Category Archives: Sex

Entertainment for Women- 1980


thThe thing about being a bookwhore is- you need a designated space just for the plethora of books you’ve picked up throughout the years. Luckily, when we bought our house, my Rockstar understood this, and so did-eth not protest too much when I claimed the third bedroom as the sleeping place for my tomes.

Being the girl who was jealous of Belle when the Beast gifted her with an entire castle library, my vivid imagination has always envisioned my own fantasy-like library. Sadly, my budget is somewhat lacking. So instead of replacing the drop-ceiling nasty-ass foam tiles with a ceiling of pure gold, I opted to cover said ishy tiles with textured wallpaper that will be painted in bronze to match the antique-ish looking loveseat I found for a steal on Wayfair.com. (If anyone who works at Wayfair is reading this- I’m giving you free advertising. Feel free to send some gift cards my way.)

As I was squinting to avoid spider webs and dust from getting into my eyes as I struggled to get ceiling tiles down, a magazine dropped from the heavens (or the water pipes). Imagine my excitement when I stepped down from my dangerously-chosen folding chair step stool and saw that the gazette that had nearly poked my eyeball out was a Playgirl  from 1980. No, my thrill did not come from the thought of becoming engrossed in the pictures of disturbingly-hairy men within; (I prefer the the sight of naked boobies over a man  lounging with his near-flaccid dick pointed at me) my enthusiasm was of the nostalgic nature. Though 1980 was a year before I was born, so I cannot properly pay homage, I take great pleasure in the obscene media of an earlier day. After all, isn’t it always a good time seeing how sex has evolved since the times of a full bush and Burl Chester? (Yeah, I said “Who?!” too.)

Oh yes, believe that I absolutely DID read the thing cover to cover. After balking at the surprisingly low price of such pornography (only $1.95), I took in the not-so-sexy face of Robert Urich- the “hunky” star of TV’s Vega$– a guy I’ve never heard of. I do believe even if I had been of age at the time, I would not have found Robert to be very salty.

Of course, women only read Playgirl for the articles, right? The most interesting article advertised on the cover was “The Joys of Three-Way Sex”; which, when I think about it, I’m not quite certain I want to think about that much bush in one room anyway. Since I am a fan of older men, I thought I might be pleasantly surprised when I saw there was an eight-page photo spread “in praise of older men”. Let us just say I got slightly distracted by the number of Magnum P.I. mustaches and Farrah-Fawcett-ish hairdos. I suppose in 35 years, my kid will look at the current beard craze in exactly the same distaste.

I was slightly appalled and greatly amused to read the letter portion. “Please help me. My cousin and I are having a relationship. Is this considered incest?” and “At the age of 23, I still don’t know what an orgasm is all about.” Oh, the innocence. Were women in the 80’s so naïve? My personal favorite was “I’ve just broken up with my sixth lover in five years. Am I a slut?” My response to such a question would have been, “How many women did that lover sleep with in those five years?”

The best part was an advertisement for “Stud Wear”. Somehow, I really just don’t think  a pair of briefs featuring Pinnochio with a special pocket to show just how long his nose can grow would be very alluring. Although I do laugh my ass off every time I think about my Rockstar donning a pair.

Of course every nekkid dude pictured was quoted to “love long walks and sunsets” and to love “falling asleep in a woman’s arms ” before awaking to go “make love on the beach as the sun rises.” Let me tell you where that gets you- an elbow in the eye and a crack full of sand.

Too, there was a special section on “Men of the Eighties”. It’s good to know that “men of the eighties are beginning to realize that there’s a lot more fun to be had in bed when their lovers fully participate.” What? Did men of the seventies just expect their women to lay there like blow-up dolls while they humped them? Seriously. I wanna know.

I really want to send in my $12 and see if I receive the see-through briefs with the tear-away tabs for my Rockstar so I can “get a piece of the action”.

Trust that this magazine is now one of my greatest treasures and will make an appearance any time I need a good laugh.

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T-shirt


I picked your dirty T-shirt up

off of the floor today.

Dirty isn’t the right word,

because as my fingers lifted it,

the smell of your cologne

wafted up to my nose.

That scent,

the scent of you,

intoxicates me.

In my altered state,

I wondered once again

how you manage to stay smelling

so fresh.

There has never been a time

in the past six years

when I’ve even caught a hint of

unseemly body odor.

