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Archive for the ‘gloves’ Category

Just so you don’t feel TOO sorry for me, I *do* have garden gloves with rubber-coated fingers and palms:

Don’t worry about my silly complaints about the dearth of heavy-duty work gloves in tiny-hand sizes, because I don’t *actually* need them since I don’t really do any heavy-duty work. My fingers suffered nary a prick the past couple of days.

Sigh.

There was a 100% chance of rain today. Where I grew up that would mean rain ALL DAY. But here it means “it will be pretty cloudy today and at some point a soft spatter might fall down on you”. Both of these places are near Seattle. But so different from Seattle. And each other.

*****

I love this yard. I love being in it . . . being lost in it . . . becoming invisible to myself outside. That’s one of the very best feelings in the world.

I know very very little about gardening. And I’m very very slow at it, and most yard work in general. I’m not efficient. That’s not the point. Instead I’m very slow. Some of my movements are quick, but overall the progress I make (if any) is SLOW.

I look at the shapes and colors of things. I do a little something. Then I stop and look at the way what I did changed the shapes and colors of things. I walk around and look at it from different angles. I do a little something else. I smell some stuff. I pick  some things up. I put some things down. I move some stuff around.

Pull a little. Claw a little. Touch and smell and breathe a little. Tilt my head slightly. Dig a little. Turn to find the bird.

No, I’m not stoned. But doing these things, alone, without people-words, has exactly the profoundly calming effect I sometimes seek from drugs. Everything is exquisite. Thousands of small spaces invite me in. I’m fucking intrigued by this microcosm and that.

*****

I want this to be a significant part of my future . . . in all of the weeks I have left to live. I’m scared that I’ll ruin it if we ever have the time and resources to make it perfect, so I tried to promise myself out loud to Delia that we would never ever do that: have a boring perfect garden where the only thing left to do was maintain order. Delia will not let that happen.

One secret might be to always have big trees . . . big overgrowing things that make everything change every year.

Another secret might be to keep being really really really slow.

*****

The cool thing about this particular yard is that they carefully landscaped it when they built the house, like, fifteen years ago or whatever. Not like housing-development-landscaped, but with islands of native stuff like salal and a few shapes with perennials. And in maybe the ten years past a parade of renters has been through it so it’s grown out of its baby plans and gotten a little crazy in places. But not unmanageably so. Like the fire ring can’t still be where a fire is because the tree closest to it has grown to where its arms are almost reaching out over it. And you should try not to set the fucking trees on fire. That kind of thing.

So there are all of these little nooks where we could do something fairly cheap and simple and turn it into fucking storybook-charming magical. Like for photo shoots and stuff!  But not in a super-gross way. I know, I know . . . not everybody’s cup of tea. Whatever . . . I’m getting off track. I don’t really have to make anything look noticeably different, just do enough to where I’m out of my own head. Like just . . . put some shit into piles and stuff.

The point is that it’s perfect for a garden-novice like me to putter around and make a few sweet things happen without being totally overwhelming. And if any real work needs to be done, Delia knows how to use six hours to completely transform a landscape problem or crazy-ass weed-patch into THERE YOU GO ALL DONE.

I wish I’d have appreciated my 18-year old body and taken care of it when it was close to perfectible.

That’s what I was ABOUT to tweet, until I realized it’s a lie. I *did* appreciate my eighteen year old body. I’d been appreciating my maturing body for years in front of the mirror, naked. Or in this one awesome pair of yellow string bikini panties, very eighties style, with the tiny triangle and the extreme V sitting up high on the hips. I remember the brand was “Eve” and I got them at Lamont’s. I danced around in those and fondled myself . . . admired myself from all angles.

When I finally got my own room at eighteen I took it to a whole other level. With privacy, I could light candles and make a whole elaborate masturbation ritual out of it. I’d put music on the stereo I bought myself, one component at a time from Crutchfield, and stand in front of my white mirrored dresser (an antique handed down to me from my mom) rifling through my panty drawer and meager selection of “sexy” stuff.

I almost always wound up pulling on a hot little ivory Christian Dior thong: lace in the back and satin in front with, again, a sweet dip down in the front punctuated with a tiny circle of faux-pearls. Then I’d have to choose between my two pairs of elbow-length gloves: white satin or white lace. You have no idea how much gloves turn me on. It’s not so much the wearing them (though I do like that, too), but looking at them on someone else.

