What I think is really interesting about life is how we are often so oblivious to the impressions we make on the people around us. Sometimes it’s big things, like the time a certain man I know told me I struck his as a very straightforward person. It was an offhand remark made when we were just getting to know each other and I’m sure he’s forgotten it by now, but for me it was like the sky opening up because it was totally true and I was totally unaware of it up until then.

Sometimes the impressions we make on the people around us are small. Like the time a stranger stopped me on my way to the library to tell me I looked like a movie star when I thought I looked like a bag of shit. Either way, I find it fascinating that the things we say and do are sometimes internalized by the people around us in a lasting way, completely unbeknownst to us.

When I was young, I was obsessed with my cousin Rhonda. My fascination with her is such a part of the fabric of my childhood that I can no longer tell you what specifically made her so fascinating, but I can tell you this: whenever I saw her, she would hug me tight for a long time; rubbing my back up and down in long, gentle strokes. Not much in my life has ever been more comforting than one of Rhonda’s hugs, but I bet she’s completely unaware of how great a hugger she is.  But those hugs are the reason that my worldview now basically amounts to “give good hugs”.

I’ve always been a self-conscious person; a trait I don’t consider to be particularly admirable.  But I’ve realized lately that there is an upside to being overly fixated with the impression we make on others. Beyond worrying unnecessarily that people are scrutinizing my hair or my nails or my shoes, it is my self-consciousness I think that makes me aware of the less-tangible impressions I leave on people.

I like to look people in the face when they’re talking to me. To listen actively and nod encouragingly. I want people to feel as though I’m  interested in what they’re saying to me, as though it matters to me. I try my hardest to remember what I’m told, to ask how that interview or presentation or date went. To inquire about the health of a parent or a pet, to wish people luck when I know they have a day coming up.

And I like to be generous; with my time and my money and my stuff. I like to suprise and delight people by giving them a little extra or doing a little bit more for them than they’d expect.

I like to be honest with people, to tell them those little truths most other people gloss over – that foundation is too ashy for your face, or you are spoiled, or you look better in straight-legged jeans than bootcuts.

I like to be a bit outrageous. I like to mention the elephant in the room, to acknowledge the awkwardness of a situation, to call a spade a spade. I like being the person who says the things we’re not supposed to say.

None of which is meant to paint me as an exemplary human being. Quite the opposite I’d say. Because as much as I do and say things for their intrinsic value, I also do and say things in order to leave a specific impression on people. To leave the impression that I’m invested in their well-being. To leave the impression that I’m considerate. To leave the impression that I”m unselfish or irreverent or trustworthy.  And lately I’ve been wondering about the extent to which I achieve that and the extent to which I misfire.

Like any pregnant woman, I think a lot about the kind of mother I’ll be. But since the bacon/gospel moment with my mum I’ve also been thinking about the kind of mother they’ll perceive me to be. I think about the things I plan to do for them – read them bedtime stories, smooth back the hair on their foreheads when I kiss them goodnight and I think about the things I plan to make them do – go to college, be greek – and I wonder what impression I’ll make on them. Will the gestures that I intend to make them feel cared for actually do that? Will they look back on the activities I push them to participate in or the chores I force them to do and see them as I meant them? What random unconscious act of mine will be their bacon and gospel moment?

Isn’t the saddest and most fascinating part of life is the huge difference between what we mean when we do or say things, and how those actions or words are interpreted?

Anyway. That’s my ramble for the days. But what do you guys think? What impressions do you try to make on the people around you? What small acts have made impressions on you? Speak your piece in the comments.

I also have something in mind for Nasty Friday but I fear it’s too disgusting, even for me.  We’ll see.

The one shining light of this experience is the fact that I was an early shower. I found out I was pregnant at 4 weeks, had a noticeable bump at 6, and was so obviously pregnant that I had to tell my co-workers by 10 weeks. At 16 weeks I was measuring 20 and now at 18 weeks I am what can best be described as huge.

And I fucking love it.

