TOP THREE: That’s Me. (It rhymes!)

Elust 85 header
Photo courtesy of Cheeky Minx

Welcome to Elust 85

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #86 Start with the rules, come back September 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Use
Hot
The Case of the Purloined Panties

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Inspection Zone
Date with prey

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Voyeur

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Erotic Fiction

Alleyway
After Dark
Night World Flash Fiction
THE PUNISHMENT ROOMS
HELPLESS, BOUND AND SUBJECT – Part 1
Temper temper
How to Start Super Sex
Nobody Comes Looking For Me
it was time to play

Erotic Non-Fiction

Cunnilingus. The Most Special Intimate Kiss
Nastya is nasty
“Do you want to cum in my mouth?” A Memoir
Humiliation: Raylene’s caning 2

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Come as you are…
A Case for Good Men
Changing Labels
10 Commandments of Courteous Casual Sex
The Aftermath
I miss you

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Formative Kink: “Tanya, the Lotus Eater”
At his feet
Consent In Gorean Culture

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Manicured

 

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About 

The Editor-in-Chief of Elust and better known to the rest of the world as Mollyxxx

The Case of the Purloined Panties ……and stories that are stolen.

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I’m now typing black letters on a white screen, but the truth is never so clear as simple black and white. Any narrative can be stolen, just like my panties. Let me try to explain….

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When the now infamous Rolling Stone account of a gang rape of a coed named “Jackie” at the prestigious University of Virginia, it was shocking enough for any reader, but for me….

It was especially shocking, because I could identify, as if my own very personal past was suddenly being rewritten by an omniscient, third-person narrator. Long-buried memories, formerly fixed, seemed suddenly subject to radical revision.

I could have been Jackie.

And now it appears we both have been liars.

That Rolling Stone editors, and others, subsequently called into question Jackie’s own first-person narrative does not diminish the truth-telling the story forced on me.

Such is the power of the written word, especially when imbued with a reporter’s implicit goal of objectivity — trumping the subjective point of view of a first-person (often unreliable) narrator — that I began questioning my memory as if I’d become my own prosecuting attorney or investigative reporter.

So in reading Jackie’s story, I allowed myself to think the unthinkable: Was I also raped? And have I been lying all these years, both to myself and others? Have my friends been my enablers?

The story — a lie? — which I had always told myself was in the impressionistic first-person present, as it was happening, and then, as the years went by, ever more factually fixed in the first-person past. And it was simply this:

When you’ve had too much, way too much to drink, and the people all around you are drunk as well, distinctions and definitions blur. What does the word “consensual” really mean anyway, as slurred words and affectionate embraces morph into sloppy kisses and fumbling bodies? You feel yourself being touched, groped, brushed up against, maybe even actually penetrated. Is that a finger that is felt? It tickles; no, it hurts. Or maybe not?

When you wake up, you find it laughable that you can’t find your knickers, tossed somewhere on the floor of his messy room. It’s so much easier to laugh than to cry. But cry I did when I got back to my dorm room and told my roommates what had happened. Wiping away my tears, as friends do to alleviate the pain, they helped me frame the first-person narrative that made me feel better — and that, until now, had comforted me.

Everything from that night was a blur except, for some reason, my missing and now lost panties. Lost, or stolen? And never found. There was no way they could have been violently ripped off; I would have remembered that, right?

So, yes, of course, it was consensual. Well, if not exactly consensual, it’s understandable that my date inferred as much. Otherwise….

Otherwise, I’d be compelled to utter that awful, scorching, and forever scarring word. Rape. You don’t want to say it — not out loud, not even to yourself. To be a victim, that is not your self-image. And you would certainly never date a rapist, would you?

A thief, on the other hand, that’s so much understandable, even forgivable. So I focused, even fixated, on my stolen panties. Even today, all these years later, they’re as real as if I were wearing them now: black, matching my bra at the time; bikini; newly purchased from a boutique near campus.

But a reporter — trying to be objective, writing in the third person — is not afraid to use the “R” word and edit out what’s not important — in this instance, a flimsy piece of lingerie.

As my own first-person narrator, however, to cry “rape” would make the alleged rapist and his friends enemies for life. Instead of friends having fun, I’d be at war forever. Who wants that?

