When Nerd Night gets nasty

I must confess that one of my favorite things to do on a Friday night is to pop some popcorn and watch PBS's public affairs line-up, including Washington Week, Bill Moyers Journal, NOW, and, yes, The McLaughlin Group (though even I have to admit that Foreign Exchange is boring as hell). So loyal a viewer am I, and so geeky the topic, that A. has dubbed it "Nerd Night."

For the most part, he's fairly ambivalent (or possibly silently annoyed) about my Nerd Night television hegemony, with the exception of one show that he has long despised: The McLaughlin Group. With Eleanor Clift screeching to be heard. Pat Buchanan cutting everyone off. And the asinine addition of conservative radio talk show host and Ann-Coulter-wannabe, Monica Crowley, replacing Washington Times columnist Tony Blankley, or "Tiny Tony" as I like to call him. "Would they just stop yelling?!" A. will frequently complain. And it's true, the yelling and screeching gets old fast.

My favorite part has always been McLaughlin himself. The curmudgeon with the outrageous ties. With his questions about metaphysical possibilities. And the way he cuts off a speaker with "the answer is (whatever)! Issue two..."

However over this election I've found myself disappointed in McLaughlin. While I wasn't a big Obama fan myself (I voted for Green Party candidate Cynthia McKinney since I was in a safe state), it was disturbing that McLaughlin was so egregiously anti-Obama. During the primaries, I chalked it up to him being close with Hilary. But in the general election campaign, almost every show was devoted to the faults of Obama, to the point where it almost had a sort of racist tinge -- especially when he called Obama an "oreo." To make matters worse, most of the guest commentators who joined the main three each week had a conservative slant as well (Mort Zuckerman, Michelle Bernard) leaving poor, screeching Eleanor Clift on her own to offer a left-of-center view.

A. decided it was time to act.

Now some have used the McLaughlin Group as the basis for a drinking game. But A. decided that a spanking game would be more appropriate. And rather than make complicated rules about drinking or spanking whenever someone did or said something specific, he decided to keep it simple: whenever someone said or did something stupid, I got spanked. The choice of implement would be up to his discretion.

The Friday after A. arrived was the night we played our McLaughlin Group spanking game. I was to be laying on the bed naked, facing the television when the show started. All of the implements were lined up to the left side of me. As the multi-colored title appeared on the screen, accompanied by the dramatic drum and horn music, I tell you dear reader, my bottom had goose-bumps.

For some reason, A. decided to go out to smoke when the show began. I was completely mystified by this (he's just informed me that the thought of watching the full 30-minute show was too much for him to bear). Yet as the group descended into a yelling match rather early, I was also a bit relieved as this surely would have provoked a serious beating. About ten minutes in, A. returned, sat down on the bed next to me with all the implements at this disposal.

While we watched, he started warming me up with some hand spanks. I brought him up to speed on the discussion they were having about how Obama's press plane replaced three reporters from conservative papers with three reporters from Ebony, Essence, and Jet magazines.

I can't remember at exactly which point the spanking started (the full transcript is here). Was it during poor Joe the Plumber? I do know there was a lot of spanking -- with the riding crop, I think -- when McLaughlin mistakenly said,

"Of those 16 times [that the Democrats have sought the presidency since Harry Truman], the number of Democrats who have won the popular vote is two -- Lyndon Johnson against Barry Goldwater in '64; Jimmy Carter against Jerry Ford in '76."

While Clinton did not win more than 50% of the popular vote in 92 and 96, he did win the popular vote.

Then there was the next stupid thing McLaughlin said (and which was a perfect example of his anti-Obama bias):

"So whom do the Democrats put to break the losing streak? Answer: The number one liberal in the United States Senate, a black American whose middle name is Hussein."

Mind you, this is four days before the election when the polls were showing that Obama was going to win a decisive victory.

I think I got the clothesbrush for that.

There was a lull in the spanking for a bit while the group discussed which poll was best and how all of them had Obama ahead.

But then McLaughlin said this:

"In fact, Americans feel off-put if they think anyone is buying their vote. Obama has set a new all-time record for fund-raising, a total of $605 million in his campaign war chest. That's compared to McCain's $359 million."

That was slightly silly (where's the research suggesting one, that Americans "feel off-put if they think anyone is buying their vote" and two, that that was what Obama was doing and Americans felt that he was?), so I think I just got A.'s hand for that.

Oh but it got so much worse.

"Fifth, the company he keeps. One, Reverend Jeremiah Wright...[cut to video of Rev. Wright]."

So old news. Plus, frankly both A. and I thought Reverend Wright had a point. And even Mike Huckabee came to Obama's and Reverend Wright's defense on some level.

I think A. returned to using the riding crop. Or maybe it was the cane. And continued using it through Tony Rezko and William Ayers. When McLaughlin mentioned Rashid Khalidi, my heart sunk as A. really went at it on my ass.

