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The weekend is here, and along with it, some links that I thought relevant, interesting and a little weird.
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Image: Helenaa75
Less than a week after its release and Apple’s iPad tablet is the subject of positive and negative criticism. From Oceania to the Pacific, discussions are fraught with anxiety. Will this gadget ruin particular book publishers? Where will the printed form go? I don’t know about others, but I do know that I can’t read a book on a computer screen. The reason why paper works so well is because its easy on the eye. A computer screen is not ony painful, after a while, but few companies have managed to totally eliminate glare.
If I’m not wrong, if the iPad tablet is similar to the iPod in its applications, then it can also be used to view visuals. Before you can say, ‘there’s an app fo rthat’, this tablet can be convenient for porn coinnossures on-the-go.With all the current, even more convenient, contraptions (you can’t shove this tablet in your pocket, you need another case for it), I feel this tablet won’t be used for cerebreal pursuits. It’s perfect for porn.
But there are other seldom discussed issues, namely that which was noticed by some bloggers years ago when the iPod shook the world. The white earplugs denoted a particular group of people. When I noticed the proliferation of white earphones, that are crap by the way and tend to give out within a year, I couldn’t help but think of one word: Apple cult. I, myself, decided on buying better quality non-Apple replacements for my earphones and I can’t help but feel alientated by the Apple majority who, when taking a look at me, think “How could you use anything but an iPod?” They probably don’t stop to think that the contraption is in my bag or pocket. Is social control the next thing for Apple?
The iPad is their attempt to extend this total control to what’s traditionally been thought of as the computer space. [source]
Social control through technology isn’t new. Product consumption is advertised using basic social psychological methods and similarly, the commodification of sex through technology, via new gadgets is an interesting phenomenon. Advertising is about creating a sense of identification and, most importantly, belonging.
That’s not to say the iPad won’t sell, or that I don’t want one. The scariest thing is that I think it probably will. [source]
Just like sex. In fact, you can substitute sex in the above sentence. I can go on, raising points. This launch, like many product launches, but unique for Apple, isn’t totally about the necessity of this product or how this product will benefit the quality of your life. In fact, I doubt it will do anything for anyone’s quality of life, it’s just about attaining an object to ‘belong’ but what quality of life is there if all people did was converse about their Apple gadgets? Sad right?
I had another appointment with Ms Shrinky-Dink, who wanted an update on my personal or romantic situation. All questions lead to the romantic variable. Like a standardized variable in life’s equation, romance is a staple and when I revealed my encounter with Luke, her face stilled and I thought I saw her cringe a little. Disgust is one of the six basic emotions (Ekman) and I thought I witnessed it behind my therapist’s eyes.
Casual sex is still frowned upon. In some modern societies, the return to form of sexual restraint and/or abstinence has become a reality with politicians announcing their personal preferences or what they deem to be proper behavior. It’s incredible how their own ignorance of issues like world poverty isn’t considered improper. Anywho, I don’t like the face to face approach of contemporary therapists. That eye-to-eye thing unnerves me on many levels. If I say something that is controversial or deemed so (like casual oral sex with a virtual stranger), then my therapist will avert her gaze, which contributes little to my sense of security. Now, psychoanalysis is totally different. The therapist only has to listen and the patient doesn’t have to witness their therapist’s inner conflicts, which is what you witness when someone averts their gaze in your presence. Besides, I loath her scratchy seats/sofa.
So we were discussing my personal life, whether I had made any headway with my sexual trust issues. I nodded, and began with my account, minus descriptions of Luke’s erection, nicely veined cock and seduction style, and she then asked me if I thought the relationship was going anywhere and whether the direction was important to me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Is direction really important? I’m not in the marriage frame of mind, to be honest.”
She noted it down and I continued, trying to get as many words in as possible, to minimize the questions.
“Besides, my issue with sex isn’t about the commitment factor. It is about the physical comfort, orgasming in the presence of another person and stuff like that.” I shifted in my annoying chair, “When are you going to step into the 21st century with some non-scratch chairs?”
Well…you could have heard a pin drop.
I’ll just say that I’m not really looking forward to the next session, which I booked a month from now. As for Luke. He is still waiting for me to schedule time.
How do you move forward after a first meet and blowjob?
Image: Freud couch
I’m always intrigued by luxury goods, if only to remark how one can buy multiples of similar items for the same price. That being said, luxury items are luxury items because of their materials, design (usually one offs) and their sublime prettiness.
So if money is no object for St Valentine’s Day, then Louis Vuitton has a few interested trinkets for women and the one trinket that caught my eye, only because it will be accompanied by an amazing (translation: eye watering) price tag, is the red heart coin purse in Crocodile.
