Long-Haired Freaky People Need Not Apply

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So I put my hair under my hat and I went in to ask him why…

Recognize those lyrics?  No?  Then you’re probably not old enough to be here.  So go on, now.  Shoo!

And today’s topic, boys and girls, is SIGNS.

And, for the record, long-haired freaky people are totally welcome.  Emphasis on the freaky.  (Short-hairs and baldies too!)



One of my blogger friends is trying to figure out my totem.  I suggested to him that I might be a wortle (wolf + turtle), but somehow I don’t think he was impressed with my self-analysis.  I suppose its possible that I could be a bear…  But mostly I’m just bare, and I don’t think that’s quite the same thing.

But all his talk of totems got me thinking about the circumstances of my birth (NOT, mind you, the circumstances of my conception…I’d prefer not to think about my mother having sex, thankyouverymuch), and I want to help my dear friend along in his quest to figure me out (long pause while I contemplate whether or not this is even remotely possible), but I also thought it would be fun for me to try to figure you out.

So, for all five of you who read my blog, I pose this question:

What’s YOUR sign?  (Or, in the aforementioned freaky-people speak:  Like, what’s yer sign, dude?)

Puzzled?  Me too!  (We have so much in common!)  I’m always puzzled when someone asks me this question.

And by ‘puzzled’ I don’t mean ‘I don’t understand the question’. Because of course I understand what a SIGN is.

Slow Speed. School Crossing.
Welcome to Fort Bliss.
Buy One, Get One Free.
Limited Time Only.

Signs, signs, everywhere are signs,
Blockin’ up the scenery, breakin’ my mind,
Do this, don’t do that,
Can’t you see the signs?

This Musical Interlude was brought to you by the number 2 (which is how many orgasms I had yesterday) and the letter F.  For Fever.  And Fuckmeharderdammit!


But I digress.

Back to the question.

What’s your sign?

I’m a Pisces. I was born on the cusp of Aries in the year of the Dragon. Which makes me a goal-driven creative pragmatist with a wild imagination who is also a bit…fierce.  (I don’t necessarily breathe fire, but I have teeth and claws…  So, um…  It’s possible that I occasionally bite and scratch.  But not hard enough to draw blood.  Usually.  I think.) An oldest child (for those of you who are into the birth order), I was born under Carter in the middle of a thunderstorm. Translated, that means I’m too honest to be any good as a politician, but I’m generous.  And I’m wet.

Always, always wet.  😉

(Yes, I’m in my sexual prime.  In case you were wondering.  Or, ya know…even if you weren’t wondering.  Just thought I’d put that out there.  The information might cum in handy…)


That’s the simple answer.

So:  What’s YOUR sign?

Wanton Wednesday: Just Sittin' Here…

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…All alone in this empty bed…

The cushy comforter has ROSES on it… I like roses. They’re (heh) thorny.


Whattaya know? My feet match my (cough) flower…

Contemplatin’ my toes.  😉

More about Wanton Wednesdays can be found on my blog.  Thanks for stopping by!


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Somehow, I think the friend who sent this to me might be a little concerned about my sex life.  The Mister has been working over time…just not under me.  😉


Mrs. Fever, In the Bedroom, With the Starfish

Clue, anyone?

(Don’t worry, Kyle: We’ll eventually get around to Mr. Mew, In the Library, With the Nipple Clamps… Just not today.  ;))

Okay, soooo…

A little background information might be helpful if you kinky bastards are going to have any hope of understanding this post, so as much as I’d like to get around to the sex  (which Wenchie claims I don’t write about very often) scene, y’all are just gonna have to hold your horses.  Or perhaps you’d like to hold something else?  (Was that my imagination?  Or did I just hear the sound of collective unzipping?  Hmmm…)


The Mister and I have sort of…erm…adopted…one of my blogger friends (those of you who know us from our other blogland will recognize her as Bang_44DDD), who is gorgeous and voluptuous and all things sexy.  We call her Baby Bang.  And as a result of said adoption, Baby Bang calls me Mumsy and she calls Mr. Fever Daddy (yes, like *that*, perverts!) and she’s our Luv. 

But I digress.

The point is:  Ms. Bang and I had a phone conversation a few weeks back that led to a round of ‘true confessions’, in which she divulged that she’d become a bit…


Well, in her words?  “So, Um, I’ve Turned Into A Bit of a Starfish…”

The definition of a Starfish, according to the Urban Dictionary is as follows:  During sex, a person who lays face down, legs and arms spread (like a starfish) and takes it from behind, not moving, making no noise, exerting no effort, and leaving all the work up to the other person. Usually the starfish is gay and a total bottom who cares little about who is fucking them, instead just wanting to take it like a bitch from behind.

