Desire

I think I've mentioned before that Husband and I have been married for fifteen years. We've been monogamous that entire time, and plan on remaining so forever. (I know, and know of, many people in the kink community who have open/poly relationships, but that is simply not us. Part of being "traditional" is being true to each other, forever and ever, amen.)

I see everywhere this prevailing idea that after a certain number of married years, desire between the couple starts to slack off. They don't have sex so often anymore, and when they do, it becomes quick and routine, something they don't necessarily mind doing, but do it more out of a biological/relational need. They cut it down to the most basic steps, do what it takes to get the job done, fast, smooth, and over with. I've read that a significant percentage of married couples average sex around twice a week. Some studies quote five times a month.

Five times. A month.

At first I thought, What the hell? This has to be wrong. Why? Because they were so different from my experience as a married woman. Yes, there have been times when Husband and I have had to refrain from sex, like the weeks after I'd delivered a baby, or the couple times I've had major surgery. But this wasn't because we didn't want to have sex; it was because we couldn't. The rest of our married life, we've had sex on a regular basis. And I don't mean twice a week regular basis, or five times a month regular basis; I mean, there-better-be-a-good-enough-reason-we're-not-having-sex-tonight regular basis.

I've given this some thought, and here's what I've come come down to: it depends on the person's natural levels of Desire.

If you desire sex enough, and your partner enough, it won't matter if he's pissed off, or pissed you off, or picked a fight with you, or has simply not spent "enough" time with you during the day.

You will WANT him.

You will want to feel his arms and lips around you, at the end of the day you will want his weight sinking into you and over you and through you. You will crave his scent, his touch, his very presence as he walks in the room taking over your senses and making you feel heady and drunk.
You will find yourself thinking about him throughout the day, but at the oddest and most inopportune times.

Like when you're at the checkout counter at the supermarket. You'll be reaching into your purse fishing for your wallet, and suddenly wonder what it would be like to have him fuck you over that counter, bend you over and fuck you from behind, press your cheek into the cold steel as he pounds into you, and your eyes will suddenly go wide and your breath will catch and the checkout girl will ask you if you're okay.

Or you'll be at the bakery, there just to pick up some rolls, but the baker is carefully frosting some cookies, and you'll wonder what it would be like to feel that thing along your thighs, pressing into your skin and leaving tiny mounds of frosting along your hip bone for him to lick off, or maybe it would be gently dipped into your pussy...or maybe even shoved into your ass. And the baker will be trying to get your attention, handing you your change, and be mumbling how you must not have had enough coffee that morning, 'cause your response time is mighty slow.

Or you'll be in the car, driving down the highway, feeling the vibrations of the engine humming against your butt and thighs, and suddenly realize how long it's been since the two of you fucked in a car...and your forehead will bead sweat, and your lip will quiver, and you'll realize your panties are all too...moist.

I don't know if kinky couples feel more desire for their partners than vanilla couples. And if you we do, I don't know if the two things are correlated, and what comes first: maybe our kinkiness keeps the sex fun and interesting, keeps the flames of desire alive, and that makes us more, um, needy. Or maybe we just crave the sex more, and that's what helps make us kinky in the first place.

Either way, I feel bad for couples who only do it five times a month.

Weekly Playboy Ads

This post brought to you by the beautiful ladies of August 1989.

A couple interesting things about this issue, but first let's get to the technological signs of the times.

A brand new Toyota car which, by the picture presented, will push you into orgasmic delight, looks like this:





It's a nice looking car, by 1989 standards. I'm not sure what the guy has under his arm, though. What's funny is that at first glance I assumed it was a laptop, and then I was like, 'uh, no. Can't be.' Is it a thin briefcase? A folder of papers? And what's with the suspenders?

An ad for a "nuclear" walkman. Very high-tech, very impressive, as all the neon squiggly lines show. And you know what? Back in 1989, I probably would have wanted to own this...Nah. Weren't we already into CDs by then?

This neat little guy is actually a VCR that can play tapes right onto that screen there. It also can run in your car. It's expensive, but you gotta admit, it probably came in pretty handy for the people who owned them. Families who went on long car rides, most likely.