Thus what I told myself — and what my complicit friends confirmed — is that I shouldn’t worry about what had happened. It was all part of having a good time in college, of being well-rounded, of learning how to be a party girl, you know?

Itwould become essential to the way I saw myself, and presented that self to others — the persona I was forging. I was no longer just a bookworm or a nerd; I was now a brilliant wild woman, living on the edge, desired by desirable men, accepted as one of the boys — a Facebook-era rendition of Zelda Fitzgerald, partying the weekends away. This cultivated self-image was as central to my college identity as my signature miniskirts, baggy sweaters, Wolford tights, and knee-high boots.

“We had fun, didn’t we?” he said when we saw each other next. I smiled, winked, and put my index finger to my lips as if to say, “don’t tell anyone how deliciously naughty I can be.” I quietly asked, and we snickered about, my panties.

They my brand-new, lace bikini panties — would become the leitmotif controlling my narrative. More than that, their thief became almost an obsession, my very own fetish that I would toy with, playing over and over again in my mind. Although his room was a mess, I’m certain my underwear was never “lost,” as he claimed. Surely, they would have turned up sometime, and he would have then used their sudden discovery as a convenient excuse to date me again?

Instead, I could picture — ever more vividly with each rewind — his balling up the panties in his fist and stuffing them somewhere never to be found during my fumbling, frantic search while hurriedly getting dressed to escape his room. But why did he want me never to find them? I could only imagine. A trophy, a souvenir, a memento? To boast, as in show-and-tell, to others? Or to secret away for masturbatory fantasies? Did he ever wash them? Did he ever wear them himself, imagining he had become me, as if a predator eating its prey?

Every possible — even the weirdest, least likely — scenario about my purloined panties played out in my mind. Anything to keep me from acknowledging the real theft, what I had suffered indeed. It would take a third person — a Rolling Stone reporter — to finally tell the truth of what had happened to me. First-person storytellers — including Jackie apparently, and especially me — seldom can be trusted.

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Note: An earlier version of this, my very personal, essay was just published in the new London literary magazine “Talking Soup.”

Writer’s block? It could be your ovaries, try sorting the spice rack instead.

PourAngelic 04Recently I listened to Alisa Vitti’s TED talk about women’s monthly cycles and it blew my fallopian tubes apart. It shocked me so much I shared it on Facebook. It got six likes.

God, I am such an influencer.

But this is such a winning idea I need to share it again as I’ve had it all wrong. It’s not just the horny as hell day in the middle, then the weepy day where you want to simultaneously stab your partner in the eye and save every abandoned puppy online, and one bleedin’ annoying week to finish, but four different weeks every month.

Why don’t I know this?

Alisa, author of Women Code, nutritionist, hormone guru and all-round savvy scientist founded the FLO Living Center in Manhattan. She’s an expert on lady bits. In her talk, she explains that every week our hypothalamus, pituitary gland, thyroid, adrenals, pancreas and ovaries are multi-tasking, and sending instructions…

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What Your Eyeliner Says About You… and Other Storytelling Techniques

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eyelinera216494_1a - CopyaMy day job requires a lot (and I mean a LOT!) of reading: Keeping up with what’s trending in all aspects of global politics, economics, and the environment. But also deep reading in old texts to ensure cultural and historical context.

Connecting dots and data points is what I really do….

…. Not unlike putting on eyeliner!

Also not unlike putting on eyeliner are the ways the news media are experimenting with “alternative story forms.” No longer confined to the “WhoWhatWhenWhereWhy” old-school journalistic narrative, news outlets like The Washington Post are framing stories in all sorts of unique ways, from bingo games to quizzes.  I just participated in one such quiz that identified precisely who I am demographically (“single lady under 32 years old making more than 52,000 Euros annually”) based solely on my smartphone’s apps.

Makeup, especially eyeliner, is a form of storytelling, too, isn’t it?  Do you want to present yourself as demure, sexy, brazen, schoolgirlish…or whatever?  And in telling the story, what kind of eyeliner tools do you use?  Pencil?  Gel? Liquid?  That apparently says a lot about you, too!

A recent study found that women who use liquid eyeliner (as opposed to pencil or gel) are more likely to believe in (pick one):

  1.  God
  2.  Donald Trump
  3.  True Love
  4.  UFO’s
  5.  Social Justice

What do you think?

