E_Lust 93rd edition

Elust 93

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Photo courtesy of Aurora Glory

Welcome to Elust 93

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 #94 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 ~

A dress to die for

Pushing Past



~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Kink lite, Kink life


~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

The Contract

*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

The Contract
Speaking Truth to a Submissive Heart
Subjugate U

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Jerking off to be banned under Texas bill
That Time Steve Bannon Destroyed Me
How to program a sex robot

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Effortless Connections & Harmonious Energy


A Love Affair, From A to Z: “A” – Always
Scouting: A Lusty Limericks

Erotic Non-Fiction

Conflict(ed) part 2
It’s All About The Feet
Oral Birthday Fun ~ The Glorious Sixty-Ninth!
I Will Do…
The subtle threesome


Eroticon 2017 – I Herd U Lieks It

Body Talk and Sexual Health

photo shoots past and future
Elust 88


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


Trump, Taxes War and Lenin: Yet Another Russian Connection!


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a_Lenin_240px-Locomotive_293On Saturday, April 15th, Americans took to the streets — yet again! — to protest Don John Trump. This time, it was a Tax March. Meanwhile, here in Zurich, a similarly polarizing figure has my attention:

Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, better known by the alias Lenin. The following day, April 16th, will mark the 100th anniversary of the beginning of the Trump-like, Bolshevik destruction of the Russian “administrative state.” As Winston Churchill so eloquently said of this World War I inflection point:

Full allowance must be made for the desperate tasks to which the German war leaders were already committed… Nevertheless it was with a sense of awe that they turned upon Russia the most grisly of weapons. They transported Lenin in a sealed train like a plague bacillus from Switzerland to Russia.

Nadya, wife.

On the train with Lenin was not only his wife but also his mistress. Nadezhda Konstantinovna “Nadya” Krupskaya was the wife. Inessa Fyodorovna Armand (born Elisabeth-Inès Stéphane d’Herbenville) was the mistress.

Quite often I find myself in the Zürich Hauptbahnhof, the very same, largely unchanged railway station, from whence they departed exactly a century ago. Walking where they once walked, I can’t help but wonder what it must have been like to be in their shoes. Not literally: I prefer to keep wearing my Stuart Weitzman 550’s!

Inessa, mistress.

How much are our personalities reflected — or even (God help us) formed! — by the clothes (not just shoes!) we wear? That’s the kind of silly, distracting question I find myself mulling over lately as current events seem increasingly reminiscent of horrors from the past. Just as in the days leading up to World War I, there’s the distinct whiff in the Trumpian air of unimaginable but impending catastrophe, as pungent as decaying corpses.

What can be done? What can any individual do to confront the often evil forces of history? That actually is the title of an 1863 utopian novel that both Inessa and Nadya, as well as Lenin himself, found formative: What Is to Be Done? A spiritual, socialistic model for idealized society, the book justified Lenin’s open marriage and fueled both Nadya and Inessa’s aspirations for women’s rights and “freedom in love.”

Now, a century later — and thus privy to where their dreams led (a failed Communist state, the concomitant loss of freedom, endless conflict) — I find myself retreating into personal fantasies, thinking the thoughts that writers think, wondering who I would have rather been — the mistress or the wife, Inessa or Nadya — and what was it like, really like, to fuck Lenin?

Sex always seems somehow more intense, more desperately meaningful when set against the backdrop of violent, world-changing events. How much fun they surely must have had on that sealed train to Russia. Isn’t it pretty to think so!


That Time I Was “Destroyed” by Steve Bannon


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I normally don’t wear much makeup, but for this special date I poured on powder and foundation, immaculately layered for that polished porcelain look, a la Ivanka Trump. The multiple coats of mascara, the blush accentuating my cheekbones, the lipliner delicately enlarging my mouth into a sensuous pout…were all set, as in concrete, with a final flourish of the big, fluffy brush bathed in powder.

