Sex & Sox

My passions: Sex and the Boston Red Sox!


Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Open Letter to Monsieur Douglas Mientkiewicz


Dear Doug,

I want to start this letter off by letting you know that I would like to get to know you intimately. I am a very open-minded young woman who loves the Red Sox and admires your defensive capabilities. I can even spell your last name without looking at something else.

Now that we've got the bullshit out of the way (I'm really a straightforward person), can we please fuck? I've got my boyfriend's permission. He doesn't even have to join in, though I think with you two both on me I would probably be in heaven. I promise you that I am a delightful piece of ass and would be absolutely thrilled to prove it to you. It would be wonderful if, to preserve the moments for posterity (well really, to rub them in the face of Red Sox Nation's lustful womenfolk and certain menfolk), we could pull out a camera and get it on Paris Hilton-style.

I think we could be excellent lovers. What's best is that I won't even be clingy -- just call me up whenever you're in Toronto and need some stress relief, and I'll call you when I'm down in New England and need the same.

Please leave a comment.

All my lust,
T.

(Post inspired by discovering that picture and finding it ridiculously sexy, and consequently becoming wonderfully horny.)
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Monday, November 29, 2004

Of Seeds and Skydomes

So, back during the third game of the ALCS, since I was completely trashed and didn't want to concentrate on what was actually happening (who the hell did?), I concentrated on all the little things. I admired the stark white of the foul lines and fretted when dirt was smeared across them. I tried to imagine being in the umpire's place, and the view of lovely Red Sox bum (and Skanky Yankee bum too), and how those white lines can become so important. I found myself comparing the Fenway grass to all that I'd ever known and found it far superior; it may be just grass, but I would smoke it simply for the thrill of it.

And then I noticed them. For the first time, I really, really noticed them: the sunflower seed shells. Like ants colonizing the base coaches' nests, they were astonishing in number, and they just kept coming. I watched Sveum spew a froth of spittle and husk from betwixt his lips; I was inspired.

I, it was decided, would learn to eat sunflower seeds like a pro. Like a baseball player or staff member, I would toss a handful into my mouth and gnaw on them, deftly removing the nutty little seeds while expelling the jagged shells to the ground.

Pursuant to this, I discovered the joy of the bulk bins at the grocery store; namely, bin #10160, which bears sunflower seeds in the shell for 44 cents a kilogram. Barring the fact that I have no fucking clue how much a kilogram is, I have learned that I can take three scoops out and it will cost me between 75 cents and a dollar. This is awesome for when I need to snack: it's cheap as hell, it's healthy, and I'm satisfying my superstitions.

However, it is excessively unlady-like, and while I generally don't give a damn about that, I do when my boyfriend is home. Therefore, I only eat sunflower seeds when he's not home (like right now) and I'm getting pretty good at husking two seeds at a time.

However, this makes me curious... are any of you good at tying cherry stems with your tongue, or unwrapping a Starburst with your tongue, or anything of that sort?

Oh, and, in other news, Rogers (our cable/internet/phone company) bought the Toronto Skydome for $25 million. Twenty-fuckin-five million... that's all. Insane.
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Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Bodypaint

When I have a body like this, I will do stuff like this.



Til then (20 lbs and a couple of bra sizes), I will just ogle pictures of stuff like that.
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Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Farewell, Buff Puff

I had very un-kosher thoughts about you.



Too bad you never got to spank me for them.

Love,
Tatiana.
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Monday, November 22, 2004

Mmmm....

As is noted on this page (down at the bottom right), I'm a total geek when it comes to RPGs. Especially text based. So when I saw this picture... well... I was drooling.

Come on... boobies AND a sword? Gahhhh... it makes me melt.

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Sunday, November 21, 2004

Pierce My Body The Way You Did My Heart Years Past

My weekend? It's been alright. No sex, though we had every intention of fucking like animals last night until I got cranky (goddammit) and went to bed early (though I told him if he wanted to wake me up he was more than welcome to). Today's been one of those days where you wish you'd never gotten out of bed, even though it's had sterling moments -- like waking up at 11:25 and rushing to get ready and out of the door to meet family for lunch at 12:00.