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Latest E_Lust!

Elust #81

Hyacinth foe Elust 81
Photo courtesy of A Dissolute Life Means

Welcome to Elust #81

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #82 Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Who Are You Calling Crazy Cat Lady?

Stranger on a Train

Taking Emilia

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Sign
Everyday sexism

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

The Best Sex
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Erotic Fiction

Fist
Johnny on the Spot
Wierd
Caught Watching
A is for the ache I feel…
OVER THE EDGE – but softly
This is Love

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

The NiteFlirt-Twitter Findom-Shout Complex
Donald Trump: Feminist

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Do What You Want
Setting expectations
Control
Held Captive

Erotic Non-Fiction

My Rope Life Rebooted
I Needed my Fix
Beautiful, Loving, Surprise Birthday Blowjob!
Mind and Body
Bukkake, Babe, that’s me! Or is it?
Jun 2014 Session – Mistress Claire & Robynn
Don’t Just Fuck Her!
Mid Week Fantasizing — The 3some
I told him I’m Hy.

Writing About Writing

Captive Audience: Dubious Consent Fantasy

Poetry

He is Risen! A Lusty Limerick
Thin – an erotic poem

Blogging

The illusion of familiarity…

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Be A Better Lover
trust
Who Owns My Sexual Agency?

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Boobs on my Mind
ELust Site Badge

About 

The Editor-in-Chief of Elust and better known to the rest of the world as Mollyxxx

Bukkake Babe, That’s Me! Or is it?

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Porn stars do it. Legendary figures did it. Even “normal” women supposedly fantasize about it. And I find myself increasingly intrigued by the idea of it.

“It” is a gangbang. The word sounds harsh, even vulgar and crude, but I find myself unable to stop thinking about it, gradually becoming as seductive and enticing as an ad for the latest hair care or makeup product.

My imagination starts working overtime: to be the center of such undreamed-of male attention. Not just one but many males, all wanting me and only me, the star, the sun around which they orbit. Me! — or is it just my willingness to please? — excites them all. For an hour or two, I’m their raison d’être. I’m the life of the party. Yes, I’m the center of a gangbang. Mmmmm….

I research the topic: The gangbang record is said to be 620 men within a 10-hour period, held by a porn queen named Houston. In ancient Rome, Messalina, the young wife of old and doddering Emperor Claudius, challenged the most famous prostitute of the time, Sylla, to a gangbang competition. Messalina lay on one couch, and Sylla on another couch nearby, as each took as many men as she could. Accounts vary about who won.

But I’m not in any kind of competition, so why in the world would I ever entertain the idea of doing it? Do I need to keep score, to prove my sexual prowess? Am I neurotically obsessed with making men (the more the merrier) hard? Do I need to prove that I don’t have to be a man to boast of my sexual conquests? That my gangbang would thus be proudly proclaimed as a feminist act?

Is my quest ultimately then a philosophical one: to quantify and thus to scientifically measure something (sexual desire and excitement) that is so subjective it can’t be measured any other way? It’s the difference between apparent and absolute magnitude, as astronomers might explain it.

But I doubt that’s why suburban housewives, even soccer moms, do it. Surprisingly, they have a number of upcoming “events” posted on the various gangbang sites and online groups I visit. Sometimes, they’re announced as “birthday parties” — husbands wanting to shower their birthday girls with men, or some wives wanting to give themselves as a surprise party for their husbands. The “birthday boy” is obviously a voyeur, a secret only his good and loving wife would know.

My reasons are different, however — more noble. For I have the excuse of being a writer. It’s my ultimate excuse for just about anything, even the most sinful, outrageous behavior. I am on a quest for knowledge, the more forbidden, the better. But, still, I’m worried.

bukkake an3What if I announce myself available for a gangbang, and no one comes to my party? What if only one or two men want to sign up for my event? One of the male members of the group sex online group I join offers to hold my virtual hand; he will be the “Organizer” of my very first gangbang. Although no money will change hands, “Organizer” sounds just like another name for pimp. Or more benignly, I decide to view the Organizer as a kind of butler, taking care of all the little administrative details for which the star of the performance (Me!) won’t have time. I’ll be too busy making myself pretty, psyching myself up for my Big Event.