"Four, Rashid Khalidi, professor of Arab studies at Columbia University, friend of Obama's from Khalidi's teaching days at the University of Chicago; former spokesman for the PLO in the '80s and '90s, when the Palestine Liberation Organization was in militant exchange with Israel's Urgun."

Ugh! The Khalidi issue was a tad bit personal for me and not only was McLaughlin participating in the Republican smear campaign, about the only thing he got right was that Khalidi and Obama were indeed friends when Khalidi was still teaching at the University of Chicago. Which meant, of course, that this merited severe punishment. Again, I think it was either the cane or the riding crop A. was beating me mercilessly with. I was kicking and screaming too much at that point to notice.

Thankfully the group began talking about the Bradley Effect and I was able to catch my breath. That is until Monica Crowley opened her big, stupid mouth.

"The 2003 tape of Rashid Khalidi's farewell party, where Barack Obama attended along with Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn, is being suppressed by the Los Angeles Times. If, in fact, it wasn't a Jew-bashing event and Barack Obama has nothing to hide, then he should clear the air and demand that the Los Angeles Times release this tape. He could make this go away like that."

Oh. Dear. God. I put my head in my hands knowing what was coming next.

"I think you will agree that the "Jew-bashing" comment deserves the wooden spoon, don't you think?"

True, it was an incredibly puerile thing for Crowley to say. It did deserve some sort of chastisement. I just didn't want anymore chastisement on my ass! Especially as my ass was so so so out of practice. Yet A. slapped that wooden spoon down on each cheek over and over. Sure, he wasn't really slapping that hard. I am on anti-coagulants and have to be careful of bruising too much. Not to mention I could barely lay still enough for him to spank me.

And Crowley, along with Pat Buchanan, kept talking. Kept saying inane things like how the problems Obama has had with his associations would have sunk a Republican (yes, because George Bush had so many problems with "Kenny-boy" Lay). And how Obama couldn't close the deal because people were afraid of him (apparently they got over their fear four days later).

"Stop talking!" I cried to the television.

Yet McLaughlin then went on to Issue Three.

"If Barack Obama does win the presidency, it means total Democratic rule -- a Democratic White House, a Democratic Senate and a Democratic House of Representatives. Government unification -- good public policy? The scholars say no. Good public policy flows far more out of a disunified government than a unified government. A disunified government would mean Republican John McCain wins and the Senate and House stay Democratic. If Obama wins, it is bad for public policy.

...There's also the problem of unchecked liberalism. If Democrats gain control, they will need essentially every vote in their party to get anything passed in Congress, which means running the country from the left, with a national population that is fundamentally right of center."

I think A. went back to the cane for that one.

Yet God bless Pat Buchanan. Yep, you read that right. He does make brilliant points from time to time.

"Well, first off, say, Jack Kennedy got through the great tax cut of Kennedy with a unified government, whereas Reagan had a divided government. Lyndon Johnson's Civil Rights Act was a unified government; New Deal, unified command; Medicare, unified government; Social Security, unified government.

Divided government has done good things; I think Taft-Hartley, 1947, I believe, over Truman's veto, excellent legislation. You can have good government both ways, John. Frankly, I do believe in government responsibility and accountability. So if Barack Obama wins, maybe they ought to have the right to run the thing the way they want to, and then we can pass judgment on them."

And the spanking stop. My poor, battered ass finally had some relief. There were a few hand smacks here and there, especially with Monica Crowley's wishful thinking about split-ticket voters voting down a "liberal trifecta" or McCain winning by half a point (those poor, deluded Republicans). But with John McLaughlin's hearty "Bye BYE!" it was time to cuddle.

Don't think for a minute that A.'s itchy palm was satisfied. On Election Day, he made me bend over the bed while he quizzed me on the polls for each state to see if I had been paying attention. Despite pleas that my answers were much closer to the right answer if he used the data at fivethirtyeight.com, he used the polls at Real Clear Politics instead.

Anyway, with the election over, A. has assured me that my ass is safe from politically-motivated spankings. Though after reading this piece about the causes of the credit crunch, he's come up with a new game.

He's calling it Stock Market Correction.

***
P.S: I promise to get to all those wonderful comments for LOL day tomorrow!

Lurker luvin'

Sorry to be so quiet lately. The last week and a half or so I've felt really icky and haven't been online much (it tends to happen at the end/beginning of the month because I've run out of one of my medications). Alas, that has not meant a lack of spankings. A. arrived in an uber-toppy mood and I've been spanked no less than 5 times in not quite two weeks! And if I'd been feeling better, I suspect I'd probably have gotten it just about every day. Two of those spankings were politically motivated -- and literal, not the metaphorical kind the Republicans got last week -- and (fingers-crossed) I'll have a post about them in the next few days.

But enough about me. I want to know how you're doing. This is your day. Yep, you, dear lurker. It's the third annual Love our Lurkers day. The day we honor you, the silent majority. Who lurk hard every day. Or when a new post is up. Or maybe you just lurk occassionally. You read, but never comment. Yet your presence in our StatCounter numbers keeps us bloggers blogging. And for that we salute you.

