Monthly Archives: July 2008

In Vino Veritas: Lord Help Me

So, I’m doing my hump day in brilliant fashion. I’m drunk. Like, flat-out, I’m a 1/2 glass from the bottom of my bottle of Sicilian red wine. Mm, mm, good. Yeah.
What can I say? I was working on a tv show about red wine this afternoon, and I thought, “That sounds good. Sure.” So, that and a 440-calorie deluxe mini-pizza and I’m just as happy as can be. Albeit somewhat wobbly.
Because I’m drunk, heh heh, and happy about it, and in vino veritas, and all that, I’m going to take a moment to not really apologize, but maybe clear the air or something here.
I have been short-tempered of late, probably pretty much clear throughout my life. It has been odd and strange to be on my end of it, because I’m not sure where it comes from. One word springs to mind: hormones.
Two weeks ago, I visited my doctor and said, “You know, I think it’s time I got off the meds.”
If you’re new to this blog, fuck, well, the story’s too long to indoctrinate ya now, but suffice to say my longtime readers know I’ve been on quite the ride the last couple of years, but given that I heavily edit this blog and temper it from my real life, all y’all don’t know jack. Really.
So, long story short, I lost my nut two years ago when birth control pills fucked me up more than I ever could have dreamed. I still think birth control pills are an important tool, and that my experience is probably the exception to the rule, but that, if you do decide to use the pill (and I’d approve that choice, with condoms), you got to monitor your moods and tell those closest to you to help keep you objective about how you’re reacting to life, because I tripped the wire, man. I really tripped the wire.
I am telling you this: I have lost my mother, who was THE most important person to me, after caring for her before her death; I have survived nearly a decade of chronic pain; I have survived nearly dying on a severely injuring motorbike accident… and I have never, ever endured the darkness I endured two summers ago. I couldn’t have written about the darkness I was in. You didn’t want to read that, I certainly didn’t want to actualize it on the page. I couldn’t talk about it. I kept trying to talk myself out of it; intellectually I knew my life wasn’t that bad, so what was it?
The further I get from it, the more I realize it had to be the pills.
So, back to the present. I’ve lost almost 50 pounds, the good old-fashioned way. I’ve not used trainers or clubs or organizations, and I haven’t even had a gym membership. But I’ve gotten it done. I’ve redecorated my place, tackled my debt…
But then in the last couple of months, though I’ve intellectually felt like I’m going someplace awesome, my emotions were just always a little too much on edge for all I KNOW I have accomplished.
So, I chatted with the doc. Because, you know, us women and hormones, man, it’s a delicate dance. I started wondering if maybe it was time to end the anti-depressants, since they’d clearly done their job.
Now, the doc only found out about 3 weeks ago I’d lost 35 pounds, so this 40-pushing-50 thing is news all the better. So, I show up for the appointment, tell him maybe it’s time I move on. He looks at me and goes, “Steff, depressed people don’t lose 40 pounds, and they’re not really into redecorating much. I think maybe, yeah, it’s time.”
But truth be told, I hadn’t really thought I’d been that off-kilter until the last couple days. Coincidentally, I just got off the meds Sunday. A couple days and that stuff starts to clear up, like a long fog in the winter. (Though, ironically, I’m all a-tipsy now. šŸ™‚
In the not too distant past, I’ve written a rant about comments, chewed a few people out, you know. Kinda not-too-fuzzy stuff. It’s out of character for me to throw it out there — politically, I’m as shrewd as the fuckin’ day is long, baby, so I don’t tend to put my foot in my mouth all that often.
But it seems of late I have. I think I was expressing my true feelings, but I normally would’ve put a cork in it and just dismissed it as people spouting off when maybe they should’ve done a little self-editing. Then, ironically, I too failed to self-edit. Funny how that works.
Anyhow. This is me saying I’ll behave more. I’m not saying I’m sorry, ‘cos maybe we all should blow a fuse now and then and get that shit off our chests… heh, after four years of blogging, it was about time I ranted about comments. Hah. It’s like parental advice — sooner or later you just gotta speak your piece.
But I could have done it better. I could have been nicer. Hell, I should have. One thing I’ve never claimed to be is perfect. And I’ve always loathed hormones. Damn estrogenies. So, you know, older, wiser, and on it rolls. Will. Behave. Better.
All right, so I was a bit of an ass. Yes. True. But I wasn’t entirely incorrect. šŸ™‚

(My theory is, with enough time passing for the birth control pills to finally be irrelevant, my weight loss success, my improved diet, a more relaxing job situation, and improved finances, that my body chemistry has become correct all by itself, but by continuing to be medicated, it’s actually been causing a new imbalance. Strange, huh? But it makes sense to me. Ay yi yi.)

