Sex & Sox

My passions: Sex and the Boston Red Sox!

Friday, December 24, 2004

It IS...

... a Merry Frickin' Christmas this year for us and our World Champion Boston Red Sox!

(Bow to me and my Photoshop prowess!)

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

"And F**K you Schott, you cheap s** of a b***."

So I was fairly shocked to realize that the Oakland A's have traded two of their three big name pitchers -- that is, Mulder and Hudson, leaving Zito, along with four "untested" pitchers, as their starting rotation. It kinda makes me feel better about ours... and wonder what their fans are thinking.

Which led me to this (horribly set-up)
A's forum, where, just like we're all familiar with, you've got the gut-reaction howlers and the supportive Pollyannas. At least, that was how simply I'd classified them (I'd be one pissed off fan if something like that were to happen to us; heck, I'm pissed enough about how many players we've lost off our WORLD CHAMPION team) -- until I read this article.

And I thought, "You know... what Beane's saying is precisely what I can hear Theo saying," then, "We're lucky to have such a huge damned payroll," followed by, "God, Theo's really hawt."

I always liked that picture of him playing guitar.

Monday, December 20, 2004

It Wasn't Me!

We woke up this morning and took a shower together. The boyfriend got out a little bit before I did, and went into the bedroom.

He yells, sounding slightly confused, "I love spanking?"


He asks, "Did you write this on our window?" Umm.... no.

So I get out of the shower and walk into the bedroom -- sure enough, over the top of our bed, the windows have steamed up and the words "I LOVE SPANKING!" (love being a heart) are revealed, written in an enthusiastic, womanly hand.

It must've come from the people who lived here before us, a year ago. "Wow, honey," I said, "Too bad we can't get ahold of them!"


Friday, December 17, 2004

Is this the same Burger Barn as LAST week?

(Title referencing a radio commercial for condoms)

Lester B. Pearson International Airport, Toronto. On August 9th, 2003, at approximately 11 am, I arrived here on a small inbound flight direct from Bradley International Airport in Hartford. My mother had dropped me off at Bradley, carry-on bag over my shoulder and good-luck danish in hand, wearing a long, demure jean skirt and a fitted red sweater, my hair pulled back into a carelessly wispy chignon. "Be aware of your personal space, sweetie," she'd told me, tears standing in her eyes as though she didn't know she was going to pick me up at the same place in nine days, "Remember, eighteen inches all around!"

This was one of those things that endeared her to me so: her paranoia, something I've come to recognize as a distinctly American trait (my boyfriend still rolls his eyes at me when I get up out of bed to go make sure the front door is locked: "This is Canada, people don't do that here," he says, and I now believe willful naivety to be a Canadian trait). I was surprised she didn't pull a plastic whistle out of her pocket and make sure I wore it around my neck in case someone attacked me; she was already fretting over the fact that I had to leave my pepper spray in the car.

"I'll be fine, Mommy," I told her, as she squished me tight against her, "Plus, he'll take care of me. He knows karate."

She let me go, appraising me closely, and said, "True... just... be careful." I knew she was looking at me with the eyes of a mother who knows her daughter is a woman, acknowledging that her little girl is going to be getting thoroughly fucked before they see each other again, and her 'careful' didn't include just physical harm, but emotional as well.

An hour later, I was on the tiny fifteen-seater airplane, sitting beside a college psychology professor whose company I enjoyed immensely. When I told him I wanted to study anthropology, he laughed, showing his straight, clean white teeth, making the laugh lines of fifty years crease around his eyes, and replied, "What a ... floofy subject!"

Floofy? Anthropology was floofy and... Psychology was concrete?

I laughed along with him, smiling, and finished off my dixie cup of black coffee. "Excuse me," I purred, and he let me brush past him. I made my way to the lavatory -- the 'washroom', if we're being Canadian -- and, once there, the transformation began. The sweater came off, revealing a skin-tight white t-shirt with a scoop neck and drawstring sides tightened to reveal a few inches of pale flesh, the word "SINNER" scrawled in glittering gold letters across my meagre bosom. I unclipped my hair, letting it fall in elaborately curled disarray around my shoulders, sweeping my bangs to one side as I leaned towards the mirror and fastened my favourite hoop earrings. Then, clumsily manuevering around and banging against the door, I removed my jean skirt, pulling it down over my knee-high boots and straightening out my black latex skirt.

When I came out of the lav and made my way back to my seat, women glanced over at me with slight frowns. My professor grinned up at me appreciatively and, making room for me to pass, said, "Well, I'd bet your mother didn't know you were wearing THAT."

I still wonder what his psychology training told about me then. I still wonder if he knew I'd taken off my panties.

