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My girlfriend is getting bigger boobs!!

Yeah, old news to some of you, but I don’t think I’ve blogged about it yet so I’m taking this opportunity to celebrate and share the news with you. We’re taking a trip next week for Delia to get consultations with a couple of out-of-state surgeons so the reality is setting in that THIS IS REALLY GOING TO HAPPEN and I’m getting very excited about it.

Yes, I love the puffy-nipple hormone titties Delia has now and I was very VERY excited about those growing in, but I surprised myself by feeling sort of conflicted about her little puberty-boobs. And you can kind of see why, can’t you, when I go into dirty-old-man-speak like that, right? You know I am a sucker for taboo role plays and the idea of pert buds of breasts, but sometimes I gross myself out getting off on that when they’re so REAL. It feels like I’m doing something criminal when I fondle them and I haven’t had the time or courage to really work that out yet. And now? I DON’T HAVE TO! Because my girlfriend is getting implants!! Unambiguously GROWN-UP boobs!

Underneath the cherry excitement of having a girlfriend about to get big fancy titties, there has been a foundational experience making it possible: having a special donor/philanthropist/able investor/friend come forward and send Delia THOUSANDS of dollars. And when none of the Pacific Northwest docs friends referred her to would do boob jobs on transsexuals and seeing that things were going to cost more? He stepped up and sent THOUSANDS MORE so we can make this trip and find the right doctor and make sure she gets the beautiful jugs she deserves and I dream she’s dreamed of.

I feel like I’m exploiting Sweet T. by publicly talking this way about the money he sent, but trust me, I do it with adoration and a wriggle of shivery delight (and imagine the words “adoration and a wriggle of shivery delight” being spoken in his delicious accent). I know this is the kind of story that makes chicks feel excited, happy for each other, and not just a little jealous. It’s the kind of story you WANT to read in a webwhore blog and know that it’s not a lie or crazy fantasy someone made up.

Some of you might be too jaded to appreciate this with purity, but it’s honestly an experience that reminds me (again) that there are people with money (some more, some less) who really want to use it to make people happy and give someone they admire something she longs for. Yeah, there’s the bonus of seeing the new boobies and having a hand in crafting an element of someone else’s experience, but with something as straightforward as boobs . . . I don’t know how to describe it without using the word pure. It’s very tangible and direct.

It’s exciting, because of the gifts AND because we’re sharing the excitement with someone else . . . it’s magnifying the experience, drawing it out of the mundane of doctor appointments and personal responsibilities and worries that would otherwise bog it down. Knowing that Tom is excited about the outcome and taking care of the most worrisome aspect of it leaves us free to enjoy the process and look forward to the results. It’s like a fun movie or fairy tale or something . . . more like what I think people outside of our internet porn world IMAGINE our lives are like all the time as chicks with our own porn sites. It’s affirming and a relief to have a story we can tell friends and family that actually lives up to their more positive expectations and wild imaginings (people mistakenly assume having your own internet porn site means fortune and large numbers of fans).

Note: I do not want to discount all of the people who send us smaller gifts and contributions — you are appreciated and definitely not forgotten, and there were many of you who helped with Delia’s boob job fund. The amount of people who support us and our work is profound in our lives, even if it hasn’t made us rich. All of you have made us want to keep doing it. And getting thousands of dollars at one time from one person? Just helps solidify our commitment / the feeling that it’s worth it. Again, though, I don’t want you to think we don’t notice some of our long-time members who have spent thousands of dollars on us over the years. Thank you!

Yesterday marked a very special occasion on the girl-getting-breast-augmentation journey; Delia bought her first dress especially to go with and show off the bigger boobs she’s getting. Oh good lord, that was exciting. Maybe more for me than her . . . I was practically fucking salivating thinking about how gorgeous she’ll look in that dress and what her tits are going to look like in that flimsy fabric and WHAT THEY’LL LOOK LIKE AFTER I POUR WATER ALL OVER HER AND GET THEM DRIPPING WET AND YOU CAN SEE HER HARD NIPPLES THROUGH THE FABRIC and then Delia started laughing at me because I was pawing at the air in circles, middle finger tracing her erect nipples in the sky, as I described my enthusiasm for these near-future visions of hotness.

