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Archive for the ‘TURN ONS’ Category

Last night we shot a bunch of fun, costumey, Halloween porn. Here are samples from each of the photo sets:

Me, dressed up as a maid in vinyl (we’ve never done the maid costume so we’re WAY overdue for this one):

Busty in PVC french maid costume.

Delia, dressed up as the Queen of Hearts (with cool feathery eyelashes, I’d like to point out):

And a sample from my “Scary Hairy Pussy and Halloween Hemorrhoid” set, one I’ve wanted to do for a very long time (well, not the hemorrhoid part — that was just a happy accident):

After we did all of that, we got into bed and fucked. It was sweet. And juicy. And also fairly well-lit and audible for our voyeurs watching on our spycams, so there! Our photo shoots are pretty tame by today’s porn standards — very tease oriented, usually — so we often build up excitement during the process.

I masturbate differently in webcam shows for a large group than I do for myself or for private shows.

During group camshows I have a whole hour to draw out the experience. I put on a little makeup and usually wear something that allows me to do upskirts – little nighties, slips, miniskirts, etc. If I have enough time, I love wearing hosiery, especially opaque thigh high socks which is what I wore today: long, tight, stretchy, dark brown socks under a hippy-style sundress with a smocked top which is great for showing off my cleavage and tits.

Because I’m not being paid by the minute to fulfill requests by viewers, the “action” in my group shows is aimed to please me (and, incidentally, other people who have my particular tastes), all slowly paced to fill out the hour. I’m not super-entertaining, I just slide into a groove and enjoy looking at myself doing things I wouldn’t otherwise do: smiling at myself in the camera, and just making myself do shit that makes me hot, like exposing myself in taunting, mostly-softcore ways. I get very mesmerized by myself, like when I show myself (and everybody else) my creamy thighs parting to expose my hairy cunt with that beautiful contrast of the dark socks. I don’t know what it is about that contrast, but it’s fucking irresistible to me. I can watch myself do that over and over again.

We had more time than usual between shows this month so it’s been about three weeks since I enjoyed one of these long sessions; doing these long shows every other week or every three weeks is perfect for me because, without knowing it, I really build up a desire for them. My clit’s had a break from extended time with the hitachi magic wand and it’s been awhile since I really took a good look at myself.

Today I decided not to shower, putting my dirty hair in pigtails instead. It’s been four or five days since I had a shower and maybe only two baths (last night and some other time) during that time. For three days I wore the same pair of sticky, hot-smelling panties. My bush is getting really filled-out again, and every time I go to the bathroom I sniff the crotch of my underwear and play with my cowlicks that come together and curl up where my lips meet. The musky smell of pussy-hair steeped in cunt-sweat is part of what I love about not shaving.

Anyway, it smelled so good today during my show, I just kept petting it and bringing my hand up to inhale, over and over again. Deep breaths, totally drugging myself on that woman-sex smell of myself. I fucking could not get enough of it, smelling it, and watching me on the monitor, stroking myself with my light-pink clit poking out between my dirty-blonde fur and those SOCKS pulled up on my thighs making everything in the middle look so fucking naked and whorey.

I remember the first time I ever rode on Highway 1 through Big Sur, not being able to get enough of that hot sage smell. It doesn’t smell like pussy exactly, but it’s addictive and elevating, like ascending to heaven and being on some other unearthly level in between the ground and meeting God’s secretary while He’s away. I feel the same way about the smell of my musky bush, like if I were to immerse myself in it far enough I would wind up in some other place of knowledge and luxury and a decadent form of peace.

Today while I inhaled I realized the scent on my fingers reminded me a whole lot of crayola crayon wrappers. Not exactly like that, but similar. I always wonder where that Really Perfect Pussy smell comes from, like what the secret recipe is for it to be that perfect all of the time. Was it steeping my hair in dirty underwear so long? Was it the hot apple cider and cashews we had before bed? Was it the flax seed and evening primrose oil? Was it having PMS? Was it the mingling of a favorite lotion with the cunt smell to create a perfect pussy-church combo?

