Music

The music was a piece of her, not just a remnant, but a part of the whole. All great artists are mad in some small way, perhaps the kind of madness that comes only from giving away the pieces.

Maybe it was the alcohol that caused such sensations, the alcohol that so lowered inhibitions that my body felt the music as a lover’s hand. Her hair was draped across her face, that face which was so serious. The song she sang was an extension of her, a portion of her soul, flesh and blood reaching, the way she played it, out to caress the other girl. She tore a piece of herself off and gifted it to the other girl, and to all of those watching.
I wrote before about fire, about zest. I wrote about passion and intensity and burning. I said before, she burns. The way she burned last night won’t be quickly forgotten.

She dropped to her knees, guitar in hand. She played as if the song would burst from her if she did not use her mouth to give it form. The words she sang pressed lips to our lips, tangled fingers in our hair, pinned us against the wall and left us there. The song pushed at us, enveloped us, wrapped us in rapture, but left us with no relief. Each ringing tone grasped at us, embraced us, took us.

The other girl knelt in a little puddle of herself on the floor. She felt it the way I felt it, her back arched, her eyes blurred. She felt each syllable push its way into her like the fingers of an unruly lover. The voice rolled her under, like it did me. When it ended, we all lay there, shattered.

It was exquisite and intense, excruciating and euphoric. Well done.

Hedonism

Does music ever induce that mood in you? Must move. Must write. Must let it devour you.

I had a strange dream. In it I was doing commonplace things, but was drunk, dizzy, incapable of directing my own movements. I was not paralyzed, just tilted. Swimmy. I woke with a feeling of drowning in dizziness. I was stuck, and so tired of fighting it. Is that what death feels like?

I never understood why people are so driven to meet career goals. I realized it is truly another form of running. It was for me. Currently I'm existing in life's gratifying little pleasures. Hedonism, they call it. There is no higher goal than pleasure. Hot tea, warm robe, gorgeous perfume, stack of freshly purchased books, floaty music, fragrant lavender.

I'm swimming in serotonin, drowning in my own dopamine.
"Self-improvement is masturbation."
Everything is masturbation, really.

The very word carries negative connotations. Society caters to a different crowd. Here we are looked down upon for seeking pleasure. It is a shame, really.

Jealousy

She tells me, "What? You don't want to date me anyway." I watched her kiss her ex, thoroughly. It isn't the kiss that gets to me. It was the look of puppy-dog love on her face. I could have watched her kiss any other girl without complaint. I tried, standing there, not to feel anything about it. I tried to observe, to enjoy the sight of two pretty girls kissing. I tried not to get girly about it.

I do not want to date her, but I very much do. We are so opposite, and she has already remarked to others that we are not compatible. We would be a destructive match, and I am not strong enough to withstand her leaving me for the ex when the ex wants her back. I wanted to take her last night. I was angry and wanted to take her. I felt like being forceful, making her forget the ex for just a moment. I do not love her, but I do like her a good deal. I want her time and attention, but how much of this desire for her is just desire?

She toyed with me all night. She grabbed my hands, my hips, my pants. She responded to my kiss in a most appealing way. I loved it. I want more of her. I feel like I missed an opportunity last night. I'm still kicking myself for it.
I still have a difficult time reading her signals. I am terrified I'll make a move and it won't be well received. For someone so "dominant," I am rather passive.

I was a tool for her at the end of the night. I was something for her to flaunt to test the waters with her ex. I hate not being wanted for who and what I am. A number of my good friends hate that I spend time with her. This is why. We can hang out and have a great time, but in the end I am losing something of myself to her.

F/G/T

Her writing does something explosive to me. Her words create an awareness, a divine feeling of being larger than oneself. Her descriptions have a way of flowing within, leaving me changed in some small way.

"I suppose I’m drawn to the rules of language for the same reasons that I’m drawn to sex that has ropes, blindfolds, the sting of floggers and the sweet smell of submission. I like rules because I like to break them. I like structure because I enjoy subverting it. I like structure, and structure is narrative, and just as I pretty much abhor free-form poetry, I pretty much abhor lyrical fucking, that rose-petal-strewn-bed, Sarah McLaughlin saccharine flavor lovemaking—that kind of sex that abides by conventional Hallmark syntax and doesn't allow for nips, bites, wicked attenuations, or short declarative sentences of pneumatic fucking.

