TMI Thursday: In the Out Door

It is with a heavy heart that I share this story of misdeeds I've done with my dick. No, no...it's okay.  I'll make it through.  I just have to be strong.  Like bull.

Yesterday, my friend Nick became dead to me advanced his career, taking a different position with a different company. Since I'm a jealous asshole, I shall miss his presence here within the hallowed halls of my main job, though I am happy for him.  As Nick is a regular reader to this blog--as regular as you can get for something that never updates--I thought I would finally piece together the story that I promised back in the dog days of summer. It's called that because I was as hot as dog balls on thigh humping night.

I'm not sure what that means, either.

Anyway, this one is for Nick, who not only is far smarter than I, but is also far better looking. Not to mention he's been banned from nude beaches because the other bathers are terrified of the beached sea serpent that unfurls itself when Nick lays out on his towel. I'm not saying he's massive or anything, but he's better hung than the jury for Phil Spector's trial.

Enough about Nick's anaconda (as a note, it don't want none unless you got buns, hon!); we're here to read embarrassing stories about what I've done with my pecker. And it certainly is interested, even if you don't got buns. Hon.

When it comes to sexual encounters, I've certainly had a few. Unless, for some reason you're my mother reading this. In which case, please, continue lying to yourself and believe that I've only had two. Ever. And none of them were upstairs in my old bedroom. *shifty-eyed*

While my encounters are many, it seems that the greater number of sexual foibles and/or follies took place with She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, otherwise known as Sheila the Buxom The Ex.

If you haven't met The Ex before, feel free to peruse old TMI Thursday posts, as she and her lovely breasts and perfect ass show up there quite often. I feel that, if I compliment her, even these many years after the fact, it will soften the blow should she someday discover several of her sexual misdeeds have been recorded in electronic media. Because it's not like that shit's forever or anything. Oh, internet, what would we do without you? THANK YOU, AL GORE!

Anyway, let's cut to the chase. One night after working at the old bookstore, I went over to the Ex-Fiancee's house. Instead of watching a movie or going out to eat, we decided to probe each other's bodies with parts of our own. This happened on a fairly regular basis. You'd think that, with all the food I wasn't eating, I would have been thinner. Hmm. Go fig.

We were back in her bedroom and I had just worked her out of her clothing and, admittedly, I was had removed my own garments. We were making out pretty hard, hands and lips were moving over every part of each other's bodies. I cupped her breasts, ran my hands down her sides and slipped my fingers between her thighs and into her. Once I felt she was ready, I kissed my way down to her nipples and trailed my lips and tongue down her body as I slipped off the bed. I nestled between her thighs and went to town. After thoroughly enjoying a bout of oral, I decided that I'd try to last as long as possible and just enter her while she was moist and ready.

As a taller man, one of my favorite ways to do the deed is to be standing at the edge of the bed, clasping her thighs, and thrusting into her while her ass is essentially hanging off the edge of the mattress. As I had just finished cunning her lingus, not only was she basking in a post-orgasmic bliss, but she was wet and lubricated and ready. I stood, pulled her willing thighs apart and entered her. Her green eyes flared open as she gasped, she started moaning, and I was off.

Being a gentleman, I started slow, letting her natural juices envelope and lubricate me (this is an important point, so pay attention; re-read that shit if you have to), but as time passed and I things became slicker with her body's essence, I began to lose myself.

It's also important to note that the Barenaked Ladies song, "One Week", had been pretty popular around this time. If you're unfamiliar with the song shame on you!, it features the lyric "Like Sting I'm tantric!" It's a reference to a rumor that Sting is all about the tantric sex and can go on for something like four or five hours worth of sex. It's not so much that he's tantric; it's just that he's motherfucking Sting!

Anyway, this got me to investigate what tantric sex was. With all that "last as long as I can and unearthly glow of awesome sex" reading in my mind, I decided that this night, the night I was with my fiancee, I was going to try the tantric moves. So there I was trying the shallow, shallow, deep shit. And things were going well. This might be skewed slightly because I was having sex, which means that, in my mind, things were probably going pretty well to begin with.

All that aside, I was trying the alternating shallow and deep thrusts. As I mentioned earlier, my fiancee was pretty wet from our foreplay, and by this point all of me--shallow or deep, doesn't matter--was pretty well-lubricated. So I tried the shallow, shallow, shallow, shallow...thing when my mind was like "Put it in her! Hard! Motherfucker!"

Which is what I did.

Except...as I was doing the shallow thing, not much of my penis was actually in her, so when I pulled back for a deep, hard thrust, I kind of slipped out of her. This did not deter me when I went for the deep thrust.

BAM!

I was in her.

Guaranteed to satisfy

Except...I wasn't in her. When I went for the deep thrust after all the shallow bullshit, I kind of forgot to aim. The next thing I knew...I was in her ass, buried up to the hilt. I knew this because those green eyes that had gotten wider when I entered her now goggled out of her head in a fashion that can only be described as "cartoonish". Her body also started contorting and shuddering in a not good, not so sexy way.

Oh, and she screamed.  Loudly.

Unsure of what was going on, I looked down as she was rolling onto her side and feeling around her ass with her fingers to see if she was bleeding. Me, being the suave and debonair lover, did manage to ask if she was okay before I started giggling.

"Well, I'm okay. It's not that I'm opposed to that...it's just...that was the first time...and I kind of wasn't ready for it."

And my loving and caring response?

"I understand. It sure did feel tight. But I understand."

I'm such a prize.

After I washed myself up, we resumed with normal, vaginal sex. However, the butt-cherry had been popped and it was only a few weeks until curiosity got the better of both of us and we returned to the tacitly taboo sport of anal rompage.

How very apropos

But (heh) that's a story for another day.

