“Babe, can I talk to you about something?” asked The Engineer in a small and hesitant voice on the phone yesterday. As this particular tone is normally reserved for times when he’s feeling anxious, hurt, or insecure, I automatically said, “Yes, of course.” And then he dropped something completely out of the blue on me: He’d just gone on Twitter to delete his account, and he noticed that Twitter had recommended my blog account to him as a potential account to follow.
He knows that I write a sex blog; I send him what I write about us before I post it, and though I’ve told him that he’s free to read it, he’s chosen not to as he doesn’t want to read about my past partners in graphic detail. He’s been careful to respect my privacy, so being confronted with my Tweets freaked him out a bit – and completely fucking unnerved me. Not because it’s him, but because… how the fuck did my blog account show up on his Twitter?!?!?!?!? It left me wondering: Since I’ve been using the same browser for both my personal and my blog email (a mistake which I have since rectified), is Twitter trawling my personal email account for contacts unbeknownst to me? Who’s next? My close friends? My family? My coworkers?
I got my first smart phone after I started writing the blog; I remembered early on in blogging that Cammies had posted a Tweet about how Twitter automatically sent out a suggestion to follow her blog account to every contact on her phone when she used it – it was at that point that I knew I would never, ever use my phone to do anything blog-related. I use strict privacy settings on my browsers, I don’t use Facebook at all because I’m anxious about my privacy, and… for some reason I didn’t bother to check the privacy settings on Twitter when I signed up for it. I’ve since marked that I don’t want my account suggested based on email, but I’ve also found out that Twitter makes suggestions for accounts to follow based on physical proximity, meaning that I was likely suggested to The Engineer because I was blogging at his apartment when I went to visit last fall. And if so… does that mean that anyone who opens Twitter on their phone at my house will see my blog account recommended to them? That seems super fucking creepy and invasive.
As you may know if you follow sex news, teachers are routinely fired for being normal human beings with personal lives. I love that there are sex bloggers who are completely out, but if I want to continue being an educator of young people, that’s not an option for me. Since I started writing the blog, I’ve always felt pretty safe about avoiding being discovered by people I don’t want discovering me, and well… I don’t feel safe anymore. If you blog anonymously, what do you do to protect the privacy of your identity?
*First of all, GOD I HOPE THIS IS A PORN TITLE. Second of all, I know the post title has nothing to do with the content, but since this week’s Wicked Wednesday theme is pirates and I’m not writing a piece of pirate-themed erotica, this was the least I could do. 😀
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I wear a red pencil skirt and a tight black tank top; he says I’m the best-looking woman in the room. I know it’s not true, but I love him for saying it. We get drinks and sit back at first, watching all the other vacationing revelers and locals dance together; we aren’t drunk enough yet to join the fray, so we chat quietly to each other while stroking each other’s arms and legs. A couple of drinks in, I’m feeling better about dancing, so I stand up and stride into the middle of the floor, keenly aware of the fact that he’s watching me move my hips in figure eights and play off of other dancers’ moves. He stares at me from the bar as I dance with other men, wanting me more than ever. When I walk over to him and suggest we take a detour to the bathroom, he is so in. We walk back to where the restrooms are, keeping watch of people coming and going until there’s a lull in traffic, which is when we take the opportunity to dip into the ladies and sneak into a stall. We put our empty glasses on the back of the toilet; I sit on the lid and unbuckle his belt, eager for what’s underneath. I unzip his jeans and pull out his semi-erect cock, letting it grow in my warm, moist mouth, making bright red smears on it with my lip gloss.
He slides his fingers into my hair, pulling my head toward him, leaning his own back and closing his eyes with satisfaction as he thrusts in past my lips until he’s rock hard, head tight and glistening with my spit. In a moment of inspiration, he takes my hands and pulls them up and underneath his belt, then continues to fuck my face in a way I would only let someone do if I really loved them.
