Archive for July, 2007

just what you wanted

July 31, 2007  |  miscellany  |  1 Comment
Well hello, new visitors! Thanks for a few strategically placed links (don’t I wish I’d emailed out a press release for this two weeks ago! Well, live & learn), I’ve got all kinds of folks stopping by.

So, in case you’re new, here’s what’s going on.


I’m running a contest to be a guest star on this here sex blog. That means:

  1. You submit some of the elements of an erotic scenario (i.e., sex scene) to me, including: characters, setting, basic plot (what should we do to each other?) [NOTE! the deadline's been extended to AUGUST 7TH, due to my lack of PR planning]
  2. I will pick my TOP FIVE favorite submissions and write out the full stories
  3. Readers will vote on their favorite
  4. One lucky favorite will get a special prize, from me (wink wink)

If you’d like to read some of my erotica, to get a feel for what kinds of things I do to others, and what they do to me, here’s a list of my favorite scenarios and my top posts:

Let go, just let go
Desire so overwhelming …
Distracting myself (three parts)
In which Sinclair bottoms (three parts)
What I would’ve done
The prettiest girl in the place
Bully
New Year’s Eve
The beginning, again
Guilty fantasies
Craving something sweet

get fantasizin’!

July 30, 2007  |  miscellany  |  2 Comments

The submissions are pouring in – by which I mean, I have six. They’re good ones, though, all of them. People, you’ve got today & tomorrow, get crackin’. Or should I say, get fantasizin’.Some notable new submissions include: a sexy fat femme in a swanky hotel bar that then retires into a suite, complete with withholding & begging; and what happens to me after a femme top arrives with her dick & harness in her purse, ready to use this. (Gulp. Holy. Crap.)

There were some folks I had hoped to hear from, especially those of you in the New York sex blogging scene. Perhaps I didn’t shout the contest from the rooftops enough?

Well – I suppose I have now. (Thanks Dacia!)

female bloggers who rock

July 30, 2007  |  miscellany  |  6 Comments

The lovely Ms. Sexcakes has tagged me in a meme, which actually I think is my first one. The theme is, female bloggers who rock.So, I’ve been thinking about this, going through the lists of the female bloggers that I read, making a list of the blogs I read daily, the blogs I wouldn’t want to be without, and then I started thinking about the sex blogs I love, and the queer women who I read and identify with. And, strangely enough, nearly all of those are separate lists, with very little overlap.

So my question is, where the hell are all the dyke sex blogs?

Yes, I know there are plenty of sex blogs out there where women write about having sex with women, but very few of them are explicitly queer, and also include discussions of queer identity and/or culture.

And, dammit (damnit), I’d like to find these blogs. If you know of any, let me know?

… And now we return you to your regularly scheduled meme.

  • bird on the wire: a collage blog of personal musings, music, and art, with photographs, occasional Simpsons hilarity (“Should we kiss to break the tension?”), and healing heartbreak. Also, she just happens to be my best friend. So of course she gets top billing.
  • Flying Truth: Dylan was one of the first readers here at Sugarbutch who commented regularly and continuted to contribute to my own thought processes, discussions, and revelations, and I really appreciate how much she keeps the conversations going. Her own blog is a collection of personal musings, from Harry Potter to her puppies to butch/femme identities and relationships.
  • Madeline in the Mirror: one of my first sexblog crushes, cause she’s so freakin articulate, and sexy, and bold. She doesn’t update as often as I (and many of her fans) would like, but when she does it’s always worth it. Also visit her at Mad Words.
  • Lusty Lady by Rachel Kramer Bussel. ‘Cause she’s always got something to say, usually either sexy, insightful, intelligent, or just about some sort of fantastic cupcake. Seems like the sex blog/sex writing world in New York City is centered around six-degrees-of-RKB. She’s quite the staple in this community, and she blogs frequently, regularly, and brilliantly. Also because she’s smokin’ hot.
  • Waking Vixen by Audacia Ray. Dacia is not only a blogger, editor, and sex worker these days, but also a published author and a porn director. I especially like how her explorations and musings are a window into the fascinating subculture of porn and sex work.
  • And one to grow on, ’cause I can’t leave her out: Viviane’s Sex Carnival is another staple in the sex blogging community, always insightful & interesting.

loose ends

July 29, 2007  |  miscellany  |  2 Comments
I don’t think I was very clear about this whole contest entry request thing. I’ve had more than a few emails and comments about how much detail I’m asking for, and I am realizing that I should’ve given an example for what kind of information I’m looking for. I was hoping the form would help with that, but that ended up not being so clear either (and then had a character limit, and was cutting entries off).