TMI Thursday: A Touching Story

One day, sometime around my freshman year in high school, while digging around through a box of books that my dad had stored in what we called the "back room", I found this non-descript story about baseball. I thumbed through it, and, not having anything better to read, I decided to read it. The story itself wasn't terribly intriguing; the book was not very well-written. It had a definite Bad News Bears vibe to it: some middle-aged guy, going through a mid-life crisis, decides to coach his son's baseball team or some bullshit like that. The guy who sponsors the team doesn't come through with the money, mostly because he's an old cocksucker, until they reach the (insert shocked face gasp here) championship game, which they, predictably, win.

Like I said, nothing too interesting. Except, the dad, who is having some trouble at home, meets one of the other kid's moms, who is, apparently, quite the milf. He tries to play it off all cool, but he's totally staring at her tits the whole time he's talking to her. Inevitably, he has to take something over to the other kids house, and the mom, who happens to be a smoking hot divorcee, invites him in and then they fuck.

If the book wasn't particularly memorable and terribly well-written, why do I remember it so well? For one, the Milf reminded me of a girl I had a crush on at the time (you know, minus the whole "middle aged single mother" thing). She had blonde hair and blue eyes and--shocker--so did the girl I was crushing on. So, Milfy Divorcee Mom who kept getting naked in the book and doing all sorts of sexual things to the Coach held my attention between her mysteriously still-pert breasts.

The second reason that I remember the book so well is because it was the first time I had ever encountered sex in the written form. And I liked it. I liked it a lot. In fact, I remember dog-earing the first time when they bone because it was sexual in great detail, including Milfy Blonde taking her clothes off and desperately pulling at Coach's zipper until she got his cock out and started sucking it.

I'm 99% sure that the author of the book was a guy.

I'm also 99% sure that this dude never coached a youth team in his life. At least, not one in North Carolina. *glower* Not that I'm bitter or anything...

I dog-eared the page because, sometimes, when I was feeling randy (and, apparently, like writing out my guilt in my Guilt Journal), I would open that page and read the passage and, inevitably, I'd get rock hard. I'd set the book aside, and go to town on myself.

Now, despite the fact that I have my hands down the front of my pants nearly 24/7, I've only ever been caught beating off twice, and one of those didn't really count. I remember, it was a particularly hot summer, and the air conditioning in my hundred year old house didn't work too well upstairs. Neither my brother or I (we shared a room) could sleep. My brother went downstairs to enjoy the cooler air; I turned the fan on myself and suffered. Eventually, I decided that I should rub one out, hoping that the rush of endorphins and such would make me sleepy. So, I turned on my light, read through the passage where the Coach banged his Milf friend, turned the light off and began the deed.

A couple of seconds later, I hear something moving in the room. I look over, and there's my brother. Thankfully, it was dark; I could only see the outline of his form looming near the doorway. He comes over to the bed; I have a sheet pulled up over my rigidity.


"Dude, the Reds got into a huge fight with the Pirates tonight," he reported. "It was massive, all over the field. You want to come see the highlights?"

Well, I do want to cum... I thought. "Nah, I'll catch them in the morning."

"Okay," he whispered back. He then turned and left.

Relieved, I returned to the task at hand (heh) and finished. I fell asleep and rose refreshed in the morning. And, he was right: that brawl was massive.

The second time, or the true time, I once again turned to my faithful tome and read through my favorite passages. I wish I had some idea as to the title of the book, or the author, or the names of any of the characters. Anyway, fully aroused, I pulled down my pants and began going at it, hoping like hell that I would finish ere one of my family members came up the stairs. Besides, I thought, I could hear them on the steps. It was an old house and most of the steps creaked.

"Having fun?" my brother asked, and, mortified, I looked over at him standing in the doorway. Stammering for something to say, I pulled my pants up and panicked. It had been just a few months earlier that this dude, Danny LaFollette, had been caught jacking off in the bathrooms at school. It had ruined what little social life he had. And this other guy, Donny Rousch, had done the same thing a week later. And his social life had fallen further. Oh dear God, what if my brother told everyone at school?

I'll never know. My brother told no one. It never got out that I had been pounding putz that fateful Saturday evening. He could have told any number of people, and yet he didn't.

And that's when I knew that blood was truly thicker than semen water.

TMI Thursday: Stickage

Since Lilu decided to dispense with the whole TMI Thursday hosting, we haven't heard a whole lot about my junk, what I've been doing with it, or many of my bodily functions of late. I've decided to pick that back up since they were some of my more popular posts. Plus, why deprive the world of these miserable marvelous life experiences? I shouldn't be the only who suffers through is blessed to enjoy these foibles of my body.

I'm not a big fan of spring. About the only thing I like about spring is the storms, and I like those only because I haven't been injured in any of them, had any property destroyed (despite parking various shitty cars under trees hoping the wind brings those tall pines down *angry glower*), or the like. I guess I also enjoy the fact that the college girls dress extra slutty in these days leading up to summer break. Yes. Yes, I like that very much. *taps tips of fingers together*

The spring brings the return of mowing my grass, it gets hot, and the atmosphere is suffused with pollen. This hasn't affected me too badly since I've moved South, but the rest of my family suffers from allergies, which makes me miserable. Because I commiserate with others so well.

Now, long before I was the svelte, dapper motherfucker you see before you, I've had a problem that springs to life round this time of year. I tend to suffer from a lot of stickage.

You know, stickage.

Don't tell me you're unfamiliar.

Okay, so "stickage" is when my scroat adheres itself to the silky smooth flesh of my inner thigh. Alone, or even with the love of my life (television), this is not a problem. I reach a hand down there, fish around for a bit, fumble away, and peel the soft, velvety skin away from the inside of my groin. However, when the children are present, it's unseemly for daddy dearest to have it hands down his pants, no matter how surreptitiously I'm peeling one layer of dermis away from another.