Okay, so here's the first weird things about this issue of Playboy: there aren't that many ads. And I don't just mean ads I can pick to show you and ridicule, I mean the issue just doesn't have that many ads, period. Not even the usual number of cigarette ads, although I don't bother showing you cigarette ads anyway, cause as far as I'm concerned, they're all pretty silly. I mean, come on, it's an advertisement for something that's going to kill you. How can it not be ridiculous?

But here's why I think there aren't that many ads. I think this cigarette ad right here paid for all of them. And when you see the pictures, you'll figure out why:

This, my friends, is a four page pop-up ad. For Salem cigarettes.

I have to say: given that it's a cigarette ad, and given that all cigarette ads are pretty ridiculous, this ad is pretty cool. It's got palm trees, and a little hut, and a hammock with the beach in the background. And it's a pop-up! The kind that little kids get all squeaky-excited about from pop-up books!
I've never seen a pop-up ad before, and certainly never an ad of this intricate design for cigarettes. Who knows how much money they spent to put it in Playboy. Plus, part of the ad is an offer for a free pack of cigarettes. Wonder how much this all cost Salem. It was probably worth it, though...at least to them. They got a whole batch of new smokers to smoke their cigarettes.
Moving on!
The second interesting thing about this issue I found was somewhat hidden in the Mike Tyson interview. Now I know I usually stick with just commenting on the ads in these Playboy posts, but this one really struck me somehow. It's an exchange between Mike Tyson and the Playboy interviewer; the two of them really seemed to hit it off together:
"You know something," he [Mike Tyson] said, "I like to hurt women when I make love to them." He stopped, searching my face for a reaction. "I like to hear them scream with pain, to see them bleed," he said, putting his arm around me. "It gives me pleasure."
"Why?"
Mike shook his head. "Jose, I am that way and I don't know why."
"Well," I said, "did it ever occur to you that men who behave that way probably hate women, that deep-down, they simply don't like them?"
"You may be right. You're the first person to tell me that...You know, you may be fucking right. Holy fucking shit!"

Let's forget for a second this is Mike Tyson, circa 1989. Let's pretend this is two average Joes, talking today. Wouldn't you have rather seen the exchange go something like this?

"You know something...I like to hurt women when I make love to them." He stopped for second. Then he continued, "I like to hear them scream with pain, to see them bleed. It gives me pleasure."

"Why?"

He shook his head. "I am that way and I don't know why."

"Well," I said, "did it ever occur to you that there are other men like you everywhere, all around us, contributing to society, living normal lives, and yet finding women out there who like that kind of roughness? That you're inclinations are not as rare as you think? That there's a whole BDSM community full of men, and women, who like what you like? And other men and women who like to take it just as much as you like to give it?"

I don't know about you, but I would have liked to have seen a response like the second version, the one I presented, not the way the exchange originally happened. Now, one can't discount the fact that the person involved in this little conversation was Mike Tyson, and maybe (probably) that changed how the interviewer formulated his answer. Maybe he would have offered a different answer to someone else. I don't know.

I know Sadists like to hurt women, they like to hear them scream, but they do not, DO NOT, hate women, at least not the ones I know personally. They just get off on a different set of kinks. And what about women who like to be hurt, who like being forced to scream? Do they hate men? I don't think so...I don't see how anyone could say so. 

Is this how vanilla society sees BDSM/kink mentality? As an expression of hatred for the opposite sex?

Do you think the exchange would have been worded the same way today?

I hope not.

This wraps up this week's Playboy post. New one next week!

(Hopefully)

Good Enough

I am feeling lately like the summer heat is just baking my brain cells. I'm just kind of walking around, happy and content, but loopy and dazed and not doing anything that requires too much thinking. Like writing. And the thing is, I'm in too much of a good mood to be bothered enough to motivate myself to do something about it. Like that sentence right there--there were four "to" sounding words in that thing, I should probably rewrite it and cut down on the "to"s, but I won't. Cause it's structurally sound, and good enough.

Good Enough. That seems to be attitude lately. Things don't need to be good: they just need to be Good Enough.