I don’t know why exactly, but having a pregnant belly is just so fun. And infinitely fascinating…to me at least. I cannot pass a mirror without checking out my bump to see if it’s gotten bigger since I last looked. And before you judge me for being ridiculous, let me say for the record that moretimes it has. And although it’s considered very poor form to touch a pregnant woman’s belly uninvited, I fucking love it. Please keep this in mind if you should happen to see me in the next 22 weeks.

So here is a collection of random thoughts about my belly.

Here’s another confession: I think that whole “making a heart with your hands” shit going on in the above photo is corny as shit. And yet I find myself doing it in the elevator mirror at work at least once a day. I can’t help it! If you’re visibly pregnant and in front of a mirror you have to check out your belly. And you have to put your hands on it to be able to tell how big it’s getting. And once your hands are on there they seem to migrate into a heart shape all on their own. It’s unavoidable.

The thing about a pregnant belly is that you really do have to have your hands on it all the time. When you’re standing, it feels a bit precarious, and holding on to it helps you feel more secure. When you’re sitting it’s annoying – it’s in your way. And like anything annoying – a hangnail, and ingrown hair, a scab – you have to just put your hands on it all the time.

I have a relatively big tattoo on my belly that I always worried about before I got pregnant. But so far it’s still intact and doesn’t look any different than it ever did.

My belly has grown to near-epic proportions but I’ve only gained 2lbs. And the babies are only about 5 inches long and only weigh about 10oz each. How the fuck does that work?

When your baby moves inside you in early pregnancy it doesn’t feel much different from gas. In fact I’m pretty sure that 40% of the time that I thought I felt flutters it was really just my lunch on its way out.

The world love pregnant women. They really do. Except patrons of the TTC who still don’t give up their seats. Whenever someone looks at me, looks at my belly, and grinds their (lazy) ass deeper into their seat, I think of @dryjayjack. Not because he’s the kind of asshole who would do that, but because of a post he once wrote on his blog about why he won’t give up his seat on the Metro just because a woman is wearing heels. Whenever someone refuses to give up their seat for me I start to get annoyed and then I think “welp. They’re not responsible for my life choices”.

But I side-eye them all the same.

A pregnant belly is like a planet inhabited by random pains. My shit hurts all the time. Whether it’s because I just ate and I feel like I’m about to bust open, or stretching pains, or who knows what, I have never been so uncomfortable in my life.

Also? Bending over or lifting your legs while you’re lying down will make you beg for mercy.

Newfangled headphones are not at all conducive to playing music for your belly. I need some of those old school Walkman joints. I sometimes try sticking my headphones into my navel but it’s rapidly disappearing.

Oh there’s another one – my navel is disappearing. This freaks me the fuck out. The one thing I don’t want – that I’m sure to end up with – is one of those navels that sticks out so badly you can see it through my clothes. That’s just creepy.

There are a million different textures in your belly. Some points are soft like dough, others hard as a rock. Some feel like there is a giant bubble just beneath your skin, sometimes you poke at it and feel something you’re positive is a part of the baby’s body – even though you know that’s impossible.

For me having a belly makes me feel like I’m part of a secret club. I expect every other pregnant person I know to instantly want to e my bff (They don’t). And when I see other soon-to-be mommies on the street I feel an immediate kinship and I stare meaningfully at them, ostentatiously rubbing my belly and grimacing to illicit the commiseration that is the secret handshake of pregnancy. But mostly they just ignore me completely – too fascinated with their own bellies to notice mine is my guess – or look at me strangely.

I guess this secret club is so secret that it only exists in my mind.

But as much as I’m obsessed with my belly, I do often forget about it. Sometimes I’m in meetings or in line somewhere and I’ll catch some young girl staring at me in fascination and I’ll be like – what the fuck are you staring at?? And then I remember. Oh right – you’re looking at me and thinking “how they can you be so casual about that belly? Aren’t you obsessed with it?  How can you sit there and act like nothing is going on?!?”

What say you fellow mommies out there? What was having a baby belly like for you? And my as-yet-un-knocked up ladies: are you as puzzled by baby bumps as I once was? Speak on it in the comments.