And, besides, I'm only home and awake for a few hours of the day.

Let's think about this for a moment. I work in a lab, one that prides itself on safety (Our motto: "Everyone has ten fingers!"), we're required to wear lab coats when working in the lab. This is to go with regular work attire. While the labs are fairly well ventilated (Noxious fumes? Send them outside!), they air-handlers have issues cooling the air as it gets turned over so much. This results in winters being chilly (not a problem; I have a lab coat!), but spring, summer and fall are uncomfortably warm.

As the level of uncomfortable warmth rises, so does the occurrence of stickage. And, when I'm at work, people really from on you sticking your hand down your pants and fumbling your nuts away from the inside of your thigh.

And here's the curious thing: about 90% of the time, the stickage is on the right side of my sack. I don't know what the deal is, but this is the side of my body where my Balzac is most likely to meld with my leg. There's nothing abnormal about that side; my right nut hangs lower than my left (apparently, that's common, since I'm a righty). That's the only thing I can find that's different about the right side of my manhammer; believe me, I've investigated. At length.

When the stickage happens at work, it's most unpleasant because I can't manually extract myself from myself--though I am typically wearing gloves, so at least I have the correct protective equipment. I'll be standing there, working on the next wonderdrug, when suddenly I'll feel that unwelcome tug on the inside of my shorts. I then spend the next five minutes gyrating and hopping from one leg to the other, trying to part my thighs far enough that my coinpurse peels itself off the inner portions of my leg.

Annoying hardly

Thusly, spring is not the time of rebirth for me. Spring is the time to invest in yet some more talcum powder. Because, you know, it's always good to be caught with a large amount of an unknown, white, powdery substance...

Oh, the things I'll do to avoid my nutsack from annealing itself to my inner thighs.

TMI Thursday: Minnesota

It's always delighted me that I have so many followers and readers from Minnesota. It's a fabulous place, Minnesota, and I can say that having visited it a couple of times. Perhaps the winters are a little long--even for my tastes--but when Minnesota greens up in the spring, wow is it a beautiful sight.

My connection to the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes extends well beyond my best friend in the fifth grade moving there. Perhaps that heart-breaking tale is why I found a girlfriend from Minnesota and then subsequently fell in love with her.

It's true; the Ex- was a Minnesotan, complete with that soft northern accent dominated by nasal a's and long, drawn out oo's and oh's. Despite her speech impediment (I kid, I kid), I did manage to fall in love with her and ask her to marry me. She accepted, and so we had to start this whole "marriage and wedding prep" thing.

Which is why I've been to Minnesota a couple of times. I headed up there the spring before I jigged my way to Notre Dame so that we could begin the arduous task of thinking about flower arrangements, photographers, places to get married, and cake. You know which of these was the real reason why I agreed to come to Minnesota. Cake frosting goes so well with 36Cs. What?

Oh, and there was the small task of meeting her father.

I know I should have waited to ask permission for his daughter's vagina hand in marriage--I should have done that with the girl I, you know, actually married, too...but I didn't. In either case. However, I had made the decision to ask this person to marry me, and I was so nervous that I kind of just let it slip my mind. Er, I mean, I totally overlooked it.

Plus, she didn't care. And her dad was okay with it. As long as she was happy and some such bullshit.

So, anyway. I found myself in the suburbs of Minneapolis on a fresh and lovely Friday afternoon with my affianced in her father's huge and empty house. Dadums was still at work. He said he would meet us at the restaurant--his tip!--for dinner.

Which means that we had a few hours to ourselves. In a big, empty house.

She showed me around and we carried our stuff into her room. It was a lovely light blue color, and she had a pretty big bed for someone who was supposed to be sleeping alone. I made the comment and she got that sultry, smoky look in her eye. And I knew it was on.

I slammed her (delicately) against the wall, my arms wrapping around her waist and my hands grasping her ass as I began to kiss her. She fervently returned the attention and began pulling my shirt up off my head. We were going to need to shower before dinner, anyway, so we might as well get naked, right?

And so we did. I practically ripped her top off and threw her bra somewhere behind me. She tugged and pulled at my belt and my pants, finally releasing me. Falling to her knees, she pulled me into her mouth and began stroking and sucking me. After a few minutes, she began to rise, but I all but tackled her onto the bed, pulling her pants down and kissing my way down the front of her body. Once she came to the throes of ecstasy, I mounted the bed and entered her.

Now, the Ex- wasn't necessarily a screamer, but she liked to get loud. Especially in an empty house. She was moaning as I was thrusting deep into her, demanding more (or "mohr"...oh, those delightful Minnesotans!). I pulled out and she turned around, bending over the side of the bed. I came at her from behind--our favorite position--and things got even louder. As I was pounding away at her, I thought I heard some strange noise from the first floor of the house.

"Did you hear something?" I asked, slowing my rhythm.

"It was probably just the mailman. He comes around this time of day," she said, gasping with each thrust. "Harder," she begged. "Please. Fuck me. God, please, fuck me."

And so I did.

I reached up and pulled on her ponytail, causing her back to arch. I grabbed onto one hip and continued to pound away and she screamed and moaned with each thrust. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I pulled out of her, pulling back on her ponytail so that I could cum on her breasts. I, too, moaned with delight as I coated her chest with my seed. We both collapsed onto the bed.

And then we heard from downstairs, someone--older and male--clear his throat.

Oh. Damn. If "FML" had been invented at that point, I would have said it. Several times.

Giggling, she hastily got up and cleaned herself off. We put our clothes back on and--red-faced, me moreso than her--we went downstairs.

