Tag Archives: short story

Sex, lies and deluxe dildos: If I dare to, will you too?


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I’ve been doing a reality check and I’ve come up with SO MANY things I just NEED to share with you, cos I bet I’m not alone regarding some of the things I’m discovering.

Like what?

Who’s into donkey dicks, say ‘Aye!’

Am I a freak? I don’t think I’m a freak…

Reality check: I’m definitely NOT into big dicks.

In erotic stories, he’s always XXXL and she’s always got a teeny-weeny tight little mouse hole, so he ends up stretching her to the max. Which she loves.

Erm, no thanks. Any time I’ve ever had a man let out his donkey dick, I gulp out of sheer fright and would rather run 100 miles in the opposite direction. I have be known to send guys home without ‘getting it’, cos I’m definitely not into that. Have him stretch me so far I’ll either need stitching or be fanny farting for hours to come? Erm, no thanks.

Just because it’s huge, doesn’t mean it’s good. Now this is where I need you to dare to tell me the truth:

If you have a partner with such a whopper, is it really good sex or is it just painful sex? Painful not in a sexy way, but just plain uncomfortable?

And for my gentlemen readers:

Has a woman ever said: ‘no thank you, hun, pack it back and take it home’?

I guess it also depends on how skilled your partner is, whatever the size. As my grandmother once told me as we stood by the kitchen window, thinking up stories about passers by:

some a them got them Rolls Royce and don’ even know how to park it. And some a them got them mini and can park it everywhere perfectly well, thank you.

Me? I like mini that can ease itself into the tightest of slots…

I need a new toy. Any advice?

My birthday’s coming up soon. It’s time I increase my repertoire of sex aids. For the moment, all I have  –  in addition to my bedroom shoes and a crotch-less body stocking (which I DO look good in!)  –   is a variety of (fresh!) fruit and veg. Oh, and my corduroy chair. If you don’t know the story about my corduroy chair and the role it plays, along with another woman, in my best orgasm ever, read about it here. For those who already know the story but would like to read it again (and hear an orgasm that would make Meg Ryan crawl back to her trailer park), go ahead, treat yourself, I don’t mind.

A good friend of mine has given me a tip: the eroscillator. Do you know this one? OMG!!! I’ve got the top deluxe version on my wish list now. It’s not cheap ($240), but my birthday’s coming up (so is Christmas). Here’s what some of the users are saying:


I was hesitant to spend the money on this even after I read the reviews. I haven’t left the first setting yet and wow is all can say. I may not ever leave my house again.
Wife loves this one. Has plenty of power and never quits. Had to order 2 in case the first one broke.

Works well but we don’t think it’s worth the money

Well now, doesn’t THAT sound tempting? One woman claims to be using her eroscillator  for fourteen years now. Can’t make up my mind whether that’s good or sad. The equipment itself looks more like the donkey variety than the mini variety, but maybe I should give it a try. Over to you:

  • What’s your view/experience regarding (overly) well-endowed men?
  • What’s your tip for my next sexy prezzie?
  • Are there any toys out there that you consider a complete waste of time?

Hear from you soon, and remember:

Stay strong, stay beautiful, stay just the way you are.

One Manner of Hunger

one manner of hunger cover picture

Today’s Words’ Worth comes from a writer I got to know on the internet last year, Bill Johnston:
‘I tend to be either intensely focused or entirely too laid back. My demeanor is actually nearly always quite cheerful. Something about a keyboard and a concept is always so grim. Deep, eloquent and grim for a humorous soul. I’m not sure what it is… Like water my words in type run to the lowest point without the effort required to raise them.’
 ‘No matter how many times I molt, I have layers beneath that will not shed.’
On the topic of American’s being prudish:
‘We love and hate our filthy shit. I find for every one prude there’s two more that want to hear more. It swings more both ways here than I’m guessing it does there, but once something filthy must be read there are church ladies with copies under their mattresses.’
Bill Johnston. William Thomas Johnston. Poet. Storyteller. Blogger. Friend. Proof that online encounters can grow into something beautiful. It’s a pleasure to know you, Bill!

Humming Birds

I don’t think I’m going too far by putting this exquisite story up there along with Steinbeck and Faulkner. Humming Birds, by Amy Jo Sprague


“Amy, you’re gonna get it,” Nikki tells me.  I’m hiding between the lilac bushes, Barbie’s head in my hand.  It’s our weekend at our father’s house.
“What’d you use?”
“Daddy John’s knife.”  I’m not afraid.  My father is harmless, even almost afraid of us.  It’s my stepfather I’m scared of.
“I’m telling!” And off she runs toward the farmhouse.  I fish for the knife in the pocket of my dirty overalls and slice at Barbie’s pretty blue eyes so they open.  I sit and poke little holes where her pupils are and then I saw at her ratty hair.  I lick my bottom lip, almost got it.  A pleasure fills me.