So stand up. Hit the "leave a comment" button and tell me your story. Staying silent is hard work. Take a break and spill out everything you've ever wanted to say.

Or just "hello" is cool too.

Maybe you feel too intimidated to comment (please be assured that you're very welcome).

Maybe you don't have time (it happens to all of us).

Maybe you think you don't have anything to add (oh but you do!).

Maybe you think there's nothing worth commenting on here (fair enough).

Maybe you don't read/write English well (I'd love to learn the word for spanking in your language).

A. thinks commenting on a blog is like having to write something on a group birthday card: you're in a hurry and you want to write something witty or inspiring but in the end you just end up scribbling something like "Happy Birthday." Yet in the case of a blog, you're not pressured by the group to write something so people just don't bother.

This makes bloggers sad. We love comments. All sorts of comments. Even the brief "nice post" or "this post sucks" comments. Though we hate spam. And we banish those spam comments to very depths of blogger hell.

But the best comment of all is simply an introduction. A brief (or not so brief, as the case may be) note putting a name or remark to those numbers on my StatCounter graph (Blogger allows you to remain anonymous if you choose).

I've received exactly 17 comments both years on LOL day. This year, I'd love to see that double. And if it does (they have to be 34 unique visitors), I'll post a picture of my ass after my next spanking. Which will probably be sometime later today as I've got another one coming...

That's right. The sixth in less than two weeks. You'd think A. was some kind of sick, perverted sadist. :::grin:::

How the hell did I end up here?

I've been thinking over the last few weeks about what an amazing transformation I made in a mere decade.

In 1994, I was living with a family from my Baptist church while going to university. I had never had a drop of alcohol or even been kissed. I was teaching Children's Church, directing a weekly children's Bible memorization program, and leading music for my church college group in addition to my studies.

By 2004, not only had I been laid and drunk, I started writing a sex blog about spanking. Sure, I was still going to church, but I was Byzantine Catholic (and a dubious one at that by that point).

Have any of you, as you've started blogging or going to spanking parties wondered, how the hell did I end up here? Have you found that in embracing your sexuality, it has taken you places you never expected to go? Do you ever wonder who this new sexual deviant is, or asked the inverse question, who was that uptight, repressed person I used to be?

Needless to say, I've been rather pensive lately. It's probably why I haven't been posting as much. I mean, I've actually been journaling...in private.

But A. gets in tomorrow night, and I know we have at least one play session that we want to blog about coming up on Friday night (you know, health permitting), so hopefully my meditative mood will disperse and I'll have more juicy posts forthcoming.

The politics of pleasure is messy

I wanted to point out a piece in Alternet excerpting a new book called Feminism and Pop Culture. What I liked about the article, aside from the fact that it gave a nice review of the rise of sex-positive feminism (aka "do me" feminism), was how ambivalent it was. That the "politics of pleasure" is complicated, with women both empowered to embrace their sexuality yet still finding their greatest value in being sexually objectified.

It made me think about the messy nature of spanking – particularly Domestic Discipline – and feminism. In the discussion on feminism and DD at the Punishment Book almost a couple of years ago (it so does not feel like that long ago), what was remarkably lacking in all the talk about choice was empowerment. Feminism requires both. You can make choices that are inherently anti-feminist when they fail to empower women. Women are empowered when they have the ability to fully embrace their sexuality, regardless of how unequal it may appear. Women are not empowered when they are subordinated to men because of their gender. Both of these occur within the DD community.

There is a great deal of feminist backlash within the DD and BDSM community, including blogs which insist that a woman is required to be submissive because she was born with a vagina or dominant women (and submissive men) who feel distinctly unwelcome in their local BDSM community (which is often run by dominant men). I think sometimes that because we're trying so hard to show that you can be a feminist and a sexual submissive, we fail to call out the sexism that exists in our community. But it's there. It's so there.

Interestingly enough, I often think that within our community the ones who suffer the most from entrenched patriarchy are submissive men. While acting out our sexuality might make us feel a bit uncomfortable with some of our feminist peers, submissive women have it easier in that respect than submissive men because society is still far more accepting of submissive women than submissive men. People grasp M/F on a primal level, but feminism has not yet brought us to the point that people feel comfortable with F/M, except in kinky pop culture references here and there (and frequent illogical dominatrix analogies).

At some point I'd like to write more about this, but my brain has been really mushy the last two weeks, so it won't be tonight. :::grin::

VibeReview Fantasy: Bendybeads

You know my libido has been on vacation because until last Wednesday or so, whenever I tried to create the fantasy that follows this review using a real-life occurrence as a starting point, I got nothing. Just...blankness.

But my deviant imagination has returned, which is a good thing because Bendybeads scream out for a good pervert. Indeed my reviews so far have been a bit vagina-centric for my particular flavor of kinkiness. I mean, we are spankos, are we not? We are all about the ass. And Bendybeads too, are all about the ass.

And boy are they yummy in the ass.

