The Beautiful Kind

We were lounging in bed and my beau whipped out some chocolate syrup. He drizzled some on my nipples and licked and sucked it off. He made a cool little trail down my belly and followed it down with his tongue. He squirted some in my mouth and licked at my lips.

Then he said, “Your turn,” and handed me the syrup. I aimed at his bobbing hard on, lacing it with chocolate. I dotted his head with two eyes. I looked up at him and smiled, and he suddenly burst out, “SUCK MY CHOCOLATE COCK.”

After we laughed and settled down, he admitted, “I’ve never had the chance to use that line before.”

Then we poured a bunch on our torsos and mashed our bodies together and stuck together and it was a big disgusting mess that looked like mud or poo. Stickalicious. Then we showered.

I was out of town drinking with a dreadfully sexy manly man I wasn’t supposed to fuck. Rather, he wasn’t supposed to fuck me.

He got a glint in his eye as he ordered a whiskey. “Whiskey makes me crazy,” he confessed.

Intrigued, I was curious to see where this was going. Meanwhile, I had a few myself. Occasionally, our legs would touch under the table, and the sexual tension between us mounted.

We stumbled back to the hotel room a couple hours later. I wasn’t sure if he would stay, so I timidly glanced over at him. That was his cue to push me on the bed facedown and ravage me, pawing and biting, ripping off my dress. I felt a lightning bolt to my cunt every time our flesh touched.

“Hurt me,” I whispered urgently, my face in the pillow. I wanted to really feel it.

Holy shit. Never say that to a werewolf.

Possessed by lord knows what, he yanked my hair so ferociously I felt like my neck would snap. He smacked my ass so hard I heard the force of the blow ring for seconds afterwards. He grabbed and pulled and invaded, leaving me breathless, my head spinning. I felt his ragged breathing roaring in my ear. His cock felt like a red hot poker. Like a violent thunderstorm, he thrashed me and there was nothing I could do but ride it out. After the onslaught he left me quaking on the bed. I passed out.

I woke in the morning, and at first I thought it was all just a wild dream, but then I saw his body hair all over the tangled white sheets. Fuck, it looked like a dog fight took place.

I gingerly walked over to the mirror and counted all the bruises. Seven, eight… And then, man o man, I saw the handprint (pawprint?) on my ass.

Later on I saw him, and I grumbled, “Jesus, I feel like I’ve been thrown down a flight of stairs!”

He sheepishly apologized, “I told you whiskey makes me crazy.”

Whiskey my ass! More likely his behavior could be blamed on the fact that he was married and Christian and a savage beast. And he took all that conflict out on me. Ah well, I did ask for it…

Dear Slut,
I am aware that people from other countries ridicule us Americans for being too prudish and making, for instance, the Super Bowl nipple incident into big news. Doesn’t the taboo that we associate with titillation increase the excitement that we experience with all things sexual (and especially kinky sex)?

I know that I am sincerely excited when my lady friend wears a low-cut blouse and bends over to climb into our tent–wouldn’t that excitement be diminished if women were topless all the time? I am thinking of the European concept of the exposed breast as being less taboo than it is in America–doesn’t that mean that their excitement at a downblouse moment is lessened?

I’m also curious to know how aware women are of exposing their breasts while wearing low-cut blouses. Are they TRYING to drive us crazy, or are they simply dressing for the warm weather and giving us a show by happy coincidence?
- Not a football watcher but definitely a breast watcher

Dear man with good taste,
First of all, you might want to take a look at the website where I scored the pic above - The Cleavage Blog. Hot.

I don’t think seeing breasts more often decreases the thrill one gets when seeing a woman in a low-cut blouse. If anything, it makes the moment a happier, healthier experience. But you might want to test this out yourself.

Since I happen to know that you’re a footloose and fancy professor off for the summer, I suggest you spend a week at a European beach surrounded by well-oiled topless people of all genders, shapes, and sizes.

Then, hang out at an outdoor cafe where beautiful women in tank tops sip wine and laugh and let their straps slip off their golden shoulders and see if your erotic senses have been dulled.

