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After forty-one-and-a-half years of owning these genitals (and twenty-three years of knowing what they were for), you’d think that I’d have exhausted every possible way of making them feel good.

You would be wrong.

The images burned into my brain from a super-hot night left me so squirmy and unable to work that once my children left for school I ripped off all my clothes and dived back into bed. Having recently untangled the ridiculous snake-nest that had developed in the cords of my favorite solo-time companions, I tested out one, then another, before finally settling on the third as that day’s Toy of Choice.

In memory of the surprisingly deep pounding I’d taken the night before I brought my Daddy to bed with me, but the combination of last night’s fucking and this morning’s wanking made my muscles do exactly what they’re designed to do — which is to push out. No matter how much I arched my back and tried to hold Daddy under me my body wasn’t cooperating. The dildo turned into a missile; before it could knock anything off the bureau I sat up into a variation of a Pigeon, which held Daddy so tightly into me it could not slip away. With the Wahl wedged against my clit and Daddy neatly captured I ground and screamed myself into exhaustion. 1

I’m such a master at awkward that I’ve never felt comfortable with woman-on-top, but this new discovery inspires me. If I faced away from my partner and managed to tuck my bent leg between his legs, mightn’t it work for intercourse?

Expect updates as this story develops.

1. Have you tried this? You really should try this, because it felt screamingly great, to the point that I’m glad the hot weather has followed us into September and prohibited the turning off of air conditioning and the opening of windows. Promise me you’ll try this. You’ll thank me later.

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This post, New Discovery, originally appeared on aag on Friday, September 3, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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Long-standing tradition dictates that once the screaming stops and the swelling subsides (mostly subsides), I will position myself so that he can have free access to my breasts.

This would be easier were I naked but lately I’ve liked the feeling of my nipples popping out over something — and the more times they can pop out the better. Given the right outfit they can be tucked away and then spill forth dozens of times, each time more surprising than the last. 1

While we relax and talk his hands never stop moving. He plays along with my surprise-nipple fetish, pulling my top down to pinch and knead and cup hot handfuls and I want it never to stop. “I’d like to have this done to me all day long,” I say.

It would, he agrees, be nifty to possess a bra with a cunning built-in device that would mimic hands capable of caressing and tweaking and cupping all day long.

“No,” I say, “I’d rather just have you follow me around with your hands in my bra.”

Do you think anyone would notice?

1. Yes, I know they’re in there and that they’re going to come back out. It’s still sexy and surprising. Is that so wrong?

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This post, A New Kind of Bra, originally appeared on aag on Thursday, September 2, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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This post, So true, originally appeared on aag on Wednesday, September 1, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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It would be inaccurate to say that in writing here I exaggerate; yet an idea takes but a moment to wing its way through the brain, and given the busy nature of life and the relative importance we usually place on fleeting thoughts I can see how it would seem blown out of proportion to write eight hundred words about an event that took only a moment or paragraphs of angst over a tiny worry. How much more mountains-out-of-molehills would you think it if you knew the number of hours (many, oh god how many) it took to compose such pieces, dripping word by painful word out and around the dozens of interruptions your intrepid narrator endures daily?

When you come right down to it, the question becomes one of scale and time. Does the scale of what’s written match up with the meat-space magnitude? Does time flow the same inside and outside of text? How often is there a disconnect from artistic license or bad memory? Considering scale and time it must be terribly disconcerting to read here something that references oneself. Reading things about myself no matter how favorable sends me into squirming worry even faster than toe-sucking. 1

Thus are the dangers of blogging and reading what’s blogged, and we won’t even touch the trouble over things that must go unsaid, the very very many things that must go unsaid. You should be asking yourself about every blog you read: What is this writer not saying? What should she be saying but isn’t? What subjects did she once talk about so freely but now does not? And most importantly, why?

Answer those and you’ll have a better grasp of the truth.

1. This is why it is best, I guess, that I only ever slept with one other sex blogger, though ohmigod there a few to whom I would give my very soul, if I believed in such a thing, in exchange for a single night. It is safer that way.