Okay, I tell him: Maybe. Let’s see what happens.

propose my set of ground rules: All the men must use condoms. He agrees, no problem. I will offer only one orifice to service the multitude of cocks — my mouth. An oral gangbang is just fine, he says, as long as it can be combined with bukkake. This means that when the men are about to cum, they peel off their condoms and shoot their spunk all over my face and body. I limit number of participants to five.

“Twenty-five,” he e-mails back.

“Ten,” I counter.

“Twenty-five.” He’s adamant. “Since it’s bukkake, there’s got to be tons of cum. If a bukkake event is advertised for only 10 available spaces, nobody will bother coming.”

“Advertised?” I ask, suddenly nervous again. Mr. Organizer explains the procedure: how my event will be posted on the group’s website. When group members express interest in my event, I’ll be able to check out their profiles and select who Mr. Organizer actually invites to attend.

bukkake an2“Cumslut7,” he suggests, should be my member moniker. That should get everyone’s attention, yet distinguish me from others. And attention is what a gangbang is all about, isn’t it? Not too different from a writer craving bylines. I laugh to myself. It’s nervous laughter.

I laugh. I rationalize. Offering myself up to be gangbanged will be not much different from trying out a new hair salon, I tell myself. Naturally nervous, I don’t know quite what to expect and will go ahead in a spirit of good faith and trust. But if anything bad happens, it’s not my fault. I can blame it on the stupid stylist — or Mr. Organizer.

I try to make contact with other women who’ve “had their hair done.” But only a couple of my inquisitive, chatty messages to female members of the gangbang group are answered. The answers I do get are so vaguely worded they might as well be in some closed society’s secret code: “Don’t worry, hun, you’ll love it. Hugs….” “Your first Event will be a great success. BTW, I adore your Event’s description!”

Ah, yes. My announcement, as posted by my Organizer: “Gangblow/Bukkake. 7 p.m. Sunday. Hotel location to be announced. Cumslut7 needs more than a few good men to satisfy her incredible oral urges. Cumslut’s fantasy is to suck and deep-throat as many cocks as possible. Then she wants you to cum all over her face and/or give her pearl necklaces to complement her little black dress. All the cum will then be gathered in a crystal wine goblet for Cumslut7 to drink while you watch. Organizer will videotape the event, but participants’ faces will of course not be recorded. Available spaces: 25.”

Over and over again, I go to the gangbang site to read my advertisement. I’m worried about that drinking cum part, but Organizer assures me I won’t really have to do it. It’s just part of traditional bukkake and not including it in the announcement would keep attendance low. I can just make believe I’m drinking and then gag. I can promise the attendees I’ll keep the cum-filled goblet as a kind of trophy, to savor later.

I’m feeling more and more alone as I re-read the words about me, Cumslut7. But all star performers feel this way, right? It’s lonely at the top. It’s the price I must pay for being the center of attention. I have nowhere to turn except inward. I swear I can feel my heart beating against my ribs as I see my laptop screen filling up with applications of the men who want to attend my event.

bukkake-anime-porn-photoI check each applicant’s profile, which includes lots of details about his penis. Then, after I’ve digested the information, I give a thumbs up or thumbs down. With an instantaneous click of my computer’s mouse, I can either deny the poor guy’s application or make the lucky fellow’s dreams come true. Ah, what power!

I don’t know if the 50 or so applications I receive are a valid statistical sample of the male population, but I can tell you this: Almost all the applicants’ cocks are claimed to be at least eight inches. Could they all be liars, I wonder? A slim, but surprising, majority are “uncut.” The ages range from teenagers to a man in his sixties. Some of the applications include little personal messages, like an optional essay for extra credit: “I’ll be saving up my load for you, baby.”

Two days before the scheduled event, I’m so anxious that whenever I eat, I feel like throwing up. But if I don’t eat? Cum, like alcohol, is probably not good on an empty stomach.

I try to distract myself. In flipping through old newspapers and magazines, which I hoard like a packrat, I come across a story about a Pakistani woman’s being sentenced by a tribal court to a gangbang! Her crime: adultery — not even committed by her, but by her brother!

I think I should volunteer to take her place.

