Sunday, August 31, 2008

Jesus Isn't Coming -

He's just breathing hard. Here's a literally divine dildo from Divine Interventions:
"Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me..." ~ Psalm 23
Find the true meaning of comfort...

Find out what it means to be truly "touched" by God...

Find out what Mary felt, the night that she conceived...

"If His rod feels this good, I can't imagine what His staff must feel like!!!" ~ Very satisfied customer

Friday, August 29, 2008

"Blowjob Queen" My Mykola Dementiuk

I'm very pleased to be able to post another great story from Mykola Dementiuk. Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at mchristianzobop@gmail.com.


Blowjob Queen
by
Mykola Dementiuk

I knew that Henry and Billy were inseparable as friends but when I started going out with Henry, to the movies, to the park, I didn’t think Billy would tag along, sitting beside us in the movie-house row or on the park bench as Henry’s hands went around my tits or up my skirt, but hell, once a guy’s hands were on me I couldn’t care less who was watching as long as the hands did what they were supposed to, satisfy me…and Henry’s always did…

But I’ve always melted under a guys hand, any guy; hell, even a guy’s horny look could get me off: walking down the street, riding a subway, I’d sometimes be hot enough to go and spread my legs with the first guy who wanted it, but most guys simply look and stare: they see a girl like me, young, pretty, sexy, available, and all they do is act like gentlemen, pretend I’m too young, make small talk about the weather, the subway ride, anything but what we really want from each other, fucking sex! Henry treated me like his personal slut and whore, and showed me off as one…to Billy…and I loved it!

-How’d you like that? Henry would often smirk at Billy, as I’d bustle to stash back a breast into a bra, spring a panty back over my snatch, pull up my sagging hose and garters, or anything else that came undone or loosened under Henry’s touch. And of course Billy would sit there red-faced, angry, probably cursing us under his breath for his frustration as we’d relax beside him freed in our release of each other.

It seemed cruel at first, but then I too began to enjoy an audience, moaning and groaning as if on cue not to what was being done to me but what my display of myself was doing to Billy, an onlooker.

For weeks I’d been showing it off to him, and his constant state of erection, so evident in his pants each time we sat in the park, drew me closer to him in curiosity and desire to explore him as I wondered what his exploration of me would be like. Even playing with myself at night I’d imagine Billy watching, his eyes widening, his crotch bloating, and when I’d orgasm to the memory of Henry’s touch it was the image of Billy atop and inside me who elicited the frenzy of satisfaction and peace.

For who makes love to one person when making or imagining love? The penis ramming in me may be one guy, but I always recall the penises of other guys, the short fat cocks that would fill my sides, the thick long ones that reached so deep, and I’d imagine penises of guys I had passed on the street, of guys’ cocks I’d like to take from other girls, and most of all of Billy who’d already seen my tits and cunt yet still not shown me what I longed to see on him, a cock all stiff and ripe for fucking, fucking me!

And though Henry kept me satisfied day after day, with Billy so near I only dreamed what it would be like to be satisfied by him and what euphoria I’d see on his contented face and contorting body.

-Wanna touch it? Henry once asked; I was splayed across his lap, my legs outspread, one on the backrest near Billy’s shoulder, the other over his knee, my cunt desperate for a touch, a hand, a finger, anyone’s finger…

Yet the realization of what was about to happen, the pimping/whoring aspect of it, jolted my desperate lust and I almost said No! and put a stop to it right there and then, yet Henry’s pimping offer to his best friend suddenly gripped and thrilled me even more as I relaxed and spread my legs still wider in anticipation of Billy’s hand on me, my torso even rising upwards to welcome and greet the avid explorer.

-But use only the back of your hand, Henry leered and winked, an instant before Billy’s disbelieving fingers and palm gripped my cunt. I think the look of frustration on his face was as poignant as the disappointed look on mine; I, from the anticipation of a new hand on my pussy, and Billy, from the frustration of probably feeling the first cunt of his life and not being able to grip and squeeze and claw like it I suppose he did in his jerk-off fantasies of me.

And I think at that moment, as the back of his hand stroked my damp pussy hairs, I loved Billy more than I ever loved anyone, including Henry, yet I now know I only felt sorry and that pity is no basis of love or respect of anything. Least of all sex…

-That’s enough of that! Henry suddenly snapped, straightening one leg which almost sent me sprawling off his lap. Billy’s hand shivered in the frustrating loss of what it been feeling and he clamped his thighs together and looked tearfully at me as I struggled to sit up and pull down my skirt before Henry gripped the back of my neck and forced me down to his crotch; I didn’t need to be told and swallowed his dick…

Ever since 6th grade guys said I had a prefect blowjob mouth: my lips fat and thick and pouty, and when I started on lipstick in the 7th grade, the various tints and hues, lip-liners and glosses, my lips only grew in the accentuated sucking possibilities of my mouth; ever since then guys have had a blowjob before anything else. Because it was always my mouth guys focused on; I didn’t have very big breasts, round and small, but my ass curves were too thin for my compact body shape --even in tight jeans there was always an inevitable loosening around my hip and thighs-- but my mouth, which by then I always kept wet in various lip-moisteners, looked like I had just sucked off a platoon of cocks and was ready to service the rest of the corps. In school they called me the Blowjob Queen, and rumors had it I even blew some of the teachers (not true), but I did suck off a few of the security guards after homeroom.

