Bent and Vice

Reconciling the Epic and the Lyrical

2012-01-22T07:13:00.000-08:00

I posed the question in my last post about how to reconcile the lyrical romantic with the fuck everything epic.

The positions are in conflict and I think it has a lot to do with the conflict of the subjective and the objective. Reconciling the lyrical and epic as an individual is simple when you are by yourself. You know what is happening to you objectively (externally) and subjectively (internally). Add a few people to the mix and it gets confusing in a fucking hurry.

Example:

Objective Erotic Epic Moment:

She slid into bed, her sheer 1970 style teddy, allowing the brown of her nipples and the hair of her bush to show through. His cock slowly begins to rise. Another, totally naked woman is moving into bed, right behind the first, her hands curl up around the nipples peaking through the teddy. A fourth man stands at the side of the bed, naked, his cock is at full attention.

The women push the man on the bed to his back, the first wraps her mouth around his cock and begins to suck and he hardens under her saliva and spit, as the teeth drag along the underside. The other woman straddles the mans face, cramming his nose into her cunt and begins riding her clit on his chin. The man on the bed, fully erect now, is mounted by the woman in the teddy. The two women, now facing each other, begin sucking on the other man's cock together.

This is a typical objective erotic moment. The objective potential for arousal for any of the participants is quite clear. This is the epic lover scenario, fucking the world and leaving no cock un-sucked and un-fucked and no cunt un-licked and un-penetrated.

Subjective Erotic Lyrical Moment:

The world transforms as I slide my cock into her. The physical sensation pales in comparison to the shift in breathing, her touch and the connection I feel with her at that moment. Her skin feels like home and it is in fact my home. The scent of our combined sexual smells wafts up from under the sheets with each thrust. I pull my tongue over my lips and taste again her cunt nectar from my earlier licking and sucking. As her pleasure noticeably increases, I move unconsciously in the way I know she likes, because we have done this act so very many times. Her response feels immediate and as her breathe increases, her hips buck and her eyes roll back and her whole body quivers, I know I have given her what she wants and that far exceeds the eventual tingle up the spine and explosion that will end this experience for me.

Now, for why reconciling the two is so difficult. Humans can't read minds or thoughts. What happens when the subjective moment is combined with the objective moment described above?

The world transforms as I slide my cock into her. I can only grasp at her sides and feel the strange scent of a foreign cunt invading my senses as another woman presses her cunt into my face. Yet, I feel the excitement in her as she rides me, the juices sluicing and running down under my balls. The overwhelming erotic nature of this encounter with two other people is impacting her as well and from the feel of her body, I can tell that it is arousing for her. The woman on my face rises up a little to re-adjust and I see both women's mouths on the other cock. I am at home with this woman riding my cock. Her sexuality and lust for flesh matches mine, exceeds mine and through it all we remain connected, even more deeply connected than before.

This is the lyrical/epic version, but it is fraught with problems. Three other people are simultaneously have a subjective experience and it may be completely different than the subjective experience of the male narrator. In the passionate embrace of two, all the attention can be focused on the other (although this is so fraught with problems that a couple of thousand years of tortured lyrical poets can attest to the inability of even two humans to match their subjective intensity). Add two other people to the mix and the potential for miscommunication expands the permutations of possible results to a minimum 14, assuming that there is only two potential emotional response per person.

The number of possible combinations of emotional responses a group of four, epic sex of the foursome variety means that it is almost guaranteed that someone's subjective experience will not be wholly pleasant and erotic.

Fortunately, besides being endowed with marvelously sensitive genitalia, humans have been given the capacity for language and the capacity for honesty. Honest language is ultimately the only way to resolve the conflict of the epic and the lyrical in the erotic. Probably why Kundera writes novels.

The Epic Versus The Lyrical Lover: Or Towards An Erotic Theory of Everything

2012-01-08T09:50:00.001-08:00

Ok, now that I’ve done the appropriate mindless, Cosmopolitan/Internet/Facebook Test of lover types, I can more fully examine the conflict between the epic and the lyrical lover.

Milan Kundera categorized two types of lovers in his book, The Art of the Novel -- the lyrical and the epic:

Lyrical seeks their personal ideal in each woman.
Epic seeks the infinite variety of the feminine universe.
Lyric is the expression of a self-revealing subjectivity,
Epic arises from the urge to seize hold of the objectivity of the world.
Lyrical is the love of romantic youth.
Epic is the search for the vast variety of life.
In the hands of a writer like Kundera, definitions can be compelling. He appeals to two great literary traditions in poetry, the epic and the lyrical. He captures the human emotions of romance and lustful abandon. He counters the subjective with the objective. He finishes us off with youth and inexperience versus wisdom and age. But his categories limit us. We are either epic or lyrical lovers.

But definitions create artificial boundaries on human experience. The conflict between safety, serenity and security of a steady spouse versus the danger and erotic charge of the unknown has been the fodder for countless novels, stories, songs and movies. Like the left and the right in politics, the faithful versus the philandering pepper our erotic discourse. The battle is between the lyrical and the epic, the subjective and the objective, love versus lust.

The conflict is genuine, much like the conflict in physics between quantum mechanics and general relativity. And as in physics, there is a great need for an underlying Theory of Everything Erotic, but no one can agree. The evidence mounts up and conflicts. Erotic safety and depth come from intimate relationships. True. Erotic charge comes from variety and seduction. Also true. The evidence piles up on both sides, so you can just pick the pile that appeals most to your sensibility, but the very act of choosing requires that valid erotic evidence be ignored.

Can romantic, intimate love be reconciled with wild, fuck-it-all eroticism?

Vicey Birthday to Me

2010-12-22T06:12:00.000-08:00

I know Bent loves me. I know because he took the leap that would threaten most mortal men.

He got me the ultimate gift of pleasure, the thing that rocks, twists, undulates my world....

He bought me a Sybian.

And it's diverse....

Fingers, phalluses, plugs and nubs...this thing rocks. Bent controls.

Ruby and I enjoy it together and I know Bent loves watching. I love watching, too.

All I can say it....

I love you too, Bent!

Love, Vice

I Miss Your Ass

2010-12-14T18:44:00.000-08:00

Hello my dears,

Vice here.

I'm here once again to blather on about my hang-ups. I am a conundrum, I am. I am a very free person sexually. I am an accepting person sexually.

But I draw the line here.

Barely legals for men over the age of, say 30, is just morbidly, epically wrong, in MY opinion. Men who have daughters the ages of the girls they lust over have serious swine issues. I think, giving the male species the benefit of the doubt, they don't *think* about it really. Their biology teaches them to find the youngest, reddest, pinkest, juiciest pussy to pork so that their gene pool will survive.

But there comes a time, guys, when the super-ego and the libido need to meet and have coffee. It would look and sound something like this:

Super: L, we need to talk.

Libido: About...? And did you see the FINE ass on our hostess? I'd like to fill her cupcake....

Super: Libido, keep it in your pants, she's only, like 16!

Libido: She's old enough to bleed, she's old enough to breed....

Super: *sigh* I think we've started on the wrong foot. Libido, look at me...look at ME not the server--she's even younger! Cut it out a second, willya? I really need to talk to you!

Libido: Talk, talk, talk, that's all you wanna do. I wanna do....ooh, her, look at that fine--

Super: Libido, I can cut you off--anytime. All I have to do is think of mom.

Libido: Shit. Fine. Fine. What?

Super: I wanna talk about Lindsay.

Libido: Suhweet! Lohan? Have you seen those tits?

Super: NO, Libido, Lindsay, our daughter.

Libido: Dude. No. I cant't hear you. La la la la la--

Super: She's tuning eighteen tomorrow, Libido. And I've noticed the way you've been lingering looks on her friends.

Libido: Fresh meat! ha ha ha ha!

Super: Libido, is Lindsay 'fresh meat', too?

Libido: Dude. I've never punched a Super Ego out before, but don't think I won't. You are one sick mother fuck--oh, gross, mother--see? Now you've got me all conflicted n' shit.

Super: Good! Because you ought to be conflicted. Your nature and instinct is to seek out the young and healthy.

Libido: Mmmm, young...healthy...

Super: Ehem. Focus. Our daughter is now young and healthy. She has been for a few years, now. I've let you run rampant with lusty thoughts about these magazines and porn sites you visit--the "Barely Legals"--for too long. We need to grow up.

Libido: How the hell do we grow up?

Super: A couple of ways, Libido. Fist off, every time you have a lusty thought about a girl around Lindsay's age, think how you would feel if one of our buddies at work or who we play hoops with confided in you that they wanna 'tap' our daughter.

Libido: I'd kill the mother fuck--shit!

Super: Exactly. Every one of those girls is some dudes's daughter. Capisca?

Libido: Oh MAN. Crap. Okay...so what else do we do?

Super: One word, Libido.

Libido: What?

Super: Can you say MILF?

***

This little scene is what every man should have going on in his conscious mind if he a) is 30 or older, b) has daughters 16 and older, c) has a super ego to begin with.

But too many don't. They don't consciously think of the women they're viewing and lusting after because it's too hard to have a conscience about them. It's easier to just let the balls do the thinking. But guys, it's time to grow up.

Recently, Bent went on a mini-trip to a mini-town in our mini-state. I expected him home at 12am or 1am. He arrived at 3:30am. I wasn't happy because I was awake every hour, worrying. When he got home and nonchalantly told me he stopped to rest a few times, I was a little confused. Then I got a little peeved., but I didn't know why until a few days later when I found this, or a semblance of it, in the car, hidden in a box in the back.

Only their airbrushed, magazine asses were much bigger, in remembrance, Bent said, diplomatically, of yours truly's ass. THIS ass:

But see...I wasn't looking at the girls' asses in the magazine. I was looking at their faces.

Bent knows that if he's to look at porn, the women need to be more mature.

But he only saw the asses on the magazine, and he missed mine. Awwwwww, sweet.

Right.

So tonight Bent leaves for a BIG town, far away from this mini-town and I have serious doubts and trust issues. I know Bent loves me. Bent has had a serious talk with his libido about the youngins. He's reformed.

But asses always catch their eyes first.

So it is.

I just may have an ass of my own to check out tomorrow. A candidate for a male third. I think the timing is both good--and bad. Bad because Bent will be uncomfortable if we aren't 100% connected and I have drinks, coffee with another, younger man. Good because....Bent will be uncomfortable. And that's where I want him to sit for a moment, as bad as that sounds, because there's nothing like walking in your partner's shoes to help you see what can help--and what can hurt.

Love, Vice

The Misanthropic Swinger

2010-12-12T18:57:00.000-08:00

Hello darlings.

Vice here....I feel moved to ruminate on a few things. God willing my thoughts will stay with me. SO many things....FIRST--a nod to Ruby for yet another unforGETTable evening with her and Bent. *sigh*

If you read this post, you'll get a small...flavor about what I speak.

Now. Remember when.....this post occurred? I begin to discuss the options of adding a third into our dyad. Never in my wildest, wettest dreams did I think the third would be a woman, or a woman as wonderful as Ruby. Our foray into the world of open, authentic sexuality has led us into many interesting situations. We tread lightly. We dipped our toes in. We dove in, head first. We have been, as they say, around the block. We...are hard-core.

Not in the sense that we have an open relationship or we fully swap partners. No. We are not hard-core in that sense. But we are no longer lambs among wolves, wide-eyed children among more adventurous and knowledgeable beings. We are now the wizened, the cynical, the knowing, the...misanthropic? Yes.

One thing Bent and I share is the disdain for the masses, the group-think, the sheep. We rebel against it, both, because I suspect we were both expected at a young age to assimilate into this type of tribe. But by our very natures, we resisted. We saw what groups can do, how utterly flawed they are. We both saw and see that the very foundation of being a part of a group is self-compromise.

And we are unwilling.

Back in the day, there were key parties, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. Back in the day people didn't have landing strips or Brazilians.

Back in the day...

swingers were ordinary folks, doing their thing. They looked relatively ordinary. They didn't ooze it like a herpatic pustule. They didn't reek of it like a sloppy seventh.

Now....they do.

Now, it's becoming rather mainstream.

NOW....there are tribes of swingers. In our particular area, four tribes have emerged. We have seen all, but are a part of none.

The four tribes are named thusly by my Viceliness:

The Plastics

The Posers

The Nasties

The Tantrics

The Plastics

They look how they sound. They have money. Trips to Vegas, Hedonism and swinger cruises are their mainstays. They spend most of their time in a gym and on a surgical table or aesthetician's chair. If they don't have the money, they at least have the beauty. Young girls dressed to the threes (because nines would cover too much of their young flesh) kiss each other and flirt, all under the very watchful eye of their well-off boyfriend. These girls don't even know what they want to be when they grow up, let alone something as complex as who they are and what they want. But they are usually there, in the venue of the contemporary swinger:

The music is loud, bass booming so you can't converse. No thoughts shared, no conversation sparked, no names exchanged. Just....noise. Faux fog spews out, all the better to see you with, my dear. Faux fog, like the candlelight of the bedroom, hides our flaws and makes everyone look ethereal and mysterious. Asthma sufferers, beware. Private, V.I.P. booths exist, for a price, so that the man with the money and bulging belly can entertain his two much younger "bi-sexual" girlfriends as they sit on his lap and make out. Club wear, clothes that can't be worn anywhere else without getting you arrested, is the fashion.

If you don't look plastic, you won't be invited to the after-party. Boo. Hoo. If the women fuck like they look, you might get a more authentic experience using this:

It might be a better conversationalist as well.

The Posers

These kids are just that. Kids. They are the newly marrieds, the boyfriend-girlfriends, the fuck buddies who want to explore together but have no real intentions of walking the walk. They usually meet in a house because they can't afford a total club take-over, or an old warehouse where someone's uncle owns a space.

The girls can be average to very sexy, but one thing they are not is doers. They tease, flaunt and flash, but when it comes down to the nitty-titty, they won't go there--even if they are in a relationship. Sex to them is a way to control, a game. The guys, ironically enough, are there quite sincerely and naively expecting an actual swinger-fest to take place. Will. Not. Happen.

The main reason for these parties is for girls to show off the goods and the guys to drool. Let the blue-balls begin.

The Nasties

These swingers do it and do it hard. They ride their Harley's to the party and ride their partners while screaming "Who's yer daddy?"

Bless their hearts.

These people are in it for the pleasure, sure, but there isn't a lot of money, privilege or discrimination among this bunch. One hole is as good as the next. A picture's worth a thousand words.

The Tantrics

If Bent and I had to choose any group, it would be this one. This group attempts to have decorum, taste and consideration behind their swinging.

Granted, it's a bunch of New Agey bullshit rationalizing fucking indiscriminately, but the people there tend to be sincere, moderately attractive, and have good manners (and hygiene). And, quite frankly, they're the group with the Sybian.

Nuff said.

Alas....

with the pickin's as slim as they are...I'm grateful I have Ruby, my wonderful Bent and, yes, finally, a Sybian, to enjoy.

Who needs to leave the house at all?

Love, Vice

Toy Story 3

2010-12-11T07:37:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to make any Woody jokes -- Ok, just one, but I had to get Buzz-ed light years before.

Vice has mentioned her Ruby and she has also been after me to actually write some of my impressions and after last night and I'm impressed. It was a night of three toys and three souls. Here are the toys:

Actually the top one was the Aquaman version, just for clarity.

Now, three toys equating to five phalluses, if you throw in my bent member, that would have been six. Divisibility into three seems to be important.

So, just back to the impressions. Vice and her Aquaman dick thrusting in and out of Ruby's ruby red cunt while I closely watched as Vice's breasts dangle and undulate as she pumped in and out of Ruby and they both come in a watery shower of blue vibrations.

The middle dildo slid between their two watery worlds, joining the flood of cunt ambrosia -- all the way into one and then all the way into the other -- back and forth, back and forth, the cock of immortality going between births.

The Sybian, the motorized cock, powerful and thrusting with electronic insistence - around and back and forth. A ride of shudders for each cunt, each woman.

So that left me to enjoy a Ruby-Vice 69 as I slid into Vice's cunt from behind as Ruby licked the clit. I push and Vice's tongue dips into Ruby's gem. I slide out, coated and slicked and I allow Ruby to lick Vice's nice wine from my cock, before re-dipping.

Yet, the Toy Story does not end there -- and not in a bang or a whimper.

I am but one man, but I have hands and fingers and double headed dongs and I fucked. We all rolled up together on the bed, this time with me spreading Vice's legs to get to her gospel, and as the missionary slides in, I hold the staff of rubber in my left hand and synchronize my hips and my hand as I enter, pull out and enter and pull out and enter both women.

As I write this, I realize that the comings and goings, the ins and outs, the licks and sucks are just moments. Still points in a fluid evening. Physical sensations are fleeting. The morning has come and the day dawns its cold winter gray.

