Boobday: Linear A

I’m looking forward to my photo shoot trip, which is next weekend, woo! Nothing much to report on that front, except that Lucas just found out that he’ll have to work on one of the days he’d hoped to have off. That was the day we were planning to do some shopping for fetish wear, but with any I’ll still be able to hit a couple of shops, either on my own or together on one of our shoot days.

I’ve arranged to see Mr. PS for dinner while I’m in town. I’ve got some extra time now, so maybe I’ll be able to spend that with him. I’m confident that he has no ulterior motives towards me, but I’d say there’s a fair chance we’ll cuddle on his couch.

I’m going to have to start packing soon. I’m only going for a few days, and under normal circumstances my clothes would fit in a carry-on bag. I tend to be practical, but not quite minimalist. Not yet. If left to my own devices I can easily wear the same pair of pants (that’s trousers for the Brits) for 5 days in a row, but I find it difficult to leave home and commit to wearing the same pants for that length of time. And I’m going to be bringing half of my wardrobe to play dress-up: dresses, heels, boots, lingerie. All the frippery that I would ordinarily leave behind. So my usual strategy of packing everything the day before won’t work so well because my usual packing skillz don’t apply. I have this mental image of little me rolling this big bag along in full princess mode, wearing a tight dress that shows a lot of thigh and my knee-high gladiator “sandals” with the 4″ heel. Yeah, not so much.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been writing less over the last few months. I’ve been busier with work and have had less time to write, and less writing seems to mean fewer ideas for writing, which initiates a vicious circle of less writing, etc. But I might be turning the corner, inspiration-wise at least: I have a play party to write up, as well as most of my visit with Gawan, which was months ago, and my thoughts about where I’m at currently are starting to ripen. I’ve also started posting a bit of serialized fiction, and I’m not ready to drop that story yet. Now the trick is not to get overwhelmed with it all and freeze up.

The other day I booked the flights for a trip to London in early spring. I’m going to Eroticon! I’m looking forward to meeting some of the bloggers who I’ve become acquainted with online and hopefully turn some of those acquaintances into friends. I’m also holidaying with Gawan on this trip, and I have to admit that he’s the bigger draw. Good thing I don’t have to choose🙂

Aaaand, Molly announced the Top 100 Sex Bloggers 2016 today. I’m very chuffed to have made the list again this year! Why not check out the list and find some good new blogs?

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After the play party.

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Boobday: linear

I’m posting a sexier photo for Boobday this week as compared to last week. Am I feeling sexier? Not appreciably. I’m still feeling inward-looking, but a little less so than last week.

This image doesn’t objectify me. It can’t. I’m the model, stylist, photographer, editor, and publisher. All decisions have been made by me: it’s a demonstration of my agency, even if you can’t see my face.

It is, I think, a sexy image. I felt sexy when I took the photo, and I wouldn’t have taken the photo if I wasn’t enjoying myself. Not all photos of an individual are equally sexy even though it’s the same person throughout. The most significant variables are the pose and clothing. There isn’t much to my pose, so the sexiness is mostly from what I’m wearing.

I bought this bodysuit mostly for me. When I first saw it (in the possession of someone who had recently bought one for herself), I wanted it immediately. That doesn’t usually happen. I’m not really one for collecting clothes. I went to some lengths to get it, and then bought other items from the same line because I liked them that much. (Repeating patterns, like the parallel lines here, tickle my brain in a good way.)

Like any photo I post here, I hope you enjoy it. But the more important thing is that I enjoy it. And I do.

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e[lust] #88

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Photo courtesy of Miss Scarlet Writes

Welcome to Elust 88

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

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Heart stabbing

Redemption: The Sex Goddess Project

Exhibitionish

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

An Open Letter To That Cunnilingus Post

I Found Myself Over His Knee

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

 

Erotic Fiction

Overlook
The Haunting of Iris Day
MERMAID??? Wicked Wednesday #229
Fear, Scents and Sounds
Lady Amore
love is love
Spray
Her Struggle
The New Principal

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Evolving Landscapes
Trust in Me
15 BEST Things About Giving Blowjobs!
With a rebel yell
What lie do you need to hear so we can Fuck?

Erotic Non-Fiction

The Brush
Tasked with asking for what I need
How Old Is Too Old For Wild Lovemaking?
Brass In Pocket
An Unstated Predicament
California Cuisine
Krystal’s First Pegging
Struggling

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

That Adult Bookstore Just Outside Town
Creature of the night
MISTRESS IN A DRESS – or out of it
Come Here. I want to Taste You
Terror of the cane! How to make caning sexy

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

11 Signs You Might Be a Side Guy

Writing About Writing

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

 

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fiction: The New Principal 3: Maelstrom

In a slight daze, I wandered out of the school office into the chaos of the hall between classes. The noise and bustle engulfed me, swirling around me on all sides, but it felt like it was at a distance. Maybe I was at the eye of the storm. But it felt like I was the storm, and my swirling thoughts were causing everything else to rotate noisily around me. I walked indifferently through the maelstrom.

