HNT: Gently

Sit behind me, run your hand down my arm, lightly place a kiss on my shoulder, my neck... gently...

Happy HNT everyone!




And don't forget the other HNT...

Return of the Slut

Well, who doesn't love a torrent of abuse on a Thursday?

Remember that guy that I ranted about? Well, he ranted back and that sent some of his readers over to little old me. Interestingly the author just gave what he got - tit for tat - no real name calling, no threats of death - but his readers, oh man, his readers are the most tragic group of hysterically angry men I have ever seen. Check out their comments on my recent posts: here, here, and here as well as here and there throughout. Do it now, 'cause those comments will be removed as of Monday.

So far I have been called despicable, a urinal, a whore, a cunt, a bad mother a bad wife, a swine: and that is just what they are calling me on my comments, you should see what they are saying over there. By a day in it had degenerated completely: apparently I should be killed and I should have AIDS - if the world were fair that is. Interestingly, the comments got uglier as time went on. "Group think" as my husband put it. Much as we bloggers legitimize ourselves via our similar leanings - they draw strength from their numbers.

The use the perceived worst things of femininity: I have my period, I am a bad wife, a bad mother, I am ugly, I am fat, I am rapidly aging, I have a big vagina, I am (god forbid) saggy - they judge me based on a view of what it is to be a woman that I have long since rejected.

It fascinates me that in crafting their insults they see only the female - I am not a terrible person, I am a terrible woman - most of what they hurl at me from their safe anonymity are gendered insults. Because I am not a person, you see, I am an object to be possessed. A cheating wife is kind of like the family dog that bites, she should be taken to the pound. I will, of course, ignore the fact that they seem to have not noticed that my husband is in the know - I don't expect people to go through my archives to better formulate an insult.

Their insults seem to culminate in dire predictions: that my husband will leave me and no one else will ever want to marry me, telling all women that if my way is the way no man will want to marry them, that they will be single mothers, that there will be mass killings (seriously?) - interesting that they associate the threat of not being married with the threat of murder. Because what is a woman, after all, unless a man owns her? If I don't have a man how can my life have value?

It is not so much that I cheat that is their problem, but that I do not obey the man that owns me - and don't mistake it, this is about ownership. He pays the bills, it is his house - I deny him sex and I fuck other men. But, he should be entitled to sex, after all he pays for it with the wedding ring - I am, to be clear, his object. As a result of my errant activities he should disfigure me or kill me and get off for it or he should be able to take the kids and throw me out in the street. That's what men do.

I have always found that vision of masculinity repugnant and I have never really known men that ascribed to it - to be fair our city is home to a disproportionately educated and largely middle class population, which may be why - but I guess it does juxtapose well with their vision of a woman: to be dominated, to be controlled, to be owned - or, in the alternative - to be scorned and killed. Their view of what it is to be a man, of what it is to be a woman and of relationships and their complexity is profoundly ignorant. Fortunately it is the kind of ignorance that dies out a little more every day.

I have been told more than once today that I hate men. Well, dear readers, if that don't beat all. Me. Hating men. I mentioned this to my husband who just about laughed his ass off. He should have such problems. Now, you may not have noticed, but I *heart* men actually. But I find it interesting that you assume because I don't ascribe to your world view that I don't like men. Men I like. That kinda whiny, entitled, bullshit you got going on - that is not so much about being a man as it is about being angry. That's not the same thing.

So, feel free to try to categorize me and judge me according to your tired stereotypes and out-dated views. I think the reason you are so angry is that you feel your cultural power - the kind that has privileged you for so long - being slowly eroded. That is made more obvious by the references so many of you have made to Muslims and Sharia law and not being sure if I am really a woman or if I am a gay man. The world is changing, has changed, and it is not the world you want. You are the type that requires unquestioned power based on your genitals and the colour of your skin because you don't have what it takes to make it, to be men, in a world where merit matters.