I came three times today with one of the orgasms augmented considerably by the call and response of me being ridiculously horny for myself and crooning, “oh yeah” to myself right before Jimi Hendrix said “oh yeah” at the beginning of Red House. Then . . . brilliant guitar and that was all she wrote.

*****

Right after my show I still felt a little hypnotized. I took a powerful piss, then stumbled into the bedroom where I felt a hot gush of liquid burst through my cunt. I reached down to touch it and came out with beautiful, crimson blood all over my fingers with more than enough left over to streak down my right thigh. I haven’t had such a dramatic start to my period in years.

Watch it, drool and VOTE for my beautiful friend and rumpshaker, (Undress)Jess:

You have NO IDEA how excited I got watching that, and will continue to get as I press play over and over and over. Her thighs and butt and the rest of her just make me want to cry and scream — so gorgeous! I have watched the other girls on that site and while some of them are lovely & I drool over them, too, Jess really deserves the prize on this one.

Yesterday I catalogued our inventory of sex toys in a spreadsheet to try to keep track of which ones we have (and haven’t) shot with.

This is the Tantus Sport which I got from their closeout section in a clearance color; I’ve gotten a lot of spectacular (and low-priced silicone toys) from them. In fact, my favorites are ones they don’t make anymore.

We have over fifty sex toys, which is pretty awesome. Really a dream come true, I have to say. There have been others over the years we’ve thrown away because they were cheap/dangerous jelly or broke/got used-to-death.

Crazily, we have barely shot photos or videos with more than a handful of them. We use a lot of them during our live webcam shows so it seems like we get/have gotten a lot of use from them, but there aren’t actually a ton of pics or masturbation-with-toys videos on our sites. Pretty dumb, eh? Hence the spreadsheet.

The Tantus Goddess vibrating dildo (a gift from FurryGirl’s Sensual Vegan):

Lately I’ve been CRAVING new toys in categories we don’t have. Example: we don’t have any big “realistic” toys in our collection which seems like a SERIOUS oversight, especially considering how few of my close webwhore colleagues seem into those types of things and how TOTALLY into them I am (so it seems like a good niche for me to “fill”, hardy har har). Sure, I like the way our “non-representational” dildos FEEL, but I fucking love seeing chicks spreading themselves out with big fat fake pricks and I love the way realistic “dongs” look especially when there are good contrasting colors between the head and the shaft (hello, Black Thunder). I totally want more DONGS.

One of two Head O State Obama dildos we bought:

I can’t allow myself to purchase any more sex toys, though, until we’ve shot more with the ones we already have. Even though I totally want a pussy pump, more stainless steel, DEFINITELY more artistic stuff like carved wooden dildos, art glass, & unique molded silicone insertables. AND BIG DIRTY DICK-SHAPED DILDOS, like I already mentioned. Just can’t let myself get them. I’m not sure why we never got on the bus that has sex toy manufacturers constantly sending us unsolicited samples, but that’s just never happened to us, I’m sad to say.

I did get a couple of toys to review from the nice folks at Pleasure Me Now, but I stalled out after the glass dildo when I couldn’t bring myself to properly review the smart balls I was super excited about trying but was then unsuccessful at enjoying. Not that they asked me to only write positive reviews — they didn’t — but I felt like I hadn’t given those GIGANTIC FUCKING BALLS a fair shake and kept procrastinating on setting aside time to really give them a good trial. Sometimes my anal retentiveness is an obstacle to getting freebies.

One of the problems with our sex toy collection (and pretty much everything we buy to wear or use in photo shoots) is the constant struggle to decide between buying A LOT of cheap and semi-generic things on our limited budget or buying A FEW unique and really marvelous things . . . and not being able to buy anything else for months. Usually I wind up buying more for less rather than investing a bunch of money in a very-few expensive and spectacular items. We buy most of our clothes second-hand or on sale and same goes for the toys, so I rarely spend more than $40 on a single toy. Which is why I have zero “realistic” dildos, since all the good ones are in the $60-$90 range (and are made of questionable, possibly-hazardous and hard-to-clean materials making the investment even LESS sound since Delia and I might not be able to share them or get very many miles out of them or they’ll stain if we get lipstick on them, etc.). It doesn’t really make sense, since even with these frugal choices designed to give us (and our members) more variety I’m not even using all of the stuff AND I *still* use certain things OVER and OVER again (like my Hitachi Magic Wand).