I brought your shirt

up to my nose,

closed my eyes,

and inhaled deeply.

It reminded me

how I love to breath you in

as we make love;

your skin,

your hair,

your breath.

I awaken from my reverie

and grin.

All that just from doing

your laundry.

 

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A Letter to a Modern-Day Adonis


Dear Charlie Hunnam,

As I have stated in my post title above, you, Charlie, are a modern-day Adonis, and so must be the recipient of my latest letter. Kudos to you.

It is true, you are best known as the tortured soul Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy, and while I have not been privy to much of your other work, I do believe the multitude of sex scenes with delectable ass shots in SOA may have had something to do with that. (It’s like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream…) I must admit, there are very few nude males that I would gladly torment my eyes with, (as I am very much a boob gal, and do so adore a good titty display) but you, kind sir, are welcome to remain naked in front of my vision indefinitely.

It is still a bit disturbing to me that you hale from Newcastle upon Tyne. As well-read as I am, I had no idea what the fuck that meant, but investigated enough to find that it was somewhere in England. Cheeri-o, mate! I actually hope to never hear your original accent, which I assume is British, because you seem to be so down-to-earth and not at all pompous as generally English people tend to be. However, if you ever decide you wish to share your man-meat with me in a carnal fashion, I will allow you to adopt whatever foreign crappy accent you deem appropriate. Just know that I am not quite certain what my reaction may be if I hear, “Tha’ wus fookin’ gright, love.” after we’ve spent ourselves. I may be forced to shut you up by sitting on your not-quite-shaven face.

You may be delighted to know, too, that even my very straight Rockstar has taken notice of your perfectly-sculpted physique. He does not blame you in the least for incessantly posting shirtless pictures of yourself on your official Facebook page. “After working out like hell to look like that, can you blame him?” were his exact words. I think you may just have a chance with him…

I seem to recall having watched a little-known movie a few years back starring you, in which, I’m sure, you were superb. Sadly, I do not recall you being naked, and so it was not noteworthy. Do not get me wrong, oh Gorgeous One- you need not be bare-assed for me to adore you. I can prove it is true by saying I’ve had two dreams in which you starred, neither of which you were nude in. (Sadly.) I must ask: why weren’t you naked in my dreams? I mean, for real. What the fuck?!

I do not think you are aware of my ….fetish for long-haired men. Let me only say that when your hair is of a shorter ilk, I would not so readily do you. But, if you were there lying naked in my bed, I suppose I could lower my standards a tad so as not to waste a good boner.

I applaud you for turning down the role of Christian Grey in the movie version of Fifty Shades. As beautiful as you are, not even you could have saved it from sucking balls. Although, if you had retained the role, I would have, of course, rushed out to buy the DVD no matter how terrible the film was, if only to see you shirtless and spanking someone. Do not be discouraged. I will write for you a well-written smutty book that can be turned into the biggest blockbuster of all time.

In closing, I would like to say that you, Charlie Hunnam, have almost cured me of my insane love for Christopher Meloni; I haven’t dreamed of him since you came into the picture.

Always yours, (even if it is only in my dreams)

Sparklebumps XOXO

 

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Survive and Thrive Workshop: Prompt #3


MM.

How many times did you autograph that monogram

and wonder,

What if they realize I’m not really

Her?

They’ll be so mad when they find out

that this piece of paper

isn’t worth a cent.

I know.

I know what it’s like when people think

you are someone you’re not.

Sure, I’ve never exactly obtained the fame you did,

or been described as the ultimate “sex symbol”.

But,

I guess I’ve had my moments.

Yes, I get it;

Wanting to drown your sorrows in a bottle of gin

so deeply

that you forget the real you

and actually become the glittering figure

They believe you are.

They say you were either

the greatest actress that ever lived

or the biggest joke ever to grace

the silver screen.

Having great tits

tends to make people not take you seriously.

And yet,

you pursued your search for love,

still working toward your goal of becoming a

“real actress”;

even in the end,

you had Them fooled.

As the ambulance drove  your adored body away,

They continued to refer to you as

Marilyn Monroe.

But I know the truth.

You were so much more than that.

 

 

 

 

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Do I Look Fat With This?


So, I’ve never been one of those girls who would dare ask her significant other, “Do I look fat in this?” Mainly, because I expect an honest answer, and chances are, I probably do look fat in it. Instead, I have waited for the surprising squeeze of the tush, or a comment that remarks on my general fabulousness to lay to rest any self-doubts I may have. It has always seemed to work in my favor.

