Univited House Guest

Did anyone else catch the story I’ve copied and pasted below this week? After I read it, I went right home and checked under my bed, pulled out the pots and pans in my kitchen cupboards; peering inside with a flashlight. I pulled back the shower curtain; ready to come face to face with an invited house guest.

I went so far as to get down on my hands and knees (now don’t get too excited) and search the crawl space of my basement; I was leaving no stone unturned. I thought I might find someone hiding in my house. As far as I can tell, the coast is clear. I do have two permanent; quasi-uninvited house guests: Pussy one and pussy two. They both showed up at my door step about five years ago and well, they’ve decided to make their stay at my house permanent.

Now that I’ve read this story, my head is spinning out-of-control, because I’m considering working it into erotica piece. I can totally visualize the out come (no pun intended). My heart is racing; my hands are sweating. Heavy sigh.

What the hell am I talking about? You ask, scratching your head. Do I ever disappoint you? Okay then, please read the uninvited house guest story below and let me know your comments.

TOKYO – A homeless woman who sneaked into a man’s house and lived undetected in his closet for a year was arrested in Japan after he became suspicious when food mysteriously began disappearing.
Police found the 58-year-old woman Thursday hiding in the top compartment of the man’s closet and arrested her for trespassing, police spokesman Hiroki Itakura from southern Kasuya town said Friday.
The resident of the home installed security cameras that transmitted images to his mobile phone after becoming puzzled by food disappearing from his kitchen over the past several months.
One of the cameras captured someone moving inside his home Thursday after he had left, and he called police believing it was a burglar. However, when they arrived they found the door locked and all windows closed.
“We searched the house … checking everywhere someone could possibly hide,” Itakura said. “When we slid open the shelf closet, there she was, nervously curled up on her side.”
The woman told police she had no place to live and first sneaked into the man’s house about a year ago when he left it unlocked.
The closet is part of a Japanese-style room, one of several rooms in his one-story house where the man lived alone — or so he had thought.
Police were investigating how she managed to go in and out of the house unnoticed, as well as details of her life inside the closet, and if she had taken anything else besides food.
She had moved a mattress into the small closet space and apparently even took showers, Itakura said, calling the woman “neat and clean.”

Death…By Coconuts?

I know. I think it’s very odd that I’ve chosen the above title to blog about today. I’m somewhat obsessed with death, you know and I’m not sure why. No. I’m not a some socio-path that enjoys murdering small animals; wanting to up the ante and murder people. It’s the statistics that I love wrapping my head around, especially when the media hypes things out of proportion.

Yes, it was another article that I read. It was titled Bizarre Deaths, or something similar. Basically the article was pointing out the improbable odds of actually dying from some of life’s most bizarre mishaps; misadventures, if you will.

Here’s a little information about coconuts: A coconut palm tree commonly reaches 25 meters in height, and a coconut can weigh two kilograms or more, and that a two-kilogram coconut falling 25 meters would have a velocity of 80 kilometers per hour on impact and a force of as much as 1,000 kilograms. Several victims suffered fractured skulls, were rendered comatose, etc.

Statistically speaking (if anyone cares), your chances of getting poisoned at a picnic, murdered by your spouse, or bitten by a rabid dog or cat carry a much higher rate than being hit on the head by a coconut. However, death by coconut has a much higher statistical rate than dying from being bitten by a shark, bitten by a bat, or other strange, random and often media hyped ways to sell articles.
Note: It appears scientists are rallying around the misunderstood shark, because falling coconuts kill 150 people worldwide each year; 15 times the number of fatalities attributable to sharks.

See. Isn’t this interesting? Yes? Not so much? Or, are you wondering, “What type of drugs are you taking, Neve?”

Now I’ve probably scared the beetle juice out of you about coconuts, haven’t I? Nasty little buggers, aren’t they? Who would have known? The next time you’re traveling to a place that has lots of coconut trees, it might be a good idea to make sure your life insurance policy has a cause written into it about, “Death by Coconuts”.

No need to thank me. I’m just giving you a little Neve statistical information about death and coconuts. :-)

Russian Internet Contortionists?

What is it with Russian fitness instructors or gymnasts, the internet and men in the U.S.?

