It is my great pleasure to announce my inclusion in a new anthology, aptly titled, Dirty Old Women — an intriguing collection of erotica by women of experience,edited by Lynx Canon
Dirty Old Women know what they want and are not afraid to say so.
I invite you to come join me for an evening featuring free erotic readings and performance by twelve writers, at the book launch and pre-Valentines day party, on Wednesday, February 8, from 7:30 – 9:30, at the Makeout Room, 3225 22nd Street and Mission in San Francisco.
I hope to see you there!
Story Snippet from Full Body Massage:
Are there any tender or painful, body parts I should be aware of?” Don inquired before beginning the massage.
I lay naked, face down on her padded massage table covered by a light blanket. I sighed. “That’s pretty much any body part you can name after six weeks in this cast.”
“Why you poor woman,” she said, in a low, husky voice, “You are in need of attention, aren’t you? Let’s see if I can make you feel better.”
Don poured a small circle of heated massage oil into her hands and rubbed her palms together, releasing a soothing, spicy smell into the air. She began with basic Swedish massage, combined with acupressure; first working on my tension filled upper arms and shoulders, then moving down my spine to my achy lower back, and to my hips.
I felt the first small twinges of arousal between my legs when Don’s hands, slick with oil, slid over the smooth round cheeks of my ass, stroking, kneading and spreading them apart. The sensations became so exciting I squirmed with pleasure, surprising myself, because I wasn’t into women at all. But Don was tall, broad-shouldered, and somehow manly, particularly in the dim light of the room—and into women or not, this massage was turning me on.
Don continued to massage my hips—and I imagined, what if those talented hands were to slide between my legs, parting the swollen outer lips of my opening, and delve into the moist tingling flesh within. I waited, barely breathing, barely breathing, but then she moved on to the backs of my thighs and knees to my lower legs, and spent some time doing acupressure on my feet.
Calm down, Mia, I told myself, what are you expecting anyway—a full body massage?
“Mia, you can turn over now,” she said softly. Struggling with the cast I rolled myself over and with the blanket covering me, I lay back comfortably with a small pillow beneath my neck. Using her fingertips, Don massaged my head, face, and throat, even my ears, and the muscles in my arms and hands.
“You’re really tense. You need to remember to breath,” she said, firmly, continuing on to stroke my neck, and shoulders, and upper chest.
I was breathing alright, half gasping in fact, with my nipples jutting out at attention, breasts aching with excitement, and the muscles of my pussy clenching and squeezing down hard. Never mind becoming less sexual during menopause—by the time Don reached my lower belly, I was ready, more than ready for anything she wanted to do. But she folded the blanket back over me and her hands moved onto my thighs instead, and continued downward to my knees, lower legs, and feet—and then slowly, deliberately, back up again.
She paused, when her hands reached the tops of my thighs, with her fingertips almost but not quite brushing my pubic curls hidden beneath the blanket. A hot rush of excitement traveled like an electric current straight to my clit. I gasped with pleasure and opened my eyes.
Don gazed down at me longingly. “Beautiful Mia,” she murmured, and waited, her dark eyes questioning. Speechless with excitement, I smiled up at her and nodded my agreement. Full body massage, oh my god, yes! Please don’t stop now! I thought, and a ripple of pleasure went through my entire body when she set the blanket aside and reached for me.
I recently saw in Publisher’s Lunch that E.L. James’ new book, GREY, will hit the bookstore on June 18th. The date was chosen to commemorate Christian Grey’s birthday. It will, I’m sure it will make a great Father’s Day offering on June 21st, for those hard to buy for dads who have everything.
This book is the sequel to the runaway hit trilogy, Shades of Grey, and is told from Christian’s point of view — affording anyone interested, the opportunity to get up close and personal with inner workings of his angst-filled, emotionally shut down, control-freak mind. So now, in spite of feeling that I’ve read quite enough of Ms. James’ prose for one lifetime, I am going to have to read this book. Particularly after having read and enjoyed, the inner workings of a top-man’s mind, in Master of O, by Ernest Green (see 5/3 posting, My Thoughts on Master of O), I simply have to see what makes Christian Grey tick. One can only hope we won’t be treated to dialogues with his inner goddess this time around.
My husband and I saw the film, Shades of Grey, not long after (see 4/23/15 posting). I recall saying I planned to wait to see it when came out on DVD, and there it was about five minutes later, available on TV for $4.99, and in the privacy of our home. So we watched it. Neither of us found particularly hot, although there were a few hot bits mixed in with the rest. I think this was partly due to some basic lack of chemistry between lead actors Dakota Johnston and Jaime Dorman. Remember Mickey Rourke and Kim Bassinger in 9 1/2 Weeks, or James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal in The Secretary? Now there are some red-hot examples of what made our groins come alive.
All in all, my husband and I both shook our heads a lot at the stilted and melodramatic portrayal of a BDSM romance. But then, to us kinky seniors, these twenty-somethings seem far too young, immature, and ego-driven to be taken seriously. Surely, we thought, that tight-assed contract negotiation scene was intended as comic relief. And really, the whole idea of Ana demanding that Christian demonstrate the most severe pain she’d be required to endure — without having already generated the necessary endorphin rush to make a positive response possible, make us laugh out loud.