Sextoy Review! The GIGI "Pleasure Object" by LELO

My good friends at VibeReview sent me some pretty toys earlier this month, and the one I couldn’t wait to get playing with first was this beautiful toy pictured here.
The Gigi Pleasure Object could also have another name: “Your New Best Friend.”
This thing is to sex toys what the iPOD is to music. No, really.
Sure, you could go for the so-called five-speed turn-the-dial vibrators out there, or you could cross the threshold into the 21st century and try a vibrator powered by a microchip, that offers five incredible sensations, and each of those come in five different speeds. Oh, you have no idea.
But that’s only part of what I love, love, love about this toy. So, let’s slow down and break it down for a second: Continue reading

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

You can’t get to where you’re goin’ if you don’t know where you’re leavin’ from. That’s one of those truisms said a million ways by a million voices. It’s true of every one of us. Whatever our differences, that’s our commonality.
Knowing from whence you’ve come versus where it is you’re headed is one thing, but knowing how the hell that trip came about is quite another.
Last new year’s eve I finally had a night to myself after several days of being with family and friends non-stop, and I spent some time thinking on the year I wanted to have ahead of me. I wanted to lose at least 50 pounds. I wanted to get a grasp of my finances. I wanted to take writing seriously again. But most of all, I just wanted to become a better self.
I’d spent two years going through one hell of a ringer, as if life was some game show that decided I had a two-year contract of Running The Gauntlet.
“Will she make it out alive? Good golly! Make sure you tune in to see more of the exciting antics as life doles out doozy after doozy to our fair heroine! What a ride this one’s gonna be, Billy! Hoo, boy!”
I decided last fall, in a swirl of overtime and craziness at work, that I’d take serious stock of life over Christmas. I’d had my brother staying with me for a few days over the holidays, for what was completely an exercise in excess. A cousin had heard we were hanging together for the festive week, with no other family nearby, and sent a massive food basket with $200-worth of gourmet regional goodies. We drank and ate and smoked dope and watched half the movies in my extensive library… Continue reading

My First Time (with a Home Pregnancy Test)

There I was, desperately locking and re-locking the bathroom door in the back of a Subway sandwich shop, panicking that I might be heard, or maybe the Catholic in me felt the location was just morally wrong for that sort of thing, but I didn’t give a shit. The time was nigh, now or never, or at least now-sooner-than-later, as fate might have it anyhow, so I was doin’ it. Continue reading

Sugasm 141

Hey, Minions. šŸ™‚
I’m still sick. Yes, poor me. But I’m better enough to go to work today. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing, since I’ve grown attached to my lumpy spot on the couch, but hey. Life’s rough, get a helmet.
This is what I get for thinking “Oh, hey, I should increase the amount of milk I’m drinking… and soy’s so expensive”. I know I’m very sensitive to ice cream and big yogurt shakes and stuff, as I’ve had nasty illnesses hit me after those, but I figured skim milk might be safe. So instead of gradually bumping up my intake, I started making myself a couple lattes each morning.
Yeah, so that was dumb, and now I know. šŸ˜› Time to bump up the calcium supplements, and back to soy I go. Shit happens, baby.
But I’m still somewhat congested, not right in the head, and not into writing, so I’ll just use this as a chance to pimp the Sugasm and wish all y’all a fine and dandy hump day.
So, without ado, Sugasm. Eat some, you’ll feel better. Continue reading

Wah! Sick! Fuck Sick!