Her father wasn't an overly large man. In fact, I was taller than he. I was also broader of shoulder and--back then--I was in much better shape. Of course, none of this factored into how imposing he was at that very second when I shook his hand, trying to force myself to look into his eyes. However, his stony demeanor and the way he was staring daggers at me might have played into how I had trouble looking him in the eye.

"So," he finally offered after the initial platitudes about having a good trip, nice to meet him, oh look at the ring he bought me were out of the way, "are you two hungry?"

I muttered something incomprehensible and the Ex- told him that we should probably shower to get the travel funk off our bodies. His look said "travel funk...uh huh..."

So, we showered--in separate showers--and got dressed and ready to go to dinner. We pile into Papa's car and then head off to the restaurant. We get there, and instead of waiting in the vestibule of the restaurant, we hit the bar--again, his treat! After a couple of Manhattans, apparently the old man has cooled toward me. We get our table, and we sit down. The waitress comes over and tells us the daily specials--some fish dish (presumably not provided by the Cat in the Hat), some low-carb offering (we were just starting in with that craze at the time) and some smothered chicken breast dish.

She took our drink orders and let us mull over the menu for a bit. After she left, the Ex's dad--a regular at this restaurant, presumably--said, in a low voice, "You should go for the steak. I assume you've already had enough breast for the day."

I tried to die of embarrassment right there, but I failed miserably. However, that was the only time during the evening--the entire weekend, in fact--that he mentioned our little afternoon entertainment.

That night, when we did it again (imagine this...he didn't protest at all that we would be sleeping in the same bed) we were much quieter.

EDIT: What the hell? I meant "ten thousand lakes". Honest.

TMI Thursday: The Midnight Visitor

Preach it on, Brother Wolverine!

That was sent to me by my friend (who just happens to have red hair) Alaina. I owe her many thanks.

And, hey! This is convenient. You know who else has red hair? My wife does! That leads me into a story I've been meaning to tell for a while.

One night I was feeling mighty randy, and so I did my tried-and-true method of slipping my pajamas off while the wife was in the bathroom for one of her last pee breaks before bedtime. When she came back to bed, she slipped beneath the covers and I started rubbing myself up against her booty.

"OH MY!" she said, as she noticed I had fully hoisted my mizzenmast. I performed the old reach around and massage her tits from behind while rubbing up against her trick, which--much like Colt .45--works every time. Soon, we were both naked and well into the throes of foreplay.

Finally, things came to a head and coitus was undertaken. As we were going at it, we were changing positions to maximize the carnal pleasures in which we were indulging. Eventually, we moved to one of my favorite positions, which is where I stand up at the side of the bed and go at it that way, either missionary- or doggy-style. Bow wow. It just so happened that this time, she was on her back (for maximal breast movement viewing).

I was there, giving her a jolly rogering, when suddenly I felt the bed move...differently. It was not on the same wavelength as our sexy time movements. I paused in my exuberant thrusting; she paused in her exuberant begging for more pounding. And then we heard:

*soft yawn* "Good night, Daddy."

The boy, Tank, had graced us with his presence. And not so much graced us as he had crawled up into the bed on my side, pulled the covers up over his little body, laid his little head down on the pillow, and tucked himself in.

When the kids were younger, we used to leave the bedroom door open at night during sexy time just in case something would happen where we needed to go and tend to their night time whining ailments. This practice has since fallen by the wayside as the children have gotten older. In fact, this may have been one of the last times the door was left open during sexual activities.

Allow me to remind you, I was still inside my wife!

Rather than say anything, my wife made a face like "take care of this" and nodding her head toward the almost-sleeping form of our younger child. Still inside her, I leaned down and whispered in her ear "I'm in no shape to take him back to his room!" I flexed myself inside her in order to drive home my point.

"I'm naked. Just get him and take him to his bed and get back here!" she hissed. She flexed herself to drive me toward returning him to bed.

"I'm naked, too, in case you didn't notice!" I whispered, knowing I had already lost the argument. I extricated myself from between her thighs and then, not feeling that comfortable just running him down the hall whilst I was naked and hard. I couldn't find where I had throw my clothes in the darkened corners of my room, so I went with what I could find:

I pulled a sock over it.

I picked the little boy up and carried him down the hall to his room. I tucked him in bed, kissed him good night, and then returned to find my wife was already asleep.

I kid, I kid. She was still naked. I pulled off the sock, rubbed myself a couple of times to make sure there was no sock fuzz clinging to me, and then I buried me treasure in her once more.

And now, we close the door. Every time. No questions asked.

Oh, and she lived up to her redhead billing.

*fist bumps Wolverine*

TMI Thursday: Phone Sex Phail

I'm not sure how much of an honor it will be, but I would like to dedicate today's post to Bev, because it's her birthday. Can you go wish her many happy returns on the day? I'll be busy taking my clothes off and baking myself in a cake and then mailing it all to New Hampshire. Thanks.

Even though Lilu has taken the constraining leashes off which day TMIs should be told, I've decided to follow through with my somewhat traditionalist predilections and keep it up on Thursdays. I mean, Jesus, I went to Notre Dame--clinging tenaciously to tradition is what we do!

Anyway, we're going to have another story today about the Ex-. You might remember that we were doing some long-distance shit for a while, so we would be forced to have a lot of phone sex and net sex while we were apart.

And if you haven't read those previous entries I've highlighted and linked, then perhaps I would do well to tell you that a lot of our phone sex adventures took place at the bookstore where I worked between college and grad school. The book store had a toll free number that you could call from anywhere in the country, and so she would dial me up after the store closed and we would chat while I was counting down the drawers. If all the other employees had gone and if neither the owner nor his wife were in the store, the conversations would get spicy. Fast.

Here's a slight sampling of a seamless segue between normal, how-was-your-day conversation to phone-sex lead in.