So, to be totally clear: this is an example of what I mean when I’ve said details and lots of information:

Characters: Sinclair & Claire Danes. Claire: redhead, petite, great legs. Particularly proud of her pouty mouth, that could be a nice detail somewhere.

Setting: Central Park & Claire’s apartment. We are both in the park to watch a free concert and catch each other’s eye. Claire approaches Sin, flirting insues, Claire invites Sin to walk her home.

Story: Claire is very bold and asks Sin up for a nightcap; proceeds to seduce her with jazz music, fingers in Sin’s hair, a short skirt. When Claire gets Sin to the bedroom she gives Sin a blowjob and then straddles Sin, fucking until they both get off. Claire then ushers Sin out kinda fast and laughs at her attempt to get her number.

See? Some major things for me to elaborate upon, major plot points and details, but not TOO much. I mean, if you want to write the story yourself, you are welcome to do that – actually, I may have another contest in the works (possibly – we’ll see how this one goes) that plays out that scenario. You’ll have to hold onto your hat for that one.

One more thing:

Say you’re a little kid and you wake up in the middle of the night, and out of every window you see huge flames, fire, crackling wood, glowing red and orange. Scary, right? You think the world is ending. You think the entire world is on fire. You panic. Your parents are already engulfed in it and your dog is probably gone too. All you can hear is tree limbs falling and snapping.

Then, your door opens. Your mom comes in. “It’s okay, honey,” she says, “it’s only a forest fire.”

Get it?

That’s why this is only a broken heart. Because for the past two months it has felt like my world is ending. My sense of self is crumbling. Things I thought I knew were wrong, and twisted, and twisting my very sense of reality. But I had a moment this week when I realized this is only a broken heart this is not the end of the world, this is not the end of love.

I hate being misunderstood. Add that to the character study of myself.

PS: Sugarbutch hit 50,000 hits sometime this morning. Thanks, readers. Despite my occasional bitchings about details and misunderstandings, I really appreciate the comments, feedback, and presence of everyone.

have y’all forgotten about the deadline, or what?

July 27, 2007  |  miscellany  |  2 Comments

oh so misunderstood

July 27, 2007  |  journal entries  |  1 Comment

Because I was worried that my comment on “only a broken heart” would be misunderstood, and because it was, I am reposting here a comment I made on that last post:

I’m not saying “only a broken heart” in order to dismiss it, or to belittle it, or to make it mean less, or to diminish the experience. yes, of course, a broken heart is a big fucken deal (I mean, obviously – probably the most traumatic thing we humans go through, aside from death & trauma).

but what I’m saying is this: I have been struggling for quite some time with the elaborate, complex emotions, feelings, resentment, hurt, pain – all that crap – and I’ve been struggling, forcing it, really, to mean something cosmic and soul-deep and all-consuming and infinite.

but really, it’s just a broken heart.

see what I’m saying? now, that is NOT to say that I don’t think there are bits of the cosmos, the soul-deep, the all-consuming inside of a broken heart. I do.

but what I’m doing is naming this experience. putting it into a little box called “broken heart” and closing the lid and putting it on the shelf. it’s only a broken heart. that’s all this is. I’ve wounded; I will heal.

a tiny revelation

July 26, 2007  |  poetry  |  7 Comments

I want this to be special
I want this to be totally unique
and meaningful
and singular.
But really,
it was only love.

And this is only a broken heart.

how to get your love on

July 25, 2007  |  miscellany  |  1 Comment

… When you’re single and you’ve finally made it past the age when you’ve felt both love’s deepest tongue probings and also its most random horror-flick slashings, past the age when getting moronically drunk every weekend and hooking up is the ultimate goal, and you’ve had enough sex to fill a thousand porn movies, and everyone around you is no longer on some sort of giddy, wide-eyed first-adult-relationship must-get-married must-have-babies track of impossibly optimistic utopian desire, what it means, at least for me, is that you get to become this odd sort of sounding board — a blank slate of love’s warped potential, a reason for others to extrapolate on the nature of love and life and sex and how goddamn difficult/ wonderful/impossible it all really is.

- Mark Morford, How to Get Your Love On

bully (working title)

July 23, 2007  |  dirty stories  |  7 Comments

You are face down, ponytail bobbing, wrists and ankles tied to my bedposts, the simple steel I won from my last breakup. Since then, I have fucked five women in this bed. You are the sixth.

Does it matter how I got you here? Whether I wined and dined you, bought you indulgent fruity mixed drinks, a delectable dinner, your body now satiated but wanting other fullness, wanting me to stop fingering my fork spoon knife glass napkin ice cubes and begin placing my hands carefully on your skin.