It’s the whole dilemma of “do I buy five crappy Frederick’s of Hollywood corsets or one REAL corset?” And then the ultimate challenge of making use of everything, which is where I actually fall down on the job(s). But who wouldn’t after exhausting all those brain cells on making these tough shopping decisions? Most members don’t give a fuck anyway as long as you’re regularly posting something new and hot — the mileage you can get on one slimline vibe, a little hard work and a cheap pair of pantyhose is pretty remarkable, but in terms of standing out in a crowd with your promo materials and really presenting something SPECIAL that continues to be personally exciting sometimes you want things that are fancy, different, stylish, etc. Well, almost all the time I want those things. And never quite succeed in getting them. Which leaves me with something average which is tiresome.

Even more tiresome? All of this is leading into yet another blog entry about shopping for sexy stuff which I’ll try to post soon but I had no idea I was going to spend an hour writing THIS one.

If you like role-plays, Here’s a hot & funny clip from one of Delia’s recent videos with me getting chatty & mildly degrading up under her skirt:

That’s what we were shooting when the fucking-couple overheard us (the “discussion” and action became more . . . explicit . . . as the scene progressed, which you can see for yourself here if you’re a member of our sites).

Speaking of Delia, her site (and all of our sites, basically) received a wonderful (and exceptionally thorough) review here. It’s refreshing to read because it’s extremely unusual for a porn review site to put that much work and research into a review AND understand who were are and what we do. She also posted a similarly lovely blog entry here with newer pictures.

*****

Delia’s just wrapping up a webcam show right now then we’re going to be in our members-only chatroom for an hour and a half. Maybe we’ll see you there!

I couldn’t resist looking at the beautiful man-body chopping wood next door so I did something I think (I thought?) is really, REALLY wrong: I took sneaky pictures of him without his knowledge or consent. And now I’m doing something even MORE wrong: I’m posting one of them here:

He’s not our neighbor, he just delivers and chops wood for our neighbor. And I HAVE to watch him do it, because the guy is incredibly beautiful. Not his face, just his whole old-fashioned working-man’s body with that wedge-hourglass shape. The thick pants with the shiny metal details, the gloves, the white tank top, the cap, the scraggly mullet and those pale muscles built up in the shade and from working outside when it’s raining, because it rains all the time where he works. He’s like an 80’s version of the guys in old propaganda posters like these:

I have always been in love with watching men do physical labor. Even though I felt sort of dreadful about it, I was compelled to run and get the camera. I stood in the kitchen and snapped a few pictures where he could have turned around and seen me. But before that happened, I ran into the bedroom and took pictures of him through the crack between two panels in our shoji screen so he couldn’t catch me watching him through the magnifying lens of our camera. My desire to capture his image forever outweighed the voice in my head reminding me I was doing something wrong. Something I’ve seen/heard of other people (men) doing that sickened me, but that memory didn’t stop me from doing it myself.

You shouldn’t spend time on fetish-oriented forums online if non-consensual voyeuristic photography (and other stuff) bothers you. You’ll find out things that you just don’t want to know and see things you weren’t meant to see. Like pictures of used maxi pads guys steal out of public restrooms or photos a foot fetishist surreptitiously took of his neighbor’s niece’s bare feet while their family unwittingly enjoyed a barbecue in their driveway. The woman was probably in her twenties and the guy who took and shared the pictures described his sneaky method for capturing them and the type of camera and settings he used and how he managed to not get caught.

