Incentives: Nipple clamps, riding crops, cat o’ nine tails….

Today is the last day of April, and once again, I’m asking myself, “Holy shit, we’re nearly half way through the year already!” I’m a little dumb founded at how fast the year is flying by; crazy, fast.

Realizing that we’re moving into the month of May, it made be go back and self-evaluate the goals I’d set for myself just a few short months ago in January; benchmarking if I’m on target to where I should be, or where I’d like to be.

How many of you do that? Do you write out your goals and then periodically glance at them throughout the year? Do you check and balance yourself against where you are today compared to where you said you’d be months ago? Are you headed in the right direction, or have you completely broken away from your original dream, and found yourself on a path leading you far, far away from the goal you had set?

I try and set realistic goals for myself each year. I give myself some breathing room when setting the time limits for the goals and then I reward myself heavily with lots of treats whenever I reach a milestone: New vibrator that I’ve had my eye on for months, platinum nipple clamps, or an embossed and initialed, leather riding crop (see above) are just a few of the items on my wish list that help guide me; propelling toward reaching my set goals.

I realize this topic makes me sound really anal retentive; writing out short and long term goals; checking back to see if I’ve achieved them; rewarding myself for reaching them, etc, etc…. I guess I am somewhat anal…at times, but if I don’t write things down and create a clear picture of what I want, then I’m a truly a mess. I am ship at sea without a compass; a whore on the city streets without a pimp. You see, goals set me straight.

I am not always right on target with my goals. Nope, I haven’t won a Pulitzer Prize yet for penning porn, if there is such a thing. However, I do feel that I’m on the right path; burning my own trail, which is a goal in of itself for me, so hey, you know what that means don’t cha’? It’s treat time, boys and girls (wink, wink).

p.s. I completely understand if you’re as ga-ga over the riding crop pictured above as I am. You can have your initials put on it with Swarovski crystal letters. Hmmm…yum, yum, yum.

Are you really doing you?

I had cocktails last night with some old colleagues; they are more than just colleagues, they’re friends. It was good catching up with them; learning about what’s been going on from a business perspective, but as more wine was poured into our glasses, the conversation became less and less about business and more personal. Typified with topics like, what’s your favorite sexual position? Or, to shave the bush or not to shave? (See yesterday’s blog). We mustn’t forget the all time favorite, what’s the best orgasm you’ve ever had? You know, the usual quintessential dialogue amongst work mates getting together after work for a drink.

As usual, I had many questions to ask; questions I wanted to know rather than the every day run of the mill conversations about sex. I wanted more; something bigger; something deeper; ensconced, if you will.

I put on my diving mask, strapped on my…compressed air tank, slipped into my flippers, and squeezed into a full bodied wet suit before jumping into the deep, dark water where all their secrets were living; hiding. Secrets that prefer to stay under wraps unless of course they’re lured out by alcohol and the Neve inquisition. I posed the next question to the group as if it were their last meal before walking the plank:

If you could do anything in the world to earn a living, what would you do?”

(Long pause) Blank faces stared back at me. Fingers drummed against the bar, pondering; searching for an answer. “Must be a good question,” I thought.

Finally someone broke the spell and responded. “Why don’t you start, Neve?”

(Another long pause) “Okay. I’d be a sex slave. Tie me up, tie me down; spank me, gag me, torture me with pleasure and pain. Yep. Hands down, that’s what I would do.” My response was too good; it broke the ice, and I didn’t think anyone in the group could possibly top my unique, and eye brow raising answer; I felt glorified.

I was wrong.

It was as if a bolt of lighting had struck the end of the bar where the four of us sat; the white heat rose above us; sending smoke signals throughout the city; spilling onto the streets. The words were out, an epiphany perhaps was in the making; the deed was done.

I am a professional, so I grabbed my purse, digging inside; fingers searched for my small, red writing pad; my journal filled with copious notes and a pen. I needed to write this stuff down.

I learned that each person was working in a field that wasn’t lending itself to what their true inner workings wanted and needed them to be doing. What each person said they wanted to be doing wasn’t even remotely close to what they were doing now. How do we end up so far from where we want to be? Upon reflection, I was mystified by what I learned last night. Many of our great philosophers felt that true happiness comes from finding and doing the one thing that you do well. I would have to agree with that. For me, it’s love slave/writer. I am blissfully blessed.

I went deeper. Hell, I had the reserve tank of air; I could handle it. I forged on and asked,

Why aren’t you doing what you want to be doing?”


So, I’m posing this question to you; the reader for today:

If we’re not really doing what makes us happy, are we really being true to ourselves? Are you sure you’re really doing you?

