Saturday, August 23, 2008


[Listen to the podcast here]

So, if there is anything I really despise, it is sexual blackmail.

Recently I overheard a conversation between two women with whom I am acquainted, a conversation that ended with:
"....and he forgot to take out the garbage two weeks in a row! So that's it. No sex for a week."
I shook my head.
I said. "Oh, I'd handle that very differently."
She said "Oh?"
I said "Yes," and then waited.
She took the bait. She said, "What would Kay do?"
I grinned and said, "I'd tell him we were going to have sex morning and night every day for two weeks."
"That's not a punishment!" she exclaimed.
"Really?" I said and arched an eyebrow. "I didn't say he could cum."
That shocked her speechless. Hee hee.

(edit: This entry was referenced by Figleaf in his Real Adult Sex blog)

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Enter Silken's Web--An Induction by Kisses

(photo courtesy of
This sensual hypnosis session (25m:25s) is notable for its unique induction. The technique used for guiding relaxation is imagining soft, warm kisses working down the body from head to toes. Once in trance, listeners are invited to "enter Silken's web" and experience Silkenvoice's stories as if he or she is really there. Post-hypnotic suggestions are that listeners feel warm and loved upon awakening. Also available at this Lulu webpage.

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Friday, August 22, 2008

Friday means Weekend

Two days of sweet rain washed the air clean, and the morning has dawned clear, gold, and blue. The birds twitter and tweet outside my window. And it is Friday. I like Fridays. I like Fridays for obvious reasons, but not with the vehement relief that a lot of people do. Like most of the people on this planet, I have to work in order to live, and like most of the people on this planet I am not doing what I love for a living. But. I choose my work. I, and just about everyone who knows me, recognize that I can do just about anything I want to. (The joys and curse of having an open mind and a genius-level IQ--people often ask me why on earth I'm in the accounting field.) I greet Fridays as an opportunity to wrap up my work week so I have two days of pure creation, working just for me. Some weekends I create peace and relaxation. Some weekends I create travel. Some weekends I create a space for others to "be" in with me. And some weekends I create opportunities for self-expression.

This weekend will be a social weekend, a weekend of visiting with friends heading off to Burning Man, a weekend of helping friends harvest bushels of fruit and vegetables, a weekend I intend to get some writing done... around visits to the gym and preparation for a guest over Labor Day weekend. Life is good. I can say this, even though there is so much pain and illness in my family and in the world. Life is good because I choose it to be so, because I live every moment with the intention of squeezing as much pleasure, happiness, and sweetness as I can out of it--especially on the Weekends.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Trading anger for peace

I used to be angry. Not an apparent anger--I wasn't irritable, abusive, bellicose or argumentative--but I could be stubbornly contrarian and there was this well of cold rage that sometimes surged upwards and radiated from me as a form of intensity that caused people to take a step (or two) backwards. I was told that I had this calm demeanor, but sometimes my eyes had flames in them, and I radiated an intensity that let people know I was displeased.

But I'm not angry anymore. And what is interesting is that the people who have come into my life the past few years don't believe that I've ever been anything but a very peaceful, loving person. I can tell them that I used to be introverted and angry and averse to attention and they don't believe me. One person, whom I've known just a year, even argued with me about my basic personality type etc. Eventually we agreed that I'm becoming what is possible for me, rather than being limited/stunted by the attitudes and expectations of the past.

I've gotten sexier, too. My appearance hasn't changed much. I don't have this great body or stunning good looks, but nonetheless, I'm more comfortable in my skin, more comfortable with honoring my feelings and being however I want to be in the moment, more peaceful and powerful, and somehow that makes me more attractive on a very fundamental basis. It is wonderful!

How did this happen? Therapy? Yes, but it only took me so far. Self-help books? A few, but there is a difference between reading a thing and 'getting' it. Self-help workshops and seminars? Just one three-course curriculum that transformed how I thought about life.

What happened was, I got a handle on the past and how it ran my life. I made my peace with it, which freed me to live in the present. But before I could do that, I had to understand the Power of Choice. That was the first major thing, and it was a moment of enlightenment. I suddenly understood that I carried the past around like a bundle of burdens and that it was my choice to carry it around or set it down. And I learned that I could set it down and walk away, or I could pick it back up and hump it around until I was ready to let it go. That was freeing, knowing I had the choice, that I wasn't losing anything by putting the past down and leaving it where it belonged--in the past. And suddenly, it all clicked, and I was at peace. Truly, deeply, at peace.