That little thought clicked into place for me with the charming threatening email I received just a little while ago: apparently someone is going to put me in a box and send me to Afganistan where those (redacted) will know how to take care of a garbage whore like me, by stoning me to death like those immigrants do. I am going to go there in a box and come back in a box you see. Such eloquent symmetry that. That really is the trifecta of the modern angry cock: Muslims, women and immigrants. It is sad really.

So, feel free to try to put me in my place, just do remember that that place is not on my knees, at your feet, or beneath you. Here's the thing, gentlemen (and I use the term loosely) - I do not seek to define myself through your eyes or your stereotypes. I don't want a man like you, so telling me you don't like me or you wouldn't marry me, or - not so much a problem. Your 'alpha' and 'beta', your 'game' is tragic. You sound like frat boys, that and angry men who were left for greener pastures and can't get over it.

Here is something to ponder: why do you care so much if I write about fucking? What on earth does it have to do with you? You don't like me - because you see a woman that won't accept your right to dictate to her? Because you put yourself in what you perceive to be my husband's shoes? I don't respect your cultural box so I belong dead in a real one? I'm sorry you are angry at women, at the world, at your life...but that is really not my fault. What I do, who I do it with and what it means - that is between me and my husband - a relationship of which you know nothing.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to my carousel of random cock. Please take your ignorance, your pathetic rage at the world and at women and take that shit back where it belongs - over to Roissy's.

Oh yes, and comment moderation has now been enabled. Yet another feminist whore silencing you. I know, emasculating : )

Naked Napping

My only lover this week has been Morpheus - and, let me tell you, he is one elusive tease.

I know, I have been a bad blogger and friend - I have not been commenting, I owe people blogrolls, I have a full inbox and I have been remiss - please accept my apologies. I am concerned that I will get back to reading and find that all of you have taken a vow of celibacy...what the hell am I going to do with my reading time then? OR, more likely I will discover that you all had an orgy, but I missed my evite because I have been too busy studying. Damn, there are some of you I would definitely like a go at. I am in the midst of 4, 100% final mark exams in 8 days and email, blogging, life and particularly sleep are in short supply. My apologies, I will get back to your messages and I look forward to catching up.

I fell into bed this afternoon - not with company, not with sexual intent - but with what can only be described as a profound lust for sleep. The attraction I usually feel for strangers, friends and lovers - oh god, this afternoon I had that same hard on for my bed.

Is there anything more exquisitely sensual than sliding naked between cool sheets in the middle of the day - hair flowing, pillows fluffed - and just giving yourself over to Morpheus with abandon? Letting him have his way with you? I don't think so - I would not have traded my hour and fifteen minutes in his arms for the dirtiest and most perverse night with a dirty boy. The luxury of a naked nap, sun streaming onto the bed, curled up like a cat and lost to the world is, at times, as enrapturing as a lover. It was utter bliss...

How to tell if you are a premature ejaculating, insecure, mother-fucking cock/asshat/wannabe/loser:

Wanna know why I am pissed: click here. Many kudos to Lilly of This Could Be Dangerous who called them out first.

How to tell if you are a premature ejaculating, insecure, mother-fucking cock/asshat/wannabe/loser:

1. You criticize a woman who "talks about sex first" or "ask for kinky stuff."
What, your "masculinity" can't handle being asked for something she likes? You don't like a woman to be interested in sex? This seems odd, given that you like to 'tap ass' as you so eloquently put it. Hmmm, maybe you don't like to be asked 'cause you don't know how to give it to me? Just putting it out there.

This is really just the most pathetic thing I have ever heard. Good call, dude, that is definitely the secret to having a happy sex life - only sleep with girls who won't talk about it, don't know how to ask for what they want and definitely don't have enough confidence to enjoy it. Just to be clear though, horny open girls (sluts or not) make for better sex for horny guys - there is a correlation - careful what you wish for.

2. You are a racist.
Self-explanatory.

3. You think it is a red flag when a woman knows what she is doing in bed.
Wow, so if someone pleases you in bed it is a problem? Ok. There is just *no* way to win with you. Again, careful what you wish for.