Me: Ah, excellent. All the money's accounted for and only a dime off. Well done, I says. Well done, indeed.

The Ex-: Good, because I've had my fingers in my cunt for the past five minutes.

We were just that awesome. And, yes, that was her favored euphemism for vagina.

[As an aside, I've used the word 'vagina' in a blogpost again; I wonder how many followers I'll lose today!]

This particular night was much the same; work was done, drawers were counted, genitalia were being rubbed.

We were going through our normal routine: me telling her how badly I wanted to be inside her whilst furiously pounding away at myself, she fingering herself and moaning into the phone that she wanted more, more, more. It was the midnight hour, after all.

Finally, I heard her gasping and moaning and a few strokes later I was exploding all over my hand and pants. Phone sex was most excellently accomplished once more. And, as with most sexual encounters late at night, we felt good and relaxed. Yawning soon commenced.

But that night, once was not enough for me. And so we chatted some more for about fifteen minutes when I started in with her again. And she was playing along, too. So, there I am, sitting at my desk, furiously massaging myself while telling her that I wanted to bend her over the side of the bed and come at her from behind. She's moaning and sighing and everything else, as well, telling me how badly she wants it, but she's a lot more quiet than the first time.

I don't care. I'm polishing my wood at my seat until, finally, with a raw, triumphant, carnal roar I ejaculate once more. Panting, breathless, I fall back into the seat, my eyes closed, a warm glow washing over me. I decide to tell her how great that was, how much I loved her, how badly I wished it had been her rather than my hand.

Me: Oh, wow, honey. That was...that was...phenomenal. *heavy breathing*

Ex-: *silence*

Me: Yeah...*panting*...I'm breathless, too.

Ex-: *more silence*

Me: Oh, God, I wish I could go for a third, but my cock feels pretty empty.

Ex-: *not a fucking word*

Me: *suspicious* Ex-? Honey? Darling?

Ex-: *gives me the Bob treatment*

Me: Ex-? Are you there? Hello? EX-!

But my words, like silent raindrops, fell and echoed in the wells of silence.

Confused, a bit hurt, I hung up the phone. I went over to the safe, spun the knob randomly (I did this every night as a "safety precaution"), cleaned myself up and turned out the lights. I made sure everything was locked and out the door I went. I sped home. At that point, I was more awake than asleep and so I ended up staying up playing around on the computer. As I was the youngest manager on the totem pole, I got stuck working every weekend, so I had the next day off. I think it was a Thursday.

I stayed up late with AIM on, hoping that my wonderful and sexalicious fiancee would be on the other end of the chat program. Unfortunately, she wasn't. So, I dicked around, and finally crumbled into bed. I woke up the next morning, ate my lunch, and hopped on the computer.

She was on.

So I sent her a message.

Me: Hey, what happened last night?

Ex-: I'm so embarrassed. I was so tired after the first couple of orgasms that I just sort of...fell asleep.

*sigh*

Nothing kicks you in the ego like your girlfriend admitting that she fell asleep during sex with you...even if it was just the phone sex.

TMI Thursday: Bedclothes

I am, as of right now, very lonely. My wife and the kids are headed to Nashville where they will meet with my mother-in-law all while avoid flooding aftermath and Country Music Awards people. My mother-in-law is then taking the kids on to Oklahoma to visit family out there for a couple of weeks before heading back up to Indiana for two weeks or so. My wife is coming back sometime tomorrow.

That leaves me the run of the house for the next 36 hours or so.

Unfortunately, they make me wear pants at work...

Anyway, remember a couple of weeks ago when I was doing that presentation to my daughter's class? Well, in order to show off the glowing water, I bought a blacklight because it gives off the right wavelengths in order to help certain molecules fluoresce. I figured I'd keep it for the novelty sake, and so I had it in my room but not put away. So, my daughter busts it out and is playing with it, and she shines it on the sheets of my bed.

Heh.

The sheets are solid black...however, certain areas of the sheets...*ahem*...fluoresced. Brightly. She thought this was cool. I, however, forced myself to stifle a laugh. I assume you've seen those exposes on the news where they take blacklights to hotel rooms to show all the residual bodily fluids left on the sheets and blankets and such. Well, this was the same thing, except it was my bed, and therefore (probably) my fluids.

And then the question came: "Why does it do that?"

She does have some idea as to why things fluoresce under a light like that--I mean, I haven't just taught her the important things, like how to read and write and shoot a basketball and what a zone blitz is. I mean, I've taught her some impractical things, too, like science.

I explained it away that it was glowing because there was some protein residue left on the sheets. She accepted it. I'm sure in a couple of years when The Talk is delivered, she'll suddenly be horrified and have to go all Goth in order to deal with the shock to her system. I'm fine with that. It helps a person grow.

So, I might need to wash those while the wife is away. You know, to freshen up the bedroom, help get her in the mood...

Although, once, that shit backfired on me. It was shortly after we had moved down here. My wife took Cookie with her down to visit her friend in Athens, Georgia one weekend, thus leaving me to hold down the fort at the apartment. Since I was younger, still as horny, and every bit as sick and twisted, I played around on some sites of ill-repute on the internet. Since no one else was in the house, I also felt the need to sleep naked.

And since I was naked and horny after checking out a lot of internet porn, I took care of business in our bed.

Oh, did I mention that we had white sheets at the time?

I also ate a lot of Mexican food that weekend, because it was cheap and I hate myself. This was all before I had my gall bladder removed, so I wasn't quite as leaky 'round back. All this Mexican food caused me to gas up like a blimp and so I laid in my bed--with the white sheets--and jerked off and farted to my heart's content.

