The Sensuous Libertine

An Apology to Cherrie, and Finis

2007-10-09T21:27:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I faced challenges in my relationship with Cherrie which I failed miserably to surmount. Throughout our life together, I have relied on her assistance and support in dealing with crises large and small, as she has looked for mine, which have not been as constant or comprehensive.

As a result of my poor judgment and lack of sensitivity to her emotional needs, I have caused her enormous anger, pain and anxiety. My failure to communicate with her, to exercise ordinary common sense and to care for her needs instead of pursuing my own pleasure was inexcusable. The events left her hurt, depressed, deeply scarred and very scared of the future.

I am particularly sorry for my inability to follow much of the advice she and I have provided here over the months. The constant message of this blog has been to treat others with dignity, consideration and respect, and my failure to do this for the woman I love has made me a traitor to our own words, collapsing whatever trust she had in me. The blog was never meant to cause anyone harm, and I am deeply sorry that it has done that here.

We have agreed not to reveal details of these events, and I am making this apology public only as a first step in attempting to mend the damage I caused in our relationship. This may well prove to be impossible, but she is more important to me than anything else in my life and I will do anything I can to restore some semblance of her trust and confidence in me, even if our love cannot be repaired.

I am very sorry for the pain I have caused, Cherrie.

As a result of this crisis, we are unable to continue publishing our blogs, and they will be deleted from Blogger within a short time. We want to thank all of the readers and commenters who have found the blogs to be sources of entertainment, education or both over the past year and a half. I leave you with this last bit of advice: take good care of those closest to you, no matter what temptations you face. They are the ones most likely to be hurt by your actions, and the ones whom you can least afford to hurt.

Hardin

Headin' Out

2007-09-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

Deodorant, razors, toothbrushes, toothpaste. Yes, we have all of those.

Boxers, T-shirts, socks, bras and panties. We’ll need a lot, so stuff them in.

Sweaters, polos, shirts of all kinds. How cold or warm will it be? The weather is in transition, so it’s difficult to say. Plan to dress in layers, that makes sense.

Nice pants, O.K. pants, nice jeans, worn, beat-up jeans. Well, maybe not the beat-up ones. We want to look good.

Shoes. Now here’s a dilemma. They take up so much room. We’ll be outside a lot and it’s probably going to rain, so a sturdy pair of walking shoes is a must. But Cherrie should bring some sexy shoes as well, since we’ll be going out to dinner. Will they fit in her case? They may have to go in mine.

Vibrators, corsets, thigh-highs and feather boas. We can’t live without these!

As you can tell, we’re packing to take a trip. And not just any trip. About a year ago Cherrie learned about a small-scale architecture and vineyard tour of France. She was intrigued by it and asked if we could go to celebrate thirty years of living together. Initially I was less than enthusiastic, but she won me over (she can be very persuasive when she wants to be, particularly when I am enjoying her feminine charms). And so we signed up for this excursion.

When we learned about the detailed travel arrangements, we found that we would be traveling on British Airways through Heathrow. That gave us an idea. Through this blog we had made friends with a number of people living in England. Why shouldn’t we just extend our stay and ask a few of them if they want to meet us in person? Some of them did, and we carefully made the arrangements over the summer.

Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, we’re not approaching these meetings with the expectation that they will culminate in orgies. Sex blogging is powered by lust and desire, but the people we are meeting have long since become good friends with whom we can discuss and share every aspect of our lives. This is our opportunity to see their faces and show our faces to them, and to give the friendships a chance to transition from virtual to real.

But if we find ourselves in a situation where we all desire to go farther, who knows what might happen?

We apologize in advance for not fitting more of you into our itinerary. There are other bloggers in England we’d love to meet, but we decided early on to limit ourselves to just a few on this trip to prevent the meetings from being just “hi” and “bye.” In the U.S. employees usually start out with two weeks’ vacation. With a new job at the beginning of this year, that’s all Cherrie gets, and we’ve packed this period quite full. We may just come back to visit the rest of you later.

We decided not to bring a laptop. Our first thought was to record our experiences here as we accumulated them, but we would rather spend as much time as we can immersing ourselves in these foreign (to us) surroundings. Besides, the baggage allowance on the tour bus is rather stingy.

For the two weeks after tomorrow, the plan is to post short blog entries intermittently just to let you know we’re still alive. We’ll have to use whatever computers we can find in our hotels and in Internet cafes to do that, and since we don’t know how available these will be we can’t predict our posting schedule in advance. We’ve found that Technorati helps us keep track of when other bloggers put up new posts, and if you aren’t using this or a similar service you may want to give it a try. It saves a lot of time.

We’ll try to preload a couple of HNT entries for posting while we are gone, since we know how much you like these. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to load photos we take while on the trip, but I am hoping to have a chance to shoot many new photos of the lovely Cherrie in our hotels to share with you later.

When we return home, we’ll be suspending our usual rotation of subjects to give you detailed accounts of our journey, day by day. We’ll have many photographs to show you, too.

Right now, though, I need to finish packing. Where are those euros and pounds I bought? I should take all the credit cards I won’t need out of my wallet. Find the umbrellas. Copy the passports, and make sure everyone on this end has copies of the itinerary and phone numbers where we can (hopefully) be reached.

Oh, and grab the airline tickets. I almost forgot.

Cherrie's Friday Positions--The Charitable Deception

2007-09-21T22:51:00.000-07:00

Come on, admit it. At some time in the past you’ve probably faked an orgasm. Polls show that some 70% of American woman say they have.

If you’re a woman, maybe your partner had body odor or bad breath you didn’t know about when you agreed to go to bed with him/her. Maybe he or she was crushing you against the mattress in the missionary position. Maybe you suddenly developed an overwhelming hunger for a bean burrito.

More likely, your lover is not handling your clitoris in a way that gets you off. Many studies have shown that the surest way for a woman to achieve orgasm is through stimulation of the clit, often manually or orally. Penetration with a penis doesn’t always do it.

If you’re a man, maybe the woman beneath is doing some little thing that annoys you, like snorting her breath through her nose. Maybe she began talking about painting the garage or cleaning out the gutters the next Saturday. Maybe you’re beginning to go soft because you’re just not into the moment as much as she is, and the big game will be on in a few minutes.

Whatever the reason, you care enough about the other person that you don’t want to hurt his or her precious psyche by stopping sex abruptly. So you fake an orgasm. You know what you do when you have a real one, and you just imitate the sounds and movements of yourself cumming accurately enough to make it convincing. Hopefully you can coordinate your chicanery with your partner’s real orgasm, distracting him or her from your ersatz moans and sighs.

If you were wired into a brain scanner, though, your jig might have been up. Researchers at the University of Groningen in the Netherlands found in a 2005 study that certain parts of the brain deactivate when a woman experiences orgasm. The cortex, seat of consciousness, shuts down during orgasm, but remains active without one. Similarly, areas of the brain that generate fear quiet down when a woman cums, but keep functioning if the woman is faking.

The study involved 19 couples. The women actually stuck their heads in a brain scanner while their partners attempted to stimulate them to an orgasm manually. “Women can imitate orgasm quite well,” researcher Gert Holstege told the 2005 meeting of the European Society of Human Reproduction and Embryology, “but there is nothing really happening in the brain.” He continued by observing that the temporary shutting down of the cortex and other key brain areas “might be the most important thing necessary to have an orgasm. It means that if you are fearful or at a very high level of anxiety, then it is very difficult to have sex because you really have to let yourself go.”

Prof. Holstege’s advice to men seeking real orgasmic bliss: “When you want to make love to a woman, you must give her the feeling of being protected.” This helps put her at ease and allows the conscious parts of the brain, and the parts that induce fear, to deactivate and permit her sensations of pleasure to reign.

If you don’t have the scanner handy, you can look for some of the other clues that no orgasm has taken place. Orgasm occurs when the muscles surrounding the female genitalia began to contract involuntarily. When the woman looks and sounds like she’s cumming but the man feels no tightening around his cock, that’s a strong indication of a fake.

Another physical trait to watch for is the condition of the woman’s breasts. If they are swelling slightly and flushing with blood, and if the nipples are erect, the woman is becoming aroused sexually and getting on the pathway to paradise. Fingernails digging into your back, thrashing and shuddering limbs, short, panting breaths, and incoherent yelling, screaming and swearing are all orgasm indicators. If you don’t see any behavior falling in these categories, an orgasm probably didn’t occur.

Finally, after sex most post-orgasmic women have a strong urge to cuddle with their lovers. If the woman pops up out of bed a few minutes after supposedly cumming and begins to take down the drapes for cleaning, she didn’t experience that post-orgasm spurt of oxytocin from the hypothalamus that would make her want to bond and settle down, if only for a few minutes, with her mate.

Men have a more difficult time looking like they came but didn’t. That’s because, obviously, the man’s goods are exposed and on display in the typical case where he chooses not to cum while penetrating. But the man can pull out and stroke his erection in a way that hides the fact he is not ejaculating. If he’s wearing a rubber, particularly an opaque one, the deception is that much easier.

Is faking unbecoming or disrespectful? That’s a difficult question, and it may depend on the context. If you are trying to please your partner when you’re not completely into the moment—which can happen from time to time—enhancing his or her pleasure by appearing to get off is far more considerate and romantic, I think, then grunting “Are you done? Then get off!” But if your mate is genuinely trying to scale the peak of arousal, it’s only fair to help him or her get up the grade as far as you can possibly go.

When you’re finished with your act, even if you’re ready to go to sleep or eager to do something else, please take a moment to hug, caress and cuddle with your partner. Orgasms can be faked, but your affection should never be.

Cherrie's HNT--A Passionate Election

2007-09-19T21:52:00.000-07:00

I did say I was going to tally up the votes for last week’s HNT over the weekend, didn’t I? Man, this blogging is unforgiving! I just didn’t get to it, and by the time I was ready to sit down and do it I thought “well, let’s wait till Thursday since she is going to be gone on a business trip till Wednesday night and not in a mood to pose for new pictures.” And I was right about that—she’s sound asleep in bed.

So, here are the results of the vote for your favorite pic of Cherrie involving a feather boa::

4 got exactly one vote—count ‘em—from the forever sexy Kitty, who breathlessly wrote that Cherrie is wearing less to take off than the other pictures! Well, Kitty, I have to agree that it takes a bit of effort to unhook all those eyelets on a corset. But then they leave all the good parts within easy access, so why bother?

5 attracted 3½ votes. Not2shy liked “the hat and the shoes, but especially the fishnets” (fencenets, actually) and remarked “that she still has that little bit of boa between her legs.” I agree; those dark red satin platforms are hot and that’s a sexy place to let the tail of a boa languish for a few seconds. Marasgal, who has admired Cherrie from afar for most of the life of this blog, wrote “Cherrie will know why that one is probably my favorite.” Yes, I like it too, Marasgal, but tell us more. Alfie said that shot was going to be copied into his private archives. Which causes me to think that we’ve probably published some 250 HNT shots over the past year and a half. Who’s copied the most from them?

1 brought in 4½ votes. Eve was torn between 1, 3 and 4, but decided to go with 1 because it is “most striking” and “the lighting is just right.” I hate to admit it, Eve, but 1 was taken with our little point-and-shoot digital with its built-in flash. Ali thought “the silver corset, the gloves, the piano and the straightness of Cherrie's position infer an age from long ago” when women coyly shielded their sexuality, lending “a certain sense of 'naughtiness' in this photo that I love.” Yes, Cherrie is naughty in ways that Britney Spears, for example, can only dream of! Mike & Eva agreed, commenting “1 is a very classic setting, boa, net panty, the piano, just a good view of Cherrie's breast lines,” while Tom’s Cock Whore shouted “LOVE IT!”

The vote turned into a spirited battle between 2 and 3, with 3 losing just a bit of steam at 8 votes. Jford remarked “love the colors of the negligee and boa, and the stunning view of an even more stunning figure.” Jackie Adshead wrote “I adore turquoise and the colour compliments Cherrie’s lovely golden skin colour so well, I especially like it as she looks like her breasts are just about to fall out of the negligee!!!” (See, Kitty, lacy, sexy things can be such fun!) Loving Annie left a fiery hot comment: 3 “reminds me of an advertisement in 'Trashy Lingerie' - erotic, luscious, tasteful yet you want to rip the teddy off and DO IT like a bunny rabbit cause Cherrie looks so voluptuously hot!!!!”

But you all liked 2 the best, giving it 10 votes. Blissfully Wed told us “that smile (among other things) is just about the most infectious and beautiful thing I've seen all morning.” Miss Understood, Vi, Rosie, My Fiancee is Hot and Just Me chose 2 because it “shows her incredible smile.” Peggy enthusiastically wrote “I LOVE LOVE LOVE that picture where I can see your smile!!! What a fun picture- and it very much changed my mental image of you!” For the better, Peggy, we hope!

Thanks to everyone for participating! And as an added treat, I’m posting another shot from the day #2 was taken. Enjoy!

Does Stability Defeat Sexuality?

2007-09-18T21:53:00.004-07:00

What happens to sexual intensity as a relationship ages?

In a 2006 study that, for some reason, has been written up in the popular press only recently, Dr. Dietrich Klusman, a psychologist at the Institute of Medical Psychology, University Clinic Hamburg-Eppendorf in Germany, and his staff interviewed 530 men and women about their sexual appetites. The results confirmed the stereotypes many of us probably have.

Among 30 to 45-year-old women, Dr. Klusman’s team found that 60% who reported being in the first few months after establishing a relationship wanted sex with their partners “often.” Less than half of the women who had been with their men for four years desired frequent sex, and only 20% of the females with twenty-year relationships were still hot for their mates.

Men, by contrast, tend to have strong and constant sex drives. Sixty to eighty percent of men said they wanted sex “often,” regardless of how long ago their relationships began.

A sampling of 60-year-olds found that the males were far more motivated to have sex than the females, while a previous survey of college students confirmed that women’s interest in sex fell off the longer the relationship continued.

Dr. Klusman posited that evolutionary factors account for the differences between the sexes. A possible reason for men’s “sexual motivation to remain constant would be to guard against being cuckolded by another male.” But a moment’s thought reveals that reasoning to be circular. If men weren’t so horny, they wouldn’t have to worry about other males stealing their women.

The doctor struggled to explain why women’s interest in sex falls off as a relationship ages. He suggested that women make themselves available for sex early on to establish a “pair bond” with the man, encouraging him to share his resources. Implicit in this explanation is the assumption that males have more resources to share, which is often but not universally true in recorded history. But once the man has formed the habit of giving the woman a share of the meat he kills and cleans, she figures she no longer has to “pay” for it in sex.

Another academic, evolutionary psychologist George Fieldman from Buckinghamshire Chilterns University College, offered an explanation that is just a bit less unconvincing. “The rationale for why a woman's sex drive declines,” Prof. Fieldman said, “may be down to supply and demand. If something is in infinite supply, the perceived value would drop.” In other words, if a cock is readily available to a woman, she won’t be as excited to enjoy it. But I know of many long-standing couples that enjoy sex as much now as they did when they first got together—if not more.

I’m not sure what to make of this study. It’s hard for me to believe that just one out of five women in long-term relationships hunger after sex. Maybe it’s because the woman I live with is still horny—at least when she is not overwhelmed with other activities as she is now—after over 30 years. Even menopause, with its hormonal changes increasing the chances of vaginal dryness and irritation, probably won’t stop 80% of women from getting it on.

Does a woman’s interest in sex decline as she realizes sex could mean childbirth, a difficult experience and huge responsibility? Is she just too tired to express herself sexually after a day of working and/or child care? Do media images of trim, fit, young women cause mature women to question their attractiveness? Or are they turned off by men who become sedentary, consuming chips, nachos and beer from a recliner as they take in the “Big Game"?

Perhaps another round of interviews will shed light on the real reasons so many women lose interest in sex the longer they remain in a stable relationship.

Memory Monday--Porno Papers

2007-09-17T19:46:00.000-07:00

As I sorted through the storage shed in our backyard this weekend, a box came tumbling down from the stacks of forgotten material, spilling its contents on the floor. Startled, I stopped what I was doing and stared at the ghostly, grainy black and white image of a smiling nude woman staring back from the pulp-paper publications piled against my feet. Wow, I thought.

I’d found my stash of “porno papers.” I hadn’t seen these for years.

Many years ago, I traveled to California frequently on business. This meant many a long night alone in a hotel room. A long, horny night.

This was years before anyone with a computer and high-speed access could enjoy adult entertainment streaming over the Internet. It was before X-rated videotapes and cable channels. I could have found a prostitute in L.A.—I knew where to look—but my employer would not be impressed if I was unlucky enough to be arrested for picking up a cop in disguise, and I didn’t want to have sex with a woman who was carrying a disease. I could have gone to a movie theater showing adult films, but those were usually in questionable neighborhoods, and who could predict what I might find sitting next to me. Besides, it was risky to relieve sexual tension in these semi-public surroundings, as Paul Reubens (Pee Wee Herman) found out several years later.

But in Los Angeles and, to a lesser extent, Northern California during the Seventies and early Eighties, suitable wanking material was usually close at hand. Clustered around most street corners, next to the vending boxes for the Los Angeles Times, were several other newspaper boxes displaying the more lurid fare of the Hollywood Press, the L.A. Star, Impulse and His and Hers. For just fifty cents, you could open the creaky Plexiglas cover of the box, grab a copy of one of these crude but sexy papers and steal back to your room to let your fantasies run wild.

What would I imagine doing tonight? Hot, raw sex? Getting a blow job? Laying my cock between a sweet pair of breasts? Anal? A threesome? An orgy? These weekly tabloids were much less inhibited than the glossy likes of Playboy and Penthouse, where Bob Guccione was making history by showing his models’ pubic hair. Everything was fair game in the porno papers: spread pussies, hard cocks, couples fucking and women making out with each other. Truly a cafeteria of lust for the horny voyeur.

How was the writing? Judge for yourself by this sample from the “reader written” His and Hers, probably the hottest of the bunch:

When I got to her house, I was met at the door with a very long, wet kiss and our hands were busy feeling each other’s bodies. Well, we didn’t waste any time. We went into the bedroom and undressed bare-ass naked. We lay on the bed side by side. I began to trail my wet tongue all over her body. She turned so we could get in a 69 position.

We ate each other for a good three hard climaxes. I was starting to shoot my wad. She turned around and took my 7” cock and rubbed it over the lips of her blonde cunt. Then she squatted over it and slowly lowered her sweet snatch onto my throbbing cock. Her cunt was so tight, I just knew I was going to cum soon.

She rode my cock like she hadn’t had any in years. She was rocking and sucking my cock with her sweet cunt. I could feel her juicy cunt gripping my cock with every cunt muscle she had.

She came two more beautiful times and I could feel my cock starting to boil. I told her I wanted to enter her from behind and cum. She quickly got on her hands and knees. After positioning myself, I entered her dripping cunt all the way to the hilt. I could feel my balls slapping against the top of her cunt. She begged be to fuck her hard and fast.

I was pumping with all the strength I had and she was cumming and grinding her lovely ass against my love stick. I was pumping so fast that my cock came out of her cunt. Before either of us could react, I had driven my cock all the way up that lovely ass of hers. We froze for a minute with my cock all up her ass and her tight grip on my cock.

She said she had always wanted to try it but was a little scared. So we took our time, then we both started moving faster and faster. Finally, I started feeling my load racing to the top. She said she was about to cum and ground hard on my cock. She started yelling when my jism started to flood her lovely ass. She milked every drop of fluid out of my cock before we fell apart.

After we came back to normal we noticed that we weren’t alone. Her husband was standing in the doorway, jacking off. But that’s another story.

No, that prose won’t win any awards, but it was more than enough to induce me to a heaving, erupting orgasm when I needed it the most.

Did women buy these papers? Could it be that, on one of my trips, I just missed a lonely woman who put two quarters in the cashbox and stole away in the dark to enjoy an evening of masturbation and fantasy? What if we had met and, after laughing over our embarrassing predicament, decided to quench each other’s blazing desires in the privacy of my hotel room?

Now that’s a memory I wish I had.

Cherrie's Friday Positions--Multiple Orgasms

2007-09-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

Hey, everyone! It’s Cherrie! I’m alive and well, even though I haven’t been able to blog or visit you lately. We are putting on ten performances of our play this week and next (ending September 23), which means that five times a week I am putting makeup on the actors and actresses and combing and pinning their hair, or making sure other volunteers are doing that. I’m working my usual 50-60 hours at my job as well. This has left very little time for you, unfortunately. Hardin has been nice enough to fill in for me here, and I hope he’s been entertaining you—even though he’s been really late in getting his posts up!

In the meantime, we continue to receive your E-mails, and we love getting them! I got a special request from Nic, one of my readers, to include one of his cock pics in my blog. Here you go, Nic! The picture is even somewhat related to the following entry from Hardin, which I hope you enjoy! Now, back to the facepaint . . .

If experiencing orgasm is the ultimate goal of sex, experiencing more than one orgasm must be even better. We can tell you, from our personal experience, that it is!

We’re not suggesting that everyone can bounce from orgasm to orgasm at will. The cataclysmic climax is the statistical norm, with the pattern being similar for both sexes. During the excitement phase, blood flows to the genitals, engorging the vulva and erecting the penis, and the vagina begins to secrete its lubricating fluid. The plateau phase is the technical term for what most people would call “fucking.” With the cock thrusting in and out of the moist, slick pussy, both partners enjoy the sensations of coitus, the man’s testes enlarging and retracting toward his body while the partners’ breathing becomes short and labored.

If everything goes well, the lovers eventually reach the orgasm phase. In the woman, clitoral stimulation causes the muscles in the pubic area to contract involuntarily, causing pleasurable impulses to flow from the genitals to the brain. In the man, there are two steps to the orgasm experience. Much of the man’s pleasure comes from the emission phase, when muscle contractions cause the sperm and seminal fluid to be expelled into the bulb of the urethra. In the ejaculation phase, contractions of the prostate, perinial muscles and penile shaft cause the semen to shoot up the length of the cock and spurt out the tip.

After the typical “big bang” orgasm, the body enters the fourth phase of sexual activity, the refractory phase. This is the part of the cycle where sexual excitement fades and the body returns to normal. In a woman, the blood flows from the vulva to the rest of the body, the muscles in the genital region relax and the nipples may lose their rigidity. In a man, the erection droops and the testes descend to their normal position. In both, the sex organs may be sensitive to the touch, making renewed stimulation painful.

Studies indicate about 13% of women are able to recreate the orgasmic experience within a fairly short time—that is, experience multiple orgasms. In women, the refractory phase is generally shorter than in men, meaning that the clitoris and vagina are ready for more action sooner. Some of these lucky women drop from orgasm back to the plateau phase before reaching another peak with continued stimulation. Others—Cherrie is one of them—can cum and cum and cum with barely a break in between.

If you are a “one and done” woman who wants to experience multiple orgasms, you can try several techniques. The primary tactic is to have your partner stop thrusting or otherwise stimulating you for 10 to 15 seconds after you cum before starting anew. Of course, this requires clear communication between the woman and her lover—he or she needs to know when the woman cums, and he needs to be aroused enough to maintain his erection during her rest period so that he can continue fucking her when she is ready. Kissing your man and telling him what a great fuck he is helps a lot here, ladies.

Another alternative is to enjoy cunnilingus before fucking. According to Susan Crain Bakos, author of the 1996 book Sexational Secrets, “for most women, the most successful way to have multiple orgasms is to receive oral sex before having intercourse.” A woman who reaches a peak while being orally stimulated by her lover will have a short period of rest while the lover pulls away and repositions to insert the penis (or dildo), and that may be enough to recharge her batteries.

Fitness, particularly aerobic capacity, is a huge factor. Sex is a physical activity, and to hit the orgasmic peak more than once you need to be in good shape. It’s also critical for the woman’s mind to be completely into the moment. This is one reason why pussy-eating is such an effective preliminary to genital sex: the woman receiving the oral attention is free to concentrate on her own pleasure without being concerned about kissing or touching her partner, and that usually relaxes her enough to obtain maximum enjoyment from the cock or dong when it’s inserted.

For men, it’s more difficult to achieve multiple orgasms, because the refractory period is longer and more intense. But it can be achieved; a 1995 Rutgers University study documented one young stud who enjoyed six ejaculations in 36 minutes! The classic method for the rest of us is to stall excitation at the emission phase without ejaculating. This takes practice, since ejaculation is an involuntary response that normally follows emission within seconds.

Consciously contracting the pubococcygeal muscle when the sensation of orgasm begins works for some men. This causes the contractions of the ejaculation phase to stop, allowing the man to drop back to the plateau phase and, after a momentary break, resume thrusting. Men can practice this technique when watching pornography or doing anything else that’s arousing. Just squeeze the PC muscle as if you were stopping your stream of pee when urinating when you feel that first flush of pleasure. It may take some practice to get the timing down, and you may need to strengthen the muscle through Kegel exercises—rhythmically contracting and relaxing the PC in a non-sexual context.

I must admit that, although I employ this technique to extend the pleasure for lovers who want more stimulation (and most of them do), I find that it results in orgasms that are weaker and less satisfying than the ones I have when I just let my cannon boom. Another technique some men employ is to press inward on the perineum as the emission phase begins. This, however, can open the bladder sphincter and cause the semen to flow into the bladder, a condition known as retrograde ejaculation, which defeats the purpose. Also, it’s difficult for either partner to get a hand down there when bodies are entangled in a sexual embrace. Finally, repeated pressure can result in damage to the nerves and blood vessels that are critical to the man’s ability to achieve erection and enjoy sex.

Can a man achieve multiple orgasms through drugs? Some studies blame the refractory period on the brain’s release of the hormone prolactin at orgasm. The drug Cabergoline, developed to inhibit the production of prolactin in persons with Parkinson’s disease, may be effective as an aid to achieving multiple orgasms as well. One study involved 60 men between the ages of 22 and 31 in Germany. These men normally needed a break of 19 minutes after an orgasm to achieve another one. However, after taking Cabergoline, they were able to have several orgasms within a few minutes.

Unfortunately, use of this drug causes negative side effects in many patients, including nausea, sleep problems and elevated blood pressure, and has not been approved for sex enhancement. If these problems can be controlled in some way, though, men may be able to take a “go all night” pill in the future.

Imagine that: take a pill and achieve multiple orgasm bliss! But if you can’t wait, try the other techniques mentioned here to prolong the pleasure of orgasm.

Cherrie's HNT--Once More, With Boas

2007-09-12T22:14:00.000-07:00

Good evening, pleasure seekers! It's Hardin, your host for this week. Cherrie has been very busy with her play. She has to make up and fix hair for the actresses during six shows in the five days starting today, plus working well over eight hours at her regular job on the weekdays. Unfortunately, she's just not up to posing for a new HNT shoot this week. In fact, she's sound asleep, getting ready for the next hectic day.

But we can't let Thursday go by without an HNT contribution. Fortunately, the photo vault contains many views of my favorite sexy lady during more relaxed times.

Back on July 26 we published five photos of Cherrie's breasts and asked you, the readers, to vote for your favorite. You did, and I think everyone had fun with the election. At the end, our friend and favorite erotic artist, Jackie Adshead, suggested that we conduct another contest, offering photos of Cherrie wearing feather boas for your approbation.

A capital idea, Jackie! Cherrie has loved theater and theatricality as long as I have known her--can it really be nearly 40 years? She has used feather boas to arouse her love mates, and herself, ever since we started having sex. While we don't have as many boas as you see in the picture above, there are quite a few stashed in plastic bags in a storage box underneath the bed, just waiting to drape themselves over the ample curves of her voluptuous body.

The rules are the same: Here are five pictures of Cherrie wrapped in a feather boa. You can vote for your favorite by E-mail (see our profile for the link) or by commenting here. Tell me which one you like best, and why. (Split votes are acceptable!) Later I'll total up your ballots and share your observations.

1. Cherrie at the keyboard--what a splendid sight, wrapped in her white and purple boa and wearing her silver corset with fencenet thigh-highs. If she could play as well as she looks good, think of how many records we'd sell. (All right, iTunes--I know it's 2007!) But maybe it's fortunate that's not the case. Otherwise, our humble home would be besieged by paparazzi.

2. Cherrie is definitely at her happiest when she is rested and nearly if not completely nude. If memory serves, we decided to come in and do this HNT shoot about a year ago, after she had a session in the backyard nude spot to get rid of her tan lines. Unfortunately for her, this man kept climbing on top of her for some mellow outdoor sex. She finally had to wrestle him on his back and mount him reverse cowgirl to catch some rays. No wonder she's smiling!

3. We're almost Halfway to St. Patty's Day, a uniquely American holiday thought up by our local brewers a few years ago to spike consumption of beer during the otherwise slow month of September. In the spirit of that contrived holiday, I offer this portrait of Cherrie wearing a green lace negligee with her green-and-white boa. Yes, I know the greens don't match exactly, but work with me here. Isn't that bod of hers incredible? How would you like to have her crawling on top of you, wearing this, as you lie on the mattress, relaxed except for that one all-important retractable appendage you carry around if you're a man? I think I know the answer.

4. Feather boas aren't just for wearing to call attention to the female form. They have practical uses as well. You can employ them in a variety of ways to stimulate the female--by brushing them softly against exposed breasts, allowing them to drape across her shoulders, and using them to arouse her genitalia, as Cherrie demonstrates here. Ladies, what could be more sublime than stimulating the clitoris with the slightest touch of a thousand soft, sensual feathers?

5. The whole package wrapped in a boa. The broad-brimmed hat concealing Cherrie's face from view, adding to the mystery she has created through this blog. The platform high-heel sandals, wrapped in red satin. The sexy fishnets. And, of course, the red and purple boa to tie the look together. Lying on the bed, no less. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to open this package up.

Leave your votes and come back this weekend to find out which image our readers liked best!

"Can't Stand Being Lonely"

2007-09-11T06:33:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Miss Understood for pointing me toward the blog of What Doesn’t Kill You, or WDKY. He recently linked to a BBC documentary called “Guys and Dolls,” focusing on the relationships some men have developed with realistic female dolls (http://wdkylondon.blogspot.com).

I’m not going to review the program, which you can watch for yourself (it runs about 46 minutes). The subject of sex with dolls and animatronic robots is something we’ve already covered in our blog (see our entries for November 28 and 29, 2006). In fact, the dolls featured in the BBC program are nowhere near the state of the art. As we wrote last year, a programmable cyborg that can have sex like a real human is easily within the capability of science and industry to produce.

Instead, I want to comment on one aspect of the program, which is the reason some of the featured men gave for buying these expensive mannequins. That is the inability of some people—probably many people—to achieve or maintain one or more stable relationships with others that include a sexual component.

Through blogging and in our everyday lives, we’ve come to know quite a few who have difficulty connecting with potential partners. The reasons, to the extent we know about them, are diverse, but there are some common threads.