The second breakthrough was that I accepted responsibility for my life, for the choices I had made that brought me where I was, and in so doing recognized that I could create my future by intentionally choosing it--by making choices with my goals in mind. I found this very empowering and today I celebrate the small victories that reveal the incremental progress I am making toward the future I am creating for myself and my life.

The third was the breakthrough I had regarding 'fear'. I recognized that I was afraid. And I learned that everyone else is afraid, too, on a very basic level. And I learned that the difference between people who live ordinary lives and those who live extraordinary lives is that people living extraordinary lives acknowledge their fears and act anyway. They don't allow themselves to be stopped by fear or circumstance. They, to borrow Nike's trademark phrase, Just Do It. And so do I.

Fourth, I came to understand that mistakes happen, that mistakes themselves are often acts of creation, and that it really is ok to make mistakes. I am no longer paralyzed by the fear of making mistakes, and I no longer get angry with myself for making mistakes. I accept responsibility for them, do my best to clean up any messes and apologize where necessary, and then let it go and move on.

And lastly--I stopped taking Life personally. Life happens. It happens to everyone, not just me, and if I choose to take it personally-- if I'm always asking "Why does shit always happen to me?"-- then I'm choosing to see myself as a victim of life. And that will not do. When I stopped taking life personally I started living it fully and powerfully. I stopped feeling angry and helpless and stuck. I stopped sitting on the sidelines. I grabbed hold of Life with both hands and started taking big bites, started shaping it to meet my ends, and realized my own freedom. Today, I fully understand that my thoughts and attitudes are causal, creative forces in my life, and I get to choose what I think about my life and how I approach it. And as a woman thinketh, so she is.

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Saturday, August 09, 2008

She's got a sybian to ride

I've got a sybian to ride. It is black vinyl. It is horse-shoe shaped and buzzes like a motorcycle. The rubber-like penis attachment rotates, and the ridge of raised nubs vibrates deliciously.

I decided to make it a part of my exercise routine. I go to the gym first thing in the morning, and in the evenings, when I am usually too tired (or it is too late) to go to the gym, there is the sybian. It waits patiently in its place under the antique school desk. It makes a comfortable footrest, a titillating footrest. With my feet resting on it, it provides an incentive to finish up paying my bills or writing my emails. Orgasms await, it seems to say, taunting me, testing my self-discipline, making my pussy wet with anticipation. I dare not use it until I have completed my work, because I know how senseless I am when I am done riding it.

Ah, riding it. As I write this, I am astride the sybian. I have lubed up the attachment and slid slowly down on it, until I am sitting upon it and balancing flat-footed on the floor. This is the exercise portion. I am building up my riding stamina, strengthening my riding muscles, and working on maintaining the jockey position and continuing to post even when I am climaxing. The latter is the greatest challenge.

Shall I turn it on? The control box has two switches and two knobs, one set controlling speed/vibration intensity, and the other controlling rotation.


It is on. A low setting at first--I do not want to come too soon. Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade is playing in my ears, loud enough to be heard over the sybian's insistent throb. Up and down I go, lost in my own little world of classical music and modern eroticism.

My nipples are so hard they ache. I can see them all crinkled up, and past them, the bare mound of my pussy pressed against the vibrating ridge as I lean forward to type this. I turn the settings up a bit and enjoy the intense pleasure of my pussy and ass vibrating. The little cock inside me rotates a little faster, hitting my G-spot with greater frequency. I can't help but moan.

When I tire of riding in the jockey position, I rest on my knees. I turn up the vibration and the rotation. This is a wonderful place to be, with the sybian vibrating my inner thighs as well as my pussy and ass. I cannot help but close my eyes. Moans cycle through me with each pass of the attachment against my G-spot. Waves of gooseflesh send shivers through me and the tiny hairs on my body are standing up. It is that intense.

I allow myself a couple of minutes of this and then I am back up on my feet, riding the sybian like a jockey rides a horse. Posting up and down, up and down, stopping every few bounces to grind my perineum against the hard, vibrating ridge.