The freaky part is the way these people usually don’t even acknowledge the line they’re crossing, or worse, act like they’re ENTITLED to snagging these things that belong to other people. Of course, half the time someone with common sense will challenge these people or point out the err of their ways, but most people don’t bother to post any opposition, instead just showing their appreciation for what the voyeur-thief has “created”/salvaged for the members of the board. Or they will critique the spoils, like the guy who complained that the neighbor chick with the bare feet was so fat, how in the world could the spy-photographer possibly think anyone would be interested in seeing her or be aroused by her himself? So not only is this woman with the arched foot and a BBQ rib in her mouth being displayed on the internet without her knowledge or consent, she’s ALSO having her weight criticized. AWESOME, right?

I pretend that I’m not quite as bad as these sociopaths because I know what I’m doing is wrong. But I guess that actually makes me worse because I know it’s wrong and I’m doing it anyway (and those guys on the forums might know it’s wrong too, they just don’t waste time making a big show of acting guilty about it the way I am in all of my gross hypocrisy).

I can pretend I’m conducting an experiment or research. That I’m a writer. That the end result of provoking thought about these important issues of privacy, consent, and all SORTS of interesting things is worth the negligible or nonexistent “damage” I’m doing. And after all, it’s a really REALLY grey area, right? I mean, how many people would even think me taking and posting the picture of the axe man is wrong if I didn’t tell you that *I* think it’s (maybe) wrong? And this isn’t really a blog entry about that guy, it’s about me or the collective us and the image is actually a snapshot of me — the voyeur — and my thoughts, not him. It’s entirely possible to intellectualize it that way. He could be anybody. You can’t see his face. No one will ever know who he is. Probably not, anyway.

And would he care if people DID know? Maybe he’d WANT to be credited and known far and wide as The Woodsman Who Got Trixie Hot. Of course, that brings me back to the obvious trespass of not asking for his permission to photograph him in the first place, but speaking of consequences, *I* certainly don’t want to pay them. I don’t want *him* to know he was chopping wood next to TASTYTRIXIE and therefore knows about our websites and where I live and can tell everyone how to find me (I’d have to tell him about our sites in order for him to give INFORMED consent, though that disclosure would be out of ethical, not legal obligation; you don’t have to specify where or when something will published on a consent form, just that you as the photographer have all rights to the photos which legally you don’t REALLY need to do anyway since in our country the photographer automatically owns the photos, not the model). I don’t want to tell a big strong stranger with an axe and a cock that he gives me a boner and I want to take pictures of him — LOTS of pictures. Well, I do sort of want to tell him that, but I know it’s not such a good idea/could cause problems. He might be weird or scary or even if he isn’t, then our neighbor (a decent neighbor, not our scary neighbor) would know about us and that would make everyone on the block uncomfortable. Most of all us.

If it were my actual neighbor out there making me hot chopping wood, I wouldn’t have taken the pictures. Because that would be violating the good neighbor code of pretending each other doesn’t exist. And I certainly wouldn’t take pictures of his young daughter! Even if it were to record how she trespasses on OUR property, walking just three feet past me sitting in our window. Well, maybe I would (for proof of trespass only!), but I wouldn’t post them on the internet. But maybe only because I’m a pornographer and could get in trouble for it just by virtue of that fact.

When I pondered these things aloud to Delia, she doubted my assertion that if it were a woman out there, hanging laundry or washing a car, I totally wouldn’t have taken the pictures. She’s probably right. After all, I took this picture (without her knowledge/consent) of a hot redhead fishing because she had a really great ass:

It’s the kind of picture you can get away with taking in public and even sell prints of in local galleries that don’t have any artistic standards. It’s the kind of picture no one (except other wankers) would bat an eye at as long as you keep up the appearance of it being completely innocent. Even though I know that I took it purely out of sexual/sensual interest. And I know that any straight man with a camera would have taken it for exactly the same reason (or to prove to himself that he wasn’t) whether he would admit it or not, and there are tens of thousands of men with cameras with hobbies or professions doing exactly that. I know a lot of people who take completely g-rated innocent-loo
king pictures and jack off to them later even if they didn’t intend to when they snapped them.