Many people who are alone, it seems to us, have low self-esteem. This stems from several factors. Often these people don’t feel they measure up to what others want. They think they are too old, too thin, too heavy or too unattractive. And they fear rejection, which may be the most universal fear of humanity, except for death.

Sometimes one or more failed relationships enter into the mix. Establishing a bond with someone, especially a sexual bond, makes you extremely vulnerable. If you find you cannot trust that person—he/she hurts you when you don’t want to be hurt, reveals your confidences to others, establishes new relationships that exclude you in some way—you are less likely to extend your own trust to the next one that comes along.

The third reason is an inability to relate to other people. Any relationship is an exercise in compromise. Two individuals are naturally going to have different ideas about what they want to do at any given time: one wants to go to the beach, the other to the theater; one wants to go out for Italian food, the other for Chinese; one wants sex while the other isn’t interested at the moment.

Some people are able to accommodate each other’s desires: we’ll have Italian tonight, and go out for Chinese next week. Others see dark, sinister undertones in disagreements like these: he/she doesn’t want to do this because he/she doesn’t like me or is rejecting me. Sometimes that’s true, more often not, we think, but too many thoughts like that can poison any coupling.

The men in the documentary, to varying degrees, found that inanimate love dolls solve these problems. The dolls don’t care what you look like. They will wear whatever you want them to wear. They will have sex whenever you want it. They will never reject you.

Is that enough to make up for the fact that the dolls will never speak to you, will never care for you when you are sick, and will never demonstrate any sort of creative spark in bed?

And if you answered these questions “no,” would you change your mind when truly realistic androids programmed to perform any sex act you can imagine become available?

Memory Monday--Karina's Surprise

2007-09-10T06:47:00.000-07:00

She was slender, with small breasts and a slim but well-defined ass. Her arms were long and thin, birdlike in their profile. Her complexion was dark, almost olive in hue, with broad red lips framing slightly uneven teeth. Her eyes were as black as a November night.

Her name was Karina. And she was a hippie.

Or rather, she aspired to be a hippie. She hadn’t moved from our suburban locale to San Francisco to drop out of society. She wasn’t dropping acid, at least as far as I could tell. She wasn’t even smoking up, or keeping any pot around the house. I think her father would have had serious problems if he caught her doing that.

But she dressed the part. Tie-dyed T-shirts. Low-rise bell-bottom jeans that were always dirty around the cuffs and showed off a hint of buttcrack when she sat down. Often a headband around her long, black hair. Leather sandals in the summer, wooden Swedish clogs when it got cold.

And she was attracted to me. I can’t explain why.

“Hardin,” she would say meeting me in the hallway at high school, and then launch into a diatribe on whatever issue was moving her at the time. She was quite political, and the Vietnam War provided a constant stream of material for her to riff on. It wasn’t uncommon for her to break off her monologue when she reached her class, starting up right where she left off the next time she found me.

Even though I wasn’t much of a hippie, a bond of friendship began to grow between us. Maybe I resisted her ideas just enough that she was energized by the prospect of a potential debate. Maybe I could see that, under her outspoken and sometimes abrasive manner, she was a young woman with womanly desires, and few inhibitions about achieving them. And that always attracts me.

I began walking her home after school, even though her house was out of my way. One cold afternoon she carefully maneuvered me away from the kitchen window where her mother might be preparing dinner, dropped her books on the grass, embraced me and gave me a tight kiss on the lips.

“I love you, Hardin.” She was in the house before I could react.

Her affection was unconditional. She never waited for me to say that I loved her. I really wasn’t sure I did. But as we began to hug and kiss routinely, I was getting more and more interested in going farther.

One day Karina announced that her parents were flying to Florida for a week and she would be alone in the house. Karina was an only child, and her parents were rather old (they might have been in their 50s, imagine that!). I didn’t need a road map to see where this was going.

The day after her parents left, we walked home from school as usual. Rather than kissing outdoors, Karina said “Come in.” I followed her indoors, watched her throw her books on the kitchen table and then engulf me with an enthusiastic hug and a tongue down my throat.

“Come in my bedroom,” she said breathlessly. “I have to get out of these clothes.”

We kissed again as we entered her room, the walls covered with Janis Joplin posters and antiwar slogans. She looked at me and began talking about how she enjoyed being nude and free, but her parents were too uptight (of course) to let her walk around the house in the raw. As she talked, she began casually dropping her clothes. Off came her T-shirt, revealing a spunky pair of tiny nipples. Down went her jeans, collapsing on the floor in a heap. She kicked her clogs into a corner, her jeans following. All that remained was a pair of white panties with a hole under the elastic.

“I love you. Kiss me.” Karina was nothing if not assertive, and I was not about to resist! My hands gripped her torso as I pulled her toward me, our tongues intertwining lustily. I could feel my cock getting rock hard in my tighty-whiteys.

“We have to hurry up,” she said. She explained that her grandmother would be coming over to have dinner that night, and I could understand that she was not enough of a rebel to want to be caught with a classmate’s cock stuck inside her. But Karina had something else in mind. She reclined on her small bed, peeled off the ratty panties, and began to preen her furry patch.

“Eat me,” she commanded. “Eat my cunt.”

I had never done this before! I had heard her talk about feminism and the tyranny of the penis, and it was apparent she was intent on taking the upper hand in her sexual encounters. I wanted to fuck her, right then, but I was excited enough to give pussy licking a try.

I knelt before her, still fully clothed, and inhaled her musky scent. Her outer lips were dark and sinister; her inner lips a deep pink hue, glistening with her feminine secretions. Thick, curly black hair covered everything. I gently lowered my head, using my fingers to push the hairs back, and delicately extended my tongue to taste her.

“EAT ME!” she snarled, grabbing the back of my head with both hands and pushing my tongue deep in her slot. Recovering from my shock, I began to lick her pussy enthusiastically. I had no idea what I was doing, but from her moans and the rhythmic shaking of her body I seemed to be doing something right. When my tongue reached the top of her slit and began to work her clitoris, she shrieked and arched her back off the mattress, then collapsed into her pillows.

I rose up on all fours, her hot young juice coating my face, watching her breathe shallowly with her eyes closed. After a few long seconds her hand snaked down to her pussy and gently stroked her clit, eliciting one last spasm of pleasure.

“Come on, you’d better get going,” she said as she got up, pointing me to the bathroom across the hall. I washed my face, returned to her room and was received with another deep kiss.

“See you tomorrow, lover,” Karina said as I closed the door.

Lover. That sounded nice.

On the way home I noticed a wet spot growing on my jeans. Looking inside my belt, I saw my now-soft cock covered in white goo. Yes, political discussions with Karina were becoming an enjoyable experience.

Cherrie's Friday Positions--The Orgasm

2007-09-08T22:21:00.000-07:00

What is an orgasm?

During September, Friday Positions will consider this and other topics concerning the sine qua non of sexual activity. We’ve spent several days researching this subject, and the information we’ve found has been utterly fascinating. Most surprising, perhaps, is that medical science does not have a comprehensive answer to this very basic question!

Orgasm is often defined in physiological terms—in other words, what is happening to the organs and muscles of the body. Masters and Johnson, in Sex and Human Loving (1982), wrote that orgasm is “the shortest phase of the sexual response cycle, usually lasting for only a few seconds during which rhythmic muscular contractions produce intense physical sensations followed by rapid relaxation.”

The male orgasm almost always takes a predictable path. In the first stage, the vas deferens (tubes that carry sperm from the testes) and the prostate begin to contract, forcing sperm and seminal fluid to mix in the bulb of the urethra. When this begins to happen, the man reaches the point of ejaculatory inevitability, losing the ability to control the process with his mind. The second stage involves contraction of the urethra and the penis to propel the semen through the length of the erection and (nature intends) into the vagina to impregnate the woman. A male orgasm lasts five to ten seconds, with the most intense sensations coming early in the event and tapering off as the penis ejects the final spurt of semen.

In the female, orgasms are more difficult to define. Typically, the uterus, the lower portion of the vagina and the sphincter muscle began to contract rapidly and involuntarily. The typical interval between contractions is 0.8 seconds, the same as a male’s. The number and strength of contractions varies from woman to woman, and even from orgasm to orgasm in the same woman. Masters and Johnson correlated the intensity of an orgasm with the number of contractions: a “mild orgasm may have only three to five contractions, while an intense orgasm may have ten to fifteen.” During the contractions, the woman enjoys “an intensely pleasurable feeling that usually begins at the clitoris and rapidly spreads throughout the pelvis.”

Scientists have debunked psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud’s assertion that women experience two kinds of orgasm, clitoral and vaginal. Most researchers believe that stimulation of the clitoris is responsible for the female climax, and that nerves connecting the vaginal canal and the clitoris permit a woman to cum during cock-in-pussy sex. But another school of thought sees the G-spot as a second key erogenous zone. Some believe that woman who experience orgasm during anal sex, without stimulation of the clitoris, achieve that when the anally-inserted penis or phallus stimulates the G-spot through the abdominal wall separating the G-spot from the rectum.

But muscles contract and neurons fire all the time. What makes an orgasm compelling goes on inside the brain. And this is where science still has a lot to learn.

One of the foremost researchers in this field is Dr. Barry Komisaruk, a neuropsychologist at Rutgers University. Dr. Komisaruk is the first scientist to scan brains during sexual stimulation in order to find out how our consciousness interacts with our bodies during orgasm. His methodology is interesting: he uses a “calibrated vaginal stimulator” to measure the force women who volunteer for his studies apply to the vaginal wall during their orgasmic contractions. (“Basically,” he conceded to one interviewer, “it’s a dildo.”)

Dr. Komisaruk found that “areas throughout the brain become activated during orgasm,” and that “there is tremendous utilization of oxygen throughout the brain.” In other words, “orgasm is good for the brain.” One area of the brain that becomes most active during sexual stimulation is the paraventricular nucleus, where the hormone oxytocin is produced. Oxytocin is responsible for the muscle contractions that mark orgasm. Also intensely active are the insular and anterior cingulate cortexes, which block perception of pain, and the nucleus accumbens, which also reacts to addictive drugs such as nicotine and cocaine.

Focusing on sexually dysfunctional women, Dr. Komisaruk believes his research might lead to techniques to stimulate activity in these key brain areas during sex to enhance the experience. Women might even be able to do this themselves by watching their brains on scanners as they play with themselves. The doctor, along with colleagues Carlos Beyer-Flores and Beverly Whipple, published his findings in The Science of Orgasm (Johns Hopkins, 2006).

Other scientists are focusing on hormonal imbalances as the cause of orgasmic difficulties. In response to research indicating nonorgasmic women have low levels of testosterone, several companies are working on testosterone patches and gels. Researchers such as Gemma O'Brien of the University of New England in New South Wales suspect the brains of nonorgasmic women absorb oxytocin as quickly as they produce it, preventing the contractions that begin orgasm. They are working on drugs that would help these women maintain their oxytocin levels.

Even more interesting is Bremelanotide (formerly known as PT-141), a peptide initially developed as a sunless tanning chemical. When initially tested on ten male subjects, eight of them got spontaneous erections with an average duration of 38 minutes! Subsequent studies showed that it made women horny too.

Unfortunately, this wonder drug has the side effect of greatly increasing the user’s blood pressure. On August 30 the company developing Bremelanotide, Paladin Technologies, announced that the U.S. Food and Drug Administration had delayed a Phase III clinical trial of the chemical due to concerns about this side effect. The FDA held the door open, however, to approving it some time in the future for men who did not respond to the more common drugs to treat erectile dysfunction.

The problem with all these pharmaceutical approaches to sexual satisfaction is that no one knows yet just how the brain converts genital or other stimulation into the orgasmic experience. And until we understand that, we really don’t know what an orgasm is. Except that it feels really, really good.

Cherrie's HNT--Getting Ready

2007-09-05T23:07:00.000-07:00

"Today's AccuWeather forecast: showers and thunderstorms later today, with a high near 90 degrees. Right now it's 69 degrees at 6:05."

6:05? Wasn't it 5:30 when I looked at the clock radio just a few minutes ago? Wasn't a hard cock probing my wet pussy for feelings of elation and relief? Didn't I watch it spurting hot cum into my lover's hand as my being basked in the beautiful glow of post-coital bliss? Didn't I tell my man to lie next to me, curl his arms around my nude form and let me rest for a few minutes?

Yes, and I fell asleep again. Dammit! Time to get up and go to work, he tells me, pulling the sheet off to expose my skin to the morning's cool air . . .

Into the shower I go, waiting a minute for the water to heat up. Ah, there it is, nice and hot as I like it. I soap up my body, letting the warm liquid wash around my shoulders and drip excitedly off my boobs. At my call, he reaches in and washes my back, causing me to moan in pleasure. I would love to sink to my knees and show my oral appreciation with rivulets of water flowing down my spine, but I can't. Need to get to work . . .

Next I get the electric toothbrush and daub a little toothpaste on the brush. I flip the switch. "Whirrrrrr," the motor goes. Sounds like a vibrator. Hmmm, vibrates kind of like a vibrator too. How would it feel against my clit, or with the blunt battery end stuffed into my pussy? Put those thoughts out of your mind, girl--I need to get ready and (arrgh!) get dressed.

I reach for my hairbrush and try to straighten out my hair. How do I look today? I have been exercising, and not eating much at meals. I think I see the results in the mirror--did I lose a pound? Two pounds? I look at myself sideways. Yes, getting better! Keep up the good work!

Now for the fun of dressing. White striped thong and white bra today. I strap on the bra, that bastardized contraption of torture which holds up my breasts to keep them from sagging. It doesn't look all that bad, I think. I remember those National Geographic photos of tribeswomen living in remote jungle locations, nude except for their loincloths, with breasts sagging flat on their chests all the way to their waists. They don't wear bras. Hmmm, maybe I should stop complaining about my situation.

And have you ever wondered why clothing stores are pushing boots in the late summer when it's 90 degrees outside? Simple: they bought the boots and need to get rid of them now. Why am I wearing them? Because my building is freezing inside. How many of you face the same paradox: the hotter the weather, the colder the building since the air conditioning has to work that much harder?

For that matter, how many of you would like to see me do all this in the reverse order? I know I would!

Daydreaming About Hippie Hollow

2007-09-03T07:47:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of people this fine weekend, which includes Labor Day (today) in the U.S. and Canada. One kind took this opportunity to travel somewhere fun to enjoy the warm, sunny weather before it turns dark, cold and blustery in the Northern Hemisphere. The rest of us wish we had.

I’m Hardin, and I’ve been spending my weekend doing all the little chores around the house that seem to pile up when I’m not looking. Living a life of sex and blogging with Cherrie doesn’t exempt me from my second job as groundskeeper and maintenance man. Resealing the driveway, cleaning the bathtub, and washing and waxing the cars are just some of the jobs that need to be done. (Before you get the wrong idea, Cherrie helps a lot around the house; she worked with me on the driveway, cleaned the house and did the laundry.)

But I’ve been sneaking a peek at the Internet now and then, thinking about places I’d rather be spending this break. And I’ve found one that intrigues me. It’s called Hippie Hollow. I suspect at least some of you know about this Texas gathering spot, but it’s new to me.

Hippie Hollow is a 109-acre recreation facility located about a half-hour’s drive from Austin along the shore of man-made Lake Travis. It’s managed by Travis County’s Department of Transportation and Natural Resources. It offers sunbathing, swimming, hiking and bird watching to visitors. And it is the only officially sanctioned clothing-optional park in the state of Texas.

The story of Hippie Hollow began in 1942, when the Lower Colorado River Authority built Mansfield Dam to control flooding that periodically occurred downriver. This created Lake Travis, a serpentine body of fresh water 65 miles in length that backed up against the rocky hills. LCRA leased some of the land to Travis County, which named it MacGregor County Park.

That was before the 1960s, when people rebelled against the prevailing social customs and experimented with different lifestyles. People felt free to express and enjoy themselves in many ways, including public nudity.

The countryside around Austin was settled in the 19th Century by Czech and German emigrants, who had a more tolerant attitude toward nude recreation than other ethnic groups. Austin is home to the University of Texas, and like most college towns it is far more liberal politically than the rest of the state. Put together rebellious and horny students and authorities that refused to be shocked, add a scenic cove along a clean and pleasant lake just a short drive from the campus, and voila!—you have a nudist area, which the locals for obvious reasons began calling Hippie Hollow.

Ever since the Sixties, Hippie Hollow has welcomed sunbathers who enjoy relaxing outdoors without clothes. It’s a mellow place—you don’t have to go nude if you don’t want to, and you can bare however much skin you want. Some first-time female visitors leave their bikini bottoms on. Most people, though, come to be totally nude and get down with it. People of all sexual persuasions, straight, gay, lesbian, and bi, are welcome, and everyone seems to get along fine. Even families with children frequented the park until a contest involving drawings of children raised alarm bells with the local prosecutor. Since 1995 Hippie Hollow has been for adults only.

Hippie Hollow is not a sandy beach—unless, as the joke goes, you believe sand comes in boulder-sized grains. You park in the county lot, pay the $10 per car entrance fee (it’s less if you bike or walk), and descend limestone steps to a series of rocky outcroppings facing the sun. You can lie on the rocks, lounge in the water, stroll along the shore or just watch and make friends with the other nudists. It’s a good idea to bring a thick towel or a blanket, if not an inflatable or foam lounger, because those rocks probably feel sort of hard after a while. Some drinks (no glass containers), a hat, sunscreen and a sturdy pair of rubber-bottomed shoes are good ideas, too.

Lake Travis being a public waterway, there are usually lots of boaters cruising up and down the shore beyond the buoys some distance out. Some of them obviously want to get a look at the sunning nudists for their own titillation, and that’s okay—the nudists wave back. Others moor their boats, strip off their clothes and join the party.

Like most nudist locations, Hippie Hollow has a pecking order of sorts. The regular local visitors sport deep, brown, all-over tans, roasted by not only the fierce Texas sun but also rays reflected from the white rocks. They call the newbies showing up for the first time “Cottontails,” after their glowing white asses.

The one thing no one likes to see at Hippie Hollow is overt sexual activity. Sex, of course, is banned, but some male visitors have a difficult time avoiding an erection at the provocative sight of all that curvy, bare female flesh (or for those of the gay persuasion, male flesh). It was not uncommon for these men, after a few minutes of letting their imaginations run wild, to duck into the bushes and relieve their sexual excitement through masturbation. To discourage this bushwhacking, Travis County park rangers cut back the brush and began patrolling the Hollow more frequently.

But what struck me was how happy, serene and peaceful just about everyone at Hippie Hollow seems to be. See for yourself: go to hippiehollow.com, sign up to become a member (all you need to do is upload a nude photo of yourself), and enjoy hundreds of photos of smiling nudists, just ordinary people like you and me, enjoying the sun in their natural state.

They inspire me. Maybe when Cherrie comes home from Ron’s I can persuade her to take off her clothes and sunbathe nude with me in our little secluded backyard spot this afternoon. That is, if I can finish caulking the garage before then.

Cherrie's Friday Positions--Sex and Music

2007-08-31T05:29:00.000-07:00

Do you enjoy listening to music when you have sex?

Music is an intensely personal pleasure. What I like may not be what you like, and neither of us may be impressed with what he and she like. So it wouldn’t be surprising if you answered “no.”

A year ago Sharsbars (a 23-year-old mother of two) asked “What do you think the best song to have sex by is?” on Yahoo. She got 27 different answers, ranging from Johnny Mathis to Coldplay to ‘80s techno.

An anonymous writer asked Julianne at nerve.com the following question: “My boyfriend and I have a great sex life except for one thing: he is constantly putting on the worst music during sex, i.e. Supreme Beings of Leisure and other dated trip-hop crap. It turns me off completely, but he insists we listen to it. What could I recommend that's less offensively cheesy?” Julianne came up with a list of disparate offerings, from Isaac Hayes to Alexander Scriabin, who wrote “symphonies to the orgasm.” I have to wonder what the boyfriend thought about that one.

But if you and your lover can agree on selections that would relax both of you or turn you on, music can add a whole new dimension to your lovemaking.

Do any of you remember the 1979 movie 10 with Bo Derek? How she enjoyed playing Ravel’s Bolero while having sex, building her excitement with each movement of the composition and timing her orgasm to the crescendo at the end of the piece? That’s what I mean.

Hardin and I have similar tastes in music, but we don’t play it often when engaged in enjoying each other. That’s largely because our adult children still live at home, and they prefer not to be reminded that we still have lusty affections for each other’s bodies. They complain enough about being kept up by the mattress squeaking and the headboard banging. All they need is to hear a CD playing to tip them off that “Mom and Dad are screwing again!”

But on those rare occasions when they are out, the house is quiet and we’re ready for an extended session of sex, I love to set the scene. Candles on either side of the bed, their flickering light becoming more prominent the darker it gets outside. Fresh, clean sheets that feel so good against our nude skin. And erotic music playing on the CD player.

Some types of music don’t work for us. Vocals, for example, tend to be story tales with a beginning and an end. Listening to a four or five-minute song, even an upbeat one, is distracting if you get into the music and find the story is over. Likewise, hip-hop, with its mindless lyrics, does nothing for either of us.

Don’t laugh, but my favorites are New Age jazz and “earth music” that blends natural sounds with soft, rhythmic melodies. I have several CDs of the latter that I picked up for a low price at some bargain bin sale years ago. When I put one of those on and dim the electric lights, leaving it to the candles to illuminate our nude, entangled bodies, it’s as if we are transported to a serene and pleasant hideaway, where there are only the two of us and our only purpose is to arouse each other to orgasmic ecstasy.

Or if I’m really horny, classic rock with strong drum and guitar lines works well too. I love being ravaged doggy style, ass swaying in the air, getting fucked in time with the beat. And having my man cum just as the song is ending makes me feel like I’m starring in an X-rated movie video!

Give music a try if you haven’t already. You may be surprised at what it does to enhance the lovemaking experience.

Cherrie's HNT--Lusty Lips

2007-08-30T07:04:00.000-07:00

I was flipping through the photo albums on my computer, wondering what I could do to give this series a bit of a novel twist--and there was the answer staring back at me! My lips!

As you know, I can't show my face here because of the possible business repercussions. After all, who knows what potential customer might have nothing to do with me or my company if he or she took offense at the untamed and unashamed sexuality exhibited in this blog! But I've shown my lips here before, usually in photos highlighting another part of my anatomy, most often my breasts. (You do get tired of seeing them all the time, don't you? Oh, you don't?)

Does that mean they're less exciting than the body parts I have to cover up to avoid arrest when in public in our uptight American society? No, not necessarily. Think about where these lips have been, and what they've done.

These lips have traveled around the world. They've felt the sun and the rain in Asia, Europe, South America and Australia. They've touched exotic food in Hungary, Poland, Brazil and Korea. They've snuggled against pillows in hotels, motels, trains and cruise ships.

And the sex! They have kissed hundreds of people I've liked over the years. They've been wrapped around all manner of cocks, large and small, slender and thick. They've kissed the hairiest of scrota, and ballsacks that were as smooth as my own cheeks. They've sucked on men's tiny nipples, making them stand up tall and causing their owners to gasp in appreciation.

They've caressed the more substantial nipples of many a sexy woman, encouraging them to erect themselves proudly in their grip. They've aroused pairs of wet pink labia, drenched in the other woman's volcanic flow as her excitement peaks. And they have nibbled delicately at a fortunate clitoris or two (or three), jolting its happy proprietor into orgasmic bliss!

Think of what they might do for you . . .

Liberated by Our Heritage

2007-08-28T04:14:00.000-07:00

The bonobo (Pan paniscus) is a fascinating member of the simian family. Bonobos love sex. Unlike most animals, including chimpanzees, their close relatives, bonobos enjoy sex in a variety of positions, including missionary, with a variety of partners. They indulge in oral sex and mutual masturbation as well. And it doesn’t much matter to them whether they have sex with males or females. Male bonobos are frequently observed rubbing their penises on the posteriors of other males. Females partake in tribadism with each other, sliding their vulvas together until they reach orgasm, grinning and squealing. Indeed, females in their post-childbearing years become primarily homosexual.

Bonobos live in loose groups, the composition of which changes constantly. New members of a group use sex as a means of making friends, and existing members engage in sex as a means of persuading or pacifying others rather than more aggressive approaches like screaming or fighting. Not surprisingly, conflict among bonobos is rare, and cooperation in the sharing of food, for example, is the rule.

Why do I bring this up? The bonobo shares 98% of our genome. Do the 2% of genes that are different account for the aggressive nature of the human species, and its repression of sexual urges and desires?

If you think humans are quite a bit different from bonobos despite this fact, consider recently published academic speculation about the sexual lifestyle of our ancestor, the proto-human Homo erectus.

Homo erectus was a genus of hominid that developed about 2.5 million years ago, although a precise date range for its emergence remains shrouded in mystery. Although not all scholars subscribe to this view, it is generally thought that Homo erectus developed in Africa and eventually spread throughout Eurasia, evidenced by the recovery of fossils in Java, China and France. Homo erectus made stone tools for cutting and learned how to control fire for warmth and cooking.

We know relatively little about the sexual habits of Homo erectus, but in an article recently published in Nature co-author Fred Spoor provided one tantalizing clue. Dr. Spoor, professor of developmental biology at University College London, discussed a 1.55-million-year-old skull recovered from Kenya’s Turkana Basin. Although it is the same size as the typical skull of an earlier, smaller species, Homo habilis, the skull has characteristics that are typical of Homo erectus, such as a ridge running over the jaw joint.

From other indications, particularly the observation that the skull’s bones had fused together, the researchers concluded the skull was that of an adult female. The fact that this skull was significantly smaller than the male Homo erectus skulls found previously, according to Dr. Spoor, “suggests extreme variation in body size among the species, with males growing much larger than females.”

Similar size variations exist between male and female members of some species of contemporary apes, like gorillas and baboons, but not others, such as gibbons. What’s significant about size is that ape species whose males are much larger than females organize socially into harems, with dominant males controlling and having sex with numerous smaller females. Species whose males and females are the same size tend toward monogamous couplings.

The size difference led Dr. Spoor to theorize that “our ancestors may have had a harem-like system, in which a single male who could see off rivals won the sexual favours of many females at once.”

Of course, there is no hard evidence to support this theory. But if it is correct, I have to wonder how or why humankind evolved from the polyamorous model of the bonobos and Homo erectus to the monogamous model that has dominated the world throughout recorded history. After all, modern human males are, on the whole, larger than females, even though the difference is not as pronounced as it is with gorillas.

There’s much to be said for monogamy, and I’ve written quite a bit of it here myself. For one thing, a successful monogamous relationship is likely to provide a loving, caring environment for the raising of the couple’s children. But Homo erectus lived on earth for some two million years, obviously devising ways to care for children in a communal setting. Bonobos do the same today. And some human societies, such as Arabs and the early Mormons here in the U.S., organized along a male-led harem model.

Why does it feel so right for some of us to enjoy multiple sexual partners? Could it be that polyamory, not monogamy, is our natural state?

Memory Monday--Night on the Ridge

2007-08-27T05:34:00.000-07:00

Good morning, everyone! I’m Hardin, and I’ll be your host for this installment of Memory Monday. Cherrie had a very challenging weekend, trying to get her end of the upcoming play in shape, and we’re giving her the day off.

Toward the end of my high school term, I was romantically interested in several of my female classmates. Romantically, as in I wanted to have sex with them. I asked one of them to be my senior prom date. She had given me all the right signals before, leaving me notes about how horny she was and how she wanted to know what sex was like, and moaning as I felt her body under her clothes on her sofa. But after the prom, when I was ready to pounce, she “got a headache” all of a sudden and demanded that I take her home.

Looking at the incident from this perspective, I wonder if her libido had been swept away by the female menstrual calendar. There could have been another explanation, though. A short time later I learned she had started going out with another man.

Oh, well . . .

That left me sorry that I hadn’t asked Leeann to the prom. Leeann was my favorite kind of woman, round and sensual. She had a dark complexion and deep brown eyes, with a habit of letting her gaze linger. Her smile was slow to start, but when she turned it on, her beautifully polished white teeth showing between full, red lips, you couldn’t help but stop and stare back in appreciation of her beauty. Her dark hair was cut shoulder-length, with the front part hanging over her forehead so that she was continually brushing it back with her hand. And her body, with huge breasts and a curvaceous and prominent ass, was a sculptor’s dream.

The only problem with Leeann was that her parents didn’t like me. I wasn’t sure why, but I suspected it had something to do with the fact that her family was from a different ethnic group and presumably wanted her to socialize only with males from that group.

No matter, I asked Leeann out during the summer after graduation, and we started to accompany each other to movies, dinner and even one concert. Our relationship started out as “just friends,” but since we were both horny teenagers about to go off to college it wasn’t long before we were engaging in sexy, searing kisses and under-the-T-shirt fondling before we parted for the night.

As September approached, when we would both attending different universities some distance apart, I felt I had to at least try to make my wet dreams of Leeann a reality. I showed up on her doorstep one Saturday evening and, after getting the perfunctory and grumpy greeting from her mother, saw Leeann bounding down the stairs, her boobs bouncing in her low-cut top, dark toes poking out from the hems of her bell-bottom jeans. Oh, yeah, I thought, I want all of that tonight!

The air was warm and the sky was clear. Leeann and I walked hand in hand to a nearby restaurant. We didn’t have much planned for the evening, and we just wanted to talk. Avoiding the subject of our upcoming separation, we chatted about our high school friends, complained about our parents and siblings, and asked each other about the books and movies of the day while we ate Rueben sandwiches and drank Coke.

By the time we were down to the last few French fries, we were holding hands across the table and looking into each other’s eyes. No words really had to be spoken, but I tried, telling Leeann how beautiful I thought she was and how I would miss her when she was gone at college. She started telling me how much she appreciated me, but cut herself short with “come on, let’s go.”

I paid the check.

We barely got to the street corner before our arms and lips were locked in a tight embrace, Leeann’s forelocks drooping between her eyes as we kissed. With arms around each other, kissing off and on, we put on quite a show for the people in the passing cars. Neither of us said a word, but we both knew tonight was the night. It had to be.

The only question was where. But Leeann knew of a convenient place. Behind her house was a retention pond ringed by a sloping, grassy ridge. Leeann led me by the hand to the back side of the ridge, which faced a vacant lot with dense trees. Privacy!

It was getting darker by the minute, but the fires of our passions were roaring. I slipped my hands under Leeann’s bra, rubbing her nipples as we kissed. If her moans hadn’t encouraged me to go farther, her hand snaking under my belt to stroke my rigid cock would have done the trick. I rolled off, removed my jeans and shorts, and Leeann was on me in no time, licking and sucking my erection.

After several minutes of sensual bliss, listening to Leeann slurping away on my hard-on as I stared at the calm night sky, I was having an increasingly difficult time holding off an orgasm. Reluctantly, I eased her head off my penis, kissed her and undid her belt. Her hands joined mine, pushing her jeans and panties down on the ground. She leaned back on the soft grass, spread her legs and guided my cock inside her pussy with her hand.

