Or, how to pick the easy way out.

I got a straight job. I got a monogamous relationship with a straight boy – not necessarily a problem, but this is not how I thought my life would look. This isn’t what I signed up for.

I get up at seven to leave by eight to be there at nine. I go to a real office, I wear real clothes, I use my legal name. I’m still freelance – so, no benefits of the straight life come attached, except one: acceptance.

When I started caring about that little thing, I’m not sure.

If I’d been terribly big on acceptance I wouldn’t have been topless on the internet. Or an ordained Pagan minister. Or any of the other hundred and one things I’ve been, and am, openly.

I’ve wasted so much time pretending to be someone else’s normal.

It’s just that I got tired of dodging when asked what I do for a living. (Now people dodge me, in fear of my at-the-ready business cards.) When my friends griped about work I said nothing, because I was afraid of revealing what I did – of how that would reflect on my lover.

I thought of all the public advocacy work I wanted to do and decided I didn’t want to attract that kind of attention, because then his parents would realize, and what would that mean?

I was a coward.

He’s a good one – he never had a problem with my chosen work. I was working off my own decisions, my own assumptions. The pressure was internal – or where external, not from him. But I had a problem with self-censoring. I had a problem with living a lie. And I was too much of a coward – I called it being discreet – to be out with it where reasonable, for fear of who it’d get back to.

Only, someday I’ll be older, and I’ll wish I’d done it all fearlessly like I started out, when I was young enough to get away with it.

There’ll be time enough for pretending…

Only I don’t want to pretend.

I’ve always gotten bored with discretion. I’ve got a restless instinct to shake off all the bullshit.

But here I am, sunk cost fallacy at the ready: “I’ve already invested all this time and money.”

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and frankly I’m buried in debt and I want to die.

Not for any reason but that I just don’t see any point in doing this another day. Things don’t seem to ever get better.

I wish it wasn’t important to me, what I did; or, no, I wish it was more important to me, so that I would have pushed myself more, been more successful, compromised less on the things that drove me.

Instead I have to go off tomorrow to a job I’m unfortunately very good at and smile and pretend I didn’t wish I was in my home office, in my lingerie, taking calls from my favorites.

It’s silly and it’s whining – everyone wishes they were at home in their underwear getting paid to be sexual; nobody likes going off to their boring job. And of course there were times I didn’t want to log in…

…but I didn’t hate it. I just hated not being able to tell. Or, no, I hated not feeling honest.

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When you’re a sex worker of any stripe, one of the first things people want to know is whether or not you’re “real.” Real pictures, real name, real encounters, real breasts. After a while for a lot of clients that fades away and what takes central importance is a different kind of reality.

They don’t care so much whether or not my stories are real* as whether or not those are my actual fantasies. They want to know if the kind of sex I have or portray at “work” is the kind of sex I have at home.

To that I say: not always.

Anyone with a fetish can relate to how hard it is to find a fellow fetishist, someone who understands and shares your seemingly irrational turn-ons. Any polymorphously perverse kinkster can understand how unlikely it is to find someone who you not only have physical, mental, and emotional chemistry with but who shares every last one of your various kinks and doesn’t want anything on your hard limits list.

Any sex worker, present or prior, will know that sometimes having a tangible difference between the kind of sex you have with your partner or partners and the sexual persona you take on at “work” helps you become and revel in that fantasy without taking any lingering unpleasantness from one side to the other in either direction. Sexuality is a messy business and it helps to have boundaries between public and private life. There is such a thing as being too naked.

I love living authentically, with all my warts and tender underbelly out in the open, but that kind of brutal honesty can be very uncomfortable especially when other people are involved. I respect the others in my life by keeping enough privacy for myself to cover them as well.

There’s a beauty and a glamour in playing pretend and why are any of us in this business if not for the dirty glamour? I write stories because I like to make things up. I fantasize because reality is limiting. I can’t really kidnap my objects of lust. (Legally.) I’m not (always) a stockinged siren of a gun moll out to ensnare the hearts and cocks of men.

But I could be.

And so I fantasize, and I create a persona where my fantasies and those of my fellow fetishists intersect. There, I go and put on a tarted-up version of my own sexual dark side; I slip her on and flash her under my skirt.