I pull back eventually and look up at him, my eyes laughing because the bathroom is now filled with the chatter of drunk 22 year-olds. I continue stroking him, holding a steady gaze, until we can no longer hear voices. He zips up and I peek out first before conspiratorially grabbing his hand and tip-toeing back out into the bar. We continue drinking: beer, shots, cocktails. At one point we’re at the far corner of the bar – not quite hidden, but not quite out in the open – and he says, “I have something for you.” He unzips and pulls his cock out, then places my hand over it. “What are you doing?!” I squeak. “It’s fine,” he slurs. Luckily, everyone else in the room seems to be in the same state we are, so I touch him lightly with my fingertips, trying to block the view with my body. I’m not as concerned later on in the evening when he pulls one of my legs onto his lap and slides a hand up the inside length of my skirt before slipping a finger under my knickers and into my cunt. Then I give zero fucks about who can see us. I tilt my pelvis toward his hand, clenching around his finger. He laughs and pulls it out before putting it into his mouth to savor my taste.
We leave the bar and walk down the beach toward our guesthouse; there are no lights along the way, so anywhere is good. We park in front of an overturned canoe; he sits down against the faded wood, drunk enough not to care about having sand all over his bare ass, and I slide a condom down over his surprisingly-erect dick (ah, the beauty of youth) before straddling him and using the strength in my quads and gluts to rise and sink down onto his cock. I hold his head in my hands and kiss him, my knees stinging from the hard sand, my cunt wanting and wanting and wanting, all charge and sizzle. A couple of people walk past us on the beach with their phone flashlights on to guide the way; I sit perfectly still for a couple of minutes while they pass, convinced that since I’m wearing a skirt, it’s fiiiiine. If we don’t move, they can’t see us. I restart and ride until the sand becomes too much, at which point we stumble 100 meters to our guesthouse and pass out, tangled limbs fitting together like Tetris pieces.
We wake up hungover to a bed covered in sand; we mumble “Morning” to each other with sleepy eyes and knowing smiles, then kiss each other languidly in the blind-striped, mid-morning sunshine. We gossip about ourselves over a full fry-up and suddenly, I know I’m in deep. Dangerous waters, maybe – but I’m a diver and I know the risks. For now, his arms are a buoy, his lips a regulator. I’m safe.
I first got on the pill when I was fifteen (shout out to Planned Parenthood!); I finally stopped twenty years later after ingesting approximately 5,500 bits of estrogen and progestin. Not wanting to go back on hormones once I stopped using them, I had a tiny copper IUD placed in my (apparently) tiny uterus, which promptly rejected it. I thought the expulsion was due to my menstrual cup, so I got a new IUD placed, bought a lighter and more flexible menstrual cup, and started to be super careful about breaking the seal and watching for my IUD strings. Despite my caution, as I squatted to pee in the middle of the night in a completely dark outhouse in the middle of rural Uganda this past April, I could feel my IUD strings poking out – seven months after I’d had it placed… almost as if my uterus didn’t want a foreign body lodged inside of it. As I pulled an IUD the rest of the way out of my cervix for the second time in one year, I sighed, thinking: “Now what?”
Months away from coming back to the US, I knew I’d have to rely on condoms (which I usually use, anyway) and withdrawal for the rest of my trip and potentially for the rest of my life. It was then that I started thinking about a more permanent option. I’m not afraid of having babies (though a LOT of what Livvy wrote resonated with me) – I just don’t want them. I love the idea of fostering or adopting an older child at some point, but I decidedly do not want to grow or raise infants.
Shortly after I came home this year, I went to my local STI clinic to get some routine testing done; while talking to a medical assistant about contraception, I casually mentioned that someday when I do have insurance, I sure would like to get a tubal ligation. “Oh,” she said casually while typing my information into a spreadsheet – “In that case, let me sign you up for family planning health care. It’s covered.” I was incredulous and overjoyed; she made it so easy. I signed some documents, called around to clinics to make an appointment, and finally got in to see a doctor in mid-November.