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This post, Scale and Time, originally appeared on aag on Wednesday, September 1, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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The problem would diminish if not disappear completely were I to take a less extreme view on the topic of hygiene, most specifically pre-oral-sex hygiene.

You see, I enjoy being on the very bleeding edge of cleanliness when it comes time to part my legs. I’d be happiest if I could step directly out of the shower and into bed, but as that kind of scheduling brings up problems of its own, I’d allow that perhaps two hours could pass between bathing and (ahem) eating before I’d be too twitchy to relax.

I know this is silly; and these rules don’t, mind you, apply to anyone but myself. The memory of a sharp note of sweat on a partner’s skin can make me breathe heavy and swallow hard weeks after the antecedent, and I don’t think I’ve ever turned someone down for for being too funkified. At least not in recent memory.

If I have an early date on a night the kids’ father comes here to take care of them I can bathe at my leisure before he arrives, then beat a hasty retreat the moment everyone is settled. The problem arises only on nights when the ex comes here and I have a late-starting date, because due to my aforementioned neurosis over cleanliness, the getting-ready portion of the evening must take place with the ex in the house.

He has to hear me; he must know what’s going on, for what possible reason other than imminent nekkidity would require a half-hour shower at seven o’clock at night? Why else would I kiss the kids goodnight at leave at five ’til eight, wafting behind me the scent of shampoo and barely contained glee, adjusting the altogether inappropriate underwear concealed beneath my clothes? As keenly as I anticipate being naked and touched and very well-loved, it is disconcerting to walk out of the home — a home that, if I’d have been a different kind of person, would have provided everything in every aspect of life I ever could have wanted.

But I wasn’t, and it didn’t, so I try every week to juggle the needs for hygiene and privacy and sex and fail every time.

Oh. I’ve just right this very moment thought of another solution, but as it involves refusing any offer of oral pleasure, I think it can safely be rejected out of hand.

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This post, On the Subject of Cleanliness, originally appeared on aag on Tuesday, August 31, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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Imagine living in a country where we are free to eat any sort of ice cream that we desire — or, for that matter, no ice cream at all.

In this frosty land the government wouldn’t show a preference for eaters of any particular flavor. There would be no test before being granted a job or any other benefit. An employer couldn’t inquire “Do you eat chocolate ice cream?” at an interview, as your preference matters not a bit in your ability to work or receive.

Schools would not sell ice cream, but neither would they stand in the way of students bringing their own. One student likes vanilla? Go right ahead, the school would say. Eat up. Enjoy. Another likes chocolate? Have at it. Just don’t try to shove your butter brickle down the throats of your table-mates, or scream that they’ll burn in hell for their scoops of strawberry.

Would schools teach about the various kids of ice cream available in the larger world? Perhaps, in the right subject area. If responsible science agrees that one should eat a balanced diet and not just ice cream, or that one should avoid the varieties to which one is allergic, or that utterly no research has shown a correlation between ice cream consumption and pedophilia, then those ideas should be shared.

Privately, however, citizens could shout out their ice cream beliefs no matter how unscientific to the high heavens with no interference. You think chocolate ice cream is the very best? Set up a store and serve nothing but. If you feel so strongly, prohibit vanilla-eaters from crossing your threshold. Go right ahead, if you wish, and incorporate The Church of Chocolate Ice Cream; preach each Sunday about the evils of Neapolitan and refuse to marry any but the most ardent chocoholics.

From the sidelines I might think you a very great fool, but I would not interfere. I would not interfere because, given enough time and the vagaries of reproduction, chocolate ice cream might not always be the ice cream of choice and The Church of Chocolate Ice Cream might not always be the most powerful; meaning that churches and governments should be as far removed from one another as can possibly be managed and that each one should stay out of the other’s business.

Why is this so hard to understand?