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly demanding girlfriend. I’m not moody, not high-maintenance, not insecure. I don’t need constant attention, lavish gifts, or grand gestures. And I pride myself on not being a nag. Similarly, Mr. Max is exceedingly good-natured, criminally patient, tolerant to a fault.

But be that as it may, there are still times that we fucking piss each other off.

Nine times out of ten, when the mister gets pissed off at me, it blows over without causing so much as a blip. He gets mad, he gets over it, and I don’t know a thing about it. For the time being, anyway. He may bring it up days or weeks later, but at that point it’s merely and FYI and once I apologize and explain, it’s over and done with.

I on the other hand have lost my ability to process and discard infractions without saying anything. As a former (and longtime) ungirlfriend, I used to be a champion at this. I’d get upset at something a man I was involved with did, analyze why said act upset me, speculate as to what his reason or motivation for committing such an egregious act might have been, process it and move on with my life. No muss, no fuss, no argument. The zipless disagreement, if you will.

At the time I probably would have said that I chose to handle my grievances in that way because I don’t like confrontation. I don’t view my role as wifey, girlfriend, or jumpoff as that of a disciplinarian. I believe in letting people be who they are. I’d rather shoot myself than be a nag. And while all of that  was (and still is) true, the greater truth is that I was rarely sufficiently motivated to call men out on their bullshit. The beauty of casual relationships is in their transience. There is no reason to start fights with someone who likely won’t be around a year from now, so why not just spare myself the aggravation?

Obviously, this time around the stakes are a lot higher. Not just because Mr. Max and I are about to have a family together, and not just because in a long-distance relationship unexpressed feelings are a recipe for disaster.  It is both those things, but it’s also because Mr. Max is infinitely less bull-headed and ignorant and infinitely more willing to change his behaviour to please me, and also because the older I get the harder it is to hold my tongue.

Let’s be real. It’s also because of the pregnancy hormones. They are not a joke.

The thing is though that after all those years of internal arguments coming to internal resolutions, I seem to have lost the ability to confront my mister in a productive way. My confrontation style at this point comes down to the three s’s – snap, sulk, or seethe. And I’ve written about relationships long enough to know that none of those are the right way to confront your boyfriend.

But what is the right way? That’s what I struggle with. Up until about six months ago I would have counselled anyone who asked me this to “Glinda the Good Witch Him”. You go stern on him just long enough to let him know that what he did is not cool, why it’s not cool, and that it had better not happen again. Then as quick as you turned on him, you revert back to the sunny personality he fell for in the first place, leaving behind nary a trace of the scary bitch you momentarily morphed in to.

I’ve always believed in that method and I’ve preached it for years. But what I never really realized is that it’s contingent upon one crucial factor – a clear head. And it’s real easy to have a clear head when you’re not that into the relationship. You need a pretty high level of detachment to successfully pull off Glinda the Good Witch. And when a relationship is for real, detachment tends to go out the window.

So yeah. I know all the wrong ways to yell at my boyfriend, but I’m more than a bit stymied about the right way. And like most other things that confuse me, I put it out to you, dear readers.

What is the right way to confront your partner when you’re angry? Does such a thing even exist or does it depend on the two people in the relationship? Does the method change depending on the infraction? How do you like to be confronted?

Teach me how to yell at my boyfriend in the comments.

In life though, I don’t want to hear it. And yet I do all the time. “Oh I’m not on twitter, it just seems so self-important. No one wants to see my tweets about eating breakfast”.

How about you don’t tweet about eating breakfast then? Tweet about what you think your followers are interested in.

“Oh I can’t deal with Facebook. I don’t want random people knowing all my private business”

So how about if you a)don’t add random people on Facebook and b)don’t put all your private business up there?

Honestly I think people think Facebook is some kind of radar to your brain that will magically pull your dirty little secrets out of your head and post them on the Google homepage for the whole world to see. It’s like anything else dumbasses – you put out what you put in.

I am so tired of hearing people bitch and moan about how “confusing” the world of social media is. I read a – I’m not joking here – 1,o00 word post a couple of days ago about managing friend requests, deleting twitter followers, and deciding where to draw the line.