He asked, in short: Why do you want a tubal? I told him my contraceptive history and my very strong desire not to breed. Okay, he said. No argument. No “Are you sure? You’ll change your mind. Women are made to reproduce and your life will be incomplete without a baby.” None of that. He just listened to me, trusted me, and said, “Okay.” There was a month waiting period before I could have the procedure done; I had to sign a waiver saying the state of Wisconsin wasn’t asking me to get sterilized (there is a long and terrible history in this country of people living in poverty, people of color, prisoners, and folks with mental health issues being sterilized against their will), and I had to get the surgery done in a suburb because the Catholic hospital he works for doesn’t allow tubal ligations to take place there. Because of course they don’t. I’m lucky I had transportation to get out there in the dead of winter; a lot of women don’t.
It ended up being a short outpatient procedure; I came in at 6:30 in the morning, was on the table by 8:00 am, came out of anesthesia by 9:30, and was home by 10:30. I met with the anesthesiologist, the nurses, and the doctor to ask questions before the procedure, which was very simple: he made a small incision in my belly button and inflated my abdomen with gas, then inserted a small camera called a laparoscope; he made another small incision in my lower abdomen and inserted the surgical instruments through that incision, placing plastic clips on my fallopian tubes. Everything out, all stitched and bandaged up, and presto! No more need to weigh the pros and cons of various methods of contraception.
Before I left, I had to ask in my very groggy state: How long before I can have sex? For how long do I need to use a backup method of birth control? I had to ask these questions because no one bothered to tell me. When I asked the last question, the nurse responded, “Oh, you have a boyfriend?” Last time I checked, I didn’t need a long-term partner in order to have sex, but hey – it’s Wisconsin? They gave me a prescription for a few Percocet and sent me home, where my mother literally tucked me in and made me soup.
My mom is amazing. She desperately wants grandchildren; all of her siblings and friends have them, and she has no children to spoil. My sister doesn’t want kids either, so my mom is left wanting to smell baby scalp and looking at Facebook photos of other people’s babies. I was so scared to tell her that I was getting sterilized – but she had the best reaction I could ever hope for. “There are too many unwanted children in the world,” she said – “So if you don’t want one, you shouldn’t have one.” She was so supportive and respectful of my choices. I found it strange and ironic that she was the one to care for me after my surgery, but I’m glad, too – I feel lucky to have a mom I can trust and enjoy spending time with. Also, I can’t imagine a better place to be while letting my body heal.
I spent the day of the surgery sleeping; the cramps were terrible, and I bled for three days. Now, four days after the procedure, I’m still a bit crampy and sore, but I can be out in the world. I can’t exercise or lift heavy things for a couple of weeks, but I finally got to shower and get all that iodine off my torso, which felt like a small victory. The incisions are small and healing nicely, and I can’t wait for The Engineer to pump me full of jizz.
I’ve spent the past ten years having some variation of this conversation:
Me: “I don’t want kids.”
Other person: “Don’t worry; you still have time.” / “You’ll change your mind!” / “But you’d be such a great mom.” / “What if your future partner wants kids?”
Me: *silently rolls eyes, frustrated not to actually be heard*
I am pro-choice; for me, that means that women should not only have the right to terminate a pregnancy safely, but that they should have the right to prevent pregnancy in a way that feels right to them and ALSO that women should be able to have as many children as they want in a safe and healthy environment. I’m a nomad who doesn’t find babies cute or understand the way that people fawn over them; they’re just not for me. And I’m so grateful to have a doctor and a family who understand that enough to say, “Okay.”
Some of these blogs are new to me; after checking out the ones I was unfamiliar with, I’m especially excited to start following The Beautiful Kind and Poly Land. With so many brilliant blogs to read, how does anyone ever get anything done?