Now, if you're not familiar with anal beads, they are usually plastic balls attached together by a string that are pushed into and pulled out of the anus (along with, like anything else involving the anus, lots of lube). However in more recent years there have been some innovations in the anal beads concept, such as replacing the string (which is impossible to sanitize) with jelly or plastic, or making the whole thing a bit more substantial like a butt plug. Indeed one of the early butt plugs I bought was a jelly one fashioned in graduated, bead-like fashion, similar to the Spectra Probe at VibeRevew (which is what A. used in me for real, inspiring the fantasy below).

I have to say, Bendybeads are a major improvement to Spectra-like bead-plugs. I'm more a sphincter stimulation sorta gal rather than in love with the fullness of a plug and Bendybeads are much easier to push in and pull out of the ass than a plug. They have this lovely little hook at the end which facilitates that sort of activity. The largest of the balls is comfortable enough, i.e. not painfully large, and all balls stay put even with a lot of lube. It is a bit on the long side (indeed too long for my naughty box), but I could still sit comfortably (relatively speaking) with it in. Best of all, it is made out of phtalate-free silicone, which is safer and more hygienic as it can be cleaned easier.

I used mine one night with my wankin' spankin' tool and my Silver Bullet vibrator and had one of the most amazing orgasms I have ever had. No joke. :::Happy sigh::: Ah, that was a nice night....

But when A. returns in a couple of weeks (two weeks from today to be exact), I imagine my Bendybeads being used in the following fashion:

It will be one of my good days, where I'm strong enough to reassert some sort of dominion over the kitchen by washing the dishes. As I find satisfaction in wiping every spot from the glasses and every slick of grease from the plastic containers, A. comes up behind me and begins to grope my tits. Soon his right hand slides down to my ass. He caresses and fondles my fatty cheeks before delivering several sharp blows. Slips his hand down my pajama bottoms and fondles some more. Pulls it out, wraps it around my belly, and with both hands clutching me, dry humps me from behind.

"Keep washing the dishes," he orders before disappearing. Upon returning a few minutes later, he whisks down my pajama bottoms while I hold a sudsy plate. "Let's get these down," in a voice mixing the authoritarian and the lecherous. Next I feel an oozy finger probing my hole. I look down to my right and see the Bendybeads in his hand.

"No! No! Not my bummy hole!" I exclaim with mock consternation, jolting my hand down to cover my bottom.

"Excuse me? That is not yours to decide." It's all authoritarian now. Sharp and impatient. "Spread your legs, please. Ass out."

I obey immediately, albeit with a whimper. I always whimper when my anus is involved. There's something about it being probed and entered that makes me feel so small. Naughty. Violated. Exposed. And terribly aroused.

"Continue washing the dishes, please," he states while smearing a glob of icy toothpaste on my hole. My whimpering becomes prolonged.

"Yes, Sir." I haltingly return my attention to the plate that has sunk to the bottom of the sink. Rinse it off and pick up another dirty plate, letting out a squeak as I feel the first of the Bendybeads pass through my sphincter. And another squeak with each one after that. After every red silicone bead has entered my bum, he swishes them around (making my anus burn even more from the toothpaste) and then begins to pull them out. Then back in. Then back out.

It's hard to wash dishes when your pelvis is thrusting back and forth. But thankfully, the last glass is finally dripping in the dish drainer.

"Don't move," A. orders. He snatches the hard plastic spatula from the jar on the stove and rapidly slaps the flesh on each side of the Bendybeads. I squirm about in an absurd attempt to avoid the inevitable unyielding plastic stinging my skin.

Just when I think I just can't possibly take another stroke, A. puts the spatula down. Grabs a clump of my hair and pulls me into the bed/livingroom. Pushes me down onto my stomach on the bed.

"Push your ass up."

I obey directly. He pulls out a bead or two. Pushes them back in. Picks up the electric cord flogger (aka the wankin' spankin' tool) and whips me as I scream into my pillow. After a few moments, he stops. Puts on a condom. Takes out the Bendybeads. And fucks my ass silly...

*****************

Probably a bit rougher than what I could manage in real life, but at the very least, it makes great wank fodder. :::grin:::

And with only three weeks left in the Election, remember that you can take an additional 10% off your order with VibeReview using this coupon.

Sugasm #150 -- Sugasm'd again!

Whoo hoo! My fellow sex bloggers picked my post on pain and sex as one of the top three posts this week. Thanks so much!

And hopefully I really will get that VibeReview fantasy up tomorrow. Non-kink stuff has had my attention the last couple of days. But my libido has kicked into gear, and I'm so ready to write something hot and yummy. :::grin:::

*******************
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #151? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom

This Week’s Picks

Stolen Time
“The sigh of a kiss that has been too long waiting is a wicked rush.”

Keeping things hot when everything hurts
“While it’s not as fun for him, what I love about those times is how sexy he makes me feel at a time when I probably feel the most worthless as a lover.”

Like lovers do…
“As soon as I got that groove, he felt it. His body started to tense up and tremble.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
At What Point Have You Crossed The Line?

