Because I'm particularly stumped on things to write about that a) I feel comfortable sharing and b) think people would be interested in, you're getting a meme from me today instead of an actual post.

I ~~stole~~ got this from Hubman's blog, and the rules are thus:

You can ONLY answer Yes or No.
You are NOT ALLOWED to explain ANYTHING unless someone messages or comments you and asks. — and believe me, the temptation to explain some of these will be overwhelming, nothing is exactly as it seems.

If you'd like to play along, feel free to copy and paste this into your notes, delete my answers, and type in your answers.

Been arrested? NO
Kissed someone you didn’t like? YES
Slept in until 5 PM? YES
Ran a red light? YES
Been suspended from school? NO
Experienced love at first sight? NO
Totaled your car in an accident? NO
Been fired from a job? YES
Fired somebody? NO
Sang karaoke? YES
Pointed a gun at someone? NO
Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? YES
Caught a snowflake on your tongue? YES
Kissed in the rain? YES
Had a close brush with death (your own)? NO
Seen someone die? YES
Played spin-the-bottle? YES
Smoked a cigar? NO
Sat on a rooftop? YES
Smuggled something into another country? NO
Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? YES
Broken a bone? YES
Skipped school? YES
Eaten a bug? YES
Sleepwalked? NO
Walked a moonlit beach? NO
Rode a motorcycle? YES
Dumped someone? YES
Lied to avoid a ticket? YES
Ridden in a helicopter? NO
Shaved your head? NO
Made your boyfriend/girlfriend cry? YES
Eaten snake? NO
Marched/Protested? NO
Had Mexican jumping beans for pets? NO
Puked on amusement ride? YES
Seriously & intentionally boycotted something? NO
Been in a band? YES
Been on TV? YES
Shot a gun? YES
Skinny-dipped? YES
Gave someone stitches? YES
Ridden a surfboard? NO
Drank straight from a liquor bottle? YES
Had surgery? YES
Streaked? YES
Taken by ambulance to hospital? NO
Passed out when not drinking? NO
Peed on a bush? NO
Donated Blood? YES
Grabbed electric fence? YES
Eaten alligator meat? NO
Killed an animal when not hunting? YES
Peed your pants in public? NO
Snuck into a movie without paying? YES
Written graffiti? NO
Still love someone you shouldn’t? NO
Been in handcuffs? YES
Believe in love? YES
Sleep on a certain side of the bed? YES

Confession #19: The one that was revenge.

2009-07-30T09:41:00.322-05:00

"Because only when you fuck is everything that you dislike in life and everything by which you are defeated in life purely, if momentarily, revenged. Only then are you most cleanly alive and most cleanly yourself. It’s not the sex that’s the corruption - it’s the rest."

- Phillip Roth, The Dying Animal

He knew I liked the missionary position.

Being Cheater's best friend meant that Ezra had been a constant in my life, too, for most of the past two years. We had flirted at times because, as I've said before, it's something that I tend to do without even realizing it and it had been enjoyable, lovely and entirely harmless because, well, I was with his best friend.

Based on intimate conversations we had all had together, often over some sort of alcoholic beverage, I knew that he was capable of both loving intimacy and extreme kink. His appetites, in most regards, had been very similar to my own.

Our flirting had brought a certain level of intimacy to our friendship, but we had never even thought of consummating what it had implied.

Ezra was huge. Not fat nor particularly muscalar, mind you. Just huge. He was easily the better part of six and a half feet tall and looked like he could intimidate a football linebacker. He had green eyes and black hair that was curly and thick and seemed constantly tousled, and an equally scruffy looking chin strip.

He was in the bedroom, collecting boxes of Cheater's things.

Until just a few days before, that bedroom had belonged to Cheater and me. It had been ours. That was, of course, before he'd done that one thing that he couldn't ever take back.

The memory of what I had seen that afternoon, walking in and finding him having sex with someone else, was still too fresh and too painful for me to sleep in there. I'd been sleeping, instead, on the couch in the living room.

Cheater knew better than to come by himself so, instead, he sent Ezra to collect what I hadn't pawned off or left on the apartment building's lawn.

"You okay?" he asked, leaning against the wall as if it would fall over without his support with his arms crossed over his chest.

I had been sitting on the couch, apparently staring off into space. That he was there to get Cheater's things -- what little there was left, anyway -- had reminded me that it was over. That this thing that I'd expected to last the rest of my life had, in one afternoon, all come crashing down.

His voice caught me off-guard and I nodded, though there was an obvious uncertainty to it.

"It's okay for you to be upset, you know."

There was a part of me that had been, since that fateful discovery, so angry that it was taking comfort by quietly plotting Cheater's murder. There was another part of me that was so hurt by what had happened that even the slightest reminder of him caused my eyes to uncontrollably well with tears. And as hurt and angry as I was, there was also that part of me that still loved him with everything that I had and wanted nothing more than to hear his voice and to feel his arms around me.

I simplified all of that into another uncertain nod.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten to keep myself from crying. He sat down beside me on the couch and put his arm around me. I was surprised by how warm he felt.

"It's okay," he said. He reached across his body to take my hands, both of them, in his left hand as his right arm tightened around my shoulders.

I've stated before that there are times when my body seems to have a mind of its own. My body has gotten used to semi-regular sex; for recreation or for intimacy or for comfort. The longer it was deprived of these things, the more determined it became.

There was nothing sexual meant to his hug; it was meant as comfort and, emotionally, that's what it was.

Physically, though, my body didn't respond to it that way. This was one of those times that my body was responding, at least initially, on its own.

The part of me that was hurting and the part of me that was angry saw this as an opportunity to make Cheater hurt, to make him angry. Opportunity was here. It was physical. It was real. It was flesh and blood and looking right at me.

My heart was beating hard, and I hoped I was not flushing visibly.

We didn't flirt. I think it was because we had flirted in the past that he sensed that what was happening now, the mood that was hanging in the room, was somehow more serious.

I became incredibly aware of my own body, its shape and form, each movement I made and how it impacted him. I felt my hair fall across my face, felt my hand brush it back in that habitual motion of mine.

I knew him well enough by now to know that, first, he would respect my wishes and not initiate anything unless I desired it and, second, he would be (at the very least) reluctant to do anything because of his friendship with Cheater.

I touched his face softly and it had the immediate effect I had hoped for. He looked at me, leaned forward, and we kissed for the first time. It was good. Sweet. Almost as if we had been starved for the touch of our lips and tongues and were finally satiating our innermost desires.

"We shouldn't," he said, when he finally broke off the kiss. "I can't."

"Shut up," I told him, softly. "Please."

It took all of about 30 seconds before our lips joined in a constant inseparable kiss, glued to each other. There was no flirting; this was real. It was visceral. It was needy.

Our arms surrounded each other. Pressed. Clutched. Explored. I don't think anything could have stopped us at that point.

Quietly, I suggested to him that we go to the bedroom.

I don't remember our clothes coming off. I don't remember getting on the bed.

I don't know quite what I expected but, now, as he and I touched and explored, he was gentle but urgent. Respectful but uninhibited. He took me, but took me exactly where I wanted to go.

Laying on my back, he moved from my stomach, up to my breasts, concentrating on exploring and giving me pleasure at every point. My legs raised automatically, and wrapped around his lower back, as I arched my back and ran my fingers through his thick, untamed hair. He finally reached my face, kissing and licking and sucking on my neck, ears, lips, tongue.

I wanted him. I wanted him inside. I wanted him now. I could hardly contain myself, I wanted him so badly. I was ready, dripping wet, and I knew he was as well, his hardness pressed against my inner thigh.

I began an almost unconscious thrusting of my hips upward, hoping to find him, for him to find me, to feel him slide against me and enter me.

I had known he was large. I'd had several opportunities in the past months to steal glances. As he began to enter me, I finally had a full realization of what his size meant and bit my lip until the discomfort was overwhelmed by a sense of completion.

It was right then, in that moment of feeling my body allowing him entirely inside, that what we were doing hit me.

What I was doing wasn't words I could apologize for. This wasn't something I could ever take back. This was my way of lashing out. Of trying to hurt Cheater as badly as he'd hurt me. All of the hurt and anger and pain that I'd felt the past few days; I poured it all into this one act.

My eyes closed, and I began concentrating on simply feeling him inside. The rhythm began, the simultaneous cooperation that is the animalistic, instinctive action of mating.

We moved and shifted and pushed and struggled against each other to find the best motion and feeling. Our bodies pressed together his chest against my breasts, stomach against stomach, legs intertwined, cheeks pressed close, lips kissing.

I came first, an explosion of warmth and pleasure spreading quickly through my nervous system. That would be the first of several.

When we finally stopped, after he climaxed inside of me, I cried.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I held Ezra close. He just held me and told me that I'd be alright. He was still inside me and I knew even when he withdrew there would still be a bit of him inside; a temporary physical element of the permanent piece of ourselves that we'd just given to the other.

He didn't take any of Cheater's things with him when he finally left that night; I told him he wouldn't need to, because I was going to leave and Cheater could have the apartment back.

Two days later, I was gone.

Cheater found out about us, indirectly. Neither Ezra nor I had told him, but word got back to him eventually, third- or fourth-hand, from others that we'd to whom confessed our deed.

Something in his voice every time we've talked since then -- every time he's wanted to reminisce about "us," and every time he has said something that implies that he'd like at least one more time with me -- lets me know that what we did got to him. I was no longer his, it was his own fault, and every time I turned him down it just dug that much deeper into him.

He may still get to me in some ways.