About half-way through the second movement of Scheherazade I come. Hard. I've been fighting it for a while, trying to hold it off, but it hits me like a rogue wave and I slam my pussy down against the sybian, rocking, rocking, rocking. Such a sweet sweet ride, my sybian. I am more fond of it, even, than my first motorcycle. It certainly takes me places a motorcycle cannot. I have a very strong urge to switch to a kneeling position, but I do not. I remain in my jockey-squat, balancing on the balls of my feet, and jerk and sway through an orgasm that screams along every nerve-ending.


I reach a pleasure plateau and ride the sybian, oblivious to the passage of time until the third movement, Scheherazade's The Young Prince and the Princess. Sweet and whimsical music, teasing. I lift myself up until the rotating attachment is rubbing against my clit. My pussy, empty, opens and closes. My clit sends zings through me. Delicious. Another orgasm, and this one makes me tremble. I slide back down onto the attachment and put my knees under me before I fall off.

Another orgasm as the damned dildo rotates against my G-spot. My teeth clench and my muscles strain like they are trying to keep my body from flying apart. I fall forward and my body presses my clit hard into the sybian. It goes off like a firecracker in my groin and I come so hard my eyes pop open and I scream my self breathless.

Panting now, hands trembling, legs trembling, heart pounding. Sexual tension released. What a workout! I lasted 30 minutes. Mission accomplished.

(podcast: listen here)

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Friday, August 08, 2008

Pale pink roses

Roses. A dozen of the palest pink, so pale at first glance I thought they were white. But the centers of the buds were blush. It was warm today, and when I got home from work the roses had partially opened. Their subtle scent immediately caught my attention, and when I saw the roses, I grabbed my camera. The above is just one of the many I took. It is a macro shot looking into the bud of the rose from an angle. There is something about it, about the lighting and shadows and the way the faint veins in the petals are visible, that really appeals to me. I thought I would share the beautiful pale pink roses with the rest of the world.

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Sunday, August 03, 2008

Her cleavage captured my eyes

Her cleavage captured my eyes. Her breasts were full, ripe. I could imagine a child nursing from them, suckling with deep draws, fingers splayed against the pale globe, feeling the beat of heart and the pump of milk. The intimacy of a nursing mother and child always awes me.

And then she moved, leaned over to pick something up off the floor, and my mind sexualized the swing of her breasts. I imagined her over me, her lush body naked and gleaming, feeding me her nipples. I imagined her riding my fingers, my fingers curled deep inside her, pressing against her pubic bone, pressing into her G-spot. I imagined her sounds, her whimpers and grunts and moans, as sensation overwhelmed her, and her animalistic side took over.

And then she spoke, and I set aside the images, and listened to her, and admired her fine mind and her nuanced self-expression.

Women are such complex creatures. And I do so appreciate them.

(podcast: listen here)

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Saturday, August 02, 2008

He loves her

He loves her. He loves her, and denying it is like denying air to his lungs: the longer he denies it, the more wretched he feels. He is surprised by the depth of his feelings for her, by the sheer visceral-ness of it, even knowing her for years.

He wants her. It seems like he's always wanted her, wanted her since the moment she smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with intelligence and humor, and gave him her name in a voice that could melt glaciers. He'd felt a stir in his groin, and as he watched her lips move as she spoke, he'd thought "Butter melts in that mouth, but my cock won't."

She already had a partner, he learned, and normally he would have let it go at that, but damn if she wasn't unforgettable. So he stayed in touch. And so did she. Every once in a while she'd call or email and invite him to accompany her somewhere. And somehow, he always found the time, because time spent with her was magical.

He loves her, he wants her, and now he has her, and he's a bit scared, because he's not tiring of her, even after a couple of years. She hasn't bored him yet. Sometimes he thinks she might even be smarter than he is, and he likes that. She hasn't pushed him into any emotional corners. She doesn't make him talk when he doesn't want to. And she gives great head. He'd never really understood why so many guys were so enthralled by getting their cocks sucked--until she'd put her mouth on him. And then he knew.

