AlwaysArousedGirl

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The other day a friend and I happened to be online at the same time. While I worked, she shopped for shoes, occasionally sending me links to designs she found particularly inspiring.

She planned to wear the shoes on an upcoming date; as she gave me the details, I felt a slither of revulsion slide through my belly. The pictures she sent were beautiful, but I cannot bear the idea of my feet being pinched, squeezed or bound inside uncomfortable footwear. I cringe to think of it. “Will you wear them…er…during?” I asked, almost dreading the answer.

“Of course,” she responded. “Guys love that.”

Do they? The thought makes me shudder. And then I realized…I’ve found a limit!

If he is so inclined, my partner can face-fuck me. He can push me down so hard that I gag. He can use my hair as reins during doggie-style. He can give me a facial. He can come on my tits, in my eyes, up my nose. He can fuck my ass.

Of course these things must be negotiated in advance, but it wouldn’t take much to elicit my enthusiastic yes please!

But high heels? Uh-uh. Not going there. ‘Tis in the same category for me as golden showers, poo-play and clown-sex. Heck there might even be some wiggle room with the golden shower, if we were in the shower, and it wasn’t in my mouth, or his mouth, or too nasty. We could talk about it, at least.

I’d even be happy — nay thrilled — to be with a man who was wearing high heels, especially if he coordinated them with a cute pair of panties, but this is TMI even by my very relaxed standards, and if my parents are here, they are probably calling the authorities on me. HI MOM. HI DAD. I’M KIDDING! REALLY! MOSTLY!

But…what if some day I end up with a partner who is all about the fucking-in-high-heels? What if *gasp* I’m already with one, and he’s scared to tell me about it because he suspects how much I fear the heels?

Would I be a complete failure as a lover if I could not bring myself to indulge this whim? Would it make me a prude? Closed-minded? No fun?

As a friend of mine says, “Today’s hard limits are tomorrow’s foreplay,” so maybe there’s hope for me yet.

**Keep track of what the other Babeland Sexy Moms are writing about…click the button to see!**

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Spoken at the end of a conversation about why we like each other:

Me: So let me get this straight.  You lurves me for my pussy, my Shadowy Cave of Tightness, and my wurdz?

Me: Is that about right?

Him: Um. Your “Shadowy Cave of Tightness?”

Me: Sounds better that Poop Chute, doesn’t it?

(I lurves you too, baby. Kiss.)

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For the past several years I’ve enjoyed the babysitting services of a girl from my neighborhood. When her mother introduced her to me, she was in her final year of high school. They lived close enough that she could walk to and from my house whenever I needed her help. After graduation, she ever so conveniently moved just a few streets over and began working in a place with quite flexible hours.

Even if she’d lived across town, I still would have cherished her because she’s wonderful with my kids. They find her delightful; I find her supremely capable, even if she sometimes doesn’t manage to get all the dishes into the sink after meals. Eh, I don’t either.

She’s taken in stride my lack of foresight where scheduling is concerned and my charming habit of picking up extra children along the way. Exhaustion and absorption in parenting prevented me from calling her for several months after my youngest child came home. When I did, it was for a doctor’s appointment that I’d forgotten about and to which I could not take my children.

Presenting your babysitter with a brand new child she didn’t know you possessed as you dash late out the door may be the ultimate test of a sitter’s unflappability, and mine handled it wonderfully.

I’m not so irresponsible as that last paragraph might suggest. Really. Usually.

In the past year she changed jobs, moved in with her boyfriend and began training for a new career. I knew in my head that she was moving on into serious adulthood and would likely not need the paltry income from babysitting for much longer, and yet I could not help but to see her as a teenager still.

When recently I had a look at a book for Jane’s Guide that seemed to be directed more toward the younger set (instead of to a grizzled veteran such as myself), I wondered who among my friends I could pass it off to so that it wouldn’t wind up languishing on my desk.

Immediately I thought of my sitter, but I felt incredibly awkward about offering it to her. She’s so young! Would it really be appropriate to give a book about sex to a girl who just yesterday was in high school?

So the book stayed on my desk, forgotten until the sitter came to my house the other night wearing an uncharacteristically floaty shirt and a subtly more rounded face.

As so many babies are, this one is a happy accident. “Do you have a name picked out?” I asked. I’m sure she’s been asked that about five thousand times so far. She rattled off something babyish and cute.