I like some DeLillo fucking. Self-referential, meta-sex expressed in tidy syntax like a parade of carefully shorn terriers. I see the beauty of Woolf foreplay, a long and languid descriptive frottage where the infinitesimal movement of one saltshaker can be laded with meaning. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good libido should be in want of Austen necking. I like discursive sex, narrative sex, argumentative sex, and expositive sex. I like my fucking to be bigger than a greeting card and a lot more memorable."

Chelsea G. Summers at FilthyGorgeousThings

Blogroll

I have a crush on a blogger. As with all of my crushes, this one is rather conflicted. I love her. I'm turned on by her constant ability to turn a charming, well-educated phrase. I greatly admire her work. For these reasons, I refuse to list her on my blogroll.
I follow this blogger on twitter, and gobble up every tweet. I use my blogroll to catch up on my favorite blogs. I occasionally stumble across her blog, read a blog or two, and wonder why I do not link to her from my blog.

I remember why. She's good. She's what "The Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" should have been about. Please do not misunderstand. The bloggers I have listed in my blogroll are all amazing, but she's perfection. She's so perfect that it pains me to read her material. I want her talent. I want to mimic her erudite ways. The smart blogger would read her work obsessively, garnering any information about how this lovely lady blogger writes so well. I read her work and compare my shortcomings to her complete lack of shortcomings.

"Quality reading inform great writing." What do you read lovely lady blogger?

To those out there who read to write, what do you read?

Yes, Virginia

"Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus!"

This year, Santa us bringing beauty and joy in the form of some excellent gear and toys from FetLife. Fancy a harness? How about the Njoy Eleven? Or maybe a pretty corset?

Go sit on Santa's lap, tell him whether you've been naughty or nice, and spread the love!

Contest ends Jan. 4, 2010

Crash

She said, "You know, you're kinda dark." " You aren't like anyone I've ever met." " You're mature." All of this because I expressed liking for a quote by a passionate photographer. All of this because I badly want a tattoo. It bothers me that she knows that part of the immense desire for the tattoo is the immense desire for the pain. I hate how transparent I am to her, but I also delight in it.

I am a passionate person. Everything I love incites a fire in me, a burning. I am easily swept up. I look for that quality in others.

Art will do it for me, photography and sculpture will too. Music, good writing, dance. Above all, seeing that fire burning in other people does it for me. I love the passion with which some people live. These fiery people are nearly always problematic. There is always something not quite right about them. All the fervency leaves them a little unbalanced. We all crash. This I love too.

Can anyone tell me that they do not love that ardor in others? There is nothing like seeing someone in their element. Nothing like seeing someone living for what they are doing. S was very much this way. She was a beauty, my ideal woman really. She loved to dance, she loved to play. We were very good friends. She moved to Arizona and we lost touch. This does not bother me as it would others. We are that type of people. We understand that friendships come and go. Ours would still be a friendship if she appeared unannounced on my doorstep, only to be gone in the morning. It is the passion. Those who have it are the only ones that understand it in others.

Maybe the passion is why I am so enamored with B. C does not understand it, because he is a rational being. He is a being seemingly without this passion. B has the fire. C hates it when I tell him I want to be near her because we are so alike. He does not see the likeness. B and I are very different people. Very different, but B burns, and B crashes.

He mocks me because I am so naive. He mocks me because I trust in people so easily. I feel the whole of the human race should support each other. A very naive view, apparently.

I understand flaws in others when they should not be understood. I am flawed. I know how wonderful it is for someone to tell me it is okay to be this imperfect person. It is such a cliché to say I want to help.

I will leave you with this quote, because it touches me. It always has.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes, 'Awww!'" --Kerouac

Emotions

Love:


via fuckyeahbutches

Lust:


via obsessionart

Desire:


via Mike Crawley

Sensuality:


via Igor Amelkovich

Because the only people for me are the mad ones

Sometimes it feels like a disease, some horrible affliction. It is a constant source of stress in my life. Never is it as simple as people make it out to be. Never is it as complex as people make it out to be.

It's a fire. A need. An all consuming desire. Not just for orgasms, but for contact, for the rush. Sex does not satisfy it. Sex sometimes makes it worse. I hate it and revel in it.