She sucks cock like an epicure eats a gourmet meal. She approaches fellatio with the same reverence a penitent approaches an altar. And with his manhood in her mouth he knows what it is to be desired and accepted. The sounds she makes as she opens her mouth wide enough to stuff him inside. Her fingertips massaging his balls. Her tongue lashing the underside of his cock until he knows what torture is, and he finds himself begging for more. And he feels powerful, with this woman on his knees before him, this incredible woman on her knees worshiping his cock, worshiping him. It is a rush like one he's never known with anyone else and he doesn't want to lose it, to lose her.

He wants her all to himself and when she comes to him, he does everything he can to imprint himself on her, to mark her as his. He knows there are others in her life, others she loves, and he wants to be different, special. There is no one else for him, has not been for quite some time. He knows what he wants. He knows how to work for what he wants. And he knows how to get what he wants.

When she comes to him he makes sure her needs are met. He fills every hole with his dick and his fingers and still he wants more. He wants to find a way to wedge himself so deep into her that there is no knowing where he ends and she begins, until those magnificent orgasms roll through them both on a regular basis and she is mindless with the pleasure of it every moment. He loves her mind, but he loves pushing her to the point where her mind shuts off and she's pure animal, wild with lust. Lust for him.

Afterwards, he loves the way she smells. Loves the scent of both their juices mixed together like some pheromonal aphrodisiac that has been shaken and stirred and is best served hot and sweaty. He loves the way she smells between her breasts, and the way her nipples stand up and say hello whenever he is near. He loves the way she moves her body with his, and the way she vocalizes her passion. And he loves the way he feels with her, the sense of peace he feels after he has conquered her, after he has been on her and in her and through her. He wears her scent on his skin like clothing and is loathe to shower because as soon as he does, he misses her.

He misses her and some part of him thinks it is a weakness, to love a woman like this, with a depth approaching his first love, the woman she says he never quite got over. And maybe she is right but what she doesn't know is that when he is with her, when he is in the presence of the love they share, there is no one else and never has been. Its just them: 100% real, 100% awesome.

(podcast: listen here)

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Friday, August 01, 2008

Sadness by email

My father emailed me. I always tighten up a bit when I see his name in my mailbox. He usually writes when he has something important to tell me and doesn't want to do it by phone because we'll both end up in tears. Even so, I tried to think positively, but the first line was a punch in the gut. My father's father is dying. Three months at most, they say. They found a mass in his lung and he doesn't want to fight it, not at his age. So my father emailed me that he is preparing to go stay with his father, and get him on hospice and care for him until his time comes. He said he's feeling very sad and low on energy--its been a tough year--and begged me to take care, because I'm one of the few people he has to draw on at this time.

How do you respond to that kind of news? What do you tell a man who has dealt with death and dying and illness in his children and siblings now facing the death of his father? I wasn't quite sure how to respond, so I just started writing.

It is ok to be depressed over Granddad. Its been a tough year. Sometimes I feel like shaking my fist at Heaven and saying "Enough is enough!" And other times, I feel like asking "Doesn't Heaven have enough angels yet?" But mostly, I recognize that in life there is only one certainty, and that is death. And while I am not ready to embrace that certainty for myself, Granddad is. And I respect that. And am willing to let him go. I remember how hard it was for Granny and Tammy to go. They wanted to, both of them, they were so tired, but we wanted them to stay. And in that spiritual tug-of-war there is no difference between winning and losing--there is just struggle and resistance. Truth be told I've not got much resistance left. I have learned Acceptance with a capital 'A'. Not acceptance as in resignation, but acceptance as in, this is how Life is, this is my reality, and I can waste my energy fighting Life, or I can accept what it throws at me and fight for what I can change, and for the differences I can make in the world.

I am glad that you can go be with him. Please do. I am sure he wants you there, but most importantly, it is where you want to be. Just know that you don't have to suck it up. Its ok to be sad, its ok to cry. Granddad understands tears now. He's developed an intimacy with them since his stroke, and in some ways tears are sacred and they've anointed him again and again over the years. Love will out, one way or another, and so will joy and sorrow. I love you.

Keep taking good care of yourself. Let me know what I can do for you both. I'll be here.

Even if I said the wrong things, I hope he knows I mean them in the best way. The sad thing is that today is his mother's birthday. Sad news to dispense on a day we remember her by, my tiny grandmother with her fuschia lipstick and silvery crew-cut hair. Miss you, Granny.

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