Everything we've been told about sex, while maybe not wrong, at best is severely limited. There is a transformation that takes place when three come together. It is unique, complex and delicate. I feel the fragility as I sit here in the quiet of dawn. We are all still undergoing the process of getting to know each other. Vice and I have the intimacy of years. Vice and Ruby have the intimacy of gender. I knelt over them both with their legs spread and finger fucked them until they both came. I collapsed down between them and crossed my arms, so each could lick the other off my fingers. But more important than the finger fucking and the coming and the licking, was the metaphor, the coming together of the three in the twists and turns of physical contact.

Panic and fear run simultaneously parallel and in close tandem to pleasure and orgasm. The fine lines always threatening to veer off their parallel course and collide in a fiery crash.

The edifice of three is four-dimensional. In a couple, union is straightforward. In a triad, you have three versions of couples and the fourth entity, a larger union of three. The complexity alone creates beauty if the chord can be played in harmony, but the threat of the keys crashing down in dissonance never seems to completely leave.

The music analogy is apt. Playing a single note is easy and rarely will you screw up playing one note. Playing with two hands in tandem requires dexterity and practice. Adding another instrument means everyone performing has to be a skilled performer and the performance quality is controlled by the weakest link. And through the entire night, you listen intently for the sounds of dissonance, always hoping never to hear them, but always fearing.

The transcendence, when it arrives, is sublime and fleeting. Mortality, the word that means all things must end, superimposes itself on the three of us, limbs intertwined, breath mingled and we hold tight and in the eternity of the moment as we pull the sensation of meaning from our skin, our passion, our compassion.

Toys are for playing. Life is our play. And when the story is grand, you want another scene, another sequel.

And Lust Converges into Doubt Which Converges into Lust Which Converges into Doubt Which...

2010-11-28T19:39:00.000-08:00

Before you read this post, I urge you to read this one.

Because some things have changed and I'm processing how they changed, why they changed, if the change was and is good and if it will continue.

First, Vice has a girlfriend. It's official. I am in deep smit :) I can't and won't post a picture, even though I want to show you how h-a-w-t she is, both physically and emotionally. Suffice to say, she looks a lot like this:

Yes, my gf looks like a young Adrienne Barbeau.

Complete with pierced nipples that I find exotically, erotically fascinating.

I'm attracted to her...name? Um, we'll call her Ruby for now.

She is fast becoming a regular on the menu of delights for me...and....Bent? Yes, and Bent.

Our dyad has, in a way, become a triad. She isn't a toy I picked up at the local sex shop; she is a living, breathing, feeling, beautiful woman, a human being, a friend. She met my kids, she ate Thanksgiving dinner with us, She shared our bed with us. In a way, I think I love her. But I don't love her in the way I love Bent...must I really explain polyamory to you? No, I don't think I will. Suffice to say, Bent is my priority, still and forever.

The first night together, Bent informed her while at a swinger party, that we were "going to make her come" on a Sybian. We did; we did and then Vice took to her cunt and lapped up everything until Ruby roiled and released on the floor in front of a myriad of strangers. And nothing about it was strange for Bent and Ruby and I. Bent's cock was out of his pants and I took him in my mouth. I looked at Ruby, the ultimate submissive and yet, my friend...and with one look, she understood and took him with me.

Our next time together struck me as odd and exciting, pushing emotional boundaries. We all sat in lingerie in a B&B and played a game. The lights came down, and Ruby, on her period, was surprised when we pulled out the Hitachi and I bent Bent's head with me to take her nipples. His eyes widened only slightly as I crossed another barrier I'd said I wouldn't.

Last night, it was a hotel, watching vintage porn, drinking champagne. I suckled at Ruby's cunt, her hips rising off of the bed, and Bent's face hovered right next to mine, as if to ask permission. I gave it. The logistics of sucking on her clit didn't allow for simultaneous licking. I moved away and kissed her inner thigh while Bent hungrily lapped at her cunt and this is where lust.....converges into doubt.

I sit here, throbbing, trembling from desire and my cunt moistens with the memory of her. Her and him. Him and her. And her cunt in his mouth.

The thoughts of him giving her pleasure is frightening to me because when one pleasures another, the focus is not on another. Or is it? When I pleasure her, Bent is always there, watching, waiting, wondering and enjoying. Is it possible that he has me in his mind's eye as well?

My fear won't allow me to think so.

Ruby wrote me a beautiful email. She told me, in a sense, to 'be careful'. She doesn't want me to do anything to cause a rift between us--with Bent as the reason. She wants me--needs me in her life. I admire that and promised her I wouldn't. And I won't. I have no desire to hurt my Vicey heart. But my Vicey heart is hurting, nonetheless.

Why.

I don't know.

Ruby would never do anything to hurt me or Bent's relationship. I trust her almost completely. I don't want Ruby alone as much as with my Bent. I want to get to the point where I can share all of him with her and all of her with him.

And I'm not even close. Even in the throes of passion, I wondered at the wisdom of allowing his mouth to invade her pussy. But desire won out; and I thought I was ready. I wasn't.

My instinct is to shrink back from them both. But I can't, I can't and I won't. It isn't anyone's fault but my own.

It all boils down to my trust of Bent. What does HE truly want? I don't know that I completely trust that he will tell me and there's the rub.

He has told me he wants to fuck Ruby. But he wants to fuck her only with me. They are the two wheels; I am the axle that binds them.

They move only because of me. They form around me, they turn because of me. But what happens when the wheels move across the axle and touch in the middle? Does the axle become the sidecar?

My fears are old. My fears are murky.

I fear he wants to play with her with me and that he is developing feelings for her outside of me. A real concern, yes I know. Vice, are you stupid, says my inner Big Sister. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I know he has feelings for her as a decent and compassionate man. I don't mind that. But I do. I see how he treated me before we married. I think he would never treat her so poorly. I still hurt. And I fear he has wanted this all along and I have played right into slippery hands.

I fear his desire to watch the three of us play will supersede his desire for me alone.

I fear I'll lose her from my fear.

I fear he wants her because he's tasted her. Bonding occurs with tasting, I've found.

I fear he wants to pleasure her. I fear the dyad has forever become a triad. And I fear it from me as much as him. I can't imagine going to any adult event without her now.

I fear his arousal is steeped and tied to her scent, her smell, our smell, his visual of our feminine bodies mingling together. I feel I alone will never be enough again. I fear he will never admit this to me. Ever.

I think I already believe it to be true because I fear I am not enough thanks to the Ex-Mr. Vice.

I want to shrink in on myself and not be touched, not be held by anything but my own fears. I want to and Bent won't let me. Ruby, I could never hurt. How do I tell her I need time to process and I need her friendship to do it? Did sex with her muck up something better?

I have no conclusions.

But I am trembling and fragile and in love and in hurt and all of those things that make up a fitful nights' sleep.

Love,

Vice

Limits of the Fucked and the Fuck

2010-11-21T09:35:00.000-08:00

We start out as a cock spurt and later push our way out of a cunt. We all have to start from scratch with nothing, the raw material spawned by a fuck and surely that limits us. We are limited by where we begin and we are all literally fucked from the outset. Every human is fucked into consciousness. Every human has fuck on the brain. And we don't understand fuck all about fucking.

What kind of fucks?

The bonding fuck.
The making love fuck.
The guilt fuck.
The pleasure fuck.
The revenge fuck.
The mercy fuck.
The compassionate fuck.
The fuck to end all fucks, but really I'm just fucking with you.

It is no wonder we are all so fucked up about fucking. We don't have a fucking clue.

I'm actually being serious here. I don't think we have a fucking clue about fucking. We've fucked fucking with religion and law. We've fucked fucking with our fucking neurosis and expectations. We at least intuit that fucking is serious fucking business, but we surrender to the orgasmic rush or the afterglow of guilt and we can never figure out why we are so fucked up, because we don't really look at fucking very fucking closely.

From fucking Vice, I've learned that the land of fuck is a much more mysterious and beautiful world than I could have ever fucking imagined. And that is why we fucking write about it.

Cherry-Oh-Baby

2010-11-15T09:32:00.000-08:00

Hello Darlings, Vice here....

I tried to get Bent to post but we've been busy little bees, so you get me first....first, first; so many firsts.

FIRST :) allow me to say that your Vice has met someone. She isn't just someone, she is THE one. When I say "the" I'm not referring to settling down. You all know me better than that, don't you? Yes...you do.

No, when I say "the" I mean that I want to go places with her that I've only gone in fantasy. And she is perfect.

"Please..." by Vice

She has a smile that kept me staring at her all night. She brought out the "Vice" in me... she was delicious. For us, she was a "first."

She calls herself a 'sub'. I am definitely Dominant and so is Bent. We fit.

She understands what I want and sees what I want....

Mostly, she gets me. And that's always a turn on to the Vicey part of me.

Love,

Vice

The Scope of Fidelity

2010-10-29T06:05:00.000-07:00

So is he cheating?

Hello, darlings, Vice here.

Bent and I had a discussion last night about what constitutes faithfulness or fidelity. We had this conversation because at 9 o'clock at night, a woman called me. She believes I'm having an affair with her husband.

It's the first time I've been accused of this, and I wasn't concerned when she threatened to tell Bent. In fact, I didn't feel any concern for myself; only for the man with whom I'm having "my affair". Our affair consists of digital flirting. But--the most disturbing part of the flirting isn't the sexual innuendo. No. It was the burgeoning emotions, the friendship that had begun.

I'd told Bent about him before, naturally. So he wasn't caught off guard in the slightest. While not poly-amorous in the contemporary sense, I think we are all poly-amorous in the emotional sense. Bent understands this. My friend's wife--does not.

She didn't see that he loved her dearly. She didn't see that he's attracted to her. She didn't see that their serious lack of a sexual life was hurting him, hurting his ego and sense of self. She didn't see that he'd never want to lose her. She didn't see how happy he was, how invigorated he'd been feeling, and he gave it all to her and their kids.

No, she only saw the ugly parts. She chose to see the ugly parts. And we women love to be hurt. It's a sweet, double-edged sword we wield over our partner's head, forever. I know, because I've done it. Bent knows my buttons and has pushed them on occasion. It hurts. But there is a certain comfort in knowing that I am the hurting one, not him. I know I'm not leaving; I know I love him. So I have no fear of loss. While I process my hurt feelings, I am secure. This isn't true of the men.

They are on pins and needles, hoping against hope that this isn't the proverbial straw.

I make sure and reassure Bent that for us, there IS no straw. But due to his past, he still thinks there is.

So what constitutes cheating? Is it when part 1 enters part 0? Or is it the first time a person thinks to themselves; "Yes, I could do this?"

There are many, MANY articles, blogs and books on "Why Men Cheat." They all end with the same thing: There IS no excuse.

I beg to differ.

First, let's define our terms. I think the words are tricky. Cheating, unfaithful, etc. are all rather ambiguous. Especially if you aren't religious. I see being unfaithful as this:

Living under a pretense.

If you tell your partner there will never be anyone else that you will fuck, then you fuck someone without telling your partner first about it, that, to me is cheating.

If you are in an unhappy marriage and you seek out true love while IN the marriage so your segue is smooth--that to me is cheating. I know; I've done it.

But what else is cheating?

I think that when you marry under the pretense that you will commit to the marriage 100% and you don't, you are cheating. You let yourself go, you stop your education and self-improvement, you take him or her for granted, you stop having sex, when before you fucked like rabbits. THAT, my friends, is as bad as cheating to me. Why is it as bad? Because when you marry, you promise to give the best of yourself to the person you love most.

Too many parters turn around and give their worst.

Too many women are hot rabbits outside of marriage, and after the kids are born, become cold fish. This is a "sin" as grave as any that I can think of.

You married a sexual being, ladies. Unless he was getting it every two months while you were dating and was satisfied with that, you have the obligation to take care of yourself so that you are a sexual being and you want to have a sexual relationship.

Your fat thighs are no excuse.
Your kids are no excuse.
Being too tired every night is no excuse.
Having a headache is, of course, no excuse.

Ah, but being mad is. So how many women conjure up arguments right before bed to get out of sex? Too fucking many.

Ladies, it isn't like your being asked to shovel shit, here. You get pleasure out of this, too. You feel closer, gain intimacy, burn some extra calories and sleep BETTER when you have sex.

But if we give it to them all the time, what power will we have, hmm?

That's right guys. I'm about to break the taboo right open. Women think like this. Sexual control =power. How do they make you give them foot rubs every night? Give you a little languorous kiss in the kitchen, a promising wink, a verbal cue that you're going to get some. Then what happens after that foot rub, that errand, that 'honey-do'?

"I feel fat."
"The kids are still awake."
"I'm tired."
"My head hurts."

or the ultimate--silent treatment mixed with a knowing "You know why I'm mad."

It's living a pretense to say you want to be in a sexual and loving partnership and then treat your partner or spouse like a yo-yo. It is unconscionable to deprive a virile, healthy man a sexual partnership when, going in, that's what you promised with your actions. It is WRONG WRONG WRONG to expect your partner to serve your needs and your needs alone, while you ignore theirs. And people have sexual needs. Those who ignore these needs are as guilty of their spouses seeking it elsewhere as the spouses themselves.

When a man and a woman get past that initial stage of infatuation and commit to each other, they aren't really committing to each other; they are committing to the relationship they have created. Guys, let me ask you. How well would it go over if, one day you said, "Honey, I don't wanna work any more. Yeah, I'm done. Tired, you know? Why don't you go out and work outside of the home and I'll stay home and hang out."

But, wait a minute, she'd protest, that isn't what I signed up for here! You had a nice car and we have a nice house and three kids and you can't just change the rules on me!!

Oh oh oh, but how many WOMEN do this to men, hm?

She has the prestige of the nice house on the hill, she has "ownership" of you, aka she holds the keys to her magic box and never lets you have any of them, she's got her kids, her coffee clatch, her happy little side job at a boutique, her lunches with friends, her PTA volunteer time....why in the WORLD would she need to be sexual?

It's a pretense of the worst kind. It takes WORK, ladies, to be sexual. But you promised you'd do the work when I said "I do". And would he have continued with the wedding if he knew that in a year, you'd be saying "I don't?" ever night?

Yet society eviscerates cheating as a horrible act, when in fact. many men and women do it to simply SAVE their marriage. If they compartmentalize it enough, they have a person filling their sexual needs, and then their wife or husband, whom they love and whom they want to be with forever. Convoluted? Maybe. But sex is too easily relegated to the back seat when in reality it was the driving force for your relationship in the first place.

We are human beings, We are sexual. We love, we need, we desire. To "Cheat" (yes I said it) our partners out of a basic relational need is heinous and wrong, and if your partner seeks it out on some other level, then don't look at them, look straight in the mirror and into your own eyes.

Love,

Vice

The Sweet Sting of Anger

2010-09-24T05:12:00.000-07:00

Although disagreements and arguments are a part of every relationship, there's always one aspect to it that re-bonds you in a way nothing else can: make-up sex.

Although Bent and I NEVER argue (ha), when we do, it's almost always followed by this heady, luscious ritual that's fraught with intimacy, vulnerability and need, all rolled up into one. Here are my Vicey thoughts about make-up sex.

At the End

At the end of pointy words

that impale and adhere me to the wall,

there is a moment when we both sigh--

we let go of the sinewy string between us and float into

a place where armor's stripped from us.

There's need at the end. My insides broil with it,

and in between my legs melts into a fiery puddle--

all of the doubt melts and my body

opens, receives you

and you are bare, too.

Your cock has a thin sheath of worry

that penetrates into me.

You move, our eyes meet, and the tears have not yet dried.

At the end, everything that was opened closes with shuddering sighs,

breath staccato, motion in the ocean

where the salty waves of our hurt dry on our cheeks,

tangle in our hair like waves left on dry sand...

we melt into one another

and what was open, closes, with you trapped inside of me.

And you are in much further than

at the end

the time before.

~Vice

I love you Bent.

Let's Not Forget the Other Sex

2010-09-16T16:25:00.000-07:00

Hello Loves,

Vice here.

I rhapsodize and yearn verbally for women--all the time. But today I give a nod to men. Men, men, men, in all of their complexity, simplicity and delicious man-ness.

Some of my favorites....and they are clothed, darlings, because nothing is sexier than a man who can undress me with his eyes, his smile, his voice.

There is something magical about a man's hands. I think I look at them and wonder how they would feel on my skin, touching my face. I want to know how his fingers would feel sliding up and down my slit, delving into my pussy, my cunt, come hither-ing on my g-spot 'till I come.

I love scratchy faces between my thighs. I love tasting my cunt juice on unshaven chins. I love the sound of a man coming--make noise, men. It's the manly thing to do.

