Damnnn ...

I came here to maybe post something, who knows what kind of shallow, facile bullshit dressed up in irony and garnished with a sprig of haught.

Whoo, though. Saw that last post and almost didn't even start this one.

That's the kind of thing you really want sitting at the top of your blog page when people show up.

What, You Didn't Believe Me?

Witness my vanity.

Yeah, She's Better at Some Things, But Look How I'm Flaunting This Body

Big sincere applause mood for Claire rediscovering her blogging groove. No sarcasm -- seriously, I'm being utterly truthful here. On the other hand, eye rolls and a slow-clap of self-mockery for me dragging myself to Blogger like a hooked fish, out of some need to make sure I'm not getting lost in the shuffle.

Fuck that shit, you know? I should blog when I goddamn well feel like blogging. It's not a fucking competition. Literally nothing around here is a fucking competition unless we decide we're actually going to have a competition of fucking, in which case, I win. Maybe tie with Hettie, that girl is a firecracker in bed.

If I'm going to be competitive, even if it's just me trying to hold myself to a higher standard because I'm seeing great things out of my polys, I'd damn sure better stick to my lane.

Like the fact that I'm on the body right now, instead of Claire, and I one-thousand-percent ROCK this shit. Not saying she isn't smoking hot when it's her turn to run this fine piece of sweltering svelte velvet sex-flesh. She's a stunner off or on it. But stick my face on our mutual corpus deliciosus, and the gods fall slobbering from the peak of Mount Olympus.

Girl gods too.

I'm just that mouth-watering. And let's not even talk about who would win a snark-off.

Should I be proud of this shit?

Yes.

Even if it's not really my fault that the universe endowed me with an unmatchable ability to wear a hot body and destroy minds with my scalpel-sharp sarcasm. In this world, you'd better look at yourself, take hold of what's you, own it, and shout to the heavens how great you feel about it.

See? I'm even fucking amazing at psych advice.

Now somebody come let me ride them to paradise while I've got the keys to the sexmobile.

Sure you do, Claire.

Uh-huh. I write Aers a nice poem about her green eyes, and little miss Claire is on Twitter ten seconds later boasting what a poet I am and then five seconds after that reminding me that she's got green eyes too and basically demanding her own poem for it.

Whatever you say, lady:

I've had those eyes in my head, you know.
Right in the skull where my own eyes should go.
I've felt them, hooked up to my blond, blue-eyed brain.
I've seen through their pupils.

So let me explain.

I can lay eyes on you.
You can lay eyes on me.
But we both know beforehand just what we will see.

We're a thing, you and I.
Bound by

a
split

corporeality.

You'll know what I'd tell you
before I could speak.
You know when I'm noble.
You know when I'm weak.

So I don't need to write what I see in your gaze.
I don't need to gloss

on the sun's
shining rays.

Or how clouds disperse.

You don't need a verse.

You know.

Better than

I

can say.

Where have you been keeping this?

You ever look at your boyfriend's old porn stash and say, "Holy fuck, why do you never look at this stuff anymore?"

Goddamn, that boy has some good taste in hot chicks.

Oldies but goodies...

So, if Aers can poke through Claire's old files and splash her early pics across the blogosphere, why can't I?

Let's give it a shot.

This one here -- almost straight out of the goddamn box. That's actually it behind her. Look at this stone fucking fox:

Tits, babe. Show 'em:

SO close to showing the sweet spot. I'd call her a tease, but he's the one who took the pic:

Hey, don't you try and shush me.

Oh right. Pointing something out.

WTF are you looking at in these ones, woman?

Jesus. You know that's the way I look at you sometimes, right?

When I don't think you'll spot me.

 

Not Feeling It

This morning I was encouraged by one of our resident busybodies to get on here and blog. So here I am.

Fine.

But you know what? Even though as soon as they suggested it, I thought maybe it was actually a good idea, I'm changing my mind more with every passing second.

Disappointed? Too fucking bad.

Sometimes the post is just, "Things are good."

And when they are, I don't know why the hell I would force a blather-fest here just because I'm "overdue" or something.

I'll post when I goddamn well feel like it.

Right now, I'm basking. I had some hella great sex yesterday and still haven't come down from it.

The fucking End.

(holy fuck, was that ever some hella great sex.)

Two Short of Perfect

Me. Him. Claire. Sash.

I mean, there's room in the bed for Het and Aers to fit too, if Aers weren't breaking my damn heart with her damn broken back. But I guess we had some psychic understanding that even just the three of us would wear the boy out.

He overdid it, for sure.

But here's to overdoing it the best way to overdo it if you're going to.

Mmm, damn.

Decisively NOT.

I've been informed I must blog about something tonight or I'll be the odd woman out amongst those of us with our own blogs.

And why would being the odd one out motivate me, exactly?

Honestly, I can't even.

Having an Identity Crisis

Well, not really.

I told the resident male I'm having this impulse -- okay, no, this yearning, to be sweet. Like, just now I was about to type "(ugh)" in front of the word "sweet." But I made myself stop and not do it. And I feel dumb about that and dumb about saying I want to be sweet.

I don't even know why I'm feeling this way.

Holy shit, though, writing about it makes me wonder what the hell I was thinking.

I goddamn love writing like I'm a cynical badass bitch who will snark-stomp you cross-eyed if you give me half a reason to.

So I'm not having an identity crisis, even if I am feeling like I should let my tender, vulnerable side out with my polys.

I guess what I'm realizing is, I have this mask, this persona, that I use to engage the world with. And you know what? It's a fucking kick-ass mask. It's just as much me as the vulnerable, sweet side I'm not sharing here with you right now. Maybe it's even more me, because it's a choice. It's how I enjoy expressing my fucking awesome self. I've made this persona, and I rule with it.

Vulnerability and sweetness are for pussies. But that's cool, because pussies are fucking awesome too. There's a pretty big part of me that's a total pussy -- hidden away inside, waiting, full of gloriously sensitive nerve endings to be touched and filled and kissed and made love to. The part of me that's a giant, soft, slippery-sweet pussy, though, doesn't need to get on the goddamn internet and blab about it how it's feeling and what it's doing.

I need to do that, and the way I like to do it is exactly what I dish out here.

Crisis banished.

And it better not show its fucking face around here again.

Manacle Me on a Highwire

 I'm really in the mood for a cuffed stunt.