Still, when I started dating Henry (and Billy) only once did I cheat on him (them) and that was with a guy I’d known since I was a little girl: the janitor of my building: I sucked him off in the basement near the boiler while his own two little girls tore through his ground-floor apartment above us, their running footsteps pounding over our heads like their father’s cock pounded into my face and mouth…

But I’ve always liked the feel of an erect cock in my mouth; it may sound stupid and corny, but it fills me up, even more then getting fucked. I especially like forced face-fucking, the I’m-not-that-kind-of-girl crap where I pretend to resist and clamp my lips shut until the guy grabs my head and ears and breaks me open so deep the dry-heaved tears fill my eyes to cover the true pleasure I get from having his torso pound and beat my face until he floods my throat and soul in semen and peace.

But Henry wanted me to do all the work; sure, he’d force my head to his cock but I had to do the suckling, the head-bobbing, the face smearing/lathering. I don’t know what kind of pleasure he got from shooting on my face --he was the only guy I ever sucked who pulled out of my mouth before he came-- but it seemed such a waste to have gone through all that work of arousal and sucking only to have my head snapped back for a face-full of hot scum. I wanted it down my throat and not on my face and forehead and sticking to my bangs; I wanted as much pleasure as I knew I was giving, but Henry was one of those who always came fast, no matter how far I still had to go, who would shoot his wad before we even settled into a nice comfortable pace that could please us both, as if his satisfaction was all that mattered. And I’m sure it did…

-Wanna make out with her? I heard Henry say, his hand still gripping my neck. I didn’t even glance up at Billy, certain his face was a grimace of embarrassed longing and frustration, and just kept sliding my mouth up and down Henry’s cock.

What could Billy have gone through all these weeks, watching us have sex and participating only in the solitary recall of his later masturbations? It was hardcore pornography, the images there but the physicality unattainable, and I sometimes even wondered that if Billy hadn’t been there to play his part as voyeur would I really have acted all this out with Henry?

Probably, some things never change, but I bobbed my head more rapidly, hoping he’d come as fast as he usually did. Henry pushed my head off; I thought he was coming and awaited for his scum-sprinkles on my face. I looked up: he had moved his other hand around Billy’s neck and was also drawing him down to his lap, holding it an inch or two from his hard pulsing dick.

-Kiss her, Henry simply said, pressing our faces and mouths together.

I wonder what Billy must have felt sucking-in the taste of his friend’s cock and pubic hairs from my mouth, but I knew his kiss was a desperate longing kiss, his tongue circling inside my mouth, his teeth clicking against mine, his mouth greedily opening wider as if to suck-in and swallow my own wide-open swallowing sucking-in mouth…

And I knew that Billy didn’t care what I tasted like or had in my mouth just a moment ago, but that he was finally kissing the girl of his dreams, as I, after all these weeks of showing myself off was having her own dream fulfilled by kissing and finally having the boy of my dreams. Or so I thought…

-That’s enough of that, Henry said, pulling out heads apart. He shoved my face back on his cock and I resumed my sucking, yet he held Billy’s head on his thigh, gripping the back of his neck so tightly that Billy’s mouth was grimaced in an ugly gash-like smile that showed off his teeth; a wet brown pubic hair was curled around his left canine tooth.

We looked at each other, sadly, abjectly, each held by someone I always knew I never really like and who I’m sure Billy resented as well. But what is it that lures people to their abusers? What was the basis of my love for Henry, and what was the basis of his friendship with Billy? I now know it was Power; that’s what every abuser, rejecter, humiliator has over his victim: the Power to abuse and debase, at his whim, and we had given ourselves up willingly, without resistance, and could no longer resist or protest even if we tried.

Commanded by Henry to lie down and spread my legs in the middle of Times Square I’d probably have worn crotchless panties for the occasion; told to suck off the first guy who came along I’d have slathered my mouth in enough lipstick and gloss to look as slutfully appetizing as any 3rd avenue whore; and ordered to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge I’d most likely have waited for a passing tug so as to land on the skipper’s cock and get gang-banged by the crew…

I would have done all this because I wanted to please, to satisfy, be liked and admired, to imagine myself in love and being loved. But the more you do for abuser/lover, the more he wants done; the more you offer, the more he takes; the more you give in, the more he expects. An abuser can only have loathing for his victim because the victim is but a worthless reflection of the abuser’s own worthless inner self: both are attracted to yet detest the other though not as much as they detest themselves. And having taken everything that’s been given up, objects, dignity, emotional self-worth, there is only breathing life remaining and that too is an affront and must be snuffed out, by innuendoes, accusations, insults, enslavement, imprisonment, execution. Billy and I were ripe for extermination; like an animal’s neck on the butcher’s block, out heads roosted on Henry’s lap ready for the guillotine blade to drop...and we had had willingly honed the blade to razor-sharp perfection.

I glanced at Billy, our faces barely an inch apart, and saw his eyes gaping as avidly at Henry’s cock pulsing in and out of my mouth as I stroked my lips up and down his shaft. Something was wrong here. Our eyes met, and for a mere instant I recognized something in Billy’s look that suddenly explained everything about our strange ménage-a-trois, the weeks of showing-off, the humiliations, the debasements.

Whatever may have passed unsaid and unexpressed between us, it wasn’t Henry who was blocking Billy from getting at me, but I who had intruded upon and severed the connection between them. Billy’s sad eyes had never been a look of longing for me, but one of jealousy for what I had taken from him, Henry!

