I’ve started a newsletter. I’m calling it Blind Spot for various mysterious reasons. If you want to read a bit more in depth stuff about me, subscribe. I can’t promise it will be about sex ever, or it might always be about sex. I don’t know yet. I do know that I’ve sort of lost my inspiration for writing lately, and I’m trying something new to ramp it back up. If you are only interested in reading about titties, blowjobs, or pissing or whatever, please *don’t* subscribe. This won’t be for you.
So much filthy, dirty, fun stuff happened at the latest reading! I read a few sections from “My Girlfriend Jake,” as well as a few pieces from the blog. One new thing we tried was a writing prompt. Readers sent in various prompts and photos, and we picked one by the very lovely Piper. Each of us read our interpretation of the photo below. Here’s mine, and I’ll link to the other pieces at the end. I will post links to the audio as soon as it’s available. This was a hell of a show, so many amazing stories!
“Show me your new tattoo, did you get something pretty?” Daddy asked me. I stepped out of my little plaid skirt and pulled my panties down around my ankles and waited for his reaction.
“I see,” was all Daddy said. He frowned and turned away. My heart thudded so hard that for a moment, I felt like I was going to pass out.
“Growing old is a crime, eh?” he said quietly. I didn’t need to translate it for him. I stood very still as he walked in slow circles around me. He stroked his graying beard thoughtfully. He stopped in front of me and crossed his arms in front of his chest. I looked down at my feet, avoiding his gaze. Maybe I hadn’t thought this through as much as I should have.
“Did those boys you’ve been with fuck you better than me?” he growled suddenly.
“No, Daddy,” I whimpered, still not meeting his eyes.
“Did those boys punish you better? Maybe you’d be happier being the fuck toy of someone your own age?” Daddy was so angry, more than I’d ever seen.
“No Daddy,” I trembled. He paced across the room, deciding what to do with me. He stood by the open door for a moment, and I was afraid he was going to order me to leave. What had I done?
Instead, he paced back over to me, grabbing a handful of my hair. “I’ll show you what kind of punishment an old man can still inflict,” he hissed in my ear. Daddy marched me over to the bed and flung me across his lap.
I bit my lip to hold back a smile as his favorite strap whistled through the air. I’d thought this through exactly right.
Read Guy New York’s post here.
Once again I’m heading to New York City and teaming up with the Dirty Boys to bring you an evening of literary debauchery. I’ll have a limited number of copies of “My Girlfriend Jake” available. If you’ve been to a reading before, please note the change in venue. If you’ve never been to a reading before, you are in for a delicious, fantastic, filthy evening.
So, I’ve been puttering around on and off with this novel for a few years. I was on a roll with it when I got into a car accident last summer, and then I just kind of stopped…I had a hand injury that made it hard to type more than a little bit.
I’m trying desperately to get off my ass and finish it now that my hand is better and I’ve run out of excuses, so mostly as encouragement to myself (and a kick in the ass), I’m publishing the first chapter here. Thoughts? Keep going? Burn it to the fucking ground? I’m around 50,000 words into it, give or take:
The House of Nobles
Lexi snatches the crimson envelope out of my hand as I try to hide it from her.
“You applied?” she asks with a smirk.
“When did this come? Why haven’t you opened it?” Lexi shakes it in front of my face.
“A couple weeks ago, I guess,” I shrug.
“What the fuck? It’s time to find out.” Before I can protest, she rips the top from the envelope. The tear is long and jagged, the crimson envelope looks like a bloody mouth.
Lexi lets the envelope float to the floor as she unfolds the thick cream colored pages. She reads for a moment, then looks at me dramatically over the tops of her glasses as she reads aloud:
Your application has been accepted. Please report to the Prospect selection, date and time noted below. Enclosed is your transportation ticket, waivers, and rules and regulations. Please bring all completed paperwork with you on your selection day.
Head of the Academy,
The House of Nobles
Lexi rifles through the pages and holds up a printed ticket edged in that same deep crimson.
“That’s only two days from now, Val!”
I snatch the ticket and the sheaf of papers from Lexi and throw them on the table.
“Do you even know why you want to do this?” Lexi asks me.
“I…I’ve always wanted to be a Noble,” I stutter. It’s all I can think of to say, my mind suddenly seems blank. They’ve accepted me, that’s all that matters. I can go if I want.
Lexi looks at me, eyebrow cocked, hands on her hips. “Val, a few years ago you always wanted to be a veterinarian. Before that you wanted to be a singer.” She puts her arm around my shoulder, squeezing me with a little side hug. “Sweetie, let’s be honest. You’re sort of pretty and all, but you really aren’t Noble material.”
“It’s not about being pretty, it’s about being dedicated to something, bigger than yourself,” I argue, pushing her away.
“Oh, I see. Did you take that right from the brochure?” Lexi asks sarcastically.
“Does it matter? I can’t take this anymore, this nothingness of a life. I’m sick of it all Lex, I need something else,” I fight back tears. I can’t make her understand. Lexi has a good life, an interesting job, everything comes easy to her while I can never catch a break. She’s gorgeous, people stop and stare at her long blond waves and shining blue eyes. I feel like a study in brown. Brown hair, brown eyes. Nothing sparkles or shines. Not even a dimple.
I’m tired of everything. Sitting in the same beige cubicle, answering the same beige plastic phone, listening to the same complaints. I’m tired of trudging home under murky gray skies, watching the world flicker by one channel at a time. I’m tired of the unceasing chatter. I don’t care what movie star fucked who, or what new weapon is being developed in what might as well be a galaxy far, far away.
