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(One person will understand this post.  If you are not that person, feel free to go away.  The sooner, the better.)


I have a (female) blogger friend who describes sperm as ‘bleachy’ and, not being a woman prone to sputtering on chlorination, she chooses not to swallow any.  Ever.

She and I have tried (in vain) to explain the concept of bleachy sperm to a mutual (male) bloggy buddy, but he’s convinced we’ve been exposed (heh) to the wrong types of guys.  Namely, the ones who work at the Clorox plant.

Despite the fact that dull whites are one of those pesky annoyances that go along with doing laundry, I do not use Clorox.  (Nor do I use the gentlemen who work at the Clorox plant.)  So his argument is moot.

However, I think between the two of them (‘them’ being my bloggy buddies), the current state of the human condition can (maybe, possibly, perhaps) be explained.

Let’s pretend for a moment that the human gene pool is a bit chlorinated.  (If your imagination needs fodder, I invite you to stroll your local Wal-Mart at noon on a Saturday and examine the Wal-Martians.  You won’t have to pretend.  You’ll simply recognize said chlorination as fact.)  How do you suppose it got that way?

Bleachy sperm.

But what, you are wondering, is bleachy sperm, Feve?


It’s sperm that smells like bleach, of course.


Simple biology (or chemistry or just plain cause-and-effect) dictates that what goes in the body affects what comes out.  And what comes out is bodily fluids.  All kinds of bodily fluids.

Urine, for example, is not supposed to be dark yellow.  If you are drinking enough water and throwing other healthy sustenance down your gullet, it should be almost clear.  Likewise should sweat.  And neither should be particularly smelly.  That said:  Ever smelled the sweat of a man playing basketball the morning after a beer bender?  *Shudder*  Not exactly bleachy…  But neither is it a garden of roses.  So:  good stuff in, good stuff out; garbage in, garbage out.  Toxins (excess sugar, caffeine, alcohol, etc.) in, toxins out.

If the toxins out come (heh) in the form of bleachy sperm and subsequently become toxins in (as in, in utero), I submit (heh) to you that the result is (once again) toxins out (i.e., future Wal-Martians of the world).

Which brings us back to our (oh-so-hard-to-believe) supposition that maybe (just maaaayyyybe) the human gene pool is slightly (only 90%) chlorinated.

And it’s all the fault of bleachy sperm.


I admit that, as a theory, it might need a little work.  But I think my hypothesis is sound.  Perhaps I should experiment…

Besides, someone needs to figure these things out.  Might as well be me!  😀

Mondays Thwuck

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Spanking should sound like a symphony; thwacks and smacks interspersed in time, with occasional rests and shhh-shhh strokes on heated skin to offset the downbeats, amidst a nice mix of dolce and allegro, pianissimo and forte, and of course crescendo…

I could go on, but I think you get the point.

So spanking should sound like a symphony.  However, occasionally there is a bit of an…hmmm…shall we say…errant note.  Perhaps the palm is too open or too cupped or it just plain misses the sweet spot.  In such cases, the crack of the maestro’s hand against waiting flesh sounds less like a thwack and more like…


Like a thwuck.

(Please note that thwuck rhymes nicely with fuck and suck.  Please also note that fuck and suck are sometimes the most eloquent words in the English language.  Other times they are the basest of four-letter words, which is just fuckin’ sucky.)

So that’s how my Monday morning rolled in.

With a thwuck.

I can count on one hand (ONE.  HAND!) the number of orgasms I’ve had since last Monday (thanks in part to three days of Zuulfather and two days of sicky Feve – I was not well for most of the weekend) and while I’d like to be using that hand right now to gain some relief, I can’t.

Well, not that I CAN’T.  More like I’m not going to.

Because the dog needs to be walked and the floor needs to be vacuumed and the laundry must be done and the body must be showered and all of this must be done if I am going to make it out of the house at all today, let alone make it to work anywhere near on time.  And also because the cat just puked.



Kind of like he did this morning.

Which is just one of the many reasons my Monday started off with a resounding thwuck.

And if you think you can laugh/snort/chuckle/harumph at my recent dearth of orgasms or my domestic chores (or my domestic short hair puke-face pussy), all I can say is…

You deserve a spanking.

And, of course…

Thwuck you.

May I Take Your Order Please?

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Some people…like say, ohhhh, I dunno…at least half the bloggerly population…and most definitely a particular BDSM blogging couple (Hi Scot!  Hi Leigh!)…just, ya know…ahem…for example…think “coffee is a food group.”  (Yes, that was a direct quote.  Courtesy of The Dom Next Door.) 