I sighed, but the ugly realization of it all surprised me only for a second, than saddened me: Billy had ceded himself to Henry more then I ever could or would! I had to give back each of them what they really needed and wanted: each other…

I oozed my mouth off Henry’s cock and slightly nodded; Billy’s eyes widened, and his mouth quickly moved over my place.

He certainly knew what he was doing!

I sat up, picking at a pube on my tongues, and looked at Henry. He sheepishly smirked, then grimaced, and buckled his torso into Billy’s face.

He was coming in his mouth!

I wanted to cry, and felt more used then I had ever been. Instead, I kissed him, trying to push his pube off my tongue and onto his.

The next day I broke up with Henry (and Billy)…and never went back to the park.

"Blowjob Queen" My Mykola Dementiuk

I'm very pleased to be able to post another great story from Mykola Dementiuk. Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at mchristianzobop@gmail.com.


Blowjob Queen
by
Mykola Dementiuk

I knew that Henry and Billy were inseparable as friends but when I started going out with Henry, to the movies, to the park, I didn’t think Billy would tag along, sitting beside us in the movie-house row or on the park bench as Henry’s hands went around my tits or up my skirt, but hell, once a guy’s hands were on me I couldn’t care less who was watching as long as the hands did what they were supposed to, satisfy me…and Henry’s always did…

But I’ve always melted under a guys hand, any guy; hell, even a guy’s horny look could get me off: walking down the street, riding a subway, I’d sometimes be hot enough to go and spread my legs with the first guy who wanted it, but most guys simply look and stare: they see a girl like me, young, pretty, sexy, available, and all they do is act like gentlemen, pretend I’m too young, make small talk about the weather, the subway ride, anything but what we really want from each other, fucking sex! Henry treated me like his personal slut and whore, and showed me off as one…to Billy…and I loved it!

-How’d you like that? Henry would often smirk at Billy, as I’d bustle to stash back a breast into a bra, spring a panty back over my snatch, pull up my sagging hose and garters, or anything else that came undone or loosened under Henry’s touch. And of course Billy would sit there red-faced, angry, probably cursing us under his breath for his frustration as we’d relax beside him freed in our release of each other.

It seemed cruel at first, but then I too began to enjoy an audience, moaning and groaning as if on cue not to what was being done to me but what my display of myself was doing to Billy, an onlooker.

For weeks I’d been showing it off to him, and his constant state of erection, so evident in his pants each time we sat in the park, drew me closer to him in curiosity and desire to explore him as I wondered what his exploration of me would be like. Even playing with myself at night I’d imagine Billy watching, his eyes widening, his crotch bloating, and when I’d orgasm to the memory of Henry’s touch it was the image of Billy atop and inside me who elicited the frenzy of satisfaction and peace.

For who makes love to one person when making or imagining love? The penis ramming in me may be one guy, but I always recall the penises of other guys, the short fat cocks that would fill my sides, the thick long ones that reached so deep, and I’d imagine penises of guys I had passed on the street, of guys’ cocks I’d like to take from other girls, and most of all of Billy who’d already seen my tits and cunt yet still not shown me what I longed to see on him, a cock all stiff and ripe for fucking, fucking me!

And though Henry kept me satisfied day after day, with Billy so near I only dreamed what it would be like to be satisfied by him and what euphoria I’d see on his contented face and contorting body.

-Wanna touch it? Henry once asked; I was splayed across his lap, my legs outspread, one on the backrest near Billy’s shoulder, the other over his knee, my cunt desperate for a touch, a hand, a finger, anyone’s finger…

Yet the realization of what was about to happen, the pimping/whoring aspect of it, jolted my desperate lust and I almost said No! and put a stop to it right there and then, yet Henry’s pimping offer to his best friend suddenly gripped and thrilled me even more as I relaxed and spread my legs still wider in anticipation of Billy’s hand on me, my torso even rising upwards to welcome and greet the avid explorer.

-But use only the back of your hand, Henry leered and winked, an instant before Billy’s disbelieving fingers and palm gripped my cunt. I think the look of frustration on his face was as poignant as the disappointed look on mine; I, from the anticipation of a new hand on my pussy, and Billy, from the frustration of probably feeling the first cunt of his life and not being able to grip and squeeze and claw like it I suppose he did in his jerk-off fantasies of me.

And I think at that moment, as the back of his hand stroked my damp pussy hairs, I loved Billy more than I ever loved anyone, including Henry, yet I now know I only felt sorry and that pity is no basis of love or respect of anything. Least of all sex…

-That’s enough of that! Henry suddenly snapped, straightening one leg which almost sent me sprawling off his lap. Billy’s hand shivered in the frustrating loss of what it been feeling and he clamped his thighs together and looked tearfully at me as I struggled to sit up and pull down my skirt before Henry gripped the back of my neck and forced me down to his crotch; I didn’t need to be told and swallowed his dick…

Ever since 6th grade guys said I had a prefect blowjob mouth: my lips fat and thick and pouty, and when I started on lipstick in the 7th grade, the various tints and hues, lip-liners and glosses, my lips only grew in the accentuated sucking possibilities of my mouth; ever since then guys have had a blowjob before anything else. Because it was always my mouth guys focused on; I didn’t have very big breasts, round and small, but my ass curves were too thin for my compact body shape --even in tight jeans there was always an inevitable loosening around my hip and thighs-- but my mouth, which by then I always kept wet in various lip-moisteners, looked like I had just sucked off a platoon of cocks and was ready to service the rest of the corps. In school they called me the Blowjob Queen, and rumors had it I even blew some of the teachers (not true), but I did suck off a few of the security guards after homeroom.