I think once Kayla turns her mind to something she dedicates herself to it 110% and this year the result of that is that she has managed to secure herself the No. 1 spot on this list. Her writing is always excellent and her content is hugely varied, she writes fiction, personal essays and thought pieces, as well as advice and reviews. She is an amazing resource for anyone looking for content about D/s relationships and I think she is absolutely deserved winner of this year’s No.1 spot.
Mrs Fever appeared at No.10 on last year’s list. She is an absolute wordsmith in my opinion. Her writing is intelligent, thought-provoking, sexy and passionate and I am constantly drawn back into her blog to get lost in her world of words.
Kate has absolutely earned her place in the top ten this year in my opinion. She is a talented and exciting writer and her blog is well designed and structured and in my opinion she is absolutely brilliant at what she does.
This is a first since I have been doing the list; a blog going from the ‘new voices’ section straight into the top ten but Bibulousone has done exactly that. I find his writing utterly enthralling. He tackles the complexities of his life and relationship situation with a raw honesty that is both fascinating and addictive reading.
Rebel’s blog continues to be of a consistently high standard both in the content she produces and in the layout and design of her site. This year has been a tough year for her dealing with her Mother’s illness and passing but she is not one to shy away from writing about tricky difficult issues and the honesty she brings to her writing is something to be admired.
This was a new discovery for me on last year’s list and one I have continued to enjoy throughout the year. She is writer with a compelling style. She can make you laugh, cry and get turned on and sometimes that is all in one post.
Over the years Pandora Blake’s blog has changed and evolved alongside their own personal and professional evolution. As a result the content currently reflects their extensive work on fighting porn censorship in the UK and their blog is a hugely valuable resource for both those producing adult content and those consuming it not just in the UK but worldwide.
Damn can this woman write a short story! Her blog is a mixture of reviews, personal essays and fiction and it is all extremely well written but her story telling is some of the best around and why she has not published an anthology of sexy wicked stories is a mystery to me.
Kendra is one of the blogs which I was reading even before I started blogging. In fact she is a very small group of bloggers who definitely had a role to play in inspiring me to start my own blog. Over the years her story has been complex, difficult and inspirational and she has shared it all on her blog in her perfectly candid style.
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 #101 Start with the rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
When The Engineer and I visited Ireland this summer, I had my heart set on taking a ferry out to the Aran Islands and renting bicycles. We didn’t know how long it would take us to drive to the ferry terminal in the morning, so we arrived early; sitting in the car, waiting for boarding time to come and not wanting to go out earlier than we had to on a very windy day, we started kissing to stay warm.
The Engineer has these super luscious lips; he uses an obscene amount of chapstick, which means they’re always soft. On this particular morning, as he was kissing me – long, lingering kisses – I started thinking about the way his lips feel brushing against my labia, and suddenly my cunt felt slippery and warm. When I told him as much, he took it as an invitation and unbuttoned my jeans, sliding his hand down the front and into my cotton panties; he rhythmically glided his fingers up and over my clit, then down and into my cunt juuust a little bit. As he continued to touch me slowly and steadily – just the way I like it – the windows started to steam up, and I leaned into his touch.
Several people passed by; our car was right in the middle of the car park, and I had zero fucks to give. I got up on my knees on the passenger seat and put my hand on his shoulder, grinding into his huge hand and begging him not to stop. The part of my brain that says “Have an orgasm now AT ALL COSTS” completely ignored the time and the people walking to and fro all around the car until I felt myself tipping over and gushing onto his hand; still kissing him, I breathed my climax into him and gripped his shoulder tight. When I looked around the car to see all the windows completely fogged up, I laughed and thought, “Well, at least we’re not completely visible.”
We did make it to the ferry on time, only to find out that the waves were too high for it to run that day; fine by us, we said, and held hands on the way back to the car, chatting about potential ways to occupy our time.