It needs no trigger. The question I receive most is, "what turned you on?" Does it need a catalyst?

I ache now. Nothing precipitated it. I ate dinner, I went to a movie, I listened to music, and now I want to consecrate the kitchen counter and the couch. Visions of threesomes dance in my head. I itch to take a tight little nipple into my mouth. I ache to feel a caress in return. Today, I hate it. My skin burns a living, breathing, crawling fire and, oh, how good it would feel to have someone's mouth quenching that flame.

It is not enough to have just someone "fix" me either. A cold orgasm is akin to starvation. This ardor needs to meet its match, needs a mate. Give me someone who burns the way I burn. Give me someone that drowns in it as I do. I need that intensity. Anything less is just far too paltry. I am starving.

#itsuckswhen

via aag

Dream

A quandary...blog about the dream home, or the glorious list of turn ons? Dream home wins out tonight, as tonight I'm making a friend's house my home. Turn ons will come later, look for it.

I love houses that are open and airy. I want open ceilings dotted with skylights. The house I am currently occupying is filled with rooms adorn with wooden and glass doors (kinda like these cabinet doors).

There are so many windows, most without drapery of any kind. The floors are hardwood. Internal doors all have skeleton key style keyholes. Beautiful.

In my bedroom, you'd find framed photographs by Igor Amelkovich. Specifically this one, and this. I would need a third though. Really though, I would probably have several 3 photograph sets.

No house is complete without built in bookshelves, just like these. They make my heart flutter.

In my backyard garden, you'd find lavender and roses. Also, Lilies, dahlias and hyacinth planted outside of my sunroom. Yes, the sunroom. This house has one, but it does not appear to be in use. I would use mine constantly, lounging, reading, playing with the cats, whatever.

Also, off of my front porch you'd find birds. You'd find bushes specifically planted to attract the birds and butterflies, plus feeders scattered throughout.

I have so many images for the home I hope to one day build. Maybe time will see it come to fruition.

Meld

This picture embodies so much of what I find sexy. These people are uninhibited. These people are caught up in lust in a way that removes higher level reasoning. I adore Gasp for the same reasons. The poem speaks of an all consuming desire to explore another person. Both the photo and the poem tug at my yearning for that kind of meld. Nothing is more satisfying.


image via erotiterrorist

Compilation

As I am new to blogging, I struggle (it's a love struggle!) daily with trying to come up with something original. Many days, I photoblog, or post vids. The photos and videos are always something that brought me happiness for the day. Some days I write really angsty blogs that I never post because, really, no one should ever read them. Some days, I actually write a blog.

I try to avoid endlessly re-posting cool things other people find, mostly because the people I read all read each other.
However, I haven't been online is several days, and there's a lot of porn piling up on the internet...

This is a collection of things that titillated my senses this evening. Enjoy, loves:

The first, a scathingly brilliant review of New Moon. I'm not hating on the Twilight series. I'm actually rather apathetic about the whole mess. I love the beautiful mix of intellect and coarseness present in this writing though. Amazing.

Next, a glorious play on gender coupled with a dance-inducing song...
(Note: I did have a video embedded here, but it was recently made unavailable. The video was Prodigy's uncensored Smack My Bitch Up. I will work on finding it elsewhere for you).


Then, an interesting tidbit via erotiterrorist. Oh, powerplay.


Surprise! A very interesting composition by a good friend of mine. I delight in his oddity.

Followed by some amazing tweets by some amazing people:

sroxy:Actually, godless heathen is a misnomer. If anything I have way more gods than most of the Christians... I think this makes me a godlier heathen, hmmm?

aagblog: I love men. That is all.
Followed by: Facebook, stop being cunty.

chelseagsummers: A week of non-stop illness will make a girl feel steeped in patheticism. It's my pity-party, and I'll cry in my sorbet if I want to.

Also, a status from facebook: Finally got my books out of "storage" (the garage). Etiquette dictates that you should place Palahniuk next to Frost, right?

Finally, Judy Garland doing George Gershwin...

This honesty could be my demise

Zooey Deschanel



via canihelpyousir

The song is so catchy, and Zooey's voice is lovely. I understand why Zooey made canihelpyousir's Swoon List.