The difference between those times and now is a little thing, (ok, maybe not so little) called a pregnancy bump. Here’s the thing: I find pregnant women to be adorable. At least the ones you can actually tell are pregnant, and aren’t so overweight you dare not ask them when they’re due. I have also heard from multitudes of men and women that a lot of guys have a thing for pregnant women. (Somewhat creepy, of it’s not their own woman, but who can resist a pair of swollen breasts and a hard belly? Even if it is in the shape of a full-blown balloon?) When I first found out about my Babe, I thought to myself, “Well, I guess we’ll see if my Rockstar has a thing for pregnant women.”

Sadly, he does not. Like, not even a little bit. If my belly were a mini-fridge filled with Budweiser, I still don’t think that would be enough to get him to touch it. Sure, there’s been a few times during the night when he’s accidentally thrown an arm or hand over me carelessly. Apparently such an action trips a silent alarm that only he can hear, because even from a dead sleep, the offending appendage is quickly removed from it’s resting spot as though it’s a vat of acid.

Yeah, ok, I get it. “Pregnant chics aren’t a turn on of his.”- I quote his words. I guess it doesn’t matter one iota that it’s me who is the pregnant chic; the chic he used to do two and three times a night sometimes. Too, it seems to not matter that my ass or thighs have not grown to gargantuan proportions; in fact, I’ve gained exactly seventeen pounds in the last six months- and I’m wearing the exact same yoga pants without my butt bursting the seems. I don’t know if I “glow” as They say pregnant women do, but I even had a dude stop me in the mall, trying to get my digits. (After blatantly ogling my pregnant condition.)

I suppose I should be happy my Rockstar is trying to appease me in other ways. He has been quite amiable about my suggestions to go out to eat, (which he hates to do), and stays silent about the fact that I don’t roll outta bed until at least 8 am. But, alas. Such things do not make up for the lack of sex and affection that is the giant, glittery elephant in the room. (And just to be clear, I don’t know what you’ve heard about pregnant women and their libidos, but this pregnant woman’s libido is working overtime. And you thought I was a horny little devil before….)

Talk to him about it, you say? This is how that conversation goes:

Me: So, um, yeah, are you ever gonna want to do me again? ‘Cause I’m horny as fuck.

Him:

Me: Are you weirded out that there’s a baby in there? Because you know he can’t feel anything, right? He wouldn’t even be able to feel a porn-star dick.

Him:

Me: (Trying a different approach) So… it makes me really sad that you don’t find me attractive anymore.

Him:

You get the picture.

What’s the frickin’ point of having a significant other when you’re pregnant if they can’t even be bothered to do you? I know impotence because of my condition is not the issue, because blowjobs have been issued to ensure that wasn’t the problem. So, what? I’m just supposed to accept that I’m living with an inconsiderate asshat?

I object.

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Mr. Fix- It


Before.

Greg observed his own face in his bathroom mirror, and squinted his eyes in a furious glare at the reflection. He gripped either side of the pedestal sink to keep from putting his fist through the glass, and watched his own jaw clench and unclench. He was a fucking coward, and the fact made him completely livid. He pushed himself away from the sink in disgust and flipped the light switch too forcefully on his way out of the room.

Casey had just left, and Greg’s pulse was still pounding with the left-over desire she’d dumped on him. Just the remembrance of her on her knees in front of him in his own kitchen brought another surge of lust through his body, and he flopped down angrily on his worn-out couch. His longing was interrupted by a wince of pain when he felt the springs dig into his back, and he cursed inwardly.

He tried to collect his thoughts, but the feelings left over from Casey’s visit made his brain a chaotic jumble. He took a deep breath and adjusted his crotch, forbidding his dick to erect itself at every thought of her.

Since he’d fucked her in her apartment, he and Casey had made love on several other occasions. Greg snorted at the thought. “Made love” was not what it had been at all; more like, animalistic, savage, licentious fucking. It didn’t matter that Casey looked like a completely innocent, albeit sexy-as-hell school teacher- the feelings she evoked from Greg were baser than anything he’d ever felt. When he wasn’t fucking her, he wanted to be, and when he was, it was like he’d scored a handful of X at a rave; every time was like the height of his existence, but the after effects made him feel like complete shit.

