aag

Ache

aag — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 03:00:56 +0000

It seems perfectly reasonable to me that we should initiate a cap on the number of orgasms per hour he can experience. For some reason he seems reluctant to limit himself, even though climaxing without restraint leads to what can only be described as extremely unpleasant consequences.

It seems to be the worst after we’ve been apart for too long, although recently only a three day break caused trouble. We attacked each other like reality show contestants offered cheeseburgers after weeks eating only rice. Before a half-hour passed he’d come twice. “We should take a break,” I suggested. (I’m the temperate one, always. Don’t even bother to disagree with me about this.)

And we did; for ten minutes we limited ourselves to talking and stroking overheated skin. But then his lips found mine. “Blow me,” he demanded.

I pulled away and scowled. “Honey. Are you sure? Isn’t it too soon?” In answer he grabbed my wrist and placed my hand on his cock, which bore all signs of being ready for action. Good intentions got shoved aside. Who could remain temperate in the face of hard cock? Within another quarter of an hour he spilled again upon my chest.

We were done, I thought. Time was short that night and after three rapid orgasms I reasoned that he’d be able to handle no more. I was wrong. He flipped me over and entered me, and as I practiced my newly learned skill upon him he came once again. He collapsed on the floor face down, where he remained for ten long minutes while I rubbed his back and wondered if I should call 911. Can you imagine the call? “Please send help. My boyfriend’s testicles have seized up.”

Eventually he roused, clutching at his groin. “That last one was nothing but dust and cobwebs,” he groaned. We amused ourselves by imagining how his prostate must have sounded (a hacking cough?) or looked (a deflated, sagging balloon?) at the time of the final climax. He swore he didn’t regret it, not a bit, but I had to wonder, especially when he reported that the throbbing testicular ache didn’t budge until nearly 24 hours later.

See? A one-orgasm-per-hour limit sounds like a pretty good idea, doesn’t it? If not, what remedies for overused balls have you tried?

——

As of this posting we’ve had eleven great entries for the Tuesday Super-Swag contest. Chances for winning are still excellent. Enter until Sunday July 5th at 12:01 am, and check out all the new posts at Beyond the Birds and the Bees.

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This is a post from AlwaysArousedGirl. If you are reading it anywhere but in a feed reader or email, it has been scraped without my permission. Please email (aagblog *at* gmail) and let me know.
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Ache

Worry

aag — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 03:00:19 +0000

Wow, we’ve had so many great entries for the Tuesday Super-Swag contest. You have until Sunday July 5th at 12:01 am to get additional entries in. Go check out all the new posts at Beyond the Birds and the Bees.

——

Months ago the ex announced his intention to take our eldest child on a week-long vacation to his home town. I agreed, half (at least) convinced that like so many of his other plans this one would not come to fruition.

Each passing week showed him to be more dedicated than I’d imagined. He drew up an ambitious yet thoughtful itinerary, contacted childhood friends, made hotel reservations and purchased supplies. He even took his car in for a pre-trip checkup, an action which both shocked an impressed me given his absolute ignorance of all things vehicular during our union.

I contributed as well, making sure that my daughter packed the requisite number of outfits and underthings. I weeded out (and quietly replaced) a few of her hole-ridden favorites. Together we procured enough books to busy her and snacks to keep everyone energized during the long car ride.

Upon learning about the trip my mother began panicking. I’m sure she won’t stop panicking until my daughter returns home. Actually, that’s inaccurate. My mother began worrying about this child the very day I reported a missed period. She’ll continue to worry about her until either she or the child dies. “I can’t believe you’re letting him take her,” she’s exclaimed more than once. “Do you think he can handle it? You know he’s not a very good driver.”

At each outburst I tried to calm her with little success. I may worry but my mother is a worrier, an inveterate, award-winning worrier. She takes gold medals in worrying for both speed and endurance. If her worrying were a television show it would be The Simpsons or Law and Order. If it had a Google page rank it would be 10; if it had a population it would be that of China. And India. Combined.