“Lexiiiieee! What happened?!” Ugh. Tanya. We’d been chummy in school years before but hadn’t hung out together for a long time. We were too different from each other. She teased me about my serious demeanor, and I tended to find her pink, sparkly girliness grating. Though she meant well. She must have heard my name on the intercom and made note.

“Nothing, Tanya. Nothing happened. Look, I’m going to be late for class. Talk to you later, OK?”

She paused, peering at me. “Oh, I almost forgot! You know I’m in band, right? Well, we just found out when our recital is going to be. Can I put you down for a ticket?”

“Enough with the promo, Tanya. Late, remember?”

“OK, bye,” she said weakly and wandered off.

“Honestly,” I muttered as I hurried away. She’d been regarding me oddly, which seemed to prove that I looked as much of a mess as I felt, so I made a beeline for the restroom.

I neither expected nor found the solitude I would have preferred: there were four other girls who had taken up stations in front of squared-off white porcelain sinks, a few stall doors were closed, and the general echoing clatter was punctuated by the occasional whooshing flush. Worried that my thighs might tell the tale, I went straight to the last sink, where I figured I was least likely to be closely observed. The stall behind me stood empty.

I turned one battered knob and splashed cool water on my face while examining myself in quick, businesslike glances.

Red eyes – check. I looked like I’d been crying. Or, generously, like I had a cold.

I extracted a length of brown paper towel from the rattling dispenser on the wall to my right and dried my face and hands.

Messy hair – check. I extracted the elastic, combed my hair out briskly with my fingers and redid my ponytail.

Sloppy shirt – check. It must have pulled up out of the waistband of my skirt while I was… upended. Over his knee. With my hands and feet barely touching the floor. And he… Never mind. I tucked the shirt back in smartly and smoothed down the blazer and skirt.

As I got myself tidied up, I became aware that, yes, my ass and thighs were throbbing with heat. It had to be visible below the hem of my skirt. Although I was seriously tempted to check, the last thing I wanted was for people to look and I didn’t intend to telegraph that there was something to see, so I mastered the impulse. I had to hope that the others were too involved with their own reflections to pay attention to me as I strode purposefully out the door and off to class.

The hallway was still bustling, the advantage of which was that my legs were unlikely to cross anyone’s sight-line, especially with me being as short as I am. And anyway, I’d mostly blend into the forest of other bare legs.

My thighs, though. They were hot. They’d be warm to the touch, I was sure. It felt like blushing. And with my skin so pale, no blush ever seemed to go unremarked. The very though brought color and heat to my cheeks. That is, my other

Oh god, this was going to be a long day.

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Boobday: crescent

For some time I had felt drawn to reveal my body. Confronting it, ceasing to use clothing as a barrier to conceal my appearance, deflect my own gaze. I’m content in my body. It just is. I just am.

I now feel drawn to reveal less: magnetic north has shifted.

Hy’s post today and her comments on how women are routinely sexualized got me thinking about clothes. There is a persistent belief that women should be and are dressing to attract men. Women who are perceived as rejecting this norm are called fat, ugly, dyke, or man-repelling. This belief, plus the belief that men can’t control themselves, results in women who get raped being accused of attracting men too effectively: “What was she wearing?”

Here’s a thought experiment: imagine that all the women you see (yes, even the hot ones) have dressed themselves without reference to what men might think of their outfits. Imagine that they all have a different collection of priorities, like what makes them feel good from the inside, what’s comfortable, what’s clean, what’s new, what won’t get in their way during the commute or at work, what color grabs them today, what’s warm enough, what’s cool enough.

Imagine that how women dress isn’t about you and that your opinion of them doesn’t matter.

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Boobday: self-care

I feel deeply. It’s a mere membrane between me and the world, thin and porous. Shutting off feeling is impossible, and even if it could be done, I wouldn’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be me. The pain and anguish of others is so loud that I tend to forget where lies the boundary between “mine” and “not mine”.

So I close the door for a while.

I’m in the middle of my period today. The pain lodged deep in my gut – at turns aching, or throbbing, or twinging, or fading into a background hum – that’s mine. Neither good nor bad, it just is.

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It’s a glorious day today, and unseasonably warm. The sort of day that invites you outside, to feel the breeze on your skin, to squint into the sun, to move and stretch and work, to be aware of being alive, as though the plottings of humans were irrelevant to the rising and setting of the sun and the moon, to the flowing of the rivers and the growing of the trees.

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