Also, no baseball. Though I am wearing a Red Sox t-shirt I stole from my little brother like five years ago. I love the way it fits, it's cute as hell... because it's not totally fitted the way babydoll t-shirts are, but rather it's fitted at the sleeves and around the bust, then loose and natural around the stomach.

Oh, here's something I just thought of, speaking of baseball and stomachs. I have a belly ring that I absolutely loathe -- it's just blah and simple, silver with a little black stone clasping it. It's the one it got pierced with, years ago. I want a 14k gold one (I have sensitive skin and this one gets irritated rather more often than is comfortable... with, of course, the note that "never" is the only time comfortable) with interchangeable Red Sox player #s, including the retired ones, that dangles from the TOP... maybe with a pretty little red sock charm attached to the top that the number would hang off.

Red Sox body piercings :) Niche market, but I bet you they'd do awesome!!
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Friday, November 19, 2004

They Call Me Sparky 'Cause I Brighten Up When They Say 'Sex'

First off... a huge thank you to everyone that's stopped by and commented in the last few days. A lot of us run blogs and it's always nice to know that someone's taken the time to read and provide feedback on yours. I've visited every link provided (and ones that I didn't already have are bookmarked in my "Sex & Sox Visitors" folder) and very much appreciate it.

Now, on to a few confessions and a rant.

Confession #1: I'm not a big follower of off-season news. That is, I'll check
BDD when I wake up and before I go to bed, and I'll read other people's blogs, but that's it. I don't go swinging around the sports news sites or turning on ESPN or any of that other stuff; I'm perfectly content to hear it second-hand.

Confession #2: I'm not really interested in trade rumours. What happens, happens, and while it might absolutely blow at the moment (I was depressed over Nomar for awhile), next game we'll all be back, and we'll be in love all over again.

Confession #3: I sleep naked. So does my boyfriend.
Our dog shares the bed with us. He sleeps under the covers, usually towards the foot of the bed. The other night, however, he decided to curl up right between my legs, with his head resting atop my left thigh. He was so warm that I didn't tell him to move.

Confession #4: I don't mind being objectified. Seriously. I know it's some big feminist deal, that to be liberated and considered equal in this world woman must not consent to
being viewed as a sexual object, nor as a maternal one. It drives me nuts that women are encouraged to look at the world this way if they want to 'get ahead'.

If I wear a corset, if I watch and enjoy porn, if I fantasize about being a mother, a lover, and a successful worker all at once, I'm degrading women? If I'm not hard-edged, I'm less of a woman? If I uphold my male companion as the center of my universe and try my best to keep him happy, while we both look out for each other, which results in more respect for one another, I'm not today's ideal of feminism?

Fuck that. I'd rather be happy than try to uphold some feminist ideal.

My best friend in high school had a huge... "revelation" after she graduated. She shaved her head, stopped shaving everywhere else, became a total vegan, and basically took all your concepts of what makes a woman and turned them on their head. Her 'boyfriend' (though she never used that term, of course) stopped SHOWERING. Why? Well, because not only was she not going to be your 'typical' woman, neither of them were going to be your 'typical' person. They weren't going to be just another one of the crowd, conforming to societal norms.

While this altogether upset me (I wear makeup most of the time when I go out, I shave my legs, my armpits and elsewhere, I take excellent care of my hair, I dress in whatever way makes me feel nicest and if that happens to be found 'sexy' by other people, so be it), I still wanted to be her friend. I wanted to hear that other perspective, and find what I could learn from it.

The first time she and I saw each other after I met my current beau, she was disgusted by the fact that I enjoyed sex so much. "What's so... great about it?" she asked. "I mean, it's kind of a waste of time, you're not trying to have kids or anything." Hearing such a traditional view out of someone who upheld herself as unconventional made my jaw drop. She was thrilled at my bisexual tendencies (something we'd explored together in high school, once or twice) but not, apparently, at my other tastes. When I told her (admittedly, I was trying to get a rise out of her) that I enjoy being bent over, smacked on the ass, talked dirty to, that I had dildos and restraints and feathers, she just shook her head and said, "I can't believe you let someone have that much control over you."

Control? While sex is completely separate from love, I don't see it as being a loss of control. She's telling me that because my hands and arms are bound, because my lover's teasing me with lips and tongue and ice, because I'm blindfolded, I have no control? I don't even see sex as a control game, but... who is pleasing whom in that scenario? If I say 'stop' (or a control word: you should always have a control word when experimenting with BDSM), he'll stop... but I have no control?