Someone I knew well was adamant about not traveling across large bodies of water; until he met a Russian woman. She was a gymnast; living in Paris, France and they met on the internet. They tickled and played with words, back and forth on their keyboards; much like I do while writing a really hot story. This man was hell-bent for election against flying over the Atlantic Ocean. He decided one day to book a one way ticket to romantic Paris (not the one in Texas) to spend a very long, sexually charged weekend with his Russian gymnast.

No. I’m not kidding.

Think about it. The contents above make for a great porn story, don’t you think? It has a great romantic beginning; a spicy, hot and sexy crescendo and bathtubs filled with chilled Vodka as an ending. Hey, I’m the first to admit it, except here’s the Neve caveat: I knew this guy. I knew him well and I could see the whole story playing out badly; right in front of me. It has all the usual “porn story” characteristics I like to sink my teeth into and damnit, I so wanted it too.

Too. Close. Too. Much. Discomfort. Maybe in time though….

I really wanted things to work out with his Russian gymnast too, but as I suspected the relationship had many holes in it and that relationship was going down. It sank to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

…and then it happened again….

I received an e-mail message yesterday from someone I know that has apparently fallen head-0ver-heals in love with a woman living in Moscow; yep, Russia. And double, yep; internet dating is how they met. This woman is a fitness instructor, which has peculiar similarities to a gymnast.

What is it with gymnasts and fitness instructors that live in Russia that are into internet dating the men I know that live in the U.S? And why do these fucking fantastic details have to happen to people I know and I can’t really write about it, because I’m too close to the characters in order to embelish and weave something porn-a-riffic?

Great. Fucking. Fantastic.

In this latest Russian love connection story, he’s living in my home town of California and his Russian, on-line girlfriend is asking for money; so she can make the trip across the Atlantic Ocean and live with him. Did I mention they’ve known each other for about a month now? Minor detail. I hope it works out. In spite of cultural differences, language barriers and potentially incorrect expectations; sometimes relationships can survive, in spite of large bodies of water standing in between them.

Does anyone know any Russian gymnast and or fitness instructors? Is it coincidental, or is this an epidemic?

Single? How to work a wedding

This story caught my eye when I pulled up my internet landing page. Once again, I found a way to spruce up the advice the author hands out to both men and women that find themselves single and staring at a wedding invitation. I’ve approached this a little different this time, by inserting; okay interjecting my comments in red font throughout the article below:

As awkward as it is to attend a wedding with someone you’ve only just started seeing — there’s nothing like accidentally catching a bouquet to accelerate the normal relationship timetable by, say, two or three years — (What the hell? Catching the bouquet at a wedding means you’re headed down the aisle with your date for the evening? Fuck, that’s reason enough to go alone, isn’t?) going to a reception all by your lonesome self is even worse. This prospect is so daunting, (Daunting? Going to a wedding alone is daunting? It’s fun. I’ll show you) in fact, that most singles fall back on one of three strategies: a) taking along a brother or sister (Call me square, but I just can’t get into incest.) (or a platonic friend of the opposite sex) and hoping no one asks any questions; (Huh? What’s wrong with a little platonic friendship with sexual benefits, again? Why can’t anyone ask any questions? I’m confused.) b) sadly nursing a triple scotch in the lounge while all the happy couples are out on the floor slow-dancing; (This is the only thing I agree with so far: Nursing a triple scotch at the bar, but for different reasons than what the author suggests. I’m usually at the bar, feeling badly for the couple that just tied the knot; knowing what I know about the bride or the groom, wondering when the divorce proceedings will begin.) or c) invoking the “family emergency” rule and not showing up at all. (For fuck’s sakes, go and have a good time; there’s free food and booze.)

So what’s an unattached invitee to do? Here are a few ways to dispel your anxieties, preserve your friendship with the bride and groom, and (just possibly) meet someone in the process. (Duh! I have many stories to tell about meeting people at weddings. That’s a different blog story, but why in the hell wouldn’t you go? There are lots of single people and chances are if you’re single, you’re going to meet a plethora of new, single people. Maybe you might even get a little action in the coat closet too.)