This is my private sexuality, the sexuality I had back when I was a virgin, back before I knew what sex was aside from kissing and making babies. I liked power play, pulp adventure, and wearing pretty things.

I love wearing femme-y lingerie and stockings with real garters that snap against my thigh and silky, satiny slips (why don’t they sell more slips? it’s ridiculous special ordering something that used to be so basic). I wish you could all understand how intriguing it was for me when I found out that some men not only got lingerie and nylon like I did, they were more turned on by underwear than nudity and some even wore it themselves.

(And women that wear? Ooh. Yes, please. I’ll take my bisexuality with a side order of high femme.)

I can dress up for myself in private a la Buffalo Bill or I can put on a show and share a little thrill with someone else. This satisfies my fetish for mass sexuality while respecting my actuality of a kinky man who gets me in every last regard except for the way I get turned on when I sneak a little nylon under my dress.

Real? Yeah. I’m real.

…And this is what I want. Come and get it.

Lingerie and Stocking Fetish Phone Sex

(18+, $2.19/min)

*Strangely enough most of mine are. What can I say, it’s good to be a sexual deviant…

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2008: Retrospective

I’ll be frank: 2008 was a terrible year for me. I ended 2007 feeling very torn about my career situation (more on that in a moment) and with this frustrating sensation of being stuck: frozen in time, unable to change anything.

When the gods wish to punish us – or push us – they answer our prayers.

Almost nothing in my life looked the same on December 31st, 2008, as it did on December 31st, 2007. Most of that was for the better. Some of it was just for the stranger.

And the whirlwind begins:

• Started camming in late 2007; hit my stride in 2008
• Spent most of early winter 2008 in one of my legendary “black moods”
• Made my still-popular small penis humiliation video
• Left my vanilla career path in spring of 2008 for the second, and final, time. Black mood summarily lifted.
• Traveled cross-country with two very dear friends during the height of 2008′s gas spike. We nearly killed each other. It was absolutely worth it.
• Moved into a new home in the country the day after we returned
• The legendary Stunt Cock, aka Mr. Morgan, followed in short order
• I celebrated my quarter-centennial in June (sssh!)
• Adopted a new puppy
• Moved back to the city three months later. No; scratch that. Moved out of the new house three months later. Moved back to the city about three weeks after that. Spent nearly a month in limbo… what fun! This is about the time my cam hiatus started.
• Found my first Craigslist fetish modeling gig. What a trip. (Which reminds me: I need to email my photographer about those pantyhose sets we’d discussed.)
• (Side note: I love my new apartment. Love it. Yard maintenance is overrated.)
• Lost my voice in November and was knocked off the phones for a month. Judging from some of the emails I received, you boys missed me…
• Spent November and December catching up with my regulars (who always make me smile. Or laugh. Or both…)
• Ended 2008 a happily full-time unrepentant phone domme, back in the city, surrounded by good friends, good food, and better tequila

I ended 2008 with a toast to much-needed chaos. Hail Eris indeed.

2009:

In ten days, this blog will hit its three year blogaversary. Honestly I thought I’d write more.

That’s three years of phone domme-ing (part time and now full), three years of sex blogging, three years of having strangers jerk off looking at my gorgeous round ass. I was 22 and in college when I started this blog. Now I finally feel like I’m hitting my stride. Life is good.

What I’ve got in the works:

• Weekly scheduled cam nights on Niteflirt (it’s looking like Thursday and probably also Friday)
• More audio recordings, including custom orders for both individuals and adult webmasters (site beta-launched in 2008; the public reveal will come in February 2009)
• Video clips rolled out on a semi-regular basis – I’ve finally got an in-house video editor to split the workload!
• A new fetish community site (or two) launching very soon – as in, this month. Those of you subscribed to my Twitter feed already saw this coming…
• A final decision on what do do with Full Frontal Politics. I love political blogging, but it distracts me from the phones if I’m keeping up with it – and if I’m not, what’s the point? Still considering going podcast/videoblog with that domain. It has been renewed so I’ve got to do something with it by June. Suggestions welcome…
• More modeling and adult work. I’m able to travel again, and my schedule is fairly flexible, so now is a great time to get out there and pick up more fetish modeling/adult video projects.