I love graying men. I love salt and pepper men. I love all-gray men. These are like my Bent--the wizened apes who know how to mount and dismount with aplomb--the wizened ape, the animal all young bucks ought to pay attention to. If they do they will have their fill of women. Because we women don't necessarily go for the prettiest man. No. We want men to see us, know us. We want them to crawl inside of our skins and move around in us. We want to be understood.

I am turned on immeasurably by men who read my words.

My Bent reads every word I write. He turns me on.

Is it ego? No. Not entirely, anyway. No, it's like a woman who goes to see a man on the playing field. She sees his animal nature and honors it; she sees his warrior and wants to tame it. Briefly.

A man reads my words and he is inside me, in the inner-most part of my brain. He is inside my hole, my whole, my holy being...he squirms inside and thrusts deeply and I gasp at the pleasure he gives me when he reads my words.

Some men--men I see in passing, men whose pictures I peruse, like the one above--maybe--maybe not, but especially my Bent when I first exchanged emails with him--some men I want in my mouth immediately. There is this delicious, gratifying, honey that comes from their cocks that tastes like ambrosia. I call it 'pre-cum', but it's really called pre-ejaculate. Whatever. It's honey. I love to stretch it out between his cock and my tongue; I love to roll it around in my mouth and I suck greedily at the first signs of it.

I love the smell of man.

I love the way his balls, between his sack and his thighs, smell. Musky, sensual, dark, rich...like good tobacco. I love nuzzling that part of him. I love tasting that part of him.

When I take a cock in my mouth, I use my hands. I rub all of him. I love the powerful feeling I get from him trusting me with his manhood in my mouth, between my lips, down my throat.

I love feeling him press his cock between my belly and his.

When Bent slides inside of my cunt, my eyes invariably spring open and alive. I can feel every inch of him in every inch of me. He settles into me, his face next to mine, his ass between my legs so I can touch it, grasp it, say "harder, faster" with my arms and touch. He slaps, sails, sighs, slides in and out, just right, the rhythm moving me, coaxing me wetter, hotter, pulsing heat starting in my spine, spiraling down, down....

my lower stomach has warmth that spreads through it....

then it turns fiery and almost intolerable....

I explode over him and my cum shoots from me, wetting his balls as they slap on me harder and faster. His balls are cold with the moisture dripping from them. My cum is like his pre-cum, only less slippery, and I feel it dripping as he moves, pleasuring himself in my cunt.

I am mother Earth and he is father sky and there are places where I end and he begins but that no one can see, they can only watch as the two intertwine. We are that place. He is my Bent. He is my Love.

And I'm his.

Love,

Vice

iF-U-C-K Me

2010-09-12T15:27:00.000-07:00

Hello Darlings, Vice here.

Yes, Brittney is a bad little girl. We all know that. But she IS a little girl. And I don't do women who are the same ages as my daughters. Not that they would want to do me. Just sayin'. So her little song about "If You Seek Amy" is fun, but not what I want.

I am insatiable.

I refuse to believe there are no women in the world like me. When I say "like", I mean married or involved, sexual, seriously BI-sexual, attractive, feminine and independently sexual from their male counterparts. I REFUSE.

Maybe I'm delusional.

But I don't think so.

They have to be out there, but perhaps they aren't HERE, meaning where I am, meaning my quadrant, area, state, city, town, neighborhood, street (how sweet would THAT be?)

So how do I find them?

I'm on a couples dating site. Many women state they are bi-sexual on it. But if they are, are they only bi after a few glasses of wine and when hubby watches? I think yes.

Because I have approached some and they say they "don't play alone" aka hubby has to watch.

Whatever. My Bent wants to watch. But it's up to me. If I say, "No, this is mine," then he honors that.

Although I want it to be a partnership, as per my last post, I also need pussy. I want pussy. I long for it, taste it in my mouth.

How can you NOT wax poetic about cunt?

The touch of downy hair returning my kiss as my soft lips brush it; the smell of heady, musky, cloying perfume, sometimes tart, sometimes rich, always sweet, always addicting. The soft flesh pulsing inside my mouth as I suck and caress her folds, slick with her juices....my tongue plunges in, my fingers slide back, I suck rhythmically and her hips buck up off of the bed in a slow dance lead by my mouth and her cunt....

my chin is wet.

My cunt is wet.

I'm insatiable.

Love,

Vice

A Good Morning Defined

2010-08-09T06:51:00.000-07:00

I'm in a definitional mood this morning, so I thought I'd define a "good morning."

A "good morning" is defined like any good theater

Setting: Pre-dawn Bedroom

Act 1. Hand (not mine) and Mouth (not mine) initiating action.
Act 2. Rising action.
Act 3. Climax

Ok, I was wrong. That was the definition for a "great fucking morning."

eLust 18

2010-08-05T06:13:00.000-07:00

HNT Courtesy of Barefoot Dreamer - Photo by Jon H.

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #19? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Off Limits for 30 Days - "You don't listen very well," I heard her hiss. "That's off limits, damn you." And there was a crack and fiery agony clawed into my back.

The Joy of Sucking Cock - I wonder at times if that is why I am such a “good little cocksucker” as W calls me. When I am deeply into it, I almost enter this place where I am both the sucker and suckee, and it is as though it is MY cock being sucked on.

This intensity gets me riled when I am tied up (photo story) - James picked up that evil strap again. I watched helplessly as he positioned himself to use it on my pussy... Ever so lightly he started. Flick, flick, flick.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Ask Lilly: How do I know if a sex toy has phthalates in it? - The studies going around are saying that phthalate exposure can damage all sorts of organs, and can possibly cause cancer. There are a lot of harmful things in our world these days that we can't avoid - so when we CAN avoid something like toxins in our sex toys, we should.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Portal. Confession #493 - It truly is a spiritual give and take, these sexual relationships I form. I can cross the threshold and see however much of someone that I choose to see, with whomever it is that I am involved with.

See also: Pleasurists #88 and #89 for all your sex toy review needs.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Defying Gravity with Carrie Moon

Interview with Dylan Ryan

Is "The Smoking Jacket" a Smoking Gun?

Naked and Famous

That's discrimination! -or- Two Words I'm Sick of Hearing

Very Deserved Wrath- Not So New Problems

Kink & Fetish

10 Things I Love About My Slave

A Rope Pride Flag?

At Last

Correlations

dutch part 6 - the finale!

Discovering DebPorn

Independence Day

Kinkster Me

No Mosquito Fetish Here

Our First Play Time - Part 1

Please

Post Exploratorium HNT

Sex and Kink

Subspace

Thoughts on Single Tailing

THIS is what happens to naughty little redheaded sluts…

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A Declaration of Independence -- From the eXes

Ass to Mouth

Bi The Way - Male Bisexuality and Swinging

Don't Beat Yourself Up

Euphemisms

Flying The Red Flag

Natural Born Swingers

Partnerships

Transtastic: On Coming Out as a Political Act

The Ins & Outs of Anal Sex

The Cialis Effect

Unusually High Sex Drive

Where is My G Spot?

Why Won’t Anyone Respond? — Help for Your Swinger Inbox

Erotic Writing

Adventures in Fisting

A Collision of Desires

boo full

Creature of habit pt. 3

Flashback: Our First Time

Fred

Fantasy: Australia Day

Good Morning

Get Down, Dirty & Get The Hell Out

I want...

Licked to orgasm

Sweat & Summer

Sparkly Vamp Erotica

The Ordeal (part one)

Upstairs. Now.

Wrestle

Partnerships

2010-07-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

Vice has found a friend.

Now, I'm not saying I have absconded the idea of F.R.S. (Female Recreational Sex); no indeed, but I've found that I enjoy connecting with my female lovers in ways I never did when I was younger.

Last night was no exception.

S and I went to dinner together and spent time laughing and sharing, talking, laughing some more....then we got a room.

Suddenly, expectations and awkwardness ensued. We both covered for these feelings nicely by laughing even more. And we were a little toasted--not much, just enough to be giggly. I love to tease her and she has this deliciously dry sense of humor that makes me warm in all the right places.

But there was an interesting specter, maybe even two that hovered near-by:

Our husbands were both home, awaiting us with baited breath, hoping ours was baited as well. And I found that as much as I wanted S, as much as I enjoyed S, I wanted to be close to her, naked with her, ravishing her....the more I wanted to share my experience with Bent, my beloved. I wanted to experience the moment with her with him, too. I wanted him to know how wonderful I think she is, how funny, how beautiful, how her roiling sexuality affects me. I wanted to share her and I wanted her to share me with her beloved. I wanted all of us. For some reason, it felt incomplete.

And I'd never had that before. I don't think it has anything to do with S; on the contrary, I think it has to do with my relationship to Bent. We are so in-tune with each other sexually, that doing anything without him now seems lop-sided and strange. But I still yearn for women, S in particular.

So we decided to stop kissing and laughing and to include the men later, of course.

What I wanted to say but couldn't was this: "S, you are beautiful and I am so aroused by you both sexually and mentally--we are kindred spirits in so many ways. I want to experience you in every way. I thought we could do that first, then perhaps include our partners; but I realize that this was backwards. We are both in primary partnerships and in order to feel comfortable, I think we need to present ourselves that way. In short, I want you, but I want all of you, whatever that means. I want your partner there to experience me through you, and vice versa. Most of all, I want to 'keep' you and not lose each other because we didn't honor our feelings.

I believe we will be able to experience each other in a total way if we open ourselves to the possibility that we are inextricably a part of a whole in our partnerships. You turn me on. You make my "burneth"; most surprising, you help me feel a wholeness that I want to share with the most important man in my life. Thank you for your beauty and friendship. Until next time, and make it soon--for we mustn't "try"--we must "do".

But I couldn't say it last night because when my tongue wasn't tied with hers, it was laughing, enjoying, feeling the possibilities, one lick at a time.

Love, Vice

Routine

2010-05-19T05:38:00.000-07:00

Hello my dears, Vice here.

I've been working, Bent has been working, and we have neglected you our loyal reader ;)

I want to talk about routines because I have one and it involves stimulating my brain so I can write.

I get up early, usually with the help of Bent. He has a way of prodding me so that my awakening is gradual, yet complete.

We get up, have our coffee, and I write because I feel creative and moved in the morning. But as late morning approaches, children go off to school, Bent off to work, I'm left with a waning creative fire. I like to take a moment to breathe, and rest.

I get into my bed naked and feel the cool sheets against my skin. I enjoy that feeling, the soft sheets caressing my body....

I think of my book, my characters, and the scene I want to work on ultimately that day. As I do, I feel the fires crawling up my insides and licking my inspiration area, working it into a mild frenzy. But I don't let myself go and write too quickly; no I make the session last as long as I can, even going so far as to stop the movement and let myself calm completely down.

When I'm overflowing with ideas, bursting with innovations, only then do I allow the sweet feeling of release to flood over me. Only then do I begin to buck up off of the bed, my mind a frenzy of words and thoughts, and my fingers, flying in deft dynamism, and only then does the creative fire return with each stroke of my keys.

Nothing works quite like a good, solid rest.

Love, Vice

Men + Money = Power. Women + Money = 0

2010-05-02T15:36:00.000-07:00

Vice here.

Unlike many of the tongue and cheek and, face it, tongue and cunt posts on Bent and Vice, this post is going to thrust deeply into the psyche of none other than Vice herself. As in me. I can't refer to myself in third person throughout the whole blog. Too affected, don't you think?

So here we are.

In my psyche. Muddled isn't it?

Granted this is just a depiction of my psyche. There would be more porno in it if it were really mine.

The best place to start is at the beginning, I suppose. We're in San Francisco for the weekend, Bent and I. I thought it would be an ideal time to see the sights aka go to Larry Flynt's Hustler's Club.

I have never had a lap dance before. Ever. Which is shocking for how much I love the female body grinding all over me. I told Bent what I wanted, he got the message loud and clear as I ground my naked pussy on his leg---I wanted to go.

We had a nice dinner and a bottle champagne--yes a whole bottle. Normally I don't drink that much. On some level I was nervous, and so was Bent. Strip Clubs had been one of the many undoings of his first marriage. Well, the lack of DISCLOSURE about strip clubs, to be more precise, I was nervous because it, meaning the experience, was going to put me face to face with one of my biggest dilemmas: my body image.

When we got to the club, they could smell the cash on us. We got VIP treatment right away. And a bottle of wine.

The music was loud, the dancers were lithe and real breasted and nubile and.... so young. So fucking young. Like I could have been a mother to every one minus one MILF-y looking dancer.

But I didn't let that get to me. I was there to enjoy, and not only enjoy--get some love via a lap dance.

Interesting dynamics aside, there were men of all ages there. One woman got up to dance and I threw down a bunch of bills--I liked her; she reminded me of a friend. She completely ignored my money. She completely ignored ME. I'm not used to being ignored. And she wasn't the last one to ignore me--only they got smart and saw where the money was coming from, so I'd get some face-in-tits play, but it was an act, all of it, just like it was an act for the men. I'm not used to being an act.

Bent was having a great time--in the world of male dominance, he won--he has a woman who digs women. But I was being thrust into a dynamic and paradigm that I'd never considered before. These women, at least from what I ascertained, were not bisexual, and if they were, they were not into me. AT all. This was tough for me to swallow. Although at a young age I found older women attractive, not all young women bi's do.

But wait! I had something all the young college guys didn't--I had MONEY. Wads of it, ready to throw at their feet, stuff in their bra or panties....they crawled for the money. They liked the money. I realized then that if I were an older man, I would be getting lots of attention. But as an older woman, I had nothing to offer them. I couldn't even be a remote-fantasy meal ticket.

I was face to face with the fact that money from me meant exactly DICK. No pun.

They focused attention on me as a way to turn on their other voyeurs, but not-a one came by to offer their lap dance services. They went to the men, most of whom could only come up with $1-$5 dollar tips. I was throwing $20 down and it still didn't matter. I then realized something else that wrenched me out of my reverie: I didn't see them as mere bodies. I saw them as....people. I looked into their eyes and saw the pain.
NO, not the tired "she's being degraded" pain. No, I think those girls are at total peace with what they do for a living. I don't blame them. If I could, I'd do it too. No, I think the pain came from having peace, yet the outside world with it's puritanical judgments, weighs on them.

I wanted to give them all of my money to show them that I valued what they did. The shift came for me as I sat there and realized something more: I had no power. Money didn't give me power like it did Bent or any of the other guys there. No, my power had been what their power was now; youth, sex appeal, beauty.

And I no longer have youth, thus my level of sex appeal and beauty drops relatively. I know, I know, Vice, you say, you are a lovely woman. Well, I'm a good 9 years away from being called "handsome". It's true.

What the fuck was I doing, staring at these girls, these babies? I didn't want to touch them, it was obscene. I tried to pull the last money wad from Bent, as he had been feeding me wads all night (don't be gross), and he did something unexpected: he pulled the money away from me and didn't let me have it. He stripped (no pun) me of the last vestiges of my power, even though the money had only given me the illusion to begin with.

I remember asking him why. Why? Why? Why? Then it dawned on me. His power in giving me the money was also his power in keeping it from me. He held the wad of bills....the strippers would come to him, now.

And every fear, every dark thought from my muddled psyche came to the fore.

I am old. I am old. I am powerless.

Women can be as rich as God and if they're old or unattractive, they still have no power. Women can be as poor as a church mouse and if they're beautiful....power galore.

I took the bills and threw them on the floor toward the girls, and I ran.

I don't remember much after that. I learned that Bent was keeping the money from me because I was being a bit too generous--but on some level, I still believe that he wanted their attention. It wasn't enough that he was the Alpha Male with all the men in the room. He wanted to be wanted, too.

And that should be okay, but it isn't. And I should understand, but I don't. I'm conflicted, tired hung-over, and slightly sick with fear and the dull thud of realization that my power as a woman fades every day with each line and wrinkle.

I can't make up for it in money, I can't trick nature. I can only allow the games people play to be played by the right players. I need to find a different field all together.

Then I can own a different kind of power. The real kind.

Love, ~Vice

The Space In Between

2010-04-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

Sex is connection

Cock in cunt

Tongue on clit

Lips on dick

But Sex is So Much More

Than

Two individuals

Colliding

And No Matter How Close

The Bodies Merge

There is always,

There always will be . . .

Is there always?
Yes, there must always be

The Space In Between.

Fantasy and Reality: 3 Questions and My Answers

2010-03-28T11:36:00.000-07:00

Do fantasies change over time?

Absolutely. The piggish, chauvinistic and erroneous fantasies are incinerated in the hot fire of truly loving a woman.

What changes fantasies?

Reality -- the reality of loving a woman. In my case, Vice.

What is the best fantasy?

Fantasies based on the reality of a passionate and compassionate love.

Love is the mooring, the tether that holds my fantasies in place now.

I'm a Professional. Please Fuck Me.

