GUMMY PORN!

photo credit: thevince

photo credit: thevince

photo credit: thevince

photo credit: thevince

photo credit: ilmungo

My parents have always said, “She’s been independent since the day she was born.”

Well, I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I’m pretty sure I learned how to be independent. They were leaving me alone for the weekend by the time I was twelve, knowing I wouldn’t get into trouble. And it was true - I could take care of myself.

But should I have had to?

The word “Independence” on this day takes on an interesting meaning in that context. As a country, we declared our “Independence” - no longer dependent. It seems like such a good thing, on your own, able to take care of yourself.

But there’s something about being too independent, about not needing anyone else, that makes you disconnected. I know, I’ve been there, done that. Still do it. I don’t need help. I can do it.

I’m not sure, anymore, that “independence” is all it’s cracked up to be. It can make you selfish, self-centered. It can isolate you, and make you feel awfully alone. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what’s happened to our American culture along the way, as we’ve proudly touted our “independence.”

Maybe it’s time to open our eyes and reach out to the rest of the world.

I know it’s time for me.

photo credit: trazomfreak
I was waiting for him at the door. The dog was, too - loyal little thing, she waits there every day, wiggling with excitement the minute his car pulls into the driveway.

Me, too, girl… me too.

I kissed him against the wall the minute he walked in.

“Where are the kids?”

He’s hard. I feel him against my thigh. “At the neighbors.”

“What are you - hey!” His pants unzip easily and I’m on my knees, sucking already.

His cock follows me to the bedroom as if I’m a magnetic North.

“Lock the door.”

“The… door?” He’s standing there watching me undress - shorts, no panties, tank top, no bra, gone in a matter of seconds.

“Unless you want to be interrupted in the middle of fucking me senseless, I suggest you lock the door.”

“Right.”

Click.

The dog whines on the other side of the door. She’s been waiting, she wants him.

I know just how she feels.

Warning: The Following Wordness Wednesday May Be Hot!

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I’m so hungry for cock… there aren’t words.

Have any of you seen that commercial for fibermyalgia - the pain’s all on the inside, but she says, “If I looked like I felt, would you believe me then?” and all these bruises show up all over her body?

If I looked as hungry as I feel right now, I’d resemble a concentration camp victim…

Mama never said there’d be days like this.

I’m sucking everything today - popsicles, straws, lollipops, all the while dreaming about cock. He’s at work, doing all his work-like things, and I’m imagining myself under his desk all day, just taking my time, licking and sucking and pumping him in my fist until my fingers are like prunes and my mouth is almost as red and swollen as my pussy.

I’m famished, weak with longing, aching for that one thing I know will satisfy this craving - and I’m afraid it’s not a Snickers. Reminds me of the old Reese’s commercial: “You go your chocolate in my peanut butter… Well, you got your peanut butter in my chocolate…”

I don’t care what you put on it - there’s only one thing that’s going to ease this sort of pain.

How many hours until he’s home?

Until dinner’s over?

Until the kids go to bed?

Such an inconvenient hunger…

It’s funny how the most perfect cock belongs to the man you love, now, in the moment.

At least, it’s always been that way for me.

I’ve never liked women who casually talk about the size of a man’s penis, like it’s some measure of worth. It is what it is, and no chart or graph or check box ticked off on some poll is going to change it. It seems, to me, that preference is irrelevant. If you love a man, you love his cock - how could you not?

In college, a friend of mine lost her mother, and for a few months afterward, a group of her friends would get together for a weekend - to reminisce, to connect. I was part of that group for a while, learning more about my friend’s mother after her death than I’d ever known while she was alive. But there was one incident that made me stop going to these little gatherings.

One of her friends was sharing a story which related to my friend’s mother in some round-about way I can’t remember - but in the process, she revealed a sexual encounter she had with a man she’d been dating for a while.