There are still things that he does that bother me long after they have any reason to, and long after when I should've stopped caring. But even though I've never been a particularly vengeful person, I have to admit that there's something entirely too satisfying knowing that that still bothers him, too ...

TMI Tuesday #197 - Nonsexual edition.

2009-07-28T09:48:00.000-05:00

I'll be real honest, I think TMI Tuesday this week is kinda a little bit lame. Not because the "questions" are lame, but because of the way they're phrased they really seem to limit you to one word, fill-in-the-blank responses and I hate those.

So, along with having the blanks filled in, I'm going to add a bit of side commentary on what I think of the questions and what could have gone into the answers ... ?

1. The three words that best describe you are bubbly, friendly, and sarcastic.
This is one of those that's hard to choose just three words for. You're missing words that I'd like to include like "funny" and "flirtatious" and "vivacious" and "quiet" and "mellow" and "studious" and such, all because I've had a limit put on me and, by necessity, I went with the three that best describe me right now.

A better question: What three words would you use to describe yourself to a total stranger? Would your friends use those same three words?

2. The three words that best describe your life are busy, fun, and happy.
How's that for generalities, huh? Again, limited to three words but expanding it to a much longer time span doesn't make the choices any easier, it just forces the answers I give you to be more broad and, thus, vague.

A better question: Can you describe your life in three words? Are those the three words you'd want to describe your life?

3. Your three guilty pleasures are music, reading, and sex.
You're missing "True Blood," "erotica," "masturbation," and "dancing" among several others. But, there were only three blanks so "music, reading and sex" is all you're getting from me.

4. The three places you would like to visit before you die are Hawaii, Ireland, and Australia.
In Hawaii, I'd like to enjoy the beach and learn to surf. In Ireland, I'd like to just wander the old country roads and enjoy the scenery (okay, and the pubs). In Australia, I'd really like to go to the great barrier reef and at least see a great white shark (I don't think I need to be in the water with them; seeing them from a boat is just fine).

5. The three things you would like to do before you die are get married, have kids, and see my great-grandchildren.
Simple enough, huh?

Bonus (as in optional):If you were making Chris Milk's video "Last Day Dream" (below) what three to five flashes would be your life so far?
I'll have to watch the video a couple of times and get back to you on that one ...

True Blood Season 2 Review: "Hard-Hearted Hannah."

2009-07-27T12:34:00.000-05:00

(If you're not familiar with where the title came from, you need to go brush up on your Ella Fitzgerald music. "Leather's tough but Hannah's heart is tougher / She's a gal who loves to see men suffer / To tease 'em and thrill 'em, to torture and kill 'em / Is her delight, they say ..." The reference here is to Lorena, Bill's maker, and Bill Compton is singing this song in the episode -- but I'll get to that in a minute.)

Last week was all about connections and this week was all about the lies that dwell just beneath the surface, waiting to bubble over and spill out. And, let me just say, this week was intense.

We start off in the lobby of Hotel Carmilla, the vampire-friendly hotel in Dallas where Bill, Eric, Jessica and Sookie are all staying and we'll beging there with the first of our liars: Eric.

Eric is sitting in the lobby, feeding off of a hooker. She's pretending to like it, which isn't working for Eric who demands she act scared. She tries that and her performance is even worse. So, he casts her aside to greet Lorena.

Lorena: Why am I here?
Eric: Bill has something that I want, and he's in the way.

That's right, it turns out that he is the one who invited Lorena there, in order to drive a wedge between Sookie and Bill so that he could have Sookie as his own. Lorena is skeptical but more than willing to play along ...

Which brings us to the second of our liars: Bill.

Bill, you'll remember, has mainstreamed himself. He has been played, all along, as a reluctant vampire. He's never liked what he is, so he says, and he is different from the "vile and repulsive" other vampires we've seen introduced in the series, right?

Not so much.

In Lorena's flashback, we go to 1920's Chicago.

But, before we go there, let me explain that, in Charlaine Harris' vampire world, it's unusual for vampires to stay together at all. Relationships with other vampires lasting more than a few nights is unheard of, except in "nest" relationships (pseudo-families for the vampires which tend to spring up and then fade away after a decade or two). If vampires do stay together for any length of time, it generally results in one or both of them becoming rather seriously mentally unbalanced. So if Bill was "made" in the mid-1860's and is still with Lorena in the 1920's ... well, you do the math.

Anyway, back to Chicago in the 1920's, Lorena and Bill are posing as French socialites at the home of a rich couple who are hosting a large drinking party in their home (remember, this is the era of Prohibition). Bill, as Guillame, is playing the piano and singing jazz. Lorena is flirting with the rich couple and alluding to the fun that the four of them could have after the rest of the guests leave, as they "fuck Prohibeeshawn togezzair."

(Sorry, I'll forego typing in a fake French accent for the rest of the review ...)

We wind up with Lorena on top of one bed, with the rich wife. Bill leads the rich husband into the room, obviously having already fed off of him, and sits him in a chair facing the bed to watch what's about to happen. As he joins the wife on the bed, Lorena goes and stands behind the already traumatized husband and holds his head so that he can't look away as Bill bites his wife and then proceeds to tear his wife's throat out.

Lorena smiles as blood gushes from the woman's wound. She then snaps the husband's neck and joins Bill on the bed as the woman's life slowly drains away. Bill takes the dying woman's necklace from her neck as her blood gurgles up from the wound and gives it to Lorena as a gift, and then they push her still not quite half-dead body aside and have rough sex in the bloodied sheets.

Not a lot of tortured reticence there on Bill's part. Kinder, gentler vampire indeed.

Back in the present day, Bill and Sookie are about to make out when they're interrupted by a visit from Isabel, one of Godric's crew. She introduces her human, Hugo, who she has volunteered to join Sookie in infiltrating the Fellowship of the Sun. This, of course, makes Bill feel much more comfortable about sending Sookie into the church and she, too, is glad for the help.

Now, in the book, Hugo is a liar, too. He's a reluctant thrall of Isabel, not actually in love with her. He got involved with the vampires first as their lawyer while defending them in a "equal rights" court case, but stays around because he's addicted to the extraordinary sex. He doesn't want to be there, and doesn't want to help.

In the show, however, he is actually in love with Isabel; at least, from what Sookie has read from him. And we find out, as they plot their infiltration together in the hotel bar, that he actually fights with her because he wants to be turned and she refuses to do so. You see, he doesn't want to "grow old gracefully" at her side while she never changes. Which, of course, leaves Sookie confronting an ugly future of her own that, to this point, she apparently hadn't considered.

Meanwhile, at Creepy Cult Camp, Jason and Luke are waiting for a special meeting with the Newlins outside of the church. Luke is wondering why they've been called out there, but Jason thinks he has a pretty good idea already.

However, rather than Steve confronting Jason about what Jason and Sarah had done in the bath, he gives Jason and Luke the important job of building a platform with a large wooden cross where a vampire will "meet the sun." Luke is genuinely excited, but Jason is somewhat reluctant. Sarah coldly tells him that he needs to be more grateful for the opportunities he's being given.

Read into that whatever you'd like.

Jason and Luke work together, seemingly all male-bonded because of the events of last week. Luke senses something is bothering Jason and they talk a bit about sexual sin and celibacy.

So, while Jason contemplates celibacy as an answer to his problems with being tempted by Sarah, Luke gives him the run-down on just exactly how God ranks sexual sins and it turns out, according to Luke, some sins are worse than others. Premarital sex is bad, for example. But, it isn't as bad if you're having sex with you're girlfriend as it is if you're having sex with someone else's wife. Adultery is, in Luke's world, equally as bad as bestiality and incest. A step up from those is when a guy "does it to a vampire ... or to a dude! Or to a vampire dude, that’s the cream de la cream [sic] of sin!"

Luke: God is an open-minded guy. To a point ...
Jason: Jason Stackhouse, celibate.
Luke: Has a nice ring to it, don't it?
Jason: ... no, not really.

Meanwhile, on the other side of camp, Sookie and Hugo arrive to tour the church -- unknowingly driving right past Jason.

(Remember, Jason told Sookie that he was going to "church camp" with Malboro Baptist, a name he made up after seeing a cigarette ad behind her.)

Sarah greets them in the parking lot. Nervous, Sookie immediately forgets the plan was to let Hugo do all of the talking while she just stayed quiet and read people. Instead, she blabbers on and on about her "fiance" Hugo and how they're looking for a church to marry them that didn't sympathize with vampires.

Their plan seemingingly working perfectly despite Sookie's inability to stick to it, Sarah takes them inside to meet Steve.

The Newlins insist on giving Sookie and Hugo a tour of the church, but as they work their way through the building, Sookie starts to hear thoughts leaking from Steve and Sarah that tell her that the Newlins know exactly who she is and exactly why she's there.

She hears Sarah feeling sorry for her because Sarah thinks "the vampires made her do this." She hears Steve thinking something about hoping that they don't discover the vampire in the basement before he can meet the sun and then something about not letting them leave.

Uh oh.

Suddenly panicked, Sookie attempts every excuse she can to not go visit Theodore Newlin's tomb in the basement which, Steve insists, is the best part of the tour. When she refuses to go, Steve calls her a "cunt" and has his drill sergeant, Gabe, literally drag her down the stairs while Steve is forcing Hugo to go, too.

Sarah, for her part, demands Steve not do this and looks on completely unable to believe her husband is capable of doing what she's watching him do ...

