Wednesday, July 29, 2009

She Marked Me By Mia Martina

Here's a fantastic excerpt from Mia Martina's story,"She Marked Me." Mia is also a Paper Bag Press author - so you know she's great!

She Marked Me
Mia Martina

Not wanting to give it up on the first date, we held out until the fourth. Unlike our first dates where we met in central locations around the city, for our fourth, Carmen suggested an early dinner within walking distance of her apartment. I agreed, knowing the implication.

She wanted to get her hands on my ass. The sexual tension between us was palpable on our previous evenings together. But we rode it out. We didn’t kiss until our second date and by our third we were making out in the dark corners of a bar. All the while my fantasy about Carmen spanking me thudded inside my head. By the night of our fourth date, it had been two months since we had met at a lesbian BDSM sex party. That night of the party we talked and enjoyed watched the ladies at play. It was the last time we ever watched without creating our own scenes.

When I walked into Carmen’s apartment for the first time, I knew why she was eager to get me there; the view was incredible. She lived on the 17th floor of a moderately large building, the largest within a five-block radius headed north, which made for a clear view of midtown Manhattan. I’ve lived in this city for ten years and have enjoyed the skyline from various angles, times of day, and frames of mind. And in all this time, the city can still feel fresh to me, especially when experiencing a new view, a new height, a new angle. Finding a new part of the city is like discovering a new lover and when the two coexist, I felt dizzy with excitement about the opportunities that are to come.

While sharing a polite glass of water Carmen gave me a tour. When Carmen had told me she was subletting an apartment from an elderly artist, I had imagined a loft crammed with exotic plants, books, and art. I was completely wrong. The two-bedroom apartment with a generous living and dining room area was furnished in Victorian style couches, side chairs, and coffee tables. Dark floral drapes lined the entryway, lush Oriental rugs covered the hardwood floors, and oil paintings of landscapes and portraits decorated the walls. It was rather stuffy, but felt homey as well, like spending time at your grandmother’s place.

Needlepoint pillow aside, the apartment had sex appeal especially with the Empire State glowing from the three large picture windows that lined the north-facing wall. The view pulled me to sit on a mahogany sleigh bench in front of the windows. I soaked up the cityscape and the anticipation off all the naughty things we would do in this proper apartment.

After a few minutes of silence Carmen asked if I was ready for my spanking. I almost wanted to pant my yes like a dog begging for bacon. Instead I shyly nodded, blushed, and smiled. Gently, Carmen placed me over her lap. I wore jeans and a tight tee. I like to have my ass exposed for a spanking, but for this first time, I enjoyed the comfort of my clothes. Carmen made soft circles on my bottom, warming up her hand. Her circles turned to light slaps which turned to forceful smacks. I melted into her lap and her touch. I felt connected to her and she to me.

She gripped my ass sweetly, forcefully, and delivered fast, then slow, and then fast smacks. The spanking went on for an hour. A few times I asked her if she was getting tired and she responded by she asking me if I’ve had enough. “No. Never. Don’t stop. Ever.”

My panties were soaked, wetness leaked through my jeans. I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Aren’t you going to fuck me?” I pleaded.

“No. I will hold out for our fifth date. But I know you are a little slut and can’t wait any longer. Go ahead and touch yourself. I am not done spanking you,” she said.

I shifted onto my knees, yanked off my tee, undid my jeans and dove into my snatch. I let out a loud sigh. Carmen continued to give me strong and steady spankings. One of my hands held onto the window ledge and bucked against each slap, the other hand rubbed and caressed my wet folds. With my head pressed against the window, I dug two fingers into my slit. My hair crunched against the cool glass as I rolled my head from side to side. My climax was reaching. Carmen delivered a series of rapid thuds to the center of my cheek. That sensation pushed me over the edge. I stared at the Empire State building. The red and white tower lights turned off and I slapped my palm to the glass. Yes. Thank you. I love this city.

Carmen knelt on the bench and hugged me from behind. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to fuck you tonight,” She breathed into my ear and tugged at my earlobe with her teeth, “Wait here.”

I stared out, both hand pressed overhead, I saw Carmen’s reflection against the steady stream of traffic pushing into the city’s center. The traffic and Carmen headed in opposite directions, leaving me alone to wonder how many people in all those apartment buildings were fucking, masturbating, cheating? How many were contemplating another drink, another click, another night. How many people were watching us?

In the glass reflection, I watched Carmen approach me, naked, wearing a dark red leather strap on that held a red medium sized dildo. She looked gorgeous; her black curls cascaded to her jutting collarbone, her large brown eyes were fixed on me, her cheeks flushed, and her small purplish gum drop nipples saluted me. Her slender frame stood strong, confident, and proud. I knew she would fuck me good.
Mia Martina chronicles her experiences exploring an open relationship in New York City’s sex party scene for her podcast "I Want Your Sex" found on iTunes and many other podcasting sites. Her work has been published with Ravenous Romance and Paper Bag Press. Following is an excerpt from her story "She Marked Me." The story has been produced into a podcast and has not been released in print. To hear the story in it's entirety, please have a listen to the podcast found on the link listed below.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Karkataka or How the Crab Got Its Knees By Jeremy Edwards (Part 2)

As promised, here's part two (see part one here) of the fantastic Karkataka or How the Crab Got Its Knees by Jeremy Edwards.