Sex is, ideally, consensual. It is, ideally, something for all people involved to derive pleasure from. It is an exercise in self-confidence and self-expression; at least, that is how I view it. It's spiritual and physical fulfillment all at once, whether it's slow and languorous, quick and ferocious, whether it's oral, anal, vaginal, whether it's with yourself, a toy, same sex, opposite sex, single partner, multiple partners, someone you're committed to or someone you'll never see again... and while control may play a part in your sex life, it's not the object of it.


"Man, yesterday I peed on this chick's ass. She was so my bitch."

What's more important about that? The momentary 'control'? Or the experimentation? The experience? (Just for the record, I've not had any sort of excretement or urine involved in my sex life, nor do I intend to... but, if my man wanted to try it [he's told me he doesn't], I would be open to it.) To me, it's the two latter ideas: you're getting to know yourself, your partner, what you take pleasure in, and how to better shape that pleasure.

Maybe I'm just a hedonist. Who knows.
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Wednesday, November 17, 2004

My RPG idea

Me on AIM (10:44:56 PM): they should make a red sox RPG

Me on AIM (10:45:02 PM): where you can sleep with all the players you want

Me on AIM (10:45:08 PM): it'd be like the sims but better

Not-Gay Friend (10:45:26 PM): I hope they allow gay sex. I'd so be in

Me on AIM (10:45:32 PM): and you can reenact throwing zimmer around

Me on AIM (10:45:36 PM): and beat up on steinbrenner

Not-Gay Friend (10:45:51 PM): Did you hear Pedro might be a Yankee next season?

Me on AIM (10:45:54 PM): fuck that shit

Me on AIM (10:45:56 PM): growls

Not-Gay Friend (10:45:57 PM): lol

Me on AIM (10:46:17 PM): and in my red sox rpg you could sleep with the players wives/girlfriends/hot female acquaintances too

Me on AIM (10:46:25 PM): it would rock :-)

Not-Gay Friend (10:46:52 PM): Sounds like pay to play porn.Why dont I just go buy a dvd?

Not-Gay Friend (10:47:00 PM): Or better yet

Not-Gay Friend (10:47:05 PM): Get it for free off the net?

Not-Gay Friend (10:47:13 PM): ;p

Me on AIM (10:47:17 PM): because it'd be the red sox :-)

Not-Gay Friend (10:47:49 PM): Just cut/paste little red sox jerseys on naked people

Not-Gay Friend (10:47:51 PM): Same thing


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Bugger Steiney!

I will not be bothered by the thought of Pedro in pinstripes.

I will not be bothered by the thought of Varitek in pinstripes.

I will not be bothered by the thought of never knowing how Minty's bare butt feels in my hand.

I will, however, continue to bemoan all three things and shake my fists at the baseball gods. I understand you've given us the greatest gift ever (I mean, it only took a fuggin' lunar eclipse) but must you make it taste so sour?

I think we all just want to hold those guys tight and squeeze them, and love them. Savour them. They're Our Team, moreso than they've ever been. Jack Daniels before the game? Shit, Captain Morgan and I were playing tonsil hockey throughout several games. I can identify. Manny tripping and falling and failing to make an important catch? Dude, if that'd been me, I woulda broken my knee and knocked out a few teeth, too: I'm pretty clumsy. Mueller making three errors in one game? We all have shitty days where nothing goes our way.

The Red Sox proved to us this season that they're just a bunch of guys (I hate the term 'idiots') out playing a game they love... and it's that down-to-Earth attitude coupled with a rugged individuality that didn't sacrifice team unity that's made us all empathize with and care for them so much.

Of course, a new trophy didn't hurt.
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Monday, November 15, 2004

You Can't Have It Both Ways

I hate people that gravitate to whatever sports team is popular at the moment, or even worse, the ones who wear different team caps to MATCH THEIR OUTFIT. I could be wearing a green pullover and gray corduroys and I would still wear my pink goddamned Red Sox cap, because I love them.