So I would look at myself in the mirror but from a vast distance. I so wanted my gloved hands to be like other teenaged girls’ gloved hands: hot, with the satin stretched TIGHT and their soft, fleshy girl hands emanating sweaty uncomfortable heat. The other girls didn’t like to wear gloves, but FUCK I *loved* them and I wanted to be able to squeeze their hands and never let them go and stroke up and down their arms with my own satin gloves, or bare-handed, and have them squeeze me ALL OVER. Hot, fat, filled-out shiny satin arms and fingers over rustling dresses.

Anyway, my hands never looked that sexy in gloves — they looked thin and insubstantial like flat playing cards. But my arms looked delicious with the satin pushed down just enough to make wrinkles. In addition to being extremely turned on by gloves, I’m also extremely turned on by tight, wrinkled fabrics on long, slender girl arms or legs. Or fat girl arms or legs. WHATEVER. Point is, I still got very, very excited putting on my gloves and admiring myself in the candlelight.

I often switched back and forth between the two pairs of gloves. The lace ones reminded me of the Billy Idol White Wedding video and THAT brought to mind long-festering taboo fantasies of someone who looked (to me) just like him, but better . . . and worse. Rebel Yell, Eyes Without a Face, Sweet Sixteen, White Wedding, Dancing with Myself . . . yeah. Billy Idol fetish planted when I was way too little and he was way too recognizable for me to think it was silly or to resist it or analyze it.

Not that I thought about him when I masturbated. Not very much anyway. I mean, it would only have taken a few seconds of thought allowed to stray in that direction. What I would do, though, in the buildup, is I would arrange the candles in such a way that my shadow was projected on the wall. I’d inflate my chest to highlight a profile of my breast, then I’d have my hand come at it from an unnatural direction, like my boob belonged to someone else. I’d reach in and trace the silhouette of my breast. I’d pull away and reach back to touch and fondle it, over and over again, spying on this other person’s boob being teased and stroked. It’s always been WATCHING my breasts being touched that really initially arouses me. Without watching the hands on my boobs, the sensation of having my breasts touched is actually pretty boring a lot of the time.

I’d mount the corner of my mattress then, again with the candles arranged so I could spy on my shadow, and hump the edge of my bed until I came, over and over again. Sometimes I could just drag myself against the flat of my mattress and that would work, too. I’d watch the shadow of my boob hovering there, and dip myself down to make my nipple touch the mattress. It wasn’t part of the position that made me come, but the sight of that woman’s body touching and being touched made me very excited.

At that age I did feel lonely and wish I could do some of these things with a guy (which kind of doesn’t even make sense when I think about it). More than that, though, I felt a sense of loss that I was young and the only person who was admiring my body. I did feel very strongly that it should be worshipped and felt like the time to do that, the ripe teenaged time, would be over before anyone did.

Many times I felt like someone was standing outside spying on me. I even felt like I could hear them. But I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid and not to worry about it, because every time I tried to catch them, there was no one there.

As it turned out, of course there WAS someone there. Many different people at different times. Everyone from the guy I lost my virginity to, to the village idiot, to the felon who supplied the highest cop with pot (at least, that’s what we figured when we did eventually catch him outside my window and the cop said it was no big deal — he was just standing on cinder blocks he’d stacked up to peer through my blinds “to get high”). It was horribly embarrassing to think about, so I tried not to because there was nothing I could do about it. They’d already seen everything (even more than the masturbating) and knew all of my secrets. Except for the Billy Idol guy that was only in my head. I mean, they knew him too, but not that I thought about him that way.

*****

If I could go back I would nail up a billion blankets over those crappy fucking blinds. I would find a way to make it fair, to make myself paid and worshiped. For me to be the one in control. I know that because of the other things they saw me do, I was like a weird freak show to them, but they were total fucking freaks too and somehow that means I have a weird bond with them for the rest of my life.

I can still remember one of them, the one I had sex with, laughing at me when I was humping his leg without me knowing why he was laughing except that I guessed I was doing everything wrong, even though that was what was going to make me come. It wasn’t until later that I realized he was one of them and all the things he saw. It makes no sense how humiliated I still feel remembering him mocking me when I know now what a dangerously fucked-up individual he was/is. He had such an unfair advantage over me, but he probably thought the same thing of me just by default since he couldn’t last more than twelve pumps. Which of course I actually enjoyed, or WOULD HAVE enjoyed if he’d have gone again. But he never did. Of course, he DID go down on me, but I totally didn’t get that — it was such a foreign sensation that I’d never planned for even though I’d masturbated so often to images of other women’s pussies being licked. I don’t think I understood that I was more interested in going down on chicks than having anyone go down on me.