How the Crab Got Its Knees
Jeremy Edwards

After scratching her head and other places, Woman-Woman had an idea. ‘Please hand me one of those special, elongated persimmons that grow around here,’ she said to Man-Man. ‘Preferably a ’cessively long one, with a distinctive little nubby bit protruding near one end.’

So Man-Man handed her a special, elongated persimmon, one of ’proximately the specifications Woman-Woman had specified. Woman-Woman admitted the special, elongated persimmon into her oyster, with the distinctive little nubby bit placed just so against her; and she pushed and pulled and made faces until she felt so good that she didn’t know what to do. She screeched like the Chequered Pangolin (which is a kind of Pangolin that screeches) and laughed like the Houndstooth Mongoose (which is the only mongoose allowed to wear white shoes in the winter); and she oiled her own oyster so ’cessively much that the extra oil ran out from between her legs and drained to the mediocre Yum Yab River, because the Yab Yum River was very far away and consequently governed an entirely different watershed.

‘I have the distinct ’pression she’s done this before,’ Man-Man thought.

‘Wouldn’t it be nice,’ he said to Woman-Woman, ‘if you could have done all that while we were still lying side by side like two data points.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Woman-Woman, who was not quite telling the truth, since her thoughts had been very similar but had used a few different words.

‘I know!’ said Man-Man. ‘I will visit the Tepid Rhino, who lives in the Jaded Meadow and is the only Rhino who keeps office hours in the evening. I'll ask him how to configure circumstances in which you and I can both feel so good that we don’t know what to do, at the very same time.’

Woman-Woman agreed that this was a good idea, if not p’raps a ’ceedingly good one; and Man-Man set off for the Jaded Meadow. He walked for two hours, Best Beloved! You see, the Jaded Meadow was only five minutes away, but Man-Man liked walking.

When he finally arrived at the oh-not-so-very-distant Jaded Meadow, he found the Tepid Rhino (because that’s precisely where I put him).

‘Tepid Rhino,’ said Man-Man, ‘it is I, Man-Man.’

‘Yes,’ said Tepid Rhino. ‘I recognised you from the illustration. How is Woman-Woman these days?’

‘As ’ceedingly lovely as ever,’ said Man-Man. ‘In fact, she is so ’ceedingly lovely that when she and I lie beside each other like two data points, I deliver warm treacle into her oyster.’

‘This is too much information,’ complained the Rhino. ‘I was ’specting something more along the lines of “She’s fine, thank you very much.”’

‘But this is why I have come all this very short way to see you!’ said Man-Man. ‘I want to know how we can configure circumstances that will result in Woman-Woman feeling so good that she doesn’t know what to do at the same time that I feel so good that I don’t know what to do.’

‘Well then,’ said Tepid Rhino, in a tone that suggested he would get paid extra if he tossed in a well-then. ‘If that’s your wish, then you certainly don’t want to lie side by side like two data points. No, not at all,’ he added, probably because a no-not-at-all was worth almost as much on the invoice as a well-then.

‘How then, must we lie?’ asked Man-Man. ‘I do hope it’s a position in which my horn can enter her oyster, because it’s ever so much fun that way.’

‘You must not lie together like two data points, but sit together like two related concepts,’ said Tepid Rhino. ‘Sit on a smooth stone or semi-ornamental hassock, Man-Man, and invite Woman-Woman to sit on your lap—preferably at the same time.’

Man-Man made some calculations in his head and drew some crude figures in the air. They were very crude, in fact. ‘But tell me, Tepid Rhino, must Woman-Woman face towards me or away from me?’

This time it was Tepid Rhino who made some calculations in his head and drew some ’ceedingly crude figures in the air. Then he shrugged—which I’m sure you know gets a line item all to itself on a Rhino's invoice. ‘Makes no difference,’ said Tepid Rhino. ‘But since I’m tired of looking at you, I’m going to recommend she face the other way.’

And, even though he was tired of looking at Man-Man, Tepid Rhino sang him this song:

O! Do it on a stone—
O! Do it, not alone—
Or do it on a hassock,
And the thrill will be Jurassic!

I can’t remember the tune, but you wouldn’t have liked it.
The libidinous fiction of Jeremy Edwards has been widely published online, as well as in some thirty-five print (and e-book and audiobook) anthologies. His work was selected for the two most recent volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series (and he will appear again in the forthcoming volume); he has read at the In the Flesh series in New York and the Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia; and he has been featured in the literary showcase of the Seattle Erotic Art Festival. Jeremy's eroto-comedic novel Rock My Socks Off will be published by Xcite Books in 2010. Readers can drop in on him unannounced (and thereby catch him in his underwear) at

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Freedom By Ralph Greco, Jr

Here's another fantastic essay from the always-great Ralph Greco, Jr. Btw, be sure and check out his "My Favorite Things" radio show!