I did put clothes on when a group of my friends came down from Virginia to visit me--four friends that I didn't tell my wife about. Two of them were girls, and one of them decided to shed her dark brown hair on the guest bathroom floor--a hair color which no one in my family possesses. All-in-all, it was a good visit. We sat around, shot the shit, told jokes and stories and all that. I even turned off the Notre Dame game in order to chat with my friends! And then we went and got some dinner--at a Mexican restaurant--and they headed back to Virginia. I had a good time. They had a good time.

After they left, I went back to exploring the internet's depravity and staining the sheets (I don't even know why). When I finally got up on Sunday, I looked at the deplorable state of our bed clothes and decided that I would wash them up so that my wife would be able to come home to fresh linens and a clean apartment.

Except, I didn't sweep the floor in the guest bathroom.

My wife comes home, finds the bed clean and made, the apartment clean, everything in order. And then she finds Kristen's hairs on the floor of the bathroom when we were giving Cookie a bath. So, there was a clean apartment, a bed that had been freshly washed and made, and hair from a strange woman's head on the bathroom floor. Yeah, nothing looks suspicious here!

So, I had to explain that I had some friends over and I had to reassure her that I had penetrated NONE of them. And then I had to explain to her why I had washed the sheets on the bed.

And then we went to dinner. At a Mexican restaurant.

I'm Sleepy (A TMI-ish Thursday Post)

I've come to a point in my life where I'm afraid I'm going to have to utilize a sleeping aid other than masturbation.

Don't get me wrong; polishing Darth Vader's helmet is still plenty enjoyable, but it doesn't get the job done like it used to. In the sleep department, that is. I'm still fully capable of ejaculating like a geyser. Allow me to allay your fears in that department.

It's just that now, I don't sleep quite as nicely as I used to. The simple solution is to blame it on the heat, as I am a man of ample girth. Especially where it counts. Don't believe me? Just look at a picture of my wife. Look at that smug smile of satisfaction permanently slapped on her lips. That, my friends, is a testament to girthiness.

I'm talking about girth in other areas of my body. *sigh* Okay, fine, I'll just come out and say it: I'm a bit overweight. I realized this the other day when a bunch of Chinese guys came by and rubbed me on the tummy and then questioned aloud why I wasn't made of bronze and just why was Buddha telling them to kindly fuck off.

Over the weekend, I was forced to close my windows and fire up the air conditioner. Usually, I try to hold out until June 1st, but I couldn't this year, mostly because the weather forecasters were wrong (insert shocked face here) and predicted highs well into the nineties for the holiday weekend. While the highs did not attain this lofty plateau, it was still amply humid around here, and so my hand was forced. Chilled, recirculated air became a matter of need, not just a matter of luxury.

The problem isn't even the heat during the day. That, I can deal with. The heat at night, however, is a whole different dog and pony show. A very sweaty dog and pony show, but a dog and pony show nonetheless.

The problem is that the temperatures don't drop below 70 at night around here, and if they do it's only in the wee hours before dawn that they accomplish that, well after I've slouched into the bed trying to grab a few hours of sleep. Coupling this with the fact that air flow in my house is fucking ridiculously stagnant, and you can see where the problems begin.

So, to recap: it's hot, it's muggy, and the air doesn't circulate so it doesn't ever actually get all that cool. And whatever cool air there is goes rocketing out through the piss-poorly insulated walls and windows. And the fan--though, it's a very good fan and I love it as if it was a third child--can only push so much air, and even that isn't enough to cool down me.

Thanks to this, I've entered into a sleep cycle where I drift off, begin the sweet, sweet dream cycle, and then, just as Natalie Portman is about to show me her V for Vendetta, I wake up. I toss about. I roll over. I mutter profanities under my breath. I finally drift off to sleep, rinse and repeat.

This means I wake up sweaty--which is never a good thing--and surly and listless and feeling as if I've taken one of those naps where you fall asleep on the couch for thirty seconds and then your kids start fighting over who gets to claim the remote after Daddy's drifted off. What? You don't have those fights in your house?

Well, kindly fuck off.

I'm sorry. Don't be offended. It's the heat and lack of sleep. Maybe.

So, this makes me think I should drug myself before heading off to sleep--that's where I'm a Viking, after all--so that I can make it through a night and wake up feeling at least a little refreshed and maybe not quite so surly.

Of course, waking up and having some of the morning sex would be nice, but I can really only take that matter up with one person--maybe two, if I'm lucky and someone's feeling kinky. *sigh* I can feel the glare through the computer monitor now, and she hasn't even read this yet.

My apologies for the digression. Won't happen again. Today, at least.

It does look as though I'm going to have to resort to some kind of chemical agent in order to help me through the night and sweeten my disposition.

I'm thinking rum.

TMI Thursday: Day Three

Day two and three of being surrogate mothers to a pair of orphaned kittehs has proven to be interesting, to say the least. Disgustingly interesting.

Apparently, newborn kittens lack the ability to shit on their own, and they require external stimulation in order to produce excreta of both the solid and liquid kind. Thankfully, I am a human, with thumbs, that can wield a wet wipe. Otherwise, if I was a cat, I'd have to do this...with my tongue.

My wife, who is regretting telling her friend that she could have one of the kittens, has been researching the care and uptake of orphaned kittehs. That's how she knew that the external stimulation must be done. She's a trooper and did it on the aforementioned Pichigo/Peachigo yesterday, and received tiny cat turds and too much cat pee as a reward.

Last night, it was my turn with the other kitty, Motley (though, you'd think, a calico would be better suited to the name of "Motley", but I digress). So, once Motley was fed and petted, I got the wet wipe out and started going over Motley as if the wet wipe was a mother cat's tongue. I washed his/her little face and then I worked my way down the tummy. After cleaning face and tummy, it was time for the stimulation of the genitalia and the asshole.