So while I was in the process of cleaning up my other blog (from which I’m using the ‘slow withdrawal’ – heh – method of extricating myself), I ran across a post I wrote that is sure to be…um…appreciated by the coffee set.  And the chocolate set.  And the barista set and the Starbucks set.  Oh!  And the anti-all-of-the-above set.  So I made a few modifications and posted it here for your perusal.  And if you don’t appreciate it?  Well, let’s just say…

I really don’t care. 

So without further ado, I present you with…

May I Take Your Order Please?

Allow me to preface this post by saying that I’m normally a patient person.  But one of my pet peeves is waiting in line.  Add to that the fact that I was tired and hungry when this happened.  Also, a disclaimer:  Hubby claims that when I’m hungry, I’m a bit like a grouchy bear.  Not like Winnie-the-Pooh in a bad mood.  More like a grizzly who just woke up from a long winter’s nap.

So yesterday I was between appointments and, having neglected to pack myself adequate snacks before running out the door in the morning, I was hungry.  Desperately in need of (at the bare minimum) a shot of glucose.  I didn’t have time to actually *eat* anything (I refuse to eat in my car), but I learned long ago that liquid is filling and chocolate is the cure for all ills, so I figured hot chocolate would tide me over.  Calculating the time and distance between my current whereabouts and my next appointment, I mathematically deduced (using this genius brain of mine) that I had just enough time to hit the Starbucks drive-thru.  Worst case scenario, the stop would take five minutes.  (Please remember that deduction.  It would serve to bite me in the ass.)

Anywhoo…  Hot chocolate = happy tummy = functioning Feve = NOT a grizzly bear.  Starbucks it is!

So I pull up to the little camera-fortified order box and wait for my turn to be obnoxiously specific about my drink.  (I may be a transplant, but I’m 100% Pacific Northwesterner in that regard.)

So I’m at the order box.

And I’m waiting.

And I’m waiting…

Eons later (Probably more like 15 seconds, but seriously, that’s a long time in my world.  I’m basing this drive-thru visit on a very precise mathematical equation, remember!), a girl’s voice comes over the speaker asking if I would like to try a mocha-poka-hippa-dippa something-or-other.  I respond with a resounding, “No!” and begin to place my order.

Me:  Hi, can I get a grande nonfat peppermint hot chocolate please?  Two pumps chocolate, two peppermint, and one vanilla.

The Barista from Hell:  Wait…  Um, whaaaaat do you want again?

Me:  (Slower this time) Grande.  Nonfat.  Peppermint hot chocolate.  I only want two pumps of chocolate and two pumps of peppermint.  I still want one pump of vanilla.

The BFH:  Oh, that size only comes with one pump of vanilla.

What does that have to do with anything?

Me:  I know.  I still want it.

The BFH:  So why did you say you want one vanilla if it only comes with one vanilla?

Are you fucking kidding me?!?!  Have you ever ordered a hippy-dippy drink of your own, you snot-nosed, tweeny-bopper punk bitch?!?  Specifics are important!  I’m in a hurry here.  Save me this ridiculous discussion and repeat my order back to me, already!  Yeesh!

Me:  (Deep breath) I learned long ago that if I’m not specific about what I want, I don’t get what I want.  When I don’t get what I want, I’m not a happy camper.  (Can I get a ‘Hell, Yeah!’?)  I WANT one pump of vanilla.

The BFH:  Uhhhh…  But it only comes with one, anyway.

I poke my head out the window, stare directly into the camera, and cross my eyes at her.  Ha!  Take *that*, you silly bitch!

The BFH:  Okaaaaaay…what was the rest of it again?

You have got to be fucking kidding me!

Me:  Grande.  Nonfat.  Peppermint.  Hot chocolate.  This is how I want my syrup:  TWO chocolate, TWO peppermint, ONE vanilla.

The BFH:  Okay, so that’s a tall nonfat peppermint mocha with two chocolate and one vanilla.

How the HELL did this person get through an interview with these coffee cads?  Let alone actually work here?!?  I wish, I wish, I WISH my little independent corner booth barista made hot chocolate.  They never get anything wrong, the girls are friendly, and they are quick to get me on my way!  YOU are obviously not quick at anything!  My order is quite simple, You Fucking FREAK!

At this point, I am clenching my jaw and I’m ready to back out of the drive-thru entirely, except I can’t.  Not only is there a car in front of me, I’m now hemmed in from behind by a sporty little red corvette.  (And a Prince song is jangling through my brain…Sing it with me now:  Little Red Corvette…)

Me:  No, it’s NOT a mocha.  It’s a HOT CHOCOLATE!

