TastyTrixie.com

Archive for the ‘funny’ Category

Oasis and Jen just launched a new blog carnival that posts on Sundays. Here’s this week’s theme:

Our theme for this week is: Tell and/or show us your first naughty naked picture.

Everyone with a cell phone nowadays seems to be snapping off (and sxting) naked pictures of themselves – teenagers, celebrities, politicians. When did you take your first seXXXy naked pic? Who’d you bare it all for? And maybe most importantly, what was their reaction? And hey, if you’ve still got it, go ahead and show it!

My first naughty naked picture was taken right about the time I started growing pubes, so I definitely cannot post it here. Plus right about the time I was growing pubes was in the early eighties so we didn’t HAVE camera phones or the internet (or wishlists to get paid on the internet for our naughty pics). So naughty naked pictures were rare and unphotoshopped and glossy.

Around 4th or 5th grade I was pretty excited to get a Kodak disc camera (I told you; it was the 80’s! When disc cameras were fucking STYLIN’ and new!). I stayed excited about it until my friend Irene got one, too.

Copycat. She already had everything . . . why’d she have to get the one cool thing I had too?

Sleepovers only happened at Irene’s house, not at my house. My mom rarely let our friends spend the night, but we could go to other girls’ houses. So one night we were in her fancy girly bedroom – four poster bed, matchy-matchy furniture, etc. – and decided to play model & photographer. I didn’t have my camera with me, but Irene had hers, of course.

I pretended to be the photographer first while Irene modeled. I didn’t press the button to take pictures, I just made a clicking sound with my mouth and encouraged her, like “good . . . CHT! More . . . CHT! Very sexy . . . CHT! CHT!”

Then it was my turn to be the model. I took off all of my clothes while Irene played photographer. BUT SHE PRESSED THE BUTTON AND TOOK A REAL PICTURE!

We looked at each other all shocked and scared. When Irene gets scared and ashamed, her eyes get so big and her mouth so open. “What are we gonna do? What are we gonna do??” She was quivering with fear, and it was ME naked in the picture!

I was like, “here, just take out the disc and we’ll break it up and throw it away – make sure your mom doesn’t find it!”

Irene held fast to her camera and told me I didn’t understand.

“No! We can’t throw it away! I’ll get in trouble!!”

“WHY? It’s *your* camera.” You’re the rich one, Irene. You have tons of stuff and probably half a dozen discs of film waiting to be used.

“I have pictures of our family camping trip on there!!”

Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.

“I have to tell my mom”

Fantastic. I should have known better than to play model and photographer with a girl who thought we were gay for humping each other and confessed to her mom when she stole candy.

*****

Irene’s mom was actually pretty cool about being woken up by her tear-stained daughter to  hear this particular confession in the kitchen with just a light from the pantry on while I just STOOD there. Irene’s mom said something reassuring about how little girls sometimes do these things and play with each other and she’d done it too (like, ONCE or something). And then she had us pray to Jesus about it. It actually wasn’t as freaky as it sounds even though Irene’s mom definitely was/is a conservative Jesus freak.

I was not soothed by the unfamiliar prayers (or by Irene’s mom being in agreement with her that the film with the precious camping pictures should NOT be destroyed), but it calmed Irene down and she went right to sleep after that while I was embarrassed and annoyed there would be no humping that night.

*****

Allow me to remind you again that this was the early eighties, and apparently totally normal / not a crime for a family to take a disc of film in for development that included a picture of a young girl’s bald naked front-crack.

So like a month later we were playing I-don’t-know-what on her Atari (I probably wasn’t even playing, but just WATCHING her play, because it was HER Atari and HER fancy house and instead of playing Pac-Man she’d opt to demonstrate a bunch of games I didn’t know how to play because she just wanted to show off and knew I didn’t have an Atari) and she got all serious and told me sotto voce that they got the pictures back.

I really wanted to have my picture, but she said they cut it up with scissors into itty bitty pieces. Because it was evil.

“What did I look like?”

“Really REALLY white. And skinny. Your head wasn’t in it, but we could see your crack. You looked gross.”

*****

So! That’s how my friend and her mom and dad all got to see my first naughty naked picture. And I didn’t.

Read more posts on FIRST naughty naked pics!

While packing up and moving, I rediscovered a lot of jolly useless crap that I’ve hoarded, including these fortunes I saved for some reason:

Rediscovered fortune-cookie fortunes

Guess which one I like best (if I were to choose one to be my REAL fortune or that I actually believe in)?