I was told he “liked his women that way” — idealized, photoshopped, as if on a fashion magazine cover or worshipped on a pedestal (all the better to be knocked down!) As for what he looked like, from his pictures, you could tell he was considerably older than I, his body a little paunchy, his face ruddy and puffy probably from both working and drinking too much. But you could also tell he had once been handsome; now by all accounts, he was rich and smart but also “complicated.”

As with all blind dates — not to mention Forrest Gump’s “box of chocolates” — you never know exactly what you’re going to get. The same could be said for whom you elect as President! — but that’s getting ahead of this story.

I won’t bother to tell you what I wore, for it makes me sad to be reminded: one of most expensive, seductive outfits now tattered and in shreds.

Did I mind that he had been married ana_bannond divorced three times? No. Was I bothered that he talked about himself the whole time over dinner? Not really, because the Pinot Noir (two bottles!) we shared was reputedly among the world’s best. What did upset me were his political views and how he compared himself to Lenin, Thomas Cromwell (Henry VIII’s hatchet man), and Mikhail Bakunin (the 19th century Russian anarchist and nationalist whose writings serve as violent templates for anti-globalists today). My date’s eyes lit up, awakening his sleepy demeanor, when he quoted Bakunin’s belief in:

“The passion for destruction as a creative force.”

Yes, by now you’ve guessed, my blind date was Steven Bannon. And I don’t mean to suggest that what he did to me is the equivalent to what he’s now doing, as Trump’s brain, with the State Department, EPA, etc., not to mention U.S. treaty obligations. But I will say this:

When I saw him recently on television (the only time I’ve seen him since that blind date), he declared that his mission was “to deconstruct the administrative state,” and I couldn’t help but be reminded of his words that night:

I’m going to destroy you! You need it. Admit it.

“Destroy,” according to Urban Dictionary, means to have very hard sex, or go to town on a woman usually in derogatory fashion with the bloke deriving most of the sexual pleasure and often wishing to inflict some element of short term pain, hoping the woman will bleed or walk ‘bow-legged’ for several days afterwards…. It can also mean that the sex is so good for the woman that her independence is destroyed, her submission complete.

Was this was a yummy dream or hellish nightmare?  Forget about me.  Think, instead, about what Steven Bannon means for the future of United States!


The Donald John Trump Effect….


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….When Even Everyday Encounters Become Fraught…..


“Hello,” he says, as I buckle my seatbelt and tug on the hem of my pencil skirt, now riding up well above my knees. I should have worn leggings. He’s American, I think.

“Guten Tag,” I reply. Maybe he’ll leave me alone.

“Do you speak English?” Head down, he seems to be addressing my lap, as his laser-like gaze stays fixed on my knees and what he can make out of my thighs. My expensive opaque tights won’t protect me. His right leg squeezes against me.

“A little English,” I lie. It’s a little lie. My gaze is downward, too, following his eyes to my lap.

Usually, I like window seats. Looking out from the fuselage through the fuzzy Plexiglas, I feel less claustrophobic. But as with just about anything in life, negatives can offset the positives. In this case, it seems I’ll be trapped on the hour-long flight to Paris with a man who wants to chat — and maybe more.

Usually, too, I wouldn’t mind. After all, he’s not bad looking, has a sexy voice, is dressed like a successful businessman — and I have been known to love to flirt. What’s wrong now? I wonder. Why do I feel so uncomfortable, on this, my first plane trip since last fall? And then I remember and realize:

In the back of my mind is the creepy notion that at any moment this handsome, seemingly pleasant, stranger might suddenly, without the slightest warning, reach down, across the flimsy barrier of the armrest, and try to grab my pussy.

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How has Donald John Trump changed your life? Please share a comment.

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 ~

The Case of the Purloined Panties


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Inspection Zone
Date with prey


~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~


*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

After Dark
Night World Flash Fiction
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



ELust Site Badge


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….


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.

Angela Barnett

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…

View original post 1,263 more words

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

Johnny on the Spot
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
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


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


The illusion of familiarity…

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Be A Better Lover
Who Owns My Sexual Agency?

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Boobs on my Mind
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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.”


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.