She felt so wonderful—warm and wet and tight. I was not the most experienced lover at that point, but I knew what a hymen was, and I was strangely pleased that Leeann seemed to have no trace of one. Obviously, it occurred to me later, I wasn’t the first man to entertain her on the ridge. But I was lost in the moment, feeling her body convulse around mine, shuddering through orgasm after orgasm, our tongues deep in each other’s mouths, bringing me to the peak of . . .

“Leeann! Are you out there? Get in here this minute!”It was Leeann’s dad, yelling out the back door! “Oh, shit,” she muttered, breaking off our kiss. “In a minute, Dad,” she yelled. I pulled out, being close to climax, and stroked myself to a large and satisfying cumshot into the grass, but Leeann was pulling up her jeans and not even looking.

“Gotta go,” she said with a quick peck on the lips. “Thanks. Gotta do this again sometime!”

I was too dumbfounded to say anything as I watched her disappear into her house, the sounds of her father scolding her fading out after he shut the door.

How many times had Leeann used the ridge as her summertime haven for sex, I wondered as I walked to the car. Her father had obviously figured out that, if his daughter was missing at night, that was probably where she was. Fortunately for me, he was almost too late this time. Almost.

Footnote: Yes, I had unprotected sex with Leeann. Back in those days AIDS was unknown, we believed “nice girls” didn’t have STDs and we thought we could pull out before making a girl pregnant, the last two being rather foolish assumptions. Fortunately, nothing bad happened to me or any of my conjugal friends, but now we know that’s extremely risky behavior. We support sexual freedom among consenting adults, but men, please be responsible and wear condoms.

What is Grandma Doing in the Bedroom?

2007-08-25T07:18:00.000-07:00

Back on May 4, 2006, I wrote an early blog entry in which I mused about how long I would be able to enjoy lusty, uninhibited sex despite the inevitability of aging. To my relief, I found many examples of women who continued to fulfill their sexual desires into their 60s, 70s and even later—one woman I wrote about got married at 104! Which was a great relief, since living life without copious quantities of sex is a very depressing thought.

Turns out I wasn’t the only one asking this question. A team of 130 medical researchers led by Dr. Stacy Tessler Lindau fanned across the U.S. from July 2005 through March 2006, asking 3,005 people aged 57 to 85 about their sexual practices, habits and problems. The results? Dr. Lindau’s study, published in the New England Journal of Medicine for August 22, confirms that older Americans like sex. A lot. Maybe almost as much as I do!

Dr. Lindau told NPR that she became interested in the sexual habits of older people when she was treating a dying woman several years ago. When she asked the family whom she should call if a life-or-death medical decision became necessary, one of the woman’s sons volunteered. Later, after the family had gone home, the woman summoned the doctor to her bedside and said no, this other man should be consulted about such decisions. “The person she wanted us to call was her longtime companion — her lover,” Dr. Lindau said. “It was a relationship she had started since her husband had passed away many years before. And because of the shame and embarrassment, because she perceived it was unseemly for her to start a new relationship as a widow, her family knew nothing of this person.”

Society’s perception of sex as something only young adults engaged in struck Dr. Lindau as wrong, which prompted her to investigate the sexual activities of their elders. This wasn’t a short telephone survey. Participants were asked to undergo a half-hour physical examination and two hours of questions. They were paid $100 for their trouble. In return, the researchers gained valuable insights into the sexual practices of older people, whom previous generations of sexologists had generally ignored, figuring that sexual activity dropped off a cliff after age 50. Because there is so little information on the subject, “these data are a gold mine,” according to sociologist and co-author Linda Waite.

How often are seniors getting their groove on? Seventy-three percent, or about three out of four, interviewees aged 57 through 64 reported that they had sex with a partner within the previous year. For people aged 65 through 74, 53% reported recent sexual activity, while 26% of respondents 75 through 85 were still active. But that didn’t mean the rest were leaving their randy days behind. Dr. Lindau found “most people said sexuality is an important part of life,” whether they were active or not.

Of those sexually-active people, about two-thirds aged 57 through 75 had sex regularly, which the researchers defined as at least two or three times a month—not much different than the frequency reported by younger people in other studies, Dr. Lindau observed. The proportion of sexually actives dropped to 54% over 75, but more due to the onset of late-life medical problems and the death of spouses than any lack of desire or ability. As Dr. Lindau remarked, “even though older people are less likely to have a partner and less likely to have sex, it doesn’t look like sex inevitably deteriorates with age.”

Sex among the older set isn’t limited to the missionary position. About half the sexually-active respondents 75 and younger said they engage in oral sex. And about half the men, and a quarter of the women, said they masturbated during the previous year, whether they were sexually active or not.

As you might expect, older people tend to be monogamous and heterosexual. Only 3.5% of male respondents and 1.5% of females reported sex with more than one partner in the past year. And out of 2,013 people living with partners, only eight admitted to having a same-sex lover (three men, five women). This is far lower than other studies would predict (generally, 1-2% of the population identifies as exclusively gay or lesbian, with another 4-6% exhibiting varying degrees of bisexuality). The researchers admit this result is suspicious, and may reflect relatively conservative attitudes about homosexuality among older people. (After all, these people are old enough to remember when overt homosexuals were prosecuted, persecuted, beaten up by gangs and thrown into mental health institutions.)

You’d also expect a correlation between general health and sexual activity, and the results of the study bear that out. About 81% of men whose health was rated “excellent” or “very good” reported having sex in the past year, compared to 66% of men in “good” health and 47% of men in “fair” or “poor” health.

For women, participation rates were lower, dropping from 51% for “excellent/very good” to 26% for “fair/poor.” This can be explained, the researchers note, by the fact that women generally outlive men. Widows have a difficult time finding new sexual partners even if they want one, since women outnumber men by such a large proportion.

Perhaps the study’s most surprising finding is that only 37% of male respondents reported difficulty in achieving or maintaining an erection. Once again, a self-reporting bias may have crept into the results—what man, of any age, is comfortable admitting he has trouble getting it up? But the fact that more than half the study group reported no trouble growing a woodie is encouraging. Another surprising result is that only about 14% of the males were using Viagra or another pharmaceutical to help them achieve erection. Perhaps the disconnect with the 37% impotence figure can be traced to the reluctance of men to go to the doctor—only 38% of them said they had discussed their sexual performance with their physicians after reaching age 50.

Women, meanwhile, reported the expected post-menopause problems: vaginal dryness (39%) and inability to reach orgasm (34%). About 43% of women said they had low interest in having sex. Interestingly, the percentage of disinterested women was roughly the same for each age group. Dr. Lindau theorized that a woman’s health level is a better predictor of her interest in sex than her age.

“Hopefully, this [study] opens the door for conversation that might counter stereotypes,” Dr. Lindau concluded. “If we regard older people as asexual, particularly as physicians, we really miss an opportunity to do important counseling and interventions for people who may benefit from them.”

I certainly don’t want to descend into a dry and lonely old age, and if the medical profession decides to put more effort into helping older adults maintain healthy and happy sex lives as a result of this study, it can only be good for all of us.

Cherrie's Friday Positions--The Triple Play

2007-08-23T21:30:00.000-07:00

I have Kitty to blame—or thank!—for this one!

It seems last week Kitty and Ron were communicating, as they do sometimes. Ron, that naughty boy, sends Kitty hot, horny messages about what he would do to her if the two of them got together, and Kitty loves them—and loves herself while reading them! Something about going down to the lake and putting her fingers to good use . . .

Anyway, since the two of them haven’t been able to get together in person yet, Kitty told Ron to give me an extra-special treat last weekend, and to tell me it was from her.

So . . .

When I woke up Sunday morning, Ron had his arms around my body and his hands on my breasts, holding me in that bear hug I enjoy so much. Slowly, as I awakened, he rolled me on my back.

“Play with yourself,” Ron ordered.

That command cleared the early morning fog from my brain. Obediently, I slipped a hand between my legs and began to rub my labia. Ron lied on his side, intently watching me as I pleasured myself. Before long I was gasping, sighing and enjoying the first of my day’s orgasms.

This must have looked like so much fun, Ron just had to join in! I felt one stubby finger slide past my moist lovelips, and then another. Two fingers inside my cunt, squirming and shimmying while I continued to play with my labia and work the clitoral hood. You know from reading my entries on cunnilingus from a few months back that the clitoris is usually so sensitive you don’t need to touch it directly. Stretching or moving the well-lubricated hood around it is enough to ratchet up the pleasure.

Ron kept time with me perfectly. When I cranked up the tempo of my fingering, his fingers moved faster too. When I slowed down to enjoy the delicious sensation of pressure against my clit, he reduced his speed and concentrated on rubbing the inside of my vagina. When I moved my fingers in circles around my clit, he moved his fingers in circles inside my pussy. The feeling was exquisite, and the orgasms followed, one after another after another . . .

There was only one thing that could make this more perfect. “Eat me, Ron,” I pleaded in between my squeals of delight and rapture.

I didn’t need to ask twice. Ron scooted down the bed, placing his head between my legs. He contemplated the scene for a second, then dove right in. I arched my back and spread my legs on the mattress, easing his access to my slot of seduction.

Ron is an expert cunnilinguist. He can lick for seemingly hours without tiring himself out, or causing me to lose interest. Up, down, around his tongue went, its tip exploring my wet folds with insistent glee. His fingers continued to keep time with mine, and his tongue enveloped my clitoris, adding to the juices that were seeping into his sheets.

I call this the Triple Play: cunnilingus plus manual stimulation from both my hand and my lover’s hand. The oral giver can be male or female, but a male with a mustache, like Ron, has an extra advantage: he can brush his hair up and down my nub of desire in addition to stimulating it with his tongue.

Doing the Triple Play requires a roomy setup. Propping myself against the headboard of the bed on a lot of pillows works well. I’m comfortable and my head has enough elevation to allow me to watch what’s happening, if I’m so inclined. It also works sitting on a chair or a sofa, with the cunnilinguist kneeling on the floor. He or she needs to have good balance on the knees, but that frees the second hand to add to my sensory overload by playing with my breast.

“Fuck, Ron!” I gasped, a huge orgasm submerging my consciousness like a giant wave at the seashore. I had more to give him, though, and I wanted to let him wring every last drop of pleasure out of my being. Deeper dove his digits into my pussy, stroking and stimulating my G-spot. My fingers were massaging my clit madly, one on each side of the hood. I could feel his tongue and his mustache alternately rubbing the tip of my pleasure bud, which was so engorged I could have put a condom on it. Faster . . . faster . . . harder . . . tighter . . . another enormous orgasm welling in my body like a geyser . . . my back arching, my ass bucking, all sorts of filthy oaths emanating from the bottom of my lungs, exhorting Ron to keep licking, keep eating, keep fingering . . .

AAAAAAAAAAH!

I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear, this orgasm was so magnificent. My senses left me for a moment. My mind reeled at the powerful kick of this pinnacle of sensuous joy. The walls of Ron’s bedroom were spinning, spinning, spinning . . . slowing down . . . until all I could see was Ron’s cum-soaked head, split by the biggest shit-eating grin I’d ever seen on his face.

Kitty, you probably didn’t know what a good friend you are! We just need to have someone give you the pleasure of the Triple Play!

Cherrie's HNT--First Light of Dawn

2007-08-22T21:10:00.001-07:00

Dawn comes about when I get up this time of year, late in the summer. The sun rises slowly over the trees in the neighbors' back yards, filtering through the thick green leaves and spreading its rays into my sleeping chamber.

It's warm and, more often than not, I've kicked off my covers and am lying nude on my fitted sheet, enveloped in the soft haze of gathering consciousness. I stretch my body and feel the blood begin to move in me--through my torso to my arms, legs and brain. And back down into my womanly organs.

Such a delicious time of day! I don't need to get up yet, and I can indulgently watch the sky get lighter and the room get brighter, seeing the long shadows project against the walls, illuminating the scarves, beads and feather boas that were casually tossed across the bedroom mirror late last night, or whenever I wore them last. Feeling myself get moist and giddy with desire.

My bedmate stirs, and I see that his blood is beginning to move too--into his penis. Thick and robust, his erection strains unaided in the air, casting a long shadow of its own across his chest. He, too, is rising to greet the new day. And there's only one proper way to do that . . .

Do I roll toward him? Or does he impatiently pull me over to his side of the bed, part my legs and share that appendage which gives us both such joy?

If only this moment could last forever.

A Tag from Tom's Cock Whore

2007-08-21T20:28:00.000-07:00

I had a couple of other ideas for posts tonight, but they can wait. Tom's Cock Whore (http://tomscockwhore.blogspot.com/) has tagged me with a meme she took from Weekends Off, a blogger I haven't met before whose profile says she comes from Dallas, Texas. Well, I like meeting new people, and pleasing the ones I know already! So here we go . . .

What side of the heart do you draw first?

Draw? I just look for an image on Google.

What color is your phone?

Which one? The one I use to talk to my blogfriends (there are quite a few of you now who have graduated to phone pals) is black with a silver handset. It is a phone with a cord. I got it at Target for $5 because our cordless phone was interfering with our wireless network. So when I am talking to you, I am lying in bed. Any maybe doing something else with my free hand . . .

Who would you want to be tied to for 24 hours?

Depends how hot it gets in here!

Where are you right now?

In bed. Nude. With laptop. Hardin is rubbing my back. Mmmmm.

How do you feel about carrots?

(No! I won't do it! No puns!) They are hard and . . . crunchy.

How many chairs at the dining room table?

Total, or just that match? Honestly, that will be our next purchase after a new car . . .

Who is the best Spice Girl?

I've always been partial to the Morton Salt girl. But is salt a spice?

Do you know what time it is?

Says right here on the computer--5:38 a.m. Man, I'm up late tonight! Oh, wait a minute, that's Greenwich Mean Time! Time to wake up, Miss U.!

What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator?

Depends . . . who's with me and how horny am I?

What's your favorite kind of gum?

Eucalyptus--that's what the koalas chew on in Australia.

(Note: if you don't get this one, know that in Australia this is called a gum tree.)

T or F: All is fair in love and war?

F, as in everyone should be treated with respect and consideration. But you knew that.

Do you use words you don't know?

No--if I can't find it in the dictionary, I won't use it.

Do you like to sleep?

Only before sex and after sex.

Do you know which US states don't use Daylight Savings?

Parts of Indiana, Arizona and Hawaii. If I get this right, do I get a trip to the state of my choice?

Do you know the song Sugar We're Goin' Down?

Nooooooo.

Do you want a bright yellow '06 mustang?

Why should I settle for a used one?

What's something you've always wanted?

More sex.

Do you wear a lot of black?

Yes, especially black lace and see-through fabric. At night, in bed. But I take it off to go to sleep.

Describe your hair.

Auburn. Tousled. Sexy. Seen by thousands every Thursday.

Are you an adult?

Sometimes.

Who is/are your best friends?

Hardin, Ron, Meredith and my wonderful blogfriends.

Do you have a tan?

Haven't had much of a chance to work on it this year.

Are you a television addict?

I like some shows, notably 24 and House. But TV addict, no. I prefer sex!

Do you enjoy spending time with your mom?

Yes, she's here most of the time for dinner and we go out to movies and plays together when I have a spare moment.

Are you a sugar freak?

Definitely not! Hardin's the one with the sweet tooth. And look at him--not an extra pound.

What is your favorite movie?

Right now? Last year's Casino Royale. But it changes.

What's your sign?

Pisces.

Where do you wish you were right now?

Having sex. I think I will be doing that in a minute or two . . .

Who did you copy this from?

Tom's Cock Whore.

How do you know them?

A very sexy blogfriend.

Would you have sex with them?

Come here, baby!

***********

Shasta Gibson, newly relocated from Calgary to Toronto, has come up with what I think is a great idea: a Sex Blogger Cocktail Party! Timed to coincide with The Everything to do with Sex show, this extravaganza will take place at 7:00 p.m. on Saturday, October 20 in Toronto. The location will be disclosed only to people who RSVP with Shasta. Go see Shasta's blog for more info: http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com/.

Memory Monday--The Fixer-Upper

2007-08-20T19:29:00.000-07:00

“Cherrie, do you think you could fix this?”

Brad, the insurance adjuster I introduced to you last week, was not the most domestically inclined man. Divorced men living by themselves seldom are. When he approached me, puppy-dog faced, to ask me to sew a button back onto the collar of one of his shirts, there was no way I could resist, even though I already had enough of this sort of domestic drudgery to do.

I took the shirt home, sewed the button back on, and returned the shirt to Brad. He thanked me for my efforts. The next day he brought a black plastic bag to the office.

“What’s in the bag, Brad?” I asked innocently.

“Here,” he opened it up. “Could you fix these too?”

The bag was full of more shirts and pants that needed repairs.

Somehow, no matter where I go, people quickly figure out that I am approachable and available to help them. I do enjoy helping other people, within reason. And so, in addition to fixing Brad’s clothes, I began helping the other adjusters with their work after I got the hang of the company’s procedures myself. Through this process I met Jason.

Jason had been hired after me to fill a vacancy in our section. He was about my age and my height, with dark brown hair, a round face with prominent cheekbones, and piercing brown eyes. I found him quite handsome and attractive.

It turned out Jason had recently gone through a divorce. The marriage was childless, and he was now living with his mother. They were trying to renovate her old Victorian house in a historic suburb about halfway between the office and my home. At breaks and then at lunch, Jason would regale me with stories about the joys of restoring this ancient treasure and the challenges of bringing the wiring and the plumbing up to date. Because my father also worked in the building trades, this was common ground between us, and I took quite a bit of interest in his ongoing story.

One night Jason said he was going to pick out some wallpaper for the house after work. “I’m not sure about the colors and patterns for the hallways,” he continued. “It would be nice to have another opinion.”

As it turned out, Hardin was doing quite a bit of traveling for his work at the time and he was not in town that night. Since I didn’t have anything pressing to do, I agreed to go with him.

Jason drove me to the store, where we spent a good hour with the salesman looking at patterns, debating their merits and figuring out how much to buy. He then took me to his ancient house, which looked dark and foreboding from the street this fall evening.

The door cracked open to dim incandescent light and a “Who’s there?” echoing from the high-ceilinged caverns of the structure. In time Jason’s mother emerged from the shadows, looking reassuringly normal. He introduced us, and the two of them started me on a short tour of the house.

It was in frightening condition. Bare bulbs dangled from the rafters, illuminating plaster cracks and water damage. The floors squeaked, the doors creaked. Unfinished projects were everywhere. I couldn’t believe the two of them were living like this.

“Who’s helping you with this, Jason?” I asked. The answer, of course, was no one. His mother didn’t have the money to hire contractors. Jason was basically working on the house for his rent, and because he enjoyed it.

Not much more time passed before Jason was asking if I would like to help him a little, and I quickly accepted. Not only did I feel some sympathy for his plight, but also I was beginning to feel just a glimmer of romantic interest in him.

For the next few weekends, when Hardin was gone or busy, I dressed in old clothes and drove over the Jason’s to give him a hand. The job he assigned me was a difficult one: stripping old paint off the ornate staircase. The woodwork was beautiful, but peeling off eighty years’ worth of old paint was hard work and not at all kind to my hands. I stuck with it, though, and made measurable progress.

Late one rainy afternoon, Jason walked up behind me as I worked on the banister. “Let’s take a break,” he said, smiling. “Come downstairs and we’ll get some coffee.”

I dropped my scraper and followed him to the kitchen, where I washed my hands as he poured two cups from his coffeepot. “Want to see my room?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Sure,” I said, and followed him back up the stairs.

Jason’s room was actually finished, and as I sat on the corner of his bed I admired his craftsman’s touch with the original wood trim and tall, elegant windows.

“Thanks so much for helping me with this,” Jason said through the vapor rising from the coffee. “I really appreciate the help.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because it’s free labor?”

“No,” he replied. “I just hate doing railings.”

That struck me as funny! I laughed uproariously, and Jason did too. When the laughter slowed, I was struck by the expression in this man’s face—the unmistakable look of desire. Of lust. Of spontaneity. It probably mirrored my own.

We opened our arms and hugged. That wasn’t enough for me. Our lips found each other and we kissed. For two, three, maybe more minutes, our tongues reached for each other, dueling hungrily within our tight embrace. How long had it been since this man had enjoyed sex? He acted like it had been a hundred years.

His hands were under my sweatshirt, groping for my bra. Fuck this fumbling, I thought, pushing away from him and pulling my top over my head. “Looking for these?” I asked as I uncoupled my front-closing bra. He said nothing, just diving in. I moaned at the touch of his lips to my nipples.

It felt so natural, unzipping his fly and pulling out his stiffening cock, slipping it between my wet lips, tasting its salty tumescence. It felt so comfortable, removing my jeans and spreading my legs on his bed. It felt so awesome, feeling his bobbing erection slide into my well-lubricated passageway. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his ass, and just held on, enjoying every fevered thrust. A few minutes of frantic thrusting brought him to a thunderous, toe-curling, teeth-grinding orgasm.

I came to, one arm around Jason’s nude form, my head on his shoulder, my other arm draped across his torso, his beautiful spent penis in my hand, watching his chest gently rise and fall. In one way, I had no idea what just happened. In another way, my surprise and sexual satisfaction needed no explanation.

Hardin's Sex and Nudity Report

2007-08-19T13:19:00.000-07:00

Hardin here. Let’s take a look at what’s happening in the world of nudity and sex on this August Sunday.

From England we have two similar stories, but with different outcomes. Richard Stofer, a 63-year-old man in Eastbourne, enjoys sunbathing in the nude. He’s been doing it for 25 years, according to the news reports, and is still going strong.

In June 2004 Stofer exposed himself three times on Holywell Beach, sometimes nude, sometimes wearing see-through underwear. He also wore transparent shorts while lying in his front yard. The Sussex police brought a criminal complaint against Stofer for indecent exposure. The court issued an “antisocial behavior order” in May 2005, barring Stofer from public nudity anywhere in Sussex for five years.

Stofer ignored the order. In July 2006 Sussex police received a complaint that a naked man was sunbathing on his stomach in the back yard of a house on Victoria Lane. Children looking out an upstairs window from an adjoining house spotted his pink form soaking up the sun. The responding officer climbed up on a chair and peered over the hedge, and there was Stofer, arse to the sky. Only it wasn’t his house. Arrested by police, he explained that it had become shady in his own yard, so he went next door because he knew his neighbor was out of town and wouldn’t mind.

Back to court Stofer went in June 2007. Exasperated Judge Cedric Joseph said he would ship Stofer to jail if he exposed himself in public again. Stofer didn’t seem to care. “I like sunbathing naked and I have done for 25 years,” he told the press.

On August 12 Stofer returned to Holywell Beach and stripped nude again. Someone reported him to the police, and later that afternoon he was arrested. If convicted of public nudity, he faces a five-year prison term.

Contrast Stofer’s story with that of Mark Roberts, a 42-year-old serial streaker. Carrying on a tradition from the hippie era of the 1970s, Roberts has been streaking events since 1993, including the Ryder Cup, the European Cup football (soccer in the U.S.) finals, and the 2004 Super Bowl. He even has a web site where he chronicles his adventures: http://www.thestreaker.org.uk/.

Like Stofer, Roberts had been arrested for exposing himself, and in a much more prominent location than Holywell Beach: the 2006 British Open. As Tiger Woods was getting set to tee off, Roberts jogged across the green in the altogether, a toy squirrel lashed in front of his genitals and a golf ball wedged in his arse. The Merseyside police were not amused, asking the court to impose a lifetime antisocial behavior order preventing The Streaker (a name Roberts has trademarked) from making any more, er, public appearances.

The prosecutor took a practical view of the case, which was heard on August 8. “It is not the aim of the police to land Mr. Roberts in jail,” said Jim Clarke, “it is to prevent public and sporting events from being disrupted.” Roberts’ barrister, Laurence Lee, responded that his client was no threat to anyone, and that he had streaked only one event since the Open (the Ryder Cup in Ireland). “My client has turned over a new fig leaf,” Lee told the court. “He accepts that some people might be offended. But this is good, old fashioned British fun.”

District Judge Nick Sanders agreed with Lee. “What Mr. Roberts does may be annoying,” the judge ruled, “but, in my opinion, it does not amount to anti-social behaviour.” Roberts, who is single and unemployed, was jubilant. “Humour and justice has prevailed over political correctness,” he crowed. “My motivation has only ever been to entertain people. Never once have I been booed. The day I get booed by the public is the day I stop.”

So in England the rule appears to be that it’s against the law to take off your clothes in public, unless you’re at a major sporting event and people think you’re funny.

Here in the strait-laced U.S., sexual revelers have a lot less leeway. Consider the case of Nathan Blair and Chandra Schaefer. According to reports and allegations, the 24-year-old Blair emerged from a party in Fargo, North Dakota on July 25 wearing a kilt—with nothing under it. After exposing himself to passing cars on University Drive, Blair began getting it on with Ms. Schaefer, a 20-year-old single mother. Outside, on top of a car, in full view of the street. Then the couple moved over to a pine tree, where they continued to enjoy their lusty sexual encounter. They must have been making quite a scene, because someone called the police, even though it was 3:15 a.m.

Charged with indecent exposure and fornication, Schaefer pleaded guilty when brought before the court on August 16. She received a one-year suspended sentence, one year’s probation and $300 in costs and fines. Blair elected to fight the charges and will be back in court on October 16. The news media did not report whether he wore his kilt to court.

In Australia, things are a bit more laid back. On February 24 Telstra, the Australian phone company, held a belated employee holiday party in Sydney. The festivities began at Northies “hotel” (Australian for bar) in Cronulla, then moved on to the Naked Grape restaurant, then back to Northies, finally ending up at the Rydges Hotel, where some of the employees were staying the night.

Presumably to save money, four of the female employees booked themselves into one hotel room. Three of them had enough fun by 1 a.m., and went to sleep. But the other employees were still in full party mode.

Within a few minutes Nicole Hanlin brought two male employees into the room. They went to the hotel pool for a swim, then came back to the room and had some fun in the bathroom. Nicole left shortly after another employee, Carlie Streeter, arrived. One of the three women who were trying to sleep testified Carlie “appeared very drunk and was walking funny.”

Carlie was ready to roll. She tried to sit on one of the women to have fun with her, and after being repulsed began fucking with one of the men, Aakash Sharma, on the floor next to the bed. Following ten minutes of “rumpy-pumpy,” Carlie and Aakash relocated to the bathroom, turned on the shower and got it on again. At some point the second man, Steve Hatzistergos, joined them in the bathtub.

Another one of the sleeping women, Daniela Hyett, woke up to go to the bathroom. After entering, she found Carlie wrapped in a towel and the two men nude in the tub. As she squatted to take her pee, Daniela heard Steve tell Carlie “come and get in back in the bath so I can lick your pussy.” Carlie giggled, dropped her towel, said “Fuck it!” and climbed nude back in the tub. Daniela didn’t stay to watch, claiming to be very upset at her co-workers’ behavior.

Telstra fired Carlie and the two men, but Carlie decided to fight the termination. On August 17 the Australian Industrial Relations Commission agreed that Carlie’s termination had been “harsh, unjust or unreasonable,” ordering Telstra to reinstate her and pay her back wages. The AIRC found that “Ms Streeter’s conduct was not so serious as to constitute a valid reason for the termination of her employment,” mostly because “the impugned behaviour occurred well away from the workplace, after rather then during a work function, in a hotel room that was booked and paid for privately.”

What a great country. Australia, that is.

Cherrie's Friday Positions--The Pleasures of Ice

2007-08-17T08:39:00.001-07:00

The other night it was so hot and sticky in our house that I didn’t want to do anything but lie down and rest after Hardin finished shooting my HNT photos. But that horny dude had other ideas. He walked downstairs, returning with a drink for me. And a bowl of ice cubes.

This time of year, ice can be a refreshing addition to your foreplay routine. If you’re uncomfortably warm, cold ice can feel extremely pleasurable against your skin, and the shock of first contact is always very exciting.

Hardin began kissing me to warm me up, and then put a small ice cube in his mouth. Letting one edge of it protrude from his lips, he ran the ice up and down my cheeks, and then across my mouth. Our mouths opened as I accepted the melting cube, then repeated his motions across his dark and stubbly face and neck. When the weather is hot, lips that are cooled by ice feel so exciting!

I leaned back, and Hardin took another cube in his mouth. Clenching the ice between his teeth, he moved down and began to circle my areola with it. Mmmmm, that cool cube felt fine! As the ice melted, occasionally a drop of water would escape his mouth and dribble around the curve of my breast, creating the most exquisite sensation!

The cube was quite wet now, and Hardin slid its smooth surface across the tip of my erect nipple, bathing it in meltwater. I moaned at the sensation, slightly painful but so titillating! As the ice vanished in his mouth, Hardin begin to kiss, lick and suck my breast with his chilled lips, causing me to reach orgasm when I felt his teeth gently bite the nipple at the base!

At this point Hardin climbed on top of me and slid his hard cock home inside my ready pussy. We fucked excitedly, with me wrapping my legs around his ass while he wrapped his cool lips around my other nipple, giving it the same treatment. Feeling the hot sweat drip off his chest and forehead onto my skin, after enjoying the ice water trickling down my body, was quite arousing! After I came several times, he pulled out and blasted a hot load of cum into his hand, and then slinked inside my quivering thighs to kiss my mouth once more.

We rested a while, and then his erection began to recharge. It was my turn to play with him! Taking one of the shrinking cubes in my hand, I laid my body next to his torso and began to rub the cube lazily against his smooth-shaven balls. He groaned at the feeling, but did not try to escape. I know he loves this! Before long his scrotum was dripping with cool, clear water, and his cock was straining into the air.

I reached over for another of the melting cubes, and popped it in my mouth. Letting the cube stick out just a bit, I touched my lips to the base of his dong and began sliding them upward, letting the ice take the place of my tongue. He uttered some unintelligible combination of sounds and I could feel the muscles in his taut body tightening. Back and forth, up and down, the ice melted on his member as I moved it around. As a final thrill, I took the tiny sliver that was left and held it against his frenulum with my fingers while I sucked the knob of his tool.

“Oh, fuck!” he screamed! “Gladly, sir,” I replied, feeling the last of the ice dissolve against his white-hot shaft. I climbed on top of him and sank my body down slowly, deliciously, absorbing his ice-cooled cock millimeter by millimeter until my labia were flat against his torso . . .

There are so many things you can do with ice, in addition to these. You can let it melt in your partner’s navel, then lick it out (shower first!). You can take a mouthful of crushed ice and fellate your man. Your lover can rub a melting cube on your labia, or circle your clitoris with it, or even (once it’s round and smooth) insert it in your vagina, then suck it back out.

Ordinary cubes from your refrigerator are just fine for sex (the half-circle ones from automatic icemakers are harder to work with, in my opinion). If you prefer, you can buy ice trays that will freeze water in the shape of a cock, a pair of tits or a woman’s curvy bod. But you don’t even need to go to that expense to get an ice dildo; just fill a condom with water and put it in the freezer for a few hours.