This apple didn’t fall far from the tree; however, I have the benefit of sufficient counseling and medication to keep the anxiety under control, or at least mostly so. I worry too: That he’ll drive past the point of exhaustion and wreck. That he’ll be distracted with friends or family and allow her to wander off. That a random stranger at a rest stop will snatch her. That she’ll be sick or sad or lonely. That she’ll never return home.

“Don’t fret,” my friends have told me. “Nothing bad will happen to her. Of course she’ll make it home safely.” I know they mean well, but my friends are wrong. Chances are excellent that in the space of a week she’ll be back in the house, back to her usual routine of whining and complaining when things aren’t exactly to her liking. But there are no guarantees; of this I am keenly aware.

Sometimes children don’t come back. It’s a risk one agrees to, however unwittingly, the moment sperm and egg meet. If I didn’t understand that risk after months and months spent trying to conceive my first child then I did after years waiting for the second child and even more so after a tricky placement the third time around.

It’s always a risk, and no matter how much I might love my children, I don’t own them. I can’t keep them safe. I have to let them go every day in ways big and small because their entire lives consist of moving away from me. To do anything else would be to try to keep them helpless children, a prospect which surely would fail.

…when we finally know we are dying, and all other sentient beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being, and from this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings.
– Sogyal Rinpoche

Worry

Proud

aag — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 03:00:33 +0000

If you were watching from the doorway you’d have seen a woman perched at the edge of the bed with head down and ass thrust saucily up. You’d have seen a man move in from behind and impale her on the glistening flesh which only moments before had been shoved down her throat.

For a while you would have noticed nothing unusual, just two middle-aged lovers wholeheartedly enjoying themselves in the early morning sunlight. You might have thought they seemed into each other (and the act itself) rather more than expected what with all the dirty talk, hair pulling and ass-slapping. Were they new partners, you might have wondered, but beside that you would have noted nothing particularly remarkable about the performance.

But eventually, you’d watch as the man placed a naked foot on the bed next to the woman’s arm. You would have seen him tilt his body across hers with one hand braced against her shoulder, the other against the bed. Their movements would all but stop, at least to anyone watching from the doorway.

Whatever were they doing, you’d wonder. Did they need a rest? Was there a problem? Could the performance be over so soon?

If you looked more closely you’d see on the man’s face a look that belied the idea that they’d stopped or even paused. The sounds coming up from someplace deep within his chest? They’d have struck you as almost orgasmic. “Keep rocking your hips like that,” you would have heard him moan, and with that hint finally you’d have seen the reason for his joy: almost imperceptibly tiny movements of the woman’s pelvis back and forth, with not a hint of participation on his part other than holding fast to her hips. However small the motion, its effect on the man was undeniable. He clenched, he shuddered, he came, yelling with pleasure as his body stayed all but immobile and her hips continued their minuscule oscillations.

And if you could have seen the woman’s thoughts, encased perhaps in a bubble floating above her head, what would she have been feeling about the encounter, their actions, his sounds? Inarticulate as her thoughts might have seemed (as she at that moment felt nearly as much pleasure as he did), you would have picked up clear hints of triumph and abundant pride.

Pride, over fucking?

“I made him come,” she was thinking. “I did it. I know how to move. I know how to fuck. I can do it.” Because after years and years of feeling like the most inept and doltish partner in the world, she’s now starting to believe that this one amazing man finds her competent.

——
Thanks to everyone who has already entered our Tuesday Super-Swag contest. You have until Sunday July 5th at 12:01 am to get additional entries in. I’m so pleased at the number (and quality) sent in so far. I guess this means we require bribery?

Proud

Tuesday Super-Swag

aag — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 03:00:01 +0000

I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to catch up on my sex toy reviewing. Ah, the lonely, difficult life of the sex toy tester. I’m going to have a repetitive stress injury in my wrist, you just wait and see.

I’ve got some swag to give away, but this time y’all are going to have to work for it. I’ll randomly choose one person who shares a tale with Beyond the Birds and the Bees between now and Sunday, July 5th at 12:01 am Eastern time to win a whole box full of fabulous swag.

All you have to do to enter is include your story on the standard submissions form, making sure to include a working email address. I’ll use my favorite random number generator to choose our winner then email him or her at some point on Sunday morning. This particular contest is limited to US residents only.