Anyhow, we went grocery shopping this morning (what the fuck is it with grocery shopping inspiring me to blog?) and this teenager gets on the elevator down (when did I get so old that I started despising teenagers, as well as so cranky that people who take the elevator from the 3rd floor to the lobby piss me off so much?) wearing a puffy red Red Sox jacket. At first, I was like, "Ooh! How cool!" before I realized that the kid looked familiar to me... because he's the one I'm always glaring at for wearing goddamned Yankees gear.

Hello, asswipe. I'm a fucking twenty-one year old chick and I don't even worry about matching my goddamned outfit to my sports gear. I also have this thing called "human decency" and I don't wear Yankees gear one day and Red Sox stuff the next. Despite the fact that your jacket was celebrating the 1967 World Series (which, by the by, we lost... what is it, some sort of assinine Yankees mockery of our recent blissful trouncing of them and subsequent Series sweep?) I demand that you get it dry cleaned and delivered to my front door, since you obviously don't need it.

On a semi-related note, I'd really like some Red Sox booties for my chihuahua. He (understandably) doesn't like the snow, and everytime I took him outside in it last year people were staring at me like I was a monster for not having him in a little sweater and booties. Nevermind that he was tucked up in my sweatshirt with his head sticking out until we got outside, and wrapped up in my jacket on the way back as I rubbed his little feet and made sure there wasn't ice between his toes... I was EVIL for not having him all bundled up. Whatever.

Oh, and, everyone go check out today's Soxaholix comic. How cool is that?
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Sunday, November 14, 2004

What Sucks Is This...

... lying down on the couch to masturbate my way to my third orgasm of the hour (the first two being the culmination of a long sex session with my amazing boyfriend) and realizing my couch smells like dog piss, so moving over to the love seat and spending nearly the entire remainder of the self-pleasure activity thinking about the fact that I should write about the piss in my blog, which of course makes the sensations a bit less intense and therefore makes it take longer to climax, such that by the time I do I'm so exhausted and my little arm so warn out and my nipples so sore that I barely manage to make my way over to my computer to type this out.

Yeah. That totally sucks.
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Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Sure, I'll be a part of RSN....

So, by now, we've all heard about these "ID cards" that the Red Sox front office is putting out. We've all had time to hem and haw and debate their merits amongst ourselves, and there have been some good questions (where is the money going?), but I ask you this: What else could the Red Sox have offered as an 'official inauguration' to the Nation (however offensive that concept may be to some people).

My ideas:
1) Red Sox boxers (for men) and boy-cut shorts (for women). The front panel, near the cute little penis flap, would read: "C'mere, Buelly!" (or whatever player you like) and the back, "Lovingly, Fan #12345" (or whatever your number is).
2) A promise that, at four PM on the third Monday of the sixth month after the five-year anniversary of Game 4 of this season's World Series, barring precipitation and eagles in the vicinity, all members of the roster who were active at that time will re-enact the Battle of Ilipa, and that all female card-carrying members of the Nation would get to oil them up before and after the event, with a raffle for the chance to act as a masseuse. Mmm-hmmm.
3) Very likely to be very pricey, a private visit from a Red Sox player / wife-fiancee-girlfriend to provide oral confirmation of your membership.

.... Excuse me while I go find my big red and little blue friends.
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Sunday, November 07, 2004

Corselet

Something about this picture is really, really sexy to me.


I just think it's lovely... the curvaceousness of a woman, how dark the corselet is against her white skin, the grabbable ass, the soft shoulderblades and the little handles of flesh under the belt binding her chest.

Am I alone?
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Friday, November 05, 2004

Sharing Sox

Now, I live outside of Toronto -- yeah, that's Canada, where Hockey reigns supreme. There was one night we were at a Red Sox game at the Skydome and my man gets this distant look on his face, staring off into the distance.

"What are you looking at?!" I asked, exasperated.

"The Air Canada center. The Leafs are playing."

This boggled my mind. There is fine Billy Mueller ass flexing back and forth not thirty feet away and someone can manage to think about hockey?! Unreal!

Anyhow, I had a Red Sox Nation moment on Wednesday. We were grocery shopping and as we're standing at the check-out, I'm looking over our stuff. "Hmm," he says, "Do you want to go grab a bag of pretzels?"