Basically for the woman who has everything (not to care for the odd few hundred or so for this Crocodile coin purse):
Image: Louis Vuitton
The color red is associated with passion, lust, arousal, romance, happiness and general good fortune. It’s part of our daily lives, often featured in places like roadways. Red is an attention capturing color and, as a result, a favorite color for fashion houses.
French actress Marion Cotillard is the star of the current Dior Lady Rouge campaign and she does put the sexy in red.
Watch the making of the Lady Rouge campaign in New York, photographed by Annie Leibovitz.
(Previous installments can be read here)
Back at home, I sat cross legged on my bed and stared at the laptop screen. There is a towel between my skin and the bed, and after much deliberation, I untuck the towel, let it fall and reveal my tits and waist to the web cam. I tap the mouse pad twice. I repeat the process three times, after which I sort and upload the images to my adult dating profile.
A few minutes after the upload, the first avalanche arrived. All wanted more from me:
“Let’s chat on IM to get to know each other.”
“Let me eat you sweetheart. I’m fantastic.”
“Those nipples look tasty.”
From some place inside my brain, I tumbled forth and pinched my left nipple. Legs spread, right hand tentatively resting against my pussy, I watched my chest rise and fall and my nipples harden. I wanted to chat, but the need to play with myself overrode conversation.
I click one of my chat notifications and activate my web camera. On the screen, I typed:
“I need a little action.”
The man on the other side typed. “Wow…nice!”
With my ass in the air, I reached for my top bedside drawer and fumbled around until my hand rested on the familiar shaft of my vibrator. I returned, careful to keep my head out of the shot, and sit in front of the camera. Careful to position myself correctly, I opened my legs and pointedly caressed the area around my clit.
My chat buddy typed. “I want to reach out and suck your clit.”
I moaned and dipped the tip of the vibrator into my pussy. His script – and virtual desire – scrolled on the screen….
“Fuck that pussy…put it in deeper…harder…”
I stopped and quickly typed. “That…can…be your cock.”
The desire to make this stranger explode in his pants fuelled my hand. With a tightened grip, I rammed the vibrator harder, twisted and turned and slide out, to repeat the gesture. My hips flowed with the motion. I briefly stopped, with the vibrator deep within.
“It’s all the way inside,” I typed, feeling dirtier than ever. “I’d like to have two cocks…one in my pussy and the other in my ass.” There went my secret fantasy. Even Paul didn’t know about that one.
“Fuck…I’ve already come. I couldn’t wait,” my virtual fuck said.
Nice, I think and clicked him off. Fuck that…Instead, I focused on my experience, pulled the shaft out and pressed the whirring cock against my engorged clit. The orgasm instantly exploded within me. An electric surge blasted my pleasure centres and my groin buzzed from the extra blood flow.
I repeatedly talked to myself as I came, “Yes…fuck it…fuck it hard…”
Then I swallowed and gazed at the flickering screen, thinking that I needed to make something happen, take myself over an edge and challenge myself sexually.
I’d heard the saying, ‘things come in threes.’ I’d already had my second stranger-fuck, albeit online. Now I needed more.
My husband Paul had been the third man. The two men before him were polite and hardworking, but there was no romantic spark. Paul arrived and changed all that. A mutual friend introduced us during a group outing in the West End to see Hair – The Musical. Perhaps the theme of the swinging Sixties, the nudity and the sad ending clinched the deal. Paul and I began dating. Sex flowered in our second month, and I counted my blessings. Three years later, we married. Now, I wonder why we waited three years. We’d done all we could in three years. This ‘until death’ thing didn’t have any aphrodisiac qualities.
To test the theory, I slid the laptop under the bed and waited for Paul. With the vibrator nearby, I waited until the door clicked shut after 1 AM and called him into the room.
(2 B cont’d)
Paris fashion week is on and the image above is from day 3, John Paul Gaultier who has an uncanny affinity with the feminine curve.
Check out the leg gear:
My mother is the type of woman who sacrificed much of her younger years working to buy her own home and furnish it anew. After my dad left her, she sucked up whatever resolve she had, and switched off. The fast and loose Seventies were blocked out. The alimony never came, dad emigrated to Australia and mum was left with few alternatives. Her own parents struggled as contract cleaners, and after numerous after school visits to their work, she took up the only thing she knew.
Mum now owns her own cleaning company and managed to meet a nice man. I call her the Coco Chanel of cleaning; mum’s new husband financed her cleaning business in the same way Gabrielle ‘Coco’ Chanel’s lover helped her open her flagship boutique at Rue Cambon.
My stepdad Malcolm passed me the mash. “Where’s Paul? I hoped to watch the football with him.”