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This post, Chocolate Ice Cream, originally appeared on aag on Monday, August 30, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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To blog is therefore to let go of your writing in a way, to hold it at arm’s length, open it to scrutiny, allow it to float in the ether for a while, and to let others, as Montaigne did, pivot you toward relative truth. A blogger will notice this almost immediately upon starting. Some e-mailers, unsurprisingly, know more about a subject than the blogger does. They will send links, stories, and facts, challenging the blogger’s view of the world, sometimes outright refuting it, but more frequently adding context and nuance and complexity to an idea. The role of a blogger is not to defend against this but to embrace it. He is similar in this way to the host of a dinner party. He can provoke discussion or take a position, even passionately, but he also must create an atmosphere in which others want to participate.

That atmosphere will inevitably be formed by the blogger’s personality. The blogosphere may, in fact, be the least veiled of any forum in which a writer dares to express himself. Even the most careful and self-aware blogger will reveal more about himself than he wants to in a few unguarded sentences and publish them before he has the sense to hit Delete. The wise panic that can paralyze a writer—the fear that he will be exposed, undone, humiliated—is not available to a blogger. You can’t have blogger’s block. You have to express yourself now, while your emotions roil, while your temper flares, while your humor lasts. You can try to hide yourself from real scrutiny, and the exposure it demands, but it’s hard. And that’s what makes blogging as a form stand out: it is rich in personality.

–”Why I Blog,” Andrew Sullivan (via Chelsea G. Summers)

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This post, To blog is therefore to let go of your writing, originally appeared on aag on Friday, August 27, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’”

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This post, , originally appeared on aag on Friday, August 27, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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I’ve been out of the traditional workforce for eleven-plus years now. Were I to reenter it in my previous capacity I would no doubt be fired on the very first day for saying “fuck” in front of seventh-graders.

Best to keep on working from home.

(source)

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This post, Degradation of Social Skills, originally appeared on aag on Friday, August 27, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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I transition from mother to lover so clumsily that unless I will myself to stand still for a moment, alone and naked (or in new sexytime attire purchased specifically for the occasion) I cannot even figure out where to put my hands. Minutes before they were packing lunches! And now they’re supposed to do what? And my mouth? Which just kissed my daughter goodnight? I’m meant to put it where? You can see the difficulty!

In this instance, however, I had not even enough time to put down my purse and keys; in fact I barely manged to rip off my glasses before he pushed me back on the stairs and slid down my throat. Worry about where to put my hands? There was no need! They dug into his ass to keep him from tumbling down the stairs, and before the time I’d normally have spent trying to get into character had passed my clit was thumping hard in time with his strokes into my mouth.

“I kind of attacked you the second you walked in the door,” he said afterward, curled behind me in the bed. “I hope that was ok,” and while I assured him that it most definitely was, I had to wonder for whom it would not be ok? Who wouldn’t like being the recipient of such extreme desire that it could not be put off long enough even for a purse to be set down or glasses to be removed?

Seriously, who wouldn’t like that?

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This post, Who Wouldn’t, originally appeared on aag on Thursday, August 26, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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Having sent an older sibling to Kindergarten many years ago and this child to half-day preschool last year, and considering that summer stretched through five-hundred weeks packed with activities and expenses and ohmigodsomuchwhining, I thought I would have no trouble dropping my middle child off to her first day of school. No trouble at all.

If anything I worried that the other parents would cast scandalized eyes upon the one mommy who didn’t even stop but merely slowed as she drove past the school; or at least upon the part of the mommy they could see, which would be the foot, connecting to the child’s fanny, as she was booted without warning out the minivan door.

But then summer’s final weeks dwindled down to days, then hours and minutes. The child, dolled up in an outfit selected weeks in advance, vibrated day and night with barely-suppressed glee. Superimposed on the image of her beaming in a hand-me-down fancy dress and bright-white shoes was another from six years in the past when this child’s sibling started school and I, for the first time in years, was left to my own devices for hours every single day.