To celebrate my upcoming three-year blog anniversary, I’m going to release some of my unpublished, very personal draft entries from 2007 and 2008. I’ve got five slated for publication so far. Is this a lazy way to boost my posting schedule? Absolutely. Is this also forcing me to reveal personal posts I’d had every intention of keeping under wraps? Yes.

Happy New Year.

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There’s a white towel on my bed that we laid down last night so we wouldn’t stain my sheets, but by the time that occurred to us it was too late (of course).

I’d been after him for sex all day – grabbing his ass, informing him of the myriad handholds his range vest gave me for sex standing up, telling him his balls belonged in my mouth right as we were about to head out for dinner with friends.

We fed each other sushi and maki with chopsticks and shared in the latest news and it was all very sweet. I behaved throughout dinner (which surprised him), only squeezing his leg and ass under the table a few times. I behaved throughout the movie, and throughout the planning of our own movies, which thoroughly shocked our friends.

They called it a night early; thank Gods.

Bright pink lace thongs aren’t enough these days. The computer’s very tempting, late at night.

Apparently looking slightly forlorn accomplished what the pink thong didn’t and I got KISSED.

This man kisses like most men fuck. It’s a treat in itself. Rough, firm, slow, sensual, slippery with just a hint of bite… Rrrowr. If I could bribe him to quit his job and kiss me all day it’d be worth every penny.

We made it to the bed; I rolled over and straddled him, nipped his neck, let my long red hair fall over his face and buried my own in his chest while I ground my lace-thong-covered ass down against his cock.

I didn’t move… I didn’t want to move.

But you know I didn’t hold still.

Lips against lips, pressure yielding to pressure, tongues teasing and breath puffing into each other’s breath… My body undulating on top of him, slowly and deliberately snaking over his skin, his own toned and tan and holding firm beneath my squirming curves…

At this point we’re still teasing each other. I’m running my hands through his hair, tracing nails over his wrists and collarbone. My pink nipples pop free of my bra. His lips are right there and I’m holding my breast out to him… brushing the nipple over his lips… feeding it to him.

(I saw bite marks this morning in the shower.)

Rubbing my panty-clad pussy over his cock feels incredible but I’ve moved past horny into hungry for it.

I love to grip his biceps while I thrust back against his cock, use his muscle as leverage to drop my hips down and pound my body against his. There’s no hesitation – just fierce and rhythmic. It’s holding on while my hands are shaking, feeling my ass bounce off his tensed thighs, his thick cockhead pressing insistently against the wettest spot of my panties, right where they indent.

His hands are on my nipples now and oh my God. They’re sensitive. They’re very sensitive. I don’t always like having them toyed with but he knows just how to time it. Play with them when I’m warming up, leave them alone, then come back when I’m almost there and push those buttons to send me over the edge. There’s this thing he does where he presses them inward and tugs and vibrates them right in time with his thrusts.

He matches his beat to my pussy walls trying to squeeze his cock through my underwear and his.

Fuck yeah I came. Over and over. It went like this:

please

He doesn’t say anything, just looks up at me, watches me intently, and squeezes my tits together. And thrusts right in time with me. And my shaking thighs wrapped around his hips.

please, I need…

I need to come around your cock

He doesn’t stop. Not for a heartbeat. It’s an incessant wave crashing through me, over and over, not evenly timed, not enough that I could anticipate, brace for it… I’m pressing my lips to his neck, kissing his open mouth, stifling a gasp. Trying not to dig my nails into his skin.

Failing.

pleasepleaseplease

I try to look him in the eye, earnest, pleading. My face scrunches up and I throw my body back to push my full weight down onto his cock. My tits are bouncing free of my bra. (He’s getting a show.) Somewhere deep in the part of my brain that formulates thought, I want to feel his naked balls slap against my skin. My body just wants, just wants him pistoning in and out of me, driving his thick cock in so hard I can’t catch my breath, so deep it almost hurts, so my poor pussy won’t be like it is now – orgasming around nothing but air, milking every last drop of cum out of absolutely nothing.

And I’m repeating:

pleasefuckmepleaseIneedyoutopleasefuckmeplease

please

babyIneedyoutofuckmepleasejustfuckme

p-pleasepleasefuckmepleasfuckmepleasefuckme

Like it’s some kind of chant, like if I beg him while I’m coming over and over he’ll make it stop by not making it stop, he’ll pull my panties aside and slide his underwear down and press it into my pussy inch by inch while I’m clenching and unclenching around his perfect cock.

