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.”

Bukkake-41A

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.

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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.

Does Size Matter? Pondering a New Year’s Resolution

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Does size matter? You bet. You know it does! Yes, sometimes, it’s so big, it hurts.

Yet soon it may hurt so good, as my body adapts to the huge invasion, often with the help of a petrochemical lubricant derived from what would otherwise become fossil fuels.

Should I then tell you about not only the length but also the thickness, and the way my hips move in response to his thrusts, the feel of his mouth all over my breasts, the involuntary moans erupting from my lips? So what if I’m an exhibitionist…what do you care? You’re not a voyageur.

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But here’s what you should care about: whether I — not to mention the countless other reproductive bodies fucking at this very instant — are using birth control.

This is the huge size that really matters: the ever expanding, always greedy human population inflicting pain and destruction on the finite, tiny, cunt-like Planet Earth — a body that can not adapt so easily as mine to invasive bigness. Eros/Thanatos: life force as death force. And yet, as a Scientific American article puts it, exponential population growth “is the don’t-go-there zone of modern environmentalism and political discourse.”

Meanwhile, ideological fanatics attack Planned Parenthood, and We the People celebrate irresponsible “reality” stars like the Octomom and the Duggars’ “Nineteen Kids & Counting” — far more obscene than any pornographic display of my love life.

Population-and-the-planet2

“If children were brought into the world by an act of pure reason alone, would the human race continue to exist?” famously asked the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer in his 1850 essay titled On the Suffering of the World. “Would not a man rather have so much sympathy with the coming generation as to spare it the burden of existence?”

The world’s population in 1850 (when Schopenhauer wrote) was a bit more than 1 billion, which had been roughly steady-state for centuries. Now it’s 7 billion…and counting. Simultaneous with this exponential population growth has been the Industrial Revolution’s fossil-fueled economic growth. Per-capita consumption and per-capita carbon emissions go hand in hand. The poor Planet doesn’t stand a chance unless…unless….

Unless we all start fucking, not to make babies, but just for the fun of it.

The ever fewer babies who are then born into this world will thank us.

New Year’s Resolution:

To fuck like a bunny but not breed like one!

Satire as Breath-Synchronized Movement: My Newest Vinyasa

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Allow your eyes to close… visualize your breath…allow your mind to cleanse as you move into another Vinyasa.

Love my Lululemon!

Love my Lululemon!

“No Men in Women’s Bathrooms!” screamed the election banners, yard signs, TV ads and t-shirts in a well-funded fearmongering campaign against the Houston Equal Rights Ordinance (HERO).  The fear mongers won, as the ordinance was overwhelmingly rejected last Tuesday.  The fear was misplaced, of course, for the last thing on the minds of self-identified transwomen needing to use women’s public restrooms is anything prurient.

Banning men from yoga classes would make a lot more sense! 

The thought twirls in my mind while not paying attention to my yoga teacher’s gentle admonition to focus only on my breathing.  I’m too distracted by the thoughts I imagine energizing behind me…

Doing Downward Dog, I catch a glimpse of the would-be yogini behind me.  He’s a man, the only man in the class; and his head is not down but bent upward, so that he’s looking directly at my butt….

Breathe so deeply you feel your lungs against your spine….

Is he simply trying to see what others are doing so that he, a novice, can learn by mimicking?

Now let your breath take you gently into Child Pose….

But then – second-guessing myself — why did he, like an inattentive, testosterone-addled high school student, set up his yoga mat at the very back of the room? 

Relax….  Let yourself breathe in and feel the here and now….

Downward Doggie Style

Downward Doggie Style

And why, oh why, did he place his mat right behind mine?  Cynthia and Jenny are lined up next to me.  Why isn’t he directly behind one of them, instead?  I always thought they had cuter butts than mine…but maybe not?  Mmmmm….

Imagine that your thoughts are like the autumn leaves….  Now let them fall and float away….

He’s actually not too bad looking himself.  I wonder if he’ll say anything to me at the end of class.  “Hey, I just wanted to say what you probably know already… you’ve got a great ass!”  Or, more gentlemanly: “Hi, my name’s John. May I buy you a cup of coffee?  You can educate me into the ways of yoga.”

 

E_Lust Features My “Mindful Orgasm” (Tantric Yoga? teehee)

#74

Ginger nic1
Photo courtesy of Switch Studies

Welcome to Elust #74

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 #75? Start with the rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Machine
She wanted to let the light in…
Reflections on the Male Nude

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Trudy
Is it play acting?