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Politics stole my mojo!

Sorry to be so quiet the last week and a half. I was surprised to discover on Monday that I hadn't posted anything for a whole week. Time goes by so quickly when you're on morphine and sleeping most of the day...

I think politics has smothered my libido of late. Instead of drifting off to sleep with visions of stern nannies, a strict daddy, and the odd subbie boy, I've been muttering to myself what Obama or McCain should have said in the latest debate. Or what that damn bailout bill should have included or discarded. Instead of reading spanking blogs, I've been faithfully following the polling projections at FiveThirtyEight and CNN, watching as the country slowly turns blue. Checking the bookies at Oddschecker while the odds shorten and lengthen as the Dow falls. A. and I have been sharing our favorite political posts at YouTube during our daily call rather than our latest spanking fantasies. Especially now that Saturday Night Live is funny again.

But my mojo is slowling returning. The other night I fell asleep to the fantasy of an uncompromising nanny taking me to task for failing to take a medication I tend to avoid as I dislike its side effects. Politics has influenced A.'s latest pretext for spanking me, involving a spreader bar and the McLaughlin Group. I suspect there will more information about that one after he arrives on October 29th.

For now, however, I'm just popping in to say that I should return to normal posting in the next few days with a new VibeReview Fantasy. And hopefully when I fall asleep in the next hour or so, the only red and blue I'll be thinking about will be in regards to my ass...

Keeping things hot when everything hurts

Earlier this month I was reading in my American Pain Foundation newsletter that September is Pain Awareness Month. On the front page there was a story on "intimacy" (i.e. sex) and chronic pain, and I smiled a little as I thought of our own efforts with this issue. And with a half an hour remaining of Pain Awareness Month, here are some of my thoughts.

I remember the day after the second time A. and I had sex (indeed the second time I'd ever had sex) many years back. It had been particularly raw, physical sex, and when I awoke the next day, I hurt from my split ends to my toenails. It was that horribly stiff fibromyalgia hurt where laying in bed just makes it worse, despite the fact that I was so exhausted I could barely move. As I dragged myself downstairs to the living room, crying quietly so A. wouldn't hear me while he worked in the kitchen, I sat in horror at the thought that I might not be able to have sex often if it was going to do this to me. How would A. feel about that? Would he be mad because I couldn't have sex as often as he might want to have it?

As it turned out, he was actually quite understanding about the whole thing. For the most part we're fairly compatible as a couple, but we do have times like all couples where he's in the mood and I'm not, or I'm in the mood and he's not. And we cut each other slack accordingly.

But there are also pain/illness-specific issues for me that require some adjustment of how we might define sex. Intercourse is a lot of work and any sort of exercise can make me very ill. Plus, because of chronic pelvic pain (as well as other problems), it is painful. The result is that we rarely have it. But I would argue that doesn't mean we don't have sex. As those of us with sexual fetishes know, intercourse is often an afterthought when we think of sex. Our exploration of bondage or spanking or feet or diapers is redefining sex, which is a liberating thing for those of us who can't fuck quite so readily.

But at the end of the day, fucking is still how many of us satisfy our sexual appetites, and I find mutual masturbation to be a nice substitute. While it may lack the full, penetrative quality of intercourse, there is still a lot about it that is very intimate. Indeed, I think in many ways it's a lot more vulnerable. Requires a lot more communication. And at the end of the day, is far more equitable as it takes each of our pleasure into account.

Though it doesn't always mean an automatic orgasm. One of the downsides of medication and fatigue is that I can't always come. But I'm finding toys that can help with that. The Miracle Massager has proven to be a really great one. I cannot think of a better toy for someone like me who fatigues quickly. It's curved perfectly for clitoral stimulation. It's not too heavy. And if I use the Attachment, I can stick it in, sit back and let it do all the work. Not too mention, it's also handy for massaging my neck and shoulders (what the Hitachi Magic Wand was originally intended for before women started using it on their rosebuds!). Another low-energy toy (which will be featured in an upcoming post) is the Silver Bullet. Shaped like a skinny silver egg, I can position it on my clitoris and then easily control the level of vibrations with the hand-held controller, again allowing for an easy orgasm with minimal effort.

Then there are days when A. is very randy and, while mentally I wouldn't mind a little hanky panky, I'm simply too weak. At those times I usually tell him to grope away, just don't expect much reaction from me. While it's not as fun for him, what I love about those times is how sexy he makes me feel at a time when I probably feel the most worthless as a lover. How he hungrily fondles the enormous tits that I felt so insecure about as a kid (I was in a C cup by the time I was nine). Caresses the belly I've spent so much of my life hating. Strokes the pussy that purrs under his hand. Gropes the ass that can never get enough attention.

Yes, speaking of my ass, the irony that I'm a chronic pain patient who likes getting spanked is not lost on me (being on the blood-thinner Coumadin complicates it further). True there are some days when a nice spanking is the perfect thing to get the endorphines going. And in many ways, taking a hard spanking is sort of my ultimate "fuck you" to pain. A way I control pain instead of it controlling me.