Your beloved blogger has been sick all weekend and is home sick from work today, too. Missed my party Saturday, felt like death-warmed over Sunday. She is none too pleased, either.
Smack-dab in the middle of the nicest July I remember in some time, and here I am, hacking and coughing and groaning about headaches and stuck with vertigo.
As a result, you get nothing from me today. Hack, hack, cough, cough.
I left this voicemail for my boss on her cellphone. “Hi! Welcome back from three weeks in Europe! I feel awful. Sick as a dog. WHO GETS FLIPPIN’ SICK IN JULY?! GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! Call me back at home.”
She calls back, cracking up. I’m glad someone is amused. And I’m at home, miserable. But, there you have it: best bosses ever.
Ahh, well, it had to happen sooner or later. I haven’t really been sick since last September and god knows I’ve been pushing it this year. Bah. Have a better day than me, minions. Time to catch up on some daytime telly, methinks.

Thoughts on Clothes Shopping, and Sugasm 140.

Have you ever had one of those days where you just wake up apprehensive and slightly disturbed, and you’re not sure why, other than the restless sleep filled with unsettling dreams you can’t remember?
Yeah. I had one of those sleeps last night. Fraught with the unsettled, but completely in the dark as to remembering any of my dreams last night. Except for a snippet where I was having this hellish clothes-shopping experience where, every item I tried on, I’d look in the mirror and it’d suddenly distort and I’d have this hideous thing looking back at me. I woke up, smoked some pot, and tried to sleep again.
Hours later, I’ve woken up uncomfortable in my own skin, and I can’t really shake it off, but I’m about to give it a good shot.
I went to bed last night thinking all these outlandish thoughts about how exciting it was going to be to go shopping for new shorts at Old Navy today. Now I’m all apprehensive about it. I’m sitting here in the XXL shorts I bought two years ago that I now have to yank the ropes as tight as possible and roll down at the waist just to keep ’em from falling down over my hips. I’ve lost more than 40 pounds, but there are times I still feel like the girl of old.
It’s a little nerve-wracking facing the demons of Mass Produced Clothing in the post-weight-loss world. Boo, hiss, mass production. In a world without regulated sizing, it can be a pretty psychologically cruel journey for someone looking to find a sense of self in a new size. As if that’s where we’ll ever find ourselves anyhow. But once we do find our self, wherever it’s found, it can always be enhanced by a great pair of jeans, no?
Naturally, I can’t afford to buy much today. A little. Not much. The broke state of Steff will come to an end in Aug/Sept, but I can find a few pennies, and that’s okay. Anything is good, right? I’ve been wearing my three new shirts this week and my new jeans I bought, and I got an awesome email from a coworker yesterday morning, an afterthought kind of thing. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you, you’re looking amazing! Those jeans you’ve been wearing really, really show it off. Way to go!”
So, now I’m about to take off and have the first reckoning with what, exactly, is my new size after all? Sure, I’m nervous, but I’m also excited. Nothing like buying new clothes to reinvent our image. It’s the single most important decision we make daily on how we want our world to perceive us, isn’t it?
Living two years without the opportunity to reinvent my image thanks to such bad financial straights for so long, and having made so many changes in who I am, and knowing who I was 2 years ago versus this wicked chick I’ve become, well, this is the beginning of a radical re”branding” of the self of Steff.
For instance, I bought this terrific slightly butch shirt that I just think rocks. It’s sad that I want to have shrunk out of it by Thanksgiving, but I’ll love it in the meantime. It’s almost like a cute little tailored mechanic’s shirt with cap sleeves and darting at the waist, and it’s red and blue stripes on white, but the back has a massive 10″ embroidered flower patch offset to the left, and it’s just perfect. Feminine, yet not. Looks great with my tan. It strikes the perfect balance I want my whole wardrobe to have.
I’m no girlie girl, and I never will be. I’ve had an assortment of Doc Martens over the years and love some good boots, right? I long for a new leather jacket, I dig my short hair. But I don’t want to be butch. I’m so done with butch. I want femininity without selling out completely. I want balance. Cute but hot, tough but soft.
But who we see ourselves in our mind’s eye versus who we’re able to produce as a result of the clothing we buy, the images we craft, is wildly different. We can have an idea of where we want to go, but until we find the right things on the rack, who’s to say where we actually wind up?
So, here I go. Off to see if mass production really has a “self” I’m willing to project. And what self will it be, anyhow? Ahh, the wonders of materialism.
Here, eat some Sugasm. It’ll all be better in the morning.