“Poker game with the boys,” I said, dumping two ladle loads of mash onto my plate.
“Gravy?” I looked up.
Malcolm shrugged.
“Here it is,” said mum, entering from the kitchen.
Malcolm sits at the head of the table with mum to his left. I sit opposite mum. Under the table, the balls of my feet bobbed up and down. The human body is filled with renewable energy. Breathing deeply, I smiled and toyed with the broad bean salad.
“You look happy. Did you find work?” asks mum. She’d given up offering me jobs. I wasn’t a snob, but sucked at cleaning. Either my brain gave out halfway or I’d miss obvious spots.
“Maybe. I’ve sent in a couple of applications,” I said, the lie manifest in the upturned corners of my mouth. “I don’t know yet.”
“Where?”
“One Italian eatery in the West End.”
“Which one? I may know it.”
She liked probing for more information. Parents may not believe they do it, but they constantly second guess and doubt their children. Some, like my mother, were justified. If a parent doesn’t know their child, then who does?
“I applied through a web site. It didn’t say. I think they’re using a recruitment agency,” I said.
Mum quietly nods, “Dig in. I didn’t cook for it all to sit there like a cook book photo.”
As much as she tried, her successful relationship with Malcolm aside, mum couldn’t attain the impossible perfection of a friendly dining table. Malcolm’s three sons didn’t take to the idea of their father remarrying so soon –three years – after the death of his wife. Mum’s side of the family warmed to Malcolm. The heavily discounted cars from his dealership also buttered my uncles up.
“How’s the business?” I asked.
“Forget the business. I wanted to ask if you were available this week. I need to buy a dress for Jeremy’s wedding.”
Jeremy was Michael’s middle son.
“Jeremy’s getting married?”
Malcolm offered a half smile. “He’s invited us at the last moment. I’m not too happy about it.”
“He’s busy,” Mum interjected.
“Stop making excuses for him.”
“When?” I asked.
“A fortnight,” they replied in unison.
The conversation revolves around family, weddings and future holidays. Nothing overly taxing. I helped clear the plates, load the dishwasher and reject the offer of a cheese platter with red wine with my regular excuse: I’m driving.
Truthfully, I needed to escape, to be on my own to devour the memory of the afternoon fuck in the handicapped toilet. Surreal, insane, hot and sultry. It ticked all my fantasy boxes. I didn’t care how many times Nate pulled strange women, if he used the same café or web site.
Thinking about Nate, his cock and his glowering face flicked on an inner switch. Standing at the kitchen counter, I swooned a little.
“You look like you’ve met the love of your life,” Mum said. “You haven’t met someone else have you?”
Shaking my head, I glare at her, “Mum!”
“It’s become a fashion trend now. I don’t want to say it loudly, but I think I’m lucky. Malcolm is a good man.”
“Sex wise?”
Mum blushed. “I’m your mother. I don’t talk about stuff like that with you. Well…I have, about sex education. My personal life is off limits. You know that. But between you and me, he’s an attentive man.”
Attentive. I like that word. To me, it means someone who is willing to go down and stay there slurping pussy for hours if necessary. Mum may reveal that much to me, but the chances of me revealing that much about Paul were minimal.
No mum, I didn’t meet the love of my life, but did bump heads with a net geek. We scrambled to the nearest shopping mall, where he fingered and fucked me senseless in the handicapped lavatory.
I didn’t think I’d ever think it, but I needed to play some more. I needed a bit of everything. Colour outside the lines.
Revenge sex is a staple of all modern romance stories. Man breaks woman’s heart or perves on a random woman and all hell breaks loose. Man dares to have a fling or a Tiger-equivalent harem, and his partner runs wild evening the sexual score or vica versa. All forms of revenge are hinged on rectifying real and/or perceived wrongs. In the realm of romantic relationships, the results can range from mild satisfaction to outright horror.
Any act of sexual revenge involves a degree of territoriality. It brings out our inner primate and, according to Dr Yvonne Fulbright:
“Revenge sex involves sexual exploits pursued for the sole purpose of getting back at a lover (or a romantic or sexual interest) who has hurt you in some devastating way. While one of the least talked about trysts in the sexual discourse sphere, it’s actually quite popular. Male or female, lovers have been known to pursue these retaliatory affairs to punish a partner for violating the relationship.”
One of my first forays into revenge sex (No, I didn’t learn the first time), involved hooking up with the potential ‘other’ in response to an indecisive boyfriend. The other was the stand-in or convenient bed buddy, except he wasn’t aware of my revenge sex plan. He simply thought that I relented and decided on a regular sexual hook up with him when really, I just wanted to exact some revenge on my regular beau for being an asshole.