Plan ahead. Perhaps because the occasion evokes so much dread, most single wedding-goers show up at the reception without doing any homework. That’s a mistake, says Keith Ferrazzi, author of Never Eat Alone: “You don’t have to wait for the wedding day to make contact with the other guests. In fact, it might lessen your nerves if you reach out a couple weeks in advance. You can say something like, ‘It’s always awkward not knowing everyone at a wedding, so I’m trying to get better acquainted with a few guests so we can all have a better time.’” To pull this off, of course, you’ll have to ring up the bride-to-be and ask her who’s sitting at your table, but odds are she’ll be dealing with so many gruesome details that she’ll actually enjoy helping you. (There’s really nothing to plan for except making time to hit the mall and pick up a gift. If you don’t have time for that, just get a card and give them money. People can always use money. Under no uncertain circumstances are you to call the bride and inquire about the seating arrangements. Trust me; she has much bigger fish to fry at this point. She’s trying to keep her affair with the best man a secret from her future husband. Put your big boy or girl pants on and go and have a raging good time.)

Work the crowd. Granted, a wedding reception isn’t the biweekly mixer of the Greater Cleveland Insurance Brokers Association. (Hey, I think the author just slammed Cleveland. Booo-hissss.) But that’s no reason to leave your networking skills (You must be kidding?) at the door, says relationship expert Dr. Diana Kirschner: “A wedding provides a smorgasbord of people to meet. Even if The One (Think… fucking a perfectly hot new stranger in the coat closet….) isn’t there, every new person you meet has a network of 200 other people they know. Say hello to everyone, and subtly let them know you’re available.” (Don’t pass out your business card and start asking for business, unless of course you’re pimping prostitutes for coat closet action.)

Don’t wallow. “Slow dances are the bane of every single guest’s wedding experience,” says Diane Forden, editor-in-chief of Bridal Guide magazine. “This is the moment when you may find yourself suddenly abandoned at a big table as every couple in the room darts onto the dance floor. Take a deep breath, get up, and circulate. You can find someone you know at another table to talk with, take a walk around the reception site, or freshen up in the ladies’ room. But whatever you do, don’t sit there sadly gazing at those dancing couples, because your happy mood will instantly deflate as you ponder your single status.” (I just don’t know how to respond here. Personally, I’m not a big slow dancer, unless of course there’s a pole of some kind close by. Consider yourself blessed that you’re not up there on the dance floor getting felt up by the groom’s mother or the bride’s father. Unless of course one of these two people are your coat closet rendezvous.)

Amuse yourself. (This article is amusing for me.) “Look at a wedding as a chance to get dolled up,” Forden continues. “In these days of casual wear, it’s fun to look like a runway celebrity. Splurge a little and pamper yourself with a few spa treatments, or buy a new dress and a new pair of shoes. Guys can get new cummerbunds (Oh yeah. I can think of at least 20 guys that I know that will run right out and splurge on a brand new cummerbund. Who is this author?) The result will be an instant mood lift.” (No. The mood lift is located at the bar, or in the coat closet.) And if you’re feeling lonely and left out during the reception, try to find ways to turn that to your advantage. “I only go to weddings alone if I know there will be lots of kids there,” says Carol from New York. “Then I have my playmates, and the other adults appreciate the attention their children are getting.” (I mentioned earlier that I’m not into incest. Well that’s a double on child porn. I gotta draw the line somewhere. Stay away from the little people at the wedding reception.)

Have a little perspective. Take it from me: When you’re absorbed in a single, dismal, self-pitying frame of mind, it’s easy to lose sight of the icy stares, forced laughter, and under-the-breath bickering that transpire for many ostensibly “happy” couples during a deluxe evening. (Good God. Not everyone that’s single is dismal and not everyone that’s coupled is unhappy. Just be. Single or coupled; Just be.) My own dateless wedding strategy is to pal it up as much as I can with the folks at my table. (I think if I were at his table, I’d locate the bride and beg, borrow and steal to be relocated. “Please. There’s some weirdo singled guy; whose looking dismal and daunting about being single. Can I move my seat to the fun, single table, pleasssse?”) Then, when I’m in danger of feeling blue, I replay all those overheard insidious comments as I lean back in my chair, nurse my triple scotch (Nuff said…the only thing the author and I share in common….) and watch the slow dance. It may not be very nice, but it sure does work! (Well, that’s because he’s never had sex in a coat closet, right?)