2010-03-27T05:04:00.000-07:00

Recently I, Vice admitted my massive crush on Ms.Nina Hartley. Not typically a blond-lover, although most of the woman I've slept with are blondes for some mystical reason...I'm wildly attracted to Nina for reasons I dictate here.

Well, other than a 3/4 time sex goddess, Vice is also a real-live writer. A Novelist in fact. This is why our little blog has been so quiet...I've been finishing my 8th novel and writing in my 9th. The most recent novel is the reason for this blog today.

You see, the new novel entails research, research that can only be done with a professional in the adult industry. Now, call me an opportunist, call me a finagler, but I managed--somehow, through grace of all that is holy, to get an interview with none-other-than Miss Nina herself.

I cream myself with anticipation.

BUT...

Vice is nothing if not professional. So I plan on keeping my panties as dry as possible when I go to meet Ms. Hartley. I plan on making the most of my time with her and asking appropriate and pertinent questions. I will refrain from begging her to fuck me.

But if she asks? The deal's done.

So if I were to imagine in my wettest of dreams how it would go, it would go something like this:

"Ms. Hartley--"

"Please, call me Nina."

Vice, blushing: "Nina. Please tell me how you got started in the instructional video biz."

Nina would tell me and I would ask more thought-provoking questions. Vice would be Vicey, witty and irresistible (this is where the fantasy comes in...)

"Vice would you like some wine?"

"Of course; interviews go so much better would wine is involved."

After a bottle, Nina moves to sit next to Vice on the couch. Vice confesses her rapture at finally meeting Nina. Nina would lean over and kiss Vice and soon, they would start kissing furtively and anxiously on the couch.

The buzzer would "ding" indicating time's up. They would laugh and Nina would invite Vice over for drinks later that evening.

Later that evening....

"Oops, I think my panties fell off."
Says Vice.

"Let's keep 'em off," says Miss Nina.

A picture's worth a thousand words.

BUT...

I'm a professional. I would never let my panties fall off. Unless she made them fall off. Then, what's a Vice to do? It IS her interview....

Wish me luck.

Love,
Vice

Vice and the Lesbian

2010-02-08T07:36:00.000-08:00

On occasion--just on occasion, I see a woman on FaceBook that piques my interest. Being the Vicey gal that I am, I like to make contact. Feel her out, so to speak. Almost all of them are straighter than a Conservatives colon (what with the stick up there n' all).

Well I hit on one the other day who is gay. I usually avoid gay women, because, like most straight people, gays hate bi's. We challenge their world view that we can't choose; we are what we are. But I can choose. I can't choose to whom I'm attracted, but I can choose what gender. Mostly, I'm attracted to straight women because I likes me some feminine pussy. Butch women do nothing for me. Unless they're extraordinarily hot. As in HAWT. As in probably only borderline butch, rather than true, in-your-face-I-hate-men-but-want-to-look-like-one butch.

I emailed the lesbian (who reminds me of my first girlfriend) a teaser. We'll call her Cindy. She emailed me back a little fact sheet about what we have in common (I'd asked her what else we had in common besides a mutual friend,) and at the end, her finale: "I'm a lesbian...your turn."

WELL.

I was backed up against a wall. If I told her the truth, she would cringe, as most lesbians do at the term "Bi". I could just see her face, as if she just swallowed warm, chunky milk.

I decided to hit on the stereotype as directly as I could.

"Dear Cindy,

What we have in common...

I used to be married to two men before this current one. The last one was SORT of a woman. You used to be married to a woman (maybe).

I love my kids. You love your kids.

I am a snappy dresser. You are a snappy dresser, too.

Now for the tough part.

I am a baby-seal eating, JFK-shooting, endangered-bird killing, amoral, rabid, rare forest burning, blood diamond wearing, old lady bullying kitten and puppy hating, non-recycling

BI SEXUAL.

Straight women hate me because I knock on their doors, introduce my self and say "I'm here to have sex with your family." I have three-ways with them and their husbands and secretly woo them both separately so that they both want ME and not each other, then I abandon them for greener and more challenging pastures.

Lesbians hate me because I turn into a bull-dyke or lipstick lesbian, whichever they prefer because I morph into whatever my paramour wants (being a soulless bisexual n' all) and make promises I don't intend to keep just to be able to play with their pink parts. THEN, when I'm positive they are head over heels in love with me, after--AFTER-- we adopt a dog or three together, I run off with a straight man to whom I promise nightly threesomes.

Or...

I just simply want a woman with whom I can connect on a deeper, spiritual, sexual level who is happy to share friendship and whatever comes our way without the agenda of 'happily ever after'.

You pick. "

I wonder where it will go from here. We are at the bonding stage. She's telling me about her kids. I told her my parents died. We're talking careers. Next she'll ask about my marriages, my upbringing. I'll ask about the marriage to her gay husband and subsequent marriage to a woman.

I might sound glib, but I don't take it for granted. I want to find out about her, I want to know her. She wrote me back a pithy and grand response:

"sounds like we have a future of sipping champagne in high heels and lingerie, tossing our heads back in laughter while your husband babysits and eavesdrops."

I assured her that Bent would not eavesdrop. And that he was great with kids.

I used to be glib about female recreational sex, but that isn't what I want, not really. What do I want, and is there room for it in the love-dyad I have with Bent?

I want to be careful and clear with Cindy. I want her to go into this with eyes wide open. I don't want to hurt her at all.

I will answer that question, because Bent is not compromisable. Not an option--hurting him, losing him is OFF the table. So I'll answer it...but meanwhile, I have to write her about my parents. She asked.

Love,

~Vice

Vice Has Needs (and a Crush)

2010-02-06T14:19:00.000-08:00

She stars in all of my fantasies about women and I can't get her outta my brain.

I'm the typical crazed fan who thinks that I have what it takes to catch her eye...I'm SPECIAL...but I'm not. . I'm not famous. I'm not a porn star like her.

She looks like L, my first female lover, only L had green eyes and black hair. But the face...the same. Nina's more of a hard body. L had small, luscious tits. Nina has L's voice, husky and earthy.

L worked at Golden Trails. She waitressed because she needed the money, she said. I think it was to finally spend some time with her then-husband, Ron. He spent all of his time at Trails.

Nina does sex instruction. I want her to teach me. I haven't been with a woman in so long, I ache. How does that jive with being married to a man, to my Bent?

It isn't recreational anymore, like it used to be. I want L back, the feelings, the closeness. I want it because in having it, I feel whole. When I am whole, I am whole for Bent. He has all of me. I met a woman on FaceBook. She looks like Nina and L, too. She's a lesbian. I can't go there because I can't give her all of me. I can't even give her part of me except the part that revels in female sexuality.

Last night, Bent confronted me with something I'd not considered.

He mentioned a friend of mine, we'll call her Jane. He told me that he could sense my desire for Jane, and he's right. I do desire her, but she's young....too young.

I don't like too young. It goes against the 'mothering' instinct I have. She is 28. I am 41. When I was 27, I had L, who was 43. Lest you think this is an elaborate justification, it isn't, just a fact. Perhaps that's why L couldn't be with me for long. I was young. She had a daughter in the same decade as me.

I didn't know I was bi until the man who introduced me to L confronted me. A woman came and stuck her hand down my shorts while we played pool at a bar. My eyes flew open and something changed in me. I got permission, permission to like it, from him. I was and am grateful to him for opening that door for me. Then I met L. She was powerful. She was comfortable in her own skin. She read feminist theory to me, she did my tarot cards. She kissed me. I was her first woman, too.

I wish I could find her.

She healed me in ways I can't verbalize. I imagine she looks a lot like Nina Hartley does now. Real, feminine, beautiful, soft.

The way she smelled sticks with me.

I loved her.

But not like I love Bent.

He encompasses all of me. I ache with love for him. So when he suggested I pursue Jane, I was conflicted. She is young, I protested. You were young, he reminded. She only acts bi when she drinks, I claimed. She needs permission, he said.

Part of me knows he's right. Jane wants nothing to do with men when we go out. She is married to a nice man, and has no use for any other men. Jane is stunning. When we go places, I am invisible. I don't mind; I stare at her too. But I know how it feels to be gawked at, to be hunted, visually violated by men who know nothing of me. I know how it feels. She has walls so high, ignoring-- to the point of ridiculousness, the stares she gets. I notice and I stand as a guard, protecting her, telling them with my eyes that she is more than so much flesh. She is beautiful inside and out. She is wise, she is wounded, but she never lets the wounds show. Men have wounded her. She covers it with strength and dignity. She has compassion. She teaches it to me.

What do I have to teach her?

Had L not been in my life, I'd have never rounded the corner years later to Bent. I'm sure of this. L would look like this (pitiful Photoshop, I know)
to see this picture thrills me a little. Makes me miss her.

So what I offer to Jane is a chance to have what Bent and I have now with her husband--or perhaps without. Who knows? I don't wish for her to be single; but I also see her in a life so much different than it is now. She is a rose in a field of nettles.

She flirts with me, kisses me and I stay and remain aloof. Why? Because I don't want to hurt her. I love her.

And even still, I am Bent's. I am all his. I worried as I confessed, he would find an excuse to love someone else, too. But it isn't how that works. I worry needlessly, I know....but still.

I worry.

I have no conclusions, no pithy, tidy end to this. I only wish I could thank L for letting me glimpse into her. I wish I could tell Jane what I experienced. I wish I could heal her, too. I want to love her and be whole.

Mostly I want Bent to know that I love him fiercely and, for all intensive purposes, I am his. Always.

Love,

Vice

A Fresh Look At Fetishim -- A Note to Women and A Love Note to Vice

2010-02-03T06:33:00.000-08:00

Fetish: 1 a : an object (as a small stone carving of an animal) believed to have magical power to protect or aid its owner; broadly : a material object regarded with superstitious or extravagant trust or reverence b : an object of irrational reverence or obsessive devotion : prepossession c :an object or bodily part whose real or fantasied presence is psychologically necessary for sexual gratification and that is an object of fixation to the extent that it may interfere with complete sexual expression

The world's oldest statue is a 35,000 old female nude -- a fetish by definition. While this may seem like old news, there is apparently 35,000 years of women having misunderstood male sexuality.

To be male is to be a fetishist. Masculine sexuality is all about fetishizing. We objectify you. We believe you have a magical power to protect us if we own you. You have a body of flesh, a material object that we men regard with superstitious or extravagant trust or reverence.

You are dismayed when the objectification becomes irrational or obsessive, i.e. stalkers or creepers, but our statues of you last tens of thousands of years. The debate or castigation of male objectification is misplaced. Women want this as much as men, except that women call it Romance.

Too much of fetishism focuses on the misplaced male gaze, breasts, feet, asses and legs, but these are the aberrations, the misguided the lost male gaze worshipping false fetish gods.

Before criticizing male objectification, women need to realize that each man does have the potential to fetishize his partner. Countless novels, countless romantic comedies have made women want to be seen as the one and only by the man.

Bottom line, healthy male sexuality fetishizes his lover. She is the one who arouses him. Her sexuality motivates and drives his sexuality. This occurs because the male mind is geared to focus its sexual energy. Due to neuro-plasticity and the Pavlovian pleasure principal, we fuck, rinse and repeat and our neuro-pathways become ingrained with one way to get off.

For me, the one way is Vice.

Lambent Light

2009-12-24T04:52:00.000-08:00

Word of the Day for Thursday, December 24, 2009

lambent \LAM-buhnt\, adjective:

1. Playing lightly on or over a surface; flickering; as, "a lambent flame; lambent shadows."

2. Softly bright or radiant; luminous; as, "a lambent light."

3. Light and brilliant; as, "a lambent style; lambent wit."

"The lambent light flicked it's luminous tongue across her clit, and it was good." ~Vice

"The lambent shadows brought her sweet opening to the fore." ~ Vice

Merry Christmas Eve~

~Vice

Vice's Penchant for Bling

2009-12-23T05:22:00.000-08:00

Word of the Day for Wednesday, December 23, 2009

clinquant \KLING-kunt\, adjective:

1. Glittering with gold or silver; tinseled.

noun:

1. Tinsel; imitation gold leaf.

Leaves flicker celadon in the spring, viridian in summer, clinquant in fall, tallying the sovereign seasons, graying and greening to reiterate the message of snow and sun.

-- Ann Zwinger, Beyond the Aspen Grove

Vice enjoyed the taste of her clinquant goodies.

--Vice

Silent Night

2009-12-19T07:32:00.000-08:00

Part of my effort to entirely pervert Christmas.

What I think about when I hear Silent Night ---

Silent Night, Holy Night.
All is calm, All is Bright.
Round yon virgin (ok a stretch)
Ball gag and smile.
Play in heavenly peace.
Play in heavenly peace.

Photo compliments of Emma Bound

~Bent

e[lust]3

2009-12-19T05:56:00.000-08:00

HNT Courtesy of 13Messages

Welcome to e[lust] - your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you're looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you're going to find it here. Want to be included in the next edition? Start with the rules, check out the schedule in the site's sidebar and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

♦ This Week's Top Three Posts ♦

Presence - I wish that you would look at me now. I am willing you to look at me now, over her body, rocking with the motion of her mouth. But you do not.

Restraint - “Do you like what you see?” the blonde asks. “Are you excited by what’s before you?” the redhead enquires. He nods.

What Not to Fetishwear - DON'T wear a PVC sleeveless vest if you fall into the rotund category. You will look like a bowling ball. With chubby arms.

◊ e[lust] Editress ◊

Fucking for Art - The proximity of their nakedness and my scrutiny resulted in this beautiful agony of arousal for them both. I asked if they would feel comfortable doing some poses of vaginal penetration for me, and they readily agreed.

♦ Featured Post ♦

The Naked Truth - He didn’t just write a pretty story we could act out, he worked hard to delicately lay us out on the page together, as we are.

See also: Pleasurists #56 and #57 for all your sex toy review needs

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Tricky Balls

Propaganda Sucks in All Directions

What Not to Fetishwear

Wicked Grounds

Which Reindeer Sex Style Are You? Five Tuesday: 2010 AVN Award Nominees

Kink & Fetish

Presence

Come what may..

While I waited

Caning Before the Movies

Say...

Savoring Submission

The Ruler

Give In

Flagging brown

The Mummy Returns

Finding Power Through Play

Marked

Microfantasy Monday 24

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Spanksgiving

Wife Unsure About Sex With Others

Morning

Thought Provoked

The Naked Truth

December: Month of the Rant

Less is More

That's My Cervix!

Femme Invisibility

Are You Just Kinky or Is It a Lifestyle Baby Steps and Giant Leaps

Cyber Sex

Erotic Writing

Friends with Benefits

Restraint

Prolific

The Tease

Cock. Confession #386

Shower

Cal's wisdom

Blinded and Bound

The Little Things...

lust

The Witness

Quiet and Still

Giving and Receiving

Beasts in the Bathroom

Fixation: Touch

The Pussy Eating Challenge

An Oceans Release part 1

MFM: Etiquette

Office Party

Daydreams & Distractions Droit de Cuissage

Tant pis

Toys, toys, toys

Revenge (Pt. 1)

Gush

Claiming: Assume the Position

Painting

HNT Christmas Tree

2009-12-17T17:35:00.000-08:00

Tree???

We don't need no stinking TREE......

Love and Lights~

~Vice

Baby It's Cold Outside -- HNT Version

2009-12-10T09:28:00.000-08:00

The weather here is frigid, if not below zero, damn close. All those cheery Christmas songs about how wonderful the cold weather of December is and I can only think of one thing this HNT that makes cold weather a good thing -- Vice and Ice.

Which Reindeer Sex Style Are You ?

2009-12-08T20:56:00.000-08:00

Dasher: You like it when your partner comes fast.

Dancer: You like to do it to music.

Prancer: This screams horse or pony play -- anal tail plug anyone?

Vixen: Do you use this for your blog name? If you do, put your link in the comments and this must be your choice.

Comet: You like screaming across the night sky.

Cupid: You do it only if you are in love.

Donder: You like to wear the other gender's clothes.

Blitzen: You can only do it if you are drunk.

Rudolph: You like to use your nose to ingratiate yourself to other people's asses. Rudolph was such a red noser.

Let us know which reindeer sex style you are --

Kissing Under The Cameltoe

2009-12-07T20:22:00.000-08:00

Vice and I were unpacking all the Christmas paraphernalia and couldn't find the mistletoe. I'm always one to look for any reason to insert my tongue into a warm wet opening, I was sorely disappointed that the little green twig could not be found.

Mistletoe is one of those Christmas traditions that hints at sexual possibility. My proclivity, however sophomoric, is to find ways to pervert the traditional into something crass and nasty. Throughout December, I'm hoping that Vice and I can bring you all the perversion that the season has to offer. Step one is subverting mistletoe. No more kissing under the mistletoe. This year all you men out there and you bi-sexual or lesbian women are to celebrate the season by kissing underneath the cameltoe.