The one area where Good Enough doesn't really cut it is punishments. Punishments tend to get rated on a pass/fail bases: if the punishment works, if it keeps the sub from repeating the offense, then it was good. If the sub commits the same offense or breaks the same rule twice, that means the first punishment was a failure. Not good, not even good enough: it was Not Good At All. It was INEFFECTIVE.

Sometimes punishments end up being ineffective because, deep down, the Dom is doing it more out of pleasure than disciplinary action. He's not putting enough force behind the blows, 'cause he's getting off on her little shrieks of surprise and sighs of pleasure. Maybe he indulges in some sympathy, and thinks he's being nice by going easy on her. Or maybe he's simply tired, and wants to get to that blowjob he's been waiting for, and thinks an evenly-spread rosy blush across the bottom (instead of some hard-earned welts) will get the point across.

Ineffective punishments that end up having to be repeated can hurt both Dom and sub. The Dom feels like he didn't do a good job punishing her the first time; his pride is bruised. He is chastised by her very actions of defiance.
The sub ends up having to get through two punishments instead of just one, and while the first one wasn't enough to teach her the lesson, the second will probably be twice as harsh as it needs to be, because the Dom will feel like he has to go above and beyond what is necessary to make sure she doesn't commit the same transgression--again.


Sometimes punishments have to be repeated because both Dom and sub are still finding their way, still learning what works and what doesn't. This is different: it's part of the natural process, and if you're lucky, it's an ongoing thing. Punishments, like everything else in life, can get boring if used too often, and boring often translates into ineffective after a while. They have to be tweaked, revamped a little, changed in some way to keep working as they should.

Twenty-five swats with the belt can be changed to twenty with the belt and ten with the hand (five on each ass cheek). Or a flogging session can go from a bent-over-the-bed position, to one of the sub lying on her back, hugging her legs to her chest, feet straight up in the air. I find that the position I'm most afraid of is the one where I have to press against the wall with my hands, ass out and feet shoulder length apart, because this position is the hardest for me to hold and when I break position I end up adding to the punishment.

The point is, sometimes punishments need to be worked through to remain effective, but the goal is to make sure they keep the sub from transgressing again. Anything less and the punishment didn't do it's job.

Which the Dom shouldn't see as a personal failure. There will always be more opportunities. :)

A 1950's Household: It's not what you see on T.V.

One of the benefits of staying at a hotel so close to the beach and shopping is that you don't have to allot a lot (I just re-read that and realized how weirdly funny it sounds...'allot a lot') of time for traveling to said beach and shops. It also means, if you're anything like us, you end us spending more time in the room just hanging out and resting, especially after lunch when you've eaten enough to feed one of those sea lions you just saw barking out on the ocean (or maybe it was an elephant seal you're not sure but either way it was big and obviously must eat a lot and you feel like one of them. Only you're not barking).

(If you had any suspicions before this, I believe I've just confirmed them: yes I'm still recuperating from the trip. Yes my mental capacity is probably that of a sea lion/elephant seal/that big dark barking thing in the ocean. And God, I wish I was back on that beach.)

Where was I going with this?

Oh yes, hanging out in the room. While my kids were on their little doodad machines, PSPs or Ipods or whatever, I watched TV. One of the shows that caught my attention was Father Knows Best. Is everyone familiar with that show? Basically, it was a 1950's portrayal of the stereotypical American family: working father with a full-time housewife/mother taking care of their three children. Every episode stood alone as its own story arc, however the kids did grow up over the course of the show and (I think) ended up going off to college, at least the older two. 

The father works, but comes home in time for dinner every night. The mother cooks and cleans, but always looks fresh and clean tidy, like she'd be ready to go out for a fancy dinner at a moment's notice. Nobody swears. Nobody yells (too much). Nobody drinks (too much). The lipstick's always fresh, the carpet's always clean, and the cake always comes out perfect.

What I'm getting at here is that living a "1950's Household" isn't like what you see from the televisions shows back from that time. I don't think even in the 1950's, when these shows were on, people lived like that. 