Part of me feels justified in posting this because there are so many writers and artists and reporters and network television stations getting away with doing so much worse with absolutely no compunction. It’s only people like me who openly call ourselves pornographers who are recognized for exploiting and objectifying others even though we play be much stricter rules and are faced with much harsher penalties for violating them than any other industry would be. But that train of thought is just another diversion from asking myself how *I* would feel if my neighbor were peeping through a crack in the blinds taking pictures of ME doing yardwork or thinking he’s not home when I sunbathe naked on our deck when actually he’s hidden behind a tree and rubbing his crotch against its bark. Of course, I’d feel totally different about it if I had a teenage son or daughter being spied on. But the guy chopping wood is clearly an adult. And he wasn’t sunbathing naked. And again, I don’t think I’d care if my neighbor secretly stood in his kitchen taking pictures of me as I walk around OUR kitchen at night topless (which I do sometimes with the blinds open, not because I’m an exhibitionist but because I just don’t care) as long as he didn’t hang them in the post office with our address printed on them or something.

Meh. Now that I think about it, I really don’t care. As long as someone stays on their own property (not sneaking onto mine or a stranger actually stalking into the neighborhood to spy on us or putting on an obscene display of masturbating and shooting cum into our yard) and is only taking pictures of what I do outside or with the windows open then who cares. It’s kind of fucked up, but not a huge deal. It’s not like I’m lying in wait every day, conducting surveillance on everything that our neighbors and their visitors do.

After completely overthinking this, I absolve myself from guilt. It’s harmless and legal. But I guess if I give myself permission to be an opportunistic voyeur-perv-photographer that means I have to stop being shocked and offended by other people who do the same thing. I’m reluctant to do that.

Here’s a couple with a sleeping bag and no picnic basket that I shot entirely because I knew they were setting out to lie down together and *do things*:

If I hadn’t admitted that and had posted the picture somewhere else, like on a stock photo site using woman-approved keywords like “young love” and “spring romance” (and cropped out our cracked windshield & wipers giving away that I’m like a dirty old man doing a drive-by) it would probably be perceived in a totally different way. It would just be a bad snapshot. But because of who I am and what my site is and my confession that I’m a voyeuristic pervert who sees sexual potential everywhere, it seems more DIRTY and exploitative than it really is. What if a local television station were doing one of those weather “stories” about how people were still going to the beach even though it’s overcast, and those two lovebirds were in the background? Would the station be committing an evil deed? If not, why does it seem so evil when I do it and admit that I see erotic potential? And why would it seem so much grosser and more evil if I were a man instead of a woman?

Bah.

Speaking of double standards and being a horny woman, check out this post by Goddess Glory where she describes her friend getting mad at her for drooling over a waitress’s ass at dinner:

“. . . my mind was completely focused on fantasizing bout our waitress’ beautifully ginormous ass sitting on my face, cutting off my air supply.”

If you don’t watch it, go ahead and barf on my blog and move along. Otherwise, here are a few brief thoughts/feelings on the season so far.

My mom is so right that girls do NOT get a fair shake in these coed television competitions. The voting audience and judges definitely judge girls and boys by totally different standards. The standards the chicks have to live up to are WAY higher. So yeah, it’s been pretty shitty but hardly a surprise to us watching Allison be in the bottom three so often and kicked off last week. I loved watching and listening to her sing — she’s the one that if *I* were a music mogul I’d want to make a record.

From the beginning we were rooting for Matt, Allison, and Alexis. Matt’s whole piano bar experience and beautiful Elvis cheeks won me over, but when he did that Coldplay song, OMG — I wrote him off as not having a clue what he’s good at and how good at it he is. Still, I felt emotionally attached to him throughout the season and rooted for him to do well. I loved Alexis until she fucked up Jolene (one of my absolute favorite songs). Allison I loved pretty much every week even though I agreed that Cry Baby was a bad choice (and I especially hated her changes and that she smiled as she sang it — that is my biggest Idol pet peeve aside from the lame hand gestures of pointing and come-hereing and counting on their fingers whenever a number is a song lyric, when these kids SMILE inappropriately during sad/pathetic songs like that boy who grinned as he sang Careless Whisper a while back). It was much better the next night when she was actually crying as she sang it. So sad . . . I really wanted her to win.