“What about Ryan? What does he think about all this?” she asks, folding her arms.
Ryan. Shit. Continue reading
Oh. My. God. I’m absolutely blown away.
Okay, honestly I agreed to review the Lelo Ora for the novelty. Lelo makes a damn fine line of products, but this one was so bizarre that I had to see it for myself.
It’s an oral sex simulator. A tiny pussy licking robot tongue. It’s almost spooky to watch the little disembodied tongue tip swirl around in a circle underneath the surface.
It’s shaped more like a bangle bracelet than anything. It’s rounded, the controls are on one side, the tongue area on the other. It’s actually the perfect shape to hold between your legs, totally hands free.
As with the other toys by Lelo, this one has several different speeds and settings, and is fully rechargeable. The “tongue” goes either around in a full circle, or in a half circle,accompanied by different strengths and patterns of vibrations. After playing with the settings awhile, I decided I would really have liked an up and down motion as well.
This is a toy to inflict on the very, very bad (or very, very good). It’s pure foreplay, and not just sorta-getting-warmed-up kind. This is the full blown, panty soaking, begging for sex type of foreplay. Two minutes in and I’m dripping wet and dying for a good fucking, I’ve never had that with a sex toy before. This would be the perfect toy for tying someone up, ordering her to hold it between her thighs, and then coming back in five or ten minutes to a quivering, wet mess, ripe for fucking.
So what does it really feel like? Not quite like a real tongue, I don’t think I’d ever mistake it for one. It’s more of a gentle, roving pressure, maybe like a light swipe of a finger. Coupled with the powerful vibrations, it doesn’t fall into that numbing, droning type of toy that you numb to in a matter of minutes. It’s exciting, there’s a little anticipation there while you wait for the next pass.
Could I come from this? So far, no, but that’s not a deterrent in the least. (My partner has an oral fetish, so the bar is set *very* high.) This has some super strong foreplay mojo. Use it either by yourself to finish off with a different toy, or to get revved up for that special someone.The Ora is in a class all its own.
I was the bouncer and assistant manager at Starzz. Rachel. That girl. I had to bail her ass out of trouble all the fucking time. “Honey,” I’d tell her, “you gotta stop going off with the fucking clients. At least get more cash outta them.” Some of the girls did that, I’d look the other way.
I really wanted a split of her profits, but she didn’t get it. I had to get Tiff to explain it to her. She was already going by Zara then. Fucking beautiful, so young, but not a goddamn clue. Couldn’t dance for shit either, but she’d suck a dick for a fucking buck. She sucked me off a few times. Nothing special, but she had enthusiasm. Yeah. I banged nearly all those chicks back in the day. Those were the fucking days, man.
Kid could have been a fucking doctor or lawyer, she could do all kinds of math in her head. I think she was still in college back then. We didn’t ever have no college girl before. Most of our dancers were single moms or junkies hanging off of one side of the wagon or another. I don’t know what the fuck she was doing here. I didn’t hire her, the old man did. Pervert. Anyways, she helped me with the count sometimes. I’d be sittin’ there with a calculator and a million scraps of fucking paper, and she’d have it all figured out before I could finish putting all the numbers in. I double checked her math the first couple times, but after that I took her word for it.
“Baby,” I’d tell her, “You should be at one of those high class joints, like Stiletto’s there over on Fifth Street.” She seemed to like it here though. I don’t know why.
Had to tell her to dumb it down with the clients. Scary fucking smart, but that’s not why guys came in you know. They didn’t want homework help, they wanted to get their dicks hard, see some chicks taking off their clothes. Titties. They wanted titties and pussy. Zara had some nice fucking titties. She didn’t need no implants or nothing.
I told Tiff take her out to get them contact lenses, but the clients started complaining. They liked her glasses. She looked like a fucking librarian. I didn’t like that shit, I like my girls to have a little glitz, you know, but, hey, they was the ones paying. I was just the bouncer, what the fuck did I know, right?
I’d love to say that she got discovered at Starzz, maybe it would still be open. Maybe it coulda been a classy place. Champagne instead of pitchers of beer. Real fucking headliners coming in. But she didn’t. She moved out to LA before that. I did make some money off Ebay though. Had some old shit lying around, some old costume shit that I ended up with when the place closed, some things she’d written on. Made a few bucks from that. I sold it too early, though. I should have waited.
It was silly, really.
I knew the Angel Boyzz had aged right along with me, and it had been a long damn time since I was sixteen. Back then, I’d have been able to tell you their birthdays, favorite colors, and shoe sizes. Every teenage girl in the world had all that information memorized, myself included. Their glowing, flawless faces smiled and winked at me from my locker, from the posters on my bedroom wall, and sang me to sleep as I played their songs over and over (and over.)
That was a long time ago, a different lifetime. I’d had my heart broken and mended so many times since then, I couldn’t even tell the scars apart anymore. This latest scar was fresh enough though. Jeff had unceremoniously dumped me six months before our fourth wedding anniversary, and the sting hadn’t quite faded away.
Things used to be so much simpler, didn’t they?
A crush on a boy band was safe, fodder for so many innocent fantasies. They were just there, singing their hearts out to you, not fucking your best friend while you were away on a business trip.
So when the DJ on the radio said they were giving away VIP tickets to an Angel Boyzz Reunion Cruise, I felt weirdly compelled to dial the number. My hands shook as I punched in the number, an icy trickle of sweat inched down my back. When the DJ said “Kerry, you are the fifteenth caller, YOU WIN!” I shrieked into the phone and jumped up and down like I hadn’t done for years. It felt good to be excited like that again, that jolt of pure unbridled joy. Continue reading