4. You are inconsistent.
Cleavage is Ok to impress you, but not in general?
It's Ok to go commando, but only sometimes?
I can't be too closed or too open about my sexual past?
Seriously, I am going to need some kind of excel spreadsheet to keep track of this shit.

5. You have a small cock.
Hate to break it to you, darling, but all that 'cavernous cunt' stuff you are spouting - not so much a problem with the ladies...

6. You talk about all the ass you tap, but want wife/mother material with under 3 partners.
You know, I can't stand a man who can't handle a girl who knows what she wants. Not to put to fine a point on it - put if you have been with THAT many women to be able to identify THAT many different kind of sluts then we have a bit of a pot/kettle situation here, motherfuckers. And really, I am going to limit myself to three or under sexual partners so I can wear your cheap ring and bear your shallow end of the gene pool dim children? Yeah, I think I'll pass.

Oh, and just FYI, that girl you are going to marry - the one who has had under three partners, is not good in bed, won't articulate her desires, won't talk about sex, doesn't masturbate - and you like her that way cause it means she won't cheat - thus guaranteeing you will never help her explore her sexuality? She'll be fucking the mailman after two kids, wait for it.

So look, fucktards. Here is the thing: I will take your slut label and I will wear it with pride. I reclaim the word from your patriarchal oppressive horseshit discourse. I refuse to allow you to tell me who and what I should be. Because that is what that discourse does, it tells me how to be a woman. You know what? I am my own woman and I really, really like the woman I am. The woman I am enjoys her sexuality, but she is not defined by it. Yes, I talk about it - but I also talk about my kids, my school, my job, my house - all of these things are part of me but not one of them defines me. So, yes, I will wear your label in mockery of your beliefs...but I will wear it on my terms, as part of me, not as my defining characteristic.

Think I have no sense of humour - you're wrong. What you don't get is that your bullshit arrogance belittles my sexuality. And, fucktard, my sexuality is important to me. I love it and I stand by it. I will stalk you down (not you, you're a cock, but someone hot and worthy - you know what I mean) and I will seduce you, proposition you and fuck you - but this act does not define me, nor does it degrade or promote me. It simply is - you childishly attribute too much importance to sex if you can't see beyond that.

I am sick to death of a discourse that takes women's sexuality and makes it ugly, belittles it and punishes us for expressing desire. I am a sexual person - -I like to get fucked and I like to do the fucking. This doesn't make me less of a mother, less of a wife, less brilliant, less beautiful, less desirable, less powerful, less awesome, less of a feminist, less good, less pure or less worthy. And you know what? There is nothing wrong with that girl that you are looking for that has had less than three sexual partners. What is wrong is that you think you can take everything I am, everything all women are, and define us by these categories. I am so much more than my vagina, so much more than your arrogant presumptions about women.

For the record, those men who "dare to promote less promiscuous women at the expense of sluts for the best of their masculine love and attention" those are the kind that women, slutty and non-slutty, throw back. The kind that want us as a picture, an image, a mannequin. You are not looking for a woman, you are looking for an idea that fulfills a picture about yourself. That is the kind of woman a man like you should marry: a woman with less than three sexual partners to be your wife and bear your children. It's sad really, that you are shopping for an image and not a partner. Shouldn't you be looking for someone that matches your wit, shares your passions and your dreams? Although I do see your logic - it is likely that a woman with so little experience of men might think you are a real catch. Good luck with that.

Let me tell you something: real women, interesting women, women with brains and women that are going places - even if these women have had the three or less sexual partners you require - they are not going to be interested in the likes of you. They want a man who sees them, who appreciates life and people and who is looking for a person and a relationship that is fulfilling for both parties, not someone who is in the market for a misogynist idea and the pretty girl that matches it.

For the record, I a woman of mind and beauty and body, a woman of education and spirit and soul - a woman who has had more than three sexual partners and has enjoyed and adored every one of them - and you are completely unworthy of a woman of my calibre.

I am utterly out of your league.

How much do you want to bet that the guy who wrote the article would respond to that last statement with: whatever, I am sooo not interested? Like that would be an insult.

HNT: From Behind

Don't forget to check out all the bare and nearly bare beauties at Osbasso's...and also pop by the other HNT.


