Friday, November 30, 2007
Hair Today, Goon Tomorrow
Can you believe that November’s almost over? What the hell? I was just getting the hang of August.
I’m sitting here listening to the FoxyFM Live365 station. They just played a couple of very hot erotic stories. They alternate stories and music, all definitely for mature audiences. Of course, right now they’re playing Britney Spears’s I’m a Slave 4 U. And that would be fine and innocuous and barely noticable, but it’s only been one day since the news wires reported the story about Britney’s secret sex room. I’m having a little trouble keeping a straight face. Fur-trimmed handcuffs? Metal bed frame? Schoolgirl outfit? I didn’t burst out laughing until they mentioned that sometimes, she likes to entertain wearing a Cinderella outfit. Oh, my. Anyway, check out the FoxyFM feed sometime. “My neck. My back. Lick my pussy. Lick my crack.” You just don’t get song lyrics like that on public radio.
What other links do I have to share today? There’s an interesting story on Japan’s Wai Wai about people with pubic hair fetishes.
bq. “Nagano went to bars and cabarets and asked hostesses for samples. After plying them with a few drinks, he’d make his pitch, saying, ‘I want your pubic hair.’ Offering a 10,000-yen tip as an incentive, the gals would excuse themselves, slip into the powder room, and return to the table and pass him the goodies… “
And, for the visually inclined, check out the links site NotAboutLove. In the Nudes Portfolios section, you’ll find lots of links to photographers’ web sites… stuff you’re likely to have not run into before. For example, check out the work of photographer Ludovic Goubet. Very nice.
That’s all for now. I have to go have a heart-to-heart discussion with my calendar.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
I’m back! Have a poem.
Well, I never did figure out how to use the latest Movable Type templates. But I got the old templates and design to work, so that's good enough for me. And, just to prove it's me, the first thing I'm posting after my unfortunate absence is a poem, written specifically for the purpose as I nursed a headcold this morning and tried not to think about how much I need to rake leaves.if snakes had hips
Hand. Hip. Touch. Grip.
What we have is this unspoken signal,
A familiar sign visible in light or dark,
As clear under bedtime covers as it is
When we’re bare naked, buzzed on champagne,
Fucking in the recessed lighting
of our quiet midnight den.
When I feel your hand grasp my hip bone, I know
That tonight you want to feel
The hard slap of my balls between your legs
That you want friction first and foremost,
The shallow in-and-out, a fast and steady rhythm,
And save that deep thrust shit for after you’ve come.
Of course, it works both ways.
Tonight it could be my hand on your hip,
suggesting you flip over, hug the pillow,
Nuzzle your breasts against the sheet
Brace yourself and raise your pussy
To take me in, take it all the way.
Then one hand becomes two hands,
And I grip your hips, pulling you back into
Each forward push, my hip bones meeting your ass
In a thump after thump, vibrations passing deep inside.
Hip. Hand. Hand. Hip.
Back and forth, again and again.
Hear this poem read aloud...
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Fascinated by language, drawn to art, and utterly amused by everyone's naughty bits. Beyond that, I'm hundreds of years old and I live on an island. Read the play.