The best of this weekā€™s blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

This Weekā€™s Picks
ā€œAre you a sex blogger or a sexy blogger?ā€ ā€œIt builds a community that I am so proud to be part of.ā€

The J Word ā€œAnd while youā€™re with her, Iā€™ll be with him.ā€
Transcending moment ā€Itā€™s that place between fear and arousal, and they are so very closely related.ā€
Mr. Sugasm Himself — Sugar Bank
Editorā€™s Choice– Chill Pleasure
BDSM & Fetish
Bathroom bang
Bros Not Hoes – F/m Spanking Video Clip
Cock training
GalerĆ­as de spanking: Spanking Server
Games Grown Ups Play
The Most Amazing Sex (and I didnā€™t come)
Mr. and Mrs. Kink Have Great Sex (Again)
My First Ever Fetish Photography Shoot & Other Wonderful Things
New spanking gallerie – Two girls spanked
Religion and BDSM
Rope
TES Fest 2008 was fabulous!
Your Slut

Sex Advice
Ask Miss Bliss-How Do I Know If A Girl Likes Me?
Fetish Safety – Branding
The Kivin Method: Guaranteed Orgasm for Women

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Advanced Exhibitionism
Autobiography of a Masturbator: Porn Oā€™Graphicus, Part 2
Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged
Distraction
Fucking no foreplay
Getting to fuck the neighbor 9
Him
HNT – Peach
Insanity never felt so good
Interludes – part 1
Memoir Of A Married Woman
Popping His Cherry
Re: Dinner Last Night
ā€œRed Bottomsā€ (Complete)
Sloppy Seconds, Then Thirds
That Time of the Month
Whiskey Kisses (unedited)

Sex Work
Sex Worker Solidarity: Catalina
Happy Thoughts on Being a Phonesex Opā€¦
Stamp on my forehead saying ā€œask me about your fetishā€

Sex & Politics
Natalia Antonova on Objectification and Desire
Teen Sex: The New After-School Special?
Women Enjoy Relative Sexual Freedom this 4th of July

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Bedroom Radio #18: Artemis Hunter and the Silver Bullet
Calstar Spanking – Severe deep stripe marks
Cheerleader is tired in gangbang video
Free video audition of Amsterdam sex performer
Half-Nekkid and Getting Shaved
HNT – A bit cheeky
HNT – Purple Lace
Making Love to the Camera
Mz Berlin Took This Picture Of Herself In Her New Wasp Creation Corset

Sex Humor
Top 6 Reasons for Not Shaving Your Beaver

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Catalina loves Lochai
Comstock Films
Drink Semen for Better Health
Interview about spanking erotica with Spanked contributor Teresa Noelle Roberts
January Seraph Is A Hot Femdom Dominating Jade Indica In Lesbian Latex Role Play
The Monday Buzz: The Bandito
Penny Flame Fucks A Handyman With A Strap-On and Feeds Him His Own Cum
Product Research: Blow Job Dildo
Yes! Yes! Yes! Personal Lubricant

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Be niceā€¦ until it is time to not be niceā€¦
Finding out your good friends are swingers
Naughty Text Messages and Perverted Friends Makes Life Fun
Sex Advice Review: ā€œTips to Better Sex and Sleepā€
Silence