Still, when I started dating Henry (and Billy) only once did I cheat on him (them) and that was with a guy I’d known since I was a little girl: the janitor of my building: I sucked him off in the basement near the boiler while his own two little girls tore through his ground-floor apartment above us, their running footsteps pounding over our heads like their father’s cock pounded into my face and mouth…

But I’ve always liked the feel of an erect cock in my mouth; it may sound stupid and corny, but it fills me up, even more then getting fucked. I especially like forced face-fucking, the I’m-not-that-kind-of-girl crap where I pretend to resist and clamp my lips shut until the guy grabs my head and ears and breaks me open so deep the dry-heaved tears fill my eyes to cover the true pleasure I get from having his torso pound and beat my face until he floods my throat and soul in semen and peace.

But Henry wanted me to do all the work; sure, he’d force my head to his cock but I had to do the suckling, the head-bobbing, the face smearing/lathering. I don’t know what kind of pleasure he got from shooting on my face --he was the only guy I ever sucked who pulled out of my mouth before he came-- but it seemed such a waste to have gone through all that work of arousal and sucking only to have my head snapped back for a face-full of hot scum. I wanted it down my throat and not on my face and forehead and sticking to my bangs; I wanted as much pleasure as I knew I was giving, but Henry was one of those who always came fast, no matter how far I still had to go, who would shoot his wad before we even settled into a nice comfortable pace that could please us both, as if his satisfaction was all that mattered. And I’m sure it did…

-Wanna make out with her? I heard Henry say, his hand still gripping my neck. I didn’t even glance up at Billy, certain his face was a grimace of embarrassed longing and frustration, and just kept sliding my mouth up and down Henry’s cock.

What could Billy have gone through all these weeks, watching us have sex and participating only in the solitary recall of his later masturbations? It was hardcore pornography, the images there but the physicality unattainable, and I sometimes even wondered that if Billy hadn’t been there to play his part as voyeur would I really have acted all this out with Henry?

Probably, some things never change, but I bobbed my head more rapidly, hoping he’d come as fast as he usually did. Henry pushed my head off; I thought he was coming and awaited for his scum-sprinkles on my face. I looked up: he had moved his other hand around Billy’s neck and was also drawing him down to his lap, holding it an inch or two from his hard pulsing dick.

-Kiss her, Henry simply said, pressing our faces and mouths together.

I wonder what Billy must have felt sucking-in the taste of his friend’s cock and pubic hairs from my mouth, but I knew his kiss was a desperate longing kiss, his tongue circling inside my mouth, his teeth clicking against mine, his mouth greedily opening wider as if to suck-in and swallow my own wide-open swallowing sucking-in mouth…

And I knew that Billy didn’t care what I tasted like or had in my mouth just a moment ago, but that he was finally kissing the girl of his dreams, as I, after all these weeks of showing myself off was having her own dream fulfilled by kissing and finally having the boy of my dreams. Or so I thought…

-That’s enough of that, Henry said, pulling out heads apart. He shoved my face back on his cock and I resumed my sucking, yet he held Billy’s head on his thigh, gripping the back of his neck so tightly that Billy’s mouth was grimaced in an ugly gash-like smile that showed off his teeth; a wet brown pubic hair was curled around his left canine tooth.

We looked at each other, sadly, abjectly, each held by someone I always knew I never really like and who I’m sure Billy resented as well. But what is it that lures people to their abusers? What was the basis of my love for Henry, and what was the basis of his friendship with Billy? I now know it was Power; that’s what every abuser, rejecter, humiliator has over his victim: the Power to abuse and debase, at his whim, and we had given ourselves up willingly, without resistance, and could no longer resist or protest even if we tried.

Commanded by Henry to lie down and spread my legs in the middle of Times Square I’d probably have worn crotchless panties for the occasion; told to suck off the first guy who came along I’d have slathered my mouth in enough lipstick and gloss to look as slutfully appetizing as any 3rd avenue whore; and ordered to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge I’d most likely have waited for a passing tug so as to land on the skipper’s cock and get gang-banged by the crew…

I would have done all this because I wanted to please, to satisfy, be liked and admired, to imagine myself in love and being loved. But the more you do for abuser/lover, the more he wants done; the more you offer, the more he takes; the more you give in, the more he expects. An abuser can only have loathing for his victim because the victim is but a worthless reflection of the abuser’s own worthless inner self: both are attracted to yet detest the other though not as much as they detest themselves. And having taken everything that’s been given up, objects, dignity, emotional self-worth, there is only breathing life remaining and that too is an affront and must be snuffed out, by innuendoes, accusations, insults, enslavement, imprisonment, execution. Billy and I were ripe for extermination; like an animal’s neck on the butcher’s block, out heads roosted on Henry’s lap ready for the guillotine blade to drop...and we had had willingly honed the blade to razor-sharp perfection.

I glanced at Billy, our faces barely an inch apart, and saw his eyes gaping as avidly at Henry’s cock pulsing in and out of my mouth as I stroked my lips up and down his shaft. Something was wrong here. Our eyes met, and for a mere instant I recognized something in Billy’s look that suddenly explained everything about our strange ménage-a-trois, the weeks of showing-off, the humiliations, the debasements.