And what will our lucky winner get? I’m so glad you asked!

A Tunti Illuminated Boudoir Toybox, reviewed here on Jane’s Guide (value $89.95).

A new Tickler, made by RubyGlass21.com and reviewed here on Jane’s Guide (value $24.99).

A copy of Sex Parties 101 (value $14.35).

Any other fun little odds and ends I can cram into the Tunti Toybox before I package it up.

You get a shot at over $125 worth of cool stuff in exchange for some words. Go for it.

Tuesday Super-Swag

Not Here

aag — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:00:13 +0000

For the next two glorious days I will be child-free, a prospect which makes me giddy with excited anticipation.

I’d be even more giddly if any plans other than work, work and more work were on the agenda. Oh silly me, I do have other plans. Freedom during the week means that I’ve crammed a slew of necessary but dull appointments onto the schedule as well. I get to have my boobs squished, pupils dilated and head examined. Yay?

The upshot of this for you is that regular posting will resume on Wednesday. In the meantime, have a look at some stuff going on around the blogosphere:

Fancy Pants: “As we go to leave she gets pensive – ‘You know Mum, I don’t get why everyone makes a big fuss about fancy pants when no one gets to see them.’”

Tunti Illuminated Boudoir Toybox: “Anyone seeing the Tunti would imagine that it contains important documents or possibly the tools of espionage instead of sex toys. Not that there’s anything wrong with toting around one’s sex toys. In fact I’d feel equally mysterious transporting dildos or spy gear.”

Dad’s Condom Lesson: “Apparently my dad wasn’t sure I had learned everything he wanted me to know about condoms – specifically, how un-durable they can be. Much to my SUPREME embarrassment, my dad proceeded to unroll the condom over his fingers and began rubbing the condom with his other hand – trying to create enough friction for the condom to break.”

The Tickler: “I suffer from the phenomena known as ‘fat fingers,’ so I worried that The Tickler, made by RubyGlass21.com and available at UnderBedToys, would not fit over my chunky digits.”

Or you could get defensive: “My review of the Treeze Wave, and my opinion of it, would have faded into the background if not for Don’s comment. In trying desperately to publicly defend a product that one reviewer found lackluster, he has only made his company look defensive and stubborn.” [Great example of how *not* to respond to a negative review; required reading for anyone who writes sex toy reviews or asks for their sex toy to be reviewed.]

Allergic to Penis: “She continued to gaze at it. ‘Is penis?’ she asked. ‘I no eat penis?’

I was stunned. What in the world would make a two-year-old think of eating a penis? Had she overhead something about oral sex? Or seen something on the television? I cast about for an appropriate interpretation of her question.”

Enjoy this guided tour and check back tomorrow; if my head unshrinks, my pupils undialate and my titties aren’t too terribly angry I may have some swag to give away.

Not Here

Dirty House

aag — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 03:00:50 +0000

We ought also to take into consideration our own natural bias; which varies in each man’s case, and will be ascertained from the pleasure and pain arising in us. Furthermore, we should force ourselves off in the contrary direction, because we shall find ourselves in the mean after we have removed ourselves far from the wrong side, exactly as men do in straightening bent timber.
–Aristotle’s Ethics

As I write this I am taunted by a hideously filthy living room floor. Cracker crumbs, mulch fragments and assorted shreds of random fuzz stare up at me, begging to be vacuumed.

Studiously I ignore the floor, because in under two days a crowd of guests will descend upon us for a birthday celebration. “Clean now,” I can hear you thinking. “Prepare in advance for the party.” Unfortunately, that’s not how it works when children are involved. If I cleaned now it would just need to be cleaned again, so I resolutely refuse to look straight-on at the dirt while concentrating on the task at hand.

The source of the unspeakable crud? A week-long progression of visitors through the house, including various play-dates for children and a house unexpectedly full of company over the weekend. “Every time I’ve talked to you,” said the boyfriend over the phone, “you’ve had spare kids in your house.”

“I know,” I told him wearily, trying to ignore the sounds of shrieking from the basement and the child-shaped blurs passing through the living room.