I’m almost crying just from the need of it, I’m shaking all over, and at times I’m not even able to form words, I just lie on top of him and hold still, and then shake, and pump my hips in time with his.

There’s this slow wicked smile that curves across his face when I go back to begging him. He’s savoring keeping me in this state, having this kind of power over me. Seeing what he’s doing to me.

His hands go back to my nipples and just before it’s all blasting through me again he says yes.

And I’m so far gone I actually ask him… “You promise?”

…

When I can finally dismount I look down at the outline of that deliciously prominent cock. That I’ve just drenched. In blood.

The hot pink thong? No longer pink. The sex immediately following? Well worth feeling almost guilty enough to wash his underwear.

Of course this makes me wonder about whether or not I can convince him “salt etching” has ruined my glasses…

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On New Year’s eve, 2007, I did shots of absinthe. Undiluted, unmixed, no sugar, no water. It was interesting… I didn’t need a chaser, but it did make me pause before going for the drops left at the bottom of the shot glass. I felt like I’d finally found my sparring partner.

I’m now terrified of what would happen if I ever let myself drink it, actually drink it instead of just sample. I wonder which would give first, the bottle or my liver.

If you haven’t had it before I’ll warn you: absinthe tastes like licorice, only greener and marinated in strong booze. I tried it prepared in the traditional style first and frankly I’d rather shoot it. Less classy, sure. Less pretentious, perhaps. Less like sucking off an alcoholic Twizzler, certainly…

I woke up with a kiss from the green fairy on my lips. Stained green – she’s an interesting gal.

…

In other, completely unrelated news both of my tease photo sets are on sale until Valentine’s Day (Feb. 14th). These photos are the real deal, shot by yours truly with my digital camcorder in classic amateur style (iffy lighting). This is a limited time sale and my photos are exclusive to Niteflirt. Membership is free and if you’re new, you get three free minutes to use on live calls or phone sex recordings.

See my amateur tease pics – I pose for you in a satin button-front nightshirt and black bra, teasing you by keeping the full view hidden. 25 quality softcore pics of me working the sexy girlfriend angle. (reduced from $25)

Nylon and high heels shoe tease show – I tease you in my black nylons and grey stiletto pumps – arching my feet, sliding my stockinged heel out of my shoe, and running my hand down my smooth legs. 6 nylon and shoe fetish photos, by caller request. (reduced from $18)

Happy New Year.

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him: “So can I have your number?”

me: “Yes, it’s 1-800-FUCK-OFF, 1.99 a minute.”

him: “I bet it’s 2.99 a minute.”

me: (at this point, I had a little cartoon heart floating around my head)

…And that, guys, is how you win the heart of a phone sex operator.

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The hair, up. The glasses, on. The secretary? Is in. And I’m wearing her.

The crisp white collar on my button-down shirt… every button the promise of a teasing glimpse of skin. The bra that shows through (in a tribute to the backseat). The pinstripe pencil skirt that sits low on my hips and clings to the curves of my ass. The sheer nude pantyhose that hug my legs and smooth my lines. The grey tweed stilettos that make that sharp, rhythmic “click, click” when I walk – all business, if your business is pleasure.

When I get dressed I’m already planning how I’m going to fuck him.

The other night. The lack of privacy. The garter belt, I’m not sure he knew about. The black silk stockings I ripped on the dance floor, he barely saw… The fully intentional lack of panties I remedied before I even got my hands on his cock.

It wasn’t the night. Let’s just say plans don’t always pan out.

But. But but but. These pantyhose are going on over a freshly shaven cunt. He’s making me crazy this week with all the ways I have to have him.

I’d much rather be under his desk than in front of mine.

Ladies, never over-suck. It only takes one misplaced hickey to cockblock your whole weekend.

I love the way his cock actually swells and thickens when he’s ready to go; I go nuts for the feeling of the muscles in his cock tightening, then releasing, like they’re tensing before pumping the come up through his cock. And they are.

And they do.

Those pantyhose would look so much better around my wrists. Or his. Tough decision – I’ll go with the whim of the moment. Or rip through.