Seriously? Get a fucking life.

My opinion about social media – both personally and professionally – is that it’s no different than any kind of human interaction. I would no sooner blankly stare at someone who speaks to me in “real life”  than I would ignore a tweet directed to me on twitter. I wouldn’t tell my private business to virtual strangers in real life, nor would I allow them access to my secrets on Facebook. If someone follows me and I want to follow them back, I do. If I don’t, I don’t. And if someone unfollows me, I unfollow them right back. Unless I don’t want to, and then I don’t.

If there was ever such a thing as first world problems, it’s the so-called “complexity” of navigating one’s social media profiles. Connect to whom you want to on LinkedIn, befriend your friends on Facebook, follow me whomever sparks your interest on twitter. Subscribe to the YouTube channels that post the shit you want to see and for the sweet love of Christ get off MySpace.

It’s really as simple as that. And all this bellyaching and bemoaning how hard it is to manage your social profile is really just code for “I’m so dope and important that everyone wants to be connected to me and I just can’t handle all this adoration”.

And that kind of self-importance is just as ugly in the social space as it is in real life.

Am I the only one who wants to throatpunch people who complain about how difficult it is to manage their social media lives? Or do you guys find it difficult? Set me straight in the comments.

So here I am. Attempting to get back in the saddle of writing regularly. Am I going to post daily for 30 days straight? Nope. I’m taking weekends off because I am old and tired and with child (hey did anyone notice some ignorant dude commented that he hopes I’m giving my babies up for adoption because I’m a “loose” woman and the world doesn’t need another baby mama? He was blacklisted with a quickness). But I will post Monday to Friday for a month.  Some of the posts might be shitty, lots of them will be about pregnancy, but hopefully after that we’ll have found our groove together and I’ll get back into some kind of regular schedule. I miss writing and I miss my readers.

And yes, I know I always say this shit and nothing changes. But I always mean it!

So to kick things off, because the 3rd anniversary of this blog came and went and was forgotten by all (including myself), I’m going to give you guys a retrospect of some of my favourite posts over the years. Hopefully that will have us all waxing nostalgic for the good old days of max-logic and get us ready for the good new days to come.

Ew that was corny, wasn’t it? Blame the hormones.

Talking to You and Hearing You Answer

The title of this post gives me the warm and fuzzies because I absolutely love the line it came from. And the two men that it’s about are two of my favourite people ever.

The Zipless Fuck

I had to school my girl yesterday on the dopeness that is Fear of Flying by Erica Jong. If you haven’t read it, get your life in order and then come back and read this post that was inspired by the book.

Don’t Do Boyfriend Shit

There are sooooo many #shotsfired in this post I laugh my ass off every time I read it. There are even shots against myself in there!

Eff Yo Video Game

The mens weren’t feeling me too tough after this post, but I still maintain my stance – get your house in order BEFORE you turn on COD and you’ll have a happy life.

The Biggest Panty Meat Move Ever

I just love the expression Panty Meat. And I thank @emti for introducing it to me.

Subliminal Questions, Failed Tests, and Non-Answers

This was inspired by a real-life back and forth with a man I consider to be pretty intelligent and I’m still salty that he didn’t see my point. I’m right though. Of course I’m right.

Max & The Corny Dudes

I love these stories. I still cringe inside every time I think about those goddamned Jesus sandals. That’s it! Who’s ready for day 2? I am!

“I think I’m ready for you…” as he leans against the sink, body angled toward me while my head bends over the Flavia machine. I glance quickly at his earnest face and tilt my head back to my task, chuckling.

“Cute, but no you’re not”.

“Look I know I’ve said you’re not my type in the past. I usually don’t date big girls, but I want to fuck you.”

There’s always that split second debate to see if you should proceed with caution or throw cautions’ lame ass to the wind. Stopping mid-motion, I take two steps to close our gap, resting my body firmly against his frame. There’s a slight wiggle to make sure I’m properly aligned, giving him time to suitably place his hands or protest the invasion.