Or perhaps I simply ordered you over here, sent a car to your apartment and was waiting downstairs when you arrived at mine, paid the driver, removed my dark tie from the tight collar of my baby-blue button down and slipped it over your eyes. Leading you up two flights of stairs without your sense of sight.

No matter. You’ve been here before. Nothing really to see.

I am tempted to rip seams, pop buttons open with force. You know how you bring that out in me.

Instead, I make you wait. Drag the thin fabric of your shirt along your skin, slow as I can. You can’t see, but you can feel me, my breath on you, my hands, my rough thumbs waiting to dig bruises into your upper arms, stomach, hips.

My collection of floggers hang from a swirl of Victorian iron on the wall next to my bed. I choose my favorite: black, thin leather, red deerskin flanks in the center. My name is carved into the handle: s. i. n.

You’re stripped, aside from my dark blue schoolboy tie around your eyes. I know it’s not foolproof, other blindfolds are more efficient. I don’t mind the glimpses you steal.

You see me strip down to loose, soft cotton jersey boxers and an a-shirt. Have to have my arms free if I’m going to beat you, after all. My cock pokes through the single button in the boxers. You like it when it does that.

I smell like summer and sweat, and I’ve been drinking tequila again, on the rocks, just a little. You smell sweet. Fresh. Clean like linen. My mouth waters and I imagine my tongue tracing the curves of your lower back, up to your shoulder, the back of your neck.

I stand gazing for too long, and you begin to squirm.

“Be still,” I say, and put one hand on your ass, trace it down to the back of your knee. “I’m going to hit you now.”

You let out a puff of air that is a whimper and a sigh. Your skin tenses and you try to counter by keeping your muscles calm.

“Relax,” I say, “or it’ll just hurt more.”

I want you to count to fifty, but wonder if that’s too many. I like flogging with an end in sight. Otherwise I go into that physiological trance state where I find rhythm and forget to stop.

I begin counting in my head. One – thump. Two – thump. Your muscles begin to open but still wince just before the leather makes contact.

Five – thump.

Six – thump.

The leather makes a small whoosh through the air. I’m being gentle, mostly just a tap, letting gravity pull the tassels to your skin, your ass, your thighs.

Whoosh – ten – thump.

Whoosh – eleven – thump.

I begin to throw a little more arm strength into the flogger and you grunt with an “uh –“ wincing a little stronger.

At fifteen I pause, run my hand, fingers, palm, along your skin. Tender where I’ve hit you hardest. You inhale sharply and arch your back to the touch, like a cat.

“Your skin looks beautiful,” I say. “It’s beginning to pinken, a little, at the edges.” My mouth is at your neck and I kiss you a few times, find you panting, tongue swollen.

“More, darling?” I ask, an offer and a question. You turn your face toward the sound of my voice, bite your lower lip, and nod.

“Oh – yes – please – ” you manage.

You do beg real pretty. I’ll never forget your legs wrapped around me that night I refused to slide inside you until you begged.

You’d said, finally: “Oh baby, your cock is so sweet, so sweet and hard, fill me up with it, baby, shove it in me, please, pump it in me, let me milk it, let me squeeze it hard till you come inside me, oh please I want it – I need it – I wanna be filled up – please put it in, please.”

It was the way your eyes flashed on that last please that did it to me. Finally sent me over desire’s edge to where I had to take you.

Tonight, I’m ready to hold out.

I switch up my rhythm so the flogger first hits my back over my right shoulder, then your back and exposed ass, then I catch it with my left hand. Easier on a Saint Andrew’s Cross than lying down, but I like the way it stings my palm. Plus I can gauge the strength of the blows this way.

Shoulder – ass – hand. Twenty.

Shoulder – back – hand. Twenty one.

Shoulder – ass – hand. Twenty two.

You’re writhing a bit, whimpering at the blows, occasional head back open-throated gasp when I land somewhere particularly hard.

Shoulder – back – hand. Twenty five.

I decide to go to thirty. Your skin is reddened to how I like it, ripe, your hips are making these nice S-curves and I want to fuck your ass.

I increase not just the muscle power I’m putting behind the flogger but also the velocity. Harder. Faster. You cry out. Twenty seven. You gasp and cry out again. Twenty eight.

I grab your hair, a neat twist in a ponytail, and lift your head slightly, my mouth by your ear. I drag the flogger along your inner thighs.

“Quiet,” I mutter.

You sigh and shudder. “Bully – “ you whisper, not intending for me to hear you.