When I got off the plane, I rushed through the terminal, trying to walk as quickly as possible to get to him... my boyfriend. My blood was rushing, and I'm sure I was a sight, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, disregarding everything around me because I was set on my destination. It had been a month since we'd seen each other, a month of whispered late-night phone calls and promises gasped between moans as we spoke to each other in that strange dialect of separated lovers that is both overly poetic and sharply precise. ("Oh, love, I would slide my palms down your chest, feeling your muscles under them -- I love how you're built -- as my lips caressed and my tongue flicked your neck, pressing my pussy against your leg... god... you make me crazy... I don't know if I can keep teasing... I just want you to grab my ass, turn me over, and fuck me hard.")

When we got out into the parking garage, I noticed he had backed his truck into the spot. He threw my suitcase in the back, opened my door, and pushed me back against the side of the truck. His eyes were glazed and his smile matched mine; I arched my hips and he slid one hand up under my skirt before crouching and moving his mouth where his fingers explored.

This was the first time I had sex in Canada, my man's truck in a parking garage, his arms holding me up so he could slide into me, or stretched out in the front seat as he bent over me, the two of us laughing at it, the illicit and half-public display of 'affection'. When we decided that we really wanted to get back to his place, and he started driving, I teased him with mouth and hands on the highway.

Sometime during that stay (I'm almost positive it was the same day, but who knows), we turned on the television and watched the Red Sox on Fox. And we started talking about sex in baseball parks. "We'll be groupies... kinda," he said, fingers rested possessively against my ass, "We'll follow the Red Sox from park to park, eventually hitting all of the AL ones, and have sex in each one."

"What about when they play NL teams?"

"We'll do that, too. We should be able to get all of the parks after awhile."

So, this begs the question of whether or not we've had sex in the Skydome. We haven't, but we've scouted it out -- the place is just about empty, and it's really clean. It's a stadium we're likely to go to at least twice a year, so we've got plenty of time to figure out where our needs are best suited; I'd rather not be in a bathroom, and instead be somewhere that I can see the field, but the ushers were strangely reluctant to let people into the higher levels of the stadium (or at least, to let a hand-holding couple up there).

Insofar as sex in other public places... no, we haven't really. There's been plenty of illicit touching, in a park, but that was fairly late at night and no one was around. We've fucked in the forest before, getting bug bitten and scratched by fallen twigs, which was likely the most spiritual sex I've ever had but not the most erotic. My big goal is a church, behind the altar. I get the feeling that one will require quite a bit of maneuvering.

Any stories?


Tuesday, December 14, 2004


10 points (even though points mean nothing) to whoever guesses which commenter this first picture reminds me of.

And a lil somethin for the ladies (yeah, I stole it from the SG forums!)


Monday, December 13, 2004

Pedro... Is... Gone?

He might be gone.

I am shocked.

He might be a Met.

What the hell?

I mean, yes, "prima donna", etc etc, but...

This isn't like Nomah. We chose to let him go.

Pedro could choose to leave.

Why? There aren't any fucking mango trees in New York.

Albeit, there aren't any in Boston, either.

Dude. Let's just see us take the field next year without Tek, too, and complete my shock.

I'll love you guys no matter what you do, but this would be cutting deep into the World Series afterglow.


Sunday, December 12, 2004

My Thoughts:




I have the munchies.

Friday, December 10, 2004

Even I Don't Want To Be Hit On Sometimes.

Once upon a time, I was in college, in the Canadian city I inhabit. There's a difference between 'college' and 'university' up here, much moreso than in the States: If I were to say, in Connecticut, "Yeah, she's in college." "Oh, where?" "UConn," then there wouldn't be an issue. But up here, if someone were going to York University and I said they were in college, the person would act like I'd just eaten my boogers in front of them. "I'm in university," they would say.

Anyhow. I was in college.

College is more like a technical/trade school. I was taking the woefully underfunded (isn't that always the case?) Arts & Sciences two-year program that basically was taken so I could transfer over to York.

There was this guy in my classes -- he was in his mid to late 30s -- that decided I was just the best thing since sliced bread. For some reason, guys that age that I spend any amount of time around determine the same, and I've become a sexual goal for several of them. This one was no different. One day I was handing out some stuff for a Student Union project I was working on, and it had my school email address on it. Next class, I get this note from him (I blurred out his phone number and the city he's in):

Um. Hello. Creepy as fuck. Note the little devil tail at the end of "play".

Less than a week later -- I kid you not -- he has this breakdown in the middle of a test and starts grunting and rocking his chair back and forth against the wall, banging it. The professor asks to talk with him in the hallway -- which, lucky for us voyeuristic and curious students, is separated from us only by glass-paned walls. The old dude proceeds to start screaming and cringing and flailing his arms around, explaining something to the professor. The girls in class (who had all seen the note) started asking me if I'd e-mailed or called him or had any idea what was going on, which I hadn't and didn't.

The dude disappeared the next day, and I've not seen him since.

Fuckin' psycho.


As I was just cleaning (grrr...), I got to thinking about how delightful it would be to go see the Yankees play in Skydome, and how I'd sit there chanting, "Yank-ees CHOKE! Yank-ees CHOKE!" while everyone around me stared out at the field as though I weren't speaking and my beloved boyfriend buried his face in his hands. How the pure joy of taunting them would fill me, how I'd probably have a huge smile on my face, how I'd stand up and scan the crowd for the Red Sox fans that nearly outnumber the Jays fans in the Skydome, how it would be blissful.