I'm a housewife, but my house gets dirty. Dust settles on my window blinds, long enough to stake a plot and set up house. Laundry piles up. I try to cook, but Husband knows if he wants a well-cooked piece of meat, he better make it himself, cause the only thing I'm expert at handling in the kitchen is the fire extinguisher.

But there are similarities. The biggest one, obviously, is that he works and I'm in charge of the home. 

When he wakes up in the morning, there's coffee and the newspaper already waiting for him. His clothes are ironed. His shoes and keys and wallet are where they're supposed to be, not necessarily where he left them. When he comes home from work, he's greeted with smiles and kisses. The mail is in a neat pile on the table, ready for him to look through. If he comes home late, there's still food in the fridge waiting for him. He doesn't have to worry about schedules, or childcare, or household chores. I sometimes ask for his help around the house, but it's not one of his responsibilities, and if he's too busy or too tired, he says no. It's never because he's being lazy or just doesn't feel like it--it's because he legitimately can't, and I understand that. Sometimes it all gets too much for me, too. 

He focuses on spending time with the kids as a father, talking to them, teaching them, and guiding them. He's not a friend, and he's not a mom, but he's a really, really great dad. And sometimes that means taking a deep breath before walking in the door and burying deep all the stresses of work so he can focus on his kids, but he does it, because he knows that's part of his role. And at night, he may vent to me all the hassles he's dealing with at work, but that's only later, after he's greeted me with kisses and asked about my day and we've had a chance to be together as a family.

I don't always get all the housework done before he comes home, but I do freshen up before he's due through the door. It's important that I greet him looking neat and smelling good; I know he appreciates it. I do my best to think of all the little things I can do to make his life easier, to show him I'm always considering his happiness, and I know he does the same for me.

In that way, we are like a 1950's sitcom, but I hope what we are is not unique to a 1950's household. I would like to think we're typical of any happily married couple, always thinking of their spouse's wants and needs and putting the welfare of the family first. Sadly, I know in many homes, what we have is not typical at all. 

I don't think we should strive to be a television show. But I do think there are many aspects of a 1950's household that can enrich any family's home.

I'm Back

Did you miss me? :)

We went for vacation to La Jolla, California. It was AMAZING. I am actually rather sad to be home, but life must resume.
I didn't do that much shopping while I was there (I'm not a big fan of shopping, which pleases Husband greatly) but I did pick up a few souvenirs. On one early expedition to Seaport Village, while the kids and I were in a different part of one particular nick-nack store, Husband snuck away and bought me this:

I love it. He knew I would. He got a kick out of it, too.
What else did I do besides shop, you may ask?
Well, I enjoyed the view from our little patio.

I lounged at the pool.

I relaxed at the hot tub.

I bummed at the beach.

I basically just soaked in the views and had a really good time.

If you're ever going to plan a visit to La Jolla, CA I recommend staying at The La Jolla Shores Hotel. The service is amazing, and the location can't be beat. Just check the prices on sites like Expedia before calling them to make a reservation, because the price they quote you over the phone is ridiculous, but if you find a cheaper rate for one of their rooms on Expedia, they will match the price but you can still make the reservation directly through them (which I think is always safer).
The one draw back to the hotel were all the seagulls. The hotel is situated on the beach, so the hotel had some nesting seagulls on their roofs. The babies got really loud around five o'clock in the morning, looking for their breakfasts. But they were cute, too.

Weekly Playboy Ads

First up, for the people wondering: Yes I was punished. Oh my baby JESUS was I punished. The marks curved around my thighs and hurt so bad it hurt to lie down on my sides.
Husband used a thin, looped power cord first (it's his favorite cause it doesn't make this loud slapping noise on impact, so the only sound he's hearing is my hollering), then the paddle, then the flogger.
I thought he was done after the paddle. There always comes this point at the end of a punishment when things begin to wind down, and you just get a sense that it's almost over, you know? And then yesterday, I thought he was done after the paddle...he "made nice" and lulled me into thinking it was over...and then he started in with the flogger. It didn't hurt as much as the cord, but my dismay at that point was overwhelming. I was crying before he was done.
Anyway. It's done. I won't be making the same mistake again.
Onward!
This post brought to you by the nice ladies of November 1990.

