TastyTrixie.com

Archive for the ‘things I treasure’ Category

From the set of pictures we took yesterday that I posted last night, looking like your average neighborly housewife in her plaid robe:

Teasing you with the possibility of opening my robe.

Drinking hot coffee out of Delia’s pretty mug in the snowy backyard and flashing my cold jugs. I don’t know what’s going on with my left nipple, but it’s more enormous than I’ve ever seen it before:

My nipples are hard & areolas bumpy from the cold . . . brrr!!

And taking my clothes off . . . for fun, to gauge the temperature . . . and to TEASE you!

Stripping off my robe in the snow.

This robe is a favorite of mine since I was a teenager . . . it’s pretty ragged, but I can’t bear to part with it.

About to throw open my robe for a big flash!

There are 138 pictures in this picture set for members. Zip file includes all images at 1600 pixels on the long side.

Drinking coffee, flashing my beaver.

JOIN HERE if you want to see them all and read the cuddly little fantasy I wrote to go alongside it!

Snow on my nude body.

It’s still snowing here! We took a walk in it for fun and to snap some nudie pics this morning . . . it’s super powdery. I’ll post more pics here tonight.

Wearing only the necklace my 5-year old necklace picked out for me for Christmas:

Natural nude Trixie in winter light

I love this art pendant . . . it’s bright blue with an elephant blowing bright pink colors out of her trunk.

My boobs & Christmas necklace

The sound it makes around my neck and against my clothes when I bend over and stand up again is of a magic toy or a cheap pocketwatch or some kind of emergency medicine. I never would have picked it out for myself, so I really love the surprise of cherishing this treasure.

Your first real pictures of The Hunter’s face! Because the nudie pic we took wasn’t nearly as revealing as these happy shots of us riding the ferry to my sister’s house for family Christmas time.

I was worn out today after a Christmas party followed by all three of us calling my mom to introduce her to The Hunter and prepare her for our entire triad coming for Christmas. All preceded by a long night of very little sleep and lots of fucking and talking – The Hunter and I were in don’t-make-us-go-to-sleep-yet slumber party mode.

I was agitated after that, so The Hunter offered to silently rub my feet and usher me into a dreamy nap, which of course I accepted and it became an entire foot-washing ritual including removing my old nail polish.

Foot washing bowl and red-nail-polishy cotton balls.

He tenderly massaged my feet after washing them with a soft, warm washcloth. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the cloth being immersed in the metal bowl of warm water and tea tree oil, then pulled out dripping and wrung out.

My clean bare feet after The Hunter washed them.

And then it became soothing feathery back stroking. The Hunter softly listed all of the things that are taken care of, that I don’t have to worry about, things that are good and that Godde is doing for us. A list so sweetly stated I said that I would have paid $99,000 to hear it said. And then cuddling and taking our clothes off and kissing. And then it became more fucking.

Post-fuck getting ready for my close-up.

And then I came with his cock in me and my buzzy toy on my clit. And then he came in me. And I wasn’t agitated anymore and he took these pictures of me and I went to sleep.

My hairy pussy splattered with The Hunter's hot cum.

Pictures like this make me super, super excited (it’s the man-hands, I think, and the relatively little-looking pussy):

The Hunter holding open my wet, swollen pussy lips.

And then Delia went with The Hunter to buy groceries. And they brought home flowers that I just put in a vase and The Hunter is preparing a family meal we’re going to eat at the table.

And if this all sounds unbelievably awesome and extraordinary, that’s because it is. Three Hundred Twenty-Seven impossible dreams come true. Probably more.

Delia’s boyfriend is spending the night again, so I volunteered to sleep in the cabin / my loft. Because it’s awesome, because I love sleeping alone, because I want to, because before The Hunter I only spent one or two nights up there, and that was before we even moved into The “Big” House and when Delia was gone on trips.

Part of me enjoys acting put-out and bothered by having my routine upset and not having Delia to myself all night long. Another part of me longs for this restorative solitude and to be able to get it without leaving Delia alone or feeling guilty about wanting to be in my own bed doing everything MY way, without disrupting anybody or being disrupted by them.

I have my Kindle that Delia bought me, I have my pills and other sleepy-time supplements, I have Hearts of Space, I have my amazing comforter that for some reason only feels awesome when I’m the only person underneath it. I have my notebooks and fountain pen and plenty of pillows. It’s a small triangular-envelope I fit into that’s just right for leaving me room around the edges.

The only bad thing is if I have to pee in the night, I have to climb down and back up the ladder.

We are really lucky to have a set-up that allows for this kind of flexibility and time-to-ourselves. It’s easy to forget how awesome it is by noticing the parts that aren’t 100% perfect, so I’m working on wallowing in being grateful and celebrating how we have it pretty fucking good.

Restraining myself from spying on them.

Yeah. Round-the-clock voyeur cams on our sites/in our home does add another unusual/challenging/interesting element to these overlapping relationships.

It was really nice of Delia and The Hunter to let me interrupt them to have her come and take this picture of me.

What November 15th looked like in the sky and the trees where we live:

The Cabin: lunchtime

Same day, same time, same place . . . much bluer.

Dirty blue, half an hour later & one mile away.

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Something sexier/cuter/more suggestive of skin:

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Sky above our house, day after Thanksgiving

I dedicate this beautiful song (You Were Drunk) by one of my favorite singer-songwriters (Rose Polenzani) to Don Draper’s secretary in season four of Mad Men:

I’m super excited that Netflix bought the rights to stream Mad Men so we’ll soon be able to watch everything over and over again on demand. Peggy and Joan are my fave characters, of course, but I would also like to spend time on Don’s lap.