Most sex manuals ignore the erotic possibilities of ice, but The Joy of Sex did not. Dr. Alex Comfort’s advice is sound: make sure the ice you use isn’t too cold. You want the cubes to be at the point of melting, not sticking to your body. Leaving them out in an ordinary bowl for a few minutes before you start playing will do the trick.

Ice—it’s not just for drinks!

Cherrie's HNT--It's Hot Tonight!

2007-08-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

We had a very pleasant summer, until the last week of July. And then it got hot. I know readers in Florida, Texas and Arizona will not be very sympathetic, but around here anything over 90 degrees Fahrenheit qualifies as really hot, especially when combined with our summertime humidity.

Which we've had in abundance. It's been raining almost every night. And then the sun comes out and evaporates all the water. The result is a steam bath. It's been so uncomfortable outdoors that I haven't done much of my favorite summertime activities, like swimming and nude sunbathing. Or outdoor sex.

Tonight we made the mistake of turning off the air conditioning because the forecast is for an overnight low of 57 degrees. Cool enough for a good night's sleep, you'd think. But oops--Hardin misread the forecast. That's the projected low for tomorrow night. Tonight it will get down to a sticky 71.

With the fans are whirring loudly, attempting to cool my damp body, I am consumed by a fantasy. I show up at a dinner party dressed only in my long, flowing scarf (and a hat to protect my identity). I let the scarf casually drape around my body and slip down at strategic locations to provide a bit of ventilation. People greet me warmly and converse about a variety of topics, but I know from their furtive glances they are envious of my sexy but practical choice of attire.

As the night goes on and the wine flows, the scarf gets lower and lower until . . .

You can write your own ending in the comments, or wait till next week for more!

The Preacher and the Pornster

2007-08-15T05:34:00.000-07:00

What do you think about pornography? An evil practice that degrades men and women? A pathway to hell? Harmless, enjoyable entertainment? Harmless, but inept and boorish entertainment?

If this question intrigues you, you might enjoy The Great Porn Debate, an ongoing road show. The debate pits Ron Jeremy, the famous (or infamous) “Hedgehog” of adult cinema with (by his count) 1,939 X-rated films under his belt, against Rev. Craig Gross, founder of XXXChurch.com.

You probably know about Jeremy, so let me focus on Rev. Gross. XXXChurch.com takes the viewpoint that pornography is sinful because it promotes a fantasy world of free and easy sex without consequences. By doing so, porn distracts viewers from the hard and messy work of making real-life relationships work, which hurts both them and the other people in their lives. Gross fills his web site with advice about weaning oneself from porn and anecdotes from people who have been marred by promiscuous or unconventional sexual relationships, all leavened with Biblical quotes to support his arguments.

Gross provides some interesting statistics about pornography (which I haven’t verified elsewhere, and he cites no sources). He writes that there are 4.2 million “pornographic” web sites, or 12% of the total, with 372 million web pages. 40 million adults in the U.S. (or about one in five) “regularly visit internet porn sites,” 28% of which are women. The sex industry worldwide generates $57 billion in annual revenue, $20 billion coming from adult films (or more than three times the total revenue of major networks CBS, NBC and ABC).

The relationship problems Gross recognized in the lives of porn users caused him to start attending adult entertainment conventions in January 2002, asking questions and giving away Bibles. In the process he met Jeremy and, surprisingly enough, became friends with him. “Ron’s a great guy, I’d let him baby-sit my kids,” Gross told an interviewer. “I just don’t agree with what he does for a living.”

In 2006 Jeremy and Gross came up with the idea of hosting Porn Debates, answering questions from the audience (which pays $10 a head for the privilege) in the style of the “debates” those of us in the U.S. see during presidential elections. (In a true debate the two men would argue both sides of a proposition—such as “Porn is good” (or bad)—and then rebut the other’s points, but that’s too boring to be entertainment.) Since then they have been taking their show on the road, recently completing a week-long swing from Milwaukee to Boston.

Gross sums up his position this way: “I don’t want to shut down the porn industry, but for some people, it leads to a dead end. Porn is all about creating fantasies, but the fantasies are creating unrealistic expectations of what you should expect in sex.” He projects that one-third of divorces result when real-life sex with one’s spouse fails to measure up to these unrealistic expectations. “Porn is a parasite on your brain,” Gross exhorts his listeners. “Get off now while you still can.”

Jeremy responds that adult film involves “consenting adults having consenting sex, and being watched by consenting adults. If you have a problem with it, don’t watch it.” While “any kind of addiction is not good,” he continues, “if you have a good job, you’re a productive member of society, and you want to go home, watch porn, masturbate and go to sleep, that’s OK. Why do you have to stop watching porn? Why stop having cream cheese on your bagel?”

Much of the audience discussion centers on the hoary question of whether porn “degrades” females. Jeremy asked one woman who brought up that point what was degrading about the sex depicted in the average porn—a “pop shot in the face?” When the woman agreed, Jeremy replied “some girls don’t mind a little sperm on their face” and asked for a show of hands from women that agreed. One woman in the balcony stood up, eliciting cheers from the men nearby. The questioner then shouted “I don’t want men to cum in my face, ever!” which resulted in gales of laughter. “Why not?” Jeremy replied. “I let girls squirt on my face!”

Gross and Jeremy find more common ground than you might think. They strongly agree that adult films are just that, and should not be viewed by children. Jeremy even appears on Gross’s web site with “Pete the Porno Puppet,” lecturing the puppet that his films are “I stress for adults, not you.”

Jeremy concedes that some people who act in sex cinema don’t have the emotional armor required to deal with the impersonal nature of on-camera liaisons, and they need help in coping with their insecurities. “I like what he's doing,” Jeremy says of Gross. “Girls that don't belong in the industry, he helps to save them.”

For his part, Gross says he is not out to eradicate porn. He agrees that adults should be free to choose to view it. His aim, instead, is to minister to those for whom porn has become a destructive problem. Some men find it difficult to be aroused by their spouses if they are accustomed to watching orgies or lesbians making love. Other men take what they see in porn to bed with their mates, who may be offended if they are called “sluts” or “whores” or are asked to ingest a cock up the ass. Jeremy replies that many couples enjoy watching adult films and developing their fantasies together. Best of all is when couples are so inspired by something they see on the screen that they get it on that way themselves—which Jeremy calls the “standing ovation.”

Jeremy’s most telling point is that mainstream entertainment exploits unrealistic sexual images of women just as heavily as the adult film industry, and is less honest about it. Scenes showing sex, in varying degrees of graphic detail, have been common in Hollywood productions for over three decades, and many well-known actors and actresses have shed their clothes for the camera. Why is it “art” when they do it, but “porn” when Jeremy does it? If we criticize porn for being forthright about using sex to sell, Jeremy concludes, “we should condemn Britney Spears, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie” too.

At many sessions Jeremy is asked how he would feel if his daughter decided to become a porn actress. Jeremy admits that question is his “Achilles heel,” but he answers it in an intelligent way: “Many women in porn didn't go to college, and I would hope that my daughter would. I can't say that I would encourage her, but it's her choice, and if she did make that choice, I hope she would be more clever about it, working only with her boyfriend, or just with other women.”

Although a thread of hucksterism runs through this production—it reminds me of the bawdy show the King and the Duke performed for an unsophisticated Arkansas audience in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn—both Jeremy and Gross have worthwhile thoughts that deserve careful consideration. I sympathize more with Jeremy’s posture, agreeing that adults should be completely free to watch sexually arousing entertainment without guilt. As audience member Martha Berner told chicagoist.com, “Independence is empowering, for women, men, everyone.”

Gross, on the other hand, reminds us of the commitments we have made to the people who are important in our lives, and argues convincingly that we should not allow our fascination with sex to interfere with our expressions of love to those people. If you have made promises to love and care for another person who is turned off by pornography, you have to keep the porn out of that person’s life, or make the difficult decision to end the relationship and move on to another companion who is more accepting of adult entertainment. That takes a certain strength some people don’t have, and may need help in achieving.

The Great Porn Debate goes on, and you can catch it in Athens, Georgia on August 28.

Memory Monday--Insuring My Entertainment

2007-08-13T22:20:00.000-07:00

After leaving the zany law firm run by Martin, I applied for a job as an adjuster for a large insurance company. The pay was good, and the stability offered by this institution was something I thought I needed at the time. And I thought the people working at an insurance company would be staid, gray sorts who would never engage in the sort of antics that went on at the law office.

Right, right—and wrong!

My first days on the job were spent learning how to settle injury claims, since that’s what I would be doing. The procedure involved investigating the employer’s records of the injury, reviewing the medical file, directing the claimant to see a doctor selected by the insurance company, and in extreme cases hiring a private investigator to find out whether the person was faking it.

As you might expect, there was a lot of fakery going on. The investigators often tracked down people who said they were too hurt to work. What were these people doing? Mowing lawns. Washing their cars. Moving heavy objects around their homes. Even playing golf and basketball. With these kinds of reports, the adjuster should be able to close out the claim without spending a lot of the company’s money.

At least that’s how you were supposed to do it. What really happened was different sometimes. At least the way Brad settled claims.

Brad was an older adjuster in my section who sat next to me. When Brad was ready to close the deal, he would tell the claimant all the evidence in the file against him and then slink off his chair and crawl under his desk, the curly cord of his office phone following him down. This was in the days before cubicles, and we sat at rows of metal desks on an open floor with our typewriters, telephones and tons of open files.

Privacy was what Brad was after, although his gravelly voice carried well enough that I could usually hear his end of the conversation. It didn’t take long to figure out he was settling his claims by bribing the claimants—a big ethical no-no for the company.

“Hey, listen, don’t you want something real cool for yourself? How about a stereo? Don’t you want a new stereo with those big speakers? Or a new TV set? That one you have is getting a little old, isn’t it? Well, I can get you a new color TV, with VHF and UHF channels too. All you have to do is sign the release I’m going to send you, and I’ll get that check on its way. Thanks, buddy, it’s nice doin’ business with you!”

Brad took an interest in me right away, and became a guide of sorts to the manila-file jungle of the 12th floor. He told me whom I could trust, and whom to avoid. In return, he expected me not to turn him in for cheating, even though everyone on the floor knew he was doing it.

Another friend I made fairly quickly was Cassandra, a slender woman with olive skin and long, frizzy red hair. I learned as I got to know Cassandra that she shared my intense interest in sex. We had lots of lively coffee-break and lunchtime conversations about relationships, centering on her housemate and lover Scott. In time, when we started to go out after work, I got to meet Scott, and found out he was cute. Scott began to like me. Seriously like me. So much that it caused some trouble.

One day I noticed Cassandra looked angry and sounded angrier, snapping at people on the phone. At our first break I took her aside to see if anything was wrong. Something was.

“That loverboy of mine is really turned on by you,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “Last night he asked me to ask you whether you would do a menage a trois with us.”

“Oh?” I said, flattered that he liked me that much. “What did you say?”

“I picked up a kitchen knife and told him, ‘Just try it, and I’ll ménage your trois!’”

Somehow my friendship with Cassandra became a lot less friendly after that point.

The boss of our section was S. Sharon Taylor, who came to work every day in a dress-for-success women’s business suit. Sharon’s claim to fame was her walk, a loping, sideways gait that reminded me of Groucho Marx—in drag. And that first initial of her name. What did it stand for? It took me several months before I saw a letter that used her full name. S stood for Sylvania! No wonder she went by Sharon.

Sharon was a big enough boss to rate her own private office, in which she would upbraid the slackers and incompetents and meet with Roger, the big boss of the claims division. She met with Roger a lot, I observed in my first months there. Eventually I figured out why. She was having an affair with Roger, and was enjoying sex with him, or at least giving him head, during office hours. No wonder she was in her exalted position!

Our immediate supervisor was Rebecca, a short woman with curly hair and round-rimmed glasses in her early thirties. Rebecca dressed and acted conservatively, revealing little of her personality within the office. That was probably a good thing.

Away from work, Rebecca was entirely different, I learned from Brad. It seems she had her eye on one young adjuster from another floor. She befriended him, and eventually he asked her out. They went to a swanky restaurant for dinner, stayed for some dancing, and stumbled up to her apartment door about one o’clock in the morning.

“I have a surprise for you,” Rebecca said as she turned the key. Indeed she did! Just inside the door were five or six young men, dressed in sexy clothes of the period—bell bottom pants, shirts with wide, spread collars. “Hi, boys,” Rebecca greeted them, and then walked around the room and gave every one of them a kiss on the lips.”

Returning to her guest, she smiled and said “We’re going to have a little fun tonight. Would you like to join us?”

The young adjuster took one look, and then bolted out the door.

This insurance company may be staid on the outside, but to my surprise it was filled to overflowing with unique and passionate characters on the inside. I was going to fit right in.

Random Sunday Thoughts

2007-08-12T08:57:00.000-07:00

Hi, everyone. This is Hardin. As many of you know, Cherrie is spending the night with Ron, and then has a practice to attend at her theater. So I am going to be by myself most of the day.

You might wonder what I do when Cherrie is away. One thing I usually do not do is cruise around town looking for women. Our understanding is that we do not have sex with others behind each other’s backs, without telling each other about our intentions and inquiring if the other wants to participate. My relationship with Cherrie is too important to me to risk on a one-night stand, even if I could find a willing partner.

Besides, I had family obligations last night—my brother’s birthday. That meant seeing his wife and kids and other members of my side of the family. Which of course I enjoyed. Sex is a very important component of my life, but not the only one, and I strive for balance.

This morning I woke up with an erection, which is normal, and as the house was quiet (I found out later our younger daughter was still out partying) I decided to indulge my sexual needs with an adult film. I don’t want to go into details about it because Cherrie and I may review it someday, but “Movies to Groove To” has had to take a back seat to her busier schedule the past few months. Suffice it to say that 15 minutes of watching a poolside orgy is enough to bring on a satisfying explosion on my side of the screen.

After washing off my load of cum, I check our blogs. Nothing much going on, which is normal for a Sunday morning. I think about our blogfriends, and hope they enjoyed some bed-rocking sex with the people they love last night. (I’m not worried about Cherrie; I know she did!)

I idly flip through the browsing history and check Twitter—and stop cold. Three Blogland women whom we know fairly well engaged in a long and extremely hot conversation last night, ranging from shoes to butt plugs to dildos. But most of it centered on their men, who for one reason or another were not available at the moment to attend to their sexual needs.

What if all of us sex bloggers lived as a polyamorous group, I wonder, so that if one’s primary wasn’t ready to go for some reason, the others could step in? Would these women feel comfortable having sex with another member of the group? Would the primary accept his usual mate’s decision to have sex with a substitute? Could the beast of jealousy be held at bay? All good questions, and I have no answers. But I would rather be part of such a group and bring happiness to another woman when Cherrie is not around that beat my meat in isolation while watching a videotape.

I leash up our dogs, and set out for a walk. It’s a beautiful summer morning, and very few people are up and about. I travel several blocks in the quiet sunshine, the dogs eagerly sniffing everything that sticks out of the ground. And then I see her turning a corner onto my street ahead of me.

I’d seen her before, a young woman perhaps in her mid-twenties walking two pugs. She is moderately tall and has relatively short hair down to the back of her neck. Her legs are fabulous—long and toned, with well-defined muscles. She’s wearing very tight cotton shorts that rise up into her crotch and reveal every curve of her ass. She looks very good to me in the morning light. The “let’s go to bed” kind of good.

My dogs take off after her and her pugs. They love to play with other dogs, and once they spot some they are almost impossible to stop. This has led to me getting to know just about every dog owner for about a mile around my house.

As we get closer, I continue my visual inventory of this woman. She’s wearing a brown tank top over her square-shouldered torso. Her breasts are on the small side, but round and well-defined. I can see no sign of a bra or panties, which of course intrigues me even more. She walks with a confident strut, pausing only when one of her dogs needs to do some business. Getting out of her squat, one of her dogs notices mine, their legs flailing and tongues wagging in their efforts to catch up. She turns and notices us approaching.

“Hello!” she says with a bright smile. Her face is more plain than pretty, and her teeth a bit uneven, but I am not deterred. I lead off with a witty comment, or at least one I think is witty, and listen to her response.

And I am speechless. I don’t know how to say it gracefully, but this woman is rather slow. Her speech is slurred, and she struggles with her words.

I slow down my pace and simplify my vocabulary for her, all the while thinking furiously. She seems very happy that I am paying attention to her. I can imagine that she has the same carnal desires as our Twittering friends. She is sexually attractive and desires the company of men. But the men who approach her probably retreat quickly when they hear her labor over her speech, thinking, perhaps, that someone like this would be a burden to support and entertain. I don’t want to do that.

We walk together for a block or two. The dogs nip each other and pull us along excitedly. The woman is excited too. She is as animated as she can be, gesturing to reinforce her thoughts. I ask her to slow down and repeat some of her words so I can understand them. She doesn’t seem to mind.

We reach a point where I need to turn back. I tell her this, and she seems to understand. “Thank you for talking to me,” she says slowly, smiling all the while. “Have a good day!”

I feel good that she seems to be happier for our encounter, and a bit relieved that it ended where it did. Something about my naturally horny thoughts as I watched the woman from down the street, when all I knew about her was what I could see, embarrassed me a little now. This woman obviously had “problems,” in that she did not fall within the middle part of society’s bell curve with respect to intelligence and speech. Could she knowingly consent to sex? Would it be especially cruel to begin and then end a sexual relationship with someone who is likely to become unusually dependent on it? I conclude the answer to the first question may be “no,” and the answer to the second is probably “yes.” And so, even if I were not concerned about the possible impact on my relationship with Cherrie, I decide it’s probably best to do what I did—walk away.

But then, I think, if everyone did the same thing, this woman’s natural lust for sex, which I assume is as strong in her as in any other woman, would never be sated. And that, somehow, doesn’t seem to be right either.

And so I am left with a dilemma as I return home with the dogs on a sunny summer morning.

Cherrie's Friday Positions--The "Sideways Ron"

2007-08-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

I love learning a new sex position when I’m just fooling around!

The scene: Sunday morning at Ron’s. We had a delightful dinner the night before, but we were tired and fell asleep in each other’s arms. When I wake up with dawn’s early light, Ron is cuddled behind me, his hand on my breast, manipulating my nipple. What a way to get me started!

I feel his erection pressing into my ass, but that’s not where I want it! “How do you want me?” I ask him. “Doggie,” is the answer. Right answer! I’m up on all fours in a moment (I was still waking up, or I’d do it faster), and soon he is kneeling behind me and stuffing his delicious cock into my swollen, dripping vagina. It is so good . . .

He fucks me hard, then slows down, then speeds up again. I am merrily absorbing his thrusts, cumming as I please, alternately laughing out loud and swearing at him to fuck me harder . . .

And then he does something to me I’ve never had done before.

He transitions me onto my right side without withdrawing his penis, while he is still kneeling. My right leg finds its way between his, and my left leg curls itself around his ass.

Oooh, this is interesting! His cock is hitting different spots inside my pussy, providing all sorts of new stimulations. Because his length is entering me at a skewed angle, I am more aware of each thrust, and just more into the moment. I find myself pulling my body closer to his with my leg, wanting to add my motion to his own.

And then comes the first blow. WHACK! His flat hand collides with my exposed cheek, sending a shiver of alarm through my body.

But that merely intensifies the sensations of this horny fuck. I moan with delight and beg him to spank me again. And he does, swearing about what a horny bitch I am and how he is going to give me the biggest orgasm of my life. WHACK! He thrusts harder. WHACK! I scream louder. WHACK! He groans with pleasure. WHACK! My juices are streaming down my thigh in joy!

Time for another transition! He grabs my ankle and flips me on my back, completing a 180-degree rotation without pulling his dong out. My heels are on his shoulders as he kneels with his body erect and jackhammers his thick tool into my voracious cunt. That huge orgasm I always crave is building just as surely as the determination on Ron’s face and the sweat on his forehead. It begins in my overstimulated pussy and bursts up my spinal cord into my brain, exploding there in a paroxysm of complete and total pleasure.

As I come to, I see that Ron has also had a huge orgasm. But is he spent? No! And we spend most of the rest of the day fucking again and again . . .

The position where the woman is sideways and the man is kneeling and entering her from behind is a very unusual one. It isn’t described in any of my sex manuals, and I can’t recall seeing it acted out in any of the hundreds of adult films in my library. The only illustration I could find was in that old standby, The Joy of Sex, which reproduced a number of erotic Indian drawings to illustrate the possibilities of mating.

SexInfo101.com offers a position called the “Screw” which is somewhat similar (see http://sexinfo101.com/sp_screw.shtml), but in this variant the man is kneeling on the floor and the woman is on a bed or a couch. This probably makes it easier for the man to achieve full penetration, but it appears to take away the askew angle that made Ron’s cock so exciting in this pose. The site comments that, because of the man’s freedom of movement and the “rotated penetration angle,” this is “one of the hottest sex positions around.” If, because of the varying proportions of you and your partner, you find the cockeyed thrusts of the cock too uncomfortable, you can always raise the woman’s ass by slipping a pillow or two underneath her to even things out.

What should we call this unique position? I think it should be named after the man who introduced it to me—the “Sideways Ron.” Ron, I can think of no greater honor to bestow than naming one of my Friday Positions after you. How can you reciprocate? Do me this way again this weekend!

*********

Don't stop here! Take a look at Ron's description of our day together at http://ronjazz.blogspot.com/2007_08_05_archive.html#6471891008906895271!

Cherrie's HNT--Situps

2007-08-08T21:50:00.000-07:00

One . . . two . . . three . . .

Like most women who have had children, I am continually trying to slim myself down in any number of ways. One of them is to do situps.

Four . . . five . . . six . . .

At least once a day I will lie down on the carpet somewhere in the house and do several hundred abdominal crunches. I will plant my feet flat on the floor, raise my knees and tuck my hands behind my head. And lift, lift, lift . . .

Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .

I'll rise off the floor, and then relax. Or I will touch my toes. Or I will extend my left hand to touch my right foot, and vice versa. Anything to firm up.

Ten . . . eleven . . . twelve . . .

Needless to say, everyone in the house has to come over and check out what I am doing. The dogs will stick their noses in my face or, if I am not covered up down below, in my pussy. I love oral sex, but not with a dog! Go away . . .

Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . fifteen . . .

My older daughter delights in making fun of me. "You call that a situp?" Little Miss Size 2 will taunt. "Come on, lift your back off the floor! You're not even trying!" Just wait till you're my age and have your own kids, I think to myself . . .

Sixteen . . . seventeen . . . eighteen . . .

But Hardin may be the worst of all. He sometimes criticizes my form too, or demands that I add another 20 lifts because he didn't like the first twenty. Or he might talk about how many situps he did. Or he might drag his weights or medicine ball over and work out with them, just to show me up.

Nineteen . . . twenty . . . twenty-one . . .

On the other hand, he just might be horny. Take this particular day, when I was working out in my pink chemise. He sat nude on the edge of the bed, watching me like a vulture eyeing its next meal, stroking his cock lazily until it was out its entire length.

Twenty-two . . . twenty-three . . . twenty-four . . .

And then I guess he decided he had seen enough situps. He began peeling off the chemise to uncover my breasts. My pussy was already exposed, and his fingers began exploring its moistening folds . . .

Dammit, you made me lose count! What are you doing? Get off me! No, let me finish . . . let me . . . aaah . . .

And his cock began stroking my hungry slot, in and out, in and out . . .

One . . . two . . . three . . .

237 Reasons

2007-08-07T21:46:00.000-07:00

If you were reading the newspapers or watching news on television last week, you might have heard about a study published in the Archives of Sexual Behavior for August on “Why Humans Have Sex.”

Pretty obvious, you might think. But the study’s authors, University of Texas psychologists Cindy Meston and David Buss, point out that assuming the obvious often leads to mistakes, resulting in bad health decisions. For example, if you want to promote safe sex or discourage unwanted pregnancies, knowing precisely why people decide to get it on is essential to achieving the desired result.

Drs. Meston and Buss asked 444 students and other volunteers (203 men, 241 women) at the University’s Austin campus, ranging in age from 17 to 52, to “list all the reasons you can think of why you, or someone you have known, has engaged in sexual intercourse in the past.” These people wrote down 715 reasons.

Analyzing the responses, the researchers found that many were similar. They reduced the list to 237 distinct reasons, eliminating the near duplicates. Then they printed the 237 reasons on a form (which they called the YSEX questionnaire) and gave it to 1,549 undergraduate students (503 men, 1,046 women). Their ages ranged from 16 to 42, but the median was 19.

Opposite each reason was a five-point scale. Responders were asked to indicate how often they were motivated by each reason to have sex, from “never” to “always.” They were also asked whether they were sexually active (of those who responded, 73% of the women and 68% of the men were) and whether they engaged in oral sex (88% did).

The results surprised the researchers. “I was truly astonished,” said Dr. Buss, “by this richness of sexual psychology.” To be sure, the most frequently reported motivations are precisely what you would expect. The top reason for having sex, for both men and women, was “I was attracted to the person.” In fact, the top eight reasons for both sexes were the same, although the rankings differed slightly: “I wanted to experience the physical pleasure”; “It feels good”: “I wanted to show my affection to the person”; “It’s fun”; “I was sexually aroused and wanted the release”; “I wanted to express my love for the person”; “I was horny.”

More interesting were the other motivations, and the fact that some people admitted those motivations had spurred them to mate. Dr. Meston thought it was “pretty shocking” that some people who filled out the YSEX form had initiated sex “to give someone else a sexually transmitted disease (e.g., herpes, AIDS).” This represents a rather obvious breach of the level of trust most of us assume when having sex (and we hope the other partner had the good sense to insist on protection). A small proportion of responders stated they had sex “to break up a rival’s relationship . . . with his/her partner.” Others admitted they had sex to get a job or a promotion.

What were some of the more unexpected reasons for sex? Some people said they wanted to celebrate a birthday, anniversary or other special occasion. Others said “it was the only way I could get my partner to spend time with me.” Regrettably, indifference was a factor for some responders, who said they had sex because they “wanted to be nice” or it was “just a part of the relationship routine.” Others were “verbally coerced into doing it;” were “pressured into doing it” or wanted “him/her to quit bugging me about sex.” Experimenters were curious to find out “what it would be like to have sex while stoned, or did it because they were “drunk.” Some people said they had sex because an adult movie had turned them on.

The researchers found that differences in the responses of men and women generally reinforced our intuition about their reasons for making love. More men than women said they had sex because they liked the way their partners looked. According to the authors, this supports “the evolution-based hypothesis” that men are turned on by a woman’s appearance because it “provides a wealth of cues to a woman’s fertility and reproductive capacity.” (Oddly, though, the desire to have children did not make it into the top 50 reasons for sex!) Doing it just because they could (“the opportunity presented itself”, “it just happened”) also motivated more men than women. Men are more likely than women to be spurred to action to “increase the number of partners I have experienced.”

Women, by contrast, reported having sex to fulfill their emotional needs. Reasons such as “I wanted to express my love for that person” and “I realized I was in love” were rated more highly by female responders than males. These trends, the researchers wrote, “support the evolution-based theory that women, more than men, prefer sex within the context of an ongoing committed relationship.”

However, women were not alone in their desire for an emotional connection to their mating partners. About as many men as women said they had sex to “feel connected to the person,” to “intensify the relationship” and to achieve “emotional closeness.”

Despite this, the authors were surprised to learn that more men than women reported using sex to achieve non-sexual goals, such as “to change the topic of conversation” and “to get a favor from someone.” While you may often hear a successful woman accused of “screwing her way to the top,” the survey indicates it’s the male who engages in this sort of behavior more often.

In the end, Drs. Meston and Guss leaned that “the reasons people have sex are likely to be far more numerous and psychologically complex” than assumed in past studies. Which supports another theory: the incredible complexity and adaptability of the human mind, the most important sex organ of all, continually develops new justifications to enjoy that most fundamental of joys, sex with another person. What are yours?

Memory Monday--So Close

2007-08-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

Cherrie is busy tonight, but here’s a long-ago memory from Hardin:

A warm, sunny afternoon. I aim my bicycle southward, excitement building in my chest. Moments ago I was talking to Merle on the phone. The discussion started with “how are you doing?” and then morphed into a chatty exchange of gossip about teachers and mutual friends at our high school. In time we began to edge around the subject that dominated my hormone-filled teenage mind: sex. And Merle was receptive, giggling about girls we both knew who, according to rumors she heard, had “done it.”

Our chat became so warm and happy that I took a chance.

“What are you doing right now?” I asked her.

“Just sitting around the house,” she replied. “My mother took my sister for a doctor’s appointment.”

“Why don’t I come over?” I said. “Sure,” she replied.

Yes, Merle had a boyfriend, and it wasn’t me. But I hadn’t seen her with him for a while, and she did not bring him up on the phone. And I was interested in this girl. She had a round, happy face with dimples that appeared when she smiled. Her teeth were even and very white. Her hair was blonde, a golden yellow mane falling long and straight across her shoulders.

And, unlike most 16-year-olds, she had breasts. Soft, round, pronounced breasts. The kind that sweaters cling to, that button-down shirts reveal when you stand behind her back when she is sitting down and you look over her shoulder. The kind I would give anything to see. And feel.

“Hi, Hardin! Come on in,” says Merle as she opens the door. A soft breeze ruffles the open curtains as we walk through her living room to the kitchen. “I’m glad you could come. I’m getting a little bored. Want something to drink?”

“Yes, thanks,” I reply. She reaches in to her refrigerator and hands me a Pepsi in a glass bottle. That’s how soda came back then. “Want a glass?” “No, I’ll drink from the bottle,” I tell her.

Drinking is not what I have in mind. Merle is wearing a tight pink top that reveals the outline of her bra underneath. Her pink flip-flops slap against the linoleum of the floor as she reaches for the back door. “Come on out in the back yard,” she suggests. I follow her, my eyes fixed on her curvy ass inside her navy blue Bermuda shorts. A girl in a woman’s body. Mature beyond her years. Nice.

Merle alights on a two-person swing suspended from a wooden frame. The back yard is ringed with trees and bushes, concealing the neighbors’ houses from view. I sit next to her, transfixed by the deep blue of her eyes.

“So, what were you saying about Charlene?” I ask, taking a swig of soda as I await her reply.

Well, Charlene is getting it on with Rich. Or Merle thinks she is. Rich has his driver’s license, and one of Merle’s friends saw them entwined on the front seat of Rich’s dad’s Buick the other night, “not even coming up for air.” The word got back to Charlene’s boyfriend, or now ex-boyfriend, Steve, and he is pissed and calling her a “slut.”

On she goes about the infatuations of the other girls in our large junior-to-be class. I am beginning to zone out on the details, though. I am concentrating on those breasts, bouncing and swaying as Merle rocks the swing back and forth. I can’t keep my eyes off them. They are absolutely beautiful.