Ralph Greco, Jr

So I am standing at the Gay Pride Parade with tears my eyes, thinking about freedom. Out amongst hundreds of festooned guys and girls of various ages, shapes and colors, all cheering, clapping, twittering, snapping pictures in this hot San Fran morning I realize this moment speaks more to our American way of life then any political rally I could ever have attended in Washington D.C. I am amongst probably the coolest crowd I have ever been in and though hetero, having the time of my life, emboldened by this bunch of people celebrating the right to be who they are.

The true definition of liberation, the single most important right we should all fight for, is this simple desire to live our lives in the manner we see fit without intervention, judgment or prejudice. But still, we have to have parades to celebrate what I think should be understood.

It's hard for a middle-class NJ suburban hetero white guy to understand anyone's need to assert their rights when I have had mine all my life. I am part of no minority, I have never had my passage blocked for something I wished to do, or made less money because of my gender. I guess the closest I can come relating any kind of prejudice was feeling a little stared at back in the day when long hair on guys was out and I still kept wore mine over my collar…but even then I wasn't ever refused service or was paid less (in fact, long hair seems to be enjoying a reassurance, so once again I am the legend-in-my-own-mind I have always thought myself to be).

I thought to at the parade about women's liberation (my partner Lisa and I happened to be in town for a convention about the adult industry, from which we make our daily bred). It's a much-maligned industry for sure, but if you're a woman working in any facet of adult services you're bound to get a lot of guff from so called 'feminists' who believe porn is degrading to women. Hearing women speak on a panel during the weekend of the convention and meeting all these fantastically talented ladies who work in the industry, not one of them said they felt exploited. From both ends of the spectrum of women working in this industry, from my partner (I call her my partner, but Lisa developed and really runs the day-to-day operations of the business) to our new client and friend "Airforce Amy", I kept time with two very strong-willed women who are simply trying to get through their day, working hard, attempting to make money in an industry where church groups and 'feminists' consistently offer hollow opinions of a subject they truly know nothing about.

I guess maybe that's at the crux of this freedom thing. People offering their view of freedom, telling you where and what you should do with your freedom when you have it. The thing is, we are free, what we have to fight is the urge by politicians, theologians, self-appointed moralists, civic leaders, whomever the 'they' are who attempt to define our freedom for us and determine just what's appropriate. I happen to live by the crazy notion that everything is 'appropriate' in a free society, just as long as you do not impinge on the freedoms of another.

So a loud round of applause of the gay pride parade, Airforce Amy and my partner Lisa, M. Christian, Frankie and Jean Stine…and all those folks I met in that wonderful city of San Dam Francisco this past weekend who made me feel truly free.
Ralph Greco, Jr. is an internationally published author of short stories, plays, essays, button slogans, 800# phone sex scripts, children’s songs and SEO copy. Ralph is also an ASCAP licensed songwriter/performer and Internet radio D.J. He lives in the wilds of suburban NJ, where he attempts to keep his ever-expanding ego in check.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Buy This Book! Smoke and Mirrors By Zander Vyne

I highly recommend you pick up - right now - Zander Vyne's new book, Smoke and Mirrors. Not only is Zander a great person but also a fantastic writer!

"Ah, mon chéri, tu es tant sexy," she purred.

I didn’t understand most of what she said in French,

but it didn’t matter. Anything that came out of her mouth was titillating to me.

Piaf sang "Sous le ciel de Paris," and I reclinedlike an emperor while Monique devoured me.

Usually, our lovemaking was a back and forth tussle for control. At various times, she would give in, or I would, or we’d just melt together in a tangle of body parts. We fucked like people with no modesty, no shame, and no boundaries. Sometimes it was hard and fast, over in a flash. Other times, we lasted all day, occasionally spending entire weekends naked, fucking, eating, talking, and listening to music.

Our relationship was still new, but I had a feeling it would always be this way. We just seemed to fit one another in every way, both physical and mental. I know everyone in the throes of new love says things like that, but with us, it was true. I knew no matter what happened my life would never be the same.

"Comme tu es joli, chéri. Voyez, comme il dort maintenant. Est-il fatigué, le pauvre petit? Mais vois-tu! Il se revéille! Il lève la tête! Ah, comme il est beau, ton petit soldat. Mais non, il n'est pas petit, pas soldat, il est tout un général, ta queue," she said, in between licks and sucks of
my cock. Her tongue was a snake in the Garden of Eden, tempting and seductive, winding its way down my shaft.

"What?" I said, my voice taut with sexual tension. I closed my eyes and still was assaulted with daydream images of her. She was like a drug I could not get enough of, could not stop thinking of and wanting.

She kept me on the edge, fingers and tongue working together. The sound was obscene–wet slithers, sucking strokes and heavily accented English that drove me wild.

"It was silly, mon loup," she said, her lips forming a moue as she kissed the aubergine, mushroom-head of my cock. Her lush bottom lip shone with a gloss of my precum.

"Nothing you say is silly, minette. Tell me." I loved that nickname–sex kitten. It fit her perfectly and made her purr every time I said it.

She sighed softly, her head coming to rest on my thigh, her fingers cradling my turgid prick, those cat-like green eyes turned up to meet mine. "I was talking about your cock. How pretty it is. I said, look how he sleeps. I asked if he was tired, the poor little thing. But, then he woke and
lifted his head, and I said he was beautiful, your little soldier. But, he isn't little and not merely a soldier. No. He is a general, your cock!" She blushed as she finished, laughing softly and kissing my balls.