“It’s the only thing we can agree on,” she said.

My radar went on alert. “The only name you can agree on, or the only thing at all you can agree on?”

“The only name,” she said. Then after a pause, “Actually, the name is just about the only thing at all we agree on right now.”

So now I’m plotting all the items I can give to her (read: get out of my own house) in preparation for the new baby. I’ve got clothes, and a portable crib, and some parenting books. I need to start a box of stuff to give to her next time she comes over.

Guess it’s ok to give her that sex book, eh? Maybe I’ll tuck it into the box underneath and burp cloths and onesies.

Would that be inappropriate, you think?

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Here grows the Cure of all, this Fruit Divine,
Fair to the Eye, inviting to the Taste,
Of vertue to make wise: what hinders then
To reach, and feed at once both Bodie and Mind?

So saying, her rash hand in evil hour
Forth reaching to the Fruit, she pluck’d, she eat:
Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat
Sighing through all her Works gave signs of woe,
That all was lost.

“Don’t search,” I warned them many months ago when the subject of my income was broached. “I write about many topics, some of which would make you uncomfortable. There are things I’d like to keep private. Please don’t try to track me down.”

They agreed, but the fruit was too tempting. God sent them a vision, which apparently they used to map out the way here. They’ve gorged themselves on forbidden fruit; they brought with them the stink of improperly-gathered knowledge as they walked through my door.

I cannot detail the conversation which ensued. Should I mention at least that my appearance, character and mothering were found grossly lacking? That the state of my immortal soul was fretted over? That I was offered help in correcting my clearly misguided sexual orientation?

Should I recount that I’m wasting my God-given talents, which would (perhaps) be more appropriately utilized if I took up online medical transcription? And that my children will one day suffer because of my writing? And that they feel like failures as parents because I’ve strayed so far from the path?

Eh, I probably should not mention those things. But to hear my parents call me an unattractive talentless damned-to-hell lesbian was painful. Painful indeed. Does writing it help mitigate the pain? I sure hope so.

Did you catch the reference to my orientation in the paragraph above? Of all things, how could they mistake something so obvious as that? The vision from God lead them (so they said) to the name of this site, but in obedience to the letter of the law, they did not set virtual foot here. Instead, they read the three-line summaries that Google shows when one searches on the site name.

I cannot bring myself to check exactly what shows up in the summaries. I guess it points to me lovin’ the coochie a bit more than is accurate, at least if you consider it on a yearly basis.

Three-line summaries not only allow one to misunderstand my orientation, but they also fail to give a complete picture of what happens here. I want to believe that I’ve done more than mumble yarns of inserting Tab A into Slot B, but I’m guessing that anything beyond that is lost to a reader of the summaries.

Other bloggers faced with similar situations have stopped blogging. Some have moved to new addresses, instituted passwords, taken down posts, or chosen more family-friendly topics. I will do none of these things. I’m pleased with what I’ve written here; anyone who is not should back quietly toward the door and slip away.

Long ago I reconciled myself to the idea that someone I didn’t want reading could end up here. My philosophy has been this: If they read where they’ve been told not to, most likely they’ll learn things they didn’t want to know.

They may find out about a daughter’s fisting. Or rimming. Or buttfucking. Or group-playing. They may find out that she is joyously non-monogamous, bi and sex-positive. Didn’t want to know these things? Sorry. Shouldn’t have read.

This is the way the world works. This is what the apple tastes like. And no matter how foul it is upon the tongue, it can never be untasted.

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If I had my druthers, it would have stayed hidden from them forever.

Barring that, I would have loved a different sort of reaction altogether. “We know you didn’t want us to read your writing. We betrayed your wishes in reading after you’d clearly expressed that you didn’t want us to search for you. We’re sorry, but insatiable curiosity and concern for your well-being made us look. Please forgive us.”

And I would have. I have, even though in real life they’ve not asked for forgiveness.

In my fantasy, they would have continued: “It’s obvious how hard you’ve worked on this, honey. Your site is beautiful and professional. The pictures are lovely. Of course we’ve seen most of them already, but they do look wonderful on the blog.”

I would have glowed with pride. But quietly, you understand.

It would have been nice if my parents had noticed the quality of the writing, regardless of their thoughts about the subject matter. A nod toward my understanding, or maturity, or common-sense would not have been remiss. “I never looked at it that way until I read what you wrote,” they could have said. Or even, “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

I would have cherished those praises.