Ardently with eyes glancing downcast lashes, breath easing out in a whisper, standing on tip toe to bring my lips near his own.
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
His reaction fulfilled my hope as he wrapped his arms around my back, hands resting firmly at the gentle curve of my ass. He closes his eyes and dips down. Mine remain open reading his motions, waiting for that switch from robotic to passionate. Hmm, is he really ready? I open my mouth to suck on his lower lip, the soft groan as he deepens the kiss sliding his tongue into my mouth adjusting my head for better access in the process.
My hands glide from their resting place on his chest to tweak his earlobes and outline his ears before my nails scratch at the nape of his neck, interlocking at the base of his skull. As the motions of his hands change from gentle to rough, I stop trying to test him and accept the desire. Ummhmm yum. Breaking the kiss I slide my hands to his chest.
“I want you to feel me”.

I turn around, repositioning the bulge to the crevice of my backside, exaggerating the arch, guiding his arms underneath mine. Hands on top of his, I start at my neck gliding his callused palms over my body, resting probing fingers at the underside of my breasts, nipples protruding at the mere hint of pleasure.

“These need support; they love to be spoiled with attention.”

Forming his hand around the weight, I moan a mix of frustration and anticipation. I’m annoyed by the friction of the fabric, the absence of flesh-to-flesh contact. I want to wait, to see how much I can take. I make small circular motions around his penis. His hiss echoes my groan as I usher his hands underneath my dress pushing up the wire holding my beasts in place.

I relax my hold on his wrists; let his hands wring gasps from my mouth. A chick could get lost in these sensations of nipples brought to peak, tugged to submission, mashed back to place where palms cosset the mold.

Sobering a fraction I mutter “you should feel all of me” chaperoning his hands has they travel slowly over every inch: down rolls and dimples. “Sorry, no flat plains here, but the prize is still the same”. I bring his hands together leading them down to the peak of my triangle, then separating them to usher them back to the underside of my breasts. Again and again the steady slide, so he understands the body before him, acknowledges the lack of shame of the owner, notices the spots that are sensitive to his touch.

Head leaning against his left shoulder he bites my earlobe, wet suction at the crook of my neck, heavily breathing until my hands fall away… He’s ready and so am I. I feel drenched, slight thrusts forward tired of the game. Attention is needed to appease the ache. I bite my lip as his hands move downward, one wraps around my waist supporting the ballet pointe of my toes, full weight against his body. He slips his fingers through my curls careful not to part the lips, knowing that’s what I want. He’s taking me out of my flimsy position of control. He lets one finger trace the slit hovering on the cusp of diving in.

I can’t help it, I start to squirm. He huffs a chuckle, the warm air tickling the spots he previously marked with his tongue.

“I got you”.

Two fingers jolt past the folds of my lips swirling over my opening, dancing up to my clit. He tweaks it—hard easing the first grip of tension, which immediately rises back to the surface unsatisfied. Back and forth spreading juices he plunges two fingers in, thumb at the trigger. He puppets my moans.

Hot all over, my head thrashes slightly, body sways side to side, it’s coming. His arm around my waist tightens as my knees start to buckle. Breath panting, moans guttural, he moves the arm around my waist higher playing with one nipple then the other, never ceasing his southern strokes.

The thug in me hates that one teardrop falls at my peak, legs lock up. He can feel it as his thumb digs deeper into my clit, tightening its circle. I cum. Faintly, I feel his smile gracing the top of my shoulder.

He continues soft pets, still supporting my body, easing me out of my pleasure.

Breathing normal, strength regained.

Your turn… Are you ready?

If you loved @JustLissen‘s post, make sure you visit her spot and show some love.

God can you imagine what going back to work after a YEAR of maternity leave will be like?

I’ll tell you in advance right now that most of my ramblings are going to be pregnancy- and baby-related. If you find this boring, you can leave now and I’ll only be a tiny bit offended.