But then there are the times when the pain has been so intense, getting spanked is about as appealing as a giant meal after Thanksgiving dinner. Those times are fewer and farther between since starting long-acting morphine last January. Though that has brought with it its own issues, the most prominent as it relates to spanking is opioid-induced hyperalgesia, in which the narcotic actually makes me more sensitive to painful stimuli. My pain threshold in terms of getting spanked varies wildly. There are some days when I'm an unquenchable pain slut whose prolonged clotting time and propensity to bruise severely limit my explorations into subspace. And then there are days when the hairbrush is coming down just a tad harder than a tap and I'm practically jumping through the roof.

Let me just take this opportunity, however, to note that addiction is not one of the issues that usually accompanies the usage of narcotics, despite what the media suggests. There is a difference between dependence on a medication and addiction. If you give a bottle of Vicodin to an addict, he or she will probably go through it in a few days like a bag of M&Ms. The pain patient, on the other hand, will take it as directed by his or her doctor. Yes, addiction is a possible side-effect, yet the chances of that happening to someone taking narcotics for pain are around 1%. Unlike constipation which happens to almost everybody who takes opiates (but hey, I have always wanted to explore those enema fantasies...).

Lastly, I think one of the big keys to a healthy sex life is imagination, and A. and I spend a lot of time sharing our fantasies with each other. It's certainly helpful when our relationship is over the phone most of the time. And while we don't end up acting out half of what we talk about, I've come to find that it's the imagining and sharing that keeps everything so...hot.

Sugasm # 148 -- I've been Sugasm'd!

Whoo Hoo! My post on the elitist nature of a lot of erotica was one of this week's top picks. I'm so very pleased.

I also highly recommend that "Red, Hot Ass" post at Diary of a Gay Dad. Very yummy.

*****

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #149? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

People I could hang out with

“But it wasn’t just a story, it was a damn sexy story.”

Red, Hot Ass

“I grunted, but held still.”

Smart Girls Make Better Lovers

“Chicks with brains can make you scream.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

Sex Blogging and Writing for the Drawer

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

Front Page Spanking: Divine Discipline

Back before tabloids focused on celebrities that nobody has heard of, they focused on the important stories like...nuns whipping boys. This front page of the Mirror from August 16, 1939 isn't very readable, but it's nice to know that while war was about to break out in Europe, the Mirror had its priorities in order.

So what sort of whipping was this? I mean, surely nuns whipping boys couldn't have been so unusual in 1939 that a run-of-the-mill thrashing merited front-page status.

I like to imagine a stern French nun with a martinet and a smart-assed early adolescent. Our impertinent boy tried to lead a revolt against mandatory Mass attendance but was deserted by his classmates to face alone the wrath of Sister Mathilde. She took down his short pants and applied that martinet with such brutality that it left his classmates fearful of ever misbehaving again. Perhaps the boy's mother was shocked at the horde of angry welts left on her son's bottom and thighs while his father thought the old nun was well within her rights to maintain order. Soon the community was divided over whether Sister Mathilde had acted appropriately or gone beyond common decency until one of the largest tabloids in the country was asking its readers to judge...

Just a thought.

Sugasm #147

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks

Amazing

““You’re lucky I’m not being mean right now.””

Cum Squirt With Me. Confession #131

“Not much research has been done on the female orgasm in general, much less this seemingly new erotic marvel.”

Jealousy, Pornography and the Boundaries of Blogging

“I search to be a sexually free, independent and satisfied woman without the stigma of slut yet with the positive implications of slut.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice

Blue Fantasy, Red Silk Rope

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

People I could hang out with

My senior year of college I was invited to be part of a national student delegation to the country of Kuwait. A week or so before I received that invitation, I found out I had been accepted to graduate school at Georgetown University with a full tuition scholarship. As our delegation was meeting in Washington DC for a week of briefings before heading to Kuwait, I went a few days earlier to visit the place I assumed I would be spending the next several years of my life.

The waiting room for my graduate program was lined with cherrywood paneling and upholstered in arabesque print. I remember worrying that my wet, squishy tennis shoes would somehow dirty the place after walking in from the April rain. I stayed the night with a recent alum from my hole-in-the-wall state university, but the next day headed to a posh DC hotel where we student delegates were to stay during the Washington leg of our journey.

It was the first time I'd ever hailed a cab. And I was surprised when a guy in a uniform picked up my suitcase as I checked in. I'd never been to a hotel with a bell hop before. The nicest place I'd ever stayed before that was at a Red Lion with a bunch of girls from my church youth group when we attended a winter youth festival. The bell hop led me to the room, opened the door, set my luggage on a rack, opened the curtains, and then stood at the door awkwardly for a few seconds. Was I supposed to tip him? Or was that just something they did on television but not in real life? The bell hop had mercy on me and left quickly. I felt terribly out of place in this new, fancy world I'd found myself in. And I tell you the truth, dear reader, I broke out into tears as I sat on the immaculate bed.