“. . . and I caught Brad with her, that lying, two-faced jerk!” My mind snaps out of its trance. “Brad? I thought you were going with Brad,” I reply, raising my eyes to meet hers.

“No, Brad dumped me for Anita,” Merle says, looking back toward the house. Part of being a high school student is knowing the social standing of everyone in your class. And Anita’s is quite high, being a cheerleader and an incredible hottie. Merle goes on about the details, then falls quiet as I finish off the Pepsi.

A cloud of discomfort darkens Merle’s face as she looks away. “Well, Brad isn’t the only one that likes you,” I assure her, looking into her eyes.

She looks back at me for a second, a half-smile forming on her lips, and then turns away again, the look of doubt replaced by a trace of a blush on her cheeks. Instinctively, I reach out to her, running that soft blonde hair through my fingers.

She turns back. It’s all so natural now. Her arms open as mine curl around her shoulders, drawing her against me. I have so little experience with girls, but how else am I going to get some?

“I think you are beautiful, Merle, and I really enjoy being with you,” I hear myself say, wondering where that is coming from.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Merle commands.

I pull her lips to mine. My kissing technique is uncertain, somewhere between Clark Gable and Aunt Erma, but I don’t care about style points. Merle’s lips are soft. And wet. They feel so good against mine.

“Merle,” I whisper as we take a hot breath together, “you’ll never know how much I want you.” “Tell me,” she says. She throws her arms around my neck, and our lips meet one more time. And something else happens, something wonderful. She presses her breasts against my chest.

I can feel them, firm and ripe, under her thin top and her padded bra. Without saying a word, I slide my hands underneath, letting them pause for a few seconds as we continue our kiss. Then slowly, slowly, I move them around her body until those luscious orbs are between my thumbs and forefingers. I am ready to squeeze them when . . .

“Merle? Merle?” comes a woman’s voice from inside the house. Merle jerks her body away from mine swiftly and responds “Out here, Mom.” “Mom, she’s in the back yard,” Merle’s little sister cries from the doorway.

“Oh, there you are,” Merle’s mom says with a hint of steely disdain on her face. “Mom, this is Hardin. He was in my English class last year, remember?”

Mom does not remember, and I manage a feeble “Nice to meet you, Mrs. X” as I stand and offer my hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says rather icily, and then “I’m sorry, but Merle has to help me make dinner now. Please come back to see us again,” not meaning a word of it.

I am shaking my head as I ride my bike home. Couldn’t the doctor have taken 15 minutes longer? Couldn’t Merle’s mom have come up with one more question for the nurse? Couldn’t the traffic have been worse? How could I miss out on such a fertile opportunity? Especially when I was so close?

Cherrie's Friday Positions--The Crab Walk

2007-08-04T18:59:00.001-07:00

I am watching an old adult film called Swinging Four-Ways, lazily fingering my labia as I lie nude on my bed. Two women from Europe in California for a holiday, meeting two studly local dudes, going in an apartment, sitting on the couch, talking for a minute about how much they like being in the U.S., then removing their clothes, unzipping the men’s flies and giving them blowjobs . . .

You know, just another day in the San Fernando Valley!

The fellatio, I must admit, is pretty hot, and eventually the guys get their clothes off and position themselves to fuck the women. Guy #1 kneels on the floor, lifts and spreads his girl’s legs and stuffs his hard cock in. Nice! But what the other couple does awakens me from my salacious, semi-conscious reverie.

The woman faces the man and slides part-way off the couch, the small of her back resting on the cushion, her legs (hot shoes, by the way!) flexed and holding her pussy in mid-air. Guy #2, meanwhile, has assumed the old “crab walk” position that many of us learned in physical education during our school years. You know, where you are bent backward, resting on your hands and feet, but your ass is in the air.

With the girl rubbing her dripping slot, Guy #2 shuffles his suspended body between her legs, his erection bobbing in the breeze. When he gets close enough, she grasps his cock, rubbing it against her lovelips a time or two, then sinking her body around it. An agonizing look of pleasure spreads across her face as he fucks her by moving his torso up and down, the exertion palpable in his gritted teeth.

Mesmerizing!

“Want to try it?” asks Hardin.

Of course! Hardin presses “stop” on the remote and rolls over my body in the 69 position. A few minutes of oral stimulation get him good and stiff, and we walk over to our leather sofa to replicate what we just saw on the screen.

It must be the wine we had for dinner that has me trying this. Normally, I would recoil in pain at any suggestion of putting a strain on my fragile back. But I slide off the leather just like the woman in the film, offering my wide-open pussy for Hardin’s pleasure. I am surprised when my precarious state doesn’t result in any pain.

Hardin is cheating! He scoots along the floor on his ass, then lifts himself up in the crabwalk position when he gets between my legs. “What a wimp!” I exclaim. He just smiles.

I take his erection—it’s a bit soft from the exertion, but serviceable—and guide it into my tunnel of love. Hardin begins thrusting it in, and I moan in pleasure. But despite his energetic pumping, he can only get it in about halfway. My legs block truly deep penetration.

What I find fun about this position is that I’m on top, and he’s doing all the work. I just lie serenely with my back resting on the edge of the sofa cushion, my arms out to either side for stabilization. He, in turn, is vigorously exerting himself, huffing and puffing to achieve every possible millimeter of penetration. This looks like quite a tiring exercise for the man!

The negatives are the need for a couch that’s about the right height and provides the proper degree of firmness, the challenge of achieving full penetration, and the fact that his hands are unavailable to assist in my stimulation. It’s hard for me to play with myself, too, since I feel much more secure when my arms are holding me into position.

So, the crabwalk is a novelty that looks quite arousing on film, but might be just a little too difficult and not satisfying enough for most lovers. If you try it and come up with some techniques that make this position more fulfilling, let me know! Knowledge is of little value unless it is shared.

Cherrie's HNT--Green Satin

2007-08-01T22:53:00.000-07:00

Tucked away in my lingerie drawer is this green satin shirt. Feel it. Isn't it smooth? Although I am a confirmed nudist, I do enjoy wearing something sensuous like this from time to time, if only just to take it off.

And it's so easy to remove. It's nice and roomy and loose, and I just have to undo the buttons to let the good stuff fall out.

Or perhaps you would like to lie next to me, exchanging soft kisses and happy giggles, and we could play a game: next one who laughs (for any reason) has to unbutton one button of his or her shirt. How long do you think it would be before we were nude?

Not long, I'd bet!

Sifting Through the In Box

2007-08-01T05:32:00.000-07:00

Hi, everyone, this is Hardin. I’m substituting as your author today since Cherrie is busy at work. And I want to discuss a subject that, I’m sure, annoys you.

Spam. Unsolicited, unwelcome, unwanted E-mail. Messages broadcast to millions that end up in your mailbox, leaving you the drudgery of identifying and deleting them.

But have you ever looked these messages? They are a window on the human mind. Someone, somewhere thinks the products and services touted in these messages are what you want to buy. And that you are enough of a fool to actually buy them.

A true measure of how central sex is to our existence is the number of spam messages that offer services tailored to our innate lust to mate. Yes, I know there are enough bogus Rolex watches being hawked on the Internet to load down an ocean-going freighter, but why would a man want to wear such an expensive watch in the first place? Of course—to impress other people, primarily women, and get them into bed.

Ladies, I hate to admit this, but if the content of these messages is any clue, you have a lot more sense than the male of the species. Very few spam messages try to market products that are, let’s say, feminine in nature. I know—I get to clean up our “in” boxes, and Cherrie gets just as many offers to grow a thicker, harder cock as I do. She has it easier than us guys, though. If she wants a thicker, harder cock, she just goes to an adult toy store and buys one.

Pitches preying on the insecurity of men about the size of their equipment are as ubiquitous as they are clumsy. Would you believe, as “Warren Lanier” tells us, that “80% of women are unhappy with partner’s size?” Writes “Conrad Swan” in a recent missive, “Women view men with a larger penis size as being more sexually attractive and sexually capable.” If you consume the MegaDyk formula he is selling, “you will be absolutely amazed when you see your penis gradually becoming LARGER and LARGER, right before your eyes! NOTHING compares to the feeling of having a larger penis.” You know, that happens to me all the time. It’s called getting an erection.

“Paris Hilton likes them big,” trumpets “Latoya Deleon,” promoting “XtraSize+,” an “Herbal Breakthrough.” If you consume this potion, she continues, “you don’t have to wear bigger shoes to make women think you have a huge dick.” Ah, so that’s how Bozo the Clown got all those women!

Of course, there are legions of men who experience difficulties in achieving an erection of any size on command. Sometimes this is due to the natural effects of aging (men’s testosterone levels slowly decline as they get older). With other men smoking or cardiovascular disease has taken its toll on the circulatory system, making it more difficult for their hearts to pump blood vigorously into the penis. Everyone knows there are prescription drugs to treat the latter condition—Viagra, Cialis, Levitra and others—but the process of going to the doctor and admitting you can’t get it up can be rather emasculating.

So why not “Learn About Viagra” on line, as “Good Erection” advises? This wonder drug will “restore your sex life, or just give it a little kick!” Take G.E.’s word for it, Viagra “can be taken with other medications” and is “as safe for your heart as a sugar pill.” And who needs a doctor when you can “visit our on-line pill shop?” Probably anyone who thinks this outfit is selling genuine pharmaceuticals.

“Do Her!” exhorts the “Canadian Online Pharmacy.” “Your sex life is about to be ruined? You can’t make your girl groan from pleasure?” Well, then, just order “all kinds of love pills with special prices” and “she’ll squeal from delight!” Why worry about these meds when the “store is verified by BBB and approved by Visa?” Well, it is difficult to run an on-line business if you can’t accept credit cards.

Thanks to adult films that show men pulling out and spraying their cum all over their women, the volume of ejaculate has become yet another source of male insecurity. But you’ll be saved from the embarrassment of not spurting like a geyser if you respond to Jenae Agatha’s ad for “cum pills.” This little number will give you “5x more sperm” so you can “cover your lover in it.” You’ll “squirt for longer” from your “erections like steel” and “cum 4 times in a row.” And your cum will have “sweeter taste - it improves the flavor.” Why bother taking her out for dinner when you can provide a banquet like that?

Maybe you don’t have a woman to impress with your newfound sexual prowess. No worries—you can be fixed up in no time thanks to the fall of the Iron Curtain. You know the weather is really, really bad when you get an E-mail from Russia dated July 28 that begins “Spring has finally come! Romance is in the air!” They’ve got what you want: “Beautiful and still single (!!!) Russian and Ukrainian women are eager to meet you!” Ah, the delights of Minsk in the midsummer! Or perhaps they want to bypass all the current political furor about immigration into the U.S. Of course, that requires a marriage license—probably a little more commitment than most horny guys are interested in making.

And they keep coming, hundreds and hundreds every week. Someone must be making a living off these ads, or they would stop. The conclusion is obvious: men need sex, lots of it, more than most of them actually get. They don’t fulfill their needs because they lack partners. Some are alone because of factors outside their control, but many more, I think, are trapped by fears of their own inadequacies.

Loosen up, guys. You know that buying a pill or a lotion from some Internet huckster isn’t going to do much more than separate you from your money. There are plenty of women out there without men who want men. Just read the comments to Cherrie’s entry yesterday. The Internet has made it easier than ever before to find them, and to get legitimate medical help for any physical or psychological barriers to enjoying sex. Throw the spam away and find a real woman or two to love. You can do it!

Are You Getting Enough?

2007-07-31T05:32:00.000-07:00

Few things are more important to an adult’s overall psychological health than an active and satisfying sex life. Avoiding fatigue is one of them, and getting the proper amount of rest is necessary for great sex.

American women, in general, aren’t getting enough sleep to meet their needs. The 2007 Sleep in America poll conducted by the National Sleep Foundation found that two-thirds of women aged 18 to 64 reported frequent sleep problems, primarily insomnia and waking up without feeling refreshed.

The average adult needs seven to eight hours of uninterrupted and restful sleep a night to function properly. Studies indicate that people who regularly sleep less than this amount every 24 hours have a significantly higher likelihood of death from all causes. This presumably is due to the fact that their bodies are less able to resist diseases, and their minds are less alert to potential dangers.

Our work-centered lifestyle (68% of American women are employed) has a lot to do with this. Single working women and married women with both children and a full-time job reported sleeping less than six hours a night. How do they keep going? They drink an average of three cups or cans of coffee or caffeinated soda every 24 hours, and they skimp on exercise, socializing—and sex. Despite the ready availability of a marital partner, 44% of married women with children reported they don’t have enough time for lovemaking.

Homemaking mothers fared better, reporting about eight hours a night in bed. But 74% of them said they suffered from insomnia, and 56% reported waking up frequently during the night—presumably to tend to their children. The result is the same: 39% of these women said they don’t have sex with their partners because they are too tired or ran out of time in the day.

You probably have seen the dismal statistic that married couples have sex about twice a week on average. There are many reasons why participation in this most pleasurable of activities is so low, including couples who rarely if ever have sex due to physical limitations, depression, medications (including some birth control pills) that change hormonal levels and unhappiness in the marriage. But a big part of the reason is that people are just too exhausted to do it.

If this sounds like you, there are many things you can try in order to sleep more, and increase your receptiveness to and interest in sex. This advice assumes that you and your partner are relatively healthy and content with each other. Problems like the ones mentioned in the paragraph above generally require treatment from a doctor or therapist.

--Slow down at work. This is so hard to do in our competitive offices, where employers deliberately tie advancement to achievement and let cubicle Darwinism sort out the winners and losers. But is another thousand dollars or two a year worth the impact your workplace stress and aggravation are having on your primary relationship?

--Make time for exercise. If you can go to a gym or run for an hour, great, but if you just take a mile-long walk after dinner you will be improving your stamina and muscle tone, as well as tiring yourself out a bit and encouraging your body to go to sleep when the time comes.

--Limit non-social diversions. Sitting in front of the television is usually deadly to romance. Not only does watching TV discourage conversation, but also typical fare like car crashes, incessant violence and abrasive late-night comics tends to numb, rather than calm, the mind. Playing video games or responding to E-mails engages your mind even more, making it more difficult to slip into sleep.

--If you have children, they need to understand that, as much as you love them, you need your sleep time. Allowing children to sleep with you is generally not a good idea, even ignoring the sexual overtones of the practice, because they will wake you up.

--Avoid drinking alcohol and smoking close to bedtime. (Of course, health professionals would advise you to give up smoking altogether.)

--Have a comfortable place to sleep. It should be big enough for the two of you, and provide adequate support. If the mattress is more than ten years old, it should be replaced. Make sure the bedroom isn’t too hot. Your body temperature needs to cool for satisfying sleep, which is why it’s so difficult to sleep through a hot and sticky summer night.

-- Establish a relaxing bedtime routine. Hold your partner. Touch him or her. Take a shower or bath together (a soak in a large hot tub is even better). Rub each other’s backs. Talk about your frustrations, your hopes, your dreams. Listen carefully to each other, and respond with consideration and respect.

--Lastly, allow nine hours of bed time a night. Why, if you only need seven to eight hours of sleep? That will give you enough extra time to enjoy sex at night or in the morning, or both, without feeling rushed.

Why am I writing about this subject now? Due to new responsibilities I have assumed in my job, I have felt myself slipping into a state of sleep deprivation. I need to put this advice to use myself. If you’re not getting enough sleep, won’t you join me in taking back our nights?

Memory Monday--Ella in the Library

2007-07-30T05:30:00.000-07:00

Last week Hardin responded to Vampyr’s challenge to tell a tale about books or libraries by recalling an encounter with a girl named Geena in college. This week I’ll write about a girl whom I got to know better in the library . . .

Ella ducked into classes late, hung around to talk to the professors or the other students, and then took off quickly to her next appointment. Her long black hair bobbed behind her slender body as she ran from point to point around the campus, her quick smile taking the edge off her inquisitive mind and her incisive questions.

Which was fine with me. I am drawn to intelligent people, and I did my best to cultivate Ella as a friend. In time I achieved a level of first-name familiarity with her, but she was always so busy and energetic that I never did any “friend” things with her, like going shopping or seeing a movie together. But no one else seemed to either. I never saw her hanging out with a man.

The end of the semester was approaching, and one night I walked into the library to begin researching a paper I had to write. All the study carrels on the first floor were occupied, so I walked down the stairs to the basement, which was never busy, and picked one out there.

I wandered the stacks to gather some books, and then sat down to write (on paper; the laptop computer had yet to be invented) notes on my readings. The hours passed quickly, and when I glanced at my watch I was amazed to find it was almost 10:30 p.m.

The library closed at eleven, and I still needed one book to finish my research. Off I went to the card catalog on the main floor to find it. Ah, it’s back downstairs. I wrote down the Dewey decimal number on a strip of paper and descended the stairs once more.

Turning the corner into the aisle where the book should be, I saw Ella heading toward me. “Hi, Ella!” I called, cheerily if a bit wearily.

“Cherrie!” Her eyes lit up and her face broadened into her trademark smile. “What are you doing here so late?”

“Oh, working on that paper. How are you?” I smiled back.

“Me, too,” she said. Ella was in the class, and had the same assignment. We exchanged chit-chat for a minute or two. But Ella seemed a bit more anxious than usual, and I thought I should end the conversation. “Well, I need to get back to work. The library’s closing soon,” I told her. “Yes,” Ella replied, “I’ll see you around.”

We both reached into the stacks. And we both put our hands on the same book!

Ella and I cracked up! The book fell harmlessly from the shelf to the floor as we convulsed in laughter. We were loud enough that someone upstairs could have heard us. But no one came down. We were alone.
When we stopped laughing, both of us knelt simultaneously to reach the book. This caused another round of laughter, but it was softer and more subdued. My hand got to the book first. But Ella didn’t touch the book. She put her hand gently on mine. And looked into my eyes.

How did she know, I thought to myself. How did she know I liked women? But I could focus on that question for only an instant, since her smiling lips were closing in on mine. I parted them and gratefully received her wet, hot kiss.

We stood up, leaving the book on the floor, our arms around each other, tongues diving hungrily into each other’s throats. I pushed Ella’s back against the stacks as her hands slid underneath my top to undo my bra. In love as in everything else, this girl worked fast!

“I want you, babe,” I hissed into her ear, “but let’s go somewhere where we can have a little more privacy.” She nodded, and I led her by the hand to my study carrel.

The library basement was dark and quiet. Normally one of the staff would be wandering the area to retrieve and reshelve stray books. But this night there was no movement, indeed no sound of any kind except the faint buzzing of the ballasts in the fluorescent light fixtures. The walls of the carrel were high, about five feet, giving the space a bit of intimacy.

Instinctively I hopped up on the carrel desk, Ella’s hands once again under my top. In seconds she uncovered my breasts, pushing the top and the bra upwards, and began to kiss and lick them. You know from reading this blog how sensitive my nipples are, and before I had time to think about what I was doing I was cradling her head in my hands, lost in the pleasurable reveries of her soft caresses.

I wanted her to taste the rest of me, and I let go of her to undo my belt. She stepped back, realized what I was trying to do, and helped me pull my jeans over my shoes. My panties quickly joined them on the floor. I scooted my crotch to the edge of the table and spread my legs.

Ella dropped to her knees and sank her tongue into my labia. I remember closing my eyes and arching my back at her facile touch. She was like a butterfly, her tongue darting to and fro in my depths, then flitting out to alight on my clitoris. Thoughts of my scholarly research vanished, replaced by this image of a bright summer afternoon, with me lying in the tall grass and exchanging pleasures with this sexy woman in the sunshine.

She brought me close to orgasm again and again, but she seemed to want to tease me, make me beg to have her push me over the top. Just then, the ceiling lights began flashing! The library was closing, and soon someone from the front desk would be walking the basement to make sure no one was sleeping there, or doing what we were doing.

I put both hands on the back of Ella’s head and pushed it forward, grinding my pussy into her face. Ella must have seen the lights too, for she began to kiss and nibble my clitoral hood while sliding a finger between my then-hairy lips. The penetration was enough to give me a mind-numbing orgasm!

As my mind cleared from the cum, I realized we needed to get out of there before we were caught. I brought Ella’s juice-streaked face close to mine, kissed her and reminded her that we needed to go now. “Oh, yeah,” she replied, dropping back and letting me put on my pants.

After refastening my bra, pulling down my top and gathering my books and papers, we walked out the door into the inky darkness. Her dorm was in a different direction than the lot where I had parked my car. After explaining this to her, I kissed her one more time, whispered “I’ll see you in class” into her ear and watched her disappear into the nightly void, looking back with that bright smile until it, too, dissolved in the darkness.

We stayed friends after the research papers were finished, but we never again got together for an intimate encounter. After a couple of weeks, I found out why: I saw her walking across campus arm in arm with another woman, this one a blonde with impossibly curly hair.

Was Ella cheating on that blonde lover when she took advantage of the chance library meeting with me? Or was this new woman a fresh love interest? I never found out, since it is irrelevant in a way. Sometimes sex happens only once, and the conditions were just right on that particular night for her and me. I greatly enjoyed this late-night interlude, and that’s really all that counts.

The Votes are In!

2007-07-28T07:19:00.000-07:00

My Thursday post was born on a whim. I could have just pulled some old photos out of my archives--I have hundreds of them--for HNT, but then I thought "Why not make this interactive?" If I asked you what you liked about my photos, that could give me some ideas about what you might enjoy in future displays.

So I picked out five of my favorite breast shots, and asked you to comment on them. Comment you did, with a total of 24 ballots cast (to prevent stuffing of the ballot box, I only allowed one vote per commenter). Two of you asked to split you votes, and I permitted that. A few of you followed my suggestion to vote via E-mail. My hope was to encourage you to explain at some length why you liked one picture over another. But most of the rest of you gave me some explanation in your blog comments, and that was O.K.

Here, in ascending order, are the results:

Number 4: Hardin just loves it when my body gets a sheen of perspiration, as in this backyard nude shot. This photo was taken either just before or just after some happy sex on our beach towel (probably both, now that I think of it). But the rest of you didn't think it outranks the others. It gained only 0.2 of a vote, from our friend Sage, who diplomatically split her tally among all five entrants. That's all right, I like lying out in the warm sun anyway!

Number 5: I got a couple of beautiful comments on this waking-up shot. Blissfully Wed wrote "It looks like one of those post-coital moments I love so much. I see myself spooning you from behind (Is there any other way?) and lightly moving my fingers across your still so sensitive breasts and nipples. All of your shots are moving, but that one reveals the intimacy of good love." Ron recalled "#5 and I have enjoyed each other's company," and Karl offered "A morning foto/A morning fondle/Morning sex/What better way to start the day?" I can't think of one!

But with a full vote from Mrs. SW, Artsub's half-vote (split with Number 2) and Sage's two-tenths, this pic came in tied for third with a total of 4.7 tallies.

Number 2: "Slick, wet and textural," commented Me. (Hint: click on it; it opens up huuugggeeee!) Ron has had "some wonderful familiarity" with this pose, even though he went with 5. Nitebyrd thought this shot was "erotic and artistic," while Kitty admitted "I keep coming back to the shower..." Mina was also "quite fond of the shower." Well, come on in, ladies, the water is fine!

With Artsub's half vote and Sage's 0.2, this shot garnered 4.7 tallies, putting it in a tie for third place.

Number 3: My "Dr. Cherrie" pictorial was one of my all-time favorites, and many of you liked it too! Marasgal, one of my biggest supporters, was "drooling" over his choices, but in the end went with this one: "I love the way your mountainous globes hang over the top of your corset. It makes is so easy to imagine what they would look like dangling just inches from my face as you stradle me, fucking yourself silly on my hard cock." Mmmm, sounds good!

Dark Pixie wrote "something keeps bringing me back to the corset...so that is my pick! Delicious!" For Naughty, there was "no doubt about it," and Annie, Vi and Mr. SW all thought it was the best too. The end result: 6.2 votes, and second place!

Number 1: "I like number 1 best, I think... 'cos the breasts look big and pushed up... " Eve wrote. "Maybe also because you're more 'involved' in that... there's a more active feeling of participation cos of your hands..." Yes, there is a hint of self-pleasuring in this view! Wordslut concurred: "for sheer sex appeal, I’m agreeing with Eve that number 1 is number 1!" Richard smiled that "your breasts look so soft and cuddly" in this shot, while Spleenal said "1 makes me want to shout "Wha-hey!"

I was a little surprised that what got many of your motors running in this shot was my red nails. My artist friend Jackie Adshead thought "the way you're pushing your boobs up with your hands makes the image very erotic and those bright red nails just add that extra oomph to the image!!!" Marasgal wrote "I love the red fingernails as your hands are where I would like mine to be. " "The nails in number one make the picture," according to la fille mariee, and Eve and atllg agreed. Tiger thought "#1 seems to be inviting something in there." It just might be!

With 8.2 votes, Number 1 is the winner of this competition! And what did I learn? Buy more red nail polish!

*********

Blogland has lost a couple of enthusiastic and erotic residents over the past several days. The Biker and the Teacher decided to stop updating their wonderful blog, and Madame X has removed her hilarious writings from public view. They will be missed.

If you're looking for someone to fill the void, have a look at Loving Annie's new erotica blog, www.yesIlovethat.blogspot.com. Annie writes from the heart, and her yearnings (as yet unfulfilled) are both titillating and poignant. Thanks for checking her out!

Cherrie's Friday Positions--Internal Enjoyments, Part 2

2007-07-27T05:31:00.000-07:00

The chief reason for the separation between the married couple and the cause which drives the husband to the embraces of strange women, and the wife to the arms of strange men, is the want of varied pleasures and the monotony which follows possession. There is no doubt about it. Monotony begets satiety, and satiety distaste for congress, especially in one or the other; malicious feelings are engendered, the husband or the wife yield to temptation, and the other follows, being driven by jealousy. For it seldom happens that the two love each other equally, and in exact proportion, therefore is the one more easily seduced by passion than the other.

How do you keep an ongoing sexual relationship fresh and interesting? In the Ananga Ranga, author Kalyana Malla tells us that was as much of a problem for Indians in the 12th Century as it is for couples today. One answer, then as now, is to experiment with different positions and techniques when enjoying sex. Not only might the experiments lead to new frontiers of visual and sensual stimulation, but also just trying something new should help revive the sense of fun and wonder that the partners felt when they first began coupling with each other.

Last week we reviewed Kalyana’s catalog of missionary and sitting positions. His list of other positions is shorter, but more diverse. The Tiryak-bandha are the positions “whose essence consists of the woman lying upon her side.” He describes three of these:

1. Vinaka-tiryak-bandha, where “the husband, placing himself alongside of his wife, raises one of his legs over her hip and leaves the other lying upon the bed or carpet.”

2. Samputa-tiryak-bandha, where “both man and woman lie straight upon their sides, without any movement or change in the position of their limbs.”

3. Karkata-tiryak-bandha, where “both being upon their sides, the husband lies between his wife's thighs, one under him, and the other being thrown over his flank, a little below the breast.”

Oddly, Kalyana omits the classic spooning position, which in my opinion is the easiest and most satisfying of the sideways postures. The Vinaka-tiryak-bandha is best suited for a woman with slender hips. Mine, as you know, are not slender, and it’s physically challenging for a man to throw his leg over them while attempting to thrust away. That limits his freedom of motion, and can cause the penis to enter my vagina at an uncomfortable angle.

Taking the text literally, the Samputa-tiryak-bandha calls for the participants to lie next to each other ramrod-straight, rather than curled up in the fetal position as in spooning. I don’t see how the man can insert his cock in this position, though, unless the woman lifts her leg or straightens out from a spoon. Once the man is in, the Samputa is similar to the Flat Fucking position I described on February 16, but tipped on its side. This may increase the compression of the pussy around the cock, but takes away the stimulation of the clitoris by the bedsheet, rug or whatever the prone woman is lying on (unless one of the partners reaches down there with a hand, which would not be a bad idea!).

The Karkata-tiryak-bandha is similar to the sideways position, except that the men’s legs are between the woman’s, rather than arranged in a his-hers-his-hers order. Since the man’s legs should not be resting all their weight on the woman’s lower thigh, the woman would need to spread her top leg very wide, which may not be comfortable.

Standing positions, or Utthita-bandha, are the trademark of the Kama Sutra, and Kalyana offers three of these:

1. Janu-kuru-utthitha-bandha: “Both stand opposite to each other, and the husband passes his two arms under his wife's knees, supporting her upon the saignee, or inner elbow; he then raises her as high as his waist, and enjoys her, whilst she must clasp his neck with both her hands.”

2. Hari-vikrama-utthita-bandha: “In this form the husband raises only one leg of his wife, who with the other stands upon the ground.”

3. Kirti-utthita-bandha: “The wife, clasping her hands and placing her legs round her husband's waist, hangs, as it were, to him, whilst he supports her by placing his forearms under her hips.”

The standing position I use most frequently (though I admit to not doing it very often) is a combination of the Janu-kuru-utthitha-bandha and the Kirti-utthita-bandha: my hands around his neck, his arms under my ass, my legs wrapped around his ass. This way I can pull up on his body to move mine up and down and help get a good stroke going. The pure Janu-kuru “requires great bodily strength in the man,” Kalyana admits.

I have never been able to have sex in the tree-climbing Kirti-utthita-bandha and its variants. I suppose this is because my legs are short relative to my torso, and I just don’t line up with my lover’s cock the right way. Kalyana proclaims “it is a position delightful to young women, who thereby soon find themselves in gloria.” I’m hardly young, so I will leave this position to those who are!

Rear entry is more to my liking, but Kalyana provides just two Vyanta-bandha, or approach from behind, postures:

1. Dhenuka-vyanta-bandha: “In this position the wife places herself upon all fours, supported on her hands and feet (not her knees), and the husband, approaching from behind, falls upon her waist, and enjoys her as if he were a bull.”

2. Aybha-vyanta-bandha: “The wife lies down in such a position that her face, breast, stomach, and thighs all touch the bed or carpet, and the husband, extending himself upon her, and bending himself like an elephant, with the small of the back, much drawn in, works underneath her, and effects insertion.” This is the Flat Fucking position I mentioned previously.

Why does Kalyana instruct women attempting the Dhenuka-vyanta-bandha not to rest on their knees? The answer is found in the other name he gives it: the “cow posture.” A cow doesn’t get down on her knees when she is fucked by a bull, and in Kalyana’s eyes neither should a woman. Remember that cattle are sacred to the Hindus, and Kalyana notes that “there is much religious merit in this form.” But it’s hard on the woman’s back if she is not resting her body on a couch or bed (in the Cherrie position). I’m fine on my knees, thank you, and I’d prefer to allow my men to pleasure me in the classic doggy style.

Lastly, Kalyana describes the Purushayita-bandha, the “reverse of what men usually practice,” in which “the man lies upon his back, draws his wife upon him and enjoys her.” Woman on top positions were considered scandalous, if not blasphemous, in Eastern societies, but Kalyana assures the reader they have great merit “when he, being exhausted, is no longer capable of muscular exertion, and when she is ungratified, being still full of the water of love.”