“The first time he pulled it out, I laughed my ass off!” she howled, clutching her midsection. “‘What am I supposed to do with that thing?’ I asked him.” She leaned in, conspiritory, and mock-whispered, “It couldn’t have been more than two inches - at most!”

I felt sick to my stomach. I still do, just relating that story. What sort of woman would say something like that? I knew it said much more about her than it did about him - of course it did.

Perhaps it’s a difference in the way each gender responds to the other, but the size and shape of a cock has never been something important to me outside of a casual aesthetic appreciation. I can look at one and think, “Oh, nice cock.” But on the other hand, aside from porn, I don’t have much of an occasion to look at a cock that isn’t attached to someone I already have feelings for.

And the thought of never having another cock besides the man who shares my bed every night? It doesn’t bother me in the least. His cock is perfect because it’s his, because it’s part of him, and I love all of him. It isn’t twelve inches - and it isn’t two - but if it were on either side of those markers? My feelings wouldn’t change.

To me, it makes no sense to have preferences in that arena, if you let your heart lead you.

If I had fallen in love with a man with a two-inch penis, as in the case above, it certainly wouldn’t be a “deal-breaker.” There are lots of things that would be - abuse, lying, cheating - but a small cock? Meh. There are much more important things in the world to worry about than that.

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A person will worship something, have no doubt about that. We may think our tribute is paid in secret in the dark recesses of our hearts, but it will out. That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping we are becoming.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

An authentic life is the most personal form of worship. Everyday life has become my prayer.

- Sarah Ban Breathnach

photo credit: JohnCurtis

I mowed the lawn today. Which normally would be fun, with our riding lawn mower and my Ipod, out in the sun for a few hours, getting a little bit of color.

But our riding mower died. And our lawn was getting out of control. So I mowed it. With the push mower.

I’m so sore I can barely type this.

Hey, you mow six acres of lawn with a push mower and then you can tsk tsk, okay? :p

After my shower, I asked Mr. Kitt, “Will you give me a massage tonight?”

“Sore?”

“You have no idea.”

Of course, “Will you give me a massage” is usually a euphemism for “Wanna have sex?” I can usually never resist, with his hands on me like that, pushing, pulling, mmmmmmmmmmmm…

Tonight, though, I have a feeling I’m going to fall asleep almost immediately.

We’ll see!

I don’t read romances anymore, for the most part - but I do still enjoy a chick flick or two. Netflix delivered “The Other Boleyn Girl” the other day, and I waited patiently for a good time to watch it. Kids have to be otherwise occupied - that’s a given - and Mr. Kitt has to be at work or somewhere he’s not likely to return for a few hours. It isn’t that he won’t watch with me - he will - but he has a tendency to make comments during the movie which tend to lessen my enjoyment. They’re funny, granted… but it’s not the same movie for me if I watch it with him. We couldn’t get through the first half-hour of Moulin Rouge when we watched it together, but alone, I fell in love with that movie. Some things are just for the girls!

I didn’t expect much, honestly. I’d heard mixed reviews. All I was looking for was a good story - historically, it doesn’t really matter to me if it “really happened that way.” If it makes a good story, I’m all for poetic license! I’d watched Elizabeth (I and II) and enjoyed them both, so I thought, why not?

Well, if you’re looking for a romance, look somewhere else. There’s no happily ever after here, that’s for sure. Not that I’m all for a happy ending - a good tragedy does just as much for me, and this is all tragedy. Sisters torn apart, families destroyed, a monarchy trembling on the verge of disaster. Oh the drama!

So delicious! And, I was surprised to find, even the hint of incest at the end. Oh the horror!

It was a truly delightful way to spend a few hours folding laundry, but it made me wonder about the book. Did the movie follow it, I wondered? Was the book any better? I almost always read the book before I see the movie - The Harry Potter Series, for example - and I inevitably find the movie lacking for that reason. Perhaps someone who had actually read the book would have a different take on the movie?

So, anyone out there read The Other Boleyn Girl? What do you think - which was better, book or movie?

photo credit: fotografisch.at