Tiny hairs rose to meet her lips and my flesh quivered. I was so close to coming that just her breath wafting over my penis was almost enough to set me off. I had to grip the sheets and think of the Yankees to keep from spurting all over her pretty face.

Like any good general, I accepted my minion’s worship and took control. My fingers fisted in her hair– luxurious locks of red twisted around and around until she was poised where I wanted her, over my cock once more. I urged her mouth downward, slowly, to tease us both.

"Open wide, minette. Make me come." My voice was gruff, commanding. I was in charge, and we both knew it.

I let her hair fall to my thighs, framing her face with its waves. She moaned, swiveling her head and corkscrewing up and down my cock.

"Faster. Deeper," I instructed her, lifting my hips to show her the way I wanted it until she fell into the metronomic rhythm I imposed upon her.

"Oui, oui, mon coeur," she said when she came up for breath, her voice husky from the ramming of my cock down her throat and her own building desire.

She wrapped her arms around my torso, nails scratching lightly over my belly. I twisted and began to buck, until her mouth almost took in my entire cock. I felt her nose buried in my pubic hair and her teeth graze my fuck- lusted skin.

"Fuck!" I shouted, taking her head between my hands and fucking her face like a street whore’s.

I was rough. So was she. I felt her long legs spread on the bed, silken skin against mine, as she almost crawled in place, wanting, it seemed, to crawl right inside of me.
Not much is known about Zander Vyne, who prefers to speak through fiction. Published in anthologies, magazines and on the web, and content to be a mysterious, sexy enigma with a wicked imagination, Zander has developed a following of readers who enjoy intelligent, literary prose. Check out for more “Erotica With a Brain”.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Karkataka or How the Crab Got Its Knees By Jeremy Edwards (Part 1)

I'm really excited to be able to post this great tale - in multiple parts - by Jeremy Edwards. Thanks Jeremy!

How the Crab Got Its Knees

Jeremy Edwards

Note: This manuscript surfaced in a trunk of Rudyard Kipling’s underwear that came up for auction at Christie’s. Fortunately, Jeremy Edwards was present in the gallery; and, feeling flush from a recent short story sale, he entered a winning bid for the document. As this was an auction lot, he is now also the owner of Kipling’s underwear. (Contact him if you want to make a deal.) Although the identity of the “Best Beloved” addressed in the tale is uncertain, Edwards is quick to point out that the inside lid of the underwear trunk features a sepia toned photograph of a buxom lady dressed (partially) in an orangutan costume, positioned in what might be described as a classic orangutan posture. The photo is lovingly inscribed to someone called “Kippers,” and the text of the inscription includes several evocative anatomical terms that Edwards hopes someday to revive.

You may sit on my lap, Best Beloved, though you are no child. Oh, but do not do that, Best Beloved, or I shall never be able to concentrate on the story.

Long ago—so very long ago that it positively tires me to say it—the World was a pudding that was only just beginning to set. And as it set, one part of it decided to set into a place called India. Here lived Man-Man and Woman-Woman, who liked pudding almost as much as you do (but were tidier with their serviettes).

Man-Man was ’ceedingly manly, though not quite as macho as his cousin Man-Man-Man, who could be downright overbearing at times, and that is why I have not invited him into this story. Woman-Woman, on the very other hand, was ’ceedingly womanly; and she bore a striking resemblance to you, Best Beloved, ’specially around the hills and valleys.

One coniferous night, Woman-Woman said to Man-Man, ‘Let us settle comfortably on the bank of the great Yab Yum River, without any clothes on.’

‘I like the part about no clothes,’ said Man-Man. ‘But I don’t like the part about the Yab Yum River, which I believe is ’ceedingly far away, p’raps in Tibbet.’ You see, due to a clerical oversight, Man-Man thought that Tibet had two b’s in it.

So instead they settled comfortably, without any clothes on, beside the mediocre Yum Yab River, which was not nearly such a fine River as the Yab Yum, but which was almost laughably close.

‘Hee hee,’ said Woman-Woman, who didn’t hear me when I said ‘almost.’

Woman-Woman looked ’ceedingly voluptuous and ’cessively alluring in her outfit of no clothes, making Man-Man forget how mediocre the Yum Yab River was.

‘Incidentals!’ said Woman-Woman, because she was excited, and that’s what she sometimes said when she was excited. ‘Your horn is beginning to swell and stiffen.’

Man-Man, who was not so macho as to automatically contradict people, agreed that his horn was beginning to swell and stiffen. He congratulated Woman-Woman on this observation. ‘And your oyster is beginning to oil itself,’ he said, because he’d been taught that it’s always polite to answer an observation with another.

‘Suppose we lie side by side,’ said Woman-Woman, ‘like two data points, and contrive to put your horn inside my oyster.’

And because it was such a coniferous night and the River was so mediocre, this is exactly what they decided to do, Best Beloved. Man-Man put his horn inside Woman-Woman’s oyster.

And it was a very good thing he did. What pleasure Man-Man and Woman-Woman felt, as his horn scraped the inside of her oyster, and her oyster scraped the outside of his horn! It was like having pudding and chocolate and digestive biscuits all at once. They could not remember ever feeling so ’ceedingly good—which made sense because they never before had.