Definitely not “you will have many friends when you need them”. That one gives me an anxiety attack – total fortune cookie curse. I thought they stopped making those kinds!

I like “you are the center of every group’s attention” marginally better, but again, it sounds like a curse pointing out a strong character defect. It might as well say, “you are an obnoxious narcissist and/or a buffoon.” Like, everywhere you go YOU WILL MAKE AN ASS OF YOURSELF!! Have you ever considered being seen and not heard? Okay, how about if you just take a shower next time because you smell like a stale cookie baked in a butt oven. Decorating your face with your own smegma isn’t as cool as you think it is. And for Christ’s sake, put your tits away and stop talking like a fourth grader impersonating an Asian comedian.

I do not belong to any group, I am simply an object of every group’s derision. There is “every group”, and there is me. I don’t think I have low self-esteem, I truly think that’s all implied by the wording of the fortune.

“Put the data you have uncovered to beneficial use” resonates with me. STRONGLY. Like a whisper of truth from the great computer in the sky, urging me along to fulfill my virtual destiny on the gameboard of “life”. I can feel proud of being chosen to uncover data and succeeding in dusting off this wisdom — these necessary components of information –  and look forward to more being revealed as I take the Next Logical Steps in applying all of it. My future is certain, but I do not know what it is . . . yet. But everything will most certainly fall into place and I will either end world hunger or win a lifetime supply of personal awesome, which I may build in the form of a vault filled with cakesters, lost Patricia Highsmith novels (imagined and written by moi, of course), benzos, and the interchangeable body parts of my robot sex drone*, “Vector” (affectionately named after my favorite affordable fountain pen by Parker, which I will have cached by the thousand).

Despite the allure of that fortune, I’m fated to accept “you have remarkable power which you are not using” as the true script written exactly for me. I could look at it as the forty-year-old’s new age version of all of my report cards stating over and over again that I fail to work up to my full potential, like the punch in the gut every time a family member on Intervention tells the addict, “you could be so much more . . . will you please take this precious opportunity today to be the Person You Are Meant to Be?” I would be like, “why do you think I take drugs in the first place?? Too! Much! PRESSURE!!”

But I don’t know . . . there really is something magical about that little slip of paper saying it like a promise from the universe instead of a disappointed father to his teacher-turned-whore daughter. So even though I threw away the fortunes, I’m going to try to use that one as an affirmation, and every time I say “I have remarkable power which I am not using” I’m going to feel a mountain of sparkling gold coin growing under my feet, strong and heavy, feeling like a reserve of money in the bank that I may withdraw at any time. I snap my fingers then open them a quarter of an inch, and coin flies up in between them! I snap my fingers on my other hand and open them again and a cakester appears in my fist! I tap my tall shiny boot on my platform of tinkling, clanging gold and a platinum-furred gopher appears in my arms!

Then I start the engine on my golden mountain of reserved power and fly across the world as though on a fertilizing-lawnmower hovercraft, gilding everything with my perverse tinkling laughter, and everyone has to put on masks like when Mount St. Helens blew or run inside lest they pollute their lungs with my infectious 14 carat gold ash. Then me and my platinum gopher land at the top of an extremely soft and unbelievably tall grassy hill that we roll all the way down until we land — laughing gold even harder than before — on a pillowtop mattress that floats off into a shimmering blue lake filled with lily pads holding bowls of mashed potatoes and gravy.

*is it redundant or actually just plain inaccurate to call something both a robot and a drone?

*A fat, bizzy bumblebee rode around with me in the dashboard & windshield area until I rolled my windows down all the way and she blew out. She had a big orange fuzz corset on.

*Our power bill has gotten smaller the past couple of months; I think I just paid the last really big one ($183). When I see the next bill it’s going to feel like SUMMER! Or maybe not, though . . . it’s been a coldish spring so far. I’m not with the folks complaining about the rain, though — I love it.

*Turkey Vultures! Delia explained to me how to quickly differentiate them from eagles and other raptors, etc. in flight – their wings are dihedral.

*Everyone’s talking about the apocalypse coming tomorrow, but it’s looked like that on the peninsula for years, getting worse and fucking worse with endless driving through clearcuts and “reforested” hellholes. It’s a sad, ugly wasteland of destruction and corporate grotesquery devoid of biodiversity.

A woman and her children watched her husband/their dad jump into a river and disappear when shitstain federal agents questioned them about their immigration status after the forest “service” caught them illegally harvesting sa1a1 & called the B0rder Patr0l. Hahaha . . . isn’t it HILARIOUS how selective we are about caring for natural resources?