No Use Crying Over…

Not getting a story published…. I wrote the story below for a contest and found out that I didn’t make the cut (boo-hoo). It’s really okay (why do I feel like an American Idol contestant?) because I’m tenacious, thick skinned and I will continue to write and enter contests (my mantra) and then someday, I will be writing in my blog announcing to you that I won. But, until then feel free to indulge yourself in my sex in the rain themed story:

A Break From the Rain
Written by: Neve Black

Long, black running pants hugged her curvaceous, tight ass. She had a strong, athletic build; standing about 5’ 6”. She was short-waisted with powerfully-built legs and succulent C-cup breasts; complimenting shapely hips. Her bright orange raincoat touched the tops of her muscular, rounded thighs and she tossed her gym bag, now filled with work clothes, into the trunk and started her car. Instantly, windshield wipers sprang to life; ready for ‘water-to-windshield’ combat.

She found a parking spot close to the park’s North/East entrance. She pulled her blonde, gloriously thick, straight, hair into a ponytail. She wore very little makeup; she didn’t have to. She was blessed with an oval face, naturally flushed, high cheekbones, a small button nose, genuine red-stained pouty lips and luminous, aquamarine eyes.

Running along the black-top jogging path as it meandered its way into the park, she could see the river to her left; violently gushing and spilling over the banks. Her heartbeat thumped in time with her cadence. Running past the picnic area, a metal roof provided shelter for an old, paint-chipped, wooden picnic table and the concrete patio below it.

Looking closer, she saw a man sitting underneath the metal roof, wearing head-to-toe running accoutrements; legs outstretched before him. “He could be hurt,” she thought and slowed her pace; walking toward him and ducking under the covered awning.

The rain immediately stopped pummeling her head, but above, against the metal roof, it reverberated. She noticed his expressive, crystal, blue eyes and rugged good looks. His sandy-blond hair was shorter on the sides than the 2 inches at the top of his head and rain drops gathered at the tips; dripping into creases around his eyes; cascading onto his weather-chapped cheeks and chiseled jaw line. His nose was long, almost beak-like, but it suited him well.

“Is everything okay?” She asked.

“I think I may have pulled something in my leg,” his deep, husky voice responded. His black running pants clung to well-defined muscles.

They had both jogged the same path many times before, but never before had they been still long enough to meet. Amanda had admired Ken’s butt and nothing else – until now.

“How far were you going today?” He asked.

“My goal was not to freeze to death.” She replied, wiping the rain from her face.

“I’ve been training for the marathon,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Me too.” She replied.

“Maybe we could run together sometime…er..of course, after I’m walking again,” he said chuckling.

Is he flirting with me?” Her thoughts raced. “I could run back and get my car and come back for you.” She offered.

“I appreciate that. I called my brother just before you found me and left him a message.” Lifting his cellular phone.

“Oh, well you’re all set then,” she replied, getting up. His hand touched the top of her knee, gently pushing her back down; she felt the cold cement seeping through her pants and shivered. “He is flirting.” She thought.

“Ken.” He said introducing himself. His thoughts raced: “I’m recently divorced; feeling lonely and really horny. God…you’ve got a great ass.”

“Amanda.” She responded shaking his hand, thinking: “I’m recovering from a break-up; feeling lonely. You’re hot.”

With sudden boldness he kissed her. Their cold lips touched; pulled back and touched again; grazing and seeking the warmth from the other. Amanda could feel the iciness in her body dissipate. A fiery, hot ember ignited inside her; lighting her body’s pilot light.

Ken pulled the zipper to her jacket down and reached his hands inside. His hands were cold under her jog bra; clasping her breasts; skimming her erect nipples. She moaned; felt her crotch become juicy. Ambitiously, she moved her hands under his clothes and pushed past the elastic band of his jogging pants.

She looked down at his groin; his cock bulged against the confines of his pants. He moved his fingers into the front of her jogging pants; under her panties, caressing the softness of her hair and the cleft leading to her clit; sliding his fingers up and down. “That feels good.” She sighed. Her hand pushed deeper inside his pants; fingers stroked the mushroom-head and shaft. He bucked his hips.