Whatever may have passed unsaid and unexpressed between us, it wasn’t Henry who was blocking Billy from getting at me, but I who had intruded upon and severed the connection between them. Billy’s sad eyes had never been a look of longing for me, but one of jealousy for what I had taken from him, Henry!

I sighed, but the ugly realization of it all surprised me only for a second, than saddened me: Billy had ceded himself to Henry more then I ever could or would! I had to give back each of them what they really needed and wanted: each other…

I oozed my mouth off Henry’s cock and slightly nodded; Billy’s eyes widened, and his mouth quickly moved over my place.

He certainly knew what he was doing!

I sat up, picking at a pube on my tongues, and looked at Henry. He sheepishly smirked, then grimaced, and buckled his torso into Billy’s face.

He was coming in his mouth!

I wanted to cry, and felt more used then I had ever been. Instead, I kissed him, trying to push his pube off my tongue and onto his.

The next day I broke up with Henry (and Billy)…and never went back to the park.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

"Scouts" by Nobilis

Here's another great story from another great writer. Remember if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at mchristianzobop@gmail.com.


Scouts
by
Nobilis

Masters' voice broke in, transmitted from the cockpit. "We're away, Shirley. Ready for jump."

Shirley nodded. "Thank you, Masters. Meet us in the Chamber." She addressed Val and I again. "Looks like it's time for your first engineering lesson. Faster-than-light travel is dependent upon orgone energy. Merchant ships use basal orgone, the ordinary everyday energy of life. Warships need to be able to generate bursts of speed, so their engines can also accept crisis orgone from rage, fear, and pain. It's a horrific life, but as long as there are pirates preying on Merchant ships, we need the Fleet. And then there's us. Scout ships can travel across the galaxy in a moment, powered by transcendent orgone. Some of the great adepts have learned to release it at will, but most of us use orgasm."

"Orgasm?" The implications of this secret burst upon me like a bomb.

"You are familiar with the concept?" She smiled. "I've read your medical report, everything seemed to be alright, but if there's a problem..."

"No, no..." I shook my head. "No problem."

"Good." She glanced around the room. "This chamber is surrounded by collectors that channel the orgone into field generators set in the hull. If the field generators are properly primed, and the navigation computer set to trigger, pop! We're there."

Masters emerged from the passageway and stood in the center of the room.

Shirley stood and moved next to him. "Ready to give a demonstration?"

"As always," he said, and pulled his shirt up over his head.

I scratched the back of my neck and looked away. "Don't you want us to, um..."

"Of course not," said Shirley. "How else are you going to learn? Station folk have different ways of looking at sex."

Masters chuckled.

Shirley shot him a look. "So to speak. You need to shed your inhibitions, and this is your first step in doing that."

I looked up to see her tossing her top behind a bench. Her full, round breasts bounced with her movements.

"Should I take off my clothes, too?" I didn't know what I was supposed to do. It felt strange to just sit there, watching.

She rolled her pants down, revealing full hips and thighs. The naked cleft of her pussy held my fascinated attention. "No, keep your clothes on, and don't touch yourself, either. You need to learn control, and now is the time to start."

I looked over at Val. Her lips pursed, one hand nervously picked at the neck of her shirt. She caught my eye and gave me a fleeting smile. This would test her as much as it did me.

Shirley and Masters, now completely naked, kissed, left hands laid gently on each others waist, right hands roaming over each others body. Their kisses were quick, rhythmic, but open mouthed and full of passionate promise. They sank down onto the floor as one, performing a dance they obviously knew well from long practice. She lay on her back, hands caressing his shoulders, neck and ears. His lips traveled over her body, kissing and nuzzling her skin as he gradually approached her breast.

I adjusted my pants so that my cock could slip into a more comfortable position. How could they possibly expect me to watch this and not have an orgasm? I had never seen anything so arousing in my life.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Nude in San Francisco


This fun site comes from my pal Mykola Dementiuk:

nudeinsf features girls exploring the streets of San Francisco completely nude. All original content. It is public nudity in San Francisco. These girls aren't flashing their boobs on Baker Beach in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, or doing cartwheels in a park, and the street signs aren't in some language you've never seen. They are fully nude and boldly walking around the beautiful city of San Francisco. (So, this site is great just for exploring San Francisco as well!)

We've noticed that all public nudity websites, almost without exception, have one thing in common: they are boring. Most are just nude girls on the beach, some are just flashing in public. There's no daring. Or the girls are in some vague eastern European country. nudeinsf.com is different. Our models are fully nude, in broad daylight, going on long walks down the streets of San Francisco. For real. This is what you have always wanted from a public nudity site but have never been able to find. (We never have!) Please check it out; you won't believe your eyes!


- and here's what I have to say about the site: Hot, sexy, wild, outrageous ... and best of all FUN. Highly recommended!

Monday, August 25, 2008

SEX-IN-SPACEEEEEEEE (Part 2)

Wiki:

Document 12-571-3570 (also entitled NASA No. 12 571-3570) is a fictional document contrived by astronomer and scientific writer Pierre Kohler about the sex experiments in space attributed to NASA. According to Kohler's book The Final Mission, astronauts aboard a space shuttle flight in 1996 performed a variety of sex acts during the STS-75 mission to determine which positions are most effective in zero gravity. Citing the 12-571-3570 document, Kohler reported that of the 10 positions tested, six required the use of a belt and an inflatable tunnel, while four were contingent on hanging on. Kohler also said that the couple apparently agreed to filming of the 10 one-hour sessions in the lower deck of the shuttle, and that they added their own personal footnotes to help scientists.

