Let adults be adult (rant)

About two years ago, the adult industry was under attack. By banks. They were shutting down accounts of known adult performers. Last year, my local dungeon had to go cash only for a night because their credit card processing account had been shut down, despite it being a registered charitable organization. Why? ‘Cause of the adult activities going on.

Look, I’m gonna show my bias here. When he was alive, my husband was a high-level executive in the adult industry and a multiple award-winning adult filmmaker for many years. So, yes, during a non-zero portion of my life, I indirectly benefited financially from the adult industry.

But even if that weren’t the case, I’d still be biased. I’d be a biased adult.

Over the past few days, several fundraising campaigns created by an adult with adult interests for a cause that provides support to countless animal rescue organizations around the world were shut down.

This isn’t a rant about the people who reported the campaigns. You had your reasons, whatever they were. Other people are gonna rail on you.

This is about a system that gave a shit about those reports. A system that says “Oh no, we can’t help starving animals if the people who are helping them donaughty things in their bedrooms at night!”

That’s ridiculous. It’s RIDICULOUS.

I’ve got another bias. I work in the fundraising sector. I have for many, many years. Several years ago, my two worlds collided. At an adult convention, one of the owners of a toy company who’d heard that I do fundraising for a living told me they were having trouble finding organizations that would be willing to accept contributions from an adult toy manufacturer.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Like, my mom is the most prudish, naive and conservative woman I know and even she had a vibrator growing up. She might be the only woman in America who used it for her back, but STILL. She HAD one.

So I went back to work, where they knew what industry my husband worked in, and I asked…”Hey, so this company wants to do a fundraiser and give us the money. Are we okay with accepting it?”

And my boss wasn’t sure. I mean, part of her wanted to say yes but then she was all worried about what the other donors would think. So finally she said, “Only if can treat them as an anonymous donor.”

I wish I could have stood up to her then. I wish I could have convinced her that a legitimate, tax-paying business that wanted to show philanthropic spirit and give back to ANY cause should be WELCOMED to do so and not shoved under the rug.

So what if they make dildos?

We’ve come a long way as a society. Even though it was an atrocity, the fact is a book about kinky shit was a bestseller and turned into a major motion picture. People know this stuff happens, and they’ve KNOWN for a long time.

We’re all adults. I don’t see why we have to pretend we don’t care about animals or the environment or cancer or education or hunger.

If I want to donate $25 so that a reputable 501(c)3 can go out and save a whale, or clean up a beach, or give medicine to people with AIDS, then why the fuck is the financial sector telling me I can’t because I like it when my boyfriend spanks my ass before he sticks his cock in it?

Fucking hell. When is the world gonna grow up already?



A different kind of B.B.W (Smut)

You’re led out of the house by a tight fist grabbing hold of your hair. He orders you to get in the car, and while he’s fiddling with the back seats, he tells you to start masturbating.

You’re already wet, of course. You had been for hours. He has that effect on you.

It takes several minutes of driving before he pulls off the dusty road near some rusty metal shack. There are no other cars up here. You can hear the sounds of owls and things that go *buzz* in the night.

“What?” he asks as you glance around with concern.

“No, it’s….I guess that’s the sound of nature.” City girl that you are, not one for roughing it. Not this kind of rough, anyway.

“Get in the backseat,” he orders.

It’s not like you didn’t know this was coming. Hell, you’re the one who told him about the fantasy in the first place.

But this is real.

You spread a blanket across the back. He tells you to get on your back. You instinctively spread your legs. You are, after all, his whore.

He starts with his fingers.

He comments on the state of your cunt. “So wet. You are a whore,” he reminds you.

You nod. “Yes, Sir.”

One orgasm with his fingers on your clit, then another with penetration before he claims your cunt again with his cock. “My whore,” he clarifies.

“Your whore,” your words echo, clinging to the ends of each breath.

You know it’s coming. You bring your feet up to the ceiling. His eyes glow in the moonlight with a flash of excitement and desire.

He enters slowly, his hot flesh claiming its intended target made slick with the come dripping from your used up cunt.

“That’s it, my whore,” he whispers as his thrust intensifies.

You can only moan in response.

“My backseat, backdoor whore,” he adds.

From the secret archives: Passing the Torch

I have a “secret” profile on Fetlife where I post some of my more sensitive blogs.  This is a love letter I wrote several months ago.

There was a version of him who worshiped the light in my eyes. Before the darkness overtook his soul, and maybe even still then. He’d stopped going to church, but he still prayed in his own way.

Now, he is a memory, an idea, a series of stories that have been carefully curated into an album one pulls out to show company.

And here is the time that….

And then there was the time that….

It’s hard, sometimes to pinpoint exact moments when I felt his love, but not at all to remember how it felt to be consumed by his love. Not the kind of love that is fleeting and temporary. The kind that is unhinged, unhampered, and undeniable.