When I was young, the only true pleasure I experienced on my own terms was by myself. I guess I wish I would have accepted that, made myself more powerful (both physically and . . . spiritually?), and found the confidence and the people to negotiate those terms for myself. I know it’s shallow, but now that I’m older and I can see my body starting to disintegrate and loosen into loose flesh and little balls of fat and poison, I wish I would have ran as fast as I could for miles and taken dance classes and learned how to stretch and spent many many MORE hours in front of not just one mirror, but a fucking roomful of mirrors.

I wish I’d have known about getting paid to stomp on men. I wish I’d have had sex with women sooner. Like that hot Belgian pharmacist with the leather skirt I worked with.

SO MANY MISSED OPPORTUNITIES.

Back in 2001 there were more teasey story-porn pictorials around; I loved them for the buildup and wish we had time to make all (or a lot) of our porn like that.

Here are a couple of 2009 examples from a couple of my favorite web chicks:

Sequoia Redd with Brandi Belle in the Penis Pump Challenge

Poor Cinderella

*****

I’d *love* to do a brain dump here of all the blog-drafts in my head, but I’m starving and trying hard to stop feeling guilty and worried about mistake(s) I/we made. I feel like we don’t have enough time or money to do anything RIGHT, but the truth is we do a lot of things right and fucking up every so often and doing some things half-assed a lot shouldn’t erase all of that. Plus I need to stop kidding myself that perfection is attainable with time and money. It’s not. It never will be. We could have all the time and hired help and money in the world and we’d STILL make mistakes. In fact, we’d probably have the resources to make even more of them with more embarrassing consequences.

Reminding myself: progress, not perfection. Promptly admit when I am wrong. Make amends. Use my own mistakes as a reminder not to judge other people so harshly.

Here are a few samples from the first set of pictures we shot together using our new camera remote:

A test shot to check the light; I like how you can see some of our camera stuff, including the remote not yet hooked up in this one:

One of my favorite shots that made the whole awkwardness of jumping up and down off Delia’s face to adjust the camera on the tripod, etc. worth every minute of it even though I had to crop this picture to make it look like this:

Today I’m editing the video we shot after the pictures which is rife with our squeaky bed squeaking and awkward-sounding silences which I hope to smooth out if I can find the right free music to do so, though probably I’ll just waste a bunch of time listening to stuff and deciding against it completely at the end. It’s hard for me to do a bunch of dirty talking when my head is working so hard at trying to visualize the images we’re capturing and enjoy the sensations I’m feeling. It makes me feel shy, voyeuristic and nonverbal most of the time. After so many years of doing this stuff you’d think ALL of it would come really naturally to me, but it usually doesn’t. Also, we really haven’t shot mass quantities of video together (mostly we have shot each other solo) so it’s still an amateurish learning experience every time. But a fun one, as this other favorite picture of mine indicates:

Call me superficial, but coming home with much-blonder hair meant so much to me – it boosted my mood and ego a billion points. Our hair-chick ratted and teased it to be tall on top because she has a Rock of Love fetish, so to take advantage of it we did a slutty faux-schoolgirl shoot and I was too in love with myself to stop there, so I snagged some webcam shots:

Just the day before this I went to the mall and wandered around by myself while Delia got a laser treatment. I was in my usual comfortable-slob mode wearing a pair of old black sweats that were falling down (the drawstring broke a long time ago so I try to hold it together by wadding the waist up in front and whipping a ponytail-holder around that wad to cinch it up) so it looked like I had shit in my drawers, nerdy silver tennis shoes, and an old-lady baby-blue polar fleece ladies jacket from LL Bean that was a Christmas present from Delia’s mom a few years ago. I looked so old and so tired and so washed out and I felt that way, too. Like I should apologize for looking so shitty.

I had that quintessential “she’s given up on herself” look. Theoretically I HATE that criticism and don’t care what I look like which is part of why I became a webwhore in the first place; since I rarely feel motivated to dress up and be seen, the thought of being paid to do it and have a visual record of the times I did appealed to me. I’d be off the hook and could always point to those pictures as proof that I CAN look good if I WANT to and have already DONE that. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Why do it EVERY DAY? Of course, there’s a slight flaw in my logic since we broadcast spycams and most people paying to see them would like me to look sexy on them all of the time, or at least more often than I do, but whatever. I walked around the mall looking from a respectful distance at clothes and makeup and other ways to improve my appearance, feeling like I wasn’t worthy or capable of asking to touch anything expensive and beautiful enough to make a significant change.