His fingers inched toward the opening of her pussy; dipped them inside, removed them and then sucked her nectar from his finger-tips. “Hmmm…sweet, just how I thought you’d taste.”

She wriggled his pants down until the elastic waist-top was around his sinewy, muscular thighs. His exposed hard cock curved, like a banana; bending toward him. Amanda ran her tongue down every inch of his banana-cock shaft; moving her lips upward, circling the head. Ken thrusted his hips toward the warm, wet friction of her mouth. She pulled her pants down and struggled to get them over her running shoes.

She straddled him; her back pressing into his chest. She was slathering wet; he was slab-hard and she hissed as the first few inches of his swollen cock speared inside her warm pussy; he fit snugly, like a missing piece to a puzzle. He grabbed her hips and guided her. Up. Down. Up. Down. Pussy muscles clenched his cock; contracting and releasing; fucking him hard.

“Oh God, I’m cumming,” he yelled and his hands gripped her hips; pulling her down onto him.

“Ooooooooooh,” she moaned and their bodies exploded and quivered; furiously pulsating.

She heard his cellular phone ringing. “Bet the brother’s on his way,” She thought, lifting herself off of his cock; reaching for her pants. In the distance, headlights flickered against the wetly paved road just ahead.

“Can we give you a ride?” Ken asked.

“I think I just got off one,” she said grinning.

“How about your number then?” He pleaded.

She pulled the hood from her coat over her head as Ken punched her digits into his phone and she stepped back into the rain, moving a little slower than before; reflecting on what just happened; smiling and making her way back to her car.

Bad Karma Car

I’m giving up. I call Uncle. I’m begging forgiveness to the Bad Karma Car Gods. Whatever I did to any car in the past, regardless of how awful it was, I’m sorry. After this week, I feel I’ve more than paid my penance with this car; making up for any Bad Karma Car in the past.

I have clunker. I don’t care too much about cars, because, well, I just don’t care that much about cars. I will admit I love a great looking Porsche though; especially when it’s hugging the corners; doing 150 MPH. When do I ever see that? Not so much in Ohio, I’m afraid. It’s a bit on the conservative side here for that. Most Ohioans would find that type of behavior nonsensical; illogical. It snows here for God’s sakes, Porsche’s are only allowed to come out and play during prime time seasons of the year (maybe two weeks’ max). It’s simply just too cold and too dangerous for a Porsche to live here in Ohio.

Boy, did I digress, or what? Let me see, where was I? Clunker. Karma Car. Bad. Begging forgiveness. Oh yeah. My bought and paid for car has a lot of miles on it. My theory is to run it straight into the ground before I have to go out and purchase another one. I try and take good care of it; oil changes, tune-up’s; no speeding; practical grandma-driving porn writer that I am.

So, I mentioned that it was bought and paid for, right? Yeah. Well, if you can believe this, it was; at least I thought it was until it was repossessed this past week. I’m. Not. Kidding. Someone came in the middle of the night and repo’d my car. My very non-Porsche-looking mobile with well over 100K miles on it; the same car I’ve been making car payments for hmmm…four fucking years. The car the thieves in my neighborhood pass over; yeah, that car.

It’s a very long and not too interesting of a story, but it appears that I still owe a bit of money on the car, even though I’d paid all the payments in the payment book. It was really a rather nominal amount of money that I owed and nope, no one from the bank informed me of this deficit. It appears that I was just supposed to know about this minor detail. I can sometimes read minds, like I know what a man’s thoughts are as he eagerly attempts to get me into bed, but I’m a little rusty on loan balance telepathy; and I apologized profusely to the bank for this mishap.

All kidding aside, I’m working this out though. It has taken gallons of tequila and some nasty conversations with bank employees, but I should have the dog with fleas…I mean…dog with parvo. Oops! Silly me, I mean dogma car back in no time.

I’ve had other issues with this car too. This is just the latest and the greatest Bad Karma Car experience. I know what you’re thinking, why not just let the fuckers keep the car and go out and buy something new; something with a clearer karma history, eh? Well, I thought about it, but as Karma goes, if I don’t work it out with this car, any residual bad Karma will transfer over to the new one, and I’ll be right back in a Bad Karma Car debacle.