For ten weeks I did everything I could think of to find a child to adopt short of setting out with a dowsing rod. So convinced was I that I’d never get to raise another small person that those ten weeks felt like eons; until finally on a frigid November morning her mother signed paper after paper, weeping, and then handed over to me a fat blond infant. If those ten weeks were decades then the past almost-six years have been minutes, and standing in front of the school seeing my little girl and that round newborn all at once yanked unexpected tears from my eyes and from my chest a sob that every other bleary-eyed parent must have heard, were they not each immersed in their own ruminations on the plastic nature of time.

Given the uncontrollable seepage from my eyes at the departure of this child, I will hold out no hope that next year, which will bring the send-off of the last little fledgling from the nest, will be any less tearful.

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This post, The First Day, originally appeared on aag on Wednesday, August 25, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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In an average month sickness or late nights at work kept me away perhaps three times. The other twenty-seven (or twenty-eight, or twenty-five, or twenty-six) days found me there for at least an hour and quite frequently for closer to three.

The stress slid off my shoulders six feet outside the door. By the time I’d shown my card, grabbed a towel (the towels always smelled reassuringly of heat and bleach) and punched in the code to the locker room, I had no recollection of the annoyances which had seemed so vast just moments before. Far from stopping me, the omnipresent scent of Hot Man pulled me in to the weight room, where I’d spend a blissful half-hour surrounded by specimen my friend and I affectionately dubbed “The Bigs,” focused on nothing more taxing that making a block of steel go up and then come down without a clang. This was followed by an hour of step aerobics,1 leaving me as happy and calm as a medicated clam.

Additionally, three days a week I practiced punching and kicking (and getting punched and getting kicked), a workout more grueling than anything that could be dished out in weight room or aerobics studio. If none of those options were available (and sometimes even if they were) I walked in the open air, occasionally ticking off as many as thirty miles in a single week.

That might have been excessive, no?

Out of the corner of my eye I observed my co-steppers and -lifters and -kickers and -walkers; I particularly noticed the ones who weren’t moving at my same speed. Invariably they were the ones weighted down with strollers and surrounded by a roiling cloud of children. Often I caught the hint of a suggestion of annoyance on their faces as they wrangled their offspring or sat impassive on the sidelines. I’m ashamed to say that I pitied them. However do they manage to get any time to come to the gym on their own, I wondered, then quickly thrust away the thought as the only conceivable answer was too horrifying to bear.

Eventually biology nudged me; it suggested that I could churn out my own tiny replicants and in the process not lose myself. “Those parents weren’t very good at managing their time,” I smugly thought. “Of course I’ll do better.” And when I had but one child, I did. I maintained my martial arts training and weight lifting, and when I took walks it was with the added cardiovascular challenge of a fully tricked-out stroller. But then arrived child number two, then hard on the heels of an impending divorce came child number three, and neither finances nor the clock permitted the extravagance of my past workouts.

These days I’m lucky if I can squeeze a few crunches into a schedule that’s increasingly overrun with the social, academic and athletic demands of my children. Has this taken a toll upon my formerly rock-hard waistline and super-powerful thighs? Oh hell yeah. Even worse it’s taken a toll upon my psyche as is evidenced by the fact that while registering my three children for three sessions of back-to-back swim lessons during which I was interrupted by said children no less than a number equal to the sum total of aforementioned individual classes,2 and despite having not, against all odds, forgotten how to add, I lost my motherfucking shit over the final bill.3

All that money spend on my children, who will frolic joyously in the pool while I stew and glower from the sidelines, dry of body, baleful of spirit and empty of checkbook, feeling nothing but the most shameful resentment toward the small souls who are entrusted to my care.

It is not a happy thing to admit to resenting one’s offspring, but I have to imagine that I’m not the first to feel such an emotion. Nevertheless, I recall no mention of this phenomena in my longstanding and painfully close research into what to expect from parenthood.

I’m not the first, am I?

1. do they still teach step aerobics?
2. if you’ve lost count, that’s eighteen
3. Classes run $30, so you do the math.