There was a love after him but it was careful and methodical and questioning. It was too afraid and it fell.

You are not afraid. You, with your quiet confidence. With your understated presence. You fill the room by not trying. There is no search for glory, there is no “game” to win, there is no disembodied force to fight.

You are just you. Without apology. Without need for apology.

You look upon me as though I were fine art. To be admired, and cherished, and even celebrated; but not worshiped. For you, I am not descended from the heavens but grown from the earth. There is the magic of fairy tales and the miracle of science.

And I do so love to do science with you.

I wonder, had this been a relay and not a reboot, if he’d been around to meet you, how he would have felt about this quirky situation of ours?

He worshiped the light in my eyes. I think, if he could, he’d take one look at me now that you’re in my life and drop to his knees before you with gratitude for bringing it back.

From the secret archives: Love Letter

I have a “secret” profile on Fetlife where I post some of my more sensitive blogs.  This is a love letter I wrote several months ago.

There is a way you look at me. I sometimes wonder if this ship we’re sailing is daringly keeled toward such exciting raw currents of passion without temperance from the calming drift of a gentle night to balance out our journey.

It’s true. We don’t talk very much. Yes, we text. And, it’s not that we don’t talk at all – there are discussions about pasts and presents and families and careers. But it is sometimes alarming to realize that I know you best from our silent exchanges. I know you through instinct. Through touch and scent and taste and feel. Though it may not be with words, we communicate mountains when our eyes meet for long, soulful, deep conversations.

The way you look at me renders me speechless without taking away my words, but by shining the light on just how inadequate they really are.

I love you.

Can you tell me how to get…


Clamps one and two were fastened to each nipple from the top; the chain lifted and inserted into her mouth where it was held between clenched teeth.

Clamps three and four, also each attached to her nipples, but from the bottom.  The chain lay resting against her belly.

He hovered over her.

A third chain was linked to the second on one end.  The chain tugged downward as he securely fastened the fifth clamp to her wet and swollen clit.

They were celebrating five months together.

“Tonight’s debauchery will be brought to you by the number five…,” she’d joked with him earlier.

She recalled his response as she lay open, vulnerable and clamped times five while he pushed his hardened cock inside her hungry cunt.

“And the letter O,” he’d said.







Wipe the Glass (Happy Birthday, Tony.)

He’d have been 55 today. I didn’t want it to affect me, but I can’t pretend it didn’t. It’s a really strange combination of emotions – knowing that I’m happier and healthier now, knowing that I’ve found love again and pulled my life back together and survived an incredible loss.

And still feeling off on his birthday.

This would have been the birthday that I’d have broken the bank to get us a reservation at the French Laundry in Napa. It was a lifelong goal of his to eat there one day. I tried for this 50th birthday, but I missed the window of opportunity for a reservation and there wasn’t a chance in hell I could get it, so we’d decided to do it for his 55th.

Maybe one day I’ll still get a chance to eat there. At the very least, I have Thomas Keller’s cookbook somewhere in the garage (the gift my parents got him for his 50th). Now that I’m a fancypants home chef, I’ll dig that sucker out and make something.

So, I’m digging into these emotions, because I think if I can shed some light on them, I can overcome them. I mean, it’s not like I’m overcome with grief that he’s gone. Like I said, my life is better now. There is love again, and not just for the guy but for some really great people he’s brought into my life by association.

I’m gonna take a minute away from this whole thing to share some gratitude for my metamours. They’re both really wonderful, really unique people an I’m very, very grateful for them. I had a really rough night last night, fraught with nightmares and sleeplessness, and this morning wasn’t entirely pleasant, and one of my metamours came through and 1) made it feel safe for me to be honest, and 2) said exactly what I needed said to make me feel better. I’m really, really grateful for our growing friendship. The other one is her own brand of fantastic and has made me feel comfortable and welcome since day two of this relationship. I say day two because he forgot to introduce us to each other on day one.

Anyway, back to the other thing. Right. Guilt. What I’m getting at is that the reason I think I keep crying this week is that I feel guilt for moving on. Not surface guilt; like, rationally I know I have no reason to feel anything of the sort. But deep, deep, down there’s this sense that if I didn’t feel something on this day it would mean i’m a callous, unfeeling, cold-hearted bitch.

So I look at the date on the calendar and I furrow my brow because I’m happy and …what does that make me?

If I were you and you were me and you asked me this question, I could be completely rational about it and tell you that you’re crazy. Of COURSE you deserve this happiness. Of COURSE you’ll feel something on his birthday. Of COURSE being happy doesn’t make you an evil cold-hearted bitch.

And I can tell myself that, too.