‘Reach between us and contrive to award some tactile attention to my little hornlet,’ Woman-Woman requested. So Man-Man did that very thing.

Soon Man-Man felt so good that he didn’t know what to do. So he grunted like the Assiduous Elephant (which is a kind of Elephant that grunts) and growled like the Corrugated Sea-Camel (which is a kind of Sea-Camel that isn’t corrugated, but which had succumbed to a taxonomical error). And, as if by calibration, his horn delivered warm treacle into Woman-Woman’s oyster, even though she hadn’t ’spressly ordered it and nobody really has treacle with oysters.

At ’proximately the same time, Woman-Woman felt almost so good that she didn’t know what to do, but not quite. When she heard Man-Man grunt like the Assiduous Elephant and growl like the Corrugated Sea-Camel, and felt Man-Man’s horn deliver warm treacle into her oyster, even though she hadn’t ’spressly ordered it, she wanted to feel so good that she didn’t know what to do, too. But she tried and tried and still only managed to feel almost so good that she didn’t know what to do, which is not at all the same as actually feeling so good that you don’t know what to do. So she didn’t know what to do.

Stay Tuned for Part 2
The libidinous fiction of Jeremy Edwards has been widely published online, as well as in some thirty-five print (and e-book and audiobook) anthologies. His work was selected for the two most recent volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series (and he will appear again in the forthcoming volume); he has read at the In the Flesh series in New York and the Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia; and he has been featured in the literary showcase of the Seattle Erotic Art Festival. Jeremy's eroto-comedic novel Rock My Socks Off will be published by Xcite Books in 2010. Readers can drop in on him unannounced (and thereby catch him in his underwear) at

Friday, July 17, 2009

"There is a phallus joke in there somewhere ...."

From my bro, s.a., via Jalopnik:

Wienermobile Crashes Bun-First Into Wisconsin House
The Wienermobile seems to be popping up quite a bit in recent weeks, this time venturing off course and inserting itself into a Wisconsin home while whistling 'Oh I wish I were an Os-car Mayer Wiener!'

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Adjusting By Craig J. Sorensen

Here's a quick - and very hot - story from the always-great Craig J. Sorensen.

Craig J. Sorensen

The second time she drags me out is a slow dance. She presses her breasts tight and they fold perfectly beneath my pecs. Her liquid smooth arms lock to my neck. She exaggerates the sway of her hips to lead my movements.

I’m starting not to hate dancing.

The smell of musk perfume and shampoo mingle with a bit of sweat. Her breath whistles in my ear. I pull back just enough to camouflage my popcorn hard on. Her hip crushes to my groin.

I’m starting not to hate being shy.

We sway slowly long after the band has moved on to “Whole Lotta Love.” I pet her long red hair and rub my stubble against her soft cheek. Her fingers dip into the back of my pants.

I’m starting not to mind parking in the far corner of the lot.

The dashboard is softly lit. She reaches up her pleated skirt and pulls down her panties. She fumbles with the front of my jeans, and I think maybe she doesn’t do this every night. She spreads her freckled thighs.

I’m starting not to mind that the Plymouth has a bench seat.

She slides atop me awkwardly, then smoothes her motion. She lets out a nasal grunt. I slip inside her blouse and tease her stiff nipples. The song “Dream On” competes with escalating moans. “I love Aerosmith!”

I’m starting not to mind my roommate’s taste in music.

A bright summer morning and I’m off to work. “Fuck!” The black seats singe the backs of my thighs. I look around for the old green towel. Something catches my eye. Silky pink panties simmer on the passenger side. I pull them close and savor her scent.

I’m starting not to mind hot vinyl seats.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

What Kind Of Dork Am I? By Ralph Greco, Jr.

Here's another great essay from the always-great Ralph Greco, Jr.

“What Kind Of Dork Am I?”
(sung to the melody “What Kind Of Fool Am I?”)
Ralph Greco, Jr.

So, I am visiting this hilly Northern California city attending a convention of people in ‘the industry’. I’m a little jet-lagged but in the company of some great people, two of whom I have just met, one who is my business partner-in-crime-and-cookies. We have all just entered an all-nude strip club and seeing as the convention organizers have rented an all-night van service to take us to and fro this and another club, we couldn’t really refuse the sojourn.

While not a huge fan of strip clubs, I have done a few in my day and God knows I like to ogle a nude girl as much as the next guy or gal. Now I am not sure about the protocol in all states, having only been to strip clubs in NJ (my home) and now this one here in CA, but it seems that where women are bare then there can be no alcohol served. I’ve heard the term ‘juice-bar’ and though this will be my first foray into an all-nude establishment I conclude that the management and the girls of these places don’t want their patrons drunk when eyeing completely naked beauties. Not that one can’t be supremely loaded when one walks into these places and from what I observe a lot of the patrons are, still I assume that the illusion of a ‘dry house’ keeps the law from off the club owner’s back and hopefully real trouble at bay.