Bill wakes at Sookie's danger (remember, they're interconnected because of her ingesting so much of his blood and he's got the ability to sense when she's in trouble) and tries to go to her rescue; but Lorena is there. On top of him. She refuses to let him go and tells him that he's powerless to resist her and they start kissing.

Lorena: Is something happening to your human?
Bill: Lorena!
Lorena: I'm your maker. You'll never overpower me.

Jason walks in to the darkened church sanctuary to tell the Newlins that he and Luke have completed the altar that the vampire is going to die on, and finds Sarah in the balcony crying. He goes up to console her, while still trying to keep his distance. She tells him of her troubles with Steve, that he is "vicious and cruel and uses the 'c word'" and that he isn't the man she thought he was.

Jason retorts that Steve is a great man (which he'd likely change his tune on if he knew what Steve had just done to Sookie), and she responds that Steve is planning to use Jason to start a war. Of course, oblivious Jason is completely oblivious to what she could be talking about.

She tells Jason that, ever since she was a little girl, she has known that she was meant to be with a great man. She thought that man was Steve, but now it's clear to her that it's Jason. Jason asked how she knows, and she responds that God told her so and, in the church's balcony, off go the clothes.

The only bright spot we get in anything going on in Dallas this week is Hoyt and Jessica. Hoyt's mom cancelled his cell phone service when Jessica wouldn't stop calling him late at night (because that isn't ladylike or proper, you know). So, Hoyt confronted his mother and then drove to Dallas to see Jessica because he was worried that she'd be upset because he hadn't texted her back.

Hoyt: You're not upset, are you?
Jessica: No. I'm so happy I could cry, but I don't wanna because it's really gross when I do.

In fact, that's really the only bright spot in this episode at all.

Back in Bon Temps, Sam and Daphne are still reclining naked on the pool table at Merlotte's, enjoying the afterglow of their first encounter. Sam is tracing the scars on her back and asks how it happened. Daphne tells him that she never really saw the creature that attacked her, but that she'll never forget the pain or how it took her more than a week to recover from the sickness that followed.

Sam tells her that he's never met anyone like her. She asks why he's never told anyone what he is; "You shouldn't be ashamed of what you are."

At Sookie's house, the hot water heater is broken and Tara is calling around to find someone to fix it while Maryann is complaining about having had to take a cold shower. Tara finally finds a place in Ferriday where she can get it fixed and, realizing that she'll have to drive an hour, convinces Eggs to go along.

As they're driving along a road that Eggs isn't familiar with, he suddenly recognizes that there'll be a curve and then a big barn. Surprised when that actually appears, he tells Tara to pull over. Then, he gets out of the car and starts walking.

She follows, of course, asking where they're going. He doesn't know, he says, and it really seems like he should be remembering more than he does.

They eventually come to an odd clearing in the woods. There has obviously been a campfire here. The rocks have paintings on them of weird figures in some sort of red ink. There are clothes laying around, some of them bloodied. And then they find what appears to be some sort of altar rock that is covered with what looks to be blood.

That's probably not good, huh?

Back at Merlotte's, Sam and his staff are setting up for the evening crowd. Arlene is flirting with Terry, telling him that she has a surprise for him and, as a reminder about his post-traumatic stress disorder, he tells her that he doesn't like surprises.

In the back, Sam tells Daphne that he can't concentrate on work because every time he sees the pool table, he thinks about what they'd done there the night before. He suggests that they take off all of their clothes and go run through the woods. She says that she can't because her boss is a jerk; he jokingly says that she can sue him for harrassment later but that if she isn't naked and waiting for him in the woods in two minutes, he'll fire her.

Andy Bellefleur shows up looking for Lafayette, and finds him in the kitchen. He starts interrogating Lafayette about where he'd been those two weeks he was missing and why he came back different. Lafayette tells him he was on a cruise. A gay cruise.

Andy calls him on his lie, pointing out that Lafayette would've come back happier from something like that and reminds Lafayette that there's a murder investigation going on (glad someone remembers the body of Miss Jeanette showing up) and says he ought to take Lafayette down to the jail and lock him up until he talks.

Those words cause Lafayette to crumble. He cowers in a corner while Andy berates him, seeing Andy as Eric, demanding answers Lafayette is unable to give. Terry interrupts, tells Andy to back off, saying "everyone knows you're not a cop anymore anyway," and eventually gets Andy to leave. Recognizing PTSD when he sees it, he gathers Lafayette in his arms to help calm him down and tells him to envision a big ball of peaceful energy ...

Andy is driving down the road away from Merlotte's when he almost runs over a dog and a ~~doe~~ giant pig.

You remember the giant pig, right? It's what we saw with Maryann when she first appeared in the middle of the road the night Tara crashed and got arrested for DUI. It's what Andy saw at the first of Maryann's weird orgy parties that got him fired from the police force.

Apparently, the giant pig is Maryann's constant companion and, if Daphne is the giant pig, well ... I knew last week that I shouldn't get too attached to Daphne.

Andy hops out of the car and starts to chase them through the woods, but they quickly lose him, at which point Sam and Daphne switch back and he asks why she'd turned into a pig and she says because it's her go-to animal. Sam mentions that Andy seemed to recognize her, but Daphne blows it off saying that "Pig! Pig!" is what anyone would shout when chasing a pig through the forest.

Sam, that little doggie nose of yours ought to be smelling the danger you're in because, as a viewer, I can already tell this isn't going to end well.

Pam, Eric's female vampire assistant, shows up at Merlotte's and finds Lafayette still recovering from his earlier bout of PTSD in the walk-in refrigerator. She gives him a bottle of "V" (vampire blood, which human's use as a drug) and tells him she gave it to him at Eric's request. He points out that the whole reason they locked him up in the first place was because he'd been selling that and he wasn't going to do it anymore. She told him that he was because he "owes" them (owes them what?) and that he was back in business.

Eggs and Tara arrive back at Sookie's and find that the place is trashed. The lawn and the house are littered with trash and clothes. They follow the trail of garbage to find another of Maryann's parties, with a big campfire in the center of it and people banging on drums.

This one, however, is raging at a level they've never seen (or, in Eggs' case, can't seem to remember seeing). All of the people there, including a lot of the people we know -- Arlene and Terry, for example -- have that blackness going on in their eyes and they're all naked and all fucking like rabbits except that "like rabbits" doesn't even beging to cover it.

Some of them are just with their regular partners. Some are taking on more than one at a time. And, vibrating in the center of it all, is Maryann.

And she doesn't seem at all shocked or surprised when Eggs and Tara arrive. In fact, she stops vibrating just long enough to turn and smile at them. And then we look past her to an ancient bronze bull mask resting nearby on a rock.

That's probably not good either.

Sam and Daphne are apparently nearby in the woods, because they hear the drum music. Daphne suggests they go investigate. Sam says they shouldn't, joking that drum music only leads to hippies and cults. Daphne's smile quickly disappears and two naked, eyes-blacked-over people appear behind Sam and grab him and they drag him to the orgy. By the time they arrive, Tara and Eggs have been overcome by Maryann's magicks and have joined the "festivities" ...

Sam: What the hell is this?!
Daphne: The end of the road.

As Daphne apologizes (somewhat hollowly), one of the guys lowers the bull mask over Maryann's head and she starts chanting something in Latin; she is presented with a rather large ceremonial knife and we end the show with Sam's screams.

Well, that was certainly a cliff-hanger of an ending for the halfway point of the season, huh?

You got all those lies and liars, right?

Eric bringing Lorena to Dallas to drive a wedge between Sookie and Bill.
Bill lying about his past and how he was just a victim.
Sookie and Hugo lying about who they are (and Hugo lying about his motivations for helping Sookie?).
Jason lying to himself and Luke about his relationship with Sarah.
Sarah and Steve lying about knowing who Sookie was.
Steve lying (for however long) about how cruel and violent he can be.
Sarah lying to Steve about her relationship with Jason, and tehn lying to Jason about her "talks" with God and His approval of their relationship.
Andy lying about what he had the power to do to Lafayette.
Lafayette lying about where he'd been.
Eggs lying (or, at a minimum, unable to actually remember the truth) about the apparent murder scene he knew the exact location of.
Maryann revealing the lie about who she was to Tara and Eggs (who probably won't remember it in the morning anyway).
And, finally, Daphne deceiving Sam about who she really was.

The previews for next week (or, perhaps, the second half of the season) showed, among other enticing bits: Eric in chains of silver being tortured by the Fellowship of the Sun; Gabe holding a knife to Jason's neck, while Steve Newlin tells Jason that he was going to hell and that he was going there today ...

Confession #18: The one about intimacy.

2009-07-27T08:47:00.000-05:00

I got to his place first and started cleaning up some of the mess.

There always seems to be a mess in his house. I assure you, the mess is not mine, it's entirely his. Underwear on the floor in the bathroom where he took it off to shower. Shoes in the living room under the coffee table where he kicked them off while watching television. An empty soda can on the end table. Two half-read novels beside the soda can. A newspaper from two days ago on the dining room table. A loose bra ...

OK, so the bra and novels are mine. It is a mutual mess, blaming him for it just makes me feel better.

He came home and was grumping around before he even got through the door. Something was wrong. We ran to our favorite Chinese take-out place and ate dinner next to each other on his couch, watching a movie on TV. He was quiet the entire meal. I finally asked what was wrong.

Work had been tough. He had a long day of back to back to back appointments. He'd gotten chewed on by his boss because he'd missed something that he should've caught, even though he did catch it before it'd caused any issues. In his job, there isn't room for errors, though.