NASA's director of media services Brian Welch referred to the document as a "fairly well-known 'urban legend'". The Document's descriptions of heterosexual sex are further damaging to Kohler's claims, since there were no women aboard STS-75. Kohler conceded that astronauts are also mute on the subject of human sex in orbit, even if they have conducted reproduction research on South African frogs and Japanese fish.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

The Lovelump

Wiki:

The LoveLump was an Internet hoax perpetrated by digital artist Christopher Ryan Moses. It is considered a hoax of exposure.

Moses created a fictional company, Erotech Industries, which claimed to have developed a bio-engineered sex toy, combining male and female genitals, breasts, and buttocks in a compact package. The website won a MemeFest Award in 2003, but has since gone offline. An online mirror of the original site can be found at the artist's website. In 2004, it was featured on the weblog for The Museum of Hoaxes in San Diego, California.

The LoveLump was allegedly created using a combination of animal and vegetable DNA, thus creating the first ever living tissue sex toy. The hoax website stated that it had to be injected with nutrients in order to keep it alive, and it had a stated life span of 5-7 years.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Sex Sells: How to Write & Sell Erotica Class With M.Christian!

Come one, come all* to the definitive class in erotica writing, taught by a master of the genre

Sex Sells: How to Write & Sell Erotica
With M.Christian


Sunday, October 12th, 1pm - 4pm
$40 before Sept 30
$50 after Sept 30
Downtown San Francisco (location revealed after registering)
Register Via PayPal: Zobop@aol.com

The market for erotic fiction and nonfiction is booming! There actually is a secret to writing great erotica - and you'll discover just what that is in this fun, hands-on workshop with well-known erotica writer and teacher M. Christian.

For the beginning writer, erotica can be the ideal place to begin writing, getting published, and -- best of all -- earning money. And for the experienced writer, erotica can be an excellent way to beef up your resume and hone your writing skills. M. Christian will review the varieties of personal and literary expression possible in this exciting and expanding field. He'll also teach you techniques for creating love and sex scenes that sizzle.

Learn how to:
  • Get started writing for and selling to this growing marketplace
  • Free your creativity and get past inhibitions
  • Avoid cliches, common mistakes, and pitfalls
  • Write what editors and publishers will want to buy
Plus: current pay rates, how to write for a wide variety of erotic genres, from magazines to websites, where and how to submit your erotic writing, and more.

Students will also receive:
  • Several informative handouts including a list of top-notch markets and venues for erotica, as well as funny and educational articles and columns
  • A personal invitation to contribute to a special erotica project
  • 50% off a wide selections of erotica books
  • A free autographed copy of M.Christian's collection Filthy: Outrageous Gay Erotica=
The class is open to everyone (over the age of 21) interested in writing all kinds of erotica: gay, straight, lesbian, bisexual, fetish ... you name it!
M.Christian is an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and many others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll. His site is www.mchristian.com.
For more information write M.Christian at zobop@aol.com.

*no guarantees

What Do Big Barda, Lainie Kazan, and Playboy Have In Common?

Wiki:

Big Barda is a fictional superheroine published by DC Comics. She first appeared in Mister Miracle vol. 1 #4 (October, 1971), and was created by Jack Kirby.

In a reversal of the stereotype associated with female characters at the time of her creation, Barda is physically more powerful than her husband and very protective of him. She is more than willing to use her strength in battle.

Jack Kirby based Barda's physical appearance on Lainie Kazan, "who had recently appeared topless in [an issue of] Playboy." Mark Evanier, Kirby's assistant during the Fourth World comics, has stated: "Jack based some of his characters (not all) on people in his life or in the news.... Big Barda's roots are not in doubt. The visual came about shortly after songstress Lainie Kazan posed for Playboy...and the characterization between Scott 'Mister Miracle' Free and Barda was based largely — though with tongue in cheek — on the interplay Jack and his wife Roz. Of course, the whole 'escape artist' theme was inspired by an earlier career of writer-artist Jim Steranko."

Friday, August 15, 2008

Thad Rutkowski

My pal Thad Rutkowski just sent me this very cool clip of him performing in NYC with the Larry Simon Band:


Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Having Fun With Google

Here's your chance - and aren't you lucky - to check out whatever I post or find interesting: My Shared Items Page On Google. Enjoy!

The Voluptuous Beauty of Gaston Lachaise

Wiki:

Gaston Lachaise (1882-1935) was a French-American sculptor, active in the early 20th century. A native of Paris he was most noted for his female nudes such as Standing Woman.

Gaston Lachaise born March 19, 1882, Paris, France died October 18, 1935, New York, New York, U.S.

French-born American sculptor known for his massively proportioned female nudes. Lachaise was the son of a cabinetmaker. At age 13 he entered a craft school, where he was trained in the decorative arts, and from 1898 to 1904 he studied sculpture at the École des Beaux-Arts. He began his artistic career as a designer of Art Nouveau decorative objects for the French jeweler René Lalique. Having fallen in love with an American woman, Lachaise immigrated to the United States in 1906 and worked in Boston for H. H. Kitson, an academic sculptor of military monuments. In 1912 Lachaise went to New York City and worked as an assistant to the sculptor Paul Manship. Like Manship his work can be seen at Rockefeller Center.

