Let’s begin with the beautiful. This week we had only one single morning for the two of us, home alone as we usually love to party (twins got flu, one from another). It is then, when something is taken from you, something that you consider a given constant, that you will appreciate it more. Wednesday I found myself craving for sex. The abstinence was “long” — ever since Monday morning, mind you. I toyed with the idea of sending the first flued twin to school on Thursday, a bit prematurely even if quite recovered, just to have a “home alone” morning with hubby. But he won’t let me hasten the convalescence without reason. He knows what I want from him when looking sheepishly for a spot to cuddle on his chest. I ask my man “what about your urges?” He replies that he will masturbate over night, carefully not to disturb my beauty sleep which, à propos, had so much to suffer lately. My answer to him is that mutual masturbation is always better than solo fantasizing, that I wish a romantic comedy to chase my worries away (he picked “What’s Your Number?” for me). Touching each other gently, we both fell prey to the sleeping sweetness in front of the screen, under the sheets. Before midnight (I’ll discover later, when opening my eyes, about the hour) I feel SOMETHING hitting my bum. Something hard, like a hot and inelastic wood. An attentive palm pushes my buttocks upwards while another hand takes the panties down my legs. I obey with a smile, pretending to dream, allowing him space between my wide open thighs. And then it happens to me, again after so many months that I forgot to count. His masculinity penetrates my pussy to perfectly reach for the inner end of my vagina. Such a moment is a superlative of life. Sure, there’s a long way to walk till my orgasmic explosions. Still that OTHER cock impaling my vagina, permeating its strength and warmth all over my body, that OTHER cock is the resolute ice breaker to the immediate fireworks ravaging my brains and giggling my every neuron from head to toes.
I beg your pardon, what OTHER cock?
Have you ever heard of modest creatures of the day turning huge and fabulous by night? Such a creature, with rare exceptions, is the cock of my man. By day, when he makes love to me with it, I feel it tense or hard, or half-hard, often playful and thrusting but seldom hugely hard. You can see this quite well in our porn movies. This is rather normal for a man past his mid forties. To compensate, his never-tiring-tongue invigorates my daily orgasms to make me more than happy with our sex routines. But on the rare occasions when we make love at night, because our days were taken by others, then his daily cock suffers a revolutionizing shift. If I’d believe in time travel (nonsense) then I’d say that every night when he gives me such a beyond-what-words-can-tell awesome fuck like Wednesday night, be it around midnight or before dawn, every such moment is a physical recollection of our youth when he stuck my pussy with his OTHER cock to have me fixed in his arms and carry me around the room, or the balcony, or the beach, or… shall I stop?
Summing up my beautiful moments and introductory paragraph for this week, here I am speaking about how I can get two cocks from my man, just not at once. Hm… can he make this happen simultaneously? Just wondering…
Ladies, Don’t Panic, It’s Politics as Usual
Today they celebrate Woman’s Day. I say “they” because I don’t. It was sickening enough for me to assist at this social hypocrisy as a child growing under the socialist regimes of the Eastern Block. Whence fat and greasy, loud and piggish men celebrated March 8, toasting for the women who were serving at their festive tables, then doing the dishes and the cleaning until late at night, while the drunkards chanted frivolous tunes. Do you think that Mr. Gorbatchev had all these dinosaurs retired, in the steps of Mr. Honecker? Think it over then: those old enough to retire brought their offspring (the North-Korean not so cool Gangnam styles) in replacement and the strong enough just retooled their fangs (women refer to operations like this as cosmetics). Worse than that, the Reds of the East impregnated the Blue Kommissars of Brussels with their Kool-Aid, exporting this fetid disease all across Europe. It’s called nannycracy, or socialism, courtesy of comrade Marx.
Okay, ladies and gentlemen, you may ask yourselves why am I so caustic about this? You know already, from previous blogs, the deep disdain I manifest for politics. It’s old news to you and to me. Yes, but the latest announcement about upcoming MasterCard fees for high risk payments (read adult industry related transactions) in the EU zone is news. In the past six months of starting up my small personal adult websites I roughly made $500. Not per month, but in six months! Lame, eh? Lower than lame, I have to say, way below my expectations. But that is it, life is tough, business slow, I’m not alone to complain. Consolated with the past and hopeful for the future, I’m grateful that I don’t have to clean toilets for these money, and I look for inventive ways to push my boundaries, to improve the business, to make it sustainable. All this sounds nice and cheerful, regardless if you’re talking about opening a coiffure salon, a bakery or an adult website. And dang comes the March 8 (coincidental) announcement of a new EU annual fee of $500 for using MasterCard. I don’t blame MasterCard as much as the EU commissars because MC does business worldwide and the new fee applies only for EU subjects (like me).
How would you feel to get laid for $500, work hard for those money, see them grow on the table (err, on the screen), move after move, position after position, sweat after sweat, moan after moan; then reach your exhausted hand for them only to see another hand, out of nowhere, grabbing them in the sacred name of socialist taxation? I can imagine that the feminists in the EU Kommissariat need more funds poured into the public budget, maybe to help the poor cats they nurture in their desert homes. What they did, once again, by imposing this new taxation is actually hurting their sisters, femmes fatales or femmes fontaines alike. We are females too! Aren’t we? At least the men jerking at our pictures can testify for our plea. We’re making pennies, not fortunes, by exposing our intimacy on the web. The same men watching 99% free porn on their computers can testify once again in our cheap favor!
The Titanic Waltz
So it is how socialism, under its numerous denominations (nihilism, anarchism, Bolshevism, Fabianism, Leninism, Maoism, Marxism, collective ownership, collectivism, communism, state ownership, nannycracy, Obamanomics, etc.), has the unstoppable nerve to ruin your day, or year, or decade, or life…
They said about the Titanic that “not even God Himself could sink this ship.” Sure thing. Same they said about former blends of national or international socialism, about the EU or any other social engineered “ship.”
In moments of lucidity, we find ourselves navigating on such a ship. Heading full speed for the iceberg fields. There are smarter options than blindly trusting the unsinkable and its captains, empty words and arrogant uniforms. I know that not God, but man will ALWAYS manage to sink ANY ship.
Looking for a lifeboat (and a handful of islands in the wild), I toy with the idea of discontinuing the acceptance of MasterCard because of the EU-imposed tax to be. It may half the pool of the non-paying customers to-be, at least until it will make sense for my small business to afford paying this charge in the future.
Another venue, difficult as any other, will be selling ebooks on Amazon (rebranded my first: Polygamy vs. Polygyny, to publish in tandem with my second: Titania – From Schönbrunn to Saturn) in the still erotic not-so-high risk literary payment places. “Good luck with that!” Will shout the twitter-guy who, the other week, complained in a retweet to an insistent “Buy my book!” writer: “I can barely pay my rent and you want me to throw money on your shit.” This is it, scarcity brings up the bellicose side of a soul – where the case. That’s what the March 8 celebration is mostly about. And this is why I don’t celebrate this day. Enjoy Falco and his piercing music about the sudden sinking of a ship…