So, I took him to bed.

I got him undressed. Took off his clothes, shirt, underwear, shoes, socks and, one leg at a time, pants. I stripped the blankets off the bed so he could lay down naked on the sheets.

He rolled over on his stomach and I began to touch him. I could feel the muscles under his skin, they were tense.

His back was stroked, rubbed, massaged with care. Working from the spine outward. A technique I'd learned back in drama class so long ago that both relaxed and energized.

My massaging traveled down his back to his butt, because he likes that. After a little while, I worked back up to his shoulders and his neck. His muscles were relaxing some already. I lay down next to him, my skin touching his.

As I continued to touch him gently, I talked softly to him.

I told him how I remembered the way he looked the first time I talked to him at the bookstore. I told him my best memory of a date with him. I told him how much I loved going to see his family with him. I spoke softly in his ear of good things that made us happy.

He has this electric candle (I know it sounds strange but it is made of real, scented wax, it just has a flickering light inside of it instead of a flame). I walked to where it's kept on the dresser and turned it on, as it was getting dark. The candle bathed the room in its soft flickering light. The wax smelled lightly of vanilla and orange.

In a while, he was relaxed and drifting off to sleep.

A while back, you see, he'd done something similar for me. I learned then, from him, that that's what partners are for. Affection and intimacy, provided and delivered through touch, sight, sound and smell.
We slept together that night, peacefully. The next morning we woke together, and before he left for work, he kissed me slowly and deeply.

He didn't say "I love you," but I didn't need him to. I know it, even if he doesn't say it.

Ironically, I'm posting this the morning after our first major fight. The fight was over something stupid and I can't even really remember how we got there now (isn't that the way fights always are?).

I was fighting my four-week migraine (they're hormonal, I know), but managing it. There was frustration about something or another and we were just rubbing each other wrong for most of the afternoon. It ended up blowing up (not as bad as some blown-ups I've had, but certainly the worst we've had so far), and I came home alone.

It doesn't change the way I feel, but I still think we're both a little emotionally bruised this morning.

I was hoping he'd call and apologize before he went in to work, but he didn't. If he doesn't call by the time I have to be at swim lessons, I'll call him ...

The results are in and ...

2009-07-24T12:39:00.001-05:00

We're clean!

(Not that we really ever expected anything else, but it's nice to have the medically certified verification.)

They ran the full spectrum of tests -- chlamydia, gonorrhea, HIV-1, hepatitis B and C, herpes simplex types I and II, and syphilis -- and they all came back "Negative" or "Non-Reactive/Negative" for both of us.

I'm not sure which one of us is more excited about the condom-free celebration tonight.

(Okay, yes I do. But I'm excited about it, too.)

Confession #17: The one about music and boys in tights.

2009-07-23T09:33:00.194-05:00

I was in the fine arts programs all throughout high school.

(I know it's hard to believe that I'd ever be involved in drama or be obsessed with being the center of attention, right? I wouldn't believe it either, but I was there so you'll have to take my word for it.)

I acted. I sang. Not necessarily really well, but well enough to get in various plays and musicals. I was a member of the Thespians and even managed to get into my school's "elite" choir ensemble (one of just two second sopranos, thank you).

One of the performances we did was at the large Renaissance Fair that is held each fall not far from where I lived. Our little choir, along with the conductor, would drive over for a weekend of performances in full period costume.

We would go to the performer's meeting -- the behind the scenes bit that most Fair-goers are never aware of -- before the Fair opened and meet the performers, find out where we were performing and what the main themes and events for the day were to be.

We would find other places outside of our own performances where we could interact with other groups and other shows so that we didn't look like a group that had just shown up for the day but, rather, a seamless part of the Fair.

It remains, to this day, one of my favorite high school memories.

The second year we did this (or, rather, the second year I was a part of it), some of us decided to walk around the Fair after our afternoon performances were over.

We wound up splitting up, with part of the group going to find food and others wanting to just find somewhere to sit for a while (we'd been on our feet most of the day) and others wanting to see some of the shows offered.

I went with a couple of guys, whom we'll call Lysander and Demetrius, and one of my girl friends, who we'll call Hermia.

(10 extra credit points if you get the reference without using a search engine of some sort.)

It was late afternoon but the sun was still out. We got some lemon-flavored Italian ices and wandered around, looking for a place to comfortably sit out of the way of the crowds.

Eventually, we climbed a small hill into a grove of trees, following one of those trails that we quickly discovered was not really a trail. We found a small clearing just big enough for the four of us to sit and took advantage of it.

After we were done with our Italian ices and some bottled waters, but still quite a while before our next performance was scheduled, Hermia and Demetrius decided to head back down, hoping to do some shopping.

Lysander remained with me.

I had always had something of a passing interest in him, but he had never asked me out. At the time, I thought that it was because he was shy, though he only never seemed to be that way in a crowd.

(You can likely gather from the names, if you know the story they're associated with, for whom he actually was pining. "The course of true love never did run smooth.")

We sat up there alone, talking, and enjoying what we could see of the sunset.

18 year old boy, 16 year old girl. Attractive. Attracted. Alone (or at least reasonably so). I can almost bet you can see where this is headed.

It was not long before we were making out like we'd never get another chance.

That clearing was dirty. It was, literally, crawling with bugs. I was forgetting it quickly.

We were laying with his arm beneath my head, protecting it from the ground. It also allowed him to lift my face to his more easily, giving him a little control over my position as he leaned over to kiss me.

He was sweet. Literally sweet. His breath, his mouth, his lips.

He was a really good kisser, too. If I had known how good, I likely wouldn't have waited so long for him to ask me out and have asked him instead. His lips were soft, and our tongues seemed to do a dance together. I was also rapidly discovering he had a rather nicely muscled body.

I pointed out that it was kind of dirty there and we sat up just long enough to fashion whatever clothes we weren't wearing (jackets and the like) into a makeshift blanket. We still didn't have quite enough, so his shirt was added. It seemed only fair to unbutton my own and add it to the layers under my back.

The feeling of cool air mixed with his warm, naked skin touching mine and I began to forget who or where I was. I was concentrating on him and nothing else.

Our bodies were pressing closely as his free hand roamed previously private parts of my body. My arms held him as close as they could. My hands moving, searching, trying to find every muscle in his body.

I didn't feel the zipper along the side of my long, velvet skirt being undone, but I remember the sudden ease with which his hand finally made it between my legs which, at that point, I had not even realized were rather eagerly spread to receive his probing.

It was like a sudden rush of hormones was released as his hand slipped on my wetness. I think I involuntarily made a little thrusting motion and moaned. I remember the moan, because at that point he stopped kissing my mouth and moved to my neck.

I did not want him to stop kissing me and, until right then, I was content to leave it at that. Now, with his hand urging me onward, I really wanted something more to happen.

He finally pulled my dress off, and I raised my hips so that he could take both dress and panties in one move. I reached up and helped as he pushed his own pants down and climbed back on top of me.

It was as if the world seemed complete, and that was good because I was so worked up that I don't think I could have waited much longer.

I really don't remember how long we there. I remember trying to press more of his body against mine, getting him deeper, joining us closer. The closer and deeper he was, the closer I was.

I came, but with a long rolling orgasm that lasted for some time until I finally felt his final, most urgent thrust and muscle contractions.

It was a mess. Our location and situation suddenly came rushing back to me as I looked up the evening sky through the trees. I suppose it was romantic, in a way, but both he and I were rapidly becoming aware of the dirt -- which was all over my butt -- and the leaves and the increasing number of bugs and ... wait, what time is it?

We had a performance, you'll remember, that we were supposed to be back for and our conductor was a red-faced, screaming bear when we were late to performances.

I checked my make-up with my compact and touched up my lipstick a bit. We cleaned up as best and as quickly we could, brushing dirt and pine needles off of my ass as we got re-dressed. I never found one of my socks.

We came running back to where we were supposed to meet just before the performance was supposed to start. Our conductor was more relieved than angry. A few of the others shot us knowing looks and Hermia casually tugged a pine needle from my hair.

HNT: Tanlines.

2009-07-23T00:01:00.003-05:00

One of the few good things about being at, in and around the pool every day for three hours a day is that, despite the cold temperatures and even with SPF 45, I'm actually getting tan.

Most of the time, I don't tan. I burn. Painful, stinging redness. So, having a "healthy glow" -- still somewhat subtle though it may be -- instead of bright red lobster skin is exciting for me.

I hope you all find it equally exciting. Happy HNT!

(Enjoy it while it lasts, everyone. This is one of those that I'm not sure how comfortable I'm going to be leaving up for too terribly long.)

A mid-week update.

2009-07-22T16:47:00.000-05:00

I'm extraordinarily bored because work is slow, so you're going to get an update on my week thus far, in no particular order and in Twitter-sized bits of 140 characters or less.

I shared with P.B. how I go about pleasuring myself. His imitation and re-interpretation was ... interesting, to say the least.
I've already taken my picture for tomorrow's HNT. I'll simply tease it by saying that it's likely the most naked I'll ever be on here.
I'm of the opinion that Roomie's boyfriend isn't quality dating material because he leaves the seat up at two girls' apartment and blames us.
To whomever it was that approached our car at lunch: If you were offended by seeing my butt, we apologize. If you weren't, I do accept tips.
I was under the (apparently) mistaken impression that July was supposed to be warm. It hasn't broken 70°F at the start of swim lessons yet.
I've finished roughing out the first half-dozenish chapters of my novel. If you want to get in on the sneak peek, you can start begging now.
Nothing says "I love you" like getting tested for STIs together. Just 48 hours until we find out if we can ditch the condoms!
I discovered walking into work that my shirt doesn't provide anywhere near the amount of coverage I thought it did. Well, hello there, belly.
$.99 margaritas + Emma's girlfriends + cute Hispanic waiters + Emma translating = hook-ups aplenty. You're welcome, all of you.
I have to admit some amazement at just how quickly (and mostly painlessly) a thumb can find it's way into your butt.
Is it sad that I think the coupon for a free pair of panties and $10 off a bra @ Victoria's Secret is the best piece of mail I got all week?
I was told you would like a month's worth of posts about Mollie. If I could do it, is that something you all would be interested in reading?