Lachaise's most famous work, Standing Woman (1932), typifies the image that Lachaise worked and reworked: a voluptuous female nude with sinuous, tapered limbs. Lachaise was also known as a brilliant portraitist. He executed busts of famous artists and literary celebrities, such as John Marin, Marianne Moore, and E. E. Cummings. In 1935 the Museum of Modern Art in New York City held a retrospective exhibition of Lachaise's work, the first at that institution for any American sculptor.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Kafka's Porn?


From ectoplasmosis (cross-posted to MChristian.com)
In his new book, Excavating Kafka, author James Hawes publishes a sampling of the late author’s secret collection of mail order pornography, copies of which Hawes stumbled upon while performing unrelated research in the British Library in London and the Bodleian in Oxford leading one to the conclusion that someone knew about Kafka’s erotic peccadilloes. Why then are they only coming to light now? Well, it could be that they are filthy:

Even today, the pornography would be “on the top shelf”, Dr Hawes said, noting that his American publisher did not want him to publish it at first. “These are not naughty postcards from the beach. They are undoubtedly porn, pure and simple. Some of it is quite dark, with animals committing fellatio and girl-on-girl action… It’s quite unpleasant.”

So there it is. It seems that Kafka scholars, unable to bear the idea of the mind behind The Trial and The Metamorphosis being titillated by the forbidden fruit of bestiality, have done their best to ignore it.

I think I speak for all of Ectomo when I say that this is a fantastic discovery. Mr. Hawes and I may have differing opinions on the photographic depiction of erotic lesbian encounters — which I would maintain is one of Nature’s great wonders and should be recorded at every opportunity, particularly if both parties are in heels — but I share his excitement over this discovery. I for one look forward to describing pornography featuring barnyard animals as being “Kafkaesque”.

Update: Sven KaoZ maintains, in the comments, that this is a stunt by Hawes to sell his book and that the magazines in question were published by Kafka collaborator, Franz Blei. The Wikipedia entry for Blei makes mention of this as well.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Amos Lassen Likes Painted Doll

Amos Lassen on amazon:

I started reading the fiction of M. Christian about this time last year and I am slowly making my way through his works. I have read four of his books so far and each is completely different from the others. “Painted Doll” is the most different of them all. This is a novel about the art of seduction and deals with Domino, an erotist (a professional who paints her client’s bare skin with neurochemicals that bring about sensuality. An erotist can provide landscapes of “ecstasy, pain, joy and delight” and few can afford this).


“Painted Doll” is a noir tale which deals with the future and it is an erotic adventure that is completely imaginative as it explores the nature of man and sexual awakenings that arise when we take on someone else’s identity. M. Christian has such a way with words that it is pure pleasure to read his work. He dares to tackle stories that other writers will not touch. He takes erotic tales from the privacy of the home and rubs our noses in them and we love it. He is not what some might consider post-modern but rather creates a whole new form of literature that can be pure fun. He writes across borders and genres and creates something new with everything he writes and he surprises me every time.

“Painted Doll” is erotic and another new kind of book for Christian. It features a dominatrix unlike any other and the book is set in a world we do not know. Christian has the ability to deal with the senses in a way that the reader feels the perception. Everything in “Painted Doll” is in living color and the action never stops---the imagery is unexpected and the prose is sheer perfection. The book is totally unpredictable and totally provocative and above all gives the reader a sense of pleasure.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

"The Guessing Game" By Mykola Dementiuk

Here's another great story from another great writer. Remember if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at mchristianzobop@gmail.com.


The Guessing Game
By
Mykola Dementiuk

It had been three weeks since he had last guessed correctly, but since she had only allowed him one guess a night and there was a limited number of colors he could guess at, the odds of hitting it correctly sooner or later should have been in his favor; but they weren’t, and once again he had guessed wrong.

-Blue! he stammered, thinking they had to be blue; it was time for blue anyway. Yesterday was white, the day before red, before that black, and it was pink four days ago…yes, today it would be blue! It had to be blue --besides, there was only one blue pair left in her dresser drawer, only white and red and black and pink ones in the laundry hamper, and since she only had two pairs of blue ones to begin with, they had to be blue!

-Blue! he said, and no matter how logical and calculating his reasoning, still none to sure of himself. Because all the deductions, all the snooping through drawers, through laundry baskets, had led him to wrong conclusions before; he had counted, tabulated, sorted (and sniffed, clean ones and soiled) every pair in the house --there must have been over two dozen-- and still for three weeks he couldn’t come up with any pattern she followed to put on which pair with which outfit. Didn’t a black dress with black hose and black shoes presuppose a black pair of panties? No, she’s wear green ones! Wouldn’t white tennis shorts on a Sunday afternoon blend in perfectly with white panties underneath? Of course not, stupid! A shimmer of tiny red, circling, outlining, dipping into her highlighted attention-focused ass was the preferred style. So how could he ever guess what color she’s be wearing; or the logic behind it?

-Blue! he gushed again, and winced. The look of disappointment was evident in her eyes, her mouth grimacing in disgust. He groaned, and felt his penis stiffen harder, more useless. But they had to be blue! They were blue this morning (he had peeked as she dressed) when she pulled on a pink skirt and went to work! But he knew they weren’t; who the hell knew what color they could be? How many times did a woman change her panties in a day? Five? Six?