The season will be much more merry and bright if we can all remember to pucker up underneath the cameltoe.

~Bent

New York Reflections -- HNT

2009-12-03T11:54:00.000-08:00

Back home after a long flight -- got up at 2:00 a.m.

We thought you might like to reflect on our NY hotel room window for HNT.

A Letter From The Management At Our Hotel

2009-12-02T05:32:00.000-08:00

Dear Guest,

As a reminder, please be aware of the transparency of our guest room windows and that activity in your room, when the curtains are open, may be visible from the outside. We appreciate your consideration of the patrons of the public park and surrounding neighborhood below.

Have a wonderful stay and do not hesitate to contact me should you have any queries.

Best,

General Manager

e[lust] 2

2009-12-02T02:24:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Twisted Monk

♦ This Week's Top Three Posts ♦

The Heart of Darkness - "I swear that man can sense my fear like a hound scenting a rabbit, and just like the hound, his blood rises to it."
Forever... - "Forever is a beautiful idea, a wonderful goal, but it’s not a magic spell."

His First Fuck - "He stood there, obviously nervous, obviously aroused by what he had been witness to seconds earlier."

◊ e[lust] Editress ◊
I Dare You - "Aided by our clutches of printed papers, me hiding my nipples that could cut glass and him hiding the hard bulge in his dress pants, we scurried back to our cubes where the messages flew back and forth."
♦ Featured Post ♦

Who am I? - "I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life and couldn’t fit it all on one piece of poster board."

See also: Pleasurists #55 for all your sex toy review needs

♦ Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships ♦

First. Confession #380
In Defense of Squirting
Forever...
Gender, Buck Angel, and Me
G Spot Orgasms: It's all about the clitoris
Spitroast
They May be Bi, But They're Still Boys
Why I Sometimes Fake Orgasms
Wonderland: The British in Bed

♦ Kink & Fetish ♦

The Workout (fiction)
I Am Not Clark Kent
Caning
Lips Parted
Curve
She brought her own toys
Rope Bondage: Hemp vs. Mfp
Phew! Another Hole
Hearts
My virginity and how I lost it..
Gift
Spicing it up: Bondage Materials

♦ Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor ♦

20 Questions with Cyd
This Ain't No Disney
A Thank You Note
Vegas Virgins
Sex and Happiness

♦ Erotic Writing ♦

1 Full Body Massage / 1 Happy Ending
The Slut Chronicles #7 ~ I Said No
To Do List
the date
And Your Hands and Your Lips and Your Tongue Tricks
Oh Fuuuck
I Get Around
Sometimes, Love Hurts
In The Dark
Making Up
Quickie - A Good Girl
What I Want You To Do To Me
Hitachi Fun
Her Curves
Carnal
marks she left
Wicked Wednesday: I Love Watching You Watching Me
Birthday Boy
Fucking & Making Love
Thy Mother and Thy Father: A Vodoun Love Spell
What Just Happened?
Happy Birthday Me
What Cums Around

Slip It On, Slide It In

2009-11-30T21:26:00.000-08:00

Well, Vice and I know what to do in NYC. We got to our hotel room after a long flight, looked in the honor bar and found a package with 3 lubricated condoms and the caption "Slip It On, Slide It In" and depicting three distinct sex acts -- from behind, Woman/Guy on Top? and the Chinese Finger Trap.

Since we didn't have any other plans for the evening, we spent a great night looking out at the city while we tried out different positions. Being fluid bonded, I just slid it in -- and out and in and out. The majestic Empire State Building out my window encouraging my dick to new heights.

Still wouldn't mind hearing from anyone in the big city about any goings on in the next couple of days. . .

Bent and Vice in NYC

2009-11-30T04:34:00.000-08:00

Due to a fortunate convergence of circumstance, Vice and I find ourselves heading to NYC this morning. We only have a couple of days, but we are open to suggestions on what might be fun for a couple of erotic bloggers in the Big Apple. Ideas anyone?

Vice's Vice--HNT

2009-11-26T04:30:00.000-08:00

And the Softness

It was so not like her

to be so bold, but then again I was not expecting

the softness of her to feel

so commanding against me;

She was ripened fruit, giving way to the slightest

pressure,

She was an ambivalent stoicism within walls of pillow

clouds--

She was broken

And so was I

but we fixed each other, yes we fixed each other with

honey and glue binding us together within

our thighs.

But there was no core of strength in the way

her tongue trailed along my spine

and found glistening thunder

beneath folds of sky

and only then did I feel the quaking earth

die beneath me,

only then did I feel God...

But God, she said, has nothing at all to do with all of this;

So she was right again, spearing me like something stuck

on a spit,

fingers tasting my insides,

tongue caressing my outsides

on all sides

and I said it again, I called out and prayed to God.

And she smiled and told me that I must only pray now

to gods of love as her hands found my face;

the gods of war as her knee nestled snugly between my swollen lips

and the gods of pleasure, as she rhythmically slid it deeper;

the gods of the sea, as she lapped at my slick shores...

and I prayed to them all;

I muttered my prayers and thanked them

for slippery slopes nestled in between

and mounds of

flesh to envelope in warmth,

of knees, and crooks of arms and napes and insoles

breasts so malleable and languorous in my mouth,

hot breath, insistent flesh...

but mostly I thanked them for musky warmth mingled with

soaked, slick bodies

and the softness.

I couldn't forget the softness.

~Vice 9/07

Happy Half-Nekked Thursday and Thanksgiving (in that order)!

I am thankful to the powers that be for my wonderful Bent. I don't know how I lived almost 41 years without him....

Love, Vice

"Vice and Friend"

Sexy Jane Photography

What Cums Around

2009-11-24T20:00:00.000-08:00

With trepidation, I opened the Playboy magazine filled with 1970's airbrushed glory. Somehow in the religious community that I grew up in a treasured copy had ended up in my hands. Ejaculatory masturbatory reveries ensued, but then I discovered something else – the articles. Yes, I decided to read Playboy for the articles, but not just any article – the sex fiction.

I remembered the words from the story long since all of the curvaceous breasts and furry bushes had faded from my memory. Even today over 30 years since, I remember the story about the man receiving a blow job. Why do some sex stories stick with us, years after the fact? I wish I knew the story, who wrote it, maybe by some miraculous fate someone will read this post and return the story to me. The plot elements remain fuzzy, but the man was a mix of ambivalence over being attacked by the sexy woman as she went down on him. The mere thought of a blow job for my adolescent skull was more than I could handle and then the man came, shooting his sperm into the woman’s mouth. The next paragraph has never left me. The woman slid up the man’s body and kissed him full on the lips, ejaculating his own cum back into his mouth.

This is how a fetish is born – partaking of the sticky ejaculate. Pre-cum just off the tip was my favorite. I always loved licking it off my fingers during my masturbation sessions with its sweet, yet musky taste. My love for ejaculate would diminish after I came, however. I needed a full force of arousal to bring the cum to my mouth and after the release the desire would fade into the sticky wet of my palm.

Flash forward to the present. Vice squirts, voluminous sprinkler quality squirting. I’ll be pounding away and I’m reminded of running naked through the sprinklers on a warm summer day as my cock splashes into her. The waterworks come with a caveat. I’ve never been able to get her to squirt me in the face.

With primal urgency, I’ll lick, suck, finger fuck, rub the G-spot. I’ll do everything to get her to come and squirt my face. She’ll get wet and I’ll come back up after kissing her and she’ll lick it off my face like she’s licking her female lover’s cunt, but she won’t squirt. I can feel it as I lick her clit, the abandon necessary to let her cunt ejaculate is pulled back inside her, held off and prevented from spraying my face. I want it. I engulf her clit in my mouth and suck it hard while my two fingers play with the top of her cunt, waving my fingers asking the liquid to please, please come here.

Last night after sucking, licking and coaxing with my fingers and tongue, I pulled my body up and slid inside. I could feel that knot of ejaculate every time our pelvises crashed together. The tremble entered her voice and the pleasure spread across her face.

“Let it go, spray me, come all over me. I want to feel you all over me.”

I slammed once more and sprang back, diving for her cunt. I reached it just in time for a long clear stream of cum to shoot out from her cunt. I opened my mouth and it filled with the clear liquid, a half cup of liquid that tasted like my own pre-cum, sweet and intoxicating. I rubbed my face in the wet pussy hair and sticky thighs. I felt the warm shower of musk and sex flowing over me.

Still hard and aching, I slid up her body. I slid my cock into the wet cunt. I bent down and kissed Vice. I let her liquid seep out of my mouth, back to her own waiting lips and tongue.

The sex and the story had come full circle.

Weekend Erotica

2009-11-21T05:47:00.000-08:00

Fucking in the Back Seat of a Car

So...

We're fucking in the back seat

of a car

and lips press

sweaty thighs bump

breathy sighs hump

tangled legs jump

knees and elbows,

press into leather

and sky and lights make noises

outside

as my screams

"Yes! Fuck me!"

light up pieces of sound and darkness

with car lights.....

but the window fog

isn't enough to

hide naked torsos--

illuminate

proliferate

supplicate

linear squash and humping bumping

and sound in a tin can echoes...

SSERP

is PRESS spelled backwards

indented on my ass.

~Vice, 2007

The Pleasures of Vice

2009-11-20T04:57:00.000-08:00

You've probably clicked here due to my wife's gorgeous ass. So I won't get in the way, other than to say, it is better than you can even conceive of -- even in your wildest fantasies. I am the luckiest man alive.

HNT--Bottoms Up

2009-11-19T05:36:00.000-08:00

Vice here, feeling vicey.

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday everyone!

Here's my bare contribution.....

Love,

~Vice

***

Sex Goddess

I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE

so don't mess with me

I've got a big bag full of SEX TOYS

and you can't have any

'cause they're all mine

'cause I'm

the SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.

"Hey," you may say to yourself,

"who the hell's she tryin' to kid,

she's no sex goddess,"

But trust me,

I am

if only for the fact that I have

the unabashed gall

to call

myself a SEX GODDESS,

I mean, after all,

it's what so many of us have at some point thought,

we've all had someone

who worshipped our filthy socks

and barked like a dog when we were near

giving us cause

to pause and think: You know, I may not look like much

but deep inside, I am a SEX GODDESS.

Only

we'd never come out and admit it publicly

well, you wouldn't admit it publicly

but I will

because I am

THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.

I haven't always been

a SEX GODDESS

I used to be just a mere mortal woman

but I grew tired of sexuality being repressed

then manifest

in late night 900 number ads

where 3 bodacious bimbettes

heave cleavage into the camera's winking lens and sigh:

"Big Girls oooh, Bad Girls oooh, Blonde Girls oooh,

you know what to do, call 1-900-UNMITIGATED BIMBO ooooh."

Yeah

I got fed up with the oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh

I got fed up with it all

so I put on my combat boots

and hit the road with my bag full of SEX TOYS

that were a vital part of my SEX GODDESS image

even though I would never actually use

my SEX TOYS

'cause my being a SEX GODDESS

it isn't a SEXUAL thing

it's a POLITICAL thing

I don't actually have SEX, no

I'm too busy taking care of

important SEX GODDESS BUSINESS,

yeah,

I gotta go on The Charlie Rose Show

and MTV and become a parody

of myself and make

buckets full of money off my own inane brand

of self-righteous POP PSYCHOLOGY

because my pain is different

because I am a SEX GODDESS

and when I talk,

people listen

why ?

Because, you guessed it,

I AM THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE

and you're not.

~ Maggie Estep

Bent's Response To Penetration Perplexity

2009-11-18T06:40:00.000-08:00

First, a point of clarification -- I believe the proper term is tit-for-tit, not tit-for-tat in this circumstance.

Certainly the tendency in couples who are exploring is for the man to defer to the woman's lead. Vice attributes this to the women being the "key to the candy store" for the men, so we deal with the key delicately. There is some truth to that, but I think it misses something fundamental in the male psyche.

To quote the proverbial "studies" -- who the hell knows if they are true or not and who the hell cares? -- but studies indicate that men in general are happier married than single. I certainly am and that is the one study I care most about. So I am all about doing whatever it takes to preserve that primary relationship. How we work out our sexuality is our own affair. Our resolution, however, is complicated if we involve others, since their considerations have to be balanced in as well.   This is the true meaning of reciprocity in these circumstances -- can the mutual needs of everyone involved be honored? If they can't, then don't do it.

Another point of men's sexuality that gets lost in the Neanderthalian typecasting that occurs is that we are in awe and occasional fear of female sexuality. It is the Ark of the Covenant and when we open it our faces melt. We don't understand that power to melt and engulf.  We are all about the attack, not the ambush. Women can fuck us limp and keep right on going. How is that fair? It isn't. It is biology and biology isn't fair. So variations between the sexes is completely appropriate.

I haven't talked to Vice about this, but male sexual energy seems to be finite quantity, easily lapsed into limpness, while female sexual energy is more boundless.   In terms of economics, keeping me focused on her is all about the preservation of a finite resource. This is why you pay so much at both the gas and the cock pump. Sound economics and a perfectly valid concern, supply and demand. Limited male supply, unlimited female demand.

As I so often say, particularly in regards to sex, the Golden Rule is a pretty bad fucking idea especially depending on the kink.  You may not want someone coming at your ass with a giant dildo, even though they may want that for themselves. So live a different rule, the rule of communication, empathy and mutual respect.

The rules you end up with that will be unique and your own -- and what is wrong with that?

Bent

PS Honey, if you get a chance today, put up some pictures for the more literary challenged.

Perplexing Penetration

2009-11-17T06:39:00.000-08:00

Although I am Vice, there are some vices that cause me to squirm--and not in that delicious way I like.

We discussed the concept of reciprocity a while back; Why am I allowed to be vicey with women while Bent is not?

Many people balk at this lack of tit-for-tat so to speak.

The consternation seems to stem from the idea that I am keeping Bent from doing what he 'really wants to do', while he is 'allowing' me to run rampant in other women's knickers.

The roots of this concept run deeply into our patriarchal society--men are "allowed" and "allow". If women have an issue with something, it's because WE are insecure and jealous; the thoughts that the man just may not want to do something is unheard of. So the assumption is that that women are the only thing keeping the men from sticking their cocks into every warm place they come across.

Basically we need to look at each individual person within the dyad and decide what works for them and what doesn't. I have a problem with Bent penetrating a woman, with anything--fingers, cock, tongue. Dildo? Vibrator? Not so much. But his actual body...I have an issue with it.

Why?

I don't know. I'm still trying to figure that out. Does Bent want to penetrate with the previously mentioned appendages? Maybe. But, I was always taught that you don't trade what you want MOST for what you want NOW. Bent wants me most. Ultimately he wants to stay happily married to me.

Until I am okay with penetration of another woman by him, he's not going to go there--not because I demand it, but because he wants me to be okay.

"But Vice," you say, "can't you get over being selfish/your hang-ups and just let him do it?"'

Sure. I can. But it will hurt. And unless we're doing something consensual, hurt shouldn't be part of the penetration equation.

And there is the small matter of preferences. Example: Bent enjoys gnawing on necks. I do not. Do I demand that I, too, can gnaw on necks because HE gets to? No, because that's not my kink.

Just because he likes doing something doesn't mean I like it. And there is no reason that I should like what he likes.

Bent is okay with women penetrating me. Bent is okay with men penetrating me. Bent is pretty much okay.

So do I abstain from other men because Bent can't be with other women? He will say 'no'; why? Because the thoughts of me being with another man turn him on. If it didn't I wouldn't do it. If he didn't care, I'd be concerned. But it does and he does.

Although this post meanders around a bit, it's pretty much clear that I'm trying to work out my feelings. I want Bent to have all of the lovely things I have. I want him to be happy. I don't want to be the Penetration Police.

What I want is to be okay with whatever Bent's bents are. And until I am, it seems he's okay--no matter what.

With Love~

~Vice

Crass vs. Decorum

2009-11-15T12:36:00.000-08:00

It's a fine line.

Vice here. I've been tumbling an idea around my pretty little head for a while, and I've decided that I'm ready to share. Now although you are all adults (I hope--if you aren't then hit that 'back' button, mister), I have a picture I want to post. Warning....it's pretty explicit:

Okay, okay she's a doll. A sex doll, I mean. But one doesn't need to go very far to find a real live person doing this exact thing. If you peruse this lovely mature site, the site of Bent and Vice, you won't find many in-you-face pictures like this. Why?

Because we have a sense of decorum.

We believe there is a time and a place for everything--everything, including tying up your lover and asking them to bark like a dog. But the time to do this is not at your 87-year old grandmother's birthday party.

We were recently at a private party--held in a bar. By the end of the night, people had been drinking--a lot and the barriers were coming down. But even though I had imbibed, I didn't feel the need to do what was being done throughout the room. I don't judge; Vice never judges. But I do know where my limits and boundaries lie and why they are there.