That's all I've got right now, everyone. Hope you're having a great week.

TMI Tuesday #196: Orgasmic edition.

2009-07-21T08:49:00.001-05:00

Can you believe, I actually forgot it was Tuesday.

Tell us about...
1. Your first self-induced orgasm.
The first orgasm that I ever had was in the shower. I think I was about 10 years old.

It started when I was rinsing myself off with the hand-held showerhead, and it felt really good so, naturally, I put my hand there -- you know, to see if something was wrong -- and, of course, that felt even better. So, I kept doing it until ...

It was kind of one of those where I didn't really know what I was doing or what I was having, I just knew it felt really good.

In the aftermath, I wound up knocking over a precariously balanced bottle of shampoo and my mother knocked on the door to ask if I was alright ... so, I also immediately learned that I had to be more discreet about my activities.

2. Your first other-induced orgasm.
That would have been grinding against Short Stop on the couch in my parents' basement. That was back in the good ol' days of making out and when simulated sex with your clothes still on was the best you could hope for (and was still enough).

You can read the whole story of that here.

3. Your first experience giving someone else an orgasm.
That would also have been grinding against Short Stop on the couch in my parents' basement.

4. Your first time witnessing another's orgasm not induced by you.
The first time I watched someone else orgasm, without actually touching them myself, in person was with Mollie. (That seems like a lot of caveats, doesn't it?)

That's a story that likely needs to be told all on its own.

5. Since your first, what is the longest time you've gone between orgasms?
Not more than a week. I'm something of an addict, and if I go longer than that I get antsy.

Bonus (as in optional): Tell us about a particularly memorable orgasm you haven't mentioned yet.
I've had a lot of particularly memorable orgasms. You can either read through my Confessions for the stories that have already been told or stick around and hear about my "continuing adventures" ...

True Blood Season 2 Review: "Never Let Me Go."

2009-07-20T13:18:00.009-05:00

The over-arching theme of this episode seemed to be people making connections with people like themselves.

We start off the episode with Sam following Daphne into the woods, immediately picking up from the end of their kiss last episode where she told him that she knows what he is. As they talk, she's stripping off clothes, and Sam is following behind, picking them up and trying to convince her that there's nothing more to him than meets the eye.

He loses sight of her for a moment, instead walking up on a doe that doesn't seem terribly frightened to see him. He says something along the lines of, "Well, hey there" and suddenly the doe turns back into Daphne, responding "Hey your ownself."

She had seen him in the woods the night before and figured out that he was a shifter, too; "I watched a dog jump into the lake and it came up you."

So, they're in the woods getting cozy when Arlene and Terry Bellefleur (not the detective, the Iraq war vet) come stumbling through. Daphne is, of course, naked and quickly trying to cover herself but it's clear that Arlene and Terry were looking for a place to hook-up, too. Both couples make comments about what a great party it is and how love is in the air ...

Tara, who is actively trying to disconnect from Maryann, comes downstairs from her night with Eggs to find Maryann in the kitchen making one of her huge, extravagant meals. Maryann tells Tara that she, Frank (the butler) and Eggs are moving in because the didn't own the previous huge mansion they lived in and the "client" of hers that it had belonged to came home and wants them out. Tara tells her that it isn't cool for her to just assume that she's moving in there, as it's Sookie's house and Tara herself is just a guest, and says Maryann needs to make other arrangements.

Tara, honey, it's not good to piss off a freaky-clawed-demon-woman-thing.

Tara and Eggs fight about just exactly his involvement with Maryann is and he tells Tara that they're family, they take care of each other just like Maryann took her in and took care of her when she needed it and that her own history is so screwed up that she has no clue what family is.

Back at Merlotte's, Arlene is sitting at the bar smoking a cigarette before they open for the lunch crowd, refusing to help Daphne prep for the day and telling her that she should've done it the night before. Sam comes out and he and Daphne flirt a bit, hinting that they're going to hook up and soon (they didn't the night before, she ran off and he couldn't find her).

Lafayette shows up, dressed in all black, to ask for his job back. Sam, of course, asks where he's been but Lafayette won't say. In fact, he's nothing at all like his old self, which Sam points out. Either way, Sam tells him that there are people there that care about him and that the bar hasn't been the same without him and of course he is welcome to come back.

Tara goes to work and, with Maryann sitting in the parking lot working her magic, gets piled on by everyone. Everyone is yelling at her, and complaining about the work she's doing. Drinks are spilled. Plates are broken. Tara finally just shouts, "F--- all y'all."

(I have no idea if she quit or not, but I know I wouldn't have a job if I shouted that sort of thing at my boss and co-workers, but I don't work in a bar, so ...)

Maryann, still in the car, smiles and says their work there is done and she leaves.

Tara walks in the door after her shift and finds Maryann sitting at the table in the kitchen wearing what appears to be Sookie's grandmother's nightgown which is a little weird because Tara and Eggs had a conversation earlier about how Sookie's Gran had always been like Tara's real mother and had always made this place feel safe.

(Psychological warfare or just Big Bad Wolf ... ?)

Either way, after Maryann tells Tara that they don't have anywhere to go but will be gone the next morning and with the rough night Tara has had, Tara tells them that they don't have to leave yet. And then she goes up and collapses in bed with Eggs.

There is something oddly disjointed about all of their scenes, because when Tara left Eggs, they'd just fought but she crawls into bed with him without a word of apology and they act like nothing happened. There's nothing said about Maryann feeling the need to dress up in Sookie's grandmother's pajamas. It's just all ... weird.

We cut back to Merlotte's, where Sam and Daphne are the only two there cleaning up. Sam thanks Daphne for her help, the exchange some words about what it feels like to shift.

"Sparks," Sam says, "All over my skin." She asks him where he feels it first, running her hands from his chest ("Here?") to his stomach ("Here?") and, finally, to the front of his jeans ("Or, is it here?").

When Sam says that it starts there, she says, "Yeah, that's where it hits me, too." Kind of makes me want to know what it's like. Then (after a cheesy interchange about "Nice rack." / "Nice balls."), they have sex on the pool table.

Normally, I think this scene would have turned me off. I like Sam, for one thing, and I think it would've wrecked his character had they just thrown him together with Daphne. But, I think that they've done a good enough job establishing Daphne that, when Sam finally finds out what she is and that he's not alone, them coming together seems entirely natural. It's like he's found someone he can share his soul with and who can understand him in a way no one else possibly could.

Which, sadly, also means she's probably going to die soon. (I hope I'm wrong.)

In Dallas, we start with Sookie chasing bellboy telepath Barry down the hall of the hotel. She tries to tell him that they should be happy that they've found one another and that she can teach him how to use his powers and keep other people out of his head. He is, however, rather understandably terrified of the Dallas vampires and what they would do to him if they knew what he could do and tells her (several times) that he isn't interested in her help.

Barry: Dallas vamps are serious and scary as shit. If they knew what we could do, they would suck us dry.

Jessica continues to be fun. Bill finds out about her ordering a "snack" last episode, and yells at her for it.

Jessica: You said I could order off of the menu!
Bill: I would no sooner let you feed on that man that I would let you watch pornography on television.
Jessica: Porno? [Sookie enters.] Hey, Sookie! There's dirty movies on TV!
Sookie: I know!

Sookie's response made me giggle because it was Sookie, last episode, looking at the vampire porn on pay-per-view. Anyway, Bill orders Jessica to her room and, as she storms off, she shouts over her shoulder "You're gonna be so sorry when I get an eating disorder!"

Jessica gets to her room and calls her pea-in-a-pod, Hoyt, and he offers to watch television together with her long distance and then winds up reading her his comic book over the phone.

Sookie, Bill and Eric visit the kidnapped Godric's cohorts, Isabella and Stan, to discuss what to do to get Godric back. Stan (who is, by the way, actually the Sheriff in the books, not Godric) wants to go with the head-on, full-frontal attack, destroy the whole compound and every member of the church and retreive Godric.

Isabella retorts something along the lines of, "Oh, yes. An entire church community of vampire haters is completely wiped out. Gee, I wonder who might've done it."

Eric demands something that won't destroy the entire vampire community's international plan to mainstream themselves. Stan won't listen. Sookie asserts herself and says that she'll go infiltrate the church and figure out where Godric is and rescue him.

Now, apparently, the show's producers are meshing two books together this season; which is good, because I don't think two back-to-back seasons of "Someone gets captured, Sookie to the rescue!" would've gone over well on television, even though it works in the books. But, I'll come back to that in a minute.

Bill isn't up for that, saying that they won't be able to protect Sookie during the day. Sookie points out that the Fellowship's hired guy has been glamoured to the point that he doesn't know who Sookie is, which means that the Fellowship themselves don't know who Sookie is, which means that she should be able to get in and scope out the place just by saying she's interested in joining.