It should be mentioned that I love pretzels -- a nutritious, cheap snack. So of course I'm like, "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" (imagine Scooby Doo begging for a Scooby snack, even though I hate that fucking cartoon) and go trotting off.

Walking past the soup aisle, I look up.

Up, into the eyes of this gorgeous red-haired, blue-eyed Irish god.

Wearing, I shit you not, a Red Sox cap.

I'm wearing my pink Red Sox cap (I rarely leave the house without it) and we both just stop, and smile at each other, one of those huge, goofy smiles that show your teeth and make you look grotesque to anyone that isn't part of It. I tip my cap to him and he tips his to me and we continue on our way -- me wiggling my hips more than I usually do, in case he looks back. I'm always up for a threesome, especially with a Boston fan!

It was just such an awesome feeling -- to share that bond with a complete stranger, one borne of the joy of winning. It wasn't an "I feel your pain" stare, but rather a delirious and giddy exchange of goodwill.

I love baseball.

I used to work on commission in the Electronic department at Sears in Flint, Michigan. No matter what profits were lost to me, I would NOT help someone wearing Yankees paraphenilia. I would find one of my co-workers and tell them that someone needed help. If you're goddamned stupid enough to be a Yankees fan, I don't want to try and explain to you what the difference between a flat screen and an LCD television is. ("Flat screen? Doesn't that mean it's like.... thin?" "No, it means the screen doesn't have a curve to it. The screen is flat." "Right, like a book, you can hang it on your wall." "You hang books on your wall? ... Wait, nevermind. I can see that. But no, flat screen means... oh hell, just TOUCH it.")

I promise you I'm not even joking!

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Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Wearing: Pale Yellow jammie pants...

... that have a little martini glass on the left hip with an olive over it. I'm totally slumming today, as usual.

(That's for Ken, my one commenter *swoons!*)

For the last two nights, I've had dreams relating to the Red Sox. Sunday night, I dreamt that I had a son who looked like Theo Epstein... sure, I'd like to let him fuck my brains out (there isn't a woman in Red Sox Nation who would say no to him, and there's probably quite a few men as well), but I don't want a love-child. That was the best part of the dream, since the rest of it involved watching a building burning and people jumping out of the windows and lots of death and mayhem (joy). Monday night, I dreamt that I was at "Fenway", only it wasn't. While it was all green and beautiful, it was the size of a minor league ballpark, without the Green Monster. I was right behind home plate, but disturbingly close -- not even three feet behind the umpire. Manny was up to bat, but there wasn't a pitcher, nor was there anyone on the field; it was just Manny and the umpire.

The umpire took a step to Manny's side and tossed a ball up into the air -- you know, the way you do when you're practicing, tossing a ball up and quickly clenching the bat with both hands for a swing. Only, this ball moved like the ones in cartoons, where they're heart-achingly slow but twisting all over the place, and Manny didn't HIT it. He took a massive swing, knocking the umpire aside with his elbow, and missed the ball. "Fenway" groaned, and Manny started bashing his bat against home plate, screaming obscenities while the baseball continued its slow, twisting descent to the ground.

I stood up and started cheering for him: "Don't worry about it, Manny! Next pitch! You'll get it!" and then chanted, "Mannnnn-nyyyyyy!", getting the entire park to cheer him on with me.

As anticlimatic as it is, nothing happened then besides me waking up.

Waking up, however, reminded me of our exchange when we got into bed...

Last night, we were falling asleep and I snuggled up against my man, then whispered, "Sex." His fingers twitched against my skin and I continued, softly, "Tomorrow. I want to feel your mouth on me, love, I miss it." He pressed a kiss to the back of my head and murmured his agreement.

So today, before he went to work, I reminded him of it. He was standing at the door putting his jacket on, and I walked over, hugging him and brushing my lips over his. "You know, if you come home early tonight, I'll be waiting. I'll be waiting either way, but that'd give us more time..."

"Hun," he said, that big, goofy grin on his face that I love to see, but looking abashed at the same time, "I want to watch that Daily Show special, the one for the election results."

"Oh, me too," I laughed, and he grabbed my ass and pulled me up for another kiss, "But after! You're mine."

I haven't stopped thinking about it since he left. It's going to be a rough (in a delightful, slippery, aching kind of way) day, waiting for tonight.

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