Imagining myself dressed up in a giant green sa1a1 costume, like a 5′2″ walking bush of sa1a1 and following those assholes from the DHS around, harassing the shit out of them and publicly mocking them and all the moron racists who love living in a police state. I could make such a grand ass of a nuisance out of myself, crying out “donyou wanna check my papers? I’M AN ILLEGAL BUSH!!” Don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me after that, though, since they aren’t reporting the names or even numbers of people they arrest, put into detention centers, DISAPPEAR, etc.

I know it’s not the right thing to say or the right way to say it, but DAMN I’m glad I’m white! Someday I’ll have to use this white privilege for something useful, though I will not go so far as to sacrifice myself by becoming a burning bush. But wouldn’t that make a great story?

*Speaking of great/bizarre stories, have you read about this planking fad that claimed at least one man’s life? I for one find the desire to become a stiff board (or an evergreen shrub!) extremely compelling. Unfortunately my core isn’t strong enough to pose for highly sought after (I assume they’re highly sought after, anyway) nude planking pics.

If the end IS nigh, it delights me to know this is how we’ll go out . . . planking! But for god’s sake, follow the fucking rules! I can’t abide a plank with a big shit-eating grin on its face:

When performing a Plank:

1/ You must always lay face down, ensuring your face remains expressionless for the duration of the Plank.
2/ Your legs must remain straight, and together with toes pointed.
3/ Your arms must be placed by your side, held straight and fingers pointed.
4/ You must make it known that you are Planking. Saying ‘I am Planking’ usually get this across. Sternly announcing it will ensure a good result.

-via official facebook planking page

*When we were at the beach we didn’t realize it was whale-watching time until someone told us the day we left that lots of gray whales had been seen. I felt a little pang of regret, but with the little amount of time we had left to scope out the ocean from behind a little veil of trees I actually felt more interested in watching the birds (and I’m not just talking about turkey vultures, either!).

An older couple at the table behind us worked on a crossword puzzle; the man knew the answers but couldn’t spell “Rihanna” or “Uhura“. He thought he could, though. But I heard him saying the letters and he was all wrong. Then I found out that I only thought I knew how to spell “mascarpone” so I guess we’re even.

Pom-pon socks for Christmas!

Taking off panties (LOTS of panty shots in this set!)

See that big wrapped present up in my picture? When we were at the drugstore looking at all of the wrapping paper I thought that silver wrapping paper with the peppermint swirls was perfect but there was one thing I couldn’t figure out:

Me, to Delia: I like this paper and it will look good with the red curtains, but why does it have these big letter “H”s on it?

Maybe the funny part is that is that I thought the paper was perfect for a porn shoot prop and didn’t even realize that the word “HO” was printed all over it until Delia explained it to me.

*****

Here’s Delia getting ready to shoot THESE PICS (which I think are cute as hell, don’t you?) while watching the Madonna “Sticky & Sweet” tour video (and the blog entry is important in addition to the pics; Delia talks about some of the other stuff that’s been going on at chez webwhore):

Delia distracted by Madonna.

Anyway, I’m about to record a vlog for my members then we’re finishing wrapping Christmas presents and packing to spend time with family. Hope you have a rich and fulfilling Christmas!

Get all of my Plump & Juicy Porn PLUS Delia's Site!

I contemplate which award is a bigger honor. If you were trying to impress people at a party, which award would you rather have bragging rights to?

A more detailed comparison of my girlfriend Delia & her website and chopped pressed meats, along with a fantasy of taking a woman-sized formed pâté to my class reunion. I discuss fillers, green business, added hormones and more.

*****

We have company for a few days, our dear friends Kris and BeerCanMan, but there is work being done, too. Or at least TALK of work being done. Well, I am officially doing work now actually, not that this is the work you WANT me to be doing (and I’m sure you’re with me and would rather I hadn’t devoted hours to bills and money-juggling today) and some of the work is very behind-the-scenes promotional stuff but anyway. More later!

While walking, December 23rd, 2009

We walked downtown to our favorite sandwich and coffee joint. Delia finished her lunch and groaned about how over-full she was.

“Foundered?” I asked her.

“What?”

“Are you foundered?”

“Founded? Floundered? WHAT?”

“No, FOUNDERED! Are you FOUNDERED!”

She looked even more confused when she answered, “no . . . I’m totally LOSTered”.