Regular bad-boy/asshole boyfriend of the way, I went out with the substitute. Sure, it’s horrible referring to someone as a substitute, but many of us go experience them at some point or another. Our date unfolded in a dimly lit restaurant. I would have preferred a bar but he preferred a nice dinner and intimate ambiance. It wasn’t as though I wasn’t attracted to my stand-in. He was perfectly capable, if not more than my regular dude, of holding a conversation. We ate, laughed, drank and feasted on an obscene dessert and when I hinted that there’d be more at my place, he couldn’t say no.
With my revenge sex plan scheduled, we flirted and, after the bill was paid, raced to his car for the first of many wonderfully sensual French kisses. When we got into the car, we continued. We used our tongues to seek out hot spots as our hands delved beneath clothes. His hand tried to unfasten my bra but the last thing I wanted was to be half naked in a car and to have other drivers and passengers gawking at me.
The ride to our sexual destination felt like forever. We decided on my place and, sure enough, I had prepared everything I thought I needed to prepare. I had condoms on standby. I swapped the usual everyday sheets to my Egyptian cotton ensemble and spent a decent amount of time eradicating my bedroom of all clutter – including my piles of Cosmo and Playgirl magazines. I didn’t want him to feel insecure in any way.
We settled in my room. When I think about my corny come on now, I cringe but I did tell him to ‘make himself comfortable’. I brought in two glasses of cognac (what was I thinking?) but luckily for me, he wanted to continue. He certainly made sure I was more comfortable by removing my dress. Each painstaking moment drew out my arousal; my dress wasn’t fastened with a zip. He undid more than ten hook buttons to get me naked but when I was bare, I was practically leaping onto him, my mouth ready and salivating at the prospect of tasting his mouth again. I couldn’t shake the fact that he was a far better kisser than the regular beau who wasn’t really a boyfriend, not in the monogamous sense, but as most young impressionable women, that guy we tend to latch on to gains in importance, giving rise to the nauseating phrase of love being blind, except that it isn’t love. Those of us in the romantic phase of adult-escence (just over the age of nineteen) view the first relationships through rose hued glasses.
We made out something stupid. His hands couldn’t stop sliding over my skin. In fact, I grasped his hand and brought it between my legs. Enough already, I thought and eased into the moment as he slid his finger into me. I knelt over his lap as he used his finger rigorously. I closed my eyes and visualized his cock instead. It’s funny, but during these moments, one seldom takes in the physicality of a person or I don’t. For me, it’s about the quality of the seduction or the acts. That isn’t to say that my stand-in needed a brown paper bag over his head. Far from it. He was only two years older than me, regularly attended his martial arts instructional classes and also visited a gym.
I was floating on arousal. My muscles relaxed and even my lips slackened as my vocal chords liberated a series of moans. He was content stroking me within and without, ever watchful and gaining in hardness. When I told him that we had to continue, that he had to fuck me, I expected him to be slightly shocked with me taking the full initiative but he smiled and heavily sighed.
I shifted to enable him to pull his briefs down and slide a condom on his shaft. Then he pulled me back on his lap and impaled me ever so slowly. Then I resumed, slowly rising and falling, my rhythmic bounce liberated a lot of sexual tension that I didn’t realise I carried. As I bounced on his cock, I felt transformed, with my flesh warming up and my most sensitive parts – breasts, nipples and clit – pulsing.
For revenge sex, it wasn’t too shabby.
He wanted to shift. ‘To fuck’ me doggy style. I happily complied, eagerly adopting the standard position, with my thighs parted slightly wider. The seconds leading to the actual moment are the most delicious, especially when on all fours…or so I thought.
I heard his ragged breath behind me and over my upper back as I felt his skin against my buttocks. Then he pressed his cock against me, then into me and I yelped.
He tried to fuck me in the ass without asking me in advance. Immediately edgy, with my stomach tight beyond any comfort, I fell. The next thing I knew I was on the floor nursing a throbbing temple. To this day, I don’t know how I managed it. It ruined the moment and I felt rather embarrassed. At that point, I had never tried anal sex and it was obvious that he did, more often than me. His face reddened and he excused himself to go to the bathroom.
Sex over, I rummaged through my wardrobe for my robe, not that I made wearing a robe a regular habit.
He didn’t end up sleeping over.
The next day, I returned to my regular life, without regular boyfriend.
This mid-week hump begins on a passionate note. The only kind of vaginal surgery I agree to is that which isn’t cosmetic or that which doesn’t conform to some artificial standard. But if you’re interested in the field, yes field, of cosmetogynecology, read on:
Back to the erotic realm (there’s nothing erotic about cosmetic vaginal surgery)…