Hate/Love

She asked me, "You aren't going to write another blog about this, are you?" I don't remember my reply.

She is so small. I loved the curve of her back when she reached to adjust the thermostat. I loved the pressure she put on my hand while it was around her throat. I love that she wanted to be fucked. I love the scratches she left on me. I hate that she seemed repulsed by my sweat. I hate that she seemed impatient with me. I hate that she was so pissy when she woke.

She was so incredibly bitchy when she woke up around 6:30. "Are you awake?" she asks. When I say yes, she says, "of course you are."

I try to be bitchy right back, but end up running to get her water, get her some Tylenol, find her clothes. Anything to make her happy.

The bitchiness abates when she realizes Waffle House exists. I find this endearing.

Tell me, why do I do it?

Ghosts of contests past

I won! Back in the day (October!), but I still won, nonetheless.

I entered a contest featured through aag, sponsored by Original Sin Hard Cider.

I strongly recommend checking out their posters. They are sexy, gorgeous, delicious little bits of life.

I won a comfy tee shirt, and got to pick two pretty posters as well.

See?






Now, no more contest talk.

Contest with an Njoy prize

So....Edenfantasys is running a contest through EdenCafe. Check out the rules here.

The contest runs until Nov. 21st luvvies, so get crackin'.

Not only will an entry for this contest potentially win you one of these, (or one of these, or one of these...) it will also automatically get you one of these gorgeous little things:



Cool huh?

Remote

You know that feeling? Yes, you do.

That feeling when you are comfortably curled up on the couch, warm, wrapped in a blanket, laptop firmly on lap, piles of papers stacked around you...

The feeling when you realize that the music coming out of your laptop is annoying the piss out of you, and that you must, just must, change it from computer output to TV output...but to do that you need the remote.

The remote, by the way, is on the coffee table, very much out of reach.

You attempt, very carefully, to become stretch armstrong, while all those precariously balanced stacks of papers, the laptop, even the blanket, all slowly inch toward the floor...

Yeah, you know what happened right?

Mostly, I just fell off the couch. I got the remote though, damn it.

Sock Dreams

Le sigh...




via Sock Dreams

This war I fight, I can no more

My skin is on fire. My heart is pounding, my breath short. She caused this.

She yielded softly to my kisses. She yielded and it seemed as if she had no interest. She does not raise her hands to my sides, does not pull my head to her. She passively accepts my lips. I keep kissing, desperate for a response, desperate to drive some desire into her. I ask, "What must I do for you to engage?" She breathes, "Engage?"

I brush her nipples through both layers of her cotton t-shirt. She arches, almost imperceptibly. Engaged.
I let my hand graze her side, push up her shirt, finally, finally brush her skin. Her heat amazes me. It's a dream.

I push her shirts up over her head, almost roughly. She grumbles a bit. I push up her bra. I can barely see her in the dark, though I know she prefers it that way. I can see she's soft. Her breasts are beautifully round, her nipples erect. I can't not have them in my mouth. I touch a nipple with my tongue, and she arches deeply. She writhes. She pushes her breasts at me, wanting more contact. I take as much of her into my mouth as my mouth will hold, more even. Heaven.

I want more of her. I brush kisses down her stomach, grazing her tattoos. Those tattoos....oh. I no longer just want her, I need her. Must taste her, must please her. Please?

"No," she says. "No," crushes me. I push kisses past the line of her pants...just a little. Crossing no boundaries. I kiss those gorgeous hips, I breathe in her heady scent. "No," she tells me.

I bite, just a soft bite, at her through her pants. I pray for the cloth to just dissolve, melt away. It will not. She said no.

I surface to kiss her. Again, she yields. I place my hand where my mouth was, pushing, rubbing, trying to please her. Still no permission.

I lay between her legs, kissing that yielding mouth. She and I have the same thought. She rolls me under as I roll her over me to straddle. Seamless. I cannot keep my hands off of her skin. So hot.

She's kissing me back. I grab her hips, push them against me. I am desperate to please her. I want to hear her orgasm. She rocks with my motions. She devours my mouth, her hands pulling at my hair, caressing my face. I feel her hand slide to my neck. She gently squeezes. She tests me, tightening a little. My head is thrown back, awaiting her administrations. Those kisses, the rocking, the caresses. I swoon. She is practically holding me up, against her.