See, we live in a very conservative state. Along with conservatism comes the ugly underbelly of rebellion and denial.

When I belonged to a certain religion, I had problems because I didn't let it control me. The elderly gentlemen who run this religion didn't like that, and informally asked Vice to leave. Now that I am not in the religion, I have met several people who are also ex-members. I find it interesting that they still allow the religion to control them. But rather than controlling them in deprivation, it controls them with excess.

Is there anything wrong with excess?

Sometimes, no. Vice has been known to dance with Dionysus on occasion, straddle the Sybian for on-lookers, copiously copulate with Bent in a room of writhing flesh. But every weekend, these forays into the underbelly of the extreme occur and in every venue.

And all subtlety is lost. There is nothing erotic, nothing esoteric about these displays. They are there, pink and fleshy and wet and open for the world to see, and it does nothing for me and Bent.

See, we believe in seduction, the slow gentle sway of hips, the erotic undulation of bodies; we believe there is a place for cunts and cocks and fucking....but it isn't everywhere with everyone.

As I watched a woman strip down and begin giving head to another woman's husband, I took note of how unaroused I felt by it. She then yanked down a woman's pants and began eating her out. I expected to feel a tingle, but no...nothing, nada. There was no decorum there, no eroticism. It was in-your-face. And although I didn't and don't judge her, I also don't want to line up for the buffet.

Sometimes I want to see flesh slapping on flesh in my porn; penetration shots, close-up cunts, wetness trailing down chins....and sometimes, the tango is in order, fully clothed, music swaying hips, eyes smoldering in lust, and hands caressing cheeks.

Same thing with erotic photos. I have many Vicey photos that are very much a full-on feast. But they are only for Bent.

For you and all of our readers, I find that I prefer to pepper this site with verbal undulating ululations of the tango.

Vice~ photo by SexyJane Photography

With Love,

~Vice

Literary Lap Dance and Shiny Keys

2009-11-14T07:26:00.000-08:00

Bent and I were invited to perform at an erotic poetry reading last night.

We brought some poems, a tandem piece or two and a flash-fiction short story.

The bar/venue was all ours...but the crowd was not.

The first couple of readings went well...people clamored to listen to our literary licks, our figurative fucks, our oral orgasms....

and then, it got more crowded.

The venue became a bar again--even though it was a private party.

The organizers stayed quiet while the crowd roared on--no one bothered to explain the purpose of verbal sexual expression. And Bent and Vice finally had enough.

The expression 'casting pearls before swine' always seemed a bit condescending. But it aptly fit last night. I only read 3 out of 5--thank the gods.

Bent is a dynamic poet and performer--and even he was lost in the crowd because of the noise and disregard for the performances.

It made me want to pull out my shiny car keys and shake 'em. "Here, vapid, soul-less, uneducated, blathering idiots...come to Vicey."

But I didn't.

The cranium is the sexiest part of the body for Bent and me.

So we were sufficiently hot. But the night, as it was, devolved into a series of lap dances, simulated sex acts and banalities that quickly caused us to lose interest.

I don't know if we will give it another shot--we probably will with the caveat that the organizers need to step up and do some crowd control.

And that is the dry, yet eager to moisten opinion of Vice.

Thus sayeth me.

Love~

Vice

P.S. I've read (or attempted to read) poetry at bars before and the lubrication of intoxication negates some people's ability to understand the spoken word. So I was not quite as dismayed as Vice at the inattentiveness. What Vice failed to note is that last night was the night Vice and I popped our virgin performance cherry -- we've never read together before on stage. She performed with a magnetism that had people flocking to her. I'm hoping for many more erotic and non-erotic readings with Vice.

Yet, the most pleasurable part of the evening for me didn't take place at the reading, but after -- but that is another post -- or two.
Bent

Exposed

2009-11-13T05:14:00.000-08:00

Vice here.

As mentioned in our previous post, we joined a little community/movement called Half Nekked Thursdays

It has made me think vicier thoughts. I know the creator of HNT told us not to post more than one picture, but this is our blog--we are about getting nekked, naked, nude and naughty ALL of the time, not just on Thursdays.

Nudity is art, my art is nudity.

Girls on Film, by Vice

And it also turns us on.

Bent figures that while I was in bed masturbating yesterday, at least 4-5 people clicked on my half-naked picture. So all of you clickers, whoever you are, fueled and fostered my fantasies...thank you.

Our exhibitionistic streak is a powerful one. The heady perfume of exposure morphs its way into our sexual psyches and undulates our imaginations so that I find myself seeking new and interesting ways to show my viciness, a way to top my titillation, a way to lead the reader to lusty and licentious thoughts. But it can't be done with half-nekkedness alone. One can merely click on any link on any adult site and get anything one wishes for in terms of libidinous libation.

No...

There is more to this Vice than mutual salacious simpatico~

There is The Word.

The Written Word has the power to capture, catapult and combine cunt and cock, copulation and creativity...all in one forceful fuck.

So bend over, ass in the air and take me in. Take Bent in. Take us both in and let us fuck your minds.

You won't regret it.

Love~

Vice

Half-Nekked Thursday

2009-11-12T05:02:00.000-08:00

Vice here.

In true exhibitionistic style, Bent and I joined a little...movement called Half Nekked Thursdays.

The guidelines are posted there. We hope this is enjoyable. It's all about Bent and Vice--photos of me, him or us, and as always, about our sensual journey together....

Enjoy~

Love~

Vice

Nude Erections -- The Poetry of Peyronie -- Or How I Got To Be Bent

2009-11-11T21:34:00.000-08:00

Sex changes things
The physical act of the cock
Sliding into the cunt
In and out, In and out
Maybe an occasional swivel
An occasional pause
But mostly in and out, in and out, in and out.

The entry and exit into another human being
By cock or tongue
Makes us come, come, come
Come Undone –

And the ripples of the act
Traverse time
So that once you fuck
You are always fucked.

Wandering, a wayfarer in the Land of Fuck
A Johnny Appleseed of Copulation
Planting my seed indiscriminately
Into the non-fertile ground of rubber
I plunged in and out of beds
In and out of heads
In and out of dead ends.

I ventured into a bedroom
Red and black Satin
With a Satin Cunt to match
I licked.
I sucked.
I fucked.

And it was good.

I loved my cock.
We’d been through a lot together.
Masturbation.
Virginity.
Vasectomy.
An ex-wife did it to me.
The aforementioned Johnny Appleseed forays.
And now my cock and I had found a home
in the Satin Cunt of the Red and Black Satin bedroom.
All of his eight inches.
The gentle mild downward arch.
My cock and I had found a home.

Sipping on one of the nectar of the Gods
(Alcohol)
I lapped up the ambrosia of the Goddess --
Dining with those deities
She looked on me with favor
For my tongue’s talent and creativity
And my cock, my dick, my Triumphal Arch
Bounced in the air
Like a diving board
Undulating from the spring of an invisible diver of desire–
And my diving board, said “Fuck it!”
I’m tired of just bouncing around here above the water –
And the entire plank plunged into the pool.

Cocks penetrate.
Cunts accept.
This was the universe as I understood it.
But her cunt had an itch
An unbearable twitch
Son of a . . .

We Interrupt This Poem For An Important Anatomy Lesson:

The female of the human species derives her sexual pleasure primarily through the nerve endings in the clitoris, colloquially referred to as “the little man in the boat” . Dr. Grafenberg discovered a layer of spongy tissue about two inches inside the top part of the vagina that when stimulated also produced sexual pleasure for the female. This location became known as the “G” spot, after Dr. Grafenberg, not the G-string as the more Neanderthalian members of the species are inclined to believe. The G-spot is in reality the underside of the nerve endings of the clitoris extending back above the vagina. For those males in the audience, let me give you the analogy: Clitoral Head = the head of your beloved penis. G-spot = your penis’s underbelly. Honest, that is the Clitoral Truth.

We Now Return You To Your Regular Scheduled Poetics:

My cock pointed down.
And we were fucking right side up.
Her G-spot wanted attention
And it wasn’t getting any affection
In what I thought was thrusting perfection.
And I must point out that
Euclidian Geometry required my cock to miss the point.

Millions of years of evolution
Came up with a solution
To the travails of child birth
Give Women Curves and Hips
That Ba-donka-donk-donk
That Twist and Shout
That ass gyration.

Cunts don’t penetrate
Cunts conform
But this cunt, the Red and Black Satin Cunt,
Had a mind of its own.

Touch me here.
No, I want to go there.
Touch me here.
No, I want to go there.
Touch me here.
No, I want to go there.
Twist.
Thrust.
Twist.
Thrust.
Her shield against
My sword
The battle waged.
A long repetitive struggle.
Her rampart’s tight formations
Against my battering ram.
We battled long and hard
Fueled by alcoholic numbness
The war seethed.
We slammed together.

She screamed in agony –
Ok, pleasure –

I screamed in agony –
Ok, pleasure.

We came and sunk back
Into Red and Black Satin.

I went home with my cock.
Hung over and aching
And my life began to change.
Like the residual of a firm handshake
I could still feel
Her cuntshake
On my snake’s skin.

Days went by
And my cock and mind
Continued to ache –
Every erection
Felt like electrocution.

So I went to the Doctor
I said, “I’m feeling kind of rough”
He said, “Let me break it to you son.”
“Your dick’s fucked up.”
“My dick’s fucked up – I don’t see how.”
“Well, your dick that used to work, it don’t work now.”
He took his finger.
He took his fist.

And in medical precision showed me that

It happened like This —

The medical diagnosis for the mangled macaroni

Is Peyronie’s disease

The scar tissue in your dick will increase

As the scar tissue hardens
The blood flow will cease
And like a river dammed --
Your cock is damned too.
I left feeling kinda stunned.
Hard to hear that something is wrong with your gun.
I felt lost and confused
And I avoided the Black and Red Satin cunt.

Months passed.
The scar tissue hardened.
My cock grew – shorter when erect.
My cock was altered.
No more triumphal Arch.
Just an abrupt turn up.

I’m a poet.
I like metaphor.
And every erection was a reminder of the woman who changed me.
And I wanted back in
To the Satin of her Cunt.

So we met for dinner –
At the aptly named “Noodles and Company”

She said with her eyes, “You broke me.”
I said with my mouth, “You broke me.”
She at first took me figuratively.
I said, “No, literally.”
“Wanna see”
At first, she said no.
But not every girl has a custom made cock,
So she took a peek –
And like Goldilocks, the remodeled cock fit just right.

Now I still follow my cock

Like a compass pointing North

Magnetically compelled
As it gets erect
To point the way home.

Naughty Nurturing

2009-11-10T08:16:00.000-08:00

There are many things about me (Vice) that you, (lovely person) the reader, don't know.

One thing is despite my vicey-ness, I am also a mother. I have five kids, give or take. (I didn't birth all of them, and one is technically an "ex" child, but she is still mine.)

So I am no stranger to nurturing. But nurturing a child and nurturing an adult are two (hopefully) VERY different things. I'd like to talk about the latter.

There was one thing about Bent that captivated me as we "dated" (a.k.a. fucked). For all of his brains, bravado and base, bodacious bents, I sensed something else:

He was wounded. Deeply. I could sense it the moment we first met, the moment he first took me over the edge, screaming into his shoulder as I soaked his cock...he was broken. From that moment on, like a naughty Humpty Dumpty, I was bound to assemble him back again.

But the wounds ran deep. So deep in fact that Bent took off many times, leaving me with the aching memory of his touch, his tongue, his taste. When he left, I let him go, as one must do when one truly loves.

I wanted to be his oasis, his shelter from whatever storm he harbored inside.

I wanted my cunt to salve the hurt, my arms to hold the ache, my breasts to feed his hunger, my legs to wrap around his back and keep him coming and coming and coming....

I didn't know at the time what was causing the rawness in Bent until the rawness was gone, gone the moment he decided he wanted to build a permanent home in my oasis.

His pain had been loneliness, lack of connection, feeling lost. And soon, he was Home and the hurt was healed.

The very fist time his cock entered me we commenced a dance in which we would engage for a whole year. The moment he covered my aching, deprived and hungry cunt with his mouth, I knew I could never live without that mouth again. I had never felt anything--or anyone--like him.

But those wounds of his kept us apart for over a year. From March of 2007 to April of 2008, he was in and out (no pun) of my life and bed, leaving shattered pieced behind each time he said good-bye. Whatever this ache was he carried, I could feel it mirrored, echoing in my own heart.

Now his heart is healed and he is in my bed every night, only leaving to wage war on the world until evening, where I get to have him again and again.

But this urge of mine to heal through my cunt has not abated.

I have met two, perhaps three men since I've been married to my Bent, and I sense the same open wounds covered by a facade of glass. And I want to heal them.

Two in particular--newly divorced, they are both raw and hurting. One of them confided in me that he longed--craved--sensuality and human touch.

If these two men go out and 'get laid', they will have to deal with the aftermath of that with whomever they choose to bed; will she want me to call her back, what are her expectations? Will she reject ME like my ex-wife did? Will she demand more of me than I can give right now?

But there is beauty in Vice. Vice has no expectation, no strings attached. Vice has no agenda but pleasure. And Bent understands his Vice. Bent trusts his Vice, and Vice wants to envelope these tender souls in her arms and her wetness and her folds and writhe, grind, slide, slip them into forgetting, draw out their hurt through their cocks and spill it into her to be absorbed by her love for them.

I want to be their oasis, too. But not permanently. Just for a night. I want them to abandon their views of archaic sexual restraints and understand what a gift it is I want to give. I want them to see Bent for what he is--a formerly pain-ridden man who, because of the human touch, came back to life.

And Bent, for all of his vices, is a man of compassion. He sees in their eyes the pain he once harbored. And he, too wants to give them a gift, the gift of me, for a night. He doesn't do it for a selfish, prurient reason like most; he does it out of sheer compassion and understanding. He does it from a place of goodness.

And he knows that my cunt has the ability to milk away sadness, if only for a few hours.

So we formally asked one of these men if he would like to receive healing, sexual healing from me--from Vice, a woman who will ultimately return to Bent's bed craving him like no other because of his goodness and humanity.

We await his reply eagerly with the hopes that he will see it for what it is: an act of love.

~Vice

Peyronie's Disease and the Continual Fuck

2009-11-07T15:17:00.000-08:00

I like to think of Peyronie's Disease as a repetitive motion injury for the dick -- carpal tunnel of the penis. Having been outed by Vice, I thought a brief medical explanation would be appropriate.

Essentially the spongy tissue of the cock gets scarred so that when it fills with blood during those erectile moments, the scar acts like a dam and the blood flows off in all sorts of crazy directions -- in this case towards the G-spot.

Having been physically transformed by Vice, there has also been a metaphysical transformation as well, but this has come not from the creation of scar tissue but in the removal of old and painful scars. Just as my "re-direction" was orchestrated through some rigorous love making, my emotional re-direction has occurred through the same mechanism.

I've been making love to Vice continually for nearly two years now. I may not have my cock placed all the way to the bottom of her cunt all the time, but I am part of her and she has flowed out over me in a continuous stream of love and cunt juice. We come. We cuddle. We re-enter and continue with our long, luxurious fuck.

I entered her and she entered me and hasn't left. Life's ups and downs consist mostly of our hips gyrating and we synchronize to match the rhythm of our existence. The scars of our past have melted into our orgasms. The tingle from the base of my spine rises up through my skull and blows out the top of my head as my cock simultaneously empties into Vice and my body is cleansed and opened. Old hurts are sanded away and polished with each coming during this long, continuous fuck.

And there is no reason for the fuck to stop, even as the fuck bends us in new directions.

Revisiting Mine

2009-11-06T14:42:00.000-08:00

See the bend?

This is where I permanently disfigured my beloved Bent. I remember him telling me bluntly one night at dinner--a night after a long absence-- "You broke me."

I wasn't sure what that meant. Was he being metaphorical?

But, alas, he meant literally; he was bent. Thus, Bent and Vice (or "vise" if you will) was born.

You see, the way in which I arch my back causes his cock to consistently curve up at an unnatural (for him) angle. I made him lose about a half an inch, too--despite that, it's a pretty impressive specimen, no? And a half an inch shorter at that. I don't need him longer. He reaches the end of me and I scream every time.

For two years we fucked, and for two years I molded him. Much to my chagrin, but much to my 'oh well', he wasn't completely sold on Vice during our combustible copulations. He had another "lover", a sporadic clinger who, despite his best efforts, manipulated and guilted him into bed on occasion. I can read from their shared emails that he tried very hard to get her off of his leg, but she was a tricky cling-on, and it took a while. However...she didn't bend him, she didn't mold him to her will. I did.

I did, but I did it in a very different way. Rather than guilt, I used a welcoming meal, bed and body. Rather than manipulations, I gave him freedom and never asked anything of him. Rather than desperation, I used acceptance and pure, unadulterated love without expectation, motive or agenda. I have always loved him, even when I 'knew' he would never--could never, be all 'mine'.