Instead, I email Mr. Organizer and post a new message on the gangbang site. I cancel the Big Event. It’s better to cancel, instead of just not showing up. Will everybody hate me now? I can’t help thinking about all the men’s weekend plans I’ve spoiled. What if I really decide to do it one day, will I ever be believed? My cancellation note gives me an open option, just in case.

“I so want to be filled with your cock and cum, but my allergies are acting up, and I’m afraid I can’t breathe through my nose, and you don’t want me to suffocate, do you? Let’s plan on another Event soon, okay? Hugs, Cumslut7.”

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This story of my gangbang that never happened — not yet anyway! (or did it?) — is the third in my series exploring the sexual frontier:

My (Oh, So Brief!)Time as A Streetwalker.

What’s It Like to Be the Object of a “Tribute Picture.

Pour on the Pink!

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“A woman who tries to act like a man is a total waste of a woman.” So asserts Shelley Zalis, the founder of the “Girls’ Lounge” — as counterpoint to the traditional “boy’s club” dominating business culture. Hers is a place for serious businesswomen to express themselves as girlie girls. A dash — or, better, a lot! — of the feminine should make any business that much more successful, according to Shelley.

I love the idea.

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Skirt too high, blouse too low? Get over it!

Which makes me think of all my hard-charging, leaning-in female colleagues who, in the words of a wonderful woman short-story writer (Sara Majka), “have no femininity in them…their lives are such that they no longer have any extra gestures.”

And that’s what femininity is, isn’t it?  Gestures. Expressions that you don like a delicate chemise.

At the World Economic Forum in Davos, where I first ran into Ms. Zalis, men outnumbered women five-to-one. But we got a disproportionate amount of the attention! Maybe because we didn’t mind being pretty or (dare I say) sexy?

And “attention” is the currency of the moment in this social media age.  Call it the Attention Economy, whereby the market has the ability to objectively calibrate and quantify the precise degree of attention paid to every post and tweet.

So it is that in fighting inequality, what we’re really doing is creating a redistribution — not of wealth — but of attention. Redistribution of attention.

Attention must be paid. So wrote the playwright Arthur Miller — a man, yes, but a man who was married to Marilyn Monroe.

 

 

 

My Sexapades with Next U.S. President in latest “E-Lust”

Elust #79

Elust 79 header
Photo courtesy of Marie Opens Up

Welcome to Elust #79

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #80? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

The Joy of Sucking Cock

Making Porn

My Valentine

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The One

Midweek Fantasizing – The Portrait

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Marionette
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A kiss is just a kiss
Turning Corners
Another Day, Another Planned Parenthood Visit
My first vanilla date
Want, Need the Power of your Masculinity!
I don’t know how to date.

Erotic Fiction

Soft Lips
The Introduction
Erotic Fiction: “Words”
Darkness and the Rose
Taste
The Session That Went Wrong
Be Careful What You Wish For
Motivation
porn
The Tube

Erotic Non-Fiction

For You, It’s Always Yes
Gawan: Intro to Flogging
The Talker: An Introduction
My wildest fantasy: Ship slut
Marionette
Time for something quick…
Spread Legs and Open Mouth
My Girl in Havana
Let’s Watch some Porn

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

An Artist’s Story: Tails and Portholes
Sleeping With Our Future President
To Dude Who Was Offended By Lack of Escort
Try Love, Not Anger
Risky Sex
Why Cosmo is the worst (again!)

Writing about Writing

Condoms: fictional contraceptive of choice
Writing Fat Characters In Erotica

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Masochistic Mastermind
Take me to where I need to be.

 

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About 

The Editor-in-Chief of Elust and better known to the rest of the world as Mollyxxx

Have You Ever Fantasized About What It Would be Like to Go to Bed With Certain Politicians?

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Sleeping With the Candidates
Somebody had to do it! (An intimate Voters’ Guide.)
I’ve never (ever!) done anything so utterly distasteful. But it was my civic duty: to cut through all the bombastic spin, dark-money-funded media buys, and debates that are anything but real debates…. to uncover the truth of character that is exposed only in intimacy. Yes, I had to sleep around, making love to all the Presidential candidates so America will know exactly what it’s voting for….

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Kaleidoscope of Political Desire.