I enjoyed all of the contestants this year after a few shows EXCEPT Danny Gokey. I can’t understand why he’s a favorite with his complete lack of humility. He seems totally insincere and sociopathic to me, but maybe he really is just mourning his wife’s death and what I’m reading is just him being shell-shocked. Whatever — I think he’s a total ass. I do think, however, that he was better than Lil who was totally overrated (except when she sang that Fourth of July song everyone ripped her apart for doing – I thought that was the best). Her bowing and scraping drove me apeshit and I do not understand why she didn’t get called out more often for being “pitchy”.

I even enjoyed the blind guy. A LOT, after awhile. He cracked good jokes and made good choices and I hope he makes a wonderful Christian music album. If forced to buy either a Scott MacIntyre album or a Danny Gokey album, I WOULD RELISH BUYING SCOTT’S INSTEAD.

Kris Allen pleasantly surprised me — I get pissed when I hear stupid criticisms of him. He’s by far the most mature contestant with the most diverse array of talents and widest/deepest music appreciation. I feel like he really understands music and loves every aspect of making it even if he’s not the strongest singer. Not that he should win, but I imagine him having the skill to be a long-lasting success in other ways. It seems like he gets the meaning of every word in every song, unlike most American Idol contestants.

Adam? God, I just want to see him on his knees with a big thick cock in his ripe mouth and jizz splashed all over his gorgeous bloated face. And he and his partner both have to be wearing cartoon hair and untied high tops with tight pants. And their thick cocks jutting out like big meat-pink cylinders of gayness. At first I was so not a fan of his Rush-like vocal stylings, but I was won over when he did his Jeff Buckley impression. I’ll be happy when he wins.

There you have it. My obnoxious Idol entry for this year. You can laugh if you want to. I do.

Feel free to ask me any urgent Idol questions you have like, “who is your favorite judge?” or “would you rather have sex with Anoop or Sanjaya?”

The other day I treated myself to a trip to the spa as a reward for being 33% of the way to my June 1st weight loss goal. I decided to get a body wrap for health reasons (it helps you detox) and out of curiosity since I’d never done it.

I knew going into it that I *might* really hate being wrapped up like a mummy and mostly-immobilized for forty minutes, but I also knew I *might* really enjoy it and, at the very least, could endure it without feeling as though I’d been placed in a straitjacket.

By the time my appointment rolled around at 4 pm I’d been soaking, sweating, reading, and steaming at the spa since 10 am (I should’ve made my body wrap & massage appointment beforehand but was afraid to in case I couldn’t figure out how to pay for it or wanted to do something else instead so 4 pm was the earliest they could get me in) and was GIDDY with anticipation.

The girl explained what was in the mud (mugwort, seaweed and a bunch of other stuff I can’t recall), instructed me to disrobe and sit on the massage table (on top of a sheet of plastic on top of a metallic emergency blanket on top of MORE blankets) with my back to her. She warned me to expect the mud to be fairly “warm” because it cools off so quickly, then she started slathering hot goop on my shoulders, back, and arms. She had me lie down after that so she could apply it to the rest of my body. Right before she smeared it on my boobs, she prepared me to anticipate the touch in a nursey-kindergarten voice: I’ll just apply some to your breasts now . . . (circle, circle).

After she got it all over me except RIGHT between my legs, the soles of my feet and my face, she closed the plastic around me, then the reflective blanket, then the other blankets and towels until I was thoroughly cocooned with only my head sticking out. She asked if I wanted a pillow or for her to bring water or tea when she came back to check on me in ten minutes. Then she turned out the lights (as I requested) and left me alone in the dark, unable to move. AND TRAPPED WITH A TERRIBLE CD OF ROMANTIC/NEW-AGEY GUITAR MUSIC CRAP.