RANT: Just Another Stupid Comment

I’ve been torn about posting it here. I got bitter and decided to rant on my other blog. But a reader’s comment makes me think other bloggers might also relate. And, hey. I’ve wanted to say this for four years. About fucking time. Please read the comments for further clarification — I DO LIKE COMMENTS!
First off: When someone gets into a big long treatise or essay all provoked by what I’ve written, I’m flattered. When readers get into arguments with each other over something I’ve said, I’m flattered. When people take the time to write me to say why they identify with something I’ve written, I’m flattered.
THAT is why I love to write. All of those comments. They’re so awesome to get. I love them.
BUT…
This might be totally cunty of me, but I’ve got to say I’m getting really tired of people commenting and leaving me unsolicited advice when all I’m doing is blogging for the fuck of it.
Like I’m complaining on the other blog about my mild hangover after too much tequila on Saturday night and I get the whole “You’re probably dehydrated, you should drink more water” brilliance thing happening in the comments.
Yeah, thanks, Sherlock. You fuckin’ think so? God, how did I ever get to age 35 without knowing being dehydrated is a major component of hangovers? Wow, why do I never get these memos?
Holy overstating the fuckin’ obvious, Batman. Thanks for that pearl.
I know people mean well, but it’s really fucking irritating as a blogger, when you work hard trying to keep a blog with new stuff for people to read all the time, and instead of getting a comment that’s the equivalent of a pat on the back or something, we get emails telling us what we’re wrong about or some obvious stupid thing that the reader seems to think we need to do.
Obviously I’m dehydrated after drinking tequila. I thought I’d spare you from the obvious and write about the funny part of it rather than the what-every-person-with-a-brain knows, that one should drink water after getting drunk.
A week or two ago someone left me a comment about how to make an em-dash. See the assumption is that I give a shit. In fact, I don’t. I feel kind of badly for writing that reader back privately and telling him to stop with the fucking “helpful” advice that, instead of being helpful makes me feel like I’m being condescended to, not appreciated on the basis of the CONTENT of my blog rather than just its grammar, or any other number of feelings.
These guys are not exceptions. Sadly, this shit happens pretty regularly for any blogger.
Fuck, people. I work hard enough, working 40 hours a week, exercising up to 10 hours a week, writing and editing another 10 hours a week on top of that, doing the basic caring-for-myself eating/washing/shopping/house-cleaning that takes another 25 or 30 hours of my week. The last thing I need to start giving a shit about is putting a proper em-dash into motherfucking Blogger, for whom alt-characters don’t work. Life’s too short. A double dash works fine for me.
Besides, my job uses double dashes because of its 1980s software, so I may as well stay in a frame of mind more conducive to getting my job done faster. But does the reader take any of this into consideration before saying what I SHOULD do as opposed to what’s been working fine for me? No. Does the reader assume I even KNOW what an em-dash is? No, they condescend to explain what it is. I’m an EDITOR for a LIVING. I get PAID to understand the constructs of the English language. Like I say, this guy isn’t the first dude to jump to ignorant conclusions.
I don’t get PAID to write this blog. I do it for the LOVE of it. So I take shortcuts. So fucking what? Don’t make the assumption that I’m somehow unhappy with what I’m putting out there, because that’s an insult, as if I’m somehow settling for something crappier, when all I’m doing is choosing my priorities.
There’s the whole “Oh, just ignore it” mentality that someone else may want to suggest I have about those comments. You know, sail through life in “ignore” mode. Or I could just tell people to fuck off and have it done with.
So, let me say this on behalf of any serious bloggers out there:
When we WRITE blogs — not just throw up four links and call it a fucking post, or use some easy picture as filler with a 15-word wisecrack and call that a day’s content, but we really, really WRITE blogs — and we put our fucking hearts and souls into it, COMMENTS are the juice that get us energized and keep us going. So, when the only comment you get after, say, two days of no comments or a week of no comments, is something about grammar or punctuation or “drink water”, the first reaction is, “Have I got a bitch-slap for you!”
Like, have the respect to write about the content or saying hi or patting us on the back, rather than just throwing advice or grammar tweaks at us, or don’t write at all. We don’t need it. Really. It’s a big world full of “shoulds” and criticism. We can do without yours.
If our writing provokes a thought with ya, comment. If you liked what was said, comment. If you take issue with what was said, comment. Absolutely. It’s a dialogue. So let’s do that.
If, however, all you want to do is patronize the blogger by assuming they’re not smart enough to know anything outside of the 600 words they’ve just written, then put a cork in it.
I know I’m getting really fucking tired of the condescending advice emails that make the assumption I’m just some stupid chick who needs a little extra hand-holding to get across the street. Seriously.
“Drink water” after waking up from passing out from tequila? Gee, YOU THINK? Sigh. Fuck, man. Wanna tie my shoes for me, too?

Nibbles and Bits: Vegetarian? Really? Doh!

I’m sorry. The minute I find out a guy doesn’t like meat, or worse, is a vegetarian, my sex drive just goes out the fucking window. I don’t know what it is.
I know, I’m so backwater hick, right? I apologize to all vegetarians. It’s not you, it’s me.
I need me a man who’s gonna tear into my flesh, or something, but there you have it. And a vegetarian with his carrots and hummous? Yeah. I’ll let the hippie girls hog ‘im. There’s no fucking way my kitchen’s going veggie any time soon. Gardenburger my ass. Continue reading