That is how I feel when I read most erotica.

But I didn't realize it until I read Jacqueline Applebee's story "What I do for my pain." When blogger friend Pandora mentioned that Ms. Applebee's erotica included disabled characters, I pictured blond girls dressed in hip retro dresses sitting in specially-designed wheelchairs -- you know, people with real disabilities, as opposed to someone like me with amorphous pain disorders and controversial multi-systemic diseases.

I was so wrong.

There was no mention of stylish clothes or hip apartments in the city or parties with canapes or exotic furniture where two people with perfect bodies have perfectly aligned sex.

No, instead I was met with a character who bumps into her lover's boob in bed. Who has enough flesh that it can be kneaded. Who wants a tattoo that looks like a sunflower. And whose disability was chronic period pain.

See, I'm clumsy in bed too (among other places). And have plenty of flesh to kneed. I don't know that I can get a tattoo now that I'm on anticoagulants, but if I were to ever get one, it'd probably be something cheery like a sunflower too. And boy do I know what chronic period pain is like as everyone of my periods since I started having them when I was ten years old have been dreadful.

Sometimes it’s a constant cracking against the back of my spine, sometimes it’s a top note sung by a soprano, but held against my groin for sixteen hours. Medication doesn’t seem to help, and heaven knows I’ve tried most of the alternatives.

It sounds a bit silly, but I started crying a little when I read that bit. I just never hear anybody ever talk about the ordeal that painful periods can be -- you know, outside of pamphlets from the doctor's office. And I certainly haven't see someone validate that experience by making it the primary conflict in a story. But it wasn't just a story, it was a damn sexy story.

As I continued reading, I found that this was a character I could so see myself hanging out with. Exchanging medical horror stories or sharing the alternative that has finally worked for me (Red Raspberry leaf tea, as impossible as that may be to believe, considering how exquisite the pain).

And that, that was when it suddenly dawned on me that I don't ever imagine myself hanging out with the characters in the erotica I generally read. Part of that comes down to just how effective Ms. Applebee is in creating such realistic characters. But a lot of it is that characters in erotica intimidate the hell out of me.

I'm not stylish. I'm five feet tall and fat. The last pieces of clothing I bought were a sensible white Playtex bra on sale this month online, a red shirt and a pair of jeans on sale at Walmart about a year ago, and a t-shirt from the Goodwill several months before that. I only own three pairs of shoes (that accommodate my orthotics). So, you know, no skin tight dresses or several hundred dollar fuck me shoes here.

I do live in a studio downtown, but I live in HUD housing with seniors and the disabled which sorta takes away any sort of glamour from the whole living in the city thing. And my part of the city is where the meth freaks and pimps hang out, though personally, I like the color they add to the neighborhood.

Being on Food Stamps means that canapes are never on the menu here, though I do make the best chocolate chip cookies ever. And Two-Buck-Chuck is about the only wine you'll find in my kitchen -- and then only when A. is here because I can't really drink much wine anymore.

Erotica is all about fantasy and so it is understandable that it will reflect what is most perfect in our society. Writing -- erotica or otherwise -- requires a certain level of education to both attain the skills necessary to create worlds on paper (or computer), as well as the ability to think originally about topics, particularly ones that are mostly taboo. And most of those who get that education come from a base socio-economic level and higher. It's hard to think and write about sex when, say, you just barely finished high school and you're trying to figure out how to pay the rent on your trailer despite working four jobs (a common predicament in my family).

I remember years ago listening to essayist Richard Rodriguez on the NewsHour talk about how little poverty makes it into our literature (aside from the Bohemian sort). That we needed people to write about the experience of being poor in the same way that writers such as Toni Morrison have talked about the experience of being African-American or how he had written about being Latino.

I remember thinking at the time, hey, I could do that. I know what it's like to grow up poor. Thanks to an illness which has left me incapable of doing any job in the national economy (as the vocational expert testified at my disability hearing), I still get to know what it's like to be poor.

And if Jacqueline Applebee can write hot, sexy erotica about chronic period pain, well damnit, I should be writing hot, sexy erotica about poor, fat, sick people.

You know, people I could totally hang out with...

Bet this landlady takes no nonsense...

When/if I ever make it Manchester, I totally have to go here.

Actually, we noticed someone with the nickname "Spanking Roger" in some old Guardian archives recently. Does anyone know where the term originated?

VibeReview Fantasy: Decadent Indulgence

Every since I saw that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda introduces her pals to a rabbit vibrator, I have thought it would be very cool to own one. So the good folks at VibeReview sent me one of their top of the line models, the Decadent Indulgence.

And it is a very cool, technologically advanced toy. After popping in four AA batteries among the microprocessors, I was a bit wowed as the substantial shaft twisted about at the same time the little jelly elephant buzzed its trunk back and forth in anticipation of my clitoris. At the base of the Decadent Indulgence is a simple to use control panel where you can choose the intensity of how much the shaft twists and the clitoris tickler buzzes.