Or alternatively, I can come stay at your house for a week topless and see if you get bored with boobs (I’ll need internet access.)

OR we can go to Europe together and combine the options. I doubt you’ll be yawning, especially as we check out the hot chicks together.

(Oh, and yes women know they’re driving you crazy when they show off flesh or go braless, but chances are, they care more about their comfort than your sanity.)

Horny but puzzled? Send your questions to love [at] thebeautifulkind . com

I went to the mall with my kid and some friends who are brand new parents. I let my kid run around the enclosed play area and whenever she got out of sight my new parent friends would fret for her safety.

However, I’ve learned the mall is a much more dangerous place for sock monkey kidnappings. I set Penny down to pose her with Big Bird and some girl came up and snatched her! I called mall security and was in the process of having the girl cuffed and pressing charges, but let it drop upon hearing her reasoning for such reckless behavior (”Sock monkeys are irresistible!”) Get yer own, kid.

I’m on the dance floor, and there are three women and one man surrounding me, lavishing me with attention, petting me, playing with my hair, crouching before me. Hands are all over me. It feels so good, all that touching. I reach out and touch them, too, my hands roving, a sublime grin on my face.

One of the women takes my by the hand and leads me to a bedroom, where she sits me down and works me over, pulling at my bra and skirt to taste my flesh. The man follows us in, and slips into the mix, kissing at my breasts as she pushes my panties aside and licks my pussy. My head tilts back and I gasp…

My friend Manj left this as a comment, but it deserves an entry!

My own personal good tips for anal sex list:

* Of course, use lots of lube (probe is the best ever).
* Give lots of stimulation in the general area first. Don’t go straight for insertion. Move lubed fingers around, and press and stroke rather than poking or prodding.
* Go slooooowly.
* When the head of the penis is in, just wait. Move in a gently rocking motion, rather than thrusting or pushing. Have him push his penis down, i.e. towards your vagina, instead of up towards your tailbone. Have him move his penis side to side a little bit.
* When you want it further in, push out like you’re (and there really isn’t a nice way to talk about doing a poo) going for a large dump. This makes the muscles on all the overlapping sphincter muscles relax in unison (it’s when they don’t relax that it hurts). This is a secret trick!

BUT

* Don’t feel like you have to do it! Don’t do it so you can achieve “having done anal sex!” Don’t do it because somebody else wants to fuck you in the arse and you’re half-hearted!
* Only do it because you WANT to - you like how it feels (or think you will) or you love the naughty idea of it (etc) and would like to try it out.

Have fun, ladies and lads!

I asked a friend of mine if he had ever had weird sexual requests from the women he dated.

He said, “Not really…except there was this one girl who wanted me to have sex with her and get it over with right away. She didn’t like it to go on and on. And then later if I was still horny, she wanted me to just fuck her in her sleep.”

Can you believe that - a woman who wants to be with a guy who premature ejaculates, and if she’s unlucky enough to be with a guy who lasts a while, she wants to be unconscious for it!

…a friend who drunk dials you.

At 8pm.

A while back I posted something about a book called Carnival Strippers.

I’ve continued to pore over it. Not only is it full of fascinating fodder for discussion on gender differences, class, and exploitation, but it was only when I got to the end of the book that I realized it came with a CD. The CD allows you to hear some of the interviews in their own voices, which breathes even more life and humanity into the stories. Like this one, told by Mitzi the stripper:

This bitch - she had bleached hair, war paint, and needed a touch-up more than any of us - said we strippers shouldn’t be located next to a kiddie merry-go-round. She said, “I’m a mother,” and I grabbed the mike and I said, “I’m a mother myself.”

These people make you seem like you’re a cheap whore. I hate to go out with a guy, the first thing he does is try to get into your pants. That turns me off. I mean at least take me out for a few drinks, get me drunk or something so you can say you took advantage.

This guy I went out with last night, we’re sittin’ at the drive-through two shows before he even put his arm around me. I said, “My God, what’s wrong.” If they don’t try something, you feel bad.