But he was not the only one who wandered into other arms during our smattering of absences from each other.

I wandered as well. I have always wandered, to an extent. No one could be a cure for my boredom, my need to explore. I am a Sagittarius; that means one thing to believers...I must be FREE! To non-believers it's called 'monogamy challenged.'

I didn't ever view myself that way until I took a real inventory of what I was like in my past relationships. I didn't like what I saw. But I am done wandering...

Why?

Because no one has ever touched me the way he does.

No one has ever licked me, sucked me, ravished me as he does.

No one has ever looked into my eyes and made everything below turn to molten lava like he does.

No one has ever caressed me like he does.

No one has ever fucked me until I scream "Don't stop!" like he does.

No one has ever made me pray, moan, scream, wail and buck off of the sheets like he does.

No one has ever made my cunt into a fountain like he does.

He has insured that I will never wander again--unless of course it's with someone with whom we are both taking, both savoring...

Yes...I think it's fair to say that I bent Bent...but it's also fair to say he broke me, too. He broke my cherry into the kind of love for which I've been searching my whole life.

He introduced me to intimacy on levels of which I had only dreamed.

He has given me the kind of orgasms that can only come from paying attention, knowing me so well as to make me come with a mere touch, flick of his hand, tongue, cock.

We are each other's best of the best of the best. All others pale for him and for me.

And I want to share it, and him, with the world.

As long as he's always mine.

And darling?

.......

I'm yours.

Love, Vice

Meet 'n Greet 'n Seat 'n Delete

2009-11-02T06:55:00.000-08:00

Bent and I have tried to be more active in the "community". We just want to make some friends, we say.

We met two people, a lovely couple with whom we had drinks, pool and karaoke fun. We didn't get nekked or anything. I don't think that will ever happen based on preferences. I DO know that I like them both--and consider her, L a friend. I don't toss that 'friend' thing around lightly.

We met another couple with whom we DID get nekked. I consider both of them friends as well.

We went to a meet 'n greet at a bar Friday night. We planned on meeting some friends we'd communicated with online. Now...Bent and I can be rather...intimidating. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's because we're both caught between the world of wanting to be in the crowd, but not OF the crowd. When we introduced ourselves to said people, they seemed unsure of us; she was outright hostile and rude.

We found out later it was because they didn't know if it was "us" since we don't use our real names on the site. Well duh. But here's the thing; even if we weren't the couple they thought we were, was her complete stand-offishness necessary? Was her rudeness justified? Who knows. I don't really care, frankly.

See, Bent and I had an epiphany of sorts that night. As we listened to the couples talking (especially one married man who went on and on about the babes he's 'tapped' from another dating site) we realized we didn't belong--that we would NEVER belong. And that was a huge fucking relief.

Other than the previously mentioned friends, we don't want to belong, not to this community, not to these people.

There was a pervasive sense of vapidness that refused to transcend to true connection. And it wasn't just because it was at a bar. It's as if they are all stuck in this high school mentality, each couple an individual click basing their friends on the ease with which they shallowly play the game.

Even though they are open, even though they 'swing', the women still eyed me as if I had a bug in my mouth. I don't think it's typical jealousy. I think they sense that I am not stuck in that quagmire that they are. I think they recognize that I am an alien compared to them.

I don't drink to escape; we don't play with other couples to forget. We don't need to be drunk to be friendly.

We are exploring to delve deeper into ourselves and each other and wanted to find a couple who could come along for the ride. Instead, they were all on a party bus headed to nowhere.

Frankly, if that's what creams their corn then great. But it isn't for me.

I went back on the dating site and deleted all but five friends, explaining very nicely that we are going to only be friends with people whom we feel we can truly connect. The responses have mostly been disparaging and indignant.

That's fine; they can feel that way if they choose to.

Most of the people from the party asked us the next day online where we'd gone so early. "Why didn't you stick around longer", they asked.

Well we didn't stick around for all of the above mentioned reasons. BUT one reason trumped them all. See, we went home and did what we thought most people in "the lifestyle" say they feel compelled to do:

We went home and fucked each other's brains out. And I wouldn't trade my bent Bent for one other person in that room. Ever.

Love,

Vice

The First Fucking Evidence

2009-10-28T19:32:00.000-07:00

Last weekend Vice and I went on a little weekend excursion. She had on this deliciously short skirt and I fondled her as we drove home.

By the time you reach the middle ages, you've done a lot of fucking and if all has gone well, you are not a virgin. All pop culture movie references aside, 40 year old virgins are a rare breed. This also means that your partner has had their fair share of shagging in the past 20+ years. Virginal and 40 is not something you get to experience.

As I was rubbing Vice's clit and we were driving down the interstate, I was struck with how nice it would have been to be virginal with her -- something about car sex that brings out the adolescent I suppose. With Vice coming as we were going, I thought I'd surprise her and took an exit.

"Where are you going?"
"I'm going full circle."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I am going back to where I lost my virginity. I want to make love to you there, in the same location."

I said this with some trepidation. Going back to the scene of the loss of my virginity seemed steeped in emotional mine fields. Yet, my intentions were focused on wanting to share something with Vice. I wanted her to have that part of me, the first sexual encounter and this was how I proposed to give it to her and make it hers. Fortunately, we were on exactly the same wave length and she understood that in a very real way I was giving her my virginity.

I pulled the car to the side of the road, leaned the passenger seat back and pulled my cock out of my pants and crawled between Vice's legs. It was quite hard by this point and I slid in. The amazement and pleasure I felt was the same as the first time, except that now as I went from the cold into the warm wet flesh, I was more complete, more full, more aware of just how exquisite the cunt was that I was entering. The cunt I had lived in and loved for years now. It was a cunt that I loved with all the knowledge I had garnered of sexuality and by simply going to a location, I had entered her again and gained something new, the location had bestowed on us the gift of the nascent, the gift of the novice, the gift of virginity. We fucked for the first time.

Vice asked me how long I lasted the first time and I laughed, because I lasted about twenty seconds. I felt and thought that I could go much longer, but something strange happened. The spirit of virginity swept over us and Vice came in moments and I was surprised to feel the rush to orgasm as I came inside Vice in about twenty seconds.

I sat down to write about this several times and couldn't quite do it justice. I still don't think I have, but today I was walking into work wearing the same pants I had worn that night. I glanced down and I saw the streaks on my pants -- Vice's Virginal come stained my pants. A white streak on my fly was the evidence of our fucking -- our first fuck. I wore the evidence proudly all day. I'm going to go home and curl up next to Vice and sleep --

The Elusive Single Male

2009-10-25T09:21:00.000-07:00

Single men are everywhere.

Everyone knows that single men are typically up for anything, right?

UH, no.

You have no idea how hard...difficult it is to find a man if you want a certain dyad to become a triad.

What can Vice mean, you say?

Bent and I want a man to join us. HE doesn't want a man...he wants a man with me and I want a man with me and so...there it is.

But I won't just hop on the nearest flagpole. I have to know the guy, trust him, and connect with him. Not in a romantic way--Bent gives me all I need there, and more. But frankly, I am picky.

There are three men that are in the running. One has agreed--whole hearted. But he lives in another state.

One has tentatively agreed but wants to take things slowly and I do too--his friendship with me/we is more important than the sexual experience I crave. But who knows if we'll spook him and he'll run like a gazelle.

The third hasn't a clue we talk about him and I have a feeling seducing him would be difficult. He's still got one foot in a religious mind-set that carries with it the "This is what the concept of sex looks like" mantra.

So what's a horny Vice to do?

Here are some of the, what I see, cock-blockers to having a single guy join Bent and I for a good ol' fashioned threesome.

1) Straight men don't ask for directions.

See, when faced with the concept of asking for directions or being lost, they choose being lost because THEY CAN DO IT. WITHOUT HELP, thankyouverymuch.

So here we are, in a threesome setting, and rather than talk about the logistics, Straigh Singlle Guy stays mute until crunch time then he chickens out. Why? Because what happens if an errant winkie slips into his ass?

Now, Bent is interested in one ass, and that would be mine, not Single Guy's. But for some reason, single, straight men fear brushing a winkie with their hand, foot, elbow or GOD FORBID their own winkie or other part for fear that the dam will break and pretty soon, poof, they or the other straight guy will turn gay and sodomy will abound without the right kind of lube.

This is, of course, silly. But because SSG can't ask for directions, so to speak (aka say "I don't like touching winkies"); they fear the unnamed fear.

2) Straight men are afraid they might not be afraid of winkies.

This disturbs them.

The point of this fear is of course the fear that poof, they are gay and they'll have an irrational desire to be sodomized.

3) Although threesomes may appeal to every guy under the age of 30, the older, more mature, wise ones are seeking something....more.

That's great and all. But Vice needs somma that.

4) Religion and general sexual repression.

'Nuff said.

So what do I say to this guy?

"Hey sexy; I have two holes down there for a reason..."

C'mon. That's just weird.

Bent and I, being the sexual beings we are, make many people uncomfortable just by our energy. It isn't like we frotteurize people or anything, just each other. I just wish we could find connections that had the same fire we do....

At least connections that don't end all of their sentences with "Party on, Garth."

~Vice

The Best Sex Ever

2009-10-16T10:43:00.000-07:00

What constitutes "the best sex ever"?

I've lived nearly a half a century and my best sex ever was last night.

In my musings, I wonder if the ephemeral quality of sex lends itself to the most recent being the sex remembered as the best, yet I don't think so. In part because of last night.

I brought into the living room/bedroom -- we were mobile -- my history. In that miracle that is the brain, I'd stored snippets, recollections of my past and I'm certain that Vice had too and we brought those together last night and fucked with them in a very literal way.

The mystical quality of intercourse comes from its immediacy and focus on the present. You can't be focused on much else when a piece of plastic is being shoved up your ass. The Present -- as the New Agers would say, The Power of Now -- but the pleasure is being caught up in the flow of the experience.

Wine.
Lingerie.
Fish net stockings.
Fish net stockings being ripped.
Licking.
Porn playing.

Almost sounds routine, rote, but not if you are having the Best Sex Ever.

The fucking is so often interrupted by some type of outside influence. Be quite so the kids don't hear. Weariness from a day of work. Distractions don't lead to intense contractions. For the Best Sex Ever, the distractions weren't present.

My focus was on Vice. Hers was on me, but it just wasn't a present focus. It was a full blown fantasy smorgasboard of the future. The Present and The Future combined into a glorious moment.

Yet, even that has happened before, so not necessarily enough to rise to the level of "Best Ever." My sexual experiences of my 20s and 30s seem so pallid in comparison. Partly because I had no knowledge, no experience, no past to bring into that fuck, into that cock entering cunt.

Last night it all came together -- Past, Present and Future in a long, drawn out fuckathon. Only my past with Vice and our respective pasts apart could have built the foundation for this most glorious of fucks. We took that Past, imagined our Future and sprayed the Present in our bodies' nectar. Fortunately, words fail. I suppose that if words could describe it -- it wouldn't be the best sex ever.

Like a giant earthquake, sexual aftershocks came every three or four hours at 3:00 a.m., 6:00 a.m., 9:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m. as the sexual flesh still shook, those thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.

It Finally Happened.

2009-09-26T15:24:00.000-07:00

The sad, poorly neglected bi-sexual side of Vice (like this blog) had a fantasy come true.

She (me) (Vice) walks into her appointment with her new OBGYN (or just GYN) and waits. There are no magazines to wheedle away the time, so she sits and daydreams about what the new doctor will look like.

Now keep in mind, the doctors are typically on the "granola side"...(gimme a break, Photoshop hasn't been installed yet on my new computer) so her fantasy is really a fantasy when she conjures a beautiful, feminine brunette.

Beautiful, feminine brunette doctor would walk in and say, "Hmmm, let's have a look-see between those legs" (no southern accent, please.)

Vice would shyly drop her knees and then feel something warm and wet between her legs as....

Uh oh.

Knock knock.

The doctor will see Vice now.

And she walked in.

Holy mother of all that is fucking hot.

She was a downplayed version of Megan Fox. Maybe a mixture of Fox and Jennifer Love-Hewitt (whom I've heretofore never had an attraction to, but now....?)

Yeah, amalgamate these two and add some gentle hands....*sigh*.

No tongue, unfortunately, but then, what would I have to fantasize about if she went and did something like that?

paix,
Vice

Vent and Bice...Bent and Vice...VENTING. Whew.

2009-06-02T09:43:00.000-07:00

We drove. We drove and drove out of this:

And we drove to this:

We thought we would find this and this:

Instead, we found this and this.

Lastly, we thought we would be greeted by them:

And we were greeted by very nice people who looked like THEM:

The party attendees looked mostly like this....

Bent and I left to get some alcohol, and we kept on a-drivin'. Back to the city and the familiarity and aesthetic beauty that we have come to love.....us.

We were diappointed. But not for long.

~Vice

Living the Dream

2009-05-30T08:11:00.000-07:00

Vice here.

Tonight we're going to try something new.

Bent and I are going to a swinger party.

In the past we have hashed and re-hashed our quandaries about a non-traditional relationship. I have grown a lot since the earlier days. I still don't want bent fucking another woman, but I am not so worried about the attraction thing anymore. If he didn't get attracted, he'd be dead. Who wants dead? Not I, says me.

Bent wants me to fuck another woman. I am not so worried about his participation in it anymore.

I am going to write down my comfort zones so they're coherent for me. ME. Sorry dear reader, you get to process this with me. Or not....

I am okay with Bent watching me fuck a woman.

I am okay with Bent doing things to me while I fuck another woman.

I am okay with another woman fucking me.

I am okay with Bent helping HER fuck me.

I am okay with a woman and her partner fucking in front of/next to me and Bent. I am okay with my interaction with the womanly half of said couple.

I am okay with helping another man fuck his partner.

I am NOT okay with Bent fucking another woman.

I am not okay with Bent doing anything to HER while I fuck her or while she fucks me.

I am not okay with another man fucking me.

I am not okay with bent helping another man fuck his partner.

Now for the murky parts.

Am I okay with sucking off another man with his partner? Is Bent okay with me doing that?

Am I okay with eating a pussy with Bent?

Am I okay with another woman sharing cock-sucking with me (on Bent)?

Am I okay with physical contact with Bent and another woman on any level? And is that fair?

Am I okay with Bent and another man fucking me while the woman plays with him or Bent?

Murky.

The bottom line in all of this?

My relationship with Bent is non-negotiable. I want him and only him for the rest of my life. What we do in play time can NEVER come between us or harm us.

Am I naive? Am I delusional?

I don't know. But I know that when all's said and done, he's the one I want cuddling with me tonight. His cock is the last thing I want in me before bed. His lips are the last thing I want to taste before drifting off to sleep. His eyes are the last thing I want to see as I close my own.

I love him like I've never loved anyone. It is a fierce, aching, yet comfortable love.

I love you Bent. I always have.

Let's fuck the world together. Starting tonight, on our terms, and revel in it for the next 40 years.

Until the next time....

~Vice

Resting Place

2009-04-06T05:52:00.000-07:00

I have a soft, fragrant place

Just there...

It's a place I nestle my nose

when I am too hot

when I am too bothered

to rest it

any

place

else.

I have a silky spot

Just there...

it's a place where I distend my tongue

languidly

when I am thirsty

when I need suckling

and nothing

else

will

do.

And I have smooth satin against

my cheek...

it's a warm hand

caressing my face,

it's desperate fingers

entangled in my hair

they pull me deeper

they pull me harder

begging

Please

don't

stop.

On the Pleasures of Marital Sex

2009-02-15T16:45:00.000-08:00

Room 207 of the Ramada Inn. March 17, 2007. A room and date that changed my life, since it was there and then that I first got to taste, lick, and copulate with Vice. The room wasn't originally chosen for its charm or scenic views as you can tell from the picture below. It was chosen for its expediency in the rush of adrenaline filled adultery. Now in fairness to Vice, she was well into her separation and eventual divorce at the time and we had had a little bit of a thing going for awhile.

This blog is a little bit of an attempt of ours to resurrect some blogs that were instrumental in our courtship and marriage. Bent and Vice are a creation of the blogosphere, since it was here we met. I had a blog that is now defunct in which I would try and write inflamatory things and at the same time exhibitionistically flaunt my own sexuality. I resurrected one of the posts that I had made from that old blog and posted it on this site. I wrote On the Pleasures of Adultery.

One of the things I had written back then in somewhat of a prophetic voice of my own was: "Our lives are much more rich, diverse and exciting than to be prescribed on Sinai stone tablets ostensibly etched over 2500 years ago." I technically committed adultery nearly two years ago with Vice and for the past seven months she has been my wife. I had no idea when I chronicled our adventure in Room 207, how rich and diverse my life was to become because of this woman.