I, too, was rewarded with a torrent of tiny kitteh peepee. See, I tried to use "cute" terminology there to lure you into a false sense of security because what came next was horrific.

I then dabbed and his/her little anus, trying to coax out the poo. The previous day, they had fouled the basket in which they live with what I can only assume is kitty meconium, because it was black. So, we knew that their GI tracts were healthy, we just needed to make sure that they were learning how to use them.

So, a-wiping at the butt I went. I'm apparently an expert cat-shit-inducer, because I saw Motley's tiny little anus swell, and then out erupted what looked suspiciously like a grub. Because I'm a man, I screamed and dropped the cat, running from the room and curling into the fetal position beneath the dining room table, trying my best not to cry played like it was no big thing, caught the tiny, worm-like turd in the towel on which Motley was resting, and continued wiping.

I was rewarded with another white turd that didn't look exactly like a petrified meal worm had just crawled out of his/her asshole. And then came some kitteh diarrhea. Apparently, the worm-like shit was a plug holding back the semi-soft shit that was to follow.

You know, when I was a fresh-faced youth of 18, heading out into the world to make my mark and find my fortune...I was pretty certain I would never have to write the previous five paragraphs. Oh what a fickle mistress fate and reality are.

Fortunately, hell beast kitty turds flush just like their human counterparts. So, once finished excreting, I put little Motley back in the basket, carried the towel into the bathroom, shook out the turds and then vomited washed my hands so furiously and so thoroughly, I'd put an OCD patient to shame.

We've got a nice little system worked out, my wife and I. She's feeds them, and I rub their naughty bits in hopes of scoring all the free cat urine and feces that I want. I've since performed the stimulation a couple of times, netting fabulous results each and every time, and ensuring that my cats are healthy little freeloaders pets.

Strangely enough, this banana that I brought with my for lunch doesn't look nearly as enticing as it did this morning...

Come back tomorrow, where I promise I won't talk about kittehs--or their poops--and we'll discover the fate of this banana.

TMI Thursday: Snowball

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TMI Thursday: And Then She Did the Dishes

As far as TMI Thursdays go, this one is fairly innocuous. If my salient tales about the sex don't sate your need for inappropriate stories, try LiLu's place, which is the home of TMI Thursdays!

A couple of weeks ago, the wife and I had a fight. Not a real big fight, but we were kind of snippy with one another. I don't even remember what it was about; probably just a mixture of cabin fever, the kids driving us nuts and one of us (her) having gas.

Or...maybe it was one of those fights that couples have just so they can get to the make-up sex. See, the Ex- told me that sometimes girls pick fights just so they can get to the make-up sex with their men, that way everything is cathartic and more awesome than normal. And, God knows (as do our neighbors) that the wife and I have had many a night of anger followed by many a night of passionate, loud moaning.

So, anyway, we were at the point where we weren't speaking on a Wednesday night, and then the next night there was some talking. And we went to bed, where my wife rolled over and turned the light off and all that. I was still lying in bed, reading, and when I finished up, I cozied up next to her. Awww, how cute, right?

And then the urge began to hit me.

"Are you asleep?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied, "leave me alone."

So, I slicked down my pants and underwear. I started rubbing myself up against her from behind. She still pretended she was asleep. I kept rubbing myself up against her. Then, to make things even better, I started pulling down her pants and rubbing myself on her bare ass. This is my go-to move, the pressing-my-erect-penis-into-her-ass maneuver. Much like Colt 45, it works every time.

Finally, she's pushing back against me, and I'm matriculating myself down to where I'm coming at her from behind. I can get just a little of me into her, and she's digging it, but I'm frankly not satisfied. You don't bury your treasure with half of it sticking out. So, after I had gotten her good and worked up, and I was raging hard now, I decided it was time to take what I wanted.

I extricated myself and decided that I was going to throw her on her back and give her a jolly rogering. The only problem was, the lights were off, it was dark, and I couldn't exactly see what I was doing.

As I went to grab her shoulder and throw her back onto the bed, she began to sit up and roll over and pull her pants the rest of the way off. So, when my hand went flying to grasp ahold of her...my trajectory was all wrong and my hand punched her right in the eye.

Down she went, the reverberations of the meaty smack of my hand meeting her eye still echoing in the darkness of the bedroom.

And then the giggling commenced. From both parties. I did ask if she was alright, and then we giggled some more.

And then we fucked like hounds.

And, to top it off, we giggled some more.

Sated, we went to sleep.

The following morning, we were in the kitchen getting ready for the day, and she was feeling the tender flesh around the orbit of her eye. It wasn't bruised...badly...but it was a little puffy and a little bit darker than it should be. I felt bad, but not enough that I didn't start giggling again.

Because that's the kind of guy I am: punch 'em in the face, fuck 'em hard, laugh about it in the morning. Yep, I'm a keeper.

And for good measure...while the kids were eating breakfast...she unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher.

TMI Thursday: This Shit Has Got to Stop

As far as TMI Thursdays go, this one is pretty mild. If my salient stories about failed phone- and netsex sessions with the Ex- don't sate your need for inappropriate stories, try LiLu's place, which is the home of TMI Thursdays!

So, as I've referenced before, I have an active account on a certain social networking site. I reactivated it last November, after I drove back from Tennessee where I spent time with my wife's family for the holiday.

*glassy-eyed stare*

On my way home, I thought about my friend from Tennessee, and so I decided to netstalk her look her up online. When I got home, I fingered Googled her and found her page. So, I activated my account, sent her a message, we exchanged life update emails, and...well...haven't really spoken too her much since. Hooray for getting reconnected!

So, that initial night, I went through, picked up a handful of friends, and then, because I felt the need to be nice, I added my brother. I'm still not sure why, since we haven't spoken in...I dunno...a long time. We'll just say that.