Body Hair and Lou Reed

Holly came from Miami, F.L.A.
Hitch-hiked her way across the USA
Plucked her eyebrows on the way
Shaved her legs and then he was a she
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild side
She said, Hey honey
Take a walk on the wild side
Candy came from out on the Island
In the backroom she was everybody’s darlin’
But she never lost her head
Even when she was giving head
She says, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild side
Said, Hey babe
Take a walk on the wild side
And the colored girls go doo do doo do doo do do doo…” Lou Reed

I heard this song again recently. It’s a true classic. For some reason it always makes me think about body hair. Call me crazy. The lyrics send me straight down the melancholy hair path. Hair, hair and more hair. Hair loss; shaven hair; plucked hair; waxing one’s hair; a full head of hair… Okay. I think you get my drift, yeah?

Just so you know I’m an a la carte person when it comes to hair on my body. I like my legs, arm pits and eyebrows smooth and preferably waxed; clean as a whistle. I like my bush to be slightly trimmed; maintaining some order below, but the area covering my pubis mons should be full and hearty, full enough so it glistens when it’s wet. Wet from stepping out of the shower, or a pool, or hmmm… dang! I just can’t think of any other reasons my bush would be wet. Huh? It’s Monday; my brain’s a little slow.

I’ve had my bush waxed before; I was in a Brazilian state of mind, I suppose. Ouch! It hurts so bad; really bad. I kept waiting for the pleasure to follow the excruciating pain, but that failed to happen. I was to find pleasure in the fact that my coochie was bare, and as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I felt that I looked pre-pubescent; attracting the likes of pedophiles. Or something even worse: Smooth Jazz listeners; smooth coochie; smooth Jazz, there seemed to be parallelism.


I was hysterical. I wandered the streets of my neighborhood asking everyone I’d come in contact with, “Where’s my bush? Have you seen my bush? I think I’ve gone and lost my bush!”

I was crying out for help, you know; sending a bush SOS.

Someone finally thought a bush intervention was necessary; in retrospect I was a bit out-of-control. My friends were so sympathetic of my loss, repetitively telling me, “Neve, for the love of bush… yours will come back to you, just is patient.”

Thank heavens for my good friends. They were correct. It took awhile; prickly little devil came back to me in pieces; teasing me with a hair here, and morsel there. It was as painful as having the damn thing waxed off. Ouch! The memory still stings.

Anyway, how do handle the hair on your body? Do you shave a little here, pluck a stray there, and how often? Is your body hair a ritualistic maintenance nightmare? Or do you just say, “ahhh… fuck it!” and let it all hang out and go hippie-style …? You know I want to know.

The water-color above can be purchased by selecting here.

Buzzz….Vibrator Dependency

I wanted to catch up with an old friend; wanted to hear about what’s been going on in her life; her marriage; kids, the whole nine yards… We agreed to meet at a quaint, little coffee shop, located somewhere in between where she lives (suburbs) and where I live (urban-dweller). We chose a bistro table, near the window, and the sun rays warmed our bodies. It was great to see her; she looked fantastic. She was, well… she was glowing…. I thought she might be pregnant; radiating some internal joy that percolated to the surface; cheeks were naturally flushed, even her lips seemed fuller. I closed my eyes and took my first sip of my tall, vanilla, non-fat latte. She wasn’t engaging in her coffee. She looked at me; eyes blinking… I knew that look; she had something to say; something compelling to get off her chest.

“I’m having an affair.” She blurted out; matter-a-factly.

Choking and coughing, I spilled my coffee on my lap; this news caught me off guard. It was the last thing I expected she’d say. My eyes were as big as the saucers our coffee mugs sat under, and I gazed back at her. My thoughts raced, “Why the hell do people tell me this stuff?” It’s no secret that I pen porn, for Christ’s sake! I do change the names to protect the innocent; embellishing here, a little change there, and then Voila! The seed is planted for a story. Immaculate Conception at its finest hour.

Thoughts were racing, “say something logical; be supportive; something logical…”

“What!” boring, typical words escaped my lips; disappointed in myself.

“My new vibrator; it’s unbelievable, but hey, I don’t have to tell you that, right?” She said, grinning and winking at me, like I was some vibrator expert (okay, maybe a little).

As usual, I begged for more information; there just had to be more.

“Are you and Jake having sex?” I asked; it was a stupid question.

“Oh yeah, sure Neve, all the fucking time. After fifteen years of marriage, three kids, his job, my job, his stinky, ass and my mood swings…well, we’re just doing it every time we see one another. We’re a barrel of, how would you say it? Hot, Monkey Sex; Monkeys! ” She responded, while rolling her eyes.