The three woman superior postures are:

1. Viparita-bandha, where “the wife lies straight upon the outstretched person of her husband, her breast being applied to his bosom, presses his waist with her hands and moving her hips sharply in various directions, enjoys him.”

2. Purushayita-bhramara-bandha, where “the wife, having placed her husband at full length upon the bed or carpet, sits at squat upon his thighs, closes her legs firmly after she has effected insertion: and, moving her waist in a circular form, churning, as it were, enjoys her husband, and thoroughly satisfies herself.”

3. Utthita-uttana-bandha, where the woman has “her husband lie upon his back, and sitting cross-legged upon his thighs, should seize his Linga, effect insertion, and move her waist up and down, advancing and retiring.”

Once again, Kalyana does not list the most common woman on top variants, where the woman rests her weight on her knees placed on either side of the man’s torso. Whether facing the man or in the reverse position, these gives the woman the greatest range of motion and ability to thrust her body down on his cock. The Viparita-bandha requires the woman to support and move herself with her arms, almost as if she were doing military push-ups. That’s a little too strenuous for me!

In Purushayita-bandha, the woman rests upon her feet, apparently in the reverse cowgirl position, and compresses her thighs to grip and milk the man’s member. This is a very hot coupling, particularly if the man enjoys watching the woman’s ass bobbing up and down on his cock! I wouldn’t rest my feet on the man’s thighs, though—that’s too painful for him. The floor will do.

Similarly, the Utthita-uttana-bandha position, involving the woman resting her entire weight on the man’s thighs, would seem to be uncomfortable for the man unless the woman is very small, and difficult for the woman to sustain without bouncing up and down on him, which might increase the discomfort.

Kalyana wrote the Aranga Ranga, as the opening quote explains, for the avowed purpose of helping couples stay together. His foreplay techniques and 32 varieties of sex are just the beginning chapter in his catalog of delights. He hints at other bandha, but if he ever wrote a sequel to this work, it has yet to be found.

Our purpose, too, is to provide resources to help everyone enjoy sex and discover satisfying positions they might not have thought of on their own. We hope you’ve enjoyed this detailed look at an ancient classic, and that Kalyana’s writings will inspire you and your partner(s) to try something different and exciting when passion begins to smolder.

Cherrie's HNT--Show and Tell

2007-07-24T21:38:00.000-07:00

Another busy week in Cherrieland! I haven't been able to finish the post I was going to publish yesterday, and Hardin and I haven't had time to shoot a new HNT series for you. This is partly because I have some new duties at work, and partly because we are in the middle of producing another play, for which I will be responsible for makeup and hairstyling once again.

This week I am trying something different. I will display five previous photos of me showing two of my largest assets--if you can't guess what they are, let your eyes drift lower. You tell me which one of the five you like best, and why.

Here we go!

Number 1: This was my first HNT, shot in May 2006 in our hotel room near the Los Angeles International Airport. I had just returned from dinner at Spago and I was feeling frisky! (Check out the blood-red nail polish!) Fortunately, Hardin was too, and I think the next-door guests began complaining about the screams and moans after a while!

Number 2. Everyone enjoys a good naked-woman-in-the-shower shot. So voyeuristic, and the breasts look so huge when smashed against the frosted shower glass! How do you like those tan lines?

Number 3. Remember Dr. Cherrie? To "treat" her "patient," she climbed on top of him and slipped his erection into her waiting pocket of joy. The patient shot this view. Unfortunately the camera did not zoom back far enough to show anything from Dr. Cherrie's nether regions. The photo does show off her golden orbs to best advantage, though, does it not?

Number 4. Relaxing nude in the backyard. What a splendid way to spend a summer afternoon or night. I just love the sight of perspiration blooming on my breasts. I'm either getting warm in the sun or just finished with some sextracurricular activities. Which do you think it was?

Number 5. It's early in the morning and I am half asleep, but that doesn't stop Hardin from snapping a candid photo of me as my mammaries emerge from beneath the sheet.

So which one do you like the best? Vote by E-mail to cherihard@sbcglobal.net! Tell me why you made your selection. I'll tally the results and publish the best of your comments next time.

Cherrie

Memory Monday--Between the Stacks

2007-07-23T19:31:00.000-07:00

Last week Vampyr tagged me to tell you about a sexual experience in a library. I told him in a comment that I couldn’t recall such an experience, but Hardin did. Thinking about this exchange afterwards, I remembered a long-forgotten between-the-bookshelves encounter of my own, but since Hardin had already started on his memoir, I’m going to save mine for next week. Two responses to one tag! Here’s Hardin’s Monday memory:

College in September. If any time is lazy at college, it’s when classes are just starting up for the year. It’s a time of warm weather, of introductory lectures in class, of reading lists that could be cast aside for a week or two to throw footballs or Frisbees around the quad. Or to check out the new girls on campus.

One of the new girls was Geena. She was a junior like me, but I didn’t recall seeing her before. I would have noticed her if I had, because she was unique.

Geena had a round face with pronounced cheeks and large brown eyes. Broad, slightly shy smiles came easily to her. Her body was slender, with small, pointy breasts poking her cotton tops. Long, straight brown hair cascaded down her back to her waist. In the hippie-inspired style of the time, Geena wore low-riding bell-bottom pants with her sandal-clad toes barely poking out from the hem, along with a funky hat with cheerful flowers.

Something about her, maybe her easy-going and friendly ways, attracted me.

I had a class with Geena three times a week and watched her from afar. Eventually I worked up the courage to sit near her and say hello. “Hi!” she responded, and her face brightened as if the sun had come out from the clouds. I made a little small talk about the professor and the readings, noticing how she hung on every word. When class was over, she said “Bye!” with a big, inviting smile. I think I’ll sit next to her more often, I thought. And I did.

The first paper was due about three weeks after class started. Late one afternoon I was working in the library. It was pretty empty, since most people had wandered off to the dorms to get dinner, but I wanted to finish my research.

Soft light from the setting sun filtered through the windows as I walked between the stacks looking for another reference book. Turning the corner, my mind on my work, I was startled by what I found.

Geena was leaning against the stacks, her eyes closed, her breathing labored and shallow, her hand stuffed into her pants. Fondling herself, obviously.

My movement must have startled her, for her eyes opened and she jerked her hand free in an instant.

“Hardin?” Her jaw dropped open.

“It’s OK, Geena,” I said. Instinctively I put my arms around her, as if to protect her from any other would-be voyeurs. She melted against my chest, and I felt her hands creeping up my back.
“Oh, Hardin,” Geena responded, “I so much want a full body massage, right now.” Her meaning was inescapable as she looked into my eyes. She wanted me to give her one.

Even though my cock was stiffening in my pants, I was taken aback. I had never even hung out with Geena, and she wants me to get intimate with her? But reason prevailed. I knew she lived in an apartment close to campus. “Let’s go to your place, Geena, so we can have a little privacy for that.” She nodded. To hell with the research, I thought. I’ve got something way more important to do now.

It was getting dark and a bit chilly as we walked west to her place. She wasn’t quite the usual Geena, a bit more withdrawn and pensive, wondering perhaps what she had done. I put my arm around her waist; she yielded to my touch, and I felt her arm around mine. Her sandals slapped against the concrete as we approached her building.

No sooner had she opened the door than she enveloped me in her tight embrace, our lips sealing together for the first time. Once again she looked into my eyes. No words were exchanged but her meaning was clear. She took me by the hand, led me to her bedroom and turned on a low light—a Lavalite, if I recall correctly.

Posters from the 1970s filled the walls: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, that “Love” poster with the lopsided letters. Love was what was happening tonight, for sure. We fell onto her small bed, rolling around, our hands working their way underneath each other’s clothes. With a giggle, Geena escaped my grasp, peeled off her top and her bra, and jumped back onto the bed. I did what I came to do, or part of it, anyway. Her breasts received a fabulous massage. Before long her succulent nipples were between my teeth. She cried out my name and held my hair ever tighter.

When I came up for air, she feverishly undid her belt and began working her jeans over her ass. Time for the “full body” part, I knew. Off came my clothes, and I kneeled before her, my erection on full display in the ever-changing red glow of the lamp. Geena grasped it and moaned at the touch. I hooked my fingers under the elastic of her panties and pulled them toward her knees. She raised her legs, pulled them over her feet, tossed them aside and spread her legs with that glowing smile lighting her face.

Her pussy was wet and ready for my length, and it slid inside to the hilt without resistance. Withdrawing my cock for a second, I thrust it inside her once more, lowering my body atop hers. She wrapped her legs around me, holding me inside, kissing me calmly but deeply, her hands around my neck. Instinctively, I wiggled my erection inside her cunt, feeling her body tremble with pleasure as my glans rubbed her G-spot.

I rose on my hands, resuming my thrusts. She felt so warm, so rich, so welcoming, surrounding me with her arms, her legs, her pussy. Craning my neck down, I kissed her once more, tongue diving as deep as it would go, feeling her tongue inside my mouth. Pulling back from her kiss, I stared into her half-opened eyes, listening to her short, shallow breath exhale with every move I made.

Geena said nothing; she let her eyes and expressions convey her desire, her lust, her satisfaction. She wanted more, and more I gave her. More thrusting, more kissing, more moaning. More pleasure. I gave it freely, and took back from her as much as I gave.

In time, Geena’s calm reserve dissolved in her gathering passion. She closed her eyes and contorted her face as she squeezed her body against mine. Her grip on my back became tighter and tighter. Soft moans escaped her lips, becoming louder and louder. Soon her body was thrashing on the bed, her head spinning from side to side, her voice deepening into a full-fledged roar.

And then she fell silent. She had come.

I pulled out my cock and jerked it off in my hand, staring at this suddenly-frail female figure, still twitching on the sheet, but otherwise oblivious to my hand-made happiness. In time she calmed down, curled up in a ball and seemingly went to sleep.

After rinsing my cum down her sink, I came back to her bed and attempted to crawl in next to her. But she was not in the mood for post-coital closeness. Her eyes opened and she straightened up when the mattress groaned under my knee.

“That was good,” she said, “but you’d better go now.” Her face told me the subject was not open for further discussion.

I kissed her on the forehead. “Good-bye,” I whispered. I gathered up my clothes to return to the kitchen and get dressed. “Oh, and thank you for inviting me,” I said from the doorway.

There was no answer.

Geena was back in class two days afterward. Outwardly, she seemed cheerful and serene as always, but when I tried to engage her in conversation, without approaching the subject of our unexpected pleasures, she answered in clipped, almost curt phrases. At the end of class, she gathered her books and walked off. I had hoped to go somewhere and talk to her, telling her what a satisfying lover she was and how much I enjoyed our surprise meeting, but she was not interested in hearing how I liked it. I had been granted a brief glimpse into the book of her mind, but my card for her library had expired, and I was fated never to have it renewed.

Why We Say "Fuck"

2007-07-22T11:30:00.000-07:00

Everybody says it. Everybody has a general idea what it means. Everybody knows it’s a strong word that even today carries connotations of rawness and vulgarity. But where did this word come from, and how did it acquire the central place in popular English-speaking culture that it has today?

We’re talking, of course, about the word fuck. It’s one of the most versatile words in the language, serving as a noun, a verb, an adjective (as fucking) and an expletive. And it is indeed an official word; it has had its own extensive entry in the ultimate authority on the subject, the Oxford English Dictionary, since 1972.

The history of fuck has been studied extensively by etymologists, but they have not been able to reach a definitive consensus on its origin. The majority opinion is that the word is a Germanic corruption of the root word pug, meaning to fight or fist. This root survives today in English words such as pugilist (boxer) and pugnacious (putting up a fight).

In German to fuck is ficken, in Middle Dutch fokken, in Norwegian fukka, and in old Swedish focka. Indeed, the Swedes during the Middle Ages called a penis a fock. Did the word travel to England with the Vikings? No one knows.

The earliest recorded use of fuck in English was in a poem written before 1500 to poke fun at the foibles of the friars resident at Cambridge. Titled Flen, Flyys and Freirs (Fleas, Flies and Friars) and written in a mixture of Latin, English and code (to evade retribution by the Church, I suppose), it explained that the friars “are not in heaven because they fuck wives of Ely.” William Dunbar’s 1503 poem, Brash of Wowing, recording a tryst between a country girl and a smooth-talking city man, described their connection as “haif fukkit.”

This obviously reflected common usage of fuck as slang for having sex. And because sex was acknowledged as a natural human activity during the Enlightenment, there seems to have been relatively little stigma attached to the word. In 1775, John Ash published his New and Complete Dictionary containing several definitions of fuck, although he characterized it as “low” and “vulgar.”

But then came the strait-laced Victorian era, and fuck disappeared entirely from the written record. Even such sex-oriented publications as Burton’s English translations of the Kama Sutra and the Ananga Ranga avoided it. The next book to use the word was D. H. Lawrence’s 1928 novel, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. This book described an affair between Constance, a noblewoman whose husband had been paralyzed, and Oliver, a stonemason who worked on her estate. Lawrence employed fuck extensively to describe their sexual dalliances.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover was published in Florence, Italy to avoid Britain’s obscenity laws. When the book finally appeared in England in 1960, the authorities prosecuted the publisher under the Obscene Publications Act. The verdict, a resounding not guilty, greatly liberalized the standards for publication of sexually-explicit works. A similar prosecution in the United States was reversed by the Supreme Court, which ruled that the First Amendment protects Americans who want to use fuck when they speak and write about sex.

How did fuck obtain its other primary meaning—the one connoting aggression and derision outside the sexual context? That’s more difficult to explain. The word has been used in this fashion for decades. Prince Albert exclaimed “Fuck it, I’ve taken a bullet” when he was shot while waiting for a train in Brussels in 1900. In 1938, Eddy Duchin recorded a version of Louis Armstrong’s Ol’ Man Mose including the lyric “Ah, fuck it!” The record sold 170,000 copies despite America’s economic depression.

I have found no authority for this, but I suspect the answer is rooted in historic attitudes of men toward sex. Remember that fuck is thought to have evolved from the ancient word pug, meaning fight. For a man, sex can be an aggressive act. Think back to that cavemen cliché of the man hitting the woman on the head with a club and dragging her back to the cave unconscious, presumably to rape her. And consider that most male-female sex is performed with the male in the dominant (top) position, having more freedom and control.

It’s not a stretch to think that the common retort “Fuck you!” reveals the subconscious desire of the speaker to force the person to whom it is exclaimed into the typically inferior position of a woman, and to take his pleasure from her against her will as revenge. Likewise, when we mutter “That fucking piece of shit!” about something that isn’t working the way we planned, we are complaining that this inanimate object has somehow gotten the better of us and, at least figuratively, is holding us down and submitting us to a vigorous boning.

Then there is the use of the word for emphasis, as in “Turn down that fucking music!” To some extent, that reflects the superior position the speaker perceives the music has over him, but since “fucking” is such a vigorous word, short, staccato and ending with the hard “ck” sound, using it may cause others to sit up and take notice. Any taboo against using fuck in this manner except in the most polite of circles has long since fell to the wayside—just listen to rap music lyrics or watch an episode of Entourage.

There are a couple of myths I can debunk. Fuck is not an acronym “For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge.” No support exists for the story that fornicators and adulterers in England had the letters “F.U.C.K.,” standing for this phrase, burned into the wooden stocks where they were punished for their indiscretions. And there is no evidence that fuck came from the practice of the French, after the battle of Agincourt, to chop off the middle fingers of captured English archers so they could no longer shoot the dreaded longbow. According to this inaccurate legend, archers who retained their fingers proudly held them up for the French to see—in what’s universally known as “the finger” or “fuck you” gesture—and yelled “Pluck you,” which in time was slurred into “Fuck you!”

Thanks for reading this! Now I think I’ll lie down and get fucked . . .

Cherrie's Friday Positions--Internal Enjoyments

2007-07-19T19:52:00.000-07:00

By "internal enjoyment" is meant the art of congress which follows the various external preliminaries described in the last chapter. These embraces, kisses and sundry manipulations, must always be practised according to the taste of husband and wife, and if persisted in as the Shastra, directs, they will excessively excite the passions of the woman, and will soften and loosen her Yoni so as to be ready for carnal connection.

In Chapter 9 of the Ananga Ranga, Kalyana Malla explains the 32 “carnal connections” that make up his directory of sexual intercourse between men and women. He divides his positions into “five main Bandha or A'sana-forms or postures of congress” with the man on top of the woman, and then discusses the Purushayita, positions where the woman is on top of the man.

The first of these categories, Uttana-bandha, is “the great division so-called by men well versed in the Art of Love, when a woman lies upon her back.” Kalyana lists eleven variations of what contemporary students of sex would call the missionary position:

-- Samapada-uttana-bandha, “when the husband places his wife upon her back, raises both her legs, and placing them upon his shoulders, sits close to her and enjoys her.”

-- Nagara-uttana-bandha, “when the husband places his wife upon her back, sits between her legs, raises them both, keeping them on either side of his waist, and thus enjoys her.”

-- Traivikrama-uttana-bandha, “when one of the wife’s legs is left lying upon the bed or carpet, the other being placed upon the head of the husband, who supports himself upon both hands.”

-- Vyomapada-uttana-bandha, “when the wife, lying upon her back, raises with her hands both legs, drawing them as far back as her hair; the husband, then sitting close to her, places both hands upon her breasts and enjoys her.”

-- Smarachakrasana, “a mode very much enjoyed by the voluptuary.” The man sits upright between the legs of the woman, “extends his arms on both sides of her as far as he can, and thus enjoys her.”

-- Avidarita, “when the wife raises both her legs, so that they may touch the bosom of her husband, who, sitting between her thighs, embraces and enjoys her.”

-- Saumya-bandha, when the “wife lies supine, and the husband, as usual, sits; he places both hands under her back, closely embracing her, which she returns by tightly grasping his neck.”

-- Jrimbhita-asana, in which the woman lies with pillows under the small of her back to bend “in the form of a bow,” and rises to the elevated vagina by kneeling upon a cushion. “This is an admirable form of congress,” Kalyana observes, “and is greatly enjoyed by both.”

-- Veshtita-asana, “when the wife lies upon her back cross-legged and raises her feet a little; this position is very well fitted for those burning with desire.”

-- Venuvidarita, when “the wife, lying upon her back, places one leg upon her husband's shoulder, and the other on the bed or carpet.”

-- Sphutma-uttana-bandha, “when the husband, after insertion and penetration, raises the legs of his wife, who still lies upon her back, and joins her thighs closely together.”

The Saumya position is the classic missionary: the lovers face front to front, holding their bodies close together, their arms around each other. The rest increase the distance between the partners; they touch each other less, but see each other more. The Nagara position, with the man holding the woman’s legs on either side of his torso, and the Veshtita position, with the woman crossing her legs in front of the man’s body, allow the man to enter with his body at roughly a 45-degree angle. For the Traivikrama (one leg resting on the man’s forehead, the other on the floor or bed) and the Venuvidarita (one leg resting on the man’s shoulder), the man must be even more upright. The Samapada (both legs on the man’s shoulders), Avidarita (both legs on the man’s chest), and Sphutma (the man holds the woman’s legs together in front of him) put the bodies of the lovers at right angles to each other.

It’s difficult to argue with the Saumya, since it’s easy and quite comfortable for both participants. The Nagara allows deeper penetration than the Veshtita, which would be well suited to a large man entering a petite woman. The Traivikrama is the most intriguing of the perpendicular positions, partly because I can’t recall ever seeing anyone fucking with the woman’s leg in front of the man’s eyes, blocking his view. During our test drive, we added a refinement Kalyana didn’t mention: kissing and licking of the back of the woman’s leg, including the sensitive skin on the inside of the knee. This ticklish stimulation made me giggle!

For lusty bedboard-banging fun, it’s hard to beat the Vyomapada, the reclining, spread-‘em-wide, show us what you’ve got position often assumed by adult film actresses for publicity shots. I can’t hold it very long—it’s hard on the back and the hamstring muscles—but the man has the most freedom to thrust, circle and grind in this posture, and he can really drive his cock in deep! If you need to tighten up the vaginal canal for more clitoral stimulation, the Sphutma (legs vertical and held together by the man) and the Jrimbhita (lying down and elevating the pelvis with pillows) work quite well.

That leaves the Smarachakrasana, which probably belongs with the sitting positions rather than the missionary ones. It’s intimate, but suffers from the disadvantage of most positions where the man is resting on his ass: it’s difficult for him to thrust.

If you’re not enamored of this posture, never fear; Kalyana offers ten more sitting positions in the Upavishta category:

-- Padm-asana, where the man “sits cross-legged upon the bed or carpet, and takes his wife upon his lap, placing his hands upon her shoulders.”

-- Upapad-asana, where “whilst both are sitting, the woman slightly raises one leg by placing the hand under it, and the husband enjoys her.”

-- Vaidhurit-asana, where “the husband embraces his wife's neck very closely, and she does the same to him.”

-- Panipash-asana, where “the husband holds his wife's feet, and the wife those of her husband.”

-- Sanyaman-asana, where “the husband passes both the legs of his wife under his arms at the elbow, and holds her neck with his hands.”

-- Kaurmak-asana (tortoise posture), where the man sits so “that his mouth, arms, and legs touch the corresponding members of his wife.”

-- Parivartit-asana, where “in addition to the mutual contact of mouth, arms, and legs, the husband must frequently pass both the legs of his wife under his arms at the elbow.”

-- Yugmapad-asana, where the man “sits with his legs wide apart, and, after insertion and penetration, presses the thighs of his wife together.”

-- Vinarditasana, “a form possible only to a very strong man with a very light woman; he raises her by passing both her legs over his arms at the elbow, and moves her about from left to right, but not backwards or forwards, till the supreme moment arrives.”

-- Markatasana, where the man once again lifts the woman, but moves her “in a straight line away from his face, that is, backwards and forwards, but not from side to side.”

In common with the Smarachakrasana, these positions leave the man in a weak position to thrust. You can wiggle back and forth and get some friction that way, but if you do that on a carpet you run the risk of a serious rug burn. However, the relative restriction from movement is consistent with the Tantric traditions of Hinduism, combining sex with yoga, meditation and mysticism to elevate both parties into infinite awareness.

The last three are the most interesting to me. Attempting Yugmapad-asana, I leaned back in a jackknife position, resting on my elbows, as Hardin raised my legs and held them together with his hands. Although he could not slide his erection in and out easily, he could move my legs back and forth, and in a circular motion. It was quite pleasurable to feel my vagina sliding around his cock at his whim, especially since it was held in so tightly by my clenched legs and its glans was rubbing my G-spot delightfully!

Since I am not a “very light woman,” I did not attempt Vinarditasana or Markatasana, but the concept of being lifted up and down an erect cock without any effort on my part is quite intriguing! I’d be very interested in watching a couple do this (I can’t recall seeing the position depicted in an adult film), or even finding a pair of strong men to assist in lifting me up and down on a third man’s member!

NEXT WEEK: We conclude our study of the Ananga Ranga with a description of the last four Bandha.

Cherre's HNT--A Real Player

2007-07-18T22:25:00.000-07:00

We have a piano in our living room. It was a gift from my parents when my daughters were young. We (well, I) had ambitions that they would develop an interest in music. The younger one tried her hand at the piano, while the elder daughter chose the violin.

Many hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars later, I admitted defeat. Neither showed any particular aptitude for music, and they lost interest in it when the other kids being tutored left them far, far behind in those ruthlessly competitive student concerts.

And so the piano sat in the living room for years, unused. It's practically brand new despite its age. Occasionally Hardin plunks out "Chopsticks" on it when he comes around to dust it, but that's about the only time it gets any exercise.

So I thought I would sit down this fine Thursday and play you a few tunes. I'm a bit rusty, but not enough to keep me from embarrassing myself by asking you to listen.

What would you like to hear? Some Rachmaninoff? Gershwin? Brahms or Chopin? Sorry, my ability isn't up to playing the masters.

Let's try something easy: a little Thelonius Monk. Hmm, maybe that's too hard--look at all those complicated notes. How about some Ramsey Lewis? I don't quite remember how to play the chords.

Oh, here's one I can play for you: "The One-Note Samba"!

Ah, to hell with it. Let me find Hardin so he can play "Chopsticks" for you.

The Precocious Madam

2007-07-17T20:36:00.000-07:00

What do you think of when you hear the term “madam”? Maybe a matronly woman wearing a pillbox hat and dressy, conservative clothing, but if you’re of my peculiar bent the proprietor of a house of prostitution would come to mind.

And what sort of woman is the archetypal madam? Well, there’s Xaviera Hollander, the “Happy Hooker” of the 1960s and 1970s who is still pitching sex-related products at the age of 64 (see www.xavierahollander.com). Or you might recall Heidi Fleiss, the “Hollywood Madam” of the 1990s, who after serving a 21-month prison term for tax evasion keeps popping up with ideas like a Nevada brothel built as an exact replica of the White House and a “Dirty Laundry” laundromat, which actually opened this month in the Death Valley town of Pahrump.

Or maybe the madam du jour, Deborah Jeane Palfrey. Palfrey opened Pamela Martin and Associates, an escort service in Washington D.C., after being “appalled and disgusted” by how “seedy, lazy and incompetent” other escort agencies were. Federal prosecutors charged that the business was really a call girl operation, linking prostitutes with eager customers for $300 an hour. Palfrey responded by claiming escorts who turned tricks were violating their contracts, and threatening to disclose the identities of her famous and powerful clients. So far the biggest fish caught in the net of the unfolding scandal is Sen. David Vitter (R.-La.), who admitted on July 9 that he had used Palfrey’s service.

(I must note, with some glee, that Vitter had been a strong supporter of the Marriage Protection Amendment, which sought to amend the U.S. Constitution by defining marriage as a union between one man and one woman. The purpose of this failed amendment was to prevent states from legally recognizing gay, lesbian and other unconventional marriages, as Massachusetts has done. I would say Vitter’s credentials as a morality crusader have been severely compromised, wouldn’t you?)

Anyway, Xaviera and Heidi were in their thirties during their prime years as madams, and Palfrey is over 50. The term “madam,” to me, connotes a certain maturity and equanimity. A madam is a woman who’s seen it all, and probably done it all. A woman who’s mastered marketing, accounting and human resources along with the skills of the sexually proficient. A woman who can pay off the police, finesse the rent and make all the customers feel welcome the moment they open the door.

But have you ever heard of a madam who was 19?

Justine Alex Reisdorf was out of high school and a single mom. Her job working the front desk of the Hampton Inn in Burnsville, Minnesota didn’t pay enough to provide a decent living. But putting two and two together, she came up with a plan to improve her economic standing.

(Legal disclaimer: What follows is taken from press reports and prosecutors’ allegations. Justine has not spoken for herself. None of it has been proved in court, and Justine must be considered innocent unless she is proved guilty.)

Last November, ads began to appear in the erotic services section of Craigslist. “Hi Fellas. It’s the party girls ... 200 roses for 2 hours for one of us ... 375 roses for 2 hours for 3 of us ... Kandy, Deja and Carmen.”

The ads were fairly transparent: $200 gets you one girl, $375 gets you all three, for a “party.” They drew the attention of detective Kurt Bratulich from the Eagan, Minn. police department, which like all police forces these days has someone scanning the Internet for child pornography and the like. Bratulich tracked the ad back to Reisdorf and learned she was living in a rented town house in Burnsville. The police searched the town house, but Justine was moving at the time and they found nothing incriminating.

Bratulich stayed on the case. He frequented one of the local high schools to develop trust in teens. One day in February a student there confided that she was one of the “party girls,” and Justine had recruited her. Another student then stepped forward to confess Justine had posted nude photos of parts of her body on Craigslist. Unfortunately for Justine, both of these girls were under 18, the age of consent in Minnesota.

Moving out of the town house hadn’t hurt Justine’s business. She just relocated to her Hampton Inn and checked her party girls and their guests into unsold rooms. The girls charged their “roses” for having sex with Justine’s patrons, and Justine got her cut of the gross.

The police and the FBI traced erotic Craigslist postings to “Deja A. McDone,” which they deduced was Justine’s alias. Another high school student admitted turning tricks for Justine and confirmed that she was recruiting underage girls for her customers. Meanwhile, Justine had branched out, offering sex not only on Craigslist but also on the Live Links telephone chat line.

That was enough for the feds. They swooped in during June and charged Justine with recruiting minors for a prostitution ring. She is in jail after violating the terms of her release bond, awaiting a trial scheduled to take place this fall.

I’ve written before that I have nothing against prostitution, though I am opposed to many of the abusive practices that go along with it. I would have no problem with Justine charging men to have sex with her, or advertising her availability on the Internet. She is an adult, after all.

Where she went wrong, if she actually did do the things the police claim, is by accumulating underage children as her stock in trade. You can argue back and forth whether people are emotionally ready for sexual relationships at the age of 17, 18 or 19. But Minnesota has an age of majority at 18, and everyone should be required to abide by it.

I have to wonder just what kind of clientele Justine attracted with her “party girls.” The men had to have “roses”—er, cash—so they probably weren’t 19 themselves. Shouldn’t the average 30 or 40-year-old john recognize a high school hooker when he sees one? How can these guys live with themselves after taking advantage of high school kids? Or did Justine skillfully market her services to pedophiles? Obviously, rather than being charged with the relatively minor crime of patronizing a prostitute, these men are in jeopardy of arrest for statutory rape, a far more serious offense.

Maybe someday Justine will achieve the fame or notoriety of a Xaviera or Heidi Fleiss. But I hope she does it with women who are mature enough to make an informed decision to enter the oldest profession. Taking advantage of children is just wrong, whether you’re 19 or 91.

Memory Monday--Checking (Them) Out

2007-07-16T18:36:00.000-07:00

I had planned to write about something else for this Monday’s entry, but since I teased Kitty this morning about an incident in a supermarket once upon a time I thought I would tell everyone that story, even though it is out of sequence.

In the early 1990s, Hardin and I traveled to St. Louis. He was on business, and I was tagging along. We stayed in a motel in the north suburbs that had no restaurant. Because we expected to get hungry during the night (sex consumes energy, you know), we decided to head down the road to a store for some snack food and drinks.

We pulled into the parking lot of a Schnucks (pronounced “Schnooks”) store. People in St. Louis probably don’t give it a thought, but we’ve always found the name of this local grocery chain to be funny, since “schnook” is Yiddish for “a stupid or easily victimized person,” according to the American Heritage Dictionary. Nonetheless, Schnucks runs stores that are clean and bright, and we had no reservations about shopping there as the automatic doors swung open.

Pushing our cart down the aisles, we made our mundane selections and then headed for the checkout. We faced the usual dilemma: people in line at each open register. Which line would move the fastest? The “ten items or less” line? That one usually is a bad bet, in my experience, because someone in that line will try to pay with a check, or have a question about the price of one of her items, holding everything up. I visualized the eyes of everyone behind that person rolling back in their heads, silently cursing themselves for believing small orders get processed faster.