So yeah, buying the dress to go on the new boobs definitely amped up my giddiness. Weeks ago I actually wasn’t sure if I wouldn’t rather be able to go to Disneyland instead, but the dress clinched it — boobs totally trump Space Mountain.

*****

I don’t know if posts like these surprise people who think I’m all “NATURAL BODIES OR DIE!!” (and take the culture thieves at Disney with you!) I do wish for more acceptance of and appreciation for natural bodies (and especially less open revulsion/disgust) and I do think cosmetic surgery is very problematic and dangerous and worth thinking/talking about critically (meaning with your thinking cap on, not just negatively shredding apart) and overall WAY WAY WAY WAY TOO COMMON, like it’s fucking endemic to being a first world woman over thirty, but oh man, I do love some artifice and craftiness, too. I’m not saying it makes all or even most women look “better” (not at all), I am just acknowledging that it makes them look different and I am not bothered by those differences as a default. And sometimes I really admire the differences and appreciate that plastic aesthetic (and would a lot more if it weren’t so fucking ubiquitous).

What I mean to say is that when Delia got her first (and only so far) Botox injections a few months ago IT WAS FUCKING AWESOME. Even though I was there when she did it and should’ve made the connection, about a week afterwards and for a month from then I was blown away whenever I looked at her, like OHMYGODyou’reSOlovely I COULD WEEP! And I didn’t recognize it as “that botox is really working wonders”, it was just that she looked like she always does but with a special softer glow. It was like a really subtle, masterful, living-and-breathing photoshop effect. She only got it around her eyes, brows and bridge of her nose and it was really cool. I don’t know why they’re saying Botox is going out of style, because it seems quite splendid to me.

But I know it’s really terrible to spend money on that when there are children starving in Africa everywhere. On the other hand, it is our job to be attractive and Delia never got to be a young woman while she was young, so fuck that guilt.

*****

I was also going to blog about Delia’s internal penis bumps, but this entry got out of hand length-wise so I’ll save it for next time. I know, I utilize the most erotic turns of phrase to keep you checking back for more.

Last night Delia knew exactly when the big fat moon was due to rise so we took our first beach walk alone together without having to feel guilty about not bringing the dog. We looked at ghostly white clematis and sniffed lilacs in the darker-than-dayness and stopped to stand in the sand to watch the entire moonrise from start to full exposure until it clouded over.

*****

When my ex and I split up the first “important” purchase I made for my tiny studio apartment was a new comforter. One that was expensive and heavy and lofty and luxe. It’s still one of my most valued possessions, probably in the top ten right along with my cheap drugstore bottom-of-the-line Parker fountain pen and my dancing bananas ashtray.

For almost eight years that comforter has lived in our guest room, unused 99% of the time while Delia and I have slept under lesser blankets. WHY????

I think at first it was partly because she thought it was too heavy, but it may also have been that I wanted to keep something so precious mine-all-mine, and in order to do so I didn’t allow it to be enjoyed. Because maybe it would get spilled-on or the dog would make it furry or because it was a treasure I procured when I moved back into myself and wanted to keep it preserved as a symbol of solitude. It makes no sense to me now.

This week we moved the good comforter into our bedroom. Where it belongs, on top of both of us, a big blanket of bliss.

2007 was the year Delia decided to transition and our year of trying to get pregnant and slowly failing. 2008 we continued trying, month after expensive month and eventually stopped trying, and then started AVOIDING getting pregnant as I got crazier and crazier. 2009 was really a year of recovery from a bunch of things, mostly Delia focusing on her sobriety and me going back on the pill after realizing my infertility and insanity were inextricably linked to my endocrine system and brain being pretty damned unhappy, and us being able to just enjoy spending time together without drinking or dogged conception attempts getting in between good, old-fashioned LOVE.

Head, hair & hands chewed off of angelic ornament courtesy of mice in our attic.

So. We basically made the exact same amount of money each of all three years when last year we really NEEDED to basically double our income. Trust me, I’m VERY thankful things held steady for us during years when so many other people lost jobs and so many other businesses saw drastic declines in sales. Unfortunately it just wasn’t good enough for us to come into 2010 without very serious debt problems.