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This post, Resent, originally appeared on aag on Tuesday, August 24, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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It was hurled sotto voce, one floor and half the house away from where I flipped burgers; consequently I knew nothing of the altercation until its surly instigator appeared across the kitchen counter from me. “Do I really have to go home? She said I do.” He jerked his head over his shoulder in what I could only assume was the direction of his perpetual summertime companion, my eldest child.

Not wanting to encourage a he-said she-said at that moment I used the excuse of impending dinner to shoo him out of the house. No sooner had he slammed the door behind him than my daughter appeared bearing a sordid tale of younger siblings interfering with a game, her friend’s annoyance with their continual interruptions and his outburst, which after a moment of stunned silence prompted my child unceremoniously to oust her friend from the typically friendly confines of our house.

This is a child more likely to put down her head and ignore what upsets her than to confront it directly, but in this case she responded with a righteous anger that made me proud. “He can never come back here again,” she hotly announced. “He causes too many problems and he’s never nice to the babies.”

I agreed that he did cause lots of problems.  “But you better decide how you’re going to address this next time you see him,” I cautioned, “because you’re not going to be able to avoid him forever.”

“You have to talk to him,” she said, “And you have to talk to his mom, because he was not being nice.”

As a veteran of many years in the public school system and of raising my own offspring, I try my best not to get ensnared in children’s battles, but after my daughter told me the content of her friend’s remarks I felt compelled to phone his mother. I managed to time the call to coincide with my child’s arrival at their house; after suitable small talk I asked if she was aware that even as we spoke, my daughter was confronting her son about the fact that he had tried to insult my middle child by pointing out that her daddy was not in fact her “real” daddy.

After a few moments of shocked silence she apologized for his churlishness and vowed to speak to him immediately about the realities of adoption. I asked for and received permission to add a few thoughts of my own next time he turned up at my house.

As this is perhaps the most common insult flung at any child who was adopted, I knew we’d face such a scene sooner or later.

But I hoped it would be later, and delivered by someone with fewer ties to the family.

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This post, The Greatest Insult, originally appeared on aag on Monday, August 23, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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Things I Won’t Miss When My Kids Are Back in School

1. iCarly playing in the background all bleeding day.
2. The constant demands for snacks.

Things I Will Miss When My Kids Are Back in School

1. The sight of

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This post, It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, originally appeared on aag on Monday, August 23, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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I’ve been up to my neck in PINK! and SKULLS! this week. It’s been awesome:

The site owner’s a bit worried that no one will ever visit her in her new location, so would you be so kind as to head over to her site and wish her good luck on her new digs? Grab her feed at the same time.

You should know that MassHoleMommy gives away a lot of stuff — I mean really a lot of stuff. While you’re visiting, why not get in on her latest giveaways too?

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This post, Mass Hole Mommy, originally appeared on aag on Friday, August 20, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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So tightly was my day scheduled that to be ready for an 8pm date I had to pack up the sex-toys before lunch. An afternoon of screen-door-slamming kids, blog-maintenance and client phone calls flew by; after that my plan was to take my eldest to dinner and shopping for school supplies before dropping her at home with her father. “I won’t be back ’til very close to ten,” I informed him while endeavoring to ignore his look of curiosity mixed with annoyance.

Alone in the car with my daughter (bag of toys stashed beneath the seat), I thought I was through the worst of it. I drove across town in a happy dream of what I’d be doing just a few hours hence, hardly listening to the constant stream of commentary coming from the back seat. As most of it focused on the educational implements she hoped we’d soon acquire, I had plenty of brain-power to respond to her adequately and still have some left over for thoughts of a naked man — at least I did until she asked what in heaven’s name would keep me out until ten o’clock at night. “I thought you were getting all of your errands done with me,” she said.

Dear reader, I am ashamed to say that I lied. I’m going for coffee with a friend, I told her, naming a woman who has been in my daughter’s life since she was a baby. As I very frequently do go out for coffee with that friend, my answer perfectly satisfied the child, enough so that she instantly lapsed back into a monologue about the relative merits of automatic versus traditional pencils.