We selected one of the “any order” lines instead and parked our cart behind a slim woman about our age. She had her back to us, flipping through one of those checkout counter gossip magazines. Her attractively coiffed hair was (we guessed) dyed blonde. She wore tight blue jeans that showed off her curvaceous ass, and a towering pair of spindly sandals. And her top was gold mesh. Very wide gauge mesh.

In time she finished the magazine she was reading, turning toward the rack to put it back and pick out another one. That gave us a glimpse of her front. And caused our jaws to drop.

The woman was braless under her gauzy, stretchy mesh. The skin of her breasts was clearly visible through the diaphanous fabric, and her erect brown nipples were poking through the holes in the mesh for all to see.

She must have been an exhibitionist. Had to be. She pretended to ignore our stares and slowly paged through the current edition of People, giving us a good long look at her girls in profile. Then she put the magazine back in the stand, let her eyes dart to Hardin’s, gave him a brief, toothy smile and turned around to face the cashier.

I was a little pissed by this display. I don’t like it when women show off for my man and act like I’m not there! But I must have been the only one who was offended.

The men in the other lines, standing with their beer and chips in hand, obviously had seen her little show as well. One by one, they moved to our line, standing in back of me, straining their necks for another look at her carefree display. I wish I’d thought of it at the time, but I probably could have auctioned our place in line and sold it for more than the price of our groceries!

She unloaded her cart right in front of us. We saw her boobs hanging down as she reached for her Kleenex and Cheerios and placed her items on the conveyor belt. If the young cashier thought her mode of dress was startling, she gave no indication. Maybe the woman was a regular at this store and her antics had long since lost their shock value to the employees.

She paid for her groceries and walked out the door, pushing her cart loaded with shopping bags ahead of her. Our line of shoppers watched in dead silence, the men tracking every step she took with rapt attention until she opened the door to her car.

I poked Hardin in the ribs. “Unload the cart!”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and began digging out our goodies.

I always used to wonder why Missouri is called the Show Me State. Now I know.

The Cocktail Demonstrator

2007-07-15T11:15:00.000-07:00

Saturday is shopping day at Chez Cherrie. We spread out the supermarket sale flyers and write down what we want to buy. The whole family can play this game, because this is how we decide what we are going to eat for the week.

When we’re done marking up the flyers, everyone who wants to go (that could be five of us if my mother comes along, now that my younger daughter is back from college) piles in the old blue minivan and sets off for the stores. We always go to at least two of them, and sometimes three, to get the best prices. One of the stores specializes in produce. We try to incorporate as many fresh fruits and vegetables into our diets as we can, to take advantage of the health benefits and because we like the taste. Our shopping cart is usually full of apples, bananas, broccoli, romaine lettuce and whatever else we need to make the week’s meals.

We love Whole Foods for a lot of reasons. The food is wonderful, and much of it is organic or local in origin. The store is clean, friendly and well-staffed. Hardin loves all the samples they give out, and he enjoys perusing the selections in the wine department (where they also give out samples on Saturdays). But the store is really expensive, which is why some people nickname it “Whole Paycheck.” So that’s an optional stop more for fun than for function.

Our last stop is usually the mainstream supermarket, which usually has the best deals on necessities like paper towels and pasta. This store also has the highlight of the day: the “Consumer Education Specialist,” or the liquor department sample lady.

For about a year this position was filled by Janne, newly arrived from Estonia. Janne was an attractive young lady who wore tight skirts, low-cut tops and big heels as she poured her wares and schmoozed the customers in her thickly accented English. Hardin had a serious thing for her, and I think he was on the verge of asking her out when he found out she was about 23 and was attending the same college as my older daughter! Foolish man; a marriage-seeking college woman is not likely to play around with a 50-plus horndog!

Next came Dora, a curvy, bespectacled woman who was a bit older than Janne and fancied herself as something of a stand-up comic. Hardin didn’t get very far with her; she came up with all sorts of clever jokes and innuendoes at his expense. Then Dora migrated to another store, and Brandy took over the demonstration duties.

Brandy is a slim older woman, in her sixties perhaps, but she wears her age well. She wears her blonde hair in a short beauty-shop wedge, and dresses stylishly but conservatively for her in-store work. I find her quite to my liking! We have become good friends, to the point that Hardin and I have suggested that we go out to dinner with her, although that hasn’t happened yet.

We’ve tried hundreds of wines and liquor products at Brandy’s makeshift bar, set up on a card table in front of one of the wine displays in the store. Since both of my daughters are now of legal drinking age, sometimes Brandy is pouring for all five of us. And we usually like something she’s pouring well enough to take a bottle of it home. Some of our favorites are these:

Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge: This classic 80-proof liqueur was first produced in 1880 by Alexander Marnier-Lapostolle, and his family still makes it today. It is a triple sec, made from Cognacs and orange peels that flavor the alcohol. Grand Marnier tastes warm and rich when enjoyed in front of a roaring fire in the winter, or poured over the rocks and taken out on the deck when the summer sun begins to set. Because it is sweet and flavorful, it is often used to enhance desserts such as crepes suzette, but somehow we never have any left over for this purpose!

Bailey’s Irish Cream: Chocolate milk fueled with alcohol is the best way to describe this deliciously rich concoction. Bailey’s starts out with 50% fresh cream from Ireland and adds Irish whiskey, cocoa and sugar. Introduced in 1974, 34-proof Bailey’s recently began adding new flavors. My favorite is caramel. You can tell because my bottle is just about empty!

Amaretto di Saronno: Packaged in its distinctive rectangular bottle, Amaretto di Saronno has a history that is literally legendary. As the story goes, back in 1525 a church in the Lombardy town of Saronno commissioned Leonardo da Vinci to paint frescoes in the sanctuary. Da Vinci sent his student Bernardino Luini to do the work. Luini needed a model to paint the Madonna, and he found one in a widowed innkeeper. The two of them fell in love, and she introduced him to an original drink she had prepared, made by steeping apricot kernels in brandy. The Disaronno company claims it still makes its 56-proof product the same way today. Amaretto is used for a number of drinks (including the aptly-named Godfather), but I like it neat or on the rocks.

Vanille Royale: The history and origin of this new product are rather confusing. The bottle says that the liqueur is “imported from France,” but made in Ireland. Apparently what’s going on is that an Irish maker buys French cognac and “the world’s finest vanilla beans from Madagascar” and combines them with Irish cream to make “the world’s first vanilla cream liqueur.” Wherever it comes from, it’s tasty and voluptuous. Take it from me, this is a great after-sex drink on the rocks!

Hypnotiq: I’d seen this liqueur in its distinctive bottle on TV and in ads, and I told Brandy I was wondering what all the hype was about. Then I tried it. It tastes wonderful chilled—light and refreshing, the perfect drink for a summer afternoon when you want something a little different from the usual chardonnay. Made in France, Hypnotiq combines vodka, Cognac and tropical fruit juices into a liqueur you can drink by itself or add to a martini or a tequila or rum drink. As long as you’re mixing it with something clear, Hypnotiq will turn your glass and your day into a bright, sunny blue.

We never know what Brandy is going to come up with next. Some of her drink mixes are terrific, and others fall flat on their face (she blames those on her husband). But spending a few minutes with her makes the otherwise ordinary chore of shopping for groceries something we look forward to every weekend.

Cherrie's Friday Positions--External Enjoyments

2007-07-14T14:38:00.000-07:00

And, moreover, let it be noted, that the desires of the woman being colder and slower to rouse than those of the man, she is not easily satisfied by a single act of congress; her slower powers of excitement demand prolonged embraces, and if these be denied her, she feels aggrieved. At the second act, however, her passions being thoroughly aroused, she finds the orgasm more violent, and then she is thoroughly contented. This state of things is clean reversed in the case of the man, who approaches the first act burning with love heat, which cools during the second, and which leaves him languid and disinclined for a third.

The ancient Indian text of the Ananga Ranga is alternately insightful and bizarre to the modern reader. Many women would agree that the second orgasm can be bigger, better and more satisfying than the first, and that the man who can have sex two, three or more times in a row is valuable indeed. But some of the other advice Kalyana Malla gives his readers is quite strange.

Chapter 6, for example, provides instructions on love potions for both sexes. Kalyana counsels men to “take the powder of sensitive plant, the root of green lotus-flowers, the Bassia latifolia, and barley-flower; and, after mixing it up with some of his own Kama-salila [semen],” to smear the concoction on his forehead, which “will subdue the world of women, and she who looks upon his brow cannot fail to feel for him the most eager desire.”

If that’s too much trouble, try this: “The man who, after enjoying his wife, catches some of his own Kama-salila in his left hand, and applies it to her left foot, will find her entirely submissive to his win.”

And for the lady who desires to seduce a man: “Take a human skull from the cemetery or burning ground on the eighth day of the moonlit fortnight of the seventh month Ashvini (September-October), expose it to fire, and collect the soot upon a plate held over it; let this be drawn over the inner surface of the eye-lids, instead of the usual antimony, and the effect will be to fascinate every one.”

Kalyana does quite well when he describes the attributes of the love-struck woman in Chapter 4: “The following are the signs by which the wise know that a woman is amorous: She rubs and repeatedly smoothes her hair (so that it may look well). She scratches her head (that notice may be drawn to it). She strokes her own cheeks (so as to entice her husband). She draws her dress over her bosom, apparently to readjust it, but leaves her breasts partly exposed. She bites her lower lip, chewing it, as it were.”

But I expect very few women would subscribe to this prediction: “The man whose Linga [penis] is very long, will be wretchedly poor. The man whose Linga is very thick, will ever be in distress. The man whose Linga is thin and lean, will be very lucky; and the man whose Linga is short, will be a Rajah.”

The meat of this work is found in Chapters 8 and 9, where Kalyana instructs his male readers what to do with their linga. Kalyana divides his teachings on sex techniques into “external enjoyments” and “internal enjoyments.” The former corresponds to what we generally call foreplay.

How many of us, when greeting our lovers, throw our arms around them and kiss them passionately on the mouth? That’s effective and fun, but why not surprise him or her with one of these alternatives?

--The Tila-Tandula: “The man and woman, standing in front of each other, should fold each other to the bosom by closely encircling the waist. Then taking care to remain still, and by no means to move, they should approach the Linga to the Yoni [vagina], both being veiled by the dress, and avoid interrupting the contact for some time.” How could you not be turned on by the sensation of his cock stiffening against your pussy as you stare into his eyes?

--The Viddhaka, or nipple kiss: “The husband sits still, closing his eyes, and the wife, placing herself close to him, should pass her right arm over his shoulder and apply her bosom to his, pressing him forcibly, whilst he returns her embrace with equal warmth.” If you or your lover has sensitive nipples, rubbing your nipples against his or hers will certainly stoke your fires!

--The Valleri-vreshtita, or “embracing as the creeper twines about the tree”: “Whilst both are standing upright, the wife clings to her husband’s waist, and passes her leg around his thigh, kissing him repeatedly and softly until he draws in his breath like one suffering from the cold. In fact, she must endeavour to imitate the vine enfolding the tree which supports it.”

Kissing doesn’t have to stop at contact between lips. The Ghatika kiss (one of ten forms Kalyana describes) “is done by the wife, who, excited with passion, covers her husband's eyes with her hands, and closing her own eyes, thrusts her tongue into his mouth, moving it to and fro with a motion so pleasant and slow that it at once suggests another and higher form of enjoyment.”

Lip-chewing is a feature of several of these techniques. In Uttaroshta kissing, the woman “should take her husband's lower lip between her teeth, chewing and biting it gently; whilst he does the same to her upper lip. In this way both excite themselves to the height of passion.”

Fingernail scratching and biting are important elements of “external enjoyment,” too. Scratching “the nails of the first three fingers on the back, the breasts and the parts about the Yoni . . . is highly proper when going abroad to a distant country, as it serves for a keep-sake and a token of remembrance.” Kalyana recommends biting the lover’s tongue and various other points within the mouth, and leaving “deep and lasting marks” upon the skin when the couple separates for a time. “After his disappearance,” he wrote, “she will look at them, and will frequently remember him with yearning heart.”

The woman’s hair is not to be neglected. The man may hold her hair with both hands, as he kisses her, or pull her to him using the hair as a leash. “Holding the crest hair of love,” Kalyana writes, is “when, during the act of copulation, the husband holds with both hands his wife's hair above her ears, whilst she does the same thing to him, and both exchange frequent kisses upon the mouth.”

Fortunate is the woman “who, having spread a soft, fine bed, in a charming apartment, sits upon it at night-time, and awaits her husband, with great expectation, now half closing her eyes, then fixing her glance on the door.” Fortunate too is the wandering man who “bears upon his body all the marks of sexual enjoyment, produced by sleeping with a rival wife,” and then “with eyes reddened by keeping late hours, he returns to his beloved struck with fear and in an agitated state, coaxing her, and speaking sweet words, for the purpose of sueing her to congress, and she half listens to him, but yields at last.”

But most fortunate of all is the “woman who loves her husband very dearly, whose eyes are light and lively, who has decorated herself with jewels and garlands, well knowing the wishes of her man, and who, burning with desire, awaits his coming, propped up with pillows in a sleeping-apartment appropriated to pleasure, and sumptuously adorned with mirrors and pictures.”

NEXT WEEK: We review the “internal enjoyments” of the Ananga Ranga.

Cherrie's HNT--That Pink Top

2007-07-11T05:32:00.000-07:00

"I love that top!"

I often go clothes shopping with Hardin. Not only does he pay for my purchases, but also he is usually an enthusiastic reviewer. He truly enjoys seeing me try on different attractive outfits, and is quite direct when I pick out something he thinks won't work for me.

This top definitely does not fall into that category. I liked it from the moment I pulled it off the rack in the tourist-oriented store in Gastown. You won't find many locals with attire proudly boasting Vancouver's name. But as an occasional tourist and long-term observer, I am very proud to wear this advertisement of one of my favorite places.

I carried the top to the counter and said we'd take it. Hardin paid the purchase cost, and the Goods and Services Tax, and the Provincial Sales Tax, the dreaded "tax on a tax." We walked off with the top in a little plastic bag. But since it's been home with us, it's enjoyed plenty of exposure on hot summer days . . .

And when I want a little exposure of my own, it's easy to achieve!

Showdown at Party Cove

2007-07-10T22:35:00.000-07:00

What do you get when you mix 2,000 pleasure boats, 8,000 people, and a Wal-Mart or two full of sunblock, beer, tequila, vodka and ice? You get Party Cove. And it happens every weekend each summer.

Party Cove is more a state of mind than a place. Its story goes back to 1931, when Union Electric dammed the Osage River in central Missouri to generate hydroelectric power. The water backing up behind the dam became the Lake of the Ozarks—a rangy, multi-fingered 55,000-acre waterway with over 1,100 miles of shoreline, more than the entire state of California, nestled between the hills.

In its early years, Lake of the Ozarks was a remote getaway favored by fishermen. By the 1960s, families from St. Louis and Kansas City were using the new Interstate Highways to drive down to the lake and let the kids splash around in the water. During the 1980s, those kids, now grown up, began creating their own traditions. They drove their power boats from Osage Beach to remote spots on the lake to, well, party. In time these spots became known as Party Cove.

Real estate developers discovered the lake, and as condos went up on the shoreline the revelers moved their floating party further upriver. Eventually they discovered Anderson Hollow Cove, which is protected from development because it is part of the state park. Now that southward-jutting inlet, a mile beyond the U.S. 54 bridge, has become the semi-permanent location of Party Cove.

Every weekend morning hundreds if not thousands of boats—from expensive yachts to dumpy pontoons—begin making their way out to Party Cove. When they get there, the boaters lash their craft together in two lines, forming “the gauntlet,” and start drinking, wandering or swimming from boat to boat to party amidst the cacophony of dueling boom boxes. Late arrivals that dare to pass through the gauntlet run the risk of hazing from taunting, testosterone-charged boaters lobbing beer cans and shooting water cannons.

Unless there are women in the boat. Then Party Cove turns into New Orleans on the water. “Flash your tits!” the boozy boaters scream. When the women oblige, cameras snap, Mardi Gras beads are tossed and lusty male cheers echo up and down the assembled poopdecks.

And they do oblige, because law enforcement is fairly weak. The Missouri Water Patrol has all of 16 officers to patrol the entire lake, and only a few of them are on duty at any time excepting the busy Fourth of July and Labor Day holidays. They’re just trying to do a job, and they’re not going to risk their lives trying to stop several hundred drunks from partying. “I don’t go back in there,” patrolman Dean Bartlett told the Kansas City Star, referring to the gauntlet. “It’s scary.”
Besides, a lot of what the boaters do is legal. Under Missouri law, indecent exposure means exposing the “genitals.” The officers agree that female breasts don’t qualify, and they don’t bother to apprehend the swinging cocks because there are so many of them. Though operating a boat while drunk is a crime, drinking on a moored boat isn’t, which is one of the reasons the gauntlet is formed. On a busy weekend, Patrol Sgt. Nick Humphrey might make 55 “boating while intoxicated” arrests. He knows that there are probably only about 55 sober boaters in the Cove, but he can only stop a boat if the driver appears to be drunk, and due to the no-wake rule in the Cove even a captain who can barely stand up can putt-putt his boat around in a more or less straight line.

As the afternoon sun passes its peak, the alcohol-fired partying gets wilder. Both women and men strip nude to the cheers of other boaters. The women prance and preen and pole-dance, while the men stroke their cocks. Enterprising merchants troll up and down the cove in their boats, offering dildos and vibrators for sale to the revelers who forgot to bring their own. Sometimes couples and groups disappear below decks to sate their sexual desires. Sometimes not.

Humphrey recalled a frantic message from a husband claiming his hot new wife had been sexually assaulted. Serious stuff, so he drove his patrol boat to the scene and found a bunch of guys sitting around drinking beer. Yeah, we were fucking her, they admitted, but she wanted it. Got any proof, Humphrey asked. One of the guys handed him a roll of film. “I took the film to Wal-Mart,” Humphrey continued. “They were right. That woman was not getting raped.”

Another story involved “the gay houseboat.” The scene: a sun-bronzed nude man on the deck of a boat. Another nude man kneeling before him, giving him a blowjob. And on the deck above, a third nude man, urinating on his head. He’s running his fingers through his hair as if he’s washing it in the yellow stream. “Gross!” exclaimed patrol trainee Diana Jacobson.

Then there’s “The Game,” played as the sun goes down and partiers get bored with the sight of plain old pole dancing by topless women. Everyone strips nude, and a man backs up to the pole. One or more women dance around the man, rubbing their skin against his as if he were part of the pole. The object of The Game is to get the man to have an erection, or even an orgasm, without the women touching or rubbing against the man’s cock or balls.

But the curtain may be going down on the wide-open scene at Party Cove, as it has at Lake Havasu, Arizona and other boating fun spots. Just before the Fourth of July, Sgt. Humphrey announced the Water Patrol would begin cracking down on all the revelry. Humphrey said he and the other officers would stop looking the other way when people strip nude, and they also would begin busting boaters for drug use, which has been common. For the Fourth, Coast Guard officers from St. Louis joined the Water Patrol, providing two boats with four to five officers per boat. Cool, cloudy weather held down the partying at the beginning of the holiday week, and the presence of the Coast Guard had the desired effect the rest of the way. There were no citations issued for sexual misconduct or public lewdness.

Perhaps development has inched too close to Party Cove, and the crackdown is justified by my principle that unwilling or unwitting people should not be forced to see other people in the nude, or having sex. But in a lake with an 1,100-mile shoreline, there must be some spot where consenting adults can lash their boats, and themselves, together without annoying the non-partying crowd. Laws against drunken boating should be enforced, but it seems to me that consenting adults should be allowed to party hearty on the water if that’s what they want to do.

Memory Monday--The Hotel Pavilion

2007-07-09T20:22:00.000-07:00

Vancouver, British Columbia is one of the most beautiful and enjoyable cities I’ve been fortunate enough to visit. On our first trip, Hardin and I arrived late at night and went to sleep not having any idea what was outside the hotel window. When the sun rose and we opened the curtains, the stunning view of downtown surprised and delighted us, with the office buildings, the busy Burrard Inlet harbour and the mountains beyond all shimmering in the morning light.

We had just one day to visit, and we spent it (as we often do when out of town) just walking around and absorbing the ambience of the place. We strolled down Water Street in Gastown, the tourist-oriented area east of the business centre, to the Steam Clock, then the city’s newest attraction. Every fifteen minutes the clock, which is powered by the steam pipes that heat the Gastown buildings, comes to life, whistling the Westminster Quarters amid white plumes of exhaust. The clock has become Vancouver’s most-photographed, and perhaps most offbeat, attraction.

Our wanderings took up to the top of the Vancouver Lookout, the 50-story observation tower that provided a better view of the city’s beautiful setting, and across the harbour on the SeaBus, the then-new catamaran ferry service to North Vancouver. We walked to Stanley Park, the oceanfront jewel where the zoo is located, and concluded our day back on Water Street, enjoying an Italian dinner as we watched the ships sail past.

One day in Vancouver, we quickly decided, was not enough. A couple of years later we were ready to return for a longer visit, and we sat down to plan our trip. Back in the 1970s there was no Internet, of course, so we used the state of the art travel information at that time: the AAA Guides. (Actually, within Canada they are the CAA guides, but we still refer to them as the “Triple A.”) AAA/CAA issued (and still issues) guide books to members, listing attractions and rating the hotels in cities large and small across North America.

Hardin studied the hotel listings in the British Columbia book with care, comparing the listed prices to our (rather slim) travel budget. The business hostelries, like the stately Hotel Vancouver, were out of our price range. We weren’t renting a car, so we didn’t want to stay in the suburbs. One hotel he found in the book fit our criteria: the Pavilion. It was near downtown, but affordable. And it was approved by CAA.

“Looks OK to me,” I said. Hardin picked up the phone and the reservation was made.

Once again we arrived in Vancouver after dark. When we told the cab driver we were headed for the Pavilion, he snickered a little under his breath. What was that about, I wondered as Hardin fumbled in his wallet for the multicolored Canadian bills he would need to pay the fare.

The sky was dripping rain as the cab pulled up in front of a tired-looking foyer in a part of town we had not seen on our previous ramble. “Hotel Pavilion,” said the flickering neon marquee. No time to turn back now—it was late and I wanted to check in. I was hungry, for both food and sex.

Inside, the lobby was small and dimly lit. As we entered, lugging our suitcases (cases with rolling wheels had not been invented yet), I sensed conversations stopping and eyes fixing on my back.

“Hi,” Hardin said to the desk clerk. “We’re the Reddys and we have a reservation.”

The clerk eyed him, and then me, up and down. “Yes, sir,” he said in a surprised, sing-songy voice. He found our reservation and reached into the old-style rack behind the desk for our keys. “You’ll be in room 305,” he said, dangling the keys from one finger. “If you need anything tonight, be sure to call.” His smile struck me as a little creepy.

“No, that’s fine, thank you,” Hardin said. He picked up the suitcases and turned toward the elevators—and stopped dead in his tracks.

Next to the elevator door, a man was engaged in a passionate kiss. With another man.

The light bulb went on over my head. There were no women in this hotel. Everyone in the tiny lobby was male. Everyone behind the desk was male. Everyone . . .

Hardin had booked us into a gay hotel!

I turned to Hardin, who was watching the same spectacle. His face had turned white.

“Excuse me,” I said to the smooching Lotharios as I pushed the up button. Presently the elevator dinged and the doors opened. Hardin bustled onto the car, put down the suitcases and pulled me in. The doors closed and the lift began its shaky ascent.

Now gay men don’t bother me at all. I had more trouble with the slightly seedy character of the place than its slightly bent denizens. But Hardin was horrified. Even though he has no problem with gay men in a business setting, being surrounded by them freaked him out. “We have to get out of here,” he muttered as he dragged our luggage down the thankfully empty corridor to our room.

Once inside, Hardin whipped out the CAA guide and began calling the other hotels in town. No, sorry, nothing available. We were stuck here. Outside, I could hear the occasional cackle of laughter and boyish taunts in the hall. It was sort of exciting, really. I knew how gay men like big-breasted women, and I had the momentary urge to show myself off for my own entertainment.

Hardin, though, would have nothing of it. He wasn’t going to place that virgin asshole of his in any sort of jeopardy, not with this crowd. After wedging the room’s armchair under the doorknob and stuffing a spare blanket under the door to help block out the noise, he took off his clothes, crawled in bed next to me and cuddled up tightly, his body language telling the world he had no desire to join the frolics of the boys on the other side of his improvised barrier. No food, and definitely no sex, under these conditions.

The night passed slowly. Our makeshift security measures weren’t completely effective against the hall noise, and the other guests were loud and busy well into the early morning hours. Finally, around 8:30 a.m., we roused each other from our fitful sleep, cleaned up in the bathroom, got dressed and checked out of the hotel.

Our first move was to get a rental car, and fortunately Avis was directly across from the Pavilion. We stood in the Avis lobby calling more hotels, and we finally found a motel with a room, across the Burrard Inlet in North Vancouver near the Capilano Gorge. This turned out to be a delight—family-owned, clean, rustic and safe.

The rest of our second stay in Vancouver was lovely: bright blue summer skies, pleasantly warm temperatures, wonderful meals in the seafood restaurants that ring the harbour. But for some reason I like telling the story about the Hotel Pavilion the best!

Tagged: Cherrie Doesn't Do . . .

2007-07-08T20:00:00.000-07:00

Keeping up with all of your blogs can be challenging, even though it’s lots of fun. Just this week I learned, by visiting his blog for the first time in a while, that Chexmate had tagged me with the Seven Random Facts meme a couple of weeks ago. I’m sorry it took so long for me to notice! But better late than never, right?

To make this response a bit different from the one I did last week, I’m going to list seven things that I don’t like or I don’t do. I have tried to stay away from discussing my dislikes in this series, because I don’t want to offend any of my readers, but if you disagree with my conclusions I hope you will send me an E-mail to invite more discussion.

Ready? Here they are:

1. Cherrie Doesn’t Do Taxicabs—At least in the U.S., taxicab service is often an embarrassment. The cabs are usually dirty and permeated with peculiar odors from previous passengers, or the cabbie. Most of the drivers are from foreign lands and have minimal fluency in the English language. I don’t hold that against them, but the ability to speak English is a core competency for a job that deals with the public. And cab drivers that only know how to get to the airport should get another job! I’m glad I don’t live in New York . . .

2. Cherrie Doesn’t Do Crowds—I am uncomfortable in large crowds of strangers. I love people one on one or in small groups, but crowds bring out my fears of getting lost, getting attacked, getting involved in something I’d rather not. Not to mention that, at this time of the year, there’s always at least one person in every crowd whose hygiene is, well, not up to my standards.

3. Cherrie Doesn’t Do Doughnuts—Yes, I have an affinity for all sorts of rich, fancy foods: lobster, crab, filet mignon, pasta with exotic sauces. But the humble doughnut is one dish I don’t crave. All I can think of when I see one are the calorie count and fat content—and how they sit in my stomach like an indigestible lump. And, of course, there is no wine in the world that properly pairs with them.

4. Cherrie Doesn’t Do Anchovies—I love seafood, but this salty little fish is one species that can stay off my plate. Fortunately, most of the eating population agrees with me on this one. What was the last time you saw a pizza with anchovies? But they occasionally still turn up on buffet salads. No thanks, I’ll have the soup instead.

5. Cherrie Doesn’t Do Camping—I did try it, once, when I went on an overnight outing with my daughters’ Girl Scout leader. What a night! It was early October, and it rained and rained—until the temperature got cold enough to turn the rain into snow. Huddling inside a tiny canvas tent, wet and dirty and freezing, is no way to live. Room service for me!

6. Cherrie Doesn’t Do Wasps—Few things are more unwelcome than a wasp nest taking shape under the eaves of our house. That means the nasty little buggers will soon be trying to get inside and find all the sweet liquids we might have on hand, like fruit juice and iced tea, and threatening to attack us if we get in the way. The idea of being stung by one of these irascible insects is quite repulsive. I leave it up to Hardin to put on his protective gear (a thick winter coat and gloves, no matter how hot it is, along with a hat, scarf and goggles), climb up the ladder and dislodge the unwelcome squatters with a broom. Go to someone else’s house and annoy them!

7. Cherrie Doesn’t Do Coors—or any other light, fizzy, bitter beer. It gives me headaches! Back in the Seventies, Coors beer was made only in Golden, Colorado, and it wasn’t distributed in the Midwest or East. This gave the brand a sort of cachet, and anyone who went out West bragged about coming back with a couple of six-packs of “Rocky Mountain Kool-Aid.” Of course, I tried it, but I never could understand what the attraction was. To my palate, Coors has very little taste, and its astringent qualities remind me of a mouthwash. During the Eighties, Coors began to distribute its beer nationwide, causing its days as a cult item to draw to a close. I like beer, but make mine a Samuel Adams.

********
If you liked the Palm Springs story that I collaborated on this past week—come on, I know you did!—and you are a female reader of this humble journal, would you like to participate in a new effort of that kind? Femme of HommeandFemme.blogspot.com has challenged me to put together an all-girl fantasy for our readers’ enjoyment. The setup would be similar to the way Teacher in Heels orchestrated Palm Springs: one of us would write the first entry, passing the story to the next and so on until the pen returns to me.

The general theme I have in mind is initiation of curious newbies into the art of making love to another woman. Of course, we would need some interested but inexperienced ladies to take part in the storytelling, along with a few of us longtime femme-flesh lovers. Are you up for this? If you are, send me an E-mail stating you’re interested and outlining your suggestion for a setting. The more exotic the better!

Cherrie's Friday Positions--The Ananga Ranga

2007-07-07T16:52:00.000-07:00

The great princely sage and arch-poet, Kalyana Malla versed in all the arts, after consulting many wise and holy men, and having examined the opinions of many poets, and extracted the essence of their wisdom, composed, with a view of pleasing his sovereign, a work which was called Ananga Ranga. May it ever be appreciated by the discerning, for it hath been dedicated to those who are desirous of studying the art and mystery of man's highest enjoyment, and to those who are best acquainted with the science and practice of dalliance and love-delight.

Everyone with an interest in sex has heard of the Kama Sutra, the ancient Indian text which has come to symbolize the sex-friendly philosophy of the Orient in the years before European colonization imposed its strait-laced mores on the populace. To me, though, the Kama Sutra is one of the most impenetrable texts ever written on the subject. I find it ponderous, repetitive and dull, and my paperback translation routinely resides at the bottom of the stacks of books about sex that, for want of a socially-acceptable display place during my child-rearing years, reside under my bed.

But in the course of the more focused research into sex that Hardin and I have enjoyed since we began to write this blog, we came across another Indian work that we find much more useful and understandable, if equally quaint: the Ananga Ranga. This collection of ancient wisdom was written in Sanskrit by the aforementioned Kalyana Malla about 1172 A.D., and we might not know about it today if not for the efforts of Sir Richard F. Burton.