I want to growl, but instead I push your cheek to the soft sheet and hold you there by the back of your neck, aiming a few blows between your legs.

Leather on labia. My favorite.

You’re whimpering again. I loose count and take five, six quick whaps to your cunt and inner thighs. You are making noises that sound like exquisite agony.

I step out of my boxers, they’re in the way, lube up my cock from the pump on the bedside table and moisten two fingers, then kneel between your thighs and lube your asshole, fingering the crack of your ass. I slide the thumb of my left hand into your slick wet cunt and can feel your clit under my index finger, so I set it there and rock it gently back and forth. The heel of my hand spreads your labia and tilts your pelvis back and up. Serves you to me like a feast.

You moan. The blindfold has slipped over your head and you’re watching me from over your left shoulder.

I slide one finger, then two, into your tight asshole while leaving my other hand still, fingers inside you. You groan a little and press into me a bit harder. Slide those fingers out and I touch the tip of my dick to your tight hole and you swallow it, open to it, and I can feel the muscles stretch and pulse when the head of my cock pops in, the shaft of it sliding easier through the tightest places.

You are still moaning. Sounds from your mouth as you grind back into me and wiggle your hips against mine. You’re almost on your knees and elbows now, hands gripped around the ties that hold you to the headboard. Lower back arched, still a little pink.

I let go of the cupped grip on your cunt and find your hipbones with my palms. Push you from me and pull you back so I don’t have to clench, just you, pulling your ass down onto my cock, feeling the resistance in your tight hole. It’s so good fucking you this way. Thighs and ass clenched, clit rubbing against the base of my cock every time I thrust inside. Easing forward so my thighs hit yours. Working in and out faster, a little, harder, my body an S-curve from knee to stomach, not just in-out but rolling against you. You are open-mouthed screaming into the pillow and asking for more, harder, oh god, fuck me, fuck my ass and I slap against you, once, twice, both of us groaning.

My head rolls back, my back curves, slapping against you harder as my orgasm comes closer, the resistance of your ass offering me tight pressure every time I thrust inside. My hands still hold your hips, your ass, the sitbones of your buttocks as my cunt pulses, cock fucks.

You can feel it in me. “Do it,” you say, “come in my ass, fuck me till you come, do it harder, thrust inside me –” and I groan, yelling oh god oh god yes, fuck, and shudder against you until I’m spent, throw my arm around your waist and collapse on top of you, kissing your neck, your shoulders.

I breathe heavy as my body calms, then slip out, untie you. You curl next to me, knees and arms between us as we both lay on our sides and I gently finger your wrists, ankles, the places you were bound, and your back, shoulders, ass. Places I hit you. Tender.

“Alright?” I ask. We gaze at each other.

You smile. “Course.” You hold my cheek in your palm and I kiss your thumb. “You?”

“Mmmm.” I manage. Spent. You didn’t come, this time. “I’ll make it up to you in the morning,” I promise, grateful you’ve let me take what I’ve been craving. I’ll give you whatever you want.

You run your fingers through my short boy hair. “Damn right you will,” you say, and pull the covers up over us both.

restless

July 23, 2007  |  miscellany  |  No Comments

I couldn’t sleep last night, which probably had something to do with the incredibly strong cup of columbian coffee my sister poured me at nine pm, mostly with the intention of sobering me up – we’d been drinking white wine sangria since the early afternoon and I began to fade.I thought I was revealing something to her when I was drunk enough to talk about my sexblog. I was going to begin discussing how it was I could make some money offa this bad boy.

Instead, she already knew about the blog, and I revealed nothing.

This place is getting less and less anonymous. I’ve discovered that my “anonymous” gmail address actually displays my non-anonymous gmail address right next to it. Oh, I was warned about this. I should’ve paid attention. I guess I figured nobody would really notice.

Well, they noticed.

This is not the first time this has happened to me. I’ve had a dozen or so “anonymous” journal sites online since 1996, and each time, after about a year, the site begins to get more and more traffic, more and more readers and commenters, and then my identity becomes more and more blurred, until I finally either completely reveal my name and such or I shut the thing down completely.

I don’t want that to happen here. I’m having too much fun.

But, on the other hand, I don’t want my name tied to this site. The things I discuss here are too personal.

So, I couldn’t sleep last night. Was up until three am, then awake again at five, at five thirty, at six am when it started raining, at six thirty when my cats decided it was chase time, at seven, at seven thirty when I finally got up.

Today, I am restless.

While putting myself to sleep, however, I spent some quality time with Alison Tyler’s new anthology Love at First Sting, which is fabulous. And I began and ended a new erotica piece. Watch for it.