The internet is never boring.

I discovered that someone searched for "ass caviar" and my weblog responded.

Good for you, my dirty, dirty blog.

Rarely does one set a specific goal for masturbation other than orgasm.

On the bed, I steel myself to learn how to squirt and not rise until I achieve enlightenment.

Fantasy showing through the back of my lids, desire beating upon my breasts, I curl my middle and ring finger inside myself and pull, forcefully, rhythmically.  A gush, a giggle.  No orgasm, but the flood precedes one.  I can feel it building.

Euphoria.  Then dismay.

I made my own cum spot. 

That I have to sleep in.

'Boyfriend' is just another word for disappointment.

I'll have three fingers and a side of extra orgasm, please.

I think, remembering now, he must have been incredibly nervous.  There was an icy wall that first day we were together that I shattered with my warmth.

He greeted me, stiffly, tall, unable to find a way to comfortably arrange his arms, and waited as the conveyor belt spit out my luggage without fanfare.

I asked him in the car, "Are we going to fuck in your bed tonight?"  His eyes met mine briefly, and then slid uneasily away.  I was impertinent, goading.  I loved his discomfort.

We put away my things and settled onto the couch.  I crept closer, placing my cheek on his shoulder, my hand resting on his knee.  We were the picture of a high school couple and I glanced up at him.  His glassy eyes stared at the television he wasn't seeing.

Shifting, I stretched out and put my head in his lap, my hand following.  I traced slow lazy circles into his thighs, daring farther up with each pass.  I did not get very far.

I sat up suddenly.  "Is that . . . I can hear your heartbeat from here!"

He gave me a withering look and a flippant comment about torture.

I grabbed his hand and headed towards the bedroom. 

With each step forward, we left the fumblings of adolescence and into an adult realm with which I am completely familiar.  He nervously undressed in the sullen reticence I grew to love.

Our lips affixed themselves onto foreign territories, our embrace encompassed strange shapes, and he awkwardly searched to be inside of me. 

A few strokes and we were known to one another.

A few strokes and it felt right.

I love the way he has naturally come into being just a little bit ruthless during sex.

Pulling in my head so I choke down the length of him.

Holding me down lightly, encircling my windpipe with his great breadth of fingers.

Grabbing a fistful of my hair so I cannot move.

I have an inkling, a small idea, to loop my robe belt around my throat while he's fucking my ass from behind.  I can feel his elbow balancing on my back as he slowly twines the fabric into his fist, leading me up to be flush against his torso.  I imagine his other hand coming up to knead and pluck at my nipples.  His breath in my hair, his lips grazing my jaw when I desperately crane backwards to kiss him.

Yes.  I have an inkling.

I am quite attracted to use the new "category" tool introduced recently to Blogdrive.

But I'm afraid that the themes or subjects of my blogging will stand out like a garish, gaudy, and obtuse whore proclaiming cheap thrills for the masses.

But then again, mine shall be the dirties cloud in this blogosphere . . .

"You look very pretty today."

I love how, to him, the difference between pretty and very pretty is a simple coat of mascara.

Inches from my face, his eyes stare deeply into mine as he works his cock within me.

I can take only so much before I dissolve into pleasure, closing my lids.  I moan deeply, my plump lips mouthing silent invitations.  I open my eyes again and watch as his glance slides back up from my mouth.

I bite my bottom lip in sheer vanity and his eyes flicker, briefly, to them.

And it's not long after I realize what power I have on him before my teeth-bruised lips and my fluttering eyes make an intimate and bemusing game of Pong with his gaze.

Lips.

Eyes.

Lips.

Eyes.

Point.

Today I saw a man with cartoon teeth: the cosmic dufus guffaw, whose grin induces grimaces, and at who even horses scoff.

I wonder if there's anyone for him to come home to.  Someone that caresses his ear affectionately as they embrace.  Who bades him a good day with a sack lunch and a brief kiss.  Someone who sees in him their own romantic salvation.

Because I know on cold and lonely nights, you are only alone because you choose to be.