1. The Hudsucker Proxy. Yeah, it has that classic line, “You know, for kids!” but that movie put me to sleep. I wasn’t impressed with the characters or the zany storyline. Or maybe it was because it was 11pm, WAY past my bedtime. Or maybe it was the person I watched it with. Yawn.

2. The Royal Tenenbaums. Oh so quirky. Oh so not holding my interest. Perhaps if there had been more incest…

3. Jennifer Jason Leigh. Even if she does go topless often enough, she gets on my nerves.

4. Parker Posey. She’s the indie darling, but man does she give off a weird vibe.

5. Hamsters. Their cuteness does not help me forget that they are loner cannibals.

6. Other people’s kids. I’m inclined to trip them or let them run out in the street.

7. Cheesecake. This one is the most ridiculous, but I can hardly choke it down, even if it’s that turtle kind.

8. Tori Amos. That fiery red hair, the Joker lips, the genius…but she bleats like a sheep.

9. Gwen Stefani. She dresses like a freak and has tiny tits, BUT she’s another bleater.

10. Anal sex. I’m workin’ on it, I’m workin’ on it. Sheesh.

I hate those bluetooth wireless headsets people stick in their ear and then march around in public looking smug and important. If you are guilty of this, you need to stop reading my blog right now. You are banned. No, you don’t look all Matrix sci-fi spectacular.

I don’t care if those things save lives - they look stupid.

(Check out the blog I snagged this image from. Brilliant!)

A friend lent me an intriguing photo essay book called Lapdancer by Juliana Beasley. The photographer is a dancer who interviews patrons, bouncers, and other dancers, gathering different perspectives in an attempt to satisfy questions such as: What kind of person would engage in this type of eroticism? Naturally, reading the essays only leads to more questions.

The photos accurately capture the sleazy enviro, and it’s interesting how the author lines up several images of patron’s pimply, sullen faces in a row, as if to suggest mug shots. The book ends with her account of the club where she worked getting raided, and all the dancers being charged with prostitution. Ironically, a bouncer comments in one of the essays:

I sit and see a girl in the lap dance room with a guy, and he’ll put like $1200 on his credit card. My question is, “Well Jesus, he’s there for all this while, why the hell doesn’t he just get an escort?” That’s the million dollar question. We often wonder that around here. Because I can speak for myself. If I was not married or I had problems with my wife, instead of coming here and spending $400-500 and then going home with a big old hard on, I would probably get an escort that’s kind of classy, and pay the $500 for I don’t know how long. And then I’m definitely going to get what I went there for.

That’s what I’m talking about - I think strip clubs are just big teases and not very sexy. The oddest thing I noticed as I read the book is that I kept forgetting that I have first hand experience on the subject. I had to keep reminding myself that I lapdanced years ago. I was probably trying to disassociate myself from the whole thing - the hustling, the groping, the regulars constantly trying to get you to meet them outside the club… Because yeah, the book accurately captured how depressing it all is - it’s the ultimate example of wanting what you can’t have, and settling for unsatisfying scraps.

Here is Kyla at the Butterfly House. I knew she would like all the butterflies, but I was NOT expecting her to climb into the tarantula cage.

Dear Slut,
I have a sex culture question: Do most American men have the dream of being taken advantage of? Does it have anything to do with geography, i.e., would it apply to men in New York, for instance? Just curious.
- Russian Goddess

Dear Russian Goddess,
Since I’ve only had sex with about half the U.S. population as opposed to all, I’m not sure if I can accurately answer this one, but I’ll try. Also, feedback from male readers would be appreciated. I’ve found that pretty much men dream of whatever they aren’t getting. So if they have to be the boss at work, they like to be bossed in the bedroom. If they aren’t getting laid, they want to get laid, preferably by more than one woman at once. If their partner is an older woman, they fantasize about being with someone younger. If their best friend has a hot mom and they aren’t fucking her, they would very much like for her to seduce them when they unexpectedly walk in on her sunbathing nude by the pool. In other words, most men want it all. Which, I have to admit, I can relate to.

People tend to lean in one direction (dom or sub) though some people can assume both roles, given the mood. But not always! One time I saw a dom guy, very aggressive in the bedroom, get blindfolded and tied to a pool table so five (FIVE!) beautiful women could ravage him, and you could tell he didn’t like it one bit. But I suppose a lot of men could get into that, ey?