The first ten minutes were pleasant (except for the hideous music). I didn’t even attempt to move, afraid I would make myself itchy and be unable to scratch myself. I could see how easily I could become panicked if the slightest carnival-ride twist had been added to it (it WAS April Fool’s Day, after all). Like if she’d laughed maniacally before she left and I could hear the door being locked from the outside. Or if weird scrubby things began to descend from the ceiling towards me. Or if the walls just started shrinking inwards. I kept my eyes closed JUST IN CASE so I wouldn’t have to see anything like that happening. Or if a man with a bunch of surgical tools were to simply walk in, bend over my face and start whispering at me you can’t move you can’t move you can’t get away from me or my tools! and just put his hands heavily on my chest.

So yeah . . . this might help explain to you PART of why I’m not interested in being bound. Because it would be way too fucking easy for someone to scare me psycho. I can happily lie motionless for hours, but FORCE me to — restrict my mobility — and I might freak the fuck out. Part of me can appreciate the appeal, imagine experimenting with it under very specific conditions, and be tempted by the psychological challenge of it and another part of me just thinks the (psychological) risk is not at all worth the scariness. I feel the same way about LSD. It sounds really interesting but I think I might be a little too vulnerable to bad side effects. The body wrap at the women-only spa is about as far as I can go.

One time I did let someone bind my hands behind my back with his leather belt (a natural outgrowth to him of my spanking and man’s-leather-belt fetish, but to me it was just not the direction I was interested in going once I was face down on his bed — it was crazily exciting, but the fear of having my arms locked behind me that way and of him possibly being able to put his weight on me and smother me was just too fucking freaky for me and I begged for mercy so it didn’t last long. I was far more interested in being whipped with the belt (but not to the point of bruising or bleeding), but he wasn’t so much into that so that little experiment didn’t last very long. I know that some of you are thinking I just didn’t do it with the RIGHT person, someone I TRUST. But the point is a) my imagination doesn’t trust ANYBODY, and b) testing my boundaries on this is NOT as important to me as preserving them. For a whole lot of reasons. Thinking about it is provocative, but I am (and always have been) more interested in having force applied to me in a psychological way (and even more so applying it to others) in ridiculous role plays. I like being bound by RULES and structure. I like things that happen inside my HEAD way more than things that happen to my body. Or maybe I’m just lazy. I don’t know. Woops. Now that I’ve written this I can recall a few different instances where I’ve been bound in different ways and liked it. Hmmmm . . . still, not exactly my “thing”.

Back to the spa.

The first time the girl came in to check on me she brought me tea with a straw that she lowered to my mouth. I wasn’t prepared for it and giggled because THAT is totally hot to me, being treated like an invalid. I wasn’t prepared and dribbled tea down the side of my face, then I got her to change the CD to a variety of new agey music I enjoy — Shamanic Dreams or something like that. She asked if the level of heat was okay (yes – warm and cozy) and again if I wanted a pillow (this time? yes).

When she left I decided to try to sleep since I’d only gotten three hours the night before. And sleep I did, for a few minutes. Let me tell you, it was NOT pleasant waking up mummified, sweating like a pig in a strange dark room with weird pagan drum music going on. I decided not to go to sleep again and couldn’t wait for her to come back. When she did I asked for the heat to be turned down. She did, and blotted the sweat from my forehead and cheeks with a cool cloth (yummmmm . . . more pampered-invalid feelings). I wanted to ask her if anybody had ever lost control of their bowels while getting a wrap but decided against it, fearing she’d think I was planning something disgusting. Still, the thought was entertaining. I know SOMEONE, somewhere has done that on accident or on purpose, and I’d really love to hear about it.