“You don’t have to keep inviting them over, you know.”

He’s right. I could choose to have no one over, ever. Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind, especially as I serve up snacks to other people’s children and clean their muddy hand prints off the bathroom walls. It crosses my mind when I buy extra fruit, extra crackers, extra paper plates and paper towels and toilet paper because I know we’ll need every bit of it and more before the next trip to the store.

While I rue the money spent on grapes and the time spent on scrubbing, there’s no (er…almost no) question that this is good for my kids. It’s long been my goal to have the kind of house where children want to gather, because this was so unlike my childhood home. It’s not that I wasn’t allowed to have friends over, it’s just that any visits had to be coordinated three weeks in advance, vetted by committee and approved by means of forms completed in triplicate, stamped, collated and spindled with the goldenrod copy filed in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in the basement bathroom.

And that, I can assure you from the lowest crevices of my wrinkled little heart, is no way to raise children. Bring on the grapes I say, even though they end up smooshed into the carpeting. Drag in the mulch from outside. Let drops of blackberry juice dot the curtains while chocolate fingerprints ring the bathroom light fixture. My children are here, and they are happy.

Screw vacuuming.

Dirty House

Laundry

aag — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 03:00:21 +0000

Exactly a decade prior to writing these words I found myself confined to a hospital bed with monitors strapped to my bulging belly. After an internal exam during which the nurse attempted to wave at herself out of my mouth, I flopped to my side in disgust that my cervix of steel had not budged one bit despite a full day of induction. As I flopped, something in my gut went ping. Hm, I thought to myself. That’s exactly what I always expected it to feel like when my water broke. But nothing leaked out, so sullenly I turned back to my book, convinced that the child would never willingly crawl forth from her cozy, watery home.

Some hours later she was forcibly evicted, shrieking, covered in blood and holding fast to some stringy bit of uterine goo. She yelled for what seemed like hours as I watched the ceiling spin, drunk from anesthesia and with strangers’ hands rooting through my abdomen. Still red-faced and squalling when the nurse handed her over, I hadn’t enough feeling in my arms to hold her tight-wrapped yet wiggly body. Only an hour later was she exhausted enough to stop crying and take the first notice of her amazing new world.

The approach to change she initially exhibited has only strengthened over the past ten years. She refuses to acknowledge its need until outside influence forces her hand. Even then she must be dragged into new experiences screaming all the while, wildly clutching at the past, a thin layer of anger flung up over sheer terror.

In preparing for the party marking her day of birth, it occurred to me how obscenely fast the time has gone since her entry into this world and how much quicker the next decade will go. And it won’t even be a full decade; in just over eight years she’ll be leaving for college or a job. “No mommy,” she said to me not long ago when I mentioned this to her. “I’m going to live with you forever.”

“Oh really,” I said dryly. “You sure about that?”

She was, she said, absolutely certain. She did not want to live in a residence hall. She did not want to go to any other college but the one in our current town. And even after college she envisioned living with me. “Why in the world would you want to live with me when you’re almost grown up?” I asked. “Don’t you think by then you’ll want some independence?”

The concept was beyond her ken. We’d do fine living together forever, she reasoned, as she had a “big enough” bedroom and it was really nice that I was always there to fix her meals.

And do her laundry, she continued. “We need to talk about that, child,” I told her. “It’s time for you to learn how to take care of your own clothes.” This is where her instinctual resistance to change kicked in big time. She utterly refused even to entertain the notion of learning how to sort her clothes, much less the intricacies of loading, detergent measuring or washer starting.

I gazed at her all but crumpled upon the floor and realized I’d need to try something else. “Fine,” I said. “You don’t want to do your laundry? You don’t have to.” And then without another word I stopped doing laundry. I hadn’t intended to cut her off quite so completely, but her fit coincided with a two-day period where snot shut down all my non-essential brain centers, including the one powering laundry.

Forty-eight hours without clean clothes brought the child into my room first thing in the morning, screaming, “Mommy, there’s nothing to wear!” An hour later and with a throat no doubt raw from yelling, she sulked out wearing one of her plentiful but less-favored outfits. Somehow she made it through the day, even though it was the wrong color, too big around the waist and emblazoned with a very silly picture of a butterfly. Somehow she lived, and perhaps after tonight’s shower she’ll be more receptive to lessons on sorting clothes.