And though I haven’t been to New York yet but desperately need to get there so I can experience the wealth of vegetarian restaurants, I’m pretty confident that the number of men who want a woman to sit on their face is even higher than here in the midwest, since everyone in New York is a total freak. And if you’re from New York, please don’t ruin my fantasy by commenting that you are not a total freak.

Send your questions to love [at] thebeautifulkind . com

About once a week I get a message on myspace from a guy looking for an mff (male/female/female) threesome. They usually go something like this:

married couple here thinks your hot

First of all, nothing turns me off more than using the word “your” when you should use “you’re.” So whenever I read a sentence like that (which is very fucking often) I read it like this

married couple here thinks your (I’M AN ILLITERATE IDIOT, TURN OFF, TURN OFF) hot

For some reason these guys dropping me caveman grunt lines like this annoy me. I mean, it’s perfectly understandable that they have this fantasy and want to make it come true, but it always makes me feel like they think all the women on myspace are mere objects waiting to be used for their pleasure. I used to just delete these messages without responding, but usually the guy would circle back like a shark in a month and drop me another lame line.

But now I’ve found a way to make them stop bothering The Beautiful Kind. I respond back with

I’m available for 300/hr.

I’ve tried it twice and it freaked the dudes out both times. Ahh, now I get it!

1. They’re just horny and whacking off while perusing myspace profiles and are not really serious about dragging you into their bedroom - but they do think it’s OK to drag you into their stupid fantasy world.

2. They’re cheap bastards.

PS: I also hate when a guy wants to add me as a friend and I look at his page of friends and they’re all hot chicks. It’s like they’re a bunch of trophies he’s collecting to prove his studliness. Um, no thanks, I don’t want my stuffed head added to the wall of false conquests.

Here is how I’m preparing for my trip next month to Canada/Nova Scotia/Prince Edward Island:

- Watching Anne of Green Gables and rereading the books for the 100th time- sooo romantic (and not in that swapping spit kind of way.)

- Getting giddy over BJ Snowden’s stirring music video tribute to Canada. Fucking amazing, I tell you.

- Eating lots of REAL maple syrup.

- Studying up on the culture. No, I’m not learning basic French. Instead, I’m discussing strip clubs with friends. A friend of mine went to a strip club up there and he didn’t know how to tip the dancers, since the dollars were coins. Then he realized that the stiletto acrylic platform heels they were wearing had coin slots in them. FINALLY, a purpose for such hideous footwear.

- Drinking lots of Canadian beer. I’m considering it an acclimating measure - replacing my inferior American blood with as much imported alcohol as I can.

He comes over- it’s late at night.

I hate being in the same room with him - it’s torture. I’m drawn to him the way a kid is drawn to a bag of candy - he tastes so good, but is no good for me. I’m no good for him, either. Therefore, we aren’t supposed to fuck. It’s off limits.

I sit far away from him, and he asks why. Like a chess piece, I move to sit next to him. I feel nervous touching his arm.

He suggests we go lie down for a bit, which is an absurd notion, but of course I masochistically go along with it.

It’s a hot night. I turn off the light. We strip and slide under the sheets. I tell him, “Don’t worry, I won’t molest you.” And I don’t, at least not in real life. In my head I’m ripping his cock off and devouring it like a praying mantis.

He’s restless and braces himself above me with his arms. His head drops down and he breathes heavily into my chest. I reluctantly push him off. He strokes my ass, is about to place his hand on my crotch, when I ask, “How come you get to molest me?”

He stops. Dammit.

We lie next to each other, trying to keep it PG, but the sexual tension is unbearable. Still, I’m very tired, and I drift in and out of consciousness. I keep dreaming of him, and then waking up and realizing he’s there. I smell him and feel him, and my cunt won’t let me - won’t let me rest - it keeps twitching and aching, and whispers dirty things right up my core: “I’m hungry. Fill me up. There’s a perfectly good cock in this bed you could use. I want to be fucked.”

All night long I resist, I’m so fitful I could scream.