Having been a happy BDSM couple for thirty-two years this December, viewing the film did generate nostalgic remembrance of our own initial meeting and consequent negotiation process at a San Francisco cafe. How could I forget that zinging, high frequency excitement i felt when I gazed into his eyes, felt his energy — and realized the the submission fantasy I’d been rehearsing in my head for so long. was about to be lived out. And after watching Ana’s first entrance into Christian’s theatrically named, “Red Room if Pain”, my husband became positively sentimental recalling my introduction to his spare room turned dungeon — and my responsiveness to this new, fun form of play. But we weren’t kids when we met. We knew what we wanted, and when we found it, we thanked the powers-that-be that the chemistry was there. Still, between hot scenes we had our power struggles, like everyone else. We were ready to spit up five times during the first year alone, but somehow persevered.
So I never thought I’d say this but I’m interested in reading this new book and offering my review of it. I’m also interested in how 50 Shades Darker, the next film in the series will turn out. I hear that both director, Sam Taylor-Johnston, and scriptwriter, Kelly Marcel have resigned from the project and that E.L.James and her husband will have unbridled control of this next installment of Christian and Ana face life.
Still, schmaltz aside, looks to me like E.L.James has turned mainstream attention to the topic of BDSM, and the kink community owes her a debt of gratitude for that. @DorothyFreed1.
I realize I’m meandering all over the place on my way to blogging about my life as a sexual adult that began in 1961, and has now spanned six decades. I’ve had a lot to distract me lately, in the form of a writing class, a family visit, a May vacation to plan, B&Bs to decide on and a new and frequently mystifying Twitter account to learn the ins and out of, (all fun and exciting things) — plus an injured shoulder from doing the Bridge pose dead wrong, and a knee and a toe injury, not to mention my computer running amuck and requiring money spent on repairs, (not fun or exciting things at all) — I’m just now getting around to a short post about my recollections of sex in the 90s.
My husband an I continued to enjoy the Bay Area BDSM party scene until about the mid-90s. As a straight male, moderately bisexual female couple, our sexual interactions were primarily with each other — punctuated by the occasional and delightful safe sex encounter. And as such, our focus was on enjoying the social aspects of membership in the kinky community, in addition to the considerable stimulation of the live theater aspects of public BDSM.
Still, the raging STD epidemic was unarguably of grave concern to the entire sexual community. By then, never mind personal safety precautions, most clubs and play spaces had adopted a mandatory safe sex requirement on their premises — a sensible measure with which most thinking people agreed — although I still shake my head recalling one outraged male dominant expound on the outrage and indignity of being required to wear a condom while penetrating his own wife. I suppose the issue of how a dungeon monitor could be expected to know whose wife he was penetrating, evidently did not occur to him.
All in all, I have relatively little to say about the public BDSM scene in the latter part of the mid-90s. I’d turned fifty by then. For me, those were the menopausal years, the years of mood swings and hot flashes, accompanied by unwanted weight gain and plummeting sexual desire for the first time in my more than thirty-five years of sexually active life. For my husband, who was three years older than I, it was a time when most players around us seemed younger with each party we attended — and we were no longer that super hot, still youngish couple with whom everyone wanted to play.
Those were also the years of increasing career responsibilities and aging parent responsibilities, combined with young adult offspring responsibilities and that our aging dogs grew infirm, making us loath to leave them. By mid-decade, although we continued to play privately and occasionally with other couples, as time and hormonal imbalances allowed, we gradually and regretfully dropped out of the public BDSM scene.
I attended the Folsom Street Fair on Sunday, 9/20, my first time ever at this iconic San Francisco evcnt. I can’t say why, considering my long history in the local erotic community. Over the years I’ve attended Gay Pride celebrations, partied on Polk Street, visited the Bizarre Flea Market, and been a vendor at the Castro Street Fair. Somehow I never got around to attending Folsom Street until now. Sicne my recent big birthday, I’m all for doing anything interesting I haven’t done before — and if it feels good, I’ll do it again. (This might mean you can take the girl out of the 70s, but can’t take the 70s out of the girl.)
I’ve heard Folsom gets rowdier and raunchier as the day wears on. Consequently, being a very small person who tends to avoid large crowds, my friend and I arrived when the fair opened in the morning at eleven and left before two, while the streets were still easily negotiable. What impressed me the most about Folsom St. in the time I spent there was not the naked people, or folks on leashes, or public floggings, or pony girls, or Master/slave interactions — although I must say it all seemed like good clean fun to me. But what stood out for me was the solid feeling of community I felt as I wandered along, checking out the information displays and artisan booths and the people around my. As a horny old girl who has been in an alternative style relationship for decades, I didn’t see anything of a sexual nature that shocked or offended me in any way — although in the year 2014, I was really sorry to see displays of kinky toys made of animal fur.
I particualy enjoyed seeing more than a few mature BDSM couples, walking hand in hand, or in some cases, leash in hand, along the street — just old timer kinky folks, out having a stroll though their neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon — and from the look of things, still hot, after all these years. For me, attending Folsom St. was a delightful journey into live theater and I enjoyed myself a lot. I many go again next year.