I lapsed into worry, and even after a full day of thought I’ve not been able to come up with a better answer. While I’ve never hidden the people I’ve slept with from my children, I’ve always explained their presence in my life in the context of friendship. When my former partner came to my house to help with some project involving hand-tools or the string-trimmer, they saw us talking and laughing but not getting frisky. Others have periodically stopped by for one reason or another, but I was never called on to explain that I was sleeping with the mommy who brought her child to my kid’s birthday party, or the man who helped me test drive the new mini-van, or the other man who popped in the door to drop off books.

Perhaps it would be different if I were dating with the goal of nuptials or even cohabitation in the future. I’m not. While one of those things might eventually happen, would I lead my child to believe that it was an imminent possibility if I more accurately identified my partners?

While I’m perfectly fine with explaining any aspect of sex from the physical to the emotional to her, my confidence falters outside the realm of the most generic terms. “Here’s how some people handle this facet of sexuality” I can discuss ’til the cows come home, but when faced with a concrete question about how I deal with sexuality much to my shame I freeze.

Surely there is some age-appropriate variation of The Mango Talk that would have been preferable to a lie? Readers, how would you have fielded my child’s question?

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This post, Unexpected Question, originally appeared on aag on Thursday, August 19, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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“In reality, and for the existentialist, there is no love apart from the deeds of love; no potentiality of love other than that which is manifested in loving; there is no genius other than that which is expressed in works of art. The genius of Proust is the totality of the works of Proust; the genius of Racine is the series of his tragedies, outside of which there is nothing. Why should we attribute to Racine the capacity to write yet another tragedy when that is precisely what he did not write? In life, a man commits himself, draws his own portrait and there is nothing but that portrait. No doubt this thought may seem comfortless to one who has not made a success of his life. On the other hand, it puts everyone in a position to understand that reality alone is reliable; that dreams, expectations and hopes serve to define a man only as deceptive dreams, abortive hopes, expectations unfulfilled; that is to say, they define him negatively, not positively. Nevertheless, when one says, ‘You are nothing else but what you live,’ it does not imply that an artist is to be judged solely by his works of art, for a thousand other things contribute no less to his definition as a man. What we mean to say is that a man is no other than a series of undertakings, that he is the sum, the organization, the set of relations that constitute these undertakings.’”

- Jean Paul Sartre, via Fuck Yeah Existentialism

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This post, Reality Alone is Reliable, originally appeared on aag on Wednesday, August 18, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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Three years ago we saw each other quite regularly but one thing and another stood in the way until two years ago we stopped. Our paths crossed every few months at events and we always emailed, but he’s got so many attractive qualities that he never had trouble keeping his dance card filled.

Mine was filled too — until early this summer when suddenly it wasn’t. After a suitable period of mourning (which will end any day now, I’m sure) I invited him over for euphemistic foot massages. Before, he’d touched me as gently as though he thought I’d shatter, but even that first night it was clear that something had changed. With no warning he brought out the slapping, the dick-over-the-lips-rubbing, the hair-pulling, the demanding, the dirty-talking.

“Where did all this come from,” I thought of asking, but with a cock half down my throat it was hard to speak. Or even think.

I have to wonder (because it’s not enough just to enjoy a thing; it also must be dispatched, dissected, hide tanned, organs preserved in formaldehyde, head mounted upon the wall) if he’s altered his approach in these past two years or have I? Did another girl bring out this forcefulness1? Did some left-over shyness on my part evaporate?

I’d ponder more on this topic but I’m late for a date — one that has, every time it’s crossed my mind today, caused me to wiggle lasciviously in my seat.

And I still need to pack my rope.

1. and if so, can I thank her?

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This post, Change, originally appeared on aag on Wednesday, August 18, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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When presented with something that makes no sense to me, my initial reaction always is to assume that there’s been a failure in my reasoning abilities.

I need to remember that sometimes, just sometimes, a thing makes no sense to me because it makes no sense, and no matter how many times I turn it over in my head it will not make any more sense than it did at the start.

How much simpler would life be if I could keep that thought in my head?