I have work in how many hours? And here I am thinking about catching a ride with my boyfriend. And by with I meant on, and by ride I meant I want, no, need, to wring every drop of come out of his body with my hands, mouth, pussy, and ass.

Darling, if you’re reading this, I’d love to Lewinsky you something fierce.

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Sorry… I was busy getting my tease on. You guys make it too easy sometimes and I just can’t resist taking full advantage. A little flirting and men become physically, mentally, and financially weak.

Nowhere was this more evident than at the strip club. The South is known for ladies with big smiles and long tanned legs… women who know how to work a man. The real show wasn’t the gyration on the couches but in the subtleties: the blonde with the knee-high black boots who moved like a snake, the vixen who dragged her chestnut hair over Mr. Aging Jock’s torso, knelt, and smiled up at him so sweetly before taking his money. Hands at his sides – no touching. These men were paying for nothing but a well-executed tease, knowing they wouldn’t be allowed to place their hands on one inch of tanned skin, knowing the only satisfaction they’d get would be at their own hands, hours later, thinking back on the way she’d moved as she straddled his thighs.

It was inspiring.

I’ve talked about strip clubs before with one of my favorite callers and he was quick to admit that the highlight of his experience was the dynamic of the tease, that undercurrent of control. She had it; he didn’t. Money did not equal power, except in that he was surrendering both. He knew he wasn’t supposed to come; if he came it would probably be prematurely. And she would know, and laugh.

I’ll be back on the phones tonight. Lap dance anyone?

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I did say a little.

He is all. About. The road head.

He sings when he drives, so I like it when he drives. And if we’re in my car… my car has bench seats in front. Yes, I did this on purpose. You know me.

It’s the last red light before we’re out of cop central. He looks at me and he’s got that evil perverted twinkle in his eye. I lick my lips. He’s already loosening his buckle. I. Can’t. Wait. He’s pushing his pants down, pulling aside his underwear and it’s too long for this red light, I swear. No lips around his cock until we’re safely out of view.

(Mostly.)

Precious seconds to move the armrest. Cups go flying. Styrofoam’s mashed under my boot, but I won’t find it til after. I glance up. Red turns to green and I bend down – halfway to contact and his hand’s already in my hair. I like to lavish his cock with my tongue but right now I just want to sink every thick inch into my mouth.

And he’s talking to me. I love it when he talks dirty. Especially when it’s so complimentary.

“Just like that… slow and sensual. Mmmm. That feels so luxurious. Your mouth is like velvet, I love what you’re doing with your tongue…”

…talking the entire time and I can’t help but mmmmmm. His hand is reaching back and grabbing my ass, rough like he knows I like it, giving it a good hard squeeze. My lips are stretched just right around the base of his cock and wetly sliding up and down. My tongue’s working over the mushroom head and flexing against his shaft. I’m hearing his voice and it’s just what I need to get me squirming and turned on enough to come just from sucking him off. And he knows it.

I’ve got a slow, pulling suction going and he’s egging me on, telling me to come, ordering me to come on his cock. I sink his cock into my throat as far as it’ll go, then pull back – I need that last inch to breathe enough to come.

And I do.

We’re on a curving country road now. I look up just enough to sort of see the dashboard, and I know where we are. I glance around for deer, push my hair out of my mouth and get back to the business at – or rather in – hand. He’s closer now, I can feel it. His cock always tightens and flexes, then expands… like the come is pumping through his cock, ready to shoot out. It’s a hot image and I know I’m going to come again and oh damn his hand is down my jeans and his finger just pushed into my ass and I’m moaning and I pick up my pace. There’s saliva dripping down from the corner of my mouth. His hips are bucking, fucking my mouth while I hold my head in place, fierce motion with just a few inches of room to maneuver and all that pent-up energy is going to be down my throat in a moment. The seat is squeaking and I find that the hottest thing in the world just then, that he’s completely uninhibited and thrusting up into my lips and holding steady on the road just the same.

His cockhead is popping in and out of my mouth and it’s making that wet suction sound that he just goes crazy for and I love the way it feels. Wet and sloppy and satisfying.

Oh, and I’m coming around his cock, moaning and pressing my ass back into his hand. I move my hand to my clit, then back to his cock because I don’t need it. Just the action right in front of me and his voice saying those words. I want to taste him, I want to feel him come in my mouth.