The point is that I looked blah and yucky and didn’t feel good about it at all. No, that’s not the point. The POINT is in the contrast between how I felt that day and the next, when I came home with my hair really blonde and stood in front of the mirror and drew outside of the lines of my lips and filled them in with thick, gooey gloss and frosty highlights and brushed on dark eyeshadow and put on fake lashes.

I felt like magic. Like this is why people want to look like porn stars. Because (sometimes?) it feels a lot better than looking like muted, sloppy shit. And it doesn’t matter if I just applied a boundary of fakeness between the plain foundation of myself and what people see, because it felt best when I was the only one looking at myself there in the bathroom mirror or taking self-absorbed pictures of myself.

Why am I hiding the plain truth under all of this bullshit self-criticism and analysis? All I’m trying to say is that looking in the mirror and seeing yourself looking like a hot fucking slut feels VASTLY SUPERIOR to slouching around feeling like an unattractive slob. It’s inconvenient, but true. No matter how much I wish my protestations that looking good is a waste of my time and money were true, THEY AREN’T.

It’s fucking biology that we want people to want to fuck us on sight, that we want people to be jealous of us, that we want people’s eyes to light up when they see us, that we want to advertise our fantastic genes (or that we want to look better than our average ones). If you’re a woman (who isn’t still shattered by one or more people hurting you because you looked like hot sex and they took it from you) some part of you wants people to look at you with desire and appreciation. Even when it annoys me to be gawked at, it charges my fucking battery. It’s absolutely electric.

You want to look so good that you can control a man into paying for dinner just to get a whiff of your hair and stare at your cleavage, that you can render him insensible to paying for everything you need to keep looking so good — to maintain your value and keep commanding higher and higher prices — shoes that make your feet arch and sparkly jewelry accentuating all your graceful, slender parts and tight pants and shiny hair and fat, pouting lips and pampering spa treatments performed by undemanding female hands that MIGHT just render you pliant enough to be amenable to saying “thank you” with your soft body. It’s an expensive art and time-consuming work to always look like a shiny, animated toy cocksucker and I’ve never mastered it or even kidded myself that I could compete on that level.

The older I get, the rarer and more exciting it is when I get a taste of what it feels like to BE hot sex. Normally I am the one LOOKING at one of the shiny girls, simply appreciating how they glitter from head to toe, putting so much time and money into tanning, waxing, accessorizing, and accentuating every single morsel of their bodies. Hoping that someone admires and respects it enough to make it worth their while, constantly forgetting that there are intrinsic rewards to looking like honey come to life and taking soft female form and maybe that is enough for them.

My head and body have been so fucked up and bloated and distorted off and on for so many years that now, getting it back on track, I’m at an age where I don’t take it for granted anymore that tomorrow I could be riding some strange boy’s cock and having him looking up at me in complete amazement and disbelief, moaning about how he can’t believe he’s really fucking me. That might never happen again, which is fine, but it would still be nice to know that it’s POSSIBLE even if I don’t want to act on it (it actually feels especially powerful knowing I probably won’t). How many years do I have left where I’ll be ABLE to turn heads in public? You don’t have to be a great beauty to make that happen. Do I really want to waste those opportunities playing the invisible slob?

It’s disgusting to admit, but when I pass a mirrored column in a mall I want to make myself wet looking at myself. When I walk by a shiny window of a restaurant I want to see my own reflection on top of people who are WATCHING me and not be able to resist smiling, knowing that they are delighted and mesmerized by what they see. ANY woman can manage if she has time and the desire to advertise herself using resources like bleached hair and juicy lip stains and clothes that highlight your best bounce, wiggle or stride. Resources she can extract from men. It’s the OTHER circle of life. It might be a totally fucked up stereotype of gender roles, something progressive men and women want to move away from (or better, switch up for fun — I do fantasize about being a sugar mama to young women and sometimes men), but sometimes I can’t help celebrating it and wanting to WIN at it and enjoy the cheap/expensive thrill of it.

Attempting it often feels awkward and unnatural and hardly-worth-it, but when it works the rewards feed some primal need in me that are so close to my core I can’t dismiss them as fake or stupid or unhealthy. There is no pretending we can evolve past this.