We kiss, and it is over. I cannot please her tonight. My skin is on fire. I ache for her. We go to lay down. I fear that she will move away if I reach for her. She moves close, allows contact. She feels guilty, as do I for putting her in this position.

The guilt does not stop me from wanting more though.

Please?

Oh, Betty.

Oh, Betty. *Breathy sigh...*





Look, The vid is a little dark, and the speaking parts are in French...but it still rocks my world. Oh, and ya'll know it's from The L Word, riiight?

Amélie

She appears to impish. She has a look that makes me want to place a kiss on her nose...



via heroines

So soon

I don't know what causes it, the deep welling of emotion from seemingly nowhere. This time, this blog provoked it.
Maybe the sadness in the words, "I don't know why we came together like this only to part so soon," provoked it.

The moments are strange. I break into deep sobs, but shed few tears, and they pass in just moments. They are melancholy epiphanies.

I sent her a text a moment ago, asking when I could see her. It was a bad move. Reaching out to her is bad idea.
She isn't available in any way, and grasping for her and receiving nothing just causes more pain.

Texts are our only form of communication, although communication is not an accurate word for what occurs. Lately, she does not answer my texts. She answers when she needs to talk, needs a ride, needs someone to ease her loneliness. I enjoy giving her whatever she wants to take, but she is taking the wrong things.

Heels

via erotiterrorist

Fell in love with a girl

but sometimes these feelings can be so misleading

Charleston

One goal of this blog is to share my loves, the little tidbits of happy that make my day. Here is one.




via Muffy Crosswire

Hitler

via Najy

Purpose

People are supposed to fuck. It is our main purpose in life, and all those other activities—playing the trumpet, vacuuming carpets, reading mystery novels, eating chocolate mousse—are just ways of passing the time until you can fuck again.

— Cynthia Heimel

via aag

(see also:hates)

New loves:

Butches

Syd Blakovich and Jiz Lee

Lady Gaga (see also: hates)

B (see also: hates)

Twitter

Amanda Blank

Peaches

Tina (see also: old loves)

First times

Chelsea G Summers

Kristi

Pop music (see also: hates)

Eyeliner

Syd

Ladies and gents, the incomparable Syd Blakovich...

Goats

Goats

How very Lestat of you

OMG Please tell me this isn't real.

Mark Shaw

Pin-up love

One of my favorite pin-ups by Gil Elvgren

Experimental

On Wednesday, I was doing what college students do, namely, walking in to take an exam I had barely studied for. Surprise!

I chose a desk covered in student graffiti; my favorite kind. The surface was crawling with silly things like "sigma's are sluts." Because it's a college, dontcha know.

Someone had also written, in shiny blue ink, "I love anal beads." Some other industrious pen crossed out "beads." A third student wrote a response to the anal-loving person, "You are a disgusting individual."

My favorite comment, and the reason for this post, was the reply to this last bit. One fellow sex-positive commenter kindly crossed out "disgusting" leaving "experimental" in it's place. Love!

I'm pleased as punch that this desk now reads "I love anal" and "You are an experimental individual."

If course, in the group I run in anal beads are not nearly so much experimental as a matter of course...

Oh Margaret Cho, I love you so.

Objectivism

Now, I know that Ayn Rand draws some criticism.

But is an exclamation that "Both male and female versions of Ayn-Rand fans exemplify failed human beings with zip imagination and zero creativity" really necessary?

I have to say, I love both Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead. They are amazing books, and provide a world-view different from what I am used to hearing. Admittedly, I am not an Ayn Rand scholar. I know very little about the Objectivism philosophy. I understand that some of what Rand believes runs counter to my beliefs. However, I do believe there is a fair amount of virtue in selfishness. I believe people should strive for independence and self-reliance. However, a person who is unable to be self-reliant should not be frowned on. I do believe a little friendly assistance is necessary (I know, so not Ayn Randian!)

I'm a feminist, an academic, a liberal, and I read and love me some Ayn Rand. Eeek!
The first step is admitting you have a problem.

$5 footlong

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
The Word - Don't Ask Don't Tell
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Religion

Stephen Colbert, ladies and gents.