When chatting with my metamour this morning I came up with an analogy for how this feels. So, if you’re in a glass-enclosed shower, the glass fogs up with steam. When I pick my emotions apart and tell myself there’s nothing to feel badly about, it’s like I’ve taken my hand and wiped a large swath of clarity. I can see the world clearly through the glass. But slowly, very slowly, the steam starts to fog it up again.

I have to keep wiping at the emotional fog collecting in my brain.

There’s more to it than just Tony’s birthday, there’s other stuff going on that has nothing to do with Tony. Work stresses. Family stresses. Distances from people I care about.

Life is awesome, but just ’cause it’s awesome doesn’t mean there aren’t days when the awesome isn’t front and center.

I was trying to think of a way to commemorate Tony’s birthday this morning. It was hard. I thought about asking people to donate one item of clutter …you know that thing that “might be useful one day” to someone who might use ittoday. Tony was a hoarder and I can tell you that after he died, a great many people benefited from the mountains of clothing and kitchen supplies and furniture and canned food that he collected.

I thought about asking people to reach out to friends or loved ones who struggle with depression or anxiety and saying “hey. You matter.” Tony suffered from both of these, and chronic pain. There were days when he didn’t want to live and lost himself in video games and ice cream to get by.

I thought about asking people to embrace something bizarre or do something weird today. Tony loved the bizarre, obscure, and perverse.

I thought about suggesting people show kindness to someone in need today. Tony always did. If it were his last dollar, he’d give it to someone needier than he.

But, this morning on facebook all I asked people to do was to find a reason to celebrate. Have a treat. Blow out a candle. Find a reason to feel good.

‘Cause he’d have been 55 today on Friday the 13th. And despite all his troubles, he was a good man who loved me. There is nothing wrong with celebrating that.

wipes the glass

9 things we rarely admit to loving

1. The first shit you take after anal.  Come on.  You know it’s true.

2.  Peegasms.  I’ve mentioned these before and I know not everybody gets it, but for those of us who do – you know, that feeling you get when you gotta pee but you hold it in?  It’s like a little orgasm. It’s fucking good, yo.
3. Finally plucking that one stubborn hair.  Whether it’s on your chin (grrrr) or elsewhere, there’s that one that keeps slipping past your tweezers, but you can still FEEL it.  Then that moment you get it, finally GET that little fucker….bliss.
4.  When your cat tickles your bare back with his tail. You’re laying naked on the sofa, eating out of a jar of peanut butter and watching the latest episode of Dancing With The Stars when your little kitty decides your back, or your butt, or your thigh looks mighty comfortable.  It’s a little wiggy at first, ’cause you’re naked and his cat-litter paws are treading directly on your skin.  Especially when the kneading starts and those little prickles have you questioning whether your’e a masochist or a moron.  But then, the tail swishes.  You freeze.  Maybe he’ll do it again.  Swish.  Oh yeah, baby. Now we’re talking.  You try desperately not to disturb His Royal Catness so that he may continue to swish his tail over and over again.  Meanwhile, you haven’t even noticed how much cat hair is on your peanut butter spoon.
5.  A teensy, tiny hint of gaminess.  Not the full-on, wallpaper-peeling gnarliness from a partner who hasn’t showered in days, but that “I’ve been working all day, but I totally showered this morning” musky aroma (and taste, if you’re lucky) of a partner’s netherbits right up in your face.  That’s it.  Inhale.  Take it all in.  Then….yeah.  Take it.  All.  In.
6.  Being right.  I think it might be one of my favorite feelings, after orgasms, making someone else feel good, a warm bubble bath, and having my hair played with.  Being RIGHT feels so good.  Especially when it’s acknowledged by others.  It feels so good that I’ve just gone ahead and made it a habit to be right as often as possible.
7.  Being lazy.  There’s a framed quote in my house by John Lennon:  “Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted.”  But these days it seems like admitting that you love being lazy is frowned upon.  Fuck it.  I’ve had lofty aspirations of this or that project that I’d do during my time off from work; like set up a garden or clean out the garage, or do the laundry – and you know what I end up doing all day long?  See #4.
8. Farting. I mean, we might not like the aromatic effects of it or the acute embarrassment if someone else smelts what we’ve dealt, but when you’ve got a horrid stomach cramp and then all of a sudden, PFFFFPPPPFBBBBBBBFFFFTRRRRTTTT.  Ahhhhhhhhh.
9. When you wake up thinking it’s 6am and it’s not yet midnight.  Oh yes.  That thing that happens when you wake from sleep thinking you have but minutes before your alarm goes off telling you that you should probably get out of bed (except you don’t for another half hour because you finally got comfy), but when you look over at the clock, it’s still only 11:45pm the night before.  WTF! You were just about to get up and go get ready for another dreadful day – but what’s this?  EIGHT MORE HOURS OF SLEEP IN THIS COMFY POSITION YOU’VE JUST DISCOVERED?  Fuck yeah!