Rand Paul: “I was good, wasn’t I?” he asked rhetorically afterwards. Yes, I must confess, his amorous vigor pleasantly surprised me. Indeed, he wore me out. “The electorate needs to know this,” he said quietly but with a smirk. “Discreetly, of course. They don’t necessarily need to know that being a libertarian means I’m a proponent of free love.”

Ben Carson: He wore me out, too, but in a different way. The love-making just went on and on and on…and on…in and out, in and out…ever so gently at the same never-ending, glacial pace. Would he ever cum? I wondered. At this rate, I’d never complete my civic report card before the nominating convention. Finally, I got on my knees and worked my oral magic, surgeon-like in its precision and timing.

John Kasich: “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said sheepishly, “but America needs to understand that a Presidential candidate doesn’t have to scream and shout and be uncouth and rude to be a good lover…. I mean leader.”

Carly Fiorina: I’ve never really gotten that into sex with a woman, but Carly was different. She MADE me enjoy it. Decked out in leather with a huge strap-on, she made me wear a ball-gag and wasp-waist corset that she kept tightening until I was in the most exquisite pain. Only when I screamed “Give it to me!” did she loosen her grip.

Jeb Bush: He was the most romantic, I have to say. He gave me flowers and said I reminded him of all the old tales about the proverbial prostitute with the heart of gold. In the midst of all our heartfelt talking, he excused himself and went to the bathroom. Was he masturbating?

Mike Huckabee: He said he would fuck me only if I was ovulating. He was blessed to be able to smell such things, he said, and “I can’t smell you. Come back at the right time of the month!” he scolded. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if God made you infertile, you Evil Temptress!”

Rick Santorum: He would never commit adultery (“In case you’ve forgotten, it’s a sin!”); but if he didn’t know it was adultery, it wouldn’t be a sin, right? And he didn’t know because the room was totally dark (that’s the way he had always made love, he said, in the dark,with his eyes closed), and so he thought I was his wife.

Chris Christie: He was the hardest. Not his dick itself. But the hardest to find his dick. His stomach kept getting in the way. Finally — in theabsolute weirdest sexual position I’ve ever tried! — we connected, and then it was over. Just like that, premature ejacuation, a real quickie.

Marco Rubio: Yes, your suspicions are correct, he’s a cross-dresser. And after he left, I couldn’t find my panties. I wonder if he was wearing them (pink bikini) during the latest debate?

Donald Trump: “Here’s a couple thousand dollars. Go buy yourself some quality lingerie. Not the cheap imported stuff. But real lace, real silk. The way America used to make things. By the time you get back, my Viagra will have kicked in. And I’ll be HUGE!”

Ted Cruz: His beady eyes kept staring at my breasts; then he kept massaging them, so incessantly that my nipples felt raw. Then he said he only liked to do anal. Normally that’s not my cup of tea, but now it sounded totally fine, since I wouldn’t have to look at his maniacal eyes, plus my usual hole was plenty sore already.

Bernie Sanders and Hillary Clinton: They both refused to participate in my survey. He on the grounds of his being “old enough to be your grandfather.” She on the grounds that her husband, Bill, would be “a lot more fun!”

Yours for an informed citizenry….

Latest E_Lust includes my “Size Matters” Riff

malin

Photo courtesy of Malin James.

Welcome to Elust #78

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #79? Start with the rules, come back February 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

£10.53
Balance of Light
Advent Calendar 2015 – Day 24

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Why Sex Fiction?
On using him

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Guest blog: ‘Quite Delightful’, James Deen and me
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Make-Up Sex
Wide Open
Believe in You
I am softly athletic
Making a Short Story Long

Erotic Fiction

First Kiss
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
A Spicey Christmas Eve Tale…..
The Annual Christmas Party
If Only He’d Said Yes…
Very Very Necessary
concrete
Holly and Ivy…
Frothy White Stuff
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
30 Minutes

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Boundaries
Stress Makes You Blind and Your Cum Orange
On Eating Ass
Confessions of an Ambivalent Masochist
Joyous Jizz

Poetry

Ode To My Favorite Sex Toy
Earth
Fuckable

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Lady Fapping: The Itty Bitty Kitty Committee
Does Size Matter?
A Feminist’s Guide to Sexting with Cavemen

Erotic Non-Fiction

Having Angelic Sex With The Virgin Mary
New Lingerie

Blogging

The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives
40. 41. One.

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