So we walk in for free cause we are just THAT cool (actually the convention organizers have paid for us) and are given plastic cups for soda since, as I just mentioned, this is a non-alcoholic joint. Now, remember from whence I hail, and that we hold soda cups in our hands, these facts are important for proving the title of this little piece. We spin into the dimly lit club yet rather spacious club, where we four are met with a bountiful bevy of bodacious bare bodies (well the 2 girls on stage anyway, the girls walking the floor are in various bikini-like outfits) and even before we try and find some seats, we four are face to face with a soda dispenser. Lifting out cups to the nozzles I declare to my partner (who is fully aware of my dork-ness so what is ay comes as no surprise): “Hey, they have Mr. Pibb!”

Since I am from New Jersey we don’t get Mr. Pibb, my most favorite soda. Since Mr. Pibb is a Coke product and Coke produced Dr. Pepper, where they sell Dr. Pepper they usually don’t Mr. Pibb (at least this is the way it be in my home state). So I am thrilled to have my cup in hand for what could prove to be a Pibb full night. The naked girls behind me…? Well yeah they’re cool, but dude, they have Mr. Pibb!

Yes, my partner assures me that I am indeed a dork. I agree (I think I actually admitted it after the Pibb squeal even before she had a chance to call me on it) and I reminded again with really how uncool I am and forever will be. Regardless of the long hair still-trying-to-be-a-rock-star look I cultivate and the fact that I write for a rather nefarious industry, and that I do know a little bit about classic rock music and maybe just as much about old films, and yeah maybe I can b.s. a girl here in there into thinking I am cute the reality of the situation is I am still that guy who placed a thick eraser between his 2nd and third finger sometime in junior high to train myself to be able to flash the ever potent and popular “Live Long and Prosper” Vulcan send off.

You can take the boy out of the dork but you can’t take the dork out of the boy.

So, let me go and sip my Pibb, listen to a Foghat album (yes, album, not CD) and forever wonder what a naked girl really looks like. Live long and prosper my little droogs.

Monday, July 6, 2009

I Am Curious Plastic

I’m Sorry Mommy! By Billierosie

Here's another great story by my pal - and a fantastic writer - Billierosie. Bravo, Billie!

I’m Sorry Mommy!

Joel was crying before the first spank landed on his sweet, tight bottom. I’d kept him waiting, explaining to him why he had to have a spanking.

“You know that smoking is bad, very bad, Joel. You know that Mommy doesn’t like her little boy to smoke. It’s unhealthy. It’s dirty. Cigarettes will make you ill. Mommy doesn’t want Joel to be ill.”

“Yes Mommy. I’m sorry Mommy. Please Mommy.”

Did he mean please don’t spank me? Or please spank me? I don’t think he knew.

I stroked his bottom. His muscles were tight with anticipation as he lay across my lap, his white knuckled fingers gripping the wooden arm of the chair. His jeans were tangled in an undignified knot around his ankles. The boxer shorts that he’d begged me to buy him, because they were more grown up than those he usually wore, were pulled down exposing his smooth, round buttocks.

He didn’t look like a dot com millionaire; the high powered executive that he is. He looked what he wanted to be. A small twelve year old boy, caught by his Mommy, smoking on the balcony. He was totally in character; as I was, in the role carved out for me. A Mommy doing her best for her little boy.

Joel had been naughty for days and I’d threatened him with a spanking more than once. It’s almost like he wants me to spank him. Earlier in the week I’d caught him masturbating in the bathroom. I’ve told him time after time.

“Mommy doesn’t like you to do that Joel. It’s bad for you. It will make you go blind, or your teeth will fall out.” We were sitting on the couch; Joel cuddling up to me, on my lap. His fly was unbuttoned. His cock, erect and proud.

“It’s a sin. It’s dirty. Jesus wouldn’t like it. You want to please Jesus don’t you? You don’t want to make Jesus cry, do you? Well, Jesus never masturbated, it’s a well known fact.”

I couldn’t leave it alone. I was very angry with him.

“It’s a terrible habit, Joel. One day you’ll find you can’t stop and you’ll do it all your life. You’ll become weak, all your strength will go. Your willie will get smaller and smaller, it might even drop off.” Well I had to get through to him somehow.

“Mommy wants Joel to have a nice, strong, big willie.”

I wrapped my fingers around his thick, hard cock. He gasped as I started to pump him. He slid his hand through my hair, gripping the back of my neck. His hand tensed as he pushed my head down to his cock and he groaned as I took him into my mouth, sliding his smooth heaviness deep into my throat, swallowing him whole.

The previous day, I’d checked his computer, and found he’d visited naughty websites. One of his school friends had sent him a link to one and, of course, like all twelve year old boys, he was curious. But he was far too young to be looking at pornography. He hadn’t a clue what was going on.

“But why is the gentleman putting his penis into the lady’s bottom, Mommy?” his bewildered voice had asked of a couple anal fucking doggie fashion. “That’s not how you make babies, is it Mommy?”

It was too much for me to explain and I’d just told him that the lady and man had dirty minds.

“What’s a dirty mind Mommy?” he frowned, puzzled.

“They have bad thoughts, darling. Not nice thoughts. Not like Mommy and Joel.”

“Will a lady want me to do that to her, when I’m grown up Mommy?”

“Certainly not. Definitely not,” I said. “When you are old enough to date girls, you’ll know the difference between right and wrong.”