I already know how this plays out in the books, and I think even if you haven't read them that you probably all do, too. I'll just say, it's still clear that Sookie doesn't read the books about herself or she'd know the Fellowship isn't nearly as dumb as they might seem.

We see a long scene of Eric in fur, returning from a viking battle with two of his men. He's wounded and dying. As he's laying on what's soon to be his funeral pyre, vampire boy Godric shows up and kills his two men and says that he'd watched Eric in battle and that he'd never seen anyone fight like him. Eric replies that he'd fight Godric right then if only he could, to which Godric smiles appreciatively and says, "I know." Then he offers to teach Eric everything he knows and to give Eric the thing he loves most: life. Eric accepts and a vampire is made.

Eric explains to Bill that Godric was his maker and, thus, no we know why Eric is so loyal to a vampire to whom he owes no otherwise obvious allegiances.

There are several deviations here from the book here.

First, in the books, Stan is the sheriff of the area. He asks for Eric's assistance in finding his nest-brother (a nest is a group of vampires living together in a makeshift family unit), Farrell, who has gone missing.

Farrell was kidnapped by Godfrey (not Godric, but I suspect that's just a name adaptation because Godfrey doesn't sound particularly ancient), a vampire serial killer who has tired of his long life, is remorseful of his inability to stop killing, and has actually joined the Fellowship of the Sun, planning to 'meet the Sun' on a nationally broadcast Fellowship press conference to seek God's forgiveness for all of his sins.

So, with the complete elimination of a major player in the original story and differences in the roles of others, there are a enough changes that I'm not entirely sure how this is all going to play out.

Is Godfrey/Godric still seeking redemption and, thus, not actually captured at all but, rather, a voluntary captive of the Fellowship awaiting his own end? Or, was he actually shot up with silver bullets and is now an actual captive of the Newlins? And what role will Jason play in all of this (he isn't with the Fellowship at all in the books).

We'll find out soon, I'm sure.

Speaking of the Newlins, the Fellowship and Jason ... there was all sorts of fun being had at Creepy Cult Camp this week. We start there with Jason being roused out of his big, comfortable bed with the blast of airhorns and a Light of Day drill sergeant shouting at him to "Rise and shine for God!"

They're put through all of the typical bootcamp stuff. Jumping jacks, push-ups for smiling when the drill sergeant didn't tell you you could smile, running and running and running, and fence climbing.

Luke, who maybe ran a little too fast in order to show up Jason (who'd warned him to pace himself), couldn't make it over the fence. The drill sergeant tells him that his family is on the other side, and that they're about to be eaten by vampires. He's got thirty seconds to scale the fence. He doesn't make it. "What's your name, failure?!" the drill sergeant shouts, while Lukes stands exhausted against the fence.

The drill sergeant shouts again, asking what a real leader would do in that situation. Luke answers, "Leave me." Jason, instead, runs forward, climbs to the top of the fence, and then reaches back down and helps Luke over.

After the morning training is over, Sarah is in the house arguing with Steve about what he has planned (executing Godric, maybe?) and how he never tells her anything. He then goes and shares the information that he wouldn't share with Sarah with the drill sergeant, who apparently goes off to get started on whatever the project is.

Jason shows up, and Sarah tells Steve what a great job Jason did at training that morning.

"You're moving up to the next level, recruit!" Steve says, grabbing Jason around the shoulder and taking him down to the basement of their compound -- where Sarah is, apparently, not allowed to go. He tells Jason that sometimes he understands why people get divorced. Jason says, "But, you've got Sarah." Steve replies, "Yeah, but I've got her even when I don't want her."

Trouble in paradise, it sounds like.

Then Steve opens up the door to their arsenal and shows Jason just exactly what they've put together to fight the vampires. Machine guns. Silver bullets. Silver bullets with holy water. Wooden bullets. Regular wooden arrows. Silver throwing stars (shaped like pointed, bladed crosses). He says they've even got a guillotine on order because there's a rumor decapitation works, too. Jason hefts a bazooka on his shoulder as Steve asks for an "Amen" and Jason quickly obliges.

Later, as Jason is in a long, hot bath soaking off the aches of the morning training, Sarah comes in and locks the door. She tells him the story of Mary Magdalene loving Jesus so much she washed his feet and then dried it with her hair as she takes Jason's loofah and starts washing his arms and chest with it.

"After all your trial, heartache and pain," she says, "God wants you to have a reward. Let me reward you, Jason. Let me help you find your way back to joy." She then lets go of the loofah and slips her hand beneath the surface of the water to give Jason's private bits a, um, more thorough and personal washing.

Jason tries to tell her no, but she says, "You don't mean it" and clearly, her hand is in a position to know just how serious he is in his resistance. He says, "No. I don't. But, I ought to."

We close with Bill and Sookie having a conversation about how Bill feels somewhat powerless in his relationships with Sookie and Jessica. Sookie says that he needs to lean on her and quit trying to so hard to protect everyone himself. Then, as their having hot sex, a vamp (that is, apparently, Lorena; Bill's maker) is wandering the halls until she hears Bill's voice with her super-vampire-hearing.

This is, I think, where they're blending two books together. In the third book, Bill is called to Mississippi by Lorena and, because she's his maker, he has to go. And, because they didn't have the normal post-making vampire relationship, he quickly falls under her thrall and cheats on Sookie, causing an irreparable rift in their relationship.

Now, here, she's showing up earlier and in a completely different way, but the previews showed her and Bill apparently in flagrante delicto next episode while Sookie is busy infiltrating the Fellowship. I have no idea how they're going to work these plots together, but I'm excited to find out ...

Confession #16: The one about making love.

2009-07-20T07:28:00.000-05:00

At about 4:00 am (I know the time only because the clock is on what has become "my side" of his bed), I rolled over.

This simple act set in motion a series of events that were, perhaps mundane and, yet, had a profound meaning to me such that I shall remember them forever.

As I rolled over, my feet touched his. It was unintentional, to be sure. I am so used to sleeping alone that finding anyone's feet in bed with mine is still somewhat shocking.

In response, he moved his legs toward mine. It was another simple gesture and, most likely, was something that probably happens repeatedly when two people sleep in the same bed.

But for some reason, I was acutely aware of this touching. It was an affection shown to me even while he was still, essentially, asleep. A desire for my touch and a longing for my presence that extended into his subconscious.

Earlier in the day, I had been moody. It wasn't anything that was his fault. In fact, if anything, he was keeping me from slipping deeper into my funk. As we wandered stores at the mall, I explained to him what was wrong.

He knows of Cheater. He knows of what happened with him and how that relationship ended. I told him about Cheater's engagement and that, though I was trying hard not to let it bother me, I wasn't having much success that day.

We wound up in a jewelry store ourselves. He had me try on rings. "Find the one you would want," he said. "The one that's yours. Just so I'll know how much I need to save up."

I told him that he wasn't buying me a ring. "No," he said, smiling. "I'm not. Not today, anyway. But, I'm pretty sure I will someday."

Even if he never buys me that ring, an afternoon with him, daydreaming about the what-could-bes was exactly what I needed, and I love that he knew just what to do to lift my spirits.

As our legs intertwined, I moved closer to him. My arm draped over his body.

It felt good, special.

I don’t know why, but just laying there in bed with him made me very aware of how special he was and how lucky I was to be there next to him. I snuggled closer, and he in turn snuggled back.

The touching of the entire length of our bodies, our legs intertwined, my arms around him, grew from a sharing of intimacy to have a distinctly erotic feel.

I could feel his breathing, his muscles, and the smoothness of his skin.

His simple physical presence began to overwhelm my thoughts and I absent-mindedly moved my hands up and down his body. He is muscular, and it is always a delight to feel his body, but this time it created immediate arousal. In both of us.

His eyes peeked open, just barely, and caught me examining his face. He turned and lay facing me, eyes open in the dark, as I looked at the shadowed outline of his face half hidden in the pillow.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," I replied.

I leaned over and kissed him, deeply and gently. I had no choice. He kissed me back and it conveyed a sense of emotion that matched what I was feeling. In that moment, in the darkness of his bedroom hours before sunrise, we were both caught up in a silent, wordless sense of longing for each other.

Without quite realizing what was happening, my left leg came up and over his legs, and I slid on top of him, lying on top, my breasts on his chest, and legs beside his waist.

I kissed him again, my hair hanging down just barely far enough to shield our kisses from non-existent watchers. His body seemed to take on a special meaning to me; it became the object of intense emotion and desire.

I did not know just how aroused I had become until I rose up to a sitting position and felt him enter me, effortlessly and smoothly. It was surprising and yet so natural it would have been strange if I had not felt him there, penetrating me and filling me.

I rode him, effortlessly, lightly, our joining coming to a climax so quickly, it also took me by surprise.

As I felt the warmth of his climax spread inside me and his muscles relaxed from their contractions, I lay back down on top of him, my face turned to one side. I lay there, silent, until his erection waned and was taken from me.

We lay together and spooned, his arm holding my breasts, my hand in his, our fingers woven together and our legs again entwined. I felt that I had begun to feel the true meaning of what it meant to make love.

As I went back to sleep, I felt, deep in my soul, I have never loved anyone or anything the way I love this man.

I was going to post about this weekend, but ...

2009-07-19T22:11:00.000-05:00

I'll just save the bulk of it for tomorrow.

The major highlights were:
1) After eight years and more encounters than I care to recount, I finally discovered the difference between having sex and making love.
2) I am pretty sure that I've gone on my last first date.

Hope you're all having a great weekend. I'm off to watch encores of Hung and True Blood.