Which, my dear readers, is not entirely accurate.  This definition, for one, makes a Starfish a bottom, but somehow I think Baby Bang might have a tendency to ‘top’ from the ‘bottom’.  (And don’t even get me started on her bottom!  Our beautiful baby ~ to use her own words ~ is just cushion and and welcoming expanse of flesh.  Highly spankable.  ;))

So you can just ignore the definition.  Except for the ‘sprawled out like a starfish’ part.  Ms. B ~ like myself ~ happens to have a self-deprecating sense of humor, and she (like me) occasionally revels in having someone else do all the work.  It’s nice to just relax and focus on your own orgasm once in awhile.  (Am I right, ladies?)  And you’ll just have to pardon me (us) if I (we) diverge from the typical definition of a Starfish and scream obscenities and finger our clit while working our keagels and exploding girl cum all around your cock(s).    While otherwise not moving a muscle.

Yes, that’s what I said.



A muscle.

(Well, except for our PC muscles.  ;))

Playing dead.    But not.    If you see what I mean.

Now then. 

The anecdote below was originally sent as a private message to the illustrious Ms. Bang after she blogged about her Starfishyness.  She claims to have been moved to tears (because she was laughing so hard) by my recounting of THE INCIDENT.  Therefore, I’ve decided to leave it in it’s original form (mostly – I might have amended an emoticon or two) and post it here for your entertainment.

(Deeeep Breath)

So without further ado, I hereby present…

Mrs. Fever, In the Bedroom, With the Starfish

So I had to wake up early (and I mean eeeeaaaarrrrrly) this morning because I had to work at the butt crack of dawn (not even the butt crack, really; more like the perineum of dawn), so last night Daddy decided to help me get to sleep at a reasonable time by giving me an orgasm.

Awww…  Isn’t he sweet?

Said orgasm came (heh) as a result of Mr. Fever’s skill with one (1) glass cock (OMG, I LOVE my Icicle!!!) and was, in my opinion, part relaxation technique (if I cum hard enough, I get sleepy) and part reward.

And why, you are wondering, was Daddy rewarding you Feve?


Because he got to take a good, long look at the picture you posted of yourself in the Starfishy position.  Which means he took a good, long look at your ass.  And then he got to fantasize (out loud – grin!) about having the two of us in the same room.


Said orgasm (via Daddy’s skilled use of my favorite toy) came (heh) shortly (seriously – it took me about eight minutes) after he read your Starfish post. Much discussion (probably only about three minutes or so, but a horny Feve is an impatient Feve, lol) followed the reading of your post, and once he came (heh) to the understanding that while ‘Starfish’ sometimes means ‘playing dead’,  ‘playing dead’ does not mean ‘totally unresponsive’ (I think we’re both too loud for that, LOL), he was rarin’ to go. 


So to recap:  Daddy read about you being a Starfish and then he was talking about your gorgeous ass and working up an impressive hard-on thinking about the two of us playing dead, and then I got to cum. 


The Mister loves to be inside me when I’m all juicy wet with girl cum, so I only had to wait a heartbeat or two before the glass cock was replaced with a real one. (His, of course!)  Shockingly (gasp!), we begin to fuck like bunnies.

(Insert squeaky mattress-string noises here.)

After a few minutes of frantic fucking, however, Daddy stopped.


What the…???

Still inside me.








I looked up at him (we were missionary, darling ~ it may be old fashioned, but it’s efficient) and said (in an orgasmically puzzled tone of voice), “What are you doing?”


His face held a look of total concentration.


His eyes closed.


And with a deep breath, he responded…


“I’m trying to be a Starfish.”



I have dimples.  I have laugh lines.  And I have really strong PC muscles, my friends.  Really strong.  All due to the fact that I laughAll the time.

But most especially, I think, because I laugh in bed.

Hot Toddy

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“Beck’s at O’Douls,” Jack Daniels poured. (I’d heard he was a hard liquor, but his tongue sure felt soft.)

Is Sutter Home? (Not that I’m wine-ing)

“Yes, getting Guiness stout.”

Mmm… What about Mike?

“Mike’s Hard.”

Tempting, tempting, oh so tempting… BUT…

Captain Morgan was looking forward to Sex On The Beach…

(And a Belgian Skinny Dip, provided the Seabreeze wasn’t too cool)

“I think in his Absinthe, our combined efforts will give you a Screaming Orgasm.”

That’s my idea of good old-fashioned Southern…




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Or Bud.
Or any other brand of




Doesn’t matter what kind.
Wish I had a frosty glass bottle right now, to nestle between my breasts
Or between my legs
To alleviate the heat.