What was a pair of panties anyway? A strip of colored cloth, two, three inches of elastic, stretchable material; you could squeeze one in your palm and clutch it all day, like a sacred talisman or holy amulet, a good luck charm, take it with you wherever you went, to business meetings, to restaurants, to 12-Step programs, and who would be the wiser? They were practically invisible; he had never checked her purse, but he was certain if he had he’d find a few pairs in there too, in between the makeup jars, the lipstick tubes, the eyebrow pencils, the bulging wallets and checkbooks, the tokens, the brushes, the sales coupons, the Tampons, the other panties…

Hell, the things were so tiny they could be shed and replaced in an instant! How convenient! Take them off on a hot summer day: just step into a hallway, lower the damp sticky pair, powder the ass and cunt, and step into a nice cool fresh pair of dry ones…

That’s what the fucking panties in the streets were all about: everywhere you looked panties were lying on the sidewalk, in the gutters, on top of garbage cans, draped over fences, stuck on poles, everywhere you turned some cunning bitch unobtrusively tossing something invisible over her shoulder. Goddammit!! Hot sweated cunts changing their wardrobes in the middle of the day in the middle of the street in the middle of the whole fucking city!

Of course they weren’t blue! Who could possibly know how many colors they had already been that day? The fucking things changed by themselves every fucking minute of every fucking day! Like magic! Nothing up the sleeve? Nothing around the cunt either!

She sighed, looked at him sadly, and shifted her weight on the sofa. He scowled and clutched his crotch. It had come to this: his failure at guessing correctly at least gave him the consolation or peeking under her skirt to verify his wrong assumption, the frustrating consolation of gaping up her long nyloned legs, of eyeing the glimmer of unattainable moist flesh, of staring in disbelief at whatever-colored panties clasped the bloated bulb of her un-possessable cunt…

It was always the same scenario: she sat cross-legged on the couch, he knelt before her, guessed at a color, watched her uncross her legs, peered up her skirt, and spasmed in his pants; even if he guessed correctly and been rewarded with his first fucking in weeks he knew he couldn’t have gotten it up a second time. The anticipation, the fear, the anxiety probably brought on the force of his ejaculation as quickly and rapidly as did any abstinence or sexual stimulus under a female skirt. For three weeks he had creamed his failure at guessing correctly in his pants, and he was ready for another failed creaming right now.

She uncrossed her legs, the rustling whoosh of brushing nylons tearing at his soul and groin, and slightly pulled up a corner of her skirt, raising one leg up on the couch.

He gaped at her bare crotch.

-You fucking bitch! he screamed. You lying fucking whore!

She smirked, and shrugged.

-It was almost a hundred degrees today, she said.

-You bitch! he cursed, and stared at her bare pantyless cunt. (When did she shave that? But then, when had he last seen it?)

-It was hot, she shrugged, and smirked again.

He leaped off the floor.

-That’s not fair! he screamed. You cheated!

This was certainly outside of the ground rules of their guessing game. This was cheating; he knew, and so did she. They agreed there’d be no trickery of any kind; no arguing or bickering over color-shades or tints: blue would always be blue, not seaside marine; red was red, and not majestic scarlet; purple would be purple, and not evening magenta; pink pink, and not pussy blush, or whatever the cunt-clothes-catalogs she got in the mail called it. And if she wore tiger-stripes or colored spots of polka dots any color on the panty he guessed at was valid to take in the entire panty and he won. And got laid. But pantyless? And hairless crotch? This was outside the rules. This was cheating. And it wasn’t fair?

-You cheater! he cursed, and leaped at her. I’ll give you panty pussy, you cunt, you whore!

She giggled as he unzipped his pants and was in between her legs, fast; she didn’t even resist, and wanted him, pulling him in her, it had been three weeks for her too! and he was in, and out, and in, and out, back, and forth, back, and forth, in, and out, her ankles on his shoulders, her ass at his balls, his cursing mouth (Bitch! Whore! Pussy! Cheater!) spitting at her grunting yelping teeth and lips (Oh God! Yes! Fuck me! Oh! Cock!). She screamed, he yelped, they came, and he collapsed atop her heaving chest, her legs falling down his arms but circling around his ass and waist and holding him in…

They gasped into each other’s ear; they kissed.

Maybe the guessing game had gone on too long. He gently stroked a breast: the cup under the blouse seemed stiff: was it new? Blue? He leered. Since the blouse was red, her fashion logic probably called for green. He asked. She smirked.

-Guess, she teased.

He guessed; she frowned.

-Guess again…


(Published by PARAMOUR Volume 3, Issue 3)

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Japanese Sex Museums


From Life In The Fast Lane:
Japanese sex museums, called “Hihokan” which translates to “House of Hidden Treasures,” are typically located near Japan’s many onsen (hot spring resorts) in towns like Atami, Sapporo and Beppu. They’re very popular among tourists and vacationers, especially young couples … gee, I wonder why?


Sex museums seem to be the coming thing (pardon the pun) these days. Korea and India have each opened one, and so has Australia, though the small National Museum of Erotica that opened in 2001 closed two years later. Even conservative China has gotten into the sex act, and about 500 visitors each day can now view over three thousand erotic artifacts at the China Sex Museum in — wait for it — Guangdong.

[MORE]

Friday, August 1, 2008

Sometimes -

- I actually like living in San Francisco. Found on Craigslist:

Lesbian Grocery Needs a jingle

The Lesbian Grocery is looking for a talented musician/s to come up with a poppy, catchy, intelligent, and subversive song for our store.
Digital or analog
studio or 4-track
we are open to all possible outcomes!
Please call for more details.