Alex closed the door with a huff-breath laugh as the last of the trick-or-treaters scampered off into the night. Turning off the porch light switch with a click, she turned slowly to face her partner, Devon – him dressed as ‘patient’ to her ‘doctor’, tonight – and looked him up and down with a lip-licking grin.
“It’s for the levy,” I explain, holding up the sealed ballot envelopes that have just arrived in the mail. “They want to increase the fire levy limits,” I continue, walking into the kitchen a moment later with my bags full of newly-purchased groceries, “which basically means they want to be able to ask for a higher percentage of our property taxes.”
I don’t get particularly passionate about politics, but I pay close attention to what’s happening locally and am well aware of what the Actual Needs are (as opposed to the Actual Wants) in my area, and being an island dweller has made me hyper-alert to those two forces of nature that can both nurture and destroy: (1) Water, and (2) Fire.
“Go on,” he says.
So we maneuver around each other – him, cooking; me, putting groceries away – in the kitchen and, in as brief a way as possible, I explain the issue: the current levy and its limitations, the reasonable and justified request to lift the levy cap, the staffing, equipment, and maintenance needs as they currently stand, and the negligible (twenty-five more cents per $1,000 of total property taxes collected – which means we’d pay approximately $1.75 more in taxes per year) cost to us, personally, as voting tax payers.
I close the door to the refrigerator after unloading the last of my foodstuffs, and turn to find him, spatula in hand, facing me with a frighteningly fascinated look on his face.
“You,” he says, the word a low growl in his throat.
“Your brain,” he continues, advancing across the hardwood expanse between us with a wicked gleam in his eye.
Unsure where this is coming from – but fairly sure where it’s going, based on his throaty growl and fuck-me expression – I inch sideways, toward the exit to the dining area, prepared to sprint toward the bedroom in the event his switch gets flipped.
The ever-resourceful Molly Moore, who – in addition to managing her own blog – runs a variety of sex-positive blogging projects, is once again tackling the task of curating an annual “Top 100” list of active sex bloggers.
Nominations for which are now open.
You have between now and October 31st – just over a week remaining – to nominate your favorite sex blogs/bloggers for the list.
The Rules For Nominations can be found here, and you can either
- email Molly directly (email@example.com) with the full web address of your favorite sex blog(s), or
- leave your nominations in the comments section on that post. (My nominations are here, if you would like an example.)
For those of you who take the TL;DR approach to such things, the basics are as follows:
- To qualify for the list, a blog must be public (read: not password protected), and have been in existence for at least one year.
- To be eligible for nomination, a blog must be active. That means it must have a minimum of 24 posts over the past 12 months. Any blog that has not posted over the past 45 days will not be considered.
- The full url of the blog you are nominating is required (http://sex-blognamehere.com).
- If you are a sex blogger, you cannot nominate yourself.
- Past winners** are not elibigle.
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying
– Pink Floyd, Comfortably Numb –
I wonder, when they wrote that song, if Gilmour and Waters ever could have imagined how applicable it would be to two-thousand-teens technology.
The photo above was cropped from a screenshot my partner sent me to show me what he was seeing during one of our video calls. Quite often, due to system glitches, wifi issues or network overload, there is a delay on the line. I’m fairly good at lip-reading, but when there’s a full-on cutout – smeared pixels showing with all the clarity of visual crackle – messages quite often come through skewed or otherwise get missed entirely.
Him: Hello, you.
Pause, during which the audio cuts out and the blurry visual is being interpreted
Hmmm… I think he said I love you.
Me: I love you too.
Sometimes – as above – it’s something silly or easily-overlook-able, something that can be turned into a humorous ‘Us’-ism or laughed about later.
Other times, it is a complete clusterfuck.
Technology is greeeaaaaattt…
(said with sarcastic emphasis)
…when it works.
But that is a diatribe for another day.
Well, right now I feel very much like that picture. Not-quite-disconnected, moment by moment coming in and out of focus, nowhere near crystal clear but not without flashes of dolorous un-distortion.
Stress and grief and the overwhelming complexities of managing medical care – balancing What’s Owed without exacting too steep a toll on my body and my relationships – have left me in a strange stasis.
Photo courtesy of Exhibit Unadorned
Welcome to Elust 99–
The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #100 Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~
~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~
~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~
*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
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!
I find a very particular kind of pleasure in wrapping my hands around my lover’s cock.
Sometimes it is simple: a gentle holding reach-around hug of my palm against his soft sex when he stumbles sleepily back into bed after his morning ablutions; an exploratory massaging stroke when he’s lying next to me trying to relax away the tension from his day; a clearly-telegraphed “I want you” when we’re feverishly trying to get one another undressed.
Other times, ‘simple’ doesn’t quite describe it.
There are, of course, a myriad of influences that affect any sexual interaction. But physical touch, especially in this way – a laying on of hands, if you will – is something that, in my experience, can be particularly laden with the interlacing of preconceived notions, anxieties, and expectations. So while the mechanics of cock-stroking may not exactly be ‘complicated’, the associated feelings – both physical and emotional – are also not simple.
Handjobs can be gentle or demanding, my touch a caress or an amercement, a challenge or a demand.
Fondling him, petting and squeezing and handling (heh) him in his most physically vulnerable of places… It is a delight in which I frequently indulge.
But stroking him – curving my fingers around his girth, sliding my thumb up over his head, brushing my palms in barely-there frictive motions along his length – while done frequently, is not something I do ‘typically’. By that I mean it is NOT:
- a form of pre-intercourse foreplay (in fact it rarely leads to intercourse… though sometimes it follows),
- a warm-up or a just-until-we-can-__________ (fill in the blank as you please) activity,
- about his pleasure.
On the contrary, it is quite often about mine.
Because I take great pleasure in taking him in hand.