He ran his hands down the sides of his face and let out a exasperated breath. She didn’t want anything else from him. The idea was like a shot to the chest with an electric jolt. He knew it was completely ridiculous that she would want anything serious from him, given the huge gap in their ages, but he just wanted to get to know her. He knew exactly what her excited cunt felt like to his fingers, and he knew how glorious it felt to have her near-perfect lips wrapped around his cock, but he knew next to nothing about her, and it bugged the shit out of him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to find out, but she kept her distance, and even after she’d come quivering to orgasm, she maintained her independent attitude.

Greg’s anger was at himself, for not forcing her to open up, or at least for not being able to control his incredible lust enough to turn her down. Casey was clearly emotionally damaged; he’d never met a woman who was able to separated sex from feelings, but she did exactly that. He knew that continuing their liaisons  as they was not the way to heal that damage- he felt proud of himself that, as a man, even he knew that. He was also aware of the fact that Casey perhaps was not looking for someone to take care of her hurts, but Greg couldn’t help it. He wanted to. Her beautiful face and her buoyant persona made him want to fix it. The problem was, with her luscious tits and gorgeous ass, he kept forgetting that.

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642 Things to Write About: Hands


It’s been awhile since I’ve picked a topic out of my handy dandy writing prompt book, but I figured today would be a good day to do so, since I have limited time in which to write, and no ideas in my head. This one caught my interest immediately:

Write a love scene from the point of view of your hands.

Of course I would pick this one!

We itched, my partner and I, as our owner looked at her man lustily. I, the right hand, reached out and caressed his cheek, and the two-days-worth of whisker growth was not unpleasant; it reminded me of velvet- freshly cleaned, rust-colored velvet. My partner, the left hand, couldn’t resist mimicking my act, as our collective body of nerves spoke. She touched his other cheek, and I saw her move her thumb repeatedly over the plush forest of reddish beard. We pulled the beloved face toward that of our owner, and as her lips touched his passionately, a thrill passed through us, urging us to move lower.

I ran my forefinger down the man’s neck as Left moved into the grove of thick, longish hair that was almost identical in color to the whisker grown. She slid the hair between her fingers again and again, pulling just slightly, enough that I could feel the man’s reaction. His pulse started to speed up under the finger I had placed on his neck, and I moved my other fingers into a grip. I and Left once again pulled him forward to meet our owner’s lips, and we heard a quiet moan of desire emitted from him.

Left was planted firm, with no intention of moving from her lush cradle of hair, but as I moved down the man’s body, she loosened her grasp, knowing we together would produce a stronger reaction in our victim. His shirt had been removed already, and we slid down to his chest, admiring the solidness beneath our palms. Our fingers instinctively curled ever so slightly, pressing the tips of our newly manicured fingernails into the ivory skin. Gooseflesh was raised beneath our fingertips as we scored our way down the ribs and past to the waistband of the man’s jeans. He shivered, and our owner smiled, knowingly.

I wanted so desperately to feel what affect we’d had on the man’s cock, as I was sure it was straining against the zipper of his pants, but I resisted. Instead, I flipped over and ran the back of myself back up the way I had come, as Left did the same. Once again, we grazed the pale skin, raising rosy trails as we went. I couldn’t bear it, and tweaked a nipple as I passed, a little harder than I should have. The man inhaled sharply at the unexpected pain, but his breath was cut off as our owner covered his mouth with her own.

We couldn’t wait longer, Left and I, and I stuck two fingers into the waistband of the jeans, tempting Left. She responded by moving a thumb and forefinger over the fly, undoing the button and lowering the zipper achingly slow. We slipped our fingers around to the back, and as we pushed the jeans off, we stopped to grope the luscious ass that was now exposed. I went around to the front, and was not disappointed when met with a throbbing piece of manhood, which I gripped firmly, causing another moan. Our owners lips were there then, and I held a good portion of erection as her tongue met the tip of it before it disappeared within her mouth.

Left was relishing the feel of firm buttocks clenching and unclenching as I stroked my assigned body part. It has always amazed me that something so marble-tough can feel so soft at the same time. I enjoyed myself until I was pulled around to copy my partner, sinking my nails into the pliable flesh as the man’s hand groped the hair of our owner. She moaned and took him in as deep as she could in her mouth, causing him to growl animalistically in his throat before tensing. Left and I held him there tightly, until we knew his pleasure was over.

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