Lost semi-telepathic cat

via foundmagazine.com

Thoroughly bad hat

fuckyeahbutches.tumblr.com

This is so not studying

Angsty melodramatic blog #1:

I'm tired.
Eating and sleeping have fallen by the wayside, as have homework, studying, attending my internship, and going to classes. I had intended this blog to be light-hearted and fun. I wanted to share the things I love (Marlene Dietrich!)

Instead, at least for today, it is an outlet, thoughtfully provided to a non-existent readership.

Patience. Apparently I need more. I'm sorry for not being so patient, for pushing.

I'm not sure that all of this is what I want to do anymore.
Yes, I will finish by bachelor's. Who comes all this way and doesn't?

Yes, it is probably in my best interest to apply to grad schools anyway. If I decide I don't want to go, I can always turn down acceptance letters (ha!).

In reality (that is, reality according to Chris) I will not feel this way when I have a break.

In my reality, I should not have to waste the next 4 or so years of my life on waiting for breaks.

Marlene, Have I told you lately that I love you?

Gasp

Gasp
I want to fuck
the living breath
right out of your lungs
so that just to survive
you have to suck
oxygen
from me
when we kiss.

Posted by CityDifferent (see blogroll)

Shocking, and oh-so-expressive.

Lovely photograph by Igor Kraguljac

Loves

Loves

listening to Chris play guitar
leaving the windows open in rain storms
receiving pictures of my soon-to-be kitty
art photography involving nudes
sleeping in with Chris
sleeping in, in general
memories of London, of the first time I heard Chris play the guitar in Scotland, of how transparently in love with him I was when I thought I was keeping it secret.
making my sisters and brother laugh
softly fuzzy body hair-men or women
women in fabulous high heels
books
books with subject matter involving decadence and taboos
anything involving decadence and taboos
public libraries
positive sex education
clever repartee
kitties
orchids
other people's babies
people's silly "gangsta" walks
youtube.com/TheMeanKitty
sweatpants and hoodie days
breasts, preferably the more malleable type
yes, I said that
take-out chinese
starbucks coffee
origami cranes
yoga
and so very much more.

Hates

Hates

honking at people
people who try to back into my car
long orders at the drive thru
the syrupy sediment at the bottom of coffee drinks
seeing thongs hanging out of pants-even more so when the thong is holey
when people call flip flops "thongs"
feet that should not be displayed in flip flops
the smell of wet shoes
the squeaky sound feet make when coming out of wet shoes
the squeaky sound my mouse's wheel makes
the ink that transfers from my spanish dictionary to my laptop
anti-Obama sentiments
chauvinists
when people's lives revolve around skinny
women who use flirting as a means of prostitution
men who think they rock in bed, and actually suck
men who believe sex ends when they've had an orgasm
straight men who don't love pussy-seriously?!!
other things too...

Subversive?

No, I am indeed not perfect. I often think irrationally. I often get upset over nothing. I procrastinate in a way I am sure will injure me for graduate school. I am occasionally paranoid. I tend to dump my socks by the side of the bed instead of in the hamper. I forget most everything. My lies are more transparent than cellophane. I do occasionally lie.

These are the things I want to fix: Irrationality, mood swings, procrastination, memory lapses (it would be more accurate to tell you my memory is a lapse.)
I don't care all that much about my lack of organization, or occasional sink full of dirty dishes. I don't care about sleeping in too late and putting off washing the laundry. I don't care to fix my sexuality, or my incredible interest in raunchy comedy. I don't care to fix my obsession with cult films.
These things come up in conversation with religious people. No one was judging, this particular group is awesome. However, these lovely people remind me how much others condemn.
Since when does a clean house and non-interest in sex=good person?
I'm happier my way.

Facets

I found an awesome blog recently. The writer is a wildly libidinous woman with a number of beautiful entries concerning her sex life. The writer is a mother with a number of young children, some adopted from a friend, some biological. The writer is a skilled gardener and an amateur photographer. She includes a lovely picture of bits of her garden with each blog. She sometimes blogs about the idiosyncrasies of motherhood. She sometimes blogs about sex toys, masturbation, or recent "dates." She edits her own flower photos, as well as an occasional photo from one of her paramours. She's my hero.