“And I can always ask you, can’t I Mommy?” he asked me sweetly.

I gave him a long wet kiss, slipping my tongue into his mouth.

“Of course you can, sweetheart.”

That day, when I when I arrived back from the shops the weather was hot and humid; there was a storm brewing . I was panting after unloading the groceries from the car. Sweat was trickling between my breasts and I was dying for a cup of tea. Tiny black flies landed on my skin and in my hair, irritating me. I could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. I was pleased to be home before the storm started. I don’t like driving in bad weather. In fact I don’t like driving much at all, even though around here, in the heart of the English countryside the roads are fairly quiet. Joel usually drives us in his small Lotus, the car he had when we first met. He says he’ll never sell it on, because it will always remind him of the night we fell in love.

I made myself the much needed tea. My breasts were full and aching and heavy. I was already leaking from my engorged nipples. I needed Joel to feed from me. If he wasn’t around I would have to express my milk.

I’d thought the house was suspiciously quiet. I knew Joel was in, because his Lotus was on the drive. Maybe he was cleaning out the summer house in the garden, ready for the party we were throwing in a couple of weeks. I checked the gardens, but he wasn’t outside. So I looked upstairs, and there he was, out on the balcony of his room, practicing his smoking technique. He was trying to inhale the cigarette smoke without coughing. He wasn’t very good at it, although I could tell he thought he looked cool.

He saw me and knew he was for it. A tiny pulse ticked in his cheek. That always happens when he’s nervous. It’s an adult mannerism, that hints at the beautiful man he’ll grow into. His look of defiance dropped quickly to one of sorrow and fear. It’s so difficult for me to be angry with him, when he stands in front of me, tall and gorgeous and looking absolutely adorable. He was already sniffing and crying. But I couldn’t let this one go. It was one misdemeanour too many.

I took the cigarette from him and stamped it out. “Where are the rest?” I asked him coldly. I held out my hand.

“Please don’t be cross Mommy,” he begged.

I ignored him and marched him into the bathroom.

He knew he’d blown any chance he’d had about having the tattoo he’d been pleading for. One of his friends had had one done, and Joel thought it looked really cool. Well he could forget it. He was far too young anyway.

I held out my hand again. “Well,” I said. “Where are they?”

He sulkily pulled out a crushed pack of twenty from his jeans pocket, along with a piece of string and his lucky twenty pence coin. I took the cigarettes from him. and shook out the pack into the toilet bowl, snapping them, crushing them as I did it; ruining them. I made Joel flush the toilet.

“I’m sorry Mommy.” He hung his beautiful head in shame, his dark hair flopping over his forehead.

“I know you are sweetheart. But Mommy really does have to punish you. You know that don’t you?”

I took his hand and led him into my bedroom. I put on my plastic apron and sat in my comfy, overstuffed chair. Joel knew the routine, he dropped his jeans and lay across my lap. He was already hard, his erection pressing into my thigh.

And so I sat and gently stroked his bottom and talked to him about how naughty he had been. I knew he was dying for me to start the spanking, even though after the first few spanks he’d be begging me to stop. He both craved the punishment and dreaded it.

I took out the heavy wooden spatula, that I keep behind the cushion for these occasions. I felt him tense as he heeded my movement. He knew there was no escape, the punishment was about to start. There was no hesitation now as I brutally landed the first spank. His bottom flared red as I followed it up with a further three. Joel howled and struggled and I had to use all my strength to hold him down. I felt the endorphins flood through me as I raised my arm and hit his bottom again and again.

He has told me, when it’s the clear light of day and the craziness and the kinks have abated , that sometimes he’s afraid that I’ll lose control, beat him into unconsciousness. And he was partly right. I get as much out of giving the punishment, as he does of receiving it. We’d agreed that it would be sensible to have a system where he could stop me, if it ever got too much for him. A safe word, I think they call it. He’s never used it.

His bottom was pushing up now, a reflex action, drawing every last hard blow of the spanks. He was relishing the pain. Lost in it. He was letting the pain take him somewhere else. I knew he was close. His hips thrusted and pumped. He shouted out wildly and grunted as he came into my lap. I lay back into the cushions, panting, as he jerked and pumped his sticky spunk into my apron.

He knew the next part of the routine without being told and he slid from me. He kneeled at my feet and cleaned up my apron, lapping up the spunk with his tongue.

“Good boy, Joel. Mommy’s pleased with you. You took your punishment like a little man.”

“Thank you Mommy. I love you Mommy.”

“I love you too my darling boy.”

He looked at me questioningly. I knew he wanted to suckle from me and I needed him to feed from me too. But first there were other urgent matters to attend to.

“You remember what Mommy told you about her clitoris, Joel? How it likes to be licked?”