I wonder what is on the other side of that curtain...what am I looking for out there?

I must be becoming quite the exhibitionist, because this one almost doesn't feel naked enough. I will see what I can do about that for next week...

Happy HNT, you dirty lovelies!

Making Love

"I want to make love to you," he said.

Make love? Of all the things this might be, it isn't making love.

We may be making a declaration, making a choice, making a move that can't be unmade.

Making our lives livable again, making a mockery of marriage, making a foray into sin.

Making a mess, making noise, making the headboard smash against the wall.

Making more of our unhappiness than we should, making choices with no blood in our brains, making pathetic use of the worst kinds of self-justification.

Making the people in the next room giggle, making the desk clerk roll his eyes, making eyebrows raise.

Making condom sales skyrocket, making Ashley Madison rich, making the hotel mattress a little more stained.

Making a mistake, making tears, making our lives unlivable.

Making the the life we have out of our reach, making a mess of our children's future, yet making the only decision we know how to make.

Making a mountain out of a molehill, making a silk purse out of a sow's ear, making lust appear to be freedom.

Making the world subside for a few blessed moments, making each other forget the mundane nature of our everydays, making a real piece of heaven for just this afternoon.

But making love....no.

And yet, some of you, among your instant messages, your oh fucks, your wine and your toys - you have made love - not in the when-he-puts-it-in -you sense - but in that space, in that moment, in the affair, you have created love. Made love. In sleazy motels and questionable positions, like a flower growing through the sidewalk, you have formed a love - in between sheets, in secret, in infidelity.

How utterly beautiful and exquisitely painful that must be...

Out Yourself!

I apologise but all I have for you today is two quick housekeeping items:

1. Private blogs: It is driving me crazy, but for some reason on some of the ones that I read (specifically Button and A Sweet Nectar) I can only ever see the first half of the post (first half of everything on the blog actually). Is anyone else having this problem? Does anyone know how to fix it?

2. I had some interesting activity on my statcounter on Thursday. My gut tells me this is not a coincidence - does anyone feel the need to tell me anything? I have my suspicions and I am not upset about it, but I would prefer to be told...

Happy Easter!

HNT: Unbutton Me

In honour of HNT, would someone please finish undoing my buttons?


Happy HNT, everyone!

The Traveller

http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=19008

The weather had blissfully broken enough that I could wear heels instead of boots without risking injury . So, I walked into the hotel bar - spring in my step and spring on my feet in the form of my very new, very high heels- walking with power, predation and a sexual energy that must have been obvious to everyone within a 5 mile radius. I walked with attitude: on a mission. The traveller had arrived and I was dying to see what delights AM had brought me.

I wasn't disappointed.

I knew him when I saw him. I walked right up "Traveller?" "Kimberly?" he smiled, eyes lighting up. He was pleased, I could tell - maybe he could tell I matched him.

He looked like I imagine Riff looks: gorgeous dark eyes that convey a multitude of delights, dark hair, tight body, mischievous smile, 40ish. He had just arrived back from a day of work - still in his white shirt (God, have I told you how much I love a crisp white shirt?), jacket from his suit over the stool, drink in hand. I didn't need to talk to him, to assess him, I was in. I'm not marrying the guy - you're hot, you look like trouble - what's your room number?

The delightful thing about a man that travels is that you can arrange a meeting over drinks and proceed to fucking in a hotel room if you so choose...none of this fussy re-arranging or sober second thought. The senate of affairs it ain't. Thank god.

"Do you want a drink?" he smiled. I gave him my best blow job smile, "Well, we could have a drink," I said, "or if we left now we could have more time in your hotel room..."

He got his coat. I tell you, 2 sentences, am I not a fucking superstar?

We behaved until we walked into the gorgeous hotel room - it was one of the upscale ones with nice bedding and fluffy pillows. No garter belt/vibrating bed seedy hotel play for today. This would be fucking in elegant surroundings. Fucking on the corporate gold card.