You know what? The world loves pregnant women, I swear to God. All I have to do is flash my belly or rub the bottom of it and wince and people are falling over themselves to help me. Last week when Mr. Max and I were rushing to catch our plane (yes I flew, let’s never talk about it) the flight attendant was bitching about how late we were until I said “sorry pregnant woman, moving slow” and then she was all smiles and patience. And on my way back to Toronto I had people lifting my luggage for me, offering their seats, and generally falling over themselves to make me comfortable. I tell you – pregnant bellies make people want to do shit for you.

Except of course patrons of the TTC. A pregnant belly does not make those ingrates any more benevolent. The only people who offer you seats on the TTC are fucking 100-year old women who need the seat more than you do.

So Mr. Max and I went to Florida for a week. I would say that that is the reason I posted nothing here last week, but chances are even if I’d been home I still wouldn’t have posted because I’m that flop so let’s just leave it out. Anyway, what I learned on that trip is that I need to learn how to yell at my boyfriend effectively. I have a whole post coming about that one. But if you guys have tips in the meantime you let me know.

Oh the other good thing about the trip is that we finally FINALLY agreed on four baby names. I’m not going to tell you what they are because that’s no fun for anyone, but we’ve got them nailed down and now we can never ever EVER discuss baby names again. Here’s what no one ever tells you – trying to choose names for your baby will make you want to reach into you partner’s throat and rip out his voice box. That’s the level of hatred that rises up in you when someone vetoes a name you’ve been holding on to since you were 15.

Or maybe that’s only if you’re a psychopath like me.

The sun in Florida is not a joke. I have some pretty intense tan line and even a bit of sunburn on my belly. I haven’t had a sunburn since I was like 7 years old at the cottage in Ipperwash. That’s only going to mean something if you’re from London Ontario, but if you are you’ll be like “Ohhhh Ipperwash! I used to go there when I was a kid”.

You can thank me later for that blast from the past.

I have a lot of ideas for posts I’d like to write but they’re all about pregnancy and I’m convinced you guys don’t want to hear about that. As I write a post about pregnancy :-/ Maybe I need a day of a week dedicated to les insurgents which would leave the rest of the week free to talk about other things.

Oh and I’ve pretty much come to the realization that the ability to write a post every day has nothing to do with time and mental capacity and everything to do with habit and momentum. Which is just a fancy way of saying I haven’t fallen off because I’m busy and tired, but because I’m lazy and undisciplined. I don’t think this bodes well for my impending motherhood.

Kids my belly is fucking EXPLODING. Seriously I have those pregnant woman lines at the side of it. I’m so tempted to post a photo of myself in a bathing suit from my vacation so you guys can see what I’m dealing with but that seems a bit skeeve, no? But suffice it to say the shit is HUGE.  I’m definitely going to look like a pickup truck by the time I deliver.

Strangely though I have not gained a pound of weight. How is that even possible? How??

I need to renew my hosting and I keep putting it off. If you ever try to come to this site and it’s not there anymore you know it’s because I missed the deadline. Because I’m wack like that.

I’ve been saying wack a lot lately, even though that’s an old word that probably makes me sound old when I say it. And wack. But I like it. I think it’s so fitting.

You know what’s so funny? How these ramblings posts are supposed to be short and so far they’ve each been longer than the “real” posts I usually write on here.

Anyway. Let me go bade my skin as my mother would say. That’s what’s on my mind this week – what’s on yours?

Oh one other thing though. The fact that my hosting is up for renewal means my blog anniversary is coming up! Three years? Four? Two? Something like that. I want to do something special but I don’t know what. Oooh maybe I’ll finally give away that fancy vibrator.

He answered.

Him: Hey.

Her: Hey, whaddup?

Him: Fuckin.

Her: Yeah right.

[insert muffled screams, and her subsequently wet panties]

Her: oh. Oh. OH.

Him: You should cum come.

Her: Errrrr. Wait. Huh?

Him: You know the address.

*click*

She could make up all kinds of excuses for why she was considering going… but none would be as true as because she’s a freak.

She sat in her car for what seemed like hours… waiting… gathering her nerve… wringing sweaty hands.

Finally, there was no more waffling she was willing to do… she was either going to go see this, or she wasn’t.