I'm skipping a couple months I think, but this issue is such a doozy I decided I couldn't wait. What makes it so special, you may ask?
For starters, I opened the front page and saw this:

"Pierre, catch me, I'm falling!"
"I got you, Frachesca. Now look all pouty-intense for the camera."

That guy on the right, his hair--that ushered in the new decade right there. Did you notice how they all have these looks on their faces, like they're all stuffed with butt plugs? And the guy on top is like, "what?  What's the big deal? Butt plugs aren't so bad. What's with you guys?"
Kinda like what I was saying when I saw the ad in the first place.
The artistry continues:

This is a beautiful kimono. The model is gorgeous. But what does a geisha have to do with beer? Assuming she is a geisha. I never heard of a geisha that serves beer, but then, I've never personally known a geisha. If anyone out there personally knows a geisha, ask 'em for me if they serve beer, okay? Okay.

Let's move on the technological signs of the times. This music player claims it's designed for people with little space, and yet...it doesn't look all that small to me. At first glance, it looks like it's supposed to fit compactly into a book shelf, but if you look closer, you realize the whole thing's been photoshopped. You see the picture in the lower right? The one of the whole system? Yah, that's about the same actual size of an Ipod shuffle right there.
Mind boggling if you ask me.







Speaking of photoshopped:

Let's spot the problems, shall we?
1. The girl in the blue bikini has no legs.
2. The girl in the blue-checkered bikini has nothing at all below the rib cage.
3. The girl in the red bikini has no right arm.
4. The girl in the yellow bikini seems to have a twisted spine.
Maybe it's an ad for amputees? I actually think that would be uber cool. There's nothing that says an amputee can't be a total hotty, you know--and I'd argue with anyone who says otherwise. I once dated a guy missing two fingers on one hand (war wound), but what he could do with those three other fingers was awesome. And quite talented.
Next!

Let's look at a couple T.V. ads. This T.V. is smart. Why? Because it has a "smart window," a "picture-in-a-picture." Apparently this is great for sports fans, but not for the rest of us who don't know the difference between the World Cup and the Super Bowl and frankly, don't really care.
Yeah, I admitted it. So there.
The funniest thing is the small print, there at the bottom, if you can read it: the "smart window" only works if you have the T.V. hooked up to a VCR. No explaining why.

This ad seems to (want to) appeal to the more sophisticated, more refined reader. Notice the spongy-textured background of polished wood. Notice the DVD player it seems to come with. Notice how it's Elite. Notice the two graphs on the left which prove how this TV is better, because graphs prove everything. 










You might need a VCR with this one too, though.

So get the VCR even a five-year-old can use!

Seriously, do you remember how hard it used to be to program those VCRs? No one could, no matter what the ads said, but the VCR that could market itself as the easiest to program always won out. Even though we all knew it was a lie.

I haven't used a VCR in years. My youngest kid doesn't even know what one is.


I am old.




So is this computer:

You get a word processor that can convert to a typewriter, and 50,000 word memory, and a spelling/grammer check, and a printer, and a monitor! All for $900! EAT YOUR HEART OUT, LAPTOP!

I just laughed out loud when I saw this ad.

You know what these are, right? They're balls. Gold balls--that want you to "Hang Tough." If that weren't bad enough, there's a picture on the left of the balls being held by a...monkey. Are they trying to tell you you are a monkey for buying these balls? Or that you'll have monkey balls? Does either one really appeal?
One thing's for sure, these are NOT "power tools." Having a pair of gold balls on your desk does not make anyone look powerful. But I'm sure they'll be a conversation-starter.
And finally, our last ad, which happens to be on the back of the Playboy itself.

It will change the way you hear music by turning your female companion into a dog. Unless she was always a dog. In which case, you really need to put down the Playboy and get yourself out of the house. Go to a munch or a club or something.
I like the flowers on the side though. They were a nice touch.
I'm putting this post up a day early 'cause I'm going on vacation for a week and won't be around. No posts till I get back probably, unless I get access to a computer somewhere. See you later, Kinksters!