And then I wondered, "Why are they so fun to taunt?"

During the 2003 ALCS, I was living with my mother. Her husband doesn't really care for sports, but he roots for the Yankees just to piss us off. We were sitting there staring at the hopeful beginnings of Game 7 when he declared, "This is the real World Series! Who the hell cares about who the winner plays?"

That's stuck with me. When the Red Sox and Yankees play, it is the essence of baseball, to me: the epic struggle, the deep-rooted rivalry, the fiercely competitive siblings battling for the same prize... and the inevitable triumph of one over the other.

What can I say about this year that hasn't already been said? Shit, I can't really say anything that I haven't already said. But it amounts to this: this year, the World Series, even though we won, wasn't a challenge. Maybe it was the baseball gods deciding to give us a break, maybe it was our "greatest comeback in sports history" vibe overwhelming our opponents, maybe it was a cosmic blessing that come to fruition on the night when Hati ate the moon, maybe it was the tantalizing promise of fulfilling a promise made to a nation of hope, maybe it was sheer dumb fuckin' luck. Whatever it was, it wasn't a battle. It wasn't a struggle. It wasn't epic. If it weren't for the fact that it hadn't happened to our franchise in 86 years, it would've been forgettable.

But the 2004 ALCS? Unforgettable. In-the-record-books unforgettable. Tim McCarver, when he's calling a game between the two on FOX next year, will say of Jeter's eyes, "They're much more lively and sparkling today than after game 7 of last year's ALCS, when this steroid-riddled Yankees team failed him and committed the greatest choke in sports history." And the members of Red Sox Nation, card carrying or not, will smile, despite the fact that the word 'Jeter' coming out of McCarver's mouth is etymological fellatio.

I wouldn't mock St. Louis. It wouldn't be fun. Fuck, they mocked themselves, on the biggest stage in baseball. It'd kinda be like kicking a dog (which I condone under NO circumstances!) that someone had run over -- what's the use? It's already done.

So I will continue celebrating not only that we won the World Series, but that we embarrassed the Yankees getting there, because the ALCS was baseball at its finest (okay, minus the whole Slappy McSlaphappy thing).

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

The win probability was epsilon...

Blatantly stole this link from Sox Fan In Singapore. But it's too cool not to post!

Casey's Random Batting Trial



Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Kissy-Kissy, Big Boy!

Once upon a time, someone posted this picture on the SG forum.

I discovered, at that moment, that the thought of a man kissing another man could be really attractive to me. In fact, it could be downright arousing.

I also discovered this was very likely due to their skin tones and the fact that they're baseball players. The thought of non-caucasian baseball players titillates me.

That's a bit freakin' specialized! So, anyone know any good sources of material?

Monday, December 06, 2004

Answer to a Question

I had started typing this as a comment, but it's too long, so now it's an entry.

Please understand that I'm not seeking sympathy by posting this. It just ... well, hell, we all like to talk about ourselves, don't we?

So.... Chele76 asked:
This may seem like a silly question.... but why were you with him that long?

And I answer:
Nah, not a silly question, and one that I still often ask myself. I learned so much about from that relationship that I don't regret the time 'lost'.

Basically, this is how the story goes. I met him online when I was 16 and he was 23. "Fell in love". Started ignoring school and treating my family like shit. Lost all of my friends. He was my world and I'd be damned if anyone was going to get between us for any reason.

Half a credit away from graduating high school, I dropped out. I ran away to Michigan to live with him. He told me he lived with friends -- he didn't, he lived in his parents' basement.I was completely dependent on him. He didn't work. For a long time, I didn't, either. We spent all day sitting online ignoring
each other. He stopped wanting to have sex. I stopped wanting to let him.

But I had given up so much to be with him that I wasn't going to abandon the relationship. I wasn't going to swallow my pride and admit that I had made a mistake. And besides, it was what I deserved,
for hurting my family.

He started beating me for no good reason -- something to do. He'd make up charges about me lying to him and cheating on him. How could I, when I was either at home with him or at work, where he called me every hour and kept me on the cell for the entire drive there and the entire drive back?

Half of my paycheck went to him. He wanted it; I "didn't need it"; he would go out drinking. Call me from the bar, berating me, telling me about "all the women" hanging all over him.When you're beaten down like that -- when your spirit is broken -- at least for me -- I just couldn't fight back. There wasn't that willpower. People say it should be easy to leave, but it isn't. I didn't have enough money for a plane ticket. He and his family were ALWAYS around. There was no way for me to have left without him knowing.

It is very, very easy for a person as young as I was, as scared as I was, to believe someone else has complete power over them. And believing it makes it true.

I had dreams about him dying. Just dying, so I didn't have to leave him, but so that I could mourn him and move on, which was an important idea in my life. I didn't want him to be