I’ve been late filing my taxes and on payment plans a lot over the past seven years, usually just barely managing to clear enough room on credit cards to pay off the previous year’s payment plan so I could get a new one. This time around we couldn’t even do that so now we’re going to be very fucked — like filing for bankruptcy fucked — if the IRS doesn’t let us put two years worth of taxes on one payment plan AND we manage to make twice as much money pronto. Note: I am *not* complaining about the IRS in any way here; they are always really helpful on the phone and provide ten times better customer service than I’ve EVER gotten from ANY bank or credit card company.

My optimism has stayed bright over the years because I don’t think I’m being unrealistic; I know doubling sales sounds really insane to other people, but we honestly do not make as much money as we *should* — it’s not like I’m asking the universe for a billion dollars or anything. It’s a very reasonable goal; we should easily be able to treble Delia’s site memberships. SHOULD be able to. But I’m beginning to have my doubts, or at least I feel gnawed on by enough doubt and years of building pressure that it makes me very gloomy at times. New bills always seem to creep in just at the nick of time to eat away any steps we make forward, and lately have been setting us back a ton. Right now I’m really concerned that we’re demanding too much from our server and that we’ll need additional hosting to promote our sites properly and have room for more content.

Mohawk styled by mouse teeth.

After getting certified mail from the IRS on Monday saying YOU MUST PAY ALL OF THIS NOW I held it together pretty well until the middle of the night after working hours and hours to just get routine stuff done on our sites, nothing close to anything that would help us raise an extra fourteen thousand dollars right away, and I just totally freaked out.

When I’m nearing the boiling point I tend to start doing Angry Housework. I don’t do much housework in the first place, so you know if you see me with my mouth set in a grim line, whirling around in the kitchen or with a laundry basket or a scrubbing sponge, I AM ABOUT TO COME UNHINGED. Which is totally what happened on Monday when I decided we needed to pull our last ripped fitted flannel sheet off the bed. And couldn’t find any sheets that fit to replace it. Because our two beautifully soft flannel sheets finally bit the dust, wore thin and just RIPPED, right? From overuse/too many years of wear. It’s at a time like that, when I’m really exhausted and sleepy and my bedroom safe haven is in a shambles that I’m not sure I can even keep breathing, let alone be nice to anyone or magically WORK AT HOME AND DOUBLE YOUR INCOME **insert sparkly-toothed smile here**!!! It just felt like everything was falling apart all the way down to our fucking bedding. It’s not like we’re living a life of luxury with silken bedclothes and fancy sports cars. I mean seriously — you should SEE our vehicles, one of which was given to us for free and the other only cost us $500. I’m going to have to cancel my health insurance (which I only got because we were trying to get pregnant) and I mean it for real this time, we’re getting rid of DirecTV.

Anyway, I know it’s all going to work out. I mean, it has to. Right?

One of the things I need to work on most is making my health (eating right and getting exercise and down time to myself and with Delia) my top priority because I learned last year that my brain is really the first to go. Sitting at the computer nonstop and working extra-extra-hard and never leaving the house or taking whole days off winds up being totally self-defeating.

Also, I NEED MORE FUCKING. Because I get very fucking bitchy when I go too long without sex.

Last night I couldn’t steer my mind away from crazy people so I decided to do the only thing that could compete for my brain’s attention: googling the shit out of my ex-husband.

We’ve been divorced for a long time (ten years? I can’t remember exactly) and haven’t spoken in almost as long so it worried me to get a couple of phone calls for him this month from anonymous business entities. I can only guess that our credit reports are somehow still linked so I worried (even though it’s not my place to, unless it’s going to fuck up my OWN credit) that he’s in some kind of financial trouble.

I found a picture of him skydiving and his wife doing something similarly adventurous. Pictures of them on a cruise. Memberships to outdoorsy clubs. Evidently he has a Really Good Job (phew!) and so does she. I felt relieved and happy for them, and sort of relieved for myself that I don’t need to feel guilty for wasting part of his life; it all seems to have worked out for the best.