Confession #15: The one about long, slow foreplay.

2009-07-16T12:21:00.007-05:00

Whether or not this qualifies as a Confession depends on how much you read into it, I suppose ...

Sexual release is wonderful, and you'll never find me arguing that it isn't or that it shouldn't be enjoyed as often and in as many ways as one can manage. Clearly, I'm a big fan of the orgasm.

The best orgasms, though, involve far more than the simplistic mechanics of touch and response. They are every bit as much a psychological thing as they are anything physical.

The people, I've found, who are capable of bringing about the best orgasms are those you have desired, lusted for, and yearned for because that initial movement toward orgasm, that long slow climb, does not start with foreplay -- at least, not of the physical kind -- but, rather, long before.

In the first few moments of the first meeting someone new, the idea of having sex with this person is kindled and the judgment of their potential as a partner begins, even if it never takes a more real form.

The potential partner is evaluated. Their style, their demeanor appears a good match. Once found desirable, a decision is made -- sometimes subconsciously but just as often not -- that sex is at least a possibility with this person, at least at some point.

That is when foreplay begins.

It's simple at first, perhaps, and anything but physical. Politeness is shown. Looks are exchanged.

As time progresses, it becomes clear through the flirting and talking and experiencing and touching that the two of you are beginning to join, even if not yet physically.

That is when the mind begins to imagine the possibility of something more than a simple conversation and begins to wrap itself around the erotic for, you find yourself thinking, this person does have an erotic quality.

The erotic preoccupation begins to build. You are suddenly more aware of yourself and your physical reactions. Even the once casual touching is not so casual any more because it makes you acutely aware of your desire for more touches.

You catch yourself stealing glances, hoping that you're having the same effect on him. "Do I see an erection?" you catch yourself thinking, before realizing it to be just a fold in his pants.

There is often frustration, too, because something holds you both back.

Perhaps there are social niceties which have not yet been completed. Dinner that hasn't yet been finished, or a movie that isn't yet over. Or perhaps you simply can't allow yourself tear his clothes off right there because, well, it's too public.

Now that your mind has started along that path, there is no stopping it. All of your interpersonal interactions begin to run through an erotic filter. Your thoughts are driven more and more by your physical desires. Anticipation builds as the critical moment of commitment draws near. Physical desire transforms the erotic thought in to the wilder thing of passion, and passion builds inside the mind.

The critical moment arrives; the point at which one of you asks the other "Can we go somewhere a little quieter?" or, better, "Would you like to come inside?"

The question hangs momentarily in the air, and you try to read their reaction. Was the building passion mutual? Or did you totally misread what was happening?

Then, the answer: "I'd love to."

The course of the evening is set. Passion is still held in reign, but the door is open and it begins to leak out with touching and with kissing. The social foreplay is ended and physical foreplay begins.

This interaction, this interlude, is song that I've danced to many times before and, yet, each time I hear it I can barely keep myself from swaying to its seductive rhythms.

I am looking at you, sitting across from me. The feeling inside is familiar -- this interplay of hormones and pheromones and psychology -- but one I still don't understand.

It's a feeling that starts in the chest, but spreads down from there. Yet is also seems to be in my head. At least thats where the thoughts are, the ones that I sometimes try to keep in check.

Sometimes I let the thoughts go. They wander, about your body and about mine. I sense the warmth between my legs and I know my body is, even now, so long before we've even touched, lubricating itself and preparing for intercourse. My nipples are more sensitive, and very probably erect.

This automatic response that just being in your presence creates inside of me feeds on itself, arousing me even more. I catch myself casually glancing for any indication that I might be having the same effect on you.

The thoughts, unchecked, create the feeling of desire. The thoughts, unchecked, become a muddled mix of detail and vague feeling.

As you talk, I lose focus on your words as my mind feeds me images of your bare skin, and what it would be like to place my hand on it. I can imagine the feel the strength of your legs, between mine, as we hook them together in a mutual struggle.

I try to refocus, staring at your lips as if looking at them will help me hear your words. The longer I look at them, the more I can almost feel them on mine.

The details of your words are muddled with the feeling of passion, desire, want and lust. That I'm so unable to focus just makes you more desirable to me.

As you smile at me, I consider my course of action.

Seduction is sweet but slow. A touch, a smile, words mixed with innuendo. The waiting would kill me.

The direct approach is forced into my mind. I feel as if there is an energy between us, magnetic, drawing us together as if our bodies are not in their natural state until they join. Why not simply give in to this?

My breathing has become faster, and I wonder if you noticed. Your eyes are focused on mine, and I find it disconcerting. I want to catch them stealing a glance, I want them seeing through my blouse, imagining my breasts and bare skin.

I shift my body, not consciously, but I feel suddenly uncomfortable the way it is now. It doesn't feel natural right now, sitting. My body needs to be spread out, intertwined with yours, and instead I wriggle to find another seated position which feels right.

There is none.

I become acutely aware of the wetness in my body. Not just the obvious moisture between my legs, but also my mouth. I have swallowed several times. Am I actually salivating? Is it the thought of your tongue in my mouth, the desire to place my mouth on your body?

I start to speak, to respond to some question that you've posed, but I am have trouble remembering what I was going to say because you have invaded my mind so.

You smile, as if sensing what you've done to me without even a single touch, and I feel my stomach tremble.

As I continue speaking, my own words finally force me to regain some semblence of self-control, I see your eyes refocus on me and it becomes clear that you are thinking of me, too.

I can see it as your eyes begin looking at each fold of clothing. My bare arms. My legs as they appear from under my skirt. To the casual observer, it may seem that you're somewhere else, staring into the space between us, thinking of anything but what I'm saying and paying me no attention at all.

But you are paying attention. You are thinking of what it might be like. In your mind, you are already with me. Already having me.

Any traces of the self control I had struggled to regain are rapidly disappearing. I desire you, you are my focus, and nothing else matters right now. Resistance seems not only futile, but stupid. After all, why resist this beautiful feeling?

Once that thought enters my mind, the battle is lost.

I smile. I stand. I walk over to you, touch your arm and lean over, whispering, "Let's go."

You smile. You stand. We leave ...

HNT: Soaking in it.

2009-07-16T07:23:00.002-05:00

This week has really been kicking my butt.

I've got a second job for the next month or so teaching swim lessons for little kids, which is normally awesome but, this week, we've had cool mornings filled with a lot of rain which makes the pool absolutely frigid (and I've woken up to sub-70° temperatures and more cloudy skies again this morning). It's dang hard to teach the back float when you're trying to keep your teeth from chattering and your frozen nipples obscured from view.

Then, yesterday, I learned through the Facebook grapevine that Cheater proposed to the girl he'd cheated on me with. That stings a little. I know it shouldn't bother me, and I'm not sure why it does, but it does.

Sylvia Plath once said, "There must be a quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I can't think of any of them." So, with her wisdom in mind, last night, I came home and grabbed my copy of Dead to the World and poured myself a glass of wine and settled into a nice, long bath.

Today, I'm letting you join me (at least, visually) ... Happy HNT, everyone!

True Blood Season 2 Review: "Shake and Fingerpop."

2009-07-14T10:06:00.002-05:00

That's right, another Sunday night has come and gone and that means that there has been another episodic adventure of Sookie Stackhouse and her vampire beau, Bill Compton. Which, of course, means that I'm going to review what happened for everyone.

The show opens at Creepy Cult Camp as Jason walks into his dorm / barracks to see all of the bodies of his fellow campers dead and bloody on the floor. He's tackled from behind by a shadowy figure and the mystery guy tells him that he's going to eat him. Jason tells him "Fuck you" and the guy says that can be arranged.

The lights come on to reveal that it's just Luke, the guy that's more than a little jealous that Jason is pretty much having everything handed to him that Luke's having to work so hard for. He and the guys in the dorm were just having a little fun, complete with ketchup for blood.

Luke asks Jason how his lip, which is swollen and bleeding from hitting the floor when he was tackled is. Jason says it's fine and asks Luke how his nose is before punching him and bloodying it in return.

I'm a little over the testosterone-fueled jealousy thing, personally.

The next scene at Creepy Cult Camp, Jason and the guys are discussing vampires in the Bible with one of the guys claiming Lazarus was the first vampire because he died and came back. But, one of them argues, that would mean that Jesus created the first vampire which sort of throws a wrench into the whole "Vampires are of the devil" thing.

Jason points out that maybe Jesus was the first Vampire, since he died and came back, too, and then had the whole "drink my blood and get super powers" thing (as Jason put it). I don't think that's quite how that went, but maybe that's just me.

Mid-conversation, Jason gets called to ~~the principal's office~~ out to see Steve Newlin, and they go shoot pop-up vampires with a paintball gun. Steve is so impressed by Jason's marksmanship that he talks about giving Jason a real gun for "the war" with wooden bullets because, apparently, shooting vampires with silver bullets only incapacitates them so that you can stake them but shooting them with wooden bullets does the whole job at once.

Given the difference in cost between wood and silver and the apparent disparity between their effectiveness, I would think that everyone should just go ahead and use the wooden bullets. But, again, maybe that's just me. I'm not a crazy cult leader, so what do I know?

Then Jason gets to go back to the Newlins' house where Sarah and Steve barbecue some ribs. Actually, Sarah does the barbecuing while Steve blathers on and on about something or other, probably how evil vampires are. Jason (and, as a result, the viewers) tune Steve out because he's too busy fantasizing about Sarah spanking herself with the spatula and performing oral sex on her beer bottle.