Hot, Monkey Sex, Monkeys? Ooops, I touched a nerve; she used the word fucking as an adjective, and I knew I was in trouble. I imagined my friend sneaking off to her spacious master bathroom; closing the door behind her; vibrator in her hand; buzzzz…buzzzz…buzzzz; resurfacing minutes later; refreshed with a healthy glow (hmmm…) and ready to make a hearty dinner for her family. I blushed in embarrassment. Yeah, I know. I know, me; blushing about masturbation? It seemed incongruous, but true.

I’d known her for years. Hell, I wore the obligatory, satin, aqua-colored shoes and matching, pouf-sleeved dress in her wedding. I used to listen to her go on, and on, and on, and on, and on about what a fantastic lover Jake was and meanwhile I was between lovers; vibrating my heart out. Buzzzz.

“So, what you’re telling me is you and Jake don’t have the time, or have lost interest in doing the nasty dirty, using his groove-tube, and you’re engaging in an extramarital affair with your vibrator…huh?” I inquired, seeking clarification.

“Yeah. I guess that’s one way to look at it, or say it.” She said, sitting back in her chair; sipping her cappuccino.

I pondered this information for days before I could write about it. Is she really engaging in an extramarital affair by using her vibrator instead of her husband’s cock? Yes? No? When does acceptable masturbation end and vibrator dependency begin?

I’d love to hear about your thoughts on the subject. Please feel free to leave a comment.

Note: Do you have to have the business card case above?

In flight fuck, please

So, I just submitted a story to an editor that had a call out for submissions themed, plane sex. You know what I mean, right? The Mile High Club type of hanky panky; where so many of my fantasies like to hang out. Think about all the variable options to in flight sex? The possibilities are endless; racking up frequent flyer miles while taking full advantage of the hot flight attendant (s) so eagerly helping you adjust your seat belt, while your tremmering thighs hide behind a blanket. Having trouble using the sink in the teeny, weenie bathroom? It’s a tight fit for two, but somebody’s gotta’ do it…. Maybe you’d like a personal tour of the pilot’s…quarters? Well, each one of these examples gives a whole new meaning to the word, turbulence for me.

How about you?

Needless to say, it was really fun to write about the topic of sex on a plane and to write it from a man’s perspective. The idea came from a very casual conversation I had with someone; rooted from one of his fantasies, and suddenly I was fascinated; wanting more. It’s funny, because I can’t say that I’m really good friends with this person; we are acquaintances, for lack of a better word. He felt compelled to share his thoughts, maybe because he knows I’m penning porn and he was baiting the hook to reel me in and expose his fantasy. My eyebrow rose with intrigue, as he spoke of his ideal flying experience. I bit into the bait; hook sunk deeply into my mouth; taking its hold. Thus the basis for this story was born. Here’s a little taste of smelt or mackerel to wet your appetite (be careful of the hook):

…I was suddenly awoken. I’m not sure how long I’d been sleeping, but it was pitch black outside and the last time I remembered it was twilight. It was quiet, except for the slow and steady humming sound of the plane’s engine. The couple sitting next to me were sleeping. The cabin was dimly lit and the light above my seat glowed above my head. My eyes were trying to adjust to my surroundings, and I rubbed them.

As I blinked and cleared my eyes, I could see the outline of a woman’s body standing in front of my seat; so close, I could have reached out and touched her. I blinked again and rubbed my eyes again. It was Delilah, the beautiful redhead with those amazing eyes. She stood there; looking at me and she was completely naked. Her firm and full breasts were superbly perfect in shape, like two firm, ripe cantaloupe melons. Her elongated and erect nipples sat perched on top of light brown, silver dollar sized areolas, offering themselves to me on a platter. I felt aroused.

Her full hips complimented her breasts; symmetrically proportioned. She had a flat stomach and her waist indented on each side; making her figure look hourglass-shaped. Her long, lean legs were slightly parted; showing off the auburn colored hair that covered her pubis mons. She smiled down at me.

Is this happening to me?” My thoughts raced and Delilah lifted one of her hands and motioning me to follow her, “come here,” her fingers instructed. I looked around, making sure she was motioning to me and when I looked toward her again, she had turned and started to walk up the aisle, turning to look at me; still motioning me to follow her.

I unclasped my seat belt and moved into the aisle. Delilah was more than half way up the aisle now, still motioning to me. I didn’t hesitate; I wouldn’t let logic try and talk me out of it….

p.s. The condom holder above can be purchased here.

Blooper Sex

Once again, I had the amazing luck of a story that slipped under the proverbial door of my e-mail in box today. The title was along the lines of sex that’s gone awry, or erred sex; sexual blunders.

I’m such a perfect lover (kidding) that I couldn’t think of one story to share with you about any personal sexual snafus, but I did get this telephone call from my friend one morning and we still laugh about it to this day:

“Do you have any Advil?” she desperately asked me as I picked up the phone.