She walked up his stairs.

The door was cracked.

She could hear a thwacking sound.

She took 2 steps inside the apartment and looked to her right.

There she was, his lover, on her hands and knees on a mattress set on the floor, face to the wall… yelping every three or four thrusts.

There he was, his hands on either side of her hips, pounding his dick into her, a sweaty thwack every time pelvis met ass.

He looked up.

They locked eyes.

He kept pace.

Her eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth as she watched him pound his lover over and over and over again.

He picked up the pace, never taking his eyes off of her, standing there, shocked.

It was one thing to know he had a lover on the side… it was another thing entirely to watch him fuck that lover 10 feet away from her.

But she never looked away… she rarely even blinked.

His lover began to moan…

That was the first time she ever looked at the woman’s face; there was such ecstasy there… painful ecstasy. The woman tried to put one hand on the wall, leverage she supposed. But he smacked her hard on the ass, causing her to jump and quickly take it down… trained, she seemed.

His lover began to shiver, her voice ascending from contralto to soprano and she began to pull away, body apparently sensitive post orgasm.

But his eyes were still on her… his girlfriend.

“D!” His lover screamed.

He snickered and began to pull out slowly… inch by inch… all nine… plus a half inch more for good measure.

His lover flopped over onto her back and exhaled, still not noticing his girlfriend had arrived.

He got up and walked over to her, dick hard and swinging like Tarzan in the free jungle.

He held out his hand for hers.

She looked at it, and then up at him, and finally shook her head “no.”

He left it hanging out there, and said, “You don’t trust me?”

His lover startled at the sound of his voice and turned to face them, seeing her for the first time. She smiled brightly.

That was enough to allow her to accept his hand, and he led her across the hall to the bedroom.

He stood her in front of an over sized chair in the corner and started to remove her clothes.

She stopped him.

“I gotchu, relax.”

She closed her eyes and stepped out of her flats. She stood there as he removed her pants and her panties.

He threw a towel on the chair and told her to sit.

She did not attempt to disagree, there half naked and vulnerable.

He walked back over to his lover, who was now sitting on the edge of the bed, and she began giving the most intense oral his girlfriend had ever seen.

He chuckled and rubbed his hands through her hair while she ducked in and out of his pelvis with the rhythm of a Janet Jackson rhythm nation dancer circa 1989.

He let his head fall back, moaning without parting his lips at all. Stifled moans. Manly moans. He was the picture of perfect posture, still and composed, albeit leaning slightly backward.

Seeing her man’s body there, naked, strong, big… being served by another woman…

Turned her completely on.

Suddenly she understood why he had taken her bottoms off.

Her fingers found their way between her legs and she inserted her middle finger into her vagina, hooked it a little and pulled cum down to use against her clit.

In slow, wet circles she rubbed herself until the scene in front of her was only a blur… an out of focus porno she was watching.

Through hazy eyes she saw him look at her and smile approvingly. She moaned.

He grabbed his lover by her hair and pulled her head away from him, slowly. He gently rocked her so she was on her back on the bed. He got on his knees, grabbed her legs with his hands behind her knees, then flexed her legs back and wide open.

Between her thighs went his face, his chin and cheeks disappearing and reappearing just as rhythmically as she had bobbed on his dick. She, however, was not as composed as he had been- she tried to scoot back often… she writhed in pleasure, called out to someone who must have been her Jesus.

He did not relent. He flicked his tongue against her clit quickly, then engulfed all of it and sucked gently.

As his lover’s voice grew louder, his girlfriend’s fingers moved faster. Two fingers of her previously free hand were now in her own vagina, stroking her G-spot, while her other hand worked her clit.

Eventually his girlfriend’s moans joined his lover’s moans, and they came together… one calling on the deity apparently in charge of orgasm, the other screaming “FUCK!” in a way that suggested she knew no deities at all.

If you loved @_chunk_ (and how could you not?) check her out at her spot.