I hate the way the title "mother" equals "caretaker", but never equals "woman with desires of her own." Why are these titles always so exclusionary? A person is a faceted creature. One person can contain an endless number of personas. I could, on any given day, rattle out a list a mile long of categories I fit into. Even some descriptors are also categories, merely because of the stereotypes associated with them. This is why the woman who writes this blog is my hero. She shows everyone the facets...especially the two people deem the most contradictory.

LOVE

http://aagblog.com/

L-O-V-E

Is it presumptuous of me to post blogs so frequently? Posting blogs kind of implies that people should read them, doesn't it? I want it stated (so I'm going to state it) that I don't expect anyone to read these, and while making this statement, I prove the presumptuousness of posting blogs.
And here I go telling you that I really only write them for me. It is true. Except for when it isn't. And then it is up to you to decide when which is the case. Goodnight then.

Orgasm Gap

I just finished reading an article on feministing.com about what they refer to as the "orgasm gap." This gap deals with whatever creative statistics researchers discovered concerning women's less frequent rate of orgasm with sex. The blog post on feministing garnered a ridiculous number of angry comments, especially from the male posters. The article that the blog references, is a reference to the actual research...so reference twice removed, or something.
The article suggests a variety of reasons that women tend to have a lower rate of orgasm. Several of the male members of the community suggest that perhaps it is just easier for men to have orgasms due to size. I say, regardless of the reason for the number, perhaps that gap should shrink. Any man that complains that women are too difficult to please should perhaps become a little better acquainted with his hand.
One other interesting thing:
The article claims that “Women and men are more ambivalent about the importance of women’s sexual pleasure [outside] of relationships." This strikes me as hilarious. Why do women hook up with random partners? If it were me, I would probably be doing it for orgasms. So why do so many women have so few orgasms when hooking up? Do we really just need to be more vocal about what we want? Why are so many women so passive about their needs? I'm not entirely innocent of this myself. It is just easier sometimes to not say anything. But it isn't very satisfying, is it?

25

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

1. I have a list 43 items long of goals that are semi-unobtainable, on the 43things website.

2. I have a desire to learn to play piano as well as Norah Jones or Michelle Branch, but lack the desire to spend the time learning.

3. I freaking love Louis XIV (the band). They're so dirty. I also love Hot Hot Heat. Oh, and the Dresden Dolls (and of course Amanda Palmer!).

4. One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen is a pair of Christian Louboutin pumps in patent black.

5. I have an intense yearning for all things red. RED, red.

6. I occasionally have a twitch in my right eyelid.

7. I adore anyone that can randomly quote Eddie Izzard.

8. I often read the missed connections on Craigslist. They are rather sweet in a desperate way.

9. My favorite website of all time is postsecret.com. Every secret is a reminder of how similar we all are.

10. Memories of London often provoke such a divine poignancy in me. It was a wonderful feeling watching Last Chance Harvey, and knowing I stood exactly where Dustin Hoffman stood on the bank of the Thames.

11. I want a Great Dane. Chris doesn't.

12. Chris wants a Jack Russell. I don't.

13. I just bought something fairly cool from Sephora, but I'm much more excited about the free sample of Agent Provocateur perfume that will arrive with it.

14. I finally found a field of psychology that interests me enough that I could strive for a career in it. Whaoo!

15. After a rocky start (of almost 20 years!) I am finally friends with my mom.

16. I'm getting a British Shorthair kitten in the spring or summer, and his name is going to be Sir Sebastian.

17. I feel so peaceful in cathedrals, but I'm not even slightly religious.

18. I'm truly loving the song New Soul, by Yael Naim.

19. I'm proud of my kid sisters and brother. They help me see the world through new eyes.

20. I never ever want children. I think they are wonderful, but just not for me. (Please don't tell me I'll change my mind when I get older. That is rather patronizing.)

21. I think it's hilarious that so many of the people Chris are in grad school with are people I work with in lab, and many of them have no idea that we are dating.

22. I am so in love with Alfred Hitchcock movies, and all the old bests (Cary Grant, Marlon Brando, Grace Kelly, Marilyn Monroe, Audrey and Katherine Hepburn, etc.)

23. I wish I could help my sister raise more money to go to Japan. What I have to give is only a drop in the bucket.

24. I have grand plans for so much more than I feel is possible for one person to accomplish in a lifetime. I worry about looking back at my life and having regrets.

25. I am determined to have no regrets.