The BFH:  Oh, that’s right.

Me:  And it’s GRANDE, not tall.

The BFH:  Okay, got it.  Grande nonfat peppermint hot chocolate.


Me:  Did you get the syrup?

The BFH:  Two chocolate, two peppermint, one vanilla.

Me:  (To the tune of the Hallelujah chorus) YES!

The BFH:  Did you want the whip?

I’d love a fucking whip!  However, you’d be in grave danger if one were to suddenly appear in my hand

BDSM, anyone? 

Which reminds me…  I need to see about getting a new flogger.

But I digress.

Me:  Yes, please.

The BFH:  You know, most people who order nonfat prefer not to have the whip.

What are you, my fucking dietitian?  I didn’t get this cherubic figure by avoiding whipped cream!  (Actually, I been known to do pretty amazing things with whipped cream on occasion.)  I’ve cut my flavored syrup – and therefore my sugar – intake by one third already, and I want the fucking whipped cream!

Me:  (With a saccharine smile) I want the whip.

The BFH:  Oh.


Me:  (Teeth clenched) I DO want the whip.

More silence.

What.  The.  FUCK?!?

Then, after an interminable length of time, I hear…

A New, Different, Friendly Voice:  We’ll have that right up for you!  Please pull ahead for your total.

Me:  (Suppressing a grouchy-bear growl) Thank you.

NINE MINUTES LATER, after the ordering debacle, after waiting (forever) for the car in front of me to GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY, ALREADY(!)…

I pull up to the window, hoping to see the face that rescued me from the BFH and express my eternal gratitude.

And just as I’m thinking to myself, “Ahhhhhh….”

The NDFV:  (With a chipper smile and a perky voice)  So yours was the peppermint mocha, right?

A beat of silence.


Ahm Nada Noodist (aka, A.N.N.)

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A.N.N. (which is Mrs. Fever’s middle name) wears clothes when she has to.  And she (we?) had to over the past few days because the male parent-type was visiting.  Which is always…erm…interesting.

But daaaayyyummm, does it feel good to be able to walk around my own house unclothed once more!  Pardon me while I imagine my own personal Vogue cover (not that I would ever read such tripe, but I wouldn’t picture myself on the cover of Penthouse Forum so it’ll do til something better comes along), complete with these eye-catching article titles…

NAKED Is The New Black!

Skin Is In!

Bare Is Best!

Okay, time for that particular fantasy(?) to be over.  On to more productive imaginings.  While you are reading this, I’ll be daydreaming (scratch that ~ it’s almost midnight, so it’s definitely not day; let’s just call it dreaming) about being rescued (and stripped and licked and kissed and…and and and…what?) by a firefighter.  Or a Jedi Knight.  Or possibly a Navy SEAL.  And I won’t even give myself a panic attack wondering whether my bra and panties match (they always do, by the way…WHEN I wear them) during said rescue (one of my greatest fears is to be caught with mismatched undergarments, which is a story I’ll save for another time), because I’ll be rescued NAKED.

Which is exactly how I’m blogging.


Feel free to visualize.  😉

Meanwhile, I’m going to revel (along with A.N.N.) in the feel of soft, cool sheets against my warm skin while I’m dreaming.  G’night.

Ties That Bind…

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…And gag.  Ugh.

Bondage, anyone?

Nope, not today.  I’m (un)tying knots of a different kind, and the only kinks I’m dealing with are in my back because I slept for shit last night.  So if you’re not in the mood to read stream/river/ocean-of-consciousness writing from a Feverish mind, I recommend you go away.  Now.

So back to the ties that bind and gag.  A.K.A.  The Family.  *Shudder*

My family is…erm…


Well, most of them are…

How shall I put this?

Did you ever play recognition games when you were a kid?  You know, the kind where you line up several items and then have to decide, ‘Which one of these is not like the others’?  Well, let’s just say that I have a severe case of not-like-the-others-itis.  I’ve never ‘accidentally’ gotten pregnant, I’ve never been arrested (not that I don’t fantasize about men in uniform though; oh, hellllooooo, officer…), I’ve never used/possessed/sold illegal substances, I’ve never relied on my fists to solve my problems, (which may by one of the reasons why) I have all my own teeth, and I’ve never had a cavity.

The kin to whom I am blood and/or legally related (I have steps, you see ~ plus I’m legally – via adoption – the child of a man who did not contribute to my creation; I’ll get to him in a minute) are just…

Well, they’re not like me.  Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?