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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

Can a Woman be a Good Mother and Write a Sex Blog

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

Leaden Heart
Summer awakening
Our Kind Of Monogamy
If You’re Gonna Be A Thot Do It With Grace
Playing at Poly
I’m a-Lousy-Monogamist
Sharing the bed
The Couple and the Coquette
Four Love

Erotic Fiction

All Girls Night
Unresponsive Satisfaction
i don’t want realism, i want magic
A Stranger’s Tale
Motion Capture
Checking Southward
His Slave Heart.

Erotic Non-Fiction

Sexy Riding
Relaxing
I noticed without paying attention
Humiliating an ex-Nazi submissive: sex slave
The End of a Rut
Rayne is a Fucktoy Cunt
Mindful Orgasm

Events

5 Reasons Woodhull Was an Amazing Experience

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Sex: Vegans, Carnivores, and Apex Predators

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Location, Location, Location
Seven Dimensions of Dominance
Light That Fire: Motivational Tools

When A BDSM Scene Ends Abruptly

Writing About Writing

You Down With OPT?
Cover Me
ELust Site Badge

Mindful Orgasm

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Love my Lululemon!

Love my Lululemon!

Mindfulness: a mental state achieved by focusing one’s awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations, used as a therapeutic technique.

How embarrassing!  Has this ever happened to you?

This morning I had an orgasm in my yoga class.  Well, almost.  Right on the edge. Oh, my God! Yes.

In my new Lululemon Wonder Under or whatever it’s called, my mind was everywhere but where it should be: The here and now of my early morning yoga class. Instead, it danced from one fleeting thought to another, until settling on the feeling of the fabric that was hugging me tight.

Oh so tight!

Engineered Sensations, in “an unprecedented partnership between science and art,” is what Lululemon calls them:

Relaxed.

Naked.

Held-in.

Hugged.

Tight.

Silently I said the words.  Intently I felt the sensations they conveyed.  It was all I could do to keep my fingers from exploring between my legs.  My imagination would have to do.  That, and the four-way stretch fabric’s held-in tightness and snugness — as I moved through the various asanas — hugging me and rubbing me where my fingers, or a dildo, or a hard cock could well be.

Was my libido brainwashed by the brand?  Who cares….

Namaste.

NOTE: For other aspects of this mind-wandering experience, please see my Medium reflections: 

https://medium.com/@scholarlyslut/too-much-too-many-ee1c0e607d01

Intimations of an Expanding Universe (and a Shrinking Self)

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For my upcoming birthday, some colleagues gave me a gift certificate for Claudio Tollardo’s renown En Vogue Salon. With branches in Moscow and Dubai as well as Zurich, it’s the reputed home to some of the most gifted hair stylists on this side of the Atlantic. Their way with hair, it is said, rivals Vladimir Nabokov’s way with words.

So when a totally unexpected, finishing flourish to my Balayage Ombre was suggested, what could I say but “Why not?” The tempting fact that I’d never before had a Pink Dip made it irresistible….

Like some socially forbidden, especially risque sexual act…. Yes, why not!

It’s fun. It makes me smile. And so I’m sharing — to validate my feeling, to have others tell me, yes, I’m fun.

But the fact is that lately — I always get this way around my birthday — I’ve been feeling decidedly unfun. When feeling unfun, I find myself pondering questions like:

Why am I expected to smile all the time? Look pretty? Take sexy selfies? Constantly tweet re-tweetable witticisms?

But those are the expectations not just for me but for every other girl I know. If not perpetually performing — constantly “on!” — we cease to exist. At least, that’s what it feels like.

The standard joke about bloggers is that we get to sit around all day lounging about in yoga pants and ratty sports bra, never leaving the house, in a constant state of bed head and mascara-free eyes, afraid to look in the mirror, disinclined to even “like” ourselves.

For me, it’s just the opposite.  Words are like hair and makeup and the most fashionable clothes.  When feeling unfun, I seldom write.  And if I don’t write, I’m forgotten.  The “comments” and “views” and “reads” dwindle to nothing.

So quickly forgotten, did I ever exist?

But to imagine that, when I do write, my words will somehow become timeless, immortal even, is the equivalent of believing that skinny jeans will never go out of fashion (if they haven’t already).