I popped it in, using a bit of Climax Burst Cooling lubricant that VibeReview had also sent me to review. Climax Burst does give you a subtle cooling sensation, and if you like that sort of thing, you might like this lubricant. But I didn't find it to be a particularly intense sensation -- which I tend to like, particularly if it burns -- and ultimately it didn't really seem all that different to me than KY Jelly, except that it has these teeny tiny blue Vitamin E beads that give you a teeny tiny bit of moisturization.

So, I had the Decadent Indulgence in with a little bit of lube. I played around with each of the buttons that control the ten levels of intensity for both the shaft and the clit tickler with relative ease. It felt really nice. But I couldn't ever quite get the intensity right. And the base, with those four batteries in it, began to get really heavy. And it had a strong odor, like shampoo, that wasn't necessarily unpleasant, just...strong. Yet I really, really wanted to come with this toy because it just felt so cool.

Alas, after half an hour of holding this increasingly heavy toy and fiddling around with the buttons and smelling that strong chemical perfume smell and my pelvic floor muscles getting more and more sore from the arousal without any resolution, I finally had to turn it off and pick up the Miracle Massager (which I increasingly find myself referring to as Old Faithful) to get the job done. It made me sad (not to mention I was very weak, sore and exhausted and unable to engage in the experiment reader Indy wished for).

Now I'd give the Decadent Indulgence another chance but...that smell! I placed the DI on the table near my bed and all the next day the smell just kept making me feel sicker and sicker. I finally picked up the box to see if it could explain just why it had this intense odor. And there, on the side, was Pleasantly Scented in fancy purple script.

Who the fuck wants their sex toys scented? For the love of God, why? I mean, it's right up there with deodorant tampons!

I should note that I am particularly sensitive to perfumes and all sorts of scents as Multiple Chemical Sensitivities often comes with having ME/CFS. While my MCS isn't nearly as severe as it is for some people who can't leave their homes or have to live in specially built structures, it does mean I don't buy traditional cleaners (my caregiver is still adjusting to cleaning the bathroom with baking soda and hydrogen peroxide or using vinegar for fabric softner) and I've learned to make my own perfumes from pure essential oils (and even that doesn't always work out well). And I sure as hell don't buy anything that's been purposely secented.

But not everybody has my limitations in terms of scents, nor are they as weak as I am and wear out so quickly, in which case the Decadent Indulgence would probably work out much better for you. There are, of course, plenty of other rabbit vibrators available at VibeReview that I encourage you to try out as I hope to myself, particularly those that have a separate control, like the Rabbit Pearl or the Kangaroo, which might not wear me out quite so quickly as those with a heavy base.

Then again, if the toy is too heavy, a good cunt boy might be the answer. A cunt boy who has been so thoroughly whipped that his mind is utterly focused on my pleasure. Sadism does turn me on so.

I imagine turning his white cheeks into a Pollack-esque painting of purple bruises, crimson strokes, and black-blue welts. Laboring with the riding crop, the cane, and the rubber paddle to create my masterpiece of cruelty. Watching his flesh twitch with dread anticipation of the next blow.

And when he has been thoroughly broken and pliant, I will order him to his knees where I will buckle a ring around and fasten a leash to his dick and lead him to the bed. I will see the hungry look in his eyes as they settle on my bountiful breasts protruding in black lace. Yes, that's what he wants.

But instead, as I sit on the bed and spread my legs just enough to reveal a glimpse of my shaved cunt, it is my black-stockinged foot that will find its way into his mouth. Without delay he will kiss and massage it. And do the same to the other. When my feet and legs are in a sure state of peace and bliss, I will nod and spread my legs wide. The nod producing a smile that is part little boy handed the candy shop and part mortal given entry to heaven.

His tongue will do the circuit workout between my cunt and my clit, slurping up my ever increasing juices as he goes along. And while I do enjoy this most focal of massages, my cunt and clit will begin to ache for more.

"Fetch the Decadent Indulgence, please," I order with a short tug of his cock leash.

He'll look up at me, tongue still hanging out slightly between his lips. His face clouded for a second with hurt and disappointment. But only for a second. Perhaps he remembers the motorized assistance he has wished for in the past when his fingers and tongue have tired before I came. At the very least, be it a tongue or a toy, his overriding desire is to please me, and fetch the Decadent Indulgence he shall.

There's nothing that makes me feel more spoiled, more pampered than having my own personal cunt boy to fiddle with the buttons at my every command in order to achieve that most perfect setting for the most perfect orgasm. A cunt boy I will then most certainly reward with those black-laced breasts he has been pining after.

Yes, this is a toy enhanced on so many levels with a good cunt boy.

*******
Don't forget that VibeReview is offering a 10% Obama coupon on all toys from now through the election.

And if I could just make a little appeal, if you're thinking about buying something from VibeReview (or the Stockroom) through this here blog, buying it by October 1st (or donating via PayPay) would really help with A.'s ticket back over before Christmas. Thanks so much!