Punishment out of Love

So, in case you're not following me on Twitter and don't know, I had an, um, mishap today with my toenails.
See, in summer when I'm wearing open-toed sandals non-stop, I typically wear fake toenails. You know, the kind you can buy at just about any drugstore.

They look neat and sleek and awesome--when done right. That means devoting time and a certain amount of space to the task at hand, so you can focus on making sure each nail fits good and is on right and you're using the right amount of glue.
I was in a hurry today. My shoes were already going on my feet when I suddenly looked down and remembered I had to put on my fakes. So what did I do? Did I take off my shoes, head to the bathroom, and focus on the process? No. No, that would have made sense. I went to the bathroom and tried to do a half-assed job of it--with my shoes still on, no less. Guess what happened?
I super-glued my feet to my shoes.
Yes, you read that right.
At this point, I faced another choice. I could have taken a step back, a deep breath, thought about the enormity of what had just happened along with the hundred different ways it might continue to go wrong, looked for some kind of instructions on the pamphlet labeled "what to do if you glue your skin to your shoes, you fuckin' idiot" and followed it to the letter. But did I do that?
No, of course not. Again, that would have made sense. 
You see a pattern emerging here?
I grabbed some nail polish remover, some toilet paper, poured the polish remover into said paper, and began to try to drip it into the space connecting my skin to the wicked shoes. Mind you: this might have worked, eventually. Nail polish remover is one way of dissolving the glue. But it takes time.
Did I give it time? Three guesses.
I dripped, and ripped. Dripped, and ripped.
Until the shoes were off my feet, along with a quite a bit of nausea-inducing skin. My poor toes bled and throbbed, and looked like they'd had a fight with a meat tenderizer, and lost. Not very neat or sleek or awesome at all.
I wanted to cry at this point. Not because of the pain--the toes hurt, but I have a very high pain tolerance--but because my feet were going to look ridiculous now, and they did. Not only did I have to deal with the physical consequences, I also had to deal with the physiological and social ones, of walking around totally self-conscious and feeling like an idiot.
So here's where I get to the point of this post. I called Husband and told him what happened. And, just like I thought, he chuckled for a minute. But then he got concerned, and mad, and upset that I'd been in such a hurry and so quick to act, I hadn't thought of the consequences of my actions. I have a punishment coming now, I doozy, and it's not even one I can protest, cause I deserve it.

Sometimes punishments are necessary to keep subs from doing stupid things that hurt themselves. Sometimes we subs need to be reminded that our bodies do not belong to (only) us, and we have to keep ourselves safe and healthy whole, if not for us, then for our Doms. Like anything of value held dear, our Doms trust us to keep ourselves safe when they cannot, and if we break that trust, we deserve what we have coming.

I would be so much more hurt if Husband didn't care, if his attitude was, "sorry you hurt yourself baby, what's for dinner?"
He takes my health so seriously.
I didn't cry over my toes, but I have a feeling I'll be crying tonight by the time he's done with me. But I'll feel the love behind the punishment, too.

Toys You'll NEVER See in a Hotel Bentmoore Story

The following pictures have been brought to you by scarysextoyfriday.com, the letter O (as in OhMyGOD, my eyes, my EYES) and the number 4 (as in for the love of GOD, make it GO AWAY.)

You will never see these toys in any of my stories. You're welcome.

We start with some hand restraints. The Hotel Bentmoore believe firmly in hand restraints; they are quite useful for a variety of purposes. One purpose not listed, however, is the satisfaction of a squid fetish.

Although if someone has a deep desire to fuck a mermaid, I suppose these things would have their uses.







Believe it or not, the Hotel Bentmoore does have its limits. It does not, for instance, condone necrophelia. Which is why you'll never see a toy like this:

And while this guy is not technically a zombie, he's still scary as hell:

You think he blinks?

Imagine having a staring contest with him...through the flesh of your pelvis.

AAAAHHHH! WHAT COULD BE SCARIER?