Or how about this? “We’re from a different generation. We’re not comfortable with your topics, but still we appreciate how hard you’ve worked both to express yourself and to make this unconventional career work. We know finances haven’t been easy, and we’re proud that you can support yourself and your family.”

I can imagine the gratitude I would have felt to hear those words coming from my parents. It would have been a miracle to have their gracious understanding.

Or, you know, they could have read quietly from a distance and not breathed a word about it to my face.

Unfortunately I didn’t get one of my preferred choices.

So I suppose I’ll make due do with something else.

Well nothing I come up with seems to work
It feels like everything I say is a lie
And never have a felt like such a jerk
I’m afraid to even open my eyes
Because I really don’t want her to judge me
I want to her really know who I am
And then, and only then she will love me
Well at least that was the plan.

If ever a boy needed a holiday
If ever a girl needed someone to hold
I just hope I don’t act the same way
By the time that I get old.

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We’ve had MyBuddies up as swag before and those contests have been wildly popular. Due to the amazing generosity of the creators of MyBuddy, we’ve got another one to give away today.

Dr. Peter, one of the creators, reports that MyBuddy recently made an appearance at The Exxxotica Miami Beach Convention, where it was lovingly enjoyed by everyone who tried it out. The creators were also interviewed by SIRIUS RADIO’s Playboy Channel®; maybe they’ll let us know when the interview is set to air. Cool!

Just leave a comment below if you’d like a chance to win. Use the form to leave a working email address (visible only to me), and be willing to give me your shipping address if you are the winner. I’ll email the winner at some point after the contest ends at 12:01 am Monday, May 12th.

I know there have been many of you dying to try a MyBuddy, so here’s your chance. Good luck!

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***Swag tomorrow!***

A bunch of us gathered around the host’s kitchen island to nibble on chicken wings at the last play-party I attended. Someone had invited an at-home toy party hostess to the event; I noticed the company name printed on her bag and exclaimed, “Oh, I have some of your lube!”

“You do?” she asked, excited that someone knew of the products. “Which one?

“I’m not sure,” I said, and rummaged around in my bag to find the tiny bottle. “Let me get it.”

A loud woman in her 40s piped up. “You carry lube in your purse?” The tone of her voice told me that if her beer bottle had been empty instead of half-full, she’d have pointed and laughed at me.

I paused a long moment before answering. “Of course. Especially on a night when I’m fairly certain I’ll be playing. Doesn’t everyone bring lube to these things?”

“I produce my own lube,” said the nearly-drunk woman proudly. “I don’t need any fake lube.”

Cheeky monkey, I thought. “Bet you don’t do much buttsex. Or fisting,” I added, watching in amusement as the beer bottles and chicken wings froze on their way to people’s mouths.

“Ew, never!” said my new nemesis. “I don’t want to get all loose and stretched out.”

“Fisting doesn’t stretch you out. Neither does buttsex,” I protested, but she’d turned back to her beer and her boyfriend, secure in her little buttsex-less, unfisted, non-fake-lube world.

She has no idea what she’s missing.

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In a perfect world, he decided, we’d both be nineteen.

“I think I’d prefer to be 30,” I said. “I was much smarter at 30.”

“That goes without saying,” he answered. “See, our bodies would be nineteen but we’d know everything we know now.”

“Oh! Well in that case I think I’ll be sixteen. I was hot at sixteen.”

“Fine. You can be sixteen then.”

“You do realize this is impossible, right? If I’m sixteen, then you have to be twenty-seven.”

“Hon?”

“Yes?”

“This is a fantasy.”

So in our perfect world I am sixteen and he is nineteen but we have all the wisdom and experience we have now. We’d live somewhere fabulous, like Hawaii; we’d lie about all day in a hill-side house open to the ocean breeze. We’d dine on fresh pineapple.

“We’ll have tight little asses and six-packs,” he requested.

“Check. I’ve always wanted a tight little ass and a six-pack.”

“And we’ll be rich. We’d never have to work.”

“Naturally. Who can take time to work when there’s pineapple to be eaten and sex to be had?”

We pause. He rubs me in a way that makes me arch and moan into his mouth.

“Honey?”

“Yes?” he answers.

“I wish I had a tight little ass and a six-pack for you.”

“You’re fine just the way you are.”

“We’re fine just the way we are. Even if we’re a long way from nineteen.”

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