A few days later, we had our company Christmas party, and on my work's intranet, there were some pictures of my kids sitting on Santa's lap. So, I figured, in order to avoid shooting pictures of the kids around on the emails and unnecessarily sucking up large amounts of bandwidth, I would just load the pictures onto my page and then the wife could also check them out and link to them or whatever the fuck it is that people do on there with pictures.

My brother then apparently showed the pictures to my mom. And here is where the proverbial wheels came off the cart, because this was the catalyst that caused my mother to open an account on the site.

And I've pretty much wanted to put a bullet in my brain ever since.

My mother is the Queen of Non-Sequiturs. She doesn't mean to be, but she is. And she feels the need to comment on every. single. post. I. make. It's enough to bring a man who cries less than Chuck Norris to tears.

She also is painfully unaware of what it is I do for a living. For one, she apparently thinks I went to medical school (I had a minor in biology) so she asks me about all of her health issues. She also is convinced that I work for a company that makes generic pharmaceuticals (we currently have no products on the market), and so she asks when her cholesterol and diabetes drugs will be on the generic markets.

So, you can imagine how all this misinformation of hers plays out well with my status updates and minor posts. Comedy ensues.

To compound this, she suddenly decided that I needed to connect to her through Yahoo!. I'm not even sure what that means, but I knew that I didn't like it. So I blocked her.

Yeah. I blocked my mother. Wanna make something of it?

My mother--like with so many other things in life--thinks that she's an expert in computer usage.

Allow me to dispel this notion.

Remember ICQ? A happy little chat program that was kind of big during the late 90s before AIM pretty much dominated until the rise of Twitter? It was invaluable for someone whose girlfriend lived hours away.

It was also a convenient way for my mom to chat with my bed-ridden aunt, because my aunt lived in Fort Wayne and we lived in podunk little Markle. This meant that, in order for my mom to chat with my aunt, she had to dial long distance. This was before digital phones, so long distance charges could get costly.

Being that I was a good son, I set my mom up with an ICQ account. I also set her up with her own email account. Neither of which she would use. She would use my accounts because she was too...lazy...to be bothered with learning how to log someone else out of a program and log herself in.

She would also check my email for me. And since she was...too lazy...to bother to learn how to pronounce anyone's last name, she would garble them, badly. You can imagine what she did with things like "Grzegorek" (Grez-gore-eck) or "Jarowicz" (Jar-o-witz). Once, much to my horror, she informed me that I had an email from e-moaning. When I looked, it was from my friend, one Mr. E. Moening.

With all this in mind...one night, during my college years, I was home. I was upstairs, probably rotting my mind with video games or *gasp* reading or something. My mom was downstairs on the computer, chatting with my aunt. All is well with the world.

And then the Ex logs in and sees that "I'm" on ICQ. So, she messages "me." She hits "me" with this doozie:

"So, you gonna stick that big old cock of yours into me, or am I going to have to get down on my knees and beg for it?"*

Now, remember...the Ex and I were very sexually active. But, since we spent a lot of time apart, we had to resort to phone- and cybersexing. And, this mostly worked while we were apart, and then in those rare times when we'd be together (before she moved to the greater Fort Wayne area after we were both out of college) we'd fuck like hounds.

My mother, of course, was completely fucking oblivious to our fucking. It was fucking great. Fucking.

Therefore, a highly sexually-charged introductory message in a chat session was pretty much par for the course between us.

However...I wasn't the one receiving the message.

So, my mother responded to her, in very unflattering terms, that it was not me using the computer right now and that she did not appreciate such language. I'm pretty sure she called my girlfriend a whore, and probably a slut. And any number of unkind terms implying that she was loose in the knickers.

Later, when I finally was able to use the computer, I got a message from the Ex.

The Ex: Is this you?

Me: Uh, yeah.

The Ex: WHY THE FUCK WAS YOUR MOTHER USING YOUR FUCKING ACCOUNT EARLIER?

Me: Excuse me?

The Ex then related the story to me. I about pissed my pants myself laughing (I took them off when I got on the computer, anticipating the cybering). Fortunately, since this was just internet chatting, she couldn't hear me laughing. I explained to her about my technologically-challenged mother and her refusal to use the accounts I set up for her.

The Ex: So...

The Ex: What are you going to do about this?

Me: I think I'm going to make you beg.

The Ex: ???

Me: Instead of sticking my big old cock in you, I'm going to make you beg. I like it when you're a dirty little girl and need some punishment.

Me: Get down on your knees.

Me: And fucking beg for it, bitch.

The Ex: You're a fucking pig.

Me: And that makes you a pig fucker.

The Ex: You know, I WAS horny earlier.

Me: Before or after talking to my mom?

Me: Oh...oh God...was it during?

The Ex: Okay, seriously, fuck you.

Me: Isn't that what you were trying to get earlier?

The Ex: You're such an asshole! [log off]

For years, my mother brought this story up at every family gathering in some weak attempt to embarrass me. I just always kind of shrugged it off, and threw back in her face, "It wouldn't have been a problem if you had ever bothered to learn how to access your own account."

"But, Son, I wouldn't be able to embarrass you so if it hadn't."

I guess she was right; I was embarrassed for her. I'd roll my eyes and just let her keep going in her own happy little world.

Just to steer this ship back onto the TMI Thursday track, the Ex came back fifteen minutes later and we had the cybersex. I think twice. I mean, I had my pants off already and everything. Never let a good boner go to waste.

And now that I think back...I mercilessly abused myself autoerotically in the same chair my mom sat in when she dinked around on the computer. Revenge is a dish best served naked...and musky...and possibly with traces of semen on it. And a few ass hairs and pubes for good measure.

/rant

* This all happened fourteen years ago, so I'm paraphrasing here. Just go with it.