Finally the grey of dawn arrives, but I’m not really glad for it. I’m horribly disappointed, frustrated, don’t think I can possibly face the day…

I angrily shove my ass his way, and at the same time he turns and presses his rock hard cock between my cheeks. God thank God.

And just like that he swiftly pins me face down, pushes between my trembling thighs, and jabs at my begging cunt. With a thrust of his pelvis, he finds his mark. No warm up, no foreplay, we go from zero to fucking in the blink of an eye. My cunt is gloating, laughing at me, living it up.

He only waits to hear me scream a few times before pulling out and cumming all over my back. I expect him to get a towel, but instead he just fingerpaints with it, rubs it in until it dries.

“God that was torture!” I gasp.

He laughs. “But it was fun.”

I wear him the rest of the day.

In honor of Jerry Falwell’s death (DID he fall well?) I’d like to point out a Baptist church sign I saw the other day:

We All Live Forever - The Question Is, Where?

So these Christians have cleverly solved that little dilemma we have when it comes to facing death (while also trying to scare you into going to church, hee) - deny it! Our time on earth is only part one. Part two, as mysterious as it is, will carry you on to immortality. Fabulous!

This also solves that other irksome problem we have - you know, destroying the planet? We don’t have to really worry about it. Our time here is just temporary. Huh? Why live life in anticipation of what you hope will happen to you after you die? Why not focus on the here and now, what you know to be the truth, and making it as good as possible?

The NYTimes Book Review on Sunday featured a review of Christopher Hitchens’ book, God is Not Great: How Religions Poison Everything. An excerpt:

The great religions all began at a time when we knew a tiny fraction of what we know today about the origins of Earth and human life. It’s understandable that early humans would develop stories about gods or God to salve their ignorance. But people today have no such excuse. If they continue to believe in the unbelievable, or say they do, they are morons or lunatics or liars.

Seriously, how many stupid atheists do you know?

I always assumed that the Girls Gone Wild series was just a bunch of drunk college girls flashing for the camera, which seemed boring and low grade to me, and I didn’t get why it was such a sensation. So when I found out a friend of mine has about thirty of these DVDs (he was on a quest to find a certain cute young squirting girl, and finally found her, praise be!) I asked to see one. He showed me “Girls Gone Wild Co-ed Sex Tryouts Vol 3″ (isn’t the word “co-ed” super outdated? Wasn’t that word invented 70-something years ago when more females started attending universities?)

I have to admit the DVD was entertaining and at times, hot. Entertaining in that you could make fun of bad tattoos and count how many times the girl being “interviewed” (cajoled to prove that she was just an ordinary girl and that her parents would flip if they knew what she was about to do) would say the word “like.” Hot in that you got to see cute young natural women play with themselves and each other. No clear acrylic monster stilettos, but bare feet instead.

There was this one objectifying scene where a girl’s genitals were pointed out as being small. The cameraman exclaimed, “That’s the smallest pussy I’ve ever seen!” and then to give the audience perspective, he put a cell phone next to it for size comparison. Having her pussy put on center stage and highlighted as being different made her feel shy, so she tried closing her legs, but they convinced her to keep it on display. It was small, and when asked, she admitted to having had sex once, and that it hurt.

One of the hottest scenes was this lesbian threesome, even though one girl had these bad hair extensions. The cutest girl in that trio was petite, blonde, and could squirt, and the two women helped her get that feat captured on camera. That was worth replaying. Is it true that these women aren’t getting paid to be filmed, that all they get is a baseball cap or t-shirt?! I could see that being the case for some random flash on the beach, but the hotel room sex scenes are hotter than most porn.

Why is it that we use the phrase “he is such a pussy” to describe a wimpy guy? I admit I use that phrase sometimes myself, but it’s mainly because I just like saying the word “pussy.”

Really, it should be “he is such a dick” to describe a wimp, and here’s why: dicks are always trying to hide in holes, are always running to mama, and throw up when they get excited.

Pussies, on the other hand, are brave and strong, are constantly being invaded, and can take a pounding like a champ. They also provide a great deal of comfort to the dicks.