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The first Rose Polenzani song I ever heard was Olga’s Birthday; I think everyone should listen to it and buy all of her cd’s and be blown the fuck away.

Here’s a super-belated birthday post I wrote last year but never posted until now. As of March 17th, 2011 I’m back to an even number age:

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I turned thirty-seven years old last week and am SO glad to be back on an odd number.

Some people have “issues” with numbers, often with a serious preference for even or odd numbers (and a lot of these people are OCD and/or autistic or Aspies). I’ve always preferred odd numbers which is unusual since most people with this obsession prefer evens, but I’m adamant that odd numbers are more “perfect” with more symmetry.

I know, I know, most people think an even number is more beautiful because when you split it in half, it’s balanced with equal amounts on both sides. These people will do anything to avoid odd numbers, but I myself am uncomfortable with EVEN numbers and feel like something’s missing. Aside from just finding odd  numbers more aesthetically pleasing (the way they look, the way they sound, the way they are in all of my important dates and numbers) I figured it out that for me I always need one left over in the middle to be the anchor. Think of an old-fashioned scale: there has to be a lever in between the two pans. There always has to be that one left over in the middle for me to see/feel everything in balance.

I’m not totally OCD about it . . . I have forced myself to accept even-numbered things and results and times and dollar amounts and can tolerate them without pain (and am often not even aware of whether a number is odd or even), but I always feel a bigger relief and sense of rightness when things come out odd.

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Another OCD symptom I was wrapped up in as a pre-teen was weird sympathy for inanimate objects. The biggest daily issue concerned the dishes and how I placed them in the dish-drainer after washing them; I avoided letting any of one type of dishware be “lonely” or forced into a group/family of dishes it didn’t belong to.

We had a lot of tupperware cups. Some had flared rims and cool colors, some were newer/smoother and made in warm colors. I tried very hard to group the new warm ones together and the older, more-sensitive cups with each other. I would feel sad and guilty if one of the old ones had to be lumped up against a gang of stiff new ones all by itself. In that situation it would be better to find the old cup a place apart where it would be safe even if lonely.

From one of my fave funny blogs, UnhappyHipsters.com

This wasn’t a game I played with myself to make doing the dishes more interesting, it was just an uncomfortable given. As I got older I tried to reason with myself, and there have been times in my life where I don’t pay attention to the dishes’ feelings and identities at all, but sometimes I do still find myself wanting to put them in the “right” places and giving myself permission to arrange them in a way that feels good to me. I remind myself that these problems are all in my head, but I will still rearrange the dishes sometimes if things aren’t right. It’s not always about the dishes feelings, but just about building the perfect pile.

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One of the presents I gave to myself was time to play with my Magic: The Gathering cards. Not to play the game or really “play” in any sense that most other people have of playing, but to organize and sort parts of my collection. Like arranging rocks and colors on my altar. That is often how I find peace/bliss/relaxation. I sat on the floor surrounded by my cards and enjoyed putting them into stacks by expansion, by colors, by rarity; who would want a birthday party when she could be alone sorting uniformly-sized small cards with artwork and a bunch of special designations indicated by symbols and special text on said cards? Not I!!

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There’s a three and there’s a seven.

January thru March 16th of 2011 will be (oddly) even better!

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It wasn’t, but I know you can’t win at life through lucky numbers and proper sorting alone . . .

After months of not using the cabin “properly” because all I had was a tiny wooden tv tray downstairs (so I spent most of my time up in the loft which is really only suitable for cozy lie-down tasks), I finally spotted the perfect table and bought it with a small portion of one generous philanthropist’s donation(s) to the cause:

Price of my new table for the cabin.

It looked pretty wrecked, but then the guy came out, said he hadn’t even washed it off yet . . . I scratched at a fault with my fingernail and it crumbled right off!

Dirty, DIRTY table!! Goooood Girl, table . . .

So I bought it. I’d been lazily keeping my eye open for a desk or table that would fit, be serviceable and feel lovely but it took all these months to drive by the perfect table sitting on a sidewalk for sale. I couldn’t have found it on purpose or known this was exactly what I wanted. And I wouldn’t have wanted a new, reproduction version of this table.

Delia and I brought it to the cabin, inserted it into place, and I cleaned it. Almost all of this rusty stain disappeared:

I'll bet I can clean this off completely with vinegar & elbow grease.

The white apron around the edge of the table won’t ever be close to pristine, but Delia told me to rub the rusty legs with aluminum foil and they’ll get better:

Contrast rusty pole on left w/ shiny pole on right (scrubbed with foil).

I haven’t scrubbed much more than that, but I have spent a few good hours sitting at the table since then, feeling it’s perfectly faded and mildly scratched smooth cool top.

I think it’s pretty hard to find a formica table with chrome AND a leaf AND with the gingham top. The ones I see online with a gingham pattern all have wooden legs (and definitely no leaf). Not that I care about making great antiquing finds, but I do like to know a little about my tools and things I like. For all I know this IS a reproduction, but an older one than the styles they make now. Definitely leave comments if you know more about these tables or have some memories of these kinds of tables you feel like sharing. We could stuff a whole little family into the cabin for Thanksgiving dinner or Chinese takeout or something!

Look at my table leaf (& me in my shiny kettle)!

‘Tis clean! But still so touched and used.

Look at how clean my new old table is now!

Right now I’m doing a bunch of time-consuming windows updates on the laptop so that I can install windows live writer as an offline blog editor, but now I’m not so sure I want to do that. Really I just want to get over there to the cabin RIGHT NOW and sit at my table.

Stay tuned for more rhapsodizing about My Perfect Table (and all of the things it is perfect FOR).