He put his jacket away and moved toward the nightstand. "Lights on or off?" he asked me. "Off?" I said, giving him a raised eyebrow, "I don't think so."

"I knew I was going to like you," he smiled.

(Offside question: who the hell do you meet on Ashley Madison that likes to fuck in the dark? Seriously, you people don't strike me as the fucking in the dark crowd.)

I crawled onto the bed on my hands and knees, "oh, you're going to like me all right." He joined me, "really?" I crawled so I was right in front of him and leaned in for a kiss. "Oh yeah."

The first kiss was almost subtle - a hello not a blatant invitation. We explored the moment, not rushing to the main event - making it an event of its own. On our knees, his hands on my ass, my hands on his chest - slowly sharing the moment and letting it expand around us. Not a maelstrom but a gentle and increasing rain.

He pulled back to smile and I met his eyes. Then he started kissing my collarbone, my neck, working his way up to my ear. This was no younger man wanting his cock rubbed as quickly and firmly as possible - this was a man with time to spend, a man who knew how to spend it.

He slid his hands up to my waist, still gently licking my ear - I arched my head into him, making a gentle noise in my throat, moving my lips to his neck. His smell intrigued me - pheromones being what they are I guess - and I drank it deeply. I started to undo his shirt - (motherfucker, did I tell you how much I like a white shirt?)- and slid my hands inside. His skin was warm and his body was taught. I ran my hands around, working the shirt out of his pants and he slid his hands down the back of my pants and inside my panties.

I saw his hands in my pants and raised him an undone belt. I pulled back from our kiss - now not a gentle rain but a rumbling thunder in the distance - and looked him right in the eyes as I undid and unzipped his pants, giving him my best your cock is going in my mouth smile. (Yes, I have one of those.)

I licked my way along the top of his boxers...gentle licks and kisses, teasing. He shifted his hips forward for more. I slid my hand up his leg to gently rub that part...you know the one I mean, below the shaft where y'all like to be rubbed, while I took him in my mouth.

"Oh god," he breathed. "OH god." He let me have my way with him for a minute - licking him and sucking him while I looked right into his eyes.

The storm was right above us. He quickly pushed me back on the bed and returned the favour - divesting me of my clothes with an increasingly frantic series of touches and kisses.

I looked at him between my legs...open white shirt and black boxer briefs...looking at me with his dirty eyes. How can I girl help from moaning at a time like that?

He got rid of those inconvenient clothes. (Did I tell you how much I like a crisp white shirt on the floor?). He slid up me, smiling a devilish smile and he slowly slid into me, extending the moment. He held himself there, poised in me, looking down at me...that utterly indescribable moment where you connect in that instant, where the world beyond that second ceases to exist. We lost ourselves in that connection - not needing to move forward, not needing to move at all.

And then the tempo of the rain increased.

We took our time, we sped up, we made noises that I am positive the people in the next room heard. . To continue the analogy: there was most definitely lightning. I can't describe the sex: it was so fluid and so consuming that I don't remember it as a series of events. In my mind it is a state of being, not a series of then-he-did-me-this-ways. Normally a girl who does things consciously, I lost myself to the experience - I didn't do it, I felt it. It felt good.

After I had had my wicked way with him once and then twice I realized I had to take my leave.

He walked me to the door, smiled his wicked smile, kissed me once more: "I KNEW I was going to like you."

The door shut behind me and I walked back to the elevator, my step powerful, almost leonine. This was exactly what I needed: the opening fuck of spring hunting season.

Game on.

Identity: On Errant Wives

There is another errant wife out there (and you are thinking, no shit lady - I've seen your blogroll.) But, no really - another errant wife. I was doing a google search to see what turned up about my blog and errant wives in general and...there she was: The Errant Wife.

Much to my surprise, I felt it in the pit of my stomach. I was horrified - but that's me.

I hadn't realized the investment I had made in the title, the identity until I saw someone else with the moniker.

But then I thought, that's me? Really?

It begs the question, doesn't it, at what point do our online identities start to submerge who we are?