“When we remember we are all mad,
the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.”
Mark Twain

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This post, This is a Thing I Need to Remember, originally appeared on aag on Tuesday, August 17, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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It’s not feet per se that make me cringe. Years of barefoot martial arts lessons inured me to all but the stankiest specimens; not just seeing them but also touching them and having them rudely jabbed into every inch of my personal space up to and including the very windows of my soul 1. Furthermore, giving massages, including those that extend to the ends of the extremities kind of totally gets me off. I’m even fine with kissing a partner’s feet, under the right circumstances (for example, not immediately after hiking through swamps nor before the Lamisil kicks in nor at church nor any combination of the prior). It my twisted logic it’s only my own toes which are too filthy to make even incidental contact with another human mouth.

Recently I had the opportunity to experience one of my last long-cherished unfulfilled sexual fantasies; to wit, the elusive man-woman-man threesome.2 I’ve been with groups large enough to take the field as a baseball team, I’ve swelled the crowd at celebratory blow-jobs, I’ve tag-teamed with a pal more times than I can count — yet never had I enjoyed the undivided attention of two men at once.

Poor me! Poor, poor me!

It seemed as though I’d go to my grave with that dream unrealized until last week when, if you’d been looking closely as I diligently typed away, you would suddenly have seen a smile spread fast across my face as the recognition set in that I could actually set this thing up.

I texted a friend before I lost the nerve. Will you help make a fantasy come true?

“What’s the fantasy,” he wrote back. He’s cagey, that one, but after a quick explanation he agreed to take part in my plan. I’d hoped to have the second leg of the Eiffel Tower booked before the night in question but one thing after the next got in the way until I found myself sitting on the floor at the party with the taste of rubber-bands in my mouth; at that moment someone I’ve known for years but never had a chance to know in a naked sense wandered into my field of vision.

“You know,” I said suavely, placing the beer a safe distance behind me, “if you’d stand in front of me my mouth would be right at the level of your zipper.”3 Moments later we three were on the bed: dripping bodies positioned between my legs and over my face, cunt-stuffed and mouth-full of alternating cock and tongue, coming and coming and coming while making a valiant effort not to choke while screaming.

It was everything I could have hoped for and I could have died a happy woman until the moment that a shriek tore out of my throat not from pleasure but because a random dude who’d been conscripted into nipple-tweaking service began sucking on my toes.

Nearly a day later I cannot shake the creeping horror4 over the fact that a stranger was subjected to my feet. What must they have tasted like is all I can think; I imagine each step they took (dirty carpeting, hot car, long trudge through hotel, much shoeless hotel wandering) and the myriad germs they must have acquired along the way.

If there were a way to ensure complete pedalian sterility it might be a different story, but until such a time that it can be unquestionably demonstrated that no germs lurk between my toes or slither over my arches I won’t be comfortable with another person putting his mouth on my feet; even that wouldn’t be enough, because how could I get from the tub (assuming that cleanliness could be attained in a tub!) to the bed without reinfecting myself with whatever germs lived on the intervening floor? Would that I could tiptoe across a blanket make of unicorn exhalations and moonbeams!

Not, mind you, that any of this dimmed my appreciation of the main act. Oh no it didn’t. I’ve got visuals in my spank-bank that will last right through my rocking-chair years. However, the next time such a scene plays out — whether in my imagination or in real life — there is one thing I know for sure: Toe-sucking will be off the menu.

1. Nastiest martial arts injury: cut on eyelid inflicted by raggedy toenail. HURL.
2. You might be surprised by how difficult it is to set up a MFM. Between fears that being in such close proximity with another penis will render one gay and insecurity over cock size far more men have turned me down outright than have considered the proposition. Men, wise up. If you are invited to a threesome please do not let these worries stop you.
3. Someone should hire me to develop pick-up lines. Or hire me NOT to develop pick-up lines.
4. This is only a very slight exaggeration

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This post, A Blanket of Unicorn Exhalations and Moonbeams, originally appeared on aag on Monday, August 16, 2010. Tweet This Post!

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