For Valentine's Day, we returned to the scene of the crime, the scene of the adultery, the scene of my first shoving my tongue in her cunt, the scene of stumbling first sex, the scene of the unseen future that sticking ourselves together that night would result in sticking ourselves together. She sleeps silently now next to me.

Our sexual chemistry has blossomed from those heady first copulations to a full grown orgasmic garden. Vice came twice during our Valentine's Day dinner by my rubbing her wrist. Of her many talents, public orgasms from stimulating seemingly innocuous body parts is one I have a lot of fun with.

We hit Room 207 with -- if it is possible -- more sexual energy than we had our first time. The furtiveness and uneasiness was gone, although Vice still stayed in the car when I checked in. The clerk at the front desk had her name tag on and it said, "Luv" and I promise I'm not making this up. We walked up to the room, threw down our bags and I followed a previous routine in an homage to our first time, pulling her pants off, unbuckling her garters and licking, licking, licking.

Maybe that is why we are married. I love how Vice tastes and smells.

I wasn't Bent then and I don't remember the bed being as bouncy as it was, but the room in all its hotel room familiarity carried with it a familiarity that exceeded its "every hotel room" sameness. The room carried with it the weight and the pleasure of our past and we were having intercourse not just with each other this time, but intercourse with our past and future.

We stayed longer this time. We cuddled. We made the Instant Coffee in the room (which was surprisingly good, but maybe everything is wonderful after a night, dawn and morning of fucking and making love). I took pictures. I vowed to come back.

We walked out of the room and there was no trepidation of what Vice's husband would think -- I was her husband. We drove to our new home in the cold winter morning, sun glinting off drifting snow. I came in and began to cook her child, our child breakfast.

Room 207 remained in its rumpled remains, awaiting Luv to send up the maid.

On the Pleasures of Adultery -- The Original Post

2009-02-15T16:22:00.000-08:00

Now, I don't want everyone to get in an uproar and start shouting and screaming that I have gone off my rocker and am espousing rampant adultery. I'm just really not in a place where I think that all proper modes of behavior have been dictated by the finger of God on stone. Our lives are much more rich, diverse and exciting than to be prescribed on Sinai stone tablets ostensibly etched over 2500 years ago. And if the New Testament is right -- if all I have to do is lust after a woman to be as guilty of adultery as if I had actually stripped off her clothes and did her on the spot, then at judgment day I am so incredibly fucked it isn't even funny.

But if there is anything as irritating as religious morality now-it-alls, I think it is the evolutionary "Darwinian" biologists. Johnathan Blake posted a comment citing six "new" findings by evolutionary biologists/psychologists based on a Psychology Today article:

1. A woman's capacity for orgasm depends not on her partner's sexual skill but on her subconscious evaluation of his genetic merits.

2. Women's orgasm has little to do with love. Or experience.

3. Good men are indeed hard to find.

4. The men with the best genes make the worst mates.

5. Women are no more built for monogamy than men are. They are designed to keep their options open.

6. Women fake orgasm to divert a partner's attention from their infidelities.

I read this article and was incredulous. This is worse than religion, this is religion masquerading as bad science. If anyone thought and didn't turn off their brain, simply because a "scientist" said it was so, it would be hilarious. Instead, from out of the burning laboratory, the Scientist appeared to Moses and etched in ink six results on the pages of Psychology Today.

To summarize the article, women's orgasms are a problem for evolutionary biologists, because no one can agree why women have them. (Apparently the need to feel some pleasure before undergoing nine months of vomiting hell isn't enough of a biological imperative to make sex feel good for the female.) Two chauvinistic camps of thought have arisen: the old school version finds that the female orgasm has the same function as male nipples -- none. The new version is contained in those six statements above, but can be summarized as evolution requires us all to be sluts and studs. (If some religious guy said "Good men are hard to find, so women you need to share me." Everybody would be in an uproar. The FBI would chase him down and the poor guy's stab at making a heaven here on earth for himself would instead turn into a living hell.)

All the important questions are answered with the new "God", Biology.What makes illicit sex drive a woman to orgiastic delights? Biology. What makes women want to fuck good lucking men? Biology. And men are so vain and self-centered that if she can pull a Meg Ryan orgasm off in bed, he'll be clueless that she is fucking someone else, because of -- Biology.

Darwin Guru 1: Lab Fact: If a woman has an orgasm during sex, she retains more sperm. Evolutionary (pulled out of the scientist's ass) Fact: By controlling who she orgasm's with, the female gets to pick and choose whose sperm she accepts.Of course from this follows that women only get off then if she subconsciously feels that the guy is sperm worthy. If that were the case, then evolution would have resulted in most males with a terminal vibrating stutter -- throughout their whole body. We would be a race of Hitachi Magic Wands and Shower Massages. Not to mention, the conclusion flys in the face of a huge number of women who get very pregnant without having had the privilege of a decent orgasm. If they were right, why doesn't Planned Parenthood preach the "don't let the girl come" method of birth control.

Darwin Guru 2:Lab Facts: Women find symmetrical men more attractive and more symmetrical people tend to be more healthy.Evolutionary Conclusion: Women come more with hot partners because it is evolutionarily beneficial and they are more likely to retain the sperm if they come (see Lab Fact 1).Maybe the come more, simply because they find their partner more aesthetically pleasing.

Darwin Guru 3:Lab Facts: Women have better orgasms when they are cheating, than when they are staying put and they fake orgasms with their regular lover, when cheating.Evolutionary Conclusion: The better illicit sex and the faked (yet faithful) orgasms are more biological evidence that women only want genetically superior sperm.

I'm just doing the wrong fucking job. Imagine this geeky scientist's fantasy:Scientist: I'm an evolutionary biologist genius.Woman (married): Oh really? But you are so symmetrical.Scientist: This means that I'm the prime of the evolutionary crop. My seed will spawn nations without number and save the slowly de-evolving human race. Would you like my contribution?Woman: My, isn't that a little bit forward?Scientist: Yes, but our research has also shown that you'll come until your eyes pop out of your head, you'll subconsciously want my sperm so bad.Sorry, buddy -- all the research in the world in the world won't get you laid.

I present my own evidence: Why do women come more in illicit relationships? Because tension and adrenaline add to the sexual experience. I mean its obvious.

The Blog GuruStory Fiction: Fiction is so much better at getting at facts than science sometimes. Read the story and you tell me who is right -- me or the evolutionary biologists.

Literary Facts: What do we learn about evolutionary sexuality? She gets no sperm, yet she comes like never before, because sexual arousal is not just about reproduction despite the Darwin Gurus (Oh, and a little bit of evil can go along way to making better orgasms).

ON THE PLEASURES (AND PAINS) OF ADULTERY

The couple meets. She's married, he's not. She hasn't had sex with her husband in who knows how long, because of the kids, because they are on the outs and she is just wanting some. (It's been awhile.) The kissing, necking and petting bring out all those youthful emotions of emerging sexuality that she hasn't felt in so long. Her panties get wet. He says, "Let's get a room.

"Now, as hot and wet as her panties are, her cerebral cortex is in fine working order. "Do you have a condom?" she says. "Oh, shit" is his reply, " I wasn't planning on hooking up with anyone tonight."

What follows are several abortive attempts to locate condoms after 10:00 p.m. at night, as gas stations suffer premature closings, and Smith's becomes the last bastion of condom sales. Not wanting to be seen in her neighborhood Smiths, she remains hidden in the car as he ventures forth after rearranging his erection so it isn't so obvious and waltzing into Smith's to buy a twelve pack of Lifestyle condoms, gum and an energy drink. The somewhat befuddled cashier stammers out her routinized "Have a Good Night!" a little too cheerily.Back in the car, it is dashing off towards a hotel -- any hotel.

The fondling continues only abated by the gear shifting until a Vacancy sign appears on the horizon. Again, she stays secreted in the car, avoiding being seen. He rents the room and they sneak in the back way.Safely in the room, the stripping of the clothing is the rapid perfunctory stripping of the ravenous. He chews at her neck, her nipples, her ears. His hand slides down between her legs. He slides his mouth down her body and kisses her inner thighs. This isn't her husband's mouth and tongue breathing hot air on that little indentation between thigh and cunt.

Suddenly he is eating. His fingers are jammed in her cunt, curled up to try and hold her clit still and keep it from moving away, as his tongue works frantically on the little clit.Her body is singing, awake, sexual after a long dreary sleep of marital celibacy. The juices run down off his chin, it is time for his cock to go in. He breaks out the condom, slides it on and then begins the well-lubricated slide into sexual nirvana. His cock keeps going until his pelvis crushes against her clit and the cock by some miraculous coincidence hits bottom and stays there as her whole body shudders at being so full. She comes, hard.An hour and a half they fuck. She comes repeatedly -- clitoral, vaginal, cervical, oxygen deprived orgasms -- one after a fucking another until her body is quivering nerve endings. He finally comes with a "Oh shit, I didn't want this to end." Biological imperatives take over and the rigid turns to soft and the bodies pool together on the bed.

"I've got to get home." They dress with a functionality that is as purposeful as the undressing was chaotic. They walk out. Except for the ruffled bed and one condom in the garbage can, the hotel room is untouched in its pasteled uniformity, only to remain empty throughout the wee hours of the morning, until 8:00 a.m. when a maid will come in and straighten up a little bit, while the woman, her clit throbbing, will be making breakfast for her children.

Valentine's Vice

2009-02-14T07:52:00.000-08:00

Of course it is Valentine’s Day and a post seems not only obligatory, but necessary. I revel in my sexuality with Vice. I love her. I am comforted by the domesticity and the typical suburban, nuclear (albeit of the post-divorce-alyptic fusion variety) family. I was inside her for a glorious portion of the pre-dawn hour today.

My mind is abuzz with her sexuality. I’m main lining sexual fantasies of her cunt, her breasts, her pure lust. The fantastical side of my brain has opened up its vein and I’ve injected Vice. Her lust pummels me and expands me. I’m her lust junkie, eating her naked lunch.

The road of fantasy and lust diverges from reality and emotion and I’m caught in the surreal version of walking two roads at once – the fantastical, vibrant twitching world flesh teasing sex and the heavy, oppressive air of flesh tearing emotional briars.

As I moved in and out of Vice, I told her that I thrived on her sexual exploits. I want details. I want mystery. I want tension. I want lust. I want. I desire. Her sexuality that I desire is eternal with no past, present or future – or the other version of eternity all her past, all her present and all her future.

The conflict arises in a consistent theme on this blog – reciprocation. That my male psyche would erupt in pleasure by having Vice’s lips dripping juice from another’s pussy kissing me, certainly doesn’t mean that she wants to taste another woman on me. The problem is further complicated with my sexual heroine lust addiction isn’t relegated to Vice and women. I inject Vice with women. I inject Vice with men, even multiple men. Two cocks in the mouth. Double penetration. One man after another.

So I travel in mulit-dimensions.

The dimension of the faithful husband.
The dimension of the sexual deviant.
The dimension of the sex obsessed.
The dimension of the accepting.
The dimension of the rejecting.

So the heart avoids shattering by incorporating contradiction and loving Vice.

I love you Dear. Happy Valentine’s Day.
You are my Vice and my Salvation.

Gravity

2009-02-01T08:20:00.000-08:00

I’ve written about pictures my wife gave me for Christmas earlier, but now Valentine’s Day is approaching and I’ve been given a preview of my Valentine Day’s present. Last night she showed me two pictures. She set me up showing me the pictures by telling me they were pictures she had received from a girlfriend with whom she traded erotic pictures – one was the picture above of a nipple wrapped in Hershey Kiss foil and the little paper trailing written Kisses along the arch of the breast. The other picture took me a minute to understand. The bright red G-string was obvious, but hair was where I didn’t expect it. The picture was beautiful artistically – curves, skin and hair in an unfamiliar, but pleasing way. Part of the allure of the picture was to figure out what exactly was going on. The ass was incredible. I finally saw the hand attached to the hair and realized it was another woman licking that incredible ass.

I’m amazed at the sexual charge I get from curves. In relativistic physics, mass curves space. Maybe a woman’s curves are tapping into that fundamental connection with the universe at its core – the gravity of love (to steal a quip from Enigma). The ass warped my gravity, my space, pulling me into its orbit. The full moon celestial object worshiped by the black hair and hand in some pagan fertility ritual resonated for me.

Vice urged me to look at the picture closer.

A lifetime of porn (or an age induced reduction in testosterone) has numbed my ability to respond sexually to mere photographic images, even beautiful ones with cosmological significance. I looked closer and a feeling from my subconscious percolated out as the little gravitons plucked my retinas – I know this ass. Only then did I start defying earthly gravity as my cock pulled up and away from the earth and towards Vice.

I’ve also written before about giving Vice permission to pursue women. Now I was face to face or maybe more appropriately, face to ass with the fact that she had acted on my permissive state and brought back evidence for me. Apparently, Valentine’s Day will bring even more surprises.

Can a man be cuckolded by another woman? I don’t think so – no horns physically or metaphorically. Yet, Vice had been sexual with someone beside me. She had another woman’s fingers in her cunt, another mouth on her ass, her nipples, her clit. She came three times apparently, two big, one small with her girlfriend and then many more times throughout the night and the morning love/fuck fest that followed with us.

Right now, she is upstairs writing. I’m downstairs at the laptop sitting by the fireplace writing this and hoping she’ll let me post the pictures with this post. If they are on the top of this post – she did.

I grew up in a very restrictive moral regime that led to me not losing my virginity until my first marriage at the age of 24. I lost another kind of virginity last night – I lost "my allowing my wife to have a female lover and having her act on it" virginity last night. Like most other losses of virginity it was incremental, gradual process, but the pop of that cherry came at the moment the true meaning of the picture entered my eyes. I’m basking now on this Sunday morning in the curves and gravity of my woman.

The Past

2008-12-28T09:13:00.000-08:00

Eckhart Tolle propounds spiritual enlightenment by focusing on the eternal Now – the so called "Power of Now." Yet Tolle ignores the fact that our Now is a direct descendant of our Thens. What do you do with all of the "Thens?" A particular problem with the "Thens" is if you think about them, they become the "Now." This can be a problem. Particularly when it comes to sex.
Vice loves me. I don’t doubt that. Vice also really struggles and has a lot of difficulty with my "Thens." Much of this is of my own making because of the way things were earlier in our relationship.

Many of my posts on this site which we set up to anonymously explore our sex lives are my public mea culpas, my public pleas to Vice, my public avowals of love to her. I love her. I desire her. I wish for her happiness, pleasure and sexual fulfillment.

Which brings me to our past. The difficulty of blending families with remarriage is often discussed, but rarely do we discuss or talk about the blending of sexual histories. Vice and I differ on how we deal with the past and the sexual past in particular. My practice has been to document or fetish-ize the past and then I’m able to forget about it. A box or a file containing the past is a symbol for me, not of remembering, but in a very real way it is a statement of all I have forgotten and can allow myself to forget. Archival for me has meant I’m allowed to forget and not dwell on something. I don’t revisit or mull over the contents of old files or boxes. Those items are a "Then" and I have no desire to bring them into the "Now."

The problem is that they exist – in the Now. My compulsion to avoid them, ignore them and delay the task of discarding has meant that they remain. Vice found an old box of mine that contained some different items from my sexual past – old statues, playing cards, a strap-on, anal beads, shot glasses, etc. The box has been a problem. My sexual past suddenly encroached on my sexual present.

I’ve thrown everything away. Gone. As I moved the contents of the box to the garbage, I wanted to tell Vice that my method of dealing had worked. I'd truly forgotten the past. I had no recollection of anything. I didn't remember using anything. I didn't remember purchasing anything. I couldn't tell you how any of it got in the box. Discarding it left no sense of loss, no sense of regret. The contents were dust from the past and were ready to return to dust. My only regret was that I hadn't shed myself of the box earlier.

I kept the swing harness that I’ve never used and that I have no recollection of where I bought it or how I acquired it. I simply don’t remember, but its pristine shape shows clearly that it has never been used – so it alone remains a part of my sexual present and sexual future.

Occasionally I’m at a loss as to how to deal with my past. Memory plays tricks and alters timelines and events. Even the desire to have things a particular way influences my memory. I don’t trust even myself when it comes to the past. I revel in books that explore memory and its odd quality to alter, warp and inaccurately reflect what has gone before.

The past incarnated in the present is the closest thing we have to real ghostly specters, apparitions that appear in the shadowy twilight of our mind having the form of reality and the substance of dreams. Fighting ghosts can feel like a futile effort, slugging a ghostly visage is like taking a swing at thin air. As with all hauntings, the best way to deal with them is exposure to the light of the day. Only the noon day sun of Now can eliminate the eerie Then.

I love you Vice – Now and for an entire future of Nows.