“Tighten up those lips, tighten up on that cock, sink down on it, I’m going to come…”

Thick and sticky and pumping over my tongue. I dart it out so I don’t miss a single drop. He’s got a big toothy shit-eating grin and I’m taking my sweet time cleaning up as always. I’m addicted to this whole scenario.

“That’s what I was craving tonight… your cock in my throat, your finger in my ass, and that smile on your face.”

Ever the gentleman, he even said thank you.

Yeah, I could get used to this. Happy anniversary babe.

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Erotica can be so much more than just a rehashing of the themes already inside us. It can be a cure for those suffering through the sexual apathy that occurs during times of stress and depression. It can inspire those who have given up on being sexually happy to demand more from their own lives. It can entertain, which is something I find terribly underrated in erotica. Good erotica should be a mental escape from the repressed and work-obsessed world we live in. Erotica should stimulate not only body parts but also our moods and the way we perceive the world.

The rest of his 2007 Manifesto is spot on too. With erotica it’s easy to get lazy, to forget about all the circumstances that surround sex and make it what it is. It’s even easier to let the smut carry your story. A hot fantasy, written well, is divine. A scorcher written poorly is a turn-off. Readers aren’t supposed to get caught up in the words unless the writing itself is sensual enough to add that something perfect.

The rules of good writing are the same across genres. We as writers don’t take advantage of that as much as we should. Erotica’s goal is to get you hot, maybe get you off, make you think, make you feel, and maybe change your mind a little. It doesn’t have to make you feel good and it doesn’t have to ignore your psyche.

Erotica is writing about sex, and writing about sex is writing about life. That’s an obvious statement, but, fact is – life is messy. Sex is transformative. That’s why it’s so dangerous and so important. We focus on the obvious transitions, the firsts – first boy, first girl, first time, first time there, first kinky experience, first threesome – and the boundaries: age, gender, race, numbers, power dynamics, procreation, consent, adultery. It’s too rare to see erotica that focuses on the smaller everyday moments of transformation.

How about sex as comfort food? Ever had a friend or a lover use that instinctual way of reaching out to you to bring you out of your head and back into the pleasure of the here and now?

Then why not write about it?

And there’s that sex where your head just isn’t right, and you know things are kind of strange. There’s that disconnect and it changes your perspective. The kind where you can’t get off but you might get depressed. The kind where someone stops in the middle, rolls over onto their side, and shakes and cries. It’s not exactly hot but it can be very interesting, especially if you like your fantasies twisted. Cold, disconnected, upset sex between a sadist and a masochist could be volatile and frightening.

There’s that drunken sex where you’re kind of having fun, kind of not sure what you’re doing, but just going with it to go with it.

The highs and lows are intense and the middle ground is confused but erotica is about a delicate blend of lies and honesty. Some of that honesty applies to why we’re doing it and what we’re thinking while we do it. We’re chronicling a basic human urge, here. We’re covering fantasy and reality. Erotica’s about life, only smuttier.
It’s funny. I found out that a little twist on a classic fantasy will turn readers on, but a story they can connect to – even one with less sex – is going to do something just as important: make readers feel they’re not alone.

Sex is a powerful agent of change and connection. Combine sex with thought, action, and emotion and you have a story. The existence of fan fiction proves readers will add more sex in themselves if that’s all that’s missing from the story…

(I’ve been seeing more and more erotica bloggers doing this and it pleases me so much. It makes the stories personal, not just interchangeable Tab A/Slot B caricatures of people. This goes for fiction as well as real-life encounters.)

An erotic scene without a story can be forgettable. Make us think, make us feel, get us hot and we will remember. It’s a challenge but I know the sex blogosphere is up to it.

We can write about emotions and change without writing romance. (Read my archives. It’s just as easy to take that route and write something darker.) We’re writing erotic stories. It’s still about the sex but sex in a vacuum is not good sex. In any story, there’s supposed to be a change somewhere between the beginning and the end. In erotica we’ve been too often relying on the orgasm as that change, and that’s the lazy way out.

People have sex for a reason. Show that reason and you show a story, not just a scene no matter what your word count.

That’s my new year’s resolution. Happy new year. I hope 2007 brings you all every pleasure and a wealth of good experiences. Thanks for reading.

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