He gets invited to be one of their elite soldiers and live in their house, but when he goes back to brag, he finds out that he's just one of 15 (11 guys, 4 girls) that got that invite -- the soldier part, not the live in the Newlins' house part. Jealous Luke points out that the only reason Jason got that invite is because the preacher's wife needs something to play with.

Jason blows him off but, later, when Sarah comes into his room dressed in silky white lingerie, Jason asks her why he got the invite to live there. Supposedly, it's because the elite soldier barracks only sleeps 14 and he was the 15th. Seeing she bruised his ego a bit, Sarah quickly says that he's, you know, also the best and the one for whom they've got the highest hopes. Oh, and if he needs anything, she's just down the hall.

Back in Bon Temps, Bill tells Hoyt (who is busily putting his clothes back on) to get out of his house.

Bill: Are you going to leave now or do I have to throw you through a window ... while it is still closed?

Hoyt tries to tell him that he wasn't going to let it go any further, and Bill informs Hoyt that it isn't Jessica he's trying to protect. Hoyt smiles at Jessica and says that he doesn't believe Bill for a minute, and Jessica swoons.

After Hoyt is gone, Jessica explains that she'd never gotten to do all of the normal teenage girl things, like making out with boys, and that she had no intention of biting Hoyt and would've been content to just kiss him all night.

Jessica: Is it my fault that my fangs pop out when I'm turned on? (Realizes her fangs are still out. Giggles and runs up the stairs.)

Sookie talks Bill into taking Jessica with them to Dallas to give Bill a chance to bond with her a little more, and to develop the father-daughter thing they sort of have going on. Bill agrees and orders two seperate travel coffins.

In Dallas, they arrive at the airport with Sookie blitzed on the little in-flight "booze for dolls"-sized alcohol, a few bottles of which she takes with her and Bill and Jessica in "travel coffins" that look like the things we used to strap on top of the van to hold luggage on our family road trips.

The guy, Leon, waiting for them with the limo service, though, is clearly up to something and Sookie reads his mind and figures it out just as he grabs her and Bill pops out of the coffin and comes to the rescue.

(Jessica has another funny moment when she finds that it's not as easy as Bill makes it look to just pop out of the coffin. I'm really starting to like her.)

They glamour Leon and find out that he's been hired by the Fellowship of the Sun to stake the vampires and kidnap the person with them who, until he got to the airport and saw her coming off of the plane, he didn't even know was a woman (meaning they don't know who Sookie is). Bill uses the opportunity to teach Jessica how to glamour.

She, of course, abuses her power and tells Leon that all of his worst fears are going to come true unless he shouts a rumor about one of her old frenemies ("[So and so] got fingered by [so and so] at church!") in the hotel lobby.

(Have I mentioned that I'm really starting to like her?)

They glamour Leon into thinking that the plane arrived but that they weren't on it and let him go. Bill calls Eric, who shows up surprisingly quickly, to tell him just how important this Godric guy they're looking for is.

Apparently Godric could've been King of Texas had he wanted to (all of the states have their own King or Queen vampire), and that he was the oldest and most powerful vampire in the entirety of the New World.

Eric points out that if someone that powerful can be taken, none of them is safe. Not only does Eric want to figure out how the puny humans managed such a feat (I'm, personally, going to go with "with a silver bullet to incapacitate him" as my final answer), but points out that if he is killed, the vampires of Texas would rebel and start openly attacking humans.

Bill: Open aggression against humans? That's insane.
Eric: That's Texas.

So, now we see that plot starting to shape up. The Fellowship of the Sun has kidnapped Godric, and are going to kill him in order to get the vampires of Texas to start attacking people. So, then the vampires of Texas look like the aggressors, but it forwards the Fellowship's agenda and starts the war that Steve Newlin keeps talking about.

(I like this plot element better than I liked the version of it that was in the Charlaine Harris books. Alan Ball really refined it well and, I think, turned it into a better version of the story. Sorry, Charlaine.)

Back in Bon Temps, Daphne is swimming almost nekkid (she's still wearing panties, but that's it) with the entirely nekkid Sam. Sam goes on and on about how Bon Temps is a great place, almost like Paradise, and that people in the big city lose touch with nature.

They go to get out of the water, and Sam suddenly gets a little shy.

Daphne: "I've seen boy parts before, and this water ain't exactly opaque."

She gets out of the water, not caring at all that Sam sees her nekkid or that he can see the three big weird scratches down her back.

Speaking of scratches, we find out from the coroner that the fake exorcist had three similar scratches down her back and that the toxin or poison paralyzed her, so that she was still alive when whatever it was flipped her over and cut out her heart.

So, that's three people that we've seen scratched: Dead exorcist (who, you know, is dead), Sookie (who survived because Bill and the Fangtasia crew saved her) and Daphne. So, who saved Daphne?

Regardless, Detective Bellefleur comes in and asks Kenya (the black lady police officer who busted Tara for DUI last season) what she knew about the giant pig Tara said she saw. Kenya insists there was no pig and that Tara was seeing things because she was drunk. Andy Bellefluer says that he knows there's a pig because he saw it in a dollhouse the night before, at which point Sherriff Dearborn calls Andy an alcoholic and takes away his badge.

At Maryann's, the creepy cult camp that isn't the Creepy Cult Camp and where Detective Bellefleur did see the giant disappearing pig in a dollhouse, Tara informs Maryann that she's intending to move out.

She wasn't, it seems, too impressed with the weird orgy the night before. Maryann is clearly shaken as this is obviously not a part of her plan, but she plays it down and, when Tara thanks her for her hospitality, says "I'm sure you'd do the same for me."

Knowing how creepy Maryann is, that probably doesn't portend good things.

So Tara moves in to Sookie's and is left alone for her birthday because, you know, Sookie's gone to Dallas with Bill and Jessica. So, she goes to see Lafayette and he tells her that he just spent two and a half weeks wondering if his next minute might be his last minute and that he just didn't have it in him to put up with her moping that night. Ouch.

After she leaves, Eric shows up. Lafayette refuses to let him in, but Eric pointed out that the bullet wound in Lafayette's leg is infected and, without the "gift" of Eric's 1,000-year-old blood, Lafayette's probably going to lose his leg and possibly even die. Lafayette invites him in and drinks his blood, which gives Eric a way to keep tabs on him, and then dances like a porn star and humps his furniture (which is when Eric gets his call from Bill and goes to join them in Dallas), apparently feeling better.

Tara goes back to Sookie's, where Maryann and Eggs and the butler show up with a birthday cake that looks a whole lot more like a wedding cake (which doesn't get altogether creepy until the end) and they tell Tara that they're not going to let her celebrate her birthday alone and that they've invited all of her friends to come party with them that night.

Tara: What friends?

Exactly. Tara's not exactly known for being a social butterfly and is, in fact, sort of famous for burning bridges and blowing up relationships. So who is it, exactly, coming to the party?

Turns out, pretty much everyone who was at the orgy the night before at Maryann's house: All of the weird, mostly nameless people of Bon Temps. Maryann walks around the party, admiring her own handiwork, and then pitches a gift from Tara's mom (which Sam was given to bring to the party on Tara's mom's behalf) in the bushes before wandering out to the woods and starting doing this weird magic thing.

While she's doing that, Eggs is putting the moves on Tara. He eventually leads her up the stairs to her room and they have sex. The closer they get to orgasm, the more powerful Maryann's magic gets. Everyone's eyes go black, they start fucking and fighting and smearing cake all over their faces and eating dirt and ... well, you get the picture.

(The only two apparently not affected by Maryann's magic are Sam and Daphne who are on their way to hooking up anyway, while Daphne whispers in Sam's ear that she knows what he is.)

At the height of it all, Maryann digs her own hands into the dirt and then pulls them out to reveal that her hands are no longer hands but have each been replaced by three huge, lizard or bird-like claws.

That's probably not good.

The final scene is a bellhop named Barry delivering an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog model to Sookie and Bill and Jessica's room. Turns out, Jessica wanted a snack. She asks a question mentally that the bellhop responds to -- he read her mind! So, she reads his and he's thinking that he's going to try to act like it was just a coincidence until she says, "But it wasn't just a coincidence" (ie: reading his mind, too), which causes him to freak out and run away and her to give chase.

TMI Tuesday #195: Masturbation edition.

2009-07-13T23:42:00.002-05:00

1. Have you ever attended a group masturbation party? Same-sex or mixed?
I wasn't even aware that such a thing existed. In fact, I'm going to go with this being as mythological as the whole jelly bracelet and lipstick rainbow party thing. So, that would be a "No."

2. When masturbating, as you reach orgasm, do you continue to stimulate yourself without interruption, or do you stop and apply pressure until your spasms subside?
You know, actually, it varies but most often it's keeping going without interruption. It just depends, though, on what I think will feel better when I get there.

3. Have you ever videoed yourself while masturbating (solo)? Where are they now?
No, I've never taped it. I've seen too many videos of people who've taped something like that for someone and, if I've seen it, you know that's not what it was originally intended for and I didn't want to wind up like that.

4. Have you ever look at porn online? Have you ever posted at porn online?
I look at porn every day (thank you, Google Reader), though what I look at tends more toward erotica than outright hardcore stuff.

I haven't ever posted anything hardcore of myself online either.

5. Do you send/receive dirty email jokes and pictures?
Not very often, no.

Bonus: Have you ever told someone they were good in bed when they weren't?
Guilty. Most of the time, though, I try to talk them through it and teach them a few things to help them get better.