But despite the illicit and sometimes illegal behaviors demonstrated by the ones they spawned, the parents of this brood are fairly decent human beings.  Go figure.  And my dad (who was actually my stepdad, but then became my legal dad – see adoption note above) is going to be visiting for a few days.  Starting today.  In about two hours.  As a matter of fact, I’ll be picking him up after my dermatology appointment this afternoon (apparently there is a shortage of dermatologists in this country, so I’ve been waiting for months to have my ‘pre-cancerous skin cells’ on my face re-examined; oh joy of joys) and from then until late Friday evening, my house will become the den of…

The Zuulfather.

I see you are wondering, What, exactly, is a Zuulfather, Feve?

I’ll tell you!

My friend Sklor (I’ve written about him before and Sklor is, indeed, my friend’s proper nickname), who happens to be part of the family I choose (yes, I consider him a brother) calls me Zuul (Ghostbusters:  There is no Dana, only Zuul) and has dubbed my dad (who is the father of Zuul) the Zuulfather.  Which is kind of fitting.  Because if anyone could outweigh Marlon Brando’s Godfather, it is he.

So here’s the thing about the Zuulfather:  He’s soooooo not in touch with reality when it comes to his own self.  Ever lived with someone who has PTSD?  How about someone who has it but is in total denial that he has it?  Mmm-kay.  You with me now?  That was my reality during my time under his roof (which only amounted – thank God – to only six years, because I was OUT OF THERE when I was 18) and he is just now (FINALLY!!!!) realizing that maybe (just maaaaybe, possibly, perhaps) there might be something to all this PTSD nonsense (*snort*) after all.

Hmm.  Ya think?

Let’s recap my teenage existence, shall we?  Maybe not.

How about an example?  Okay:  I took my life into my own hands (or rather, put it in his hands) once and approached him while he was sleeping.  I will NEVER (never, Never, NEVER!) do that again.  This was just one of many (many, many, manymanymany) instances that demonstrated my dad’s post-war…issues…and was only one in a long line of freak-the-fuck-out moments.

So now ~ 24 years after the aforementioned…uhmmm…’event’ ~ the Zuulfather is on a mission quest to analyze and dissect The True Meaning Of This Newfound Thing (PTSD) so that he can define The Errors Of His Ways in an attempt to Fix The Past.  He is, of course, still totally military (he’s a Vietnam veteran) in his thinking and behaviors, so along with his ‘coming out’ statement of “I have PTSD,” I was handed two books on the subject and ordered – yes, ORDERED – to read them. (Do I strike you as the kind of woman who follows orders?  Cuz I don’t.  Ever.)

And I, of course, being the kind of daughter that drives a man like that (read:  a military-esque order-giver of the first degree) crazy (I think the raising of me was somewhat akin to herding cats; I’m intelligent and imaginative and I question authority), said, “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”  Followed by an eyeroll.  Followed by, “I don’t need to read these books.”  Followed by, “So I was gonna make macaroni and cheese for lunch.  Are you hungry?”

Dumbfounded, I tell you.  Daddy was dumfounded.


But I let him leave his books here and agreed to fill out a little questionnaire for him about his behaviors (this thing reads like a military manual…oh, go figure…it’s from the V.A. hospital) and to date (I was given my orders three weeks ago; I have yet to act on them) I’ve sort of…


Forgotten about it, truth be told.

But my memory has been jogged.  And I expect my memory will be jostled and jilted and upended and tossed about over the next few days, because The Soldier and The Man who is My Father have to come to grips with one another and attempt to find some peace.  Even if they (ah, the Triune Dad) disrupt my peace while doing so.

Which is more than you ever wanted to know, I’m sure.  That is, if you even read this far.  (I realize most of you probably ran screaming into the night after my fairly warned, “Go away.  Now.”)  And if you did read this far, you probably think the Zuulfather (and my other assorted relative-types) is slightly…erm…’off’…  But remember this:  Just because my family is bat-shit crazy doesn’t mean I don’t love them (well, actually, I do not claim to love ALL of them – but the ‘rents, for sure), you know.



The family. We are a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another’s desserts, hiding shampoo, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.  –Erma Bombeck

The Bitch Is In Residence

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SHE came out to play with us today,
With he and me
She is a cock fiend of the first degree,
And this morning he filled our pussy momentarily,
Then left us



But She will make him pay for that transgression
When he comes home today,
Looking to be satisfied,
And finds his own orgasm…



While we,
She and me,
Take our fill of him

Watch out Mister, here we cum again
And again
And again and again,

But what about him?

What ABOUT him?
(Evil grin)

She’s here to stay awhile, this Bitch of mine
She wants to play
(Rough, by the way)
And let’s just say…

It’s going to be one hell of a day.