Part of me feels horrible for thrusting this child faster than she’d wish to go toward independence, but I know that if I waited for her to be fully ready it would never happen. Perhaps in time she’ll learn to temper her resistance to change. But considering that it’s been with her since the start, I’m not counting on it.

Laundry

Is It Possible to Block All Dating Site Emails? Forever?

aag — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 03:00:09 +0000

The membership I bought nearly a year ago to my favorite dating site is quickly winding down. I don’t think I’ll be renewing it, primarily because my tolerance for a certain kind of email has long run out. I reproduce the latest example in its entirety:

hey sweethart–can i get the chance to chat with you or make you tows curl? jamiejr

I wrote back:

Dear JamieJr,

If I had even a single tow you would be the first in line to make it curl.

Best of luck with your search!

Being cranky with one so very young (JamieJr is only 29!) is pointless, I know, but if I kept all my comments inside forever surely I would burst. And we don’t want that.

Is It Possible to Block All Dating Site Emails? Forever?

Next Week We’ll Start Checking His Arms for Track Marks

aag — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 03:00:50 +0000

Me: Well, I finally did it. I turned off the water in the basement bath.

Him: Ok, why?

Me: So that the boy can’t splash water all over the basement. He’s gonna be really disappointed in the morning.

Him: He’ll adjust…and find new things to get into.

Me: Shhhh. Don’t say that.

Him: You weren’t thinking he would just be good, now, were you? He’s three! You’re not that naive.

Me: I’m hoping!

Him: That would be against hope, hun. The good news is that he will grow out of it.

Me: Yes, and right into something else.

Me: Like pulling the legs off spiders.

Me: Or heroin.

Him: I think you’re safe from the heroin for the moment. I assume he can’t cross the street by himself yet, can he?

Next Week We’ll Start Checking His Arms for Track Marks

Fail Mom

aag — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 03:00:56 +0000

My eldest child has recently developed an interest in baking. So far it’s not extended much beyond boxed muffin mixes; these she assembles with pride evident in every egg crack and spoon dip.

She particularly likes to bake for her father, so not long ago she pulled out her supplies an hour before he was set to arrive. She can manage the entire process except for removing the hot pan from the oven, a step which neither of us is quite ready for her to take just yet.

The beeping timer went unnoticed by all the kids, miraculously engaged at that moment in making Father’s Day cards. I slid silently out to the kitchen, hoping to pull forth the muffins before anyone had a chance to offer their enthusiastic but largely incompetent help. I cracked open the oven, listening behind me for the sound of gathering children. All was silent. But the moment I stretched my hand toward the pan, the two youngest rushed the oven. Only a few degraded remnants of my old martial arts reflexes allowed me to keep the boy away from tumbling into the hot door.

In the process of pushing him away I fumbled the muffins, then slammed four fingers into the oven rack in a vain attempt at recovering them. More out of surprise than anger I yelled at him, begging him please to tell me how many more times I’d have to warn him against this kind of foolhardiness. He had no answers, only noisy tears at the horror of being reprimanded by the person he calls his “mean mommy.”

Dropped muffins collected and burnt fingers iced down, I collapsed on the couch to regain some shred of composure. Tears threatened then poured out when I realized that everyone had reimmersed themselves in coloring. If this had been the first example of childish wackiness that day or even that hour things might have been different. Instead it was only the latest in an interminable parade which by noon had worn me down. It seemed in this weakened state that the responsibility for their unusual behavior rested upon no one but myself, and that if somehow I could be a better mommy I would have better children. The fact that they sometimes seem hard of hearing and ofttimes hard of obeying is no one’s fault but my own.

I checked this theory out with a few friends. They told me I was being extremely foolish. While I appreciate their confidence, I’m not sure that I believe them. You tell me: Isn’t there a direct correlation between mommy effectiveness and child obedience? Can’t I fix them by fixing myself?

And if not, when will my boy learn some sense?

Fail Mom