Born in Torquay, Devon in 1821, Burton grew up in France and Italy as well as England and developed a love of languages. Reputedly, he had an affair with a Roma (gypsy) woman at a young age and picked up the rudiments of her language, along with a taste for exotic sex, both of which would factor into his future.

Burton attended Oxford, but his rebellious nature was a poor match for that institution. Eventually, the officials expelled him for attending a steeplechase, which (for some reason) was against school rules. Burton was so enraged, the story goes, he drove his horse and carriage through the school’s flower beds on his way out.

Joining the army of the East Indian Company, Burton shipped out to the subcontinent and was enraptured by the sexually-open Indian culture, which was so different from the anti-sexual strictures of Western Europe at the time. He learned several local languages, along with Persian and Arabic, and became so knowledgeable about the culture that he was able to pass for a native.

This brought him an undercover assignment: investigating a brothel frequented by British soldiers where the prostitutes were young Indian boys. Taking a clinical interest in the proceedings, Burton produced a detailed report that (despite the Army’s assurance it would be kept secret) eventually was circulated, giving him a reputation as an expert in the sexual practices of the East.

Burton’s subsequent career included exploration of the inland lakes of East Africa and the rivers of Brazil. He participated in the traditional pilgrimage to Mecca, which was quite a dangerous journey for a disguised non-Muslim. But he is best known for his translations (occasionally with collaborators, since Sanskrit was not one of the 29 languages he could speak) of erotic texts for Western audiences.

Burton produced English versions of the Kama Sutra in 1883, The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night in 1885 (later condensed by Andrew Lang into the better-known Arabian Nights) and the Ananga Ranga, also in 1885. His interest in sex became so all-consuming that he measured the penises of backwoods men he met during his travels to determine whether there were measurable differences in size between different ethnic groups.

The Ananga Ranga is a sex manual, and as such its publication was outlawed under the Obscene Publications Act of 1857. Burton got around the law by creating the Kama Shastra Society and privately circulating this work among members, dedicating it “to that small portion of the British Public which takes enlightened interest in studying the manners and customs of the olden East.”

I find the Ananga Ranga (the name means “Stage of the Bodiless One”), subtitled The Hindu Art of Love, to be an interesting study on two counts. First, it demonstrates that many of the sex positions we use today, and that I have featured in my Friday Positions entries, are nothing new; they were well known when the book was written over 800 years ago. Second, its descriptions of women are by turns insultingly patronizing and remarkably insightful—surprising, since this is a work written by men for men.

Kalyana Malla wrote the Ananga Ranga to keep marriages from breaking up due to sexual boredom. He reminded readers that, second only to religious and spiritual enlightenment, “the satisfaction and pleasure arising from the possession of a beautiful woman” is the greatest joy any man can derive from his existence. But, then as now, men were not naturally proficient at realizing the full potential of their romantic relationships:

Men, it is true, marry for the sake of undisturbed congress, as well as for love and comfort, and often they obtain handsome and attractive wives. But they do not give them plenary contentment, nor do they themselves thoroughly enjoy their charms. The reason of which is, that they are purely ignorant of the Scripture of Cupid, the Kama Shastra; and, despising the difference between the several kinds of women, they regard them only in an animal point of view. Such men must be looked upon as foolish and unintelligent; and this book is composed with the object of preventing lives and loves being wasted in similar manner, and the benefits to be derived from its study are set forth in the following verses.

Kalyana advised men to determine the “temperament” of their women and to make love to them as their temperament dictates. He identified four “classes of temperament”:

--The Padmini, or Lotus-woman: “Her face is pleasing as the full moon; her body, well clothed with flesh, is soft as the Shiras or mustard-flower; her skin is fine, tender and fair as the yellow lotus, never dark-coloured . . . Her eyes are bright and beautiful as the orbs of the fawn, well-cut, and with reddish corners. Her bosom is hard, full and high; . . . Her Yoni [vagina] resembles the open lotus-bud, and her Love-seed (Kama-salila, the water of life) is perfumed like the lily which has newly burst. She walks with swanlike gait, and her voice is low and musical as the note of the Kokila-bird; she delights in white raiment, in fine jewels, and in rich dresses. She eats little, sleeps lightly . . .”

--The Chitrini, or Art-woman: “[M]iddle size, neither short nor tall, with bee-black hair, thin, round, shell-like neck; tender body; waist lean-girthed as the lion's; hard, full breasts; well-turned thighs and heavily made hips. The hair is thin about the Yoni, the Mons Veneris being soft, raised and round. The Kama-salila (love seed) is hot, and has the perfume of honey, producing from its abundance a sound during the venereal rite. Her eyes roll, and her walk is coquettish, like the swing of an elephant, whilst her voice is that of the peacock. She is fond of pleasure and variety; she delights in singing and in every kind of accomplishment, especially the arts manual; her carnal desires, are not strong, and she loves her “pets,” parrots, Mainas and other birds.”

--The Shankhini, or Conch-woman: “[B]ilious temperament, her skin being always hot and tawny, or dark yellow-brown; her body is large, or waist thick, and her breasts small; her head, hands, and feet are thin and long, and she looks out of the corners of her eyes. Her Yoni is ever moist with Kama-salila, which is distinctly salt, and the cleft is covered with thick hair. Her voice is hoarse and harsh, of the bass or contralto type; her gait is precipitate; she eats with moderation and she delights in clothes, flowers and ornaments of red colour. She is subject to fits of amorous passion, which make her head hot and her brain confused, and at the moment of enjoyment, she thrusts her nails into her husband's flesh. She is of choleric constitution, hard-hearted, insolent and vicious; irascible, rude and ever addicted to finding fault.”

--The Hastini, or Elephant-woman: “[S]hort of stature; she has a stout, coarse body, and her skin, if fair, is of a dead white; her hair is tawny, her lips are large; her voice is harsh, choked, and throaty (voix de gorge) and her neck is bent. Her gait is slow, and she walks in a slouching manner; often the toes of one foot are crooked. Her Kama-salila has the savour of the juice which flows in the spring from the elephant's temples. She is tardy in the Art of Love, and can be satisfied only by prolonged congress, in fact, the longer the better, but it will never suffice her. She is gluttonous, shameless, and irascible.”

For Kalyana, everything flowed from the classification in which each woman fell. The Ananga Ranga includes tables suggesting the best days in the lunar month and the best hours during the day at which men should satisfy each temperament of woman. We are told “the Chitrini and the Shankhini derive no satisfaction from day congress,” while the Hastini, in contrast, are horniest during the daylight hours. According to Kalyana, if the timetables are not followed carefully, “neither sex will be thoroughly satisfied; indeed, both will be disposed to lust after strange embraces, and thus they will be led by adultery into quarrels, murders, and other deadly sins.”

Kalyana’s classifications are meaningless in our modern context. I recognize several of my own traits in each of them, and no single one comes close to describing me accurately. His core concept, though, is sound: in order to please a woman, sexually or in the broader context of the relationship, a man needs to take the time and make the effort to get to know the woman. He must know her so well he can predict her needs and wants before she expresses them verbally. He won’t always be successful in his anticipation, of course, but that’s not necessary. What the woman really wants is reassurance that her man is thinking about her and trying to care for her. This creates the climate of trust and comfort most women require to let down their guard and unleash their sexuality in full force.

Next Friday (and I’ll try to get it done on time) we’ll begin exploring the sex positions of the Ananga Ranga.

Cherrie's HNT--Fourth of July

2007-07-04T21:56:00.000-07:00

I am an American. I am proud of it. I will be the first to say that I do not agree with many of the policies adopted by the current government. In fact, I didn't agree with many laws and regulations put in place by past governments, liberal or conservative, Republican or Democrat. But my right to dissent, to protest, to try to persuade others the government is wrong, is what I am proud of most. And there are many things the government does that are good, from building roads and airports to protecting us from deadly diseases to exploring space.

So I am proud to wear the colors on America's birthday. And proud to take them off. Because that is part of my freedom, too.

Holiday in Palm Springs (Part 5)

2007-07-04T21:14:00.000-07:00

Heels lied down in front of Pixie’s kneeling form, instinctively spreading her legs. Peggy got up and walked to Hank’s side, fascinated by what she was seeing. Hank sat in numbed silence as his wife sat next to him, extending an arm around his waist.

“Ask Heels if you can eat her pussy,” I commanded.

“May I eat your pussy?” the shackled Pixie asked.

“Why, yes, Pixie,” Heels exclaimed, trying to stifle her laughter.

I grabbed Pixie by the scruff of her neck, forcing her nose into Heels’ glistening vagina. “Do you smell that, Pixie? That is the smell of pussy. A hot, aroused pussy. It is the most wonderful smell in the world. And you are going to learn to love it.”

“Yes, Mistress Cherrie,” Pixie said with budding enthusiasm.

“Now I want you to lick her labia. Start from the bottom and work your way up.”

Pixie did as she was told. A moan from Heels’ lips told me Pixie was applying herself.

“Put your tongue between her lovelips now,” I coached her, leaning over to inspect her work at close range. “Give her pleasure.”

Heels’ back arched off the rug when Pixie’s tongue sank into her pussy. “Ungghhhh,” she grunted lustily. Heels’ hands reached down to grasp Pixie’s head, her nails digging into the submissive lady’s curls.

“Now find her clitoris,” I commanded. “Lick the hood all around it, but don’t lick the clit itself until I tell you.” Heels groaned as Pixie’s tongue found the mark. She lifted her legs and rested those famous heels on Pixie’s back.

I glanced at Hank and Peggy. Peggy’s left hand had drifted down to her own pussy, and she was lazily fingering it as she drank in this sexy scene. Hank’s cock was beginning to stiffen.

Then I looked at Pixie’s ass and pussy, cantilevered in the air, the red marks from my strap plainly visible on her skin. Her cunt was dripping with joy—whether from my humiliation or the pleasure of cunnilingus I could not tell. Possibly the combination had proved intoxicating.

“Lick her clit, Pixie.”

“Yes, Mistress Cherrie!” Unabashed enthusiasm! In seconds Heels emitted a sharp scream of joy!

I could have continued the dom game, but I was getting horny myself and needed some relief. “Have you ever been fucked by a woman, Pixie?” I asked.

I heard a muffled “No” emanate from between Heels’ legs over the prone woman’s low moans and sighs.

“You have been a good little Pixie this afternoon, giving Heels so much pleasure. It is time for Mistress Cherrie to reward you. Would you like that, Pixie?”

“Yes, Mistress Cherrie!”

Back to my flight bag I stepped to pull out my new strap-on. This was a beauty Hardin had given me for my birthday—thick leather straps encircling my curvy ass, a tight harness to hold my dildo in place, and a thick cyberskin phallus, about eight inches long.

“Holy shit!” Hank muttered when I turned to face him after strapping it on. Peggy’s jaw dropped when she saw my massive faux cock protruding from my waist.

I knelt between Pixie’s restrained legs and ran the head of my dong lazily up and down her soggy slit. She twitched when it first touched her, but soon she was straining against it, her body language begging me to insert it.

“Listen to me, Pixie. I am going to fuck you now. But if you forget about Heels for one second, I will beat you with my strap! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress . . .” Her retort was cut off by her gasp when I roughly shoved the dong halfway into her hole.

Pixie was so ready for this! My cock slid easily in and out of her, shining with its thick coat of pussy juice before it was rammed home again. I held Pixie’s shoulders down, then scratched her back with my nails, raising red welts. She raised her head and screamed “FUCK!” I grabbed her hair and pushed her back into Heels’ cunt, reminding her to keep eating that beautiful pussy.

I cast a sidelong glance at Hank and Peggy. Hank’s cock, now hard again, was disappearing into Peggy’s mouth as she vigorously fellated him. Peggy’s hand was buried in her pussy. But all four of their eyes were fixed on the arousing spectacle before them—a hot female threesome, Pixie impaled on my dong, Heels thrashing her head side to side on the floor, consumed by orgasm after orgasm from Pixie’s tongue.

My own pussy was beginning to ache for attention. It was time for me to get some pleasuring myself.

“Peggy, grab your Feeldoe and come here!”

She didn’t need to be asked twice. Breaking away from Hank’s magnificent erection, she picked the blue V-shaped dildo off the ground and stuffed the blunt end into her waiting pussy. Wordlessly, she knelt behind me and, putting one hand on my shoulder, guided her missile through the gap in my strap-on toward my steaming target.

I shuddered to feel the cold plastic filling my innards, but when my hot juices warmed it the sensations became wonderful. Peggy was enthusiastically thrusting away, timing her movements to match mine as I plowed my prong into Pixie. There was only one more ingredient we needed to finish this sex sandwich, and Peggy called for it.

“Hank! Get your ass over here and fuck me!”

From the corner of my eye I saw Hank rise and walk behind Peggy. I could not see what happened next—the dance floor was getting full!—but I heard a squirt of liquid, and soon felt a new and forceful shove from behind. Hank had joined the party!

I had never done anything like this before! In front of me Heels was prone, eyes closed, breath shallow, boobs bouncing, enthralled with Pixie’s oral ministrations, occasionally grimacing as yet another orgasm fried her mind. Pixie’s face remained buried between Heels’ legs, happily lapping up her juices. Her body swayed from side to side, enhancing the motion of my dong sliding in and out of her pussy. I had to concentrate on my thrusting, but every few seconds Peggy’s Feeldoe would hit home inside my pussy, and I would see stars!

And what was Hank doing back there? How could he get his cock in Peggy’s pussy with the Feeldoe stuffed in there? After a while, he moaned the answer: “Your ass is so tight!” So the squirt I heard was a handful of lube!

Five people, on the rug, having sex with each other at the same time. A giant Slinky of human flesh, Hank’s thrusts transmitted to Peggy, who conveyed them to me, causing me to push my rod into Pixie’s hungry puss, forcing her tongue deeper into Heels’ slot. Then I pulled out, bumping everyone behind me back a few inches to begin the cycle anew. Our skin rubbed together, and we felt each other’s hot breath and steaming sweat. The sensations were mesmerizing! I lost all track of time and place, and didn’t even begin to count my orgasms. Never had I enjoyed such an intense sexual experience!

“OH, SHIT!” Hank’s voice bellowed. The human chain stopped moving for a moment when he pulled out of Peggy, stepped forward so we all could witness his ecstasy, and exploded in manly magnificence, his voluminous cum splattering across all of our bodies. Utterly spent from two violent orgasms within an hour, Hank fell forward, face down on the rug, and lied there, motionless.

I couldn’t it hold it any more. I cracked up! As did all the other women. It was the perfect end to an incredibly erotic experience.

Peggy withdrew her Feeldoe from us, dropped it on the rug and knelt at the side of her man, her hand between his shoulder blades. He raised his head with a huge shit-eating grin! We all laughed again, happy that he was OK after this strenuous workout. After all, in a way, he had been fucking all four of us at the same time! Peggy kissed him sensuously and then helped him up.

I undid Pixie’s shackles and gathered her in my arms. Nothing needed to be said; the broad, calm smile on her juice-covered face told me she loved the humiliation, she loved the cunnilingus, she was in a state of rapture. Once again our lips and tongues met, my hands reaching down to cup her ass cheeks, pulling her on her tiptoes, closer to me.

Heels stepped toward us, smiling, and put one arm around each of our bodies. We opened our kiss to allow her to join. Our three tongues darted among each other, like butterflies on a summer afternoon. We giggled at the sight!

Finally, Hank and Peggy appeared on either side of us, their eager tongues joining the fray. We broke up into small groups, kissing each other, feeling each other’s bodies, reveling in the warm sensations of sex and love and sharing. I felt so safe, aroused and happy with this beautiful group of friends.

I found myself in Heels’ arms, sharing a long, breathless kiss. Our erect nipples rubbed together, sending jolts of electricity through our bodies. I felt her fingers stroking my labia, and spread my legs to ease her access. Another chapter in my Palm Springs adventure was about to begin . . .

Holiday in Palm Springs (Part 4)

2007-07-04T07:58:00.000-07:00

How about a little fantasy this Fourth of July? Teacher in Heels invited me and fellow bloggers Dark Pixie, Hank and Peggy to a virtual party at a rented estate in Palm Springs, California. Each of us is writing a chapter in this saga. If you haven't read the others yet, go here:

Part 1: http://afterschoolmonologues.blogspot.com/2007/07/palm-springs-group-story.html

Part 2: http://sexintexas.blogspot.com/2007/07/holiday-in-palm-springs-part-2.html

Part 3: http://insidedarkpixie.blogspot.com/2007/07/holiday-in-palm-springspart-3.html

My segment turned out to be so long I'm posting it in two parts: one now, and the other either late tonight or tomorrow. And I'll have my usual HNT too! Lots of love from la Cherrie this holiday! And now, on with the action . . .

Aglow with post-orgasmic karma, I held Pixie’s nude body tightly in my arms as our tongues met, intertwined, and danced inside our clenched lips. The afternoon had been marvelous so far. After welcoming Peggy to Palm Springs with a hot and happy poolside massage, our group of five horny blogfriends had escaped the 110° heat by stepping inside the air-conditioned hillside villa that Teacher in Heels had so generously rented for our Fourth of July sexfest. But our libidos were just beginning to boil . . .

Hank’s bronzed body was incredible—hard, muscular and manly—and when I saw his massive erection throbbing nearly upright I knew what I wanted! Fortunately for me, he wanted the same thing, and Peggy was generous enough to let him to fulfill his long-held fantasy of sliding his cock into The Sensuous Libertine. I happily inhaled Hank’s blue-veined tool, feeling it fill the roof of my mouth as my tongue pleasured it from underneath, before he withdrew it from my mouth and plunged it into my gaping pussy.

We fucked missionary style; I was in such a hurry to have him fill my love cavern that I didn’t want to waste time contorting our bodies into a more creative position. Hank stared into my eyes as his shaft drilled my depths, bathed in my flowing, unctuous juices. I pulled his head down and kissed him fervently, a thunderstorm of orgasm gathering in my mind until I felt the first jolt of lightning, then another, and still another, from the friction of his cockhead against my G-spot and his pubic hair on my clitoris.

Lost in my feverish reverie, I was dimly aware that Peggy was fucking Heels with her Feeldoe a few feet away, while Pixie was pleasuring both of them orally. But I was lost in my enjoyment of this studly man, feeling the muscles in his ass tense and release with each thrust, watching the sweat form on his brow as his moment of climax neared . . .

And finally, seeing him pull his cock out, clamp it tightly in his hand and stroke it in a blur until his white foam erupted, tracing arcs in the air for a split-second before splattering all over my engorged, sensitive tits!

Slowly returning to consciousness, I wiped off Hank’s cum with a beach towel. After kissing him, I led him by the hand to watch his wife pump Heels full of plastic. I reclined on my side, Hank’s arms loosely cuddling my torso, and observed the dark spots on the rug growing with my lovemates’ drippings. When the three of them disengaged, flushed and breathless after countless orgasms, I gave them a lusty cheer!

Now before I go further, I must tell you that Pixie and I had been trying for months to meet and get to know each other better. I have been intrigued by her writing and her interest in mine, but circumstances had prevented us from seeing, feeling and touching each other. I was not going to let this opportunity pass me by.

The kiss I gave her re-energized me, and caused me to think about how I could please this diminutive and beautiful woman. The constant theme of her writing was her desire to be dominated, but always by a man. How would she react to domination by a woman?

“Pixie,” I said, holding her by her shoulders after the suction of our lips broke, “you are a very attractive woman, but you are going to have to prove to me that you are a worthy fuckmate. Too many times you have disappointed me by not coming out to please me, and it’s time for me to punish you for your inconsiderate behavior.”

Pixie bit her lip, a worried look coming over her face.

“Peggy . . . Heels . . .” I said, addressing the other ladies, “hold her while I get something.” Each woman grabbed one of Pixie’s arms. She struggled a bit, but stayed on her knees.

I rummaged around in my flight bag and returned with wrist and ankle shackles and a thick leather strap. Pixie saw me holding the strap and shuddered, allowing a precious drop of cuntjuice to fall from her pussy onto the rug.

“Turn her around,” I ordered the other two women. Positioning Pixie in the doggy stance, her ass facing me, I closed shackles around her ankles, fastening one to a leg of the dining room table and another to a leg of the sideboard. Then I fastened her wrists together. Pixie’s pendulous breasts drooped toward the floor, and her ass and pussy were splayed before me, nude and defenseless.

Peggy and Heels watched in shocked surprise. Hank’s eyes were as wide open as his spent cock was limp.

I gently ran the strap over Pixie’s ass, watching her squirm at the sensation. “Now, Pixie, you don’t want to disappoint me any more, do you?” I purred.

“No, Cherrie,” Pixie said meekly.

The sharp smack of leather against skin filled the room, followed a split-second later by Pixie’s gasp. “Mistress Cherrie,” I corrected her.

“Yes, Mistress Cherrie,” she replied.

“The next time I want your body, are you going to come to me?” I massaged the red welt on her cheek with the strap.

“Yes, Mistress Cherrie,” she whimpered.

WHACK! “Louder, bitch!” I snarled. I was getting into this!

“Yes, Mistress Cherrie!” Pixie blurted out, her body quivering.

“Now I think you need some training before you are fit to make love to The Sensuous Libertine,” I said. “I have not seen you eat a pussy since I got here. You are going to learn how to eat one.”

“Yes, Mistress Cherrie,” Pixie said, louder than before.

“Heels, would you like to volunteer?” I smiled.

Playing for Keeps

2007-07-02T22:36:00.000-07:00

LEFT: Arthur and Nicole Friedman in happier times, and German Blinov.

Arthur Friedman was unhappy. He had been married to Natalie Friedman for ten years. Outwardly, she looked bright, attractive and charming. But she was not meeting his needs in bed.

Arthur yearned for the excitement of new sexual relationships. He wanted to have sex with other people. He wanted Natalie to have sex with others, too. And he wanted to watch her do it.

“That’s what he said would keep our marriage going,” Natalie told the Chicago Sun-Times in an interview.

So Arthur egged Natalie into dipping her toes into the turbulent waters of the swing scene. And Natalie got used to the idea of opening her relationship to other lovers.

Natalie noticed German Blinov, the owner of a gym where she was working out, and his wife Inessa. German noticed her, too. According to Arthur, they all became friends. And, in time, quite a bit more.

Natalie recalled one night when she and Arthur shared a hot tub with German and another woman (not Inessa). They all got it on, with Blinov having sex with Natalie and Arthur enjoying the other lady. Life was good.

Except for one thing, from Arthur’s perspective. Natalie was becoming more enamored with German than with Arthur. That wasn’t part of Arthur’s plan. He wanted to enjoy other women, and enjoy the thrill of seeing his wife fucked by other men, but at the end of the night he wanted Natalie to come home with him and tend to their children. But Natalie wanted German.

“This guy [German] ruined my life—he backstabbed me,” Arthur complained.

“German was not the cause of this,” Natalie replied. “I stopped loving Arthur. He made me do all these things. How could he say he loved me? If he’d been such a great husband, wouldn’t he protect me instead of making me do these things?”

In 2005 both the Blinovs and the Friedmans filed for divorce. Both families had children, according to court records, although nothing about them got into the press. The divorce proceedings were protracted; the Friedmans’ case has not yet been resolved. Things got ugly.

Then Arthur became aware of a quirk in the law of Illinois, the state where he and Natalie reside. Illinois is one of eight states that allows lawsuits for alienation of affection—literally, stealing the love of one’s life away. (The others are Hawaii, Mississippi, New Hampshire, New Mexico, North Carolina, South Dakota and Utah.) Arthur sued German under the 1864 law that permits such actions. And the case went to trial.

To win, Arthur had to prove to the jury that he and Natalie were in love and German broke up the relationship. You might think this would be difficult to do, even though Arthur denied having sex during the hot tub party or any of the couple’s other swinging experiences. And Arthur had to prove that he suffered damages as a result.

The jurors doubtless wished they had been chosen for a run-of-the-mill auto accident case after listening to conflicting testimony about the Friedmans’ fun and games. “Way more than once,” jury foreman Eric Helsig told the press after the trial, the jurors looked at each other and said “this is stupid.” “The statute,” Helsig continued, “is ridiculous.”

Amazingly, the jury decided the case in Arthur’s favor in late June. But they didn’t think he lost much with the departure of his wife. According to Helsig, many of the jurors wanted to award Arthur no damages, while others thought he should get $17.20, the same amount the jurors were paid to sit through the proceedings. In the end, Arthur was awarded $4,802.87 from German, based on her contributions to the Friedman household during the marriage.

Natalie is upset with the ruling. Not only did Arthur get away with initiating the playing around, which resulted in her affair with German, but also the whole process of being valued like a cow run over by a truck was “humiliating” for her. “This law allowed him to put a price tag on me,” Natalie said after the trial. “That hurts more than anything.”

In my view, Natalie has a valid point. The alienation of affection law is an absurd relic that ought to be repealed. It stems from the premise that the wife is the property of the husband, just like a cow or a pig might be, and measures damages on the basis of her lost income and services when she wanders off to find a more responsive lover. In this case the result was more comic than tragic—German probably will have no trouble paying the damages—but in North Carolina the jury awarded damages of over $1 million in two similar cases.

But in addition to that, the tale of Arthur, Natalie and German reminds us that couples who open their marriages are putting their relationship at risk. When one partner—usually the man—first suggests trying out “the lifestyle,” he usually envisions he and his lady having sex with a variety of people for fun, but coming home with each other to enjoy enhanced lovemaking between the two of them.

Despite that intention, there’s nothing to prevent either member of the open couple from finda new partner who might suit his or her life better. If you embrace open marriage as a lifestyle, there’s a fairly good chance you’re new it at, and you might be quite susceptible to the advances of another person who seems fresh and vibrant, compared to your familiar spouse. And pursuing the dream of being with that person may well degenerate into a nightmare.

So play by all means, if you and your partner desire to do so—but be aware of the fates that may arise from the operation of the Law of Unintended Consequences. If you want to preserve your primary relationship, discuss your conduct at the party with your spouse, reach agreement about how far each of you will go and don’t overstep the boundaries you’ve agreed on. Communication and sensitivity are keys on which strong and enduring relationships are built.

Memory Monday--Taking the Train

2007-07-01T20:32:00.000-07:00

In years past, Hardin and I often traveled by train rather than flying. We preferred the train for several reasons. Before airline deregulation, flying was expensive. The only discount available was the “nightcoach” fare available on long-distance flights. But you had to travel overnight, which on a plane isn’t very comfortable—even in those days, when there were fewer seats on the planes and more space between them. Sometimes you couldn’t even get a plane that went to your destination. And weather problems like snow slowed down the airlines then, just as they do today.

But our main reason was that we enjoyed the relaxed pace of train travel. Before today’s double-deck cars were built, the long-distance trains in the U.S. were made up of single-level cars, a few with upstairs viewing areas, or “domes,” that provided a glassed-in 360-degree view of the scenery. The train amounted to a mobile hotel, with meal and beverage service available when you wanted it and privacy at other times, particularly in the sleeping car.

The privacy, of course, came in handy. Perhaps you recall the scenes in Alfred Hitchcock’s famous movie North by Northwest where Cary Grant seduced Eva Marie Saint in a sleeping compartment. (These were quite daring for a mainstream movie released almost 50 years ago.) We traveled in much the same sort of compartment most of the time, though somewhat smaller. And did the same things they did!

A compartment provided two single beds, one atop the other. The bottom one folded up into a roomy bench seat that you could sit or lie down on during the day. The top one folded into the ceiling of the car. You had to use a short stepladder to get into it. There was a tiny private bathroom for use when you needed it. And, of course, the door closed and locked from the inside.

Inquisitive people that we are, we found all sorts of uses for the beds that you never saw in the advertising literature. When down, the lower bed was fine for missionary position sex, and provided just enough room for spooning. For doggy, I would kneel on the floor and bend over the bed, allowing Hardin to enter me from behind. We just had to be careful not to hit our heads on the upper berth just a few feet above! And after our sexual gymnastics, we would lie in each other’s arms, looking out the open window at the moon, the clouds and the telephone poles going rapidly past.

When the lower bed was up, I could do anything I could do on a couch, like lap dance or give head. And we could enter the room and indulge our libidos any time of the day. It was a little cramped, but it was a lot more comfortable than jamming ourselves into an airplane lavatory.

The cars were old, and the air conditioning could be spotty, but the trains were usually fairly reliable, depositing us at our destination within an hour or two of the scheduled time. One train trip, though, was memorable for all the wrong reasons. In fact, it was close to a complete disaster.

We were taking our first trip to New Orleans. It was cold and snowy at home, and we were hoping to get away from the winter weather for a few days of Gulf of Mexico warmth. The train rolled in late at night amidst a heavy snowstorm, and as we boarded the warmth inside was quite welcoming. Snuggling into our room, gazing outside at the wild winter weather, listening to the horns on the engines as the train raced over the road crossings, we felt safe and secure.

For a while. Then the horns became less frequent, the tempo of the steel wheels rolling on the rails become slower and slower, and eventually the train ground to a halt. We had taken enough rides to know that trains sometimes stop for long periods of time without explanation, and we eventually drifted off to sleep.

An hour or two later, I was awakened by a ruckus in the hallway outside our room. A woman passenger, apparently one who was carrying an ample supply of libations to get herself through the trip, was arguing with the sleeping car porter.

“Why aren’t we going anywhere?” she demanded, loudly. She was right; we weren’t moving.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know,” the porter replied in his Southern drawl. “And ma’am, why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

I could hear the doors snapping open up and down the length of the car!

I fell back asleep, and when I woke again it was daylight, with bright sunshine bouncing off the fresh snow. The train was still motionless. Hardin stirred, his hard cock pressing against my backside. Yes, I could use some of that, I thought.

After enjoying our eye-opener, we cleaned up, got dressed and made our way toward the dining car to find out why we were still stuck in winter wonderland rather than being down South. The news was bad: a freight train ahead of us had derailed, and due to the cold weather the railroad was having problems clearing the track. So we were stuck.

Unfortunately, the diner was supposed to have been stocked en route, and since we hadn’t gotten to the restocking point yet we were just about out of food. All the kitchen could rustle up were fried-egg sandwiches on toast. I was hungry, so I reluctantly took one and headed back to the room. Hardin thought such fare was beneath him—he doesn’t like eggs—and walked away empty-handed.

Eventually the railroad opened the track and we passed slowly through the derailment site, railroad cars thrown asunder in every direction. We did eventually get to New Orleans, although about a half-day late. Rather than having the daylight hours to sightsee, we went straight to our hotel, and then to Bourbon Street to join the nightly party. You’re never too late to do that!

We don’t travel by train as often now, since discount air travel is available to just about anywhere in North America and our travel budget has been cut way back because of the college tuition bills we have been paying for our daughters. But I hope I’ll have an opportunity to take the train somewhere soon and enjoy this slow and voluptuous means of transport once more.