Archive for July, 2007
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:
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]
- I will pick my TOP FIVE favorite submissions and write out the full stories
- Readers will vote on their favorite
- 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
New Year’s Eve
The beginning, again
Craving something sweet
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.)
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
I want this to be special
I want this to be totally unique
it was only love.
And this is only a broken heart.
… 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
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.