“Yeah, I think so…why? Bad cramps? Sore muscles from running? Too much chitty-chitty-bang-bang last night?” I was relentless. I knew something was up.

Pause. “Well. I can’t move my neck.” She finally said.

“Huh?” What the hell happened I asked digging for an answer; I knew this was going to be good; newsworthy good.

Longer pause. “Well I saw M (first initial of Ex boyfriend) last night and well, one thing led to another and…”

“Yeah, okay. Go on….” I responded a bit too quickly. I was anxious for the low down.

“Well…uh… uh… I don’t know how to say it…” She said stammering.

“Just say it! What happened?” I said prying for a confession, feeling like Lucy from the Peanuts cartoon; therapy session sign posted up reading: The Doctor is IN; 5 cents, please.

“WE FUCKED LIKE CRAZY LAST NIGHT AND I FELL OFF THE BED AND LANDED ON MY HEAD!” She finally yelled it out; needed to cleanse her conscious of her night of wild abandonment; her hot, monkey sex, sexcapade with her recently past and re-occurring lover, M.

“Oh my!” I finally said. “I’ll be right over with the Advil and two coffees. I want all the juicy details.”

So, of course I want to hear about your most embarrassing sexual fumble, stumble, clumsy, mishap that you think about from time to time and still get a good laugh out of. Come on, give it up; tell me your story! I REALLY want to hear it. It’s not like I’m going write about it or anything (big smile).

p.s. check out the cool stuff this artist is selling at etsy; link is here.

Holy Loppers, Batman!

I love gardening tools.

Spades, shovels, picks, hoe’s, forks, rakes; good God the names alone send shivers up my spine. I’ve been test driving a new tool for the past couple of days, and lets just say, I’m in way over my head here in expertise, but the experience has been…well, titillating. I borrowed this scrumptious tool from a friend, and she affectionately calls it, “The Loppers.” Oh, be still my beating heart (thump, thump; thump, thump).

The ‘loppers’ are huge. They have thick; good sized, two foot handles with a rubber-type grip just at the tip; making it easier for people like me, the amateurs to handle them properly. Follow the long, lopper shaft to the other end and there lies the real prize; heart pounding, sweat dripping; five inch blade for shearing and angling the really big jobs, if you know what I mean? (Wink, wink)

It makes me juicy wet just thinking about them. I keep finding more things to “lop” off too. My poor plum tree… it didn’t really need a good lopping, and now its almost completely naked; lopped, shaven, right down to nearly a stump; Oooooh la, la! The loppers made me do it!

What’s your favorite gardening tool?

Gotta have the men’s tool shirt above? Check out

Get Off Days and Off Days

Have you ever had one of those off days? Or worse, several off days all strung together in a row; the next day is even more fucked up than the last, until the only sane thing to do is pull the covers over your head and call off (funny to me why it’s called that) the day?

Those fucking days where everything that could go right, goes wrong? For example, you
realize miles after the fact that you should of turned left, but you went straight instead, and now you’ve missed that very important appointment you needed to keep; dazed, confused and oh so fucking lost because the bright green freeway sign you just passed read: Desert 10 Miles. You started in Iowa.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I’ve had a run in with a couple of those types of off days this past week and I hope I’ve seen the last of them for awhile. Lets just say I’ve paid my off day dues for God’s sake!

Just so that we’re all on the same page here, having an off day isn’t anything like having a get off day either. Those are actually diametrically opposed (two points directly opposite each other). After having a string of off days; hoping for a get off day, but instead you found yourself having yet another off day, best describes irony for me. Or maybe that’s frustration, either way it’s somehow related to the off day prohibiting you to have a get off day.

Do you have an off day story? Do you have a get off day story? Let’s hear it!

Spank Me

“Desiree’,” he said as he struck the tender cheeks of my white ass with…what was it? I couldn’t see from this angle, maybe it was one of my frying pans from the kitchen one floor above us. I couldn’t be sure though… and my name isn’t Desire’.

My arms hugged the wide and massive frame of the washing machine, and my hands held on tightly to the back. My legs; spread eagled, and straddled, as I press the swollen, wet lips of my pussy flush up against its side; erect nipples of my cantaloupe sized breasts crushed into the top of the machine.

He smacked me again, this time harder than before, and the glorious ‘spin cycle’ began; shaking the concrete below its legs; vibrating and pulsating into the core of my clit. “Desiree”, he said again louder, as he swatted my upper thigh. “God this was so good.” I thought to myself and I let out gasp and then a moan….

I’m working on this story right now. What do you think? Do you like being spanked, or do you like to be the one doing the spanking? Maybe you prefer both! Select the link to learn more about purchasing the item above.