As I kept digging I even started feeling like an incompetent lazy-ass. Here I make money on taking pictures, but it’s my ex-husband who seems to know everything technical about cameras, including machining his own fancy-ass lens and accessories. They have all kinds of detailed, finely-crafted hobbies requiring expertise and ambition, things I do not possess. The only thing I remember him making while *we* were together was chicken with rice.

Okay, I’m exaggerating slightly, but it was a good reminder of my own weaknesses and flaws and how my own personality negatively impacted our relationship. There are so many things that I blamed on incompatibility and HIS personality and problems that were really ME BEING AN ASSHOLE. If he was depressed and lazy, maybe it was partly because *I* was depressing and lazy. I’m not saying I regret our marriage ending because I do NOT, just that I’m glad to be able to learn something from it even now. Glad that we are both, I hope, better people now because of mistakes we made together. We are both first-borns which is a recipe for a shitty relationship; we probably just brought out the worst in each other.

Still, I wish I didn’t find out one of their hobbies brings them to our town sometimes. Dude, you LIVE IN ANOTHER COUNTRY NOW! Why do you need to come to *OUR* small town to recreate?!? This is *MY* territory!! Not one you ever had any designs on before! Not a place you have any claim on!

It’s hard to believe that he’s almost fifty now. Wacky. Fingers crossed that the phone calls stop and were just marketing fuckers or something like that. I hope it is smooth sailing and skydiving and whatever else they like to do for the rest of their lives.

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

Christmas Cactus & Others

I want to get lots of things done before 2010 arrives but will probably only be able to manage a couple of them, the most important one being to get ahead on shooting pictures for  our sites. I’d hoped we’d be where we need to be BEFORE this month, but still . . . we’re doing a good job all things considered. Mainly considering that we are only two people and it’s kind of unrealistically bizarre we’ve been doing as much as we have with only two people for seven years. When I hear the number of people other porn companies have working for them I GET REALLY FUCKING JEALOUS. And I also have to just accept that of all the things I want to do, should do, and even NEED to do, I am only ABLE to do a relatively small percentage of them, particularly if I want to maintain any semblance of sanity.

I’d also love to start the year off in better shape: maybe five pounds lighter, a little tighter, and with fewer inches around my middle. I was doing pretty good, but after days of consistent exercise followed by shooting, my muscles are rigid and unhappily torqued with my neck squeezing yuck up to my brain threatening headaches. I should have a standing massage appointment at least once a week to keep my body functioning but unfortunately I can’t afford it so it’s been over a month and I don’t feel so great; my body is annoyed with what I make it do without any assistance or pleasure.

Speaking of pleasure, I started writing an extremely dirty story yesterday, the kind I’m not sure I’ll be able to share, and it made me so insanely excited that I demanded a quickie. I think it’s awesome that I’m able to get worked up, barge in on Delia and tell her, “I’m brushing my teeth — meet me in the bedroom — we need to do it.” AND SHE COMPLIES.

I wish I had time to write an abundantly juicy Thanksgiving post, but instead I’m just plopping down a quickie to say all is well, hope it is with everyone else AND we’re taking Thanksgiving day off for ourselves. We’re so serious about it that instead of downloading all the juicy photos we recently shot, I put the camera away so we won’t be tempted to sit at our computers tomorrow editing photos and ogling ourselves.

Friday and Saturday we have webcam shows and members-only chat scheduled. I’m doing three shows, Delia’s doing two and our member chat is Saturday. Members go here for the exact schedule and to gain entrance to our shows. If you’re not already a member you have to JOIN to access those pages.

*****

Our dog should write a bestselling book for canines entitled, “How to Drive Your So-Called ‘Masters’ Fucking Batshit in Thirty Days”. I am very thankful for her and her renewed vim and vigor due in part to the Prednisone she was on, but I think she has a touch of roid rage. Very ear-piercingly yippy these days.

Anyhoo, Delia’s making a meatloaf tomorrow and I’m VERY excited about that and glad we did the family thing early so we can enjoy cuddling each other smothered in gravy all day long.

Note: the “thanks for nothing” title of this post refers to the nothing I’m offering in this short post, not the nothing I’ve been given which is more than nothing, it’s lots of somethings, which I’m eternally thankful for.