*****

We’ve been together more than seven years. Over this most recent one, her body has become new to her and to us. There are so many things you can’t see or feel by looking at pictures. Changes only I’m privy to.  When I place my hand over hers, it’s so soft. Her arms are so soft.  Her mouth is so yielding. Her face is so soft and looks so different to me. In ways you might not notice if you haven’t been lying in bed with her every night for seven years. Luminous, radiant, serene . . . heart-meltingly beautiful.

She reminds me of divinity. White whipped waves of sweet solid froth that looks substantial until you hold it in your mouth and it’s a mass of a million tiny soft pockets of air you absorb so fast. You’re eating sweet air given just enough of a slight temporary body to inform you you’re privileged to devour the form of an angel. Her tongue is like that. The way you melt into your girlfriend’s body. The way you melt into togetherness and your mouth is full of nothing but sweet. The edges are just a frame for softness. I like to hold her in my mouth, close my eyes, and let her dissolve into my bloodstream.

There are recipes for this. Special chemistries that rely on the temperature and the weight and the wetness of the air plus a perfect balance of ingredients. It’s a very delicate process, and only certain ladies have the gift to create bodies of divinity. My girlfriend is one of them. It’s art, inheritance, science . . . and a gift gods only bestow on a few.

While she was cooking I kissed her on the ankle.

*****

We saw Santa on a motorcycle at a stoplight. I whooped and he waved. We waved.

A few blocks later we passed a playground with a dozen kids telling us, telling each other, telling their parents, telling everyone:

THE REAL SANTA!! I saw the real Santa! The REAL Santa on a motorcycle!! I saw him! It was the real Santa! Did you see Santa? I SAW SANTA!

They celebrated with shock and awe and hysterical thanksgiving this fleeting glimpse of a man in a red suit riding by on a black and chrome motorcycle.  THE REAL SANTA!! Little evangelical Santa believers, riled up with faith revived.

It was fucking beautiful.

*****

On Christmas Eve we had pizza slices for a big snack. I couldn’t stop kissing her mouth, our lips slick with orange-colored oil. Looking at her mouth and wanting to press my smile into hers. I took a picture of her and sent it when a song came on the radio. I asked her and all of the pizza boys how to spell Skynyrd. Nobody knew for sure but it was a good conversation. Hot open ovens in front of us, cold open door at our backs. Two women kissing each other and three young men spelling S-K-I-N-Y-R-D . . . no, S-K-Y-N-I-R-D . . . wait a second . . . S-K-Y-N-A-R-D.

Pizza time with Delia on Christmas Eve

*****

This is our seventh Christmas together. About six months ago I developed a new fear when I recognized that I wouldn’t know how to live without her. That I’ve forgotten how. Sometimes when I put my hand over her soft hand my chin starts to wobble because of how much that idea scares me.

Our Seventh Christmas Eve Together

Somebody (named Trev?) used a picture of my boobs to make an animation of them speaking lines from one of my favorite movies, G.I. Jane. My right boob is Demi Moore. My left boob is the commanding officer.

Thank you to TheAnonymousOne69 for tipping me off that this video exists. I don’t know why the fellow who made it can go to all that trouble of making my boobs talk but can’t spare the time to credit my boobs or the movie, but still . . . it’s certainly entertaining and somewhat flattering (which is sadly canceled out by the feeling of having my work and images of my body passed around without any credit going to me – I’m not one who needs people to beg for my permission for something like this or demands to be notified, all I ask is that the source — MY SITE/ME — is credited. Of course, I realize the guy who made it may not have known where it came from, but still, at some point, there is someone who knew who those boobs belong to and sent them out into the world without bothering to say they’re mine, perhaps the person who snagged that image from my site or someone after that — who knows; I don’t think people really understand how this feels unless they are naked on the internet or at least a photographer, writer, etc. who’s had their work “borrowed” without credit). Still, the video is much more fun than/not nearly as bad as the people who steal my pictures and use them to make ads on dating sites. Sigh.

The image is a still captured from the “Big League Boobs & Pee” videos in my members-only area that go along with this picture set of me in long socks, blowing bubbles:

My erect nipples under velour, pulling on long, thigh-high sock.

My natural boobs and thigh high socks.

Bumpy areola & wet gum.

After my rant about ending violence against sex workers, here’s a hysterical bit from Extras featuring Clive Owen (it’s about prostitutes and actresses):

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4xDrGA2nK8&rel=1]

Taken out of the context of the show, it probably wouldn’t be funny to me if we weren’t already fans of Ricky Gervais. Too scary-true.