Note: originally this entry included more reflection and deeper insight on where my confli
cted feelings about making myself up to look “sexy” (or at least presentable) in public (and in general) might have come from but it turned into a total downer so maybe I’ll save that for another time. I feel like I should apologize for my undying fascination with mulling over these matters and warn you that they don’t end here and I can’t unwaveringly commit to any one perspective on them.

I’m already totally embarrassed by this post even though the whole point of it is not to be.

GROSS.

From the gallery of 150 photos I posted for members yesterday:

The leopard print dress I bought at a thrift store for around $10. The nylon stockings are from StockinGirl (I can’t remember exactly which style and color they are; they MAY have even come from one of their bargain grab bags). The gold pumps were also bought used from the Portland Red Light on the cheap. The gloves are just the generic cheapies you can buy at costume shops. The “string” style garter belt is from Victoria’s Secret which I chose because it looks better with the orange panties from Ross (Dress For Less) than our nice thick six strap belt would:

Basically there is not one thing in this ensemble that cost more than $15. Unless you count the time it took to shop for and assemble them, which I do.

*****

Today is show day so if you want to chat with me and watch me masturbate on cam, join my site and go to the LIVE SHOWS page for members. I’ve got a SexCamCentral show at 1 pm Pacific / 4 pm Eastern and another on Camz at 9 pm Pacific / midnight Eastern. Delia has her Camz show at 4 pm Pacific / 7 pm Eastern.

We have a wedding to attend today, so we had to cancel our usual Sunday shows. As a consolation prize, last night I posted a new gallery and a couple of archived webcam shows from a year ago in my members-only area, including one where I played in one of my favorite things, GLOVES, specifically short red leather gloves:

I covet gloves that are small enough to fit me and tight enough to STRETCH across my knuckles. These ones are old and stained from a vintage clothing store, but I fucking adore them. I would love to have fresh, duplicate pairs in white, red, pink, brown, green, and black. That would make me squeal with leathery happiness! I want to slap others and myself with them and appreciate my freckled arms stemming from their sassy short lengths.

In the other show I posted I wore black nylon stockings and stuck my feet in the camera/viewers’ virtual faces a lot:

*****

Next month when my insurance waiting period for pre-existing conditions ends I am going to go see an endocrinologist as suggested by oogoddess awhile back; even if they don’t find any explanation for my infertility, weight gain, etc. it will be good to rule out a thyroid problem and other things. My period finally started SIX WEEKS after my last one and I’m pretty much at my wits end dealing with wacky hormones and seeing very little results from exercising and eating more moderately (which is really really fucking hard when having wacky hormones makes me want comfort food for medication). I know I’m getting older and my metabolism is slowing down — I can accept that — but I still want to rule out the thyroid thing completely. Thyroid problems seem to be pretty common and frequently undiagnosed for years; there’s no reason to suffer needlessly if that’s my problem.

MORE BLONDE BLOGGING

Last night I dreamed I was walking down the street and EVERY head turned to look at my lovely newly blonde hair. It was like a commercial in which I was the girl chewing the new gum or wearing the new perfume that makes everyone love and want to kiss her. The only unusual part was that all of the heads turning and faces looking appreciatively horny in my direction were WOMEN’S. Hot chicks, all giving me the “let’s fuck”-eye because I’m so eye-catching as a blonde. In my dream I thought to myself, “wow – this proves my post that blondes are more attractive than brunettes; all of the women want me! I have to remember to post these results in my blog”.

Yes, that’s how much of a vain chick magnet I am in my dreams AND evidence of how trained I am to mentally note anything that could be blog fodder.

The dream went on to involve shopping in an expensive boutique with gorgeous silk dresses, sassy coats and even shoulder(?)-length leather gloves, all in magnificent arrays of colors. The beautiful proprietress with an updo exposing her yummy neck tried on a pair for me and I admired her exquisitely long, slender, leather-clad arms. I wanted to escape with her, but the store was very busy with tall, haughty women looking down their noses at me indicating I didn’t belong there (apparently my hair was much less impressive here than on the street). The store also sold really artfully-printed business cards with white type on black card stock; let this be further proof of what a dork I am, that while I am a normal women who dreams normal woman-dreams about clothes-shopping, I have to also have office supplies for a wishlist dream to be really top-notch.

*****

In real life, my mom and sister were greatly relieved to see me yesterday with blonde hair once again. They hated my hair dark.

Now that I’ve typed all of this I’m kind of grossed-out by the implications of the first part of the dream, but oh well. I’m human. We all want to be loved and wanted.