So, with all that said, is anyone looking to buy a car? Just kidding.

Come on. Tell me your best Bad Karma Car story.

p.s. The Jack Kerouac button above can be purchased here.

Memorial Day

Today is Memorial Day. Most people have the day off, unless of course you’re in some line of work that you can’t “call off” from work. Writers fall into that group. Writer’s across the nation are pulling off the warm covers; leaving behind snuggle-land ready to face the day with thoughts like, “must blog; can’t wait.” “Must finish deadline, must finish…” I think they must be close to finding a cure for those of us that write. Thank fuck sakes.

For a lot of people, Memorial Day means backyard BBQ’s and partying like rock stars for three straight days, because for many of us (including myself) Memorial Day is the celebration of the beginning of summer; the nod from Jackie O that says, it’s acceptable to wear white shoes.

I’m going to get a little sappy here, because I want to say thank you to all the men and women that lost their lives fighting for their countries. I’m not a supporter of any war, but I’m taking a moment today; thinking about all the people that went to work, instead of having the opportunity to grill outside; spending time with family and friends. They fought for me; giving their life so I can have mine. Thank you.

"Should I Stay, or Should I Go?"

I was doing a bit of grocery shopping in the burbs this weekend. I don’t live in the burbs, but occasionally I find myself outside the confines of the safe, urban jungle; knee deep in the pretty, pink and prostituted world of the…suburbs (heavy organ music inserted here)…. I’m usually in need of one item or another from the grocery store and before I know it, I find myself pulling into a strip mall; lured and romanced by some large and bright neon sign; promising me fresh meat, dairy and produce.

You know the place, right? Rows and rows of parking spaces are filled with mini-vans and large SUV’s. I can usually find a parking spot for my practical and paid for car though, because I don’t really mind walking the short distance to and from the parking lot. Exercise is good and there’s no need to be that close to the front door.

As I was pushing my shopping cart through the natural food section when…suddenly… I heard a long forgotten tune…. Could it be? No, it’s not possible, Neve. You’re in the burbs. I am not at my quaint and funky grocery store close to my home, where its customary to stand in line with people paying for their food with food stamps, but…but…I’m hearing the Clash’s, Should I Stay or Should I Go.


I pinched myself; making sure this wasn’t a dream state. I did consume a lot of wine the night before. I heard the familiar lyrics, “darling, you gotta let me know, should I stay or should I go?” Fuck yeah! It was raining punk rock right down on all the busy, moms and dads as they reached for frozen foods, or read peanut butter jar labels. Filling, selecting, grabbing and squeezing as they shopped for their groceries, “It’s always tease, tease, tease, you’re happy when I’m on my knees.” I was stunned. I looked up; waiting for the lighting bolt to strike, or pigs to fly; I’m not really sure, but something was amiss. “I AM IN THE SUBURBS AND I’M LISTENING TO THE CLASH”, my mind was consumed with this novelty.

I know, I’m weird. What can I say? But, come on, you have to admit, when grocery shopping in the burbs, the music is usually elevator-like, at best. Maybe you can hope for a real swinging, step-up, like smooooooth jazz (barf!). Calming and soft; there’s no need to upset any heavily medicated shoppers. How else could you live in the burbs without some type of prescription? I was listening to Mick Jones sing his heart out over his declining relationship with Meatloaf’s backup singer, Ellen Foley and I was in the Burbs.

Holy Crap.

If I hadn’t of been there, I would have never believed it. Well, here ya go. You have my permission to sing your heart out this weekend while your shopping for groceries. It appears that it’s okay to sing punk rock on a Saturday in Ohio (This is the Midwest, not California) at a suburban grocery store.

I’ll be damned and dippy-dooed!