He nodded, and smiled up at me. He was suddenly surprisingly grown up. His strong hands slid up my inner thighs, making me quiver. His head burrowed beneath my loose summer skirt. His fingers slipped my lacy panties to one side and he nuzzled his way between my folds. I whimpered as I felt his warm breath on my clitoris. I was trembling with need. I was very wet. I was always aroused after the spanking sessions and I moaned as his clever tongue found its way to that sensitive tiny bud. I gazed down at the erotic sight of his head making a mound beneath my skirt. The mound shape rose and fell as he licked and sucked. He kept me hanging on for as long as he could, just bringing me to the brink, then sliding his tongue further down to lap up the juices from my cunt. At last, he flattened his tongue onto my clit, just the way he knows I like it and he licked with his smooth, wet tongue. The orgasm rushed over me. Up my spine, a delicious tingling. My womb contracted and I came with a violent series of jerks and moans. My milk let down, soaking the front of my tee shirt. I screamed out my lover’s name as I slumped forward into his strong arms.

We kissed, long and gently. I could taste our juices, mingling in our mouths.

We stayed there, just holding each other, for some time. It had started to rain outside, I could hear the patter on the window pains.

There was a rumble of thunder, much closer now. The storm was breaking.

I held him, and pondered on this strange love that was so fulfilling to us both.

“Mommy,” Joel murmured. “I’m hungry.”

His fingers were already creeping beneath my tee shirt. My breasts were heavy, they were leaking and aching to be suckled. I needed this as much as he did. He nuzzled my breasts, his mouth finding my erect nipple and he sucked and drank from me.

I was no longer giving myself the hormone injections. Just like the web site had said, once the hormones had taken effect, and they had induced lactation, the natural process had taken over. As long as Joel fed from me, at least five or six times a day, or if he was away, I expressed my milk, I would continue to lactate.

The rain lashed down outside. A summer storm. I was safe in the home I shared with my wonderful fiancé. I sighed contentedly, as his mouth tugged and pulled on my nipple. His suckling aroused me again and I pushed his hand between my legs. I needed to be penetrated. His slid two, then three fingers into me. He finger fucked me as he fed.

I felt a bliss like I had never known before. Science and nature, with a heavy spoonful of kinks; what a wonderful combination.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

In Praise of SSSSH!

Victor, the creator/proprietor of SSSSH! Shy Shamed Secret Shadowed Hidden Nude Women just zapped me a very nice letter of thanks for posting about his site (and thanks to Mick for the tip) ... but the thanks are all mine: not only is he great for writing but SSSSH! is a fantastic site full of lovely, and best of all, natural women. Keep an eye here for even more shy girls in the future.
SSSSH! Shy Shamed Secret Shadowed Hidden

A historic and Personal collection of erotic vernacular photographs from the earliest days of photography to the snapshot. Included are struggling camera club models, furtive photos of one-night stands, amateur polaroid pictures of the spouse and more...all displaying the characteristics hinted at by the title. Frequently beautiful but often not in the least alluring, what emerges is a collective authenticity and humanity which cuts through the artifice of all market driven notions of beauty, attraction and lust. The photographs (and on occasion the hapless models) are bent and bruised, but they exhibit a raw authenticity seldom seen in any context. All anonymous and unattributed, the collection is thought provoking, disturbing and ultimately entertaining in a manner never before seen. Assembled by Victor Minx, the pseudonym of a prominent collector, this is a striking exhibit of images never intended to be seen. Contact

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett coincidence?… I think not - By Ralph Greco, Jr.

I'm jazzed to be able to present another excellent essay by my pal, Ralph Greco, Jr. -- and who I had a blast hanging with at the Cybernet Expo!

Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett coincidence?
… I think not

Ralph Greco, Jr.

Ok, here's my take, whatever the hell it's worth.

Farrah Fawcett whittles away with anal cancer. Michael Jackson, the saddest rock and roll recluse since Elvis, dies from a possible drug overdose. Both stories suck. I don't care about the yet-to-be-determined specifics in M.J.'s death, as I don’t want to see that terrible video (produced by Farrah no less) of her last months. I'll say it again…both stories suck.
But God knows the news media is having a grand ole time.

Before you can say Anna Nicole Smith, here we are again with repeated specials, unearthed disgruntled employees, celebrity conjecture and CNN and Fox's post-death watch, complete with perfect graphics and constant news-scrolls. There are p.r. fancy titles like "The Tour That Never Was", and the 'Rev' Al on the news (man this guy finds cameras faster then those fools on "JackAss"), video upon video of young Farrah as opposed to old sick Farrah. There are interviews with friends and family, lawyers, doctors, Indian chiefs' opinions playing nightly. It's the usual dog-and-pony show the news media chomps at the bit to give you and that we all lap up even though it's as distasteful as chewing on a urinal cake.

I understand that we have a fascination with wanting to see a once-major-hotty all sickly and bald, and that M.J. was a seriously odd dude, but man oh man, this recent death toll had the news media at a frenzy, Thank God every few months we have an Anna or a Heath and now these two recently dearly departed (not to mention Ed Mcmahon and Billy Mays) to feed the blood lust.

As I have done before I shall do again…flash the bird at the news media and their lack of decency. This Farrah/Michael thing, especially the Michael thing, really illustrates just how low down the supposed none bias media outlets are. I actually found myself pissed that Michael Jackson was getting more play then Farrah….what kind of a ghoul am I, huh?

F you. F you. F you. From the Larry Kings of this world to the a-hole 'other side', Fox news. F you all. As in life you treat our celebrities as in death, without a shred of decency and we continue to watch, read and twitter your puke.

So Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very Wrong