It’s late November; I’m sitting upstairs in a Starbucks reading a long, dry textbook chapter, and Billie Holliday’s version of “All of Me” comes on. I try to focus on the text, but when I stare down at the page, the black marks swim and crash against each other until I have to close my eyes. I remember you gliding your hand up my right arm, pressing my palm into the cabin wall while biting my neck. You reach behind my shoulder with your other hand to untie my bikini string; the top falls from my breasts and you yank it down, taking your left hand off my right and sliding your fingers into my wet hair. I still feel your muscular arms wrapped around me, picking me up to wrap my legs around you and pressing me harder into the rough wood so you can penetrate me, banging me against the wall with all the force of youth’s desperate wanting. I try to find something to hang onto, but you tell me you’ve got me; I don’t need to put my hands anywhere but around your neck. You sink your grip deep into the flesh of my flanks and find a way to get deeper into me, tasting lake algae in my kisses and hearing me whimper into your ear as I come hard onto you, making sure no one outside hears us. There won’t be campers until the next day, so we spend all night tangled together, listening to Billie Holliday’s love songs on the cabin’s CD player.
I’m driving through Death Valley on a long stretch of empty highway, looking around at colorful rock strata and abandoned mines, and “Shameless” by Garth Brooks comes on the radio, crackling because I’m so far out. I think of another highway in another state; of tall firs and stars. We’re in your 1981 Ford pickup, and this song – our song – comes on the radio. You pull over, shut off the engine, and ask me to dance. With my window rolled down, we can hear the song loud and clear; I have my hand on your shoulder, caressing your neck with my fingertips, and you have your hand in the small of my back; I sigh, feeling connected and safe. Mid-dance, you reach under my skirt to slide my panties down under my dress and over my flip flops, flinging them through the window. You return your hand to my back and touch me with the other; still swaying side to side, you take the now-flowing juices from inside of me and lift them up and over my clitoris, clumsily moving your fingers, but still gratifying my easily-satisfied body. After the song, I hop into the truck bed and offer you my hand; you grin and take it, scrambling up. I unzip a sleeping bag and put it down, pushing you onto it and laughing. I take your boots off and unbuckle your belt, then unzip you to find you commando and hard as a rock. I let my dress straps fall over my shoulders, taking them off as I straddle you, and put on your hat. I interlace my fingers with yours and sink onto you, giving you my very best cowgirl. You buck up like a mechanical bull and I stay on for the long ride. The night is black around us, and I still smell pine sap and distant bonfires.
A band at Coachella sings “Billie Jean,” and I remember sneaking off with you at a Halloween party, finding a dark room where we meant to make out but ended up fucking with abandon on a couch. We were too greedy for each other to be careful about not being seen or heard. Too young to be drinking; tipsy with vodka, but soused with oxytocin.
I hear “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by the Temptations in the supermarket and am transported to an intense and steady stare in your eyes across a field of running children; I blush, feeling a taut line between us where everything else fades. I feel a tug on my hand and look down; it’s a seven year-old camper. “Delivery service!” she squeaks, smiling big with a couple of teeth missing. I pop the balloon handed to me and take out a piece of paper that reads, “I want to make you come so many times that you beg for mercy.” I stuff the paper in my pocket and blush deeper, trying to will my nipples to deflate, feeling an uncomfortable and warm gush in my knickers. “Mercy,” I mouth to you, and you salute me.
At karaoke one night, someone gets up to sing “Faithfully” by Journey. I deeply inhale and think about the last time we kissed, slow dancing at the Bear’s Den in front of your bros, multi-colored lights flashing around us. You had a girlfriend, but that had never stopped us on either side. I listen to the lyrics – “Being apart ain’t easy on this love affair / two strangers learn to fall in love again / I get the joy of rediscovering you / oh girl, you stand by me – I’m forever yours, faithfully” – and reminisce about the promise of love, the consequences of lust, and the fact that there are some people you never stop wanting no matter how much time has passed.
This piece was inspired by an erotica writing contest over at @EA_unadorned’s site; he came up with a brilliant set of writing prompts based on song lyrics. Please check out not only the prompt page, but his site in general!
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 #100 Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!