“Amy!  You get in here!”  It’s Grandma Helen, I can see her wiping her hands on her apron through the lilac branches.  The white house is blinding but filthy.  The shutters are falling off.  My Uncle Bob saunters up the dirt driveway and tosses a beer can near my hiding spot.  He doesn’t see me, I breathe.  His hands, I don’t like his hands.
I wait for him to get to the porch before I emerge.  I stuff the knife in my pocket and leave Barbie behind.
“Amy what are you doing?  Give your daddy his knife back, you don’t belong with that.  Come in it’s lunch time.”  I race up the stairs and into the kitchen where Grandpa Leo sits in his brown leather chair that spins and spins when you lay across it.  He’s next to the window, above the lilac bushes, watching the humming bird feeder as usual, sipping his Old Style.  I know it’s time to be a little more civilized so I toss the knife on the table and take my seat.  Nikki and Jodie are already eating their Spaghettios from the chipped blue China dishes I always loved to look at.
The kitchen is a dismal yellow place with large wooden silverware hanging on the walls.  There’s dishes and beer cans and paper bags all over.  The floor is a brown linoleum that slants down into the next room where grandma’s organ sits.  My sisters and I sing church hymnals with her on Sundays.  There are old jelly jars all over, filled with old fashioned candy, and lilacs fill white bubbly vases.  The floor then rolls into the dark living room.  On my tricycle I barely have to pedal around the rooms.  Grandpa’s torn, black leather chair sits in the corner against the gray paneling.  The first time he gave me a sip of his beer I was sitting on his lap in that chair, picking at the white stuffing coming out of the arm.
Daddy John walks into the kitchen on his long, faded denim legs.  He wears one of three shirts, this one the brown and white plaid one with the pretty white metal buttons.  He sits down at the little table and opens another beer.
“Jesus Christ, John.  You’re good for nothin’.  Good for nothing.  You got three babies here and alls you do is sit around and drink, piss your life away, can’t hold a job.  You’re a miserable failure dammit.”  My dad’s head bows a little and he’s quiet.  Grandpa shakes his bald head and Daddy John looks at us and looks away.  We smile and eat in the silence.  As I get up to go outside, I reach across and can barely reach the knife but I do, and I slide it towards Daddy John and say sorry.  He pinches my cheek.

Outside we race for the huge apple trees.  The pink blossoms fall across the yard like snow and if you stand beneath the two of them, they arch over you and it’s like being in one of those snow globes.  The swing Daddy John built is a board on one piece of rope.  Nikki gets there first and Daddy John comes out to push her.  I climb the tree, up the nailed-in boards my cousins pounded in for steps.  Fat bumble bees buzz all about in the pink honeysuckle fragrance.

“Daddy John, Daddy John, when’s it my turn?” Jodie and I take turns asking.  For the first and last time I see my father get angry.
“I’m not ‘Daddy John’ I’m your daddy!  He can’t take my place with you’s!” and just like that he stormed off into the field where the hay bales dot the horizon.

It’s getting dark and grandma tells Daddy John to put us in the tub.  All three of us strip down, shameless with the door wide open.  Daddy John, filling the tub, sees us and blushes, looking away.  He gets up and says, “Okay, okay you’s (he always calls us ‘you’s’), wash up,,” and he leaves, too embarrassed to stay, so grandma comes in to wash our hair.  She calls salt, pepper, and paprika because of our blond, brunette, and red hair.  It’s different at mom and Scott’s house, where we’re ashamed.
We march up the nappy green stairs to the room we share with our father.  It’s divided in two by an orange afghan. We crawl up into the high double bed we share, Jodie in the middle because she’s the smallest and might fall out.  It’s dark up here and my pajamas are still clinging to my wet body.  Daddy John kisses us good night saying “I love you’s” and he walks toward the light in the door and descends the creaky stairs.  I watch him disappear and then my eyes get caught, as they do every weekend I’m here, on the haunting picture of The Last Supper.  There are golds and silvers and glittery greens in it and it and it shimmers somehow, in the dark.  I stare at it, somewhat afraid and I don’t know why the terror, until I doze off.