“darling, you gotta let me know
should I stay or should I go?
If you say that you are mine
I’ll be there till the end of time
So you gotta let me know
Should I stay or should I go?
I’ll always tease,tease,tease
you’re happy when I’m on my knees
one day is fine and the next is black
so if you want me off your back
well, come on and let me know
should I stay or should I go?
chorus:Should I stay or should i go now?
Should I stay or should i go now?
if I go there will be trouble
and if I stay it will be double
so come on and let me know

The indecisions bugging me
(esta un decision me molesta)
if you don’t want me ste me free
(Si no quieres librame)
Exactly who I’m supposed to be
(Diga me que tengo ser)
Don’t you know which clothes even fits me?
(saves que robas me querida)
Come on and let me know
(Me tienes que decir)
Should I cool it or should I blow?
(Me debo ir o quedarme)”

p.s. The image above was too cool to pass up. It’s from the 7″ single, and yep, that’s a picture of Ronny Reagan. The album; Combat Rock.

A Double Order of…Chocolate

“…chocolate cake. My wife wants chocolate cake with chocolate icing.” Tom interjected his thoughts as Jenna and I were talking about yummy and delicious birthday cake. The kind of cake you can’t stop eating because it’s just that good.

Jenna had just celebrated her birthday and she mentioned that her favorite cake was a rich, dark chocolate cake with white, butter cream frosting.
“God that’s orgasmic; where’s my piece?” I said laughing with her.
“Wait a minute. Did you say your wife asked for chocolate cake with chocolate icing? Are you sure?” Jenna questioned Tom, her hands on her hips; brow was furrowed with worry.
“Oh yeah. There’s no mistaking her request. Chocolate with chocolate icing.” Tom said proudly knowing exactly what his wife’s cake needs are.
Jenna pressed on, “What is she missing that she needs a double order of chocolate?”
Tom only shrugged. Obvioulsy, he didn’t know what we knew about women and their double order of chocolate desire.

I stood back; listening and taking copious notes in my head. There was no need for me to say anything. This conversation was headed in a new direction; laden with sexual reference. Somewhere far beyond the ingredients of rich and delicious cake batter; something much more intriguing was cooking, or I guess baking.

Jenna and I both looked at each other and then we looked at him; innocently standing there grinning. We looked at each other again, both our heads nooded in unison. We knew.
You’re probably asking, “what the hell are you talking about, Neve?”

Okay here’s the deal. When a woman is craving chocolate; especially a double dose like Tom’s wife is, that usually means she not getting enough sex. Let me be more specific, she’s not getting off enough, so she diverts that sexual energy (sublimate) into something else that she finds equally satisfying.
The fact that Tom’s wife wants double, chocolate, well, both Jenna and I knew that one of us would have to pull him aside and explain of few things. For the love of God, a woman’s sexual needs were at stake here.
It’s important that you understand that having this conversation with someone can be well, like swimming in a vat of thick, chocolate. First of all, you don’t want to make someone feel like they’re not doing their job in the boudoir’; breaking the news that their partners needs aren’t being met (bitter chocolate). Secondly, the conversation usually turns into a tutorial session; explaning a woman’s nether region. A quick overview; a refresher course of her vaginal lips; outer and inner, her vulva and of course, her power house of sensory chocolate morsel; her clitoris. Often times this can also be troubling for someone to hear, because they may have thought everything was fine. Fine up until yep, a request for double chocolate is ordered.
In the situation with Tom, I let Jenna do the explaning on this one; she knows him better than I do. Tom seemed to take the news well. I’m really anxious to learn whether his wife’s cake request is going to change once he goes home and fucks her; fucks her the way she wants it. I bet it does. After Tom is done with her, she’ll surely change her cake order to something light and airy, like angel food with strawberries, or perhaps lemon chiffon; easy and simple, because she’ll no longer need the double, chocolate.
What’s your favorite kind of cake?

The chocolate sucker can be ordered via Etsy here.

Pussy Panties

My big news is the image above. It was displayed onto my writing hero’s blog this week; Ms. Alison Tyler. If you get a chance, check out her panty parade. It’s been really fun and of course, highly erotic (dirty smile).

I feel so special; proud actually having my panties exposed along side with some of the best erotica writers I know.

Heavy sigh.

I’d bloged about panties a couple of weeks ago. Wanted to hear all about your favorite, sexy pair. I guess I must be somewhat submissive, because when Alison asked for my panties… I delivered; post-haste….

Have a great holiday weekend!