At what point do I become Kimberly at the expense of my actual identity? At what point does my blog, my fake name and this woman that you see become me. At what point do I start, even if only in the smallest of ways, living her life - losing myself to her.

Does this environment alter what I am in favour of who she is? When I share my dirty secrets without reproach, does that change the path I take, the choices I make, in my real life?

Are we defining ourselves, even in a small way, via our online lives? Is this expression or are we using this as a huge co-dependant clusterfuck?

Many of us have spoken of the addiction of the affair, but are we also addicted to each other? At what point do we crave the response, the community, the judgement-free expression of ourselves and our faults beyond what is rational, beyond what we should?

Or, am I her? Am I me out here in my purest form? Does this forum, this place of honesty, my delightful blog friends and few, if any, judgements enable me to spread my (ahem) wings and be me in ways that I can only be in those very few safe moments of truth in my real life?

Is she the me that I truly am? Unencumbered, un-subtle, uninhibited. More and more I think the answer to that question may be yes...

HNT: Legs in the Air

'Cause who doesn't like their legs in the air?

Last week tits, this week legs and tits. I wonder what to do for next week...

Happy HNT, dirty darlings.

Also, it is the third anniversary of the other HNT. Click on over and check it out, although, fair warning, Osbasso says it is extra saucy this week.

Coffee With a Pervert

I zipped up my high black boots and checked my lip gloss one last time. Skinny jeans - check, hair done - check. Purse in hand, sexy sunglasses on. Game time.

As I made my way through the hotel lobby my heels made an extremely satisfying noise on the marble floor. I love the way my shoes sound when I wear my fuck me boots. I love the way I walk in my fuck me boots. I was excited, I was anticipating, I was ready...

In that moment I was Kimberly: I walked with her walk, I smiled with her smile and I was engaging in an act that was solely hers: her connection, her friend. We had never exchanged real names - to him I was Kimberly. I had checked into the hotel with my husband's credit card, but when I walked out of the hotel lobby and into the cool morning air I walked as her.

What's that you say? She left the hotel. Well, yes. Yes I did. What kind of a blog to you think this is? What kind of a girl do you think I am? Yes, I am exactly the girl you think I am, call me ; )

But this time I wasn't meeting a man in a hotel room for sex. No, no, darlings, this time I was meeting a man in a coffee shop...for conversation.

Now, before you click away to someone who has posted a picture of their cock...it is not all downhill from here. You see, most of you know the man I was meeting...it was none other than Perv in TO. (Who, FYI, also blogged about this. Click over and take a look at it from his perspective.)

We had connected over emails over...god, I don't even know how long - months probably. The occasional comment, the occasional email back and forth and I thought...I gotta meet this guy. So I dropped him an email. I was worried he would say hell no lady, you are one hell of a nut job. But, much to my delight, he said yes. So here I was, Kimberly off to meet a fellow blogger.

I wasn't sure what to expect: Would he be creepy? His blog did not come off as creepy, but who knows. Would he looked like I imagined? I picture all of you when I read you and I wonder how many of you match the image I have.

Now how much can I say while still preserving his anonymity? Not much and I don't want to dance too closely over that line. Young: younger than I expected but slightly older than me. Attractive: fabulous smile, gorgeous, gorgeous clear eyes. Terrific with the eye contact, which is a huge thing for me. Confidant: I like the way he carries himself.

And, most importantly of all, interesting and engaging. Smart, terrific sense of humour, thoughtful. We talked for one, two, three, four hours. When I finally checked the time I was shocked how quickly it had passed - how can you meet a stranger and find so much to say? That is the trick though, we aren't strangers are we - any of us to each other any more? You know it when I take off my panties and I know it when you fight with your spouse. It is an interesting world, an interesting web of relationships we have created for ourselves.

This was my first foray into really meeting someone that I have connected with via my blog - and it was a delightful, delightful little interlude. We didn't even exchange real names - at the time I didn't even realize that we hadn't. When we did a few days later via email, it occurred to me that in that moment I had truly been myself, but I had also truly been her. Sometimes it is hard to figure out where the line is...

When do I become her? When am I me? Is there a difference between us?