Note: I’m far more likely to experiment with and enjoy shitting in a warm, plastic-wrapped bed than with being tied up. Just an FYI. I don’t PLAN on doing either, but a warm bed of crap seriously sounds more fun to me than letting someone tie me up. Maybe I’m just a loner with a short attention span, though, and wallowing in my own poop is an experience I could live fully in five to ten minutes by myself whereas the whole bondage scene requires time and at least one other person. I guess there are some things I could do to myself, but again, I’m too lazy and disinterested for that. Plus, scat is just a whole lot edgier than bondage and I like the idea of being able to make people think by gleefully confessing I’ve shat myself for the pure, HAMRLESS fun of it. It’s stupid, but poop is so much more taboo (and illegal/obscene) than bondage these days. Again, I HAVE NO PLANS TO DO THAT. I’m just comparing/contrasting. For fun.

Anyway, I survived the last twenty minutes without losing my mind, going back and forth between feeling blissed-out and on-the-verge of screaming, “GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!” I kept reminding myself of what good “exercise” it was for me and how much healthier I’d be afterwards. I worried that I’d be so sick of lying there that I wouldn’t enjoy my massage afterwards (but it actually worked the other way, mad
e the massage seem longer and way better). Basically I endured the procedure a little bit more than I enjoyed it. If I get a body wrap again I will definitely bring my own cd with guided meditations or something so my mind won’t wander to torture scenes.

Finally she came in to unwrap me and I went down the hall naked to the shower with the glass-door making my clean-up efforts visible to anyone who walked by. I decided to pee in the shower instead of wasting my massage time putting on a robe and traipsing down to the restroom, but I worried about it, wondering how many other people do/don’t pee in the post-wrap shower, worrying that there’d be some way they’d know I did and would talk about that disgusting customer with the long toenails who peed in the shower. Silly fears, but still. I have them. Which goes to show you just how very VERY far away I am from ever pooping in a plastic-wrap cocoon.

*****

After the anxiety of the day BEFORE the spa and the super-extended stay I had there, I was in recovery mode all day yesterday, totally drained and exhausted and verging on a big fat headache. If you’ve never gotten body work, steamed, soaked, detoxed, etc. then you probably thing I sound like a fucking crybaby asshole, complaining about how TIRED I am after spending a day doing something that sounds like pure luxury to most Americans but that shit is MEDICINE. My throat and eyes burn after all the gunk inside me is dislodged and stirred up and swirled around and sucked out. It feels like preparation to go into hibernation, like the final step in this cleansing/healing process is to go into an induced coma for two days.

The spa experience is totally my cup of tea, though. The front desk lady seemed to think I was crazy for wanting to stay there for more than eight hours, but since I go so rarely it hardly seems excessive. It takes me awhile to really turn my brain off and melt into it, so that cuts down on the time I’m really benefiting from it, but it’s exactly my idea of the perfect mini-vacation. Alone, not talking to anybody, with scads of naked ladies walking around, walking from one hot room to another, from one pool to another, being ministered to by talented, paid hands, smelling good things, and trying to become invisible to myself.

Was it watching “ladies” figure skating last night that got me all horny? I don’t know, but I couldn’t sleep and tried to masturbate quietly enough not to wake up Delia, but since I was wearing earplugs myself I couldn’t really tell if I was making noise or not.

The train of thoughts leading there seemed to pick up where my post about tribute jack-offs left off. I started imagining a teenager playing Yahtzee and then trying to decide which girl’s face to ejaculate on in his yearbook. Then there was something about a good dog and a bad dog (I think it was a white German Shepherd) and by that time I was so worked up I took out my earplugs and asked Delia if she was awake. AND SHE TOTALLY WAS! I still don’t know if she knew I was masturbating, but I stopped at that point anyway.

To reach over and fondle her boobs. I really should write a whole blog entry (or book) about Delia’s New Boobs. They’re pointy and swollen and puffy and my right hand goes back and forth from one to the other until I start using my mouth.

I’d love to tell you all about it but I honestly don’t feel like getting all worked up again. If you’re one of our members and heard it on the spycams (sorry I forgot to turn on the nightvision last night) then you know it was hot. I was shaking. We fucked and then we spooned.

*****

In other news, I’m agonizing over my hair not being blonde enough. Just the thought of negotiating a redo makes me extremely uncomfortable, but I think it has to be done. Sigh.