This guy:

The Good Thing about Self-Publishing Number #1001

Yup, now that summer's here posts are definitely going to get more sporadic. Can't help it: kids are home, there's no schedule...and NO PRIVACY. I still need to put up that Playboy Ad post that was due on Saturday, I know, I know.

The truth is, though, that writing my Bentmoore stories have to come before writing for this blog, and I'm not even getting enough time to do that. It sucks. During the day when I'm busy, I can push all my characters and scenes and background stories to the back of my brain where I don't have to really think about them, but at night when I'm exhausted and trying to get some sleep, all of it, all of them, come stampeding out of the creative part of my head like a herd of buffalos ravaging a dusty plain, and who can sleep through that?

I just had to interrupt writing this post for over an hour because my kids' orthodontist called and told me I forgot about an appointment they were supposed to have this morning. We drove over there fast, but even so, the office staff had to wait for us. They were very nice about it, though. I'm telling you, summer time is cray-zee.

Where was I? Oh yeah, no time to write.

The good thing about self-publishing your work is that it's on your schedule. There is no such thing as being "late," except what you decide in your own head. I make my own deadlines, and when I miss those deadlines I have to deal with the consequences of breaking a "deal" with myself. But there's nobody else mad at me, no agent or editor or publisher breathing down my neck. This is both good and bad: I don't have any outside influences pushing me to get the stories done by a certain day or time. The thing is, a third-party influence might push me to work harder, like when I'm procrastinating or afraid or just plain lazy, but other times, it would be a problem.

Take last week, when I was sick beyond belief. I now know of a few other people in the community who caught the same bug I had, and did have to be admitted to the hospital for IV meds. Would having had someone waiting for me to meet a deadline been any help? No, not at all. It would have made me feel guilty, and like a terrible person for making them wait, but that's about it.

So I'll have a great, albeit crazy, summer with my kids and my family, and I'll write as much as I can, and I'll blog as much as I can, and of course, I'll read as many other blogs as much as I can. I'll make a schedule I can live with.

P.S. Remember: if you have a blog, or if you know of a blog, that should be included in the "check them out" list, let me know. I love linky-love.

Post Topic: Blindfolds

Sorry for no posts the last few days: I was ill. As in, do-anything-to-keep-myself-out-of-the-hospital ill. Stomach bug. I'll spare you the details.

And yet, while I lay sick in bed trying my best to keep down every drop of carefully sipped water, my kids still managed to get themselves let out for summer vacation. So I have a feeling posts will be more sporadic from now on. We shall see.

Today, we're going to talk about: blindfolds. Anything that keeps a person from being able to see what's going on, what's about to happen to them.

For some people, this is a great turn-on. Imagine being restrained against a wall or bed so you can't move, can't flee, can't protect yourself in any way...and then being blindfolded so you can't see what's coming. You can't prepare yourself; you can't even fathom what's to come. You just don't know.

All the rest of your senses heighten in anticipation, and probably fear; your breath comes in small gasps that you try to control, just to better hear what's going on around you. You tilt your head from side to side, trying to discern the slightest sound, the slightest breeze against your prickling skin, that will give you some hint of what's coming.

It may be the light touch a feather you feel against your cheek, moving down your chest, tickling and puckering your nipple. Or it may be a clamp you feel pinching around your nipple instead, lightly at first, then tightening, tightening, until you're crying out for mercy. Or it may be the sudden, stinging clap of a paddle thwacking against the unsuspecting soft flesh of your ass. You just don't know.

Personally, I don't really go for blindfolds, because I get off on seeing what Husband has coming for me next. It sometimes frightens me, what I see him getting out of the closet...it may be a flogger, it may be one of the belts, it may be the tawse I like to call the Devil's Tail....Sometimes it frightens me so badly I'm begging for mercy before he's even reached me. But the fear is part of it, it's part of what gets us both going, and makes everything feel so good. It's part of our kink.

What about you? Do you like the idea of being blindfolded, or do you like to see what's going on, what's about to happen, what's about to be done to you? Next time you're reading some titillating BDSM erotica, take a good look at the scene that's turning you on, and note if anyone in it is blindfolded. It may be an eye-opener.