Oh speaking of comments, that can be thought one. I miss the comments of blogs. I met some of my best and favourite friends in the comments of SBM. And lord knows the comments of VSB are like an overworld. And in its prime, the comments section of this blog was pretty popping at times. There are still comment sections everywhere but they’re just not the same to me anymore. More productive discussion, less mixup and scandal, I guess. I don’t know. But commenting on blogs used to be what I did all day long. Now not so much.

Also, I really miss Eff Em Fridays. I used to gather my eff em’s all week long and couldn’t wait to drop my shit. I think I was really wack in those days.

Anyone feel me?

Are girl crushes supposed to be something you get over as you age? I never had crushes on girls when I was younger, but now I have several. Not crushes like “I would eat that girl’s pussy from the back” crushes (although I do have those, believe that) but crushes like “I think ____ and I would be awesome friends”. I always had that feeling about Drew Barrymore; but that may be just because she and I are almost the same way. Nowadays my girl crushes are Coco from Coco and Cowe, Aliya S. King (but everyone has a crush on her because she is fucking dope), and Cara from BitchUJusMad. One of the many many reasons I’m dumb excited about having twins is that I will have something in common with Cara. That makes me sound like a crazy stalker but….#TundeShrug

Oh and Reagan from Hairdresser on Fire. I love her. Although really I don’t think it’s possible for me to have anything less in common with someone, so that friendship might be best left in my head.

Am I the only one who has friend crushes as an adult? I wonder if anyone has a friend crush on me?

There are sooo many people on Big Brother this season that I cannot stand that I don’t know why the fuck I even watch it. But I haven’t missed an episode yet. I also have some pretty awesome nicknames for these yahoos like “elementary teacher”, “mop top”, “miss piggy”, “old yeller”, and “ponytail”.

Can anyone guess whom I’m referring to with those names?

I have an awesome prize to give away from my friends at Lelo and I cannot for the life of me come up with a way to give it away. A random draw is a snoozefest, blackmailing you guys for comments will likely backfire, and those are all the ideas I have. How about, who ever comes up with an awesome idea for a giveaway wins the giveaway? That’s dumb, right?

Wil is “crying” on Big Brother right now. It’s so wack.

My dad is doing very well post-surgery. I was so cavalier about it before the day came because I was so sure he would be fine, but Tuesday I was quietly freaking out all day until I got the “he got through surgery great with no complications” text from my sister. But also I have to admit that when I first woke up that morning it took about an hour before I even remembered that it was surgery day.

Pregnancy brain is so real. Case in point: last week I was FREAKING OUT because my shower “wouldn’t turn off”, only to find out that I had turned the thing all the way up instead of turning it off. Honestly, I don’t even think I can blame the babies for that one. That’s straight up stupidity.

Speaking of the babies, I came up with an awesome nickname for them: The Insurgents.Referring to my children as such probably officially makes me a bad mother but I think that’s funny as shit.

I think I want to let my kids swear. As long as they do it in a respectful way. Mr. Max will not be feeling that plan, but I never saw the big deal about swearing. I’ve been dropping f-bombs since I was 8 years old and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve slipped up and swore in front of someone I shouldn’t.

I just don’t think it’s a big deal, what do you guys think?

Last point about the insurgents: every morning I go to work with a relatively-normal sized belly and come home with a fucking beach ball in the middle of my body that gets bigger every day. I can’t imagine what I’m going to look like six months from now when they’re ready to come out.

And I’m mad I still haven’t written my “how to make the fucking best scrambled eggs ever” post. I need someone to record me doing it! But it might be one of those things I stress myself out to writing and then no one gives a shit about. Do you guys want to know my secret to awesome eggs?

God, I miss Demonoid. There are so many books and movies I need to download. Am I really expected to just pay for everything all of a sudden? And don’t talk to me about NetFlix. They almost never have what I need.

I do not trust Fred Connors. He is the “self-esteem expert” on X-Weighted (I fucking love that show) but in my mind he is a charlatan. And I’m not a fan of Paul Plakas either. I so dislike these two that I’m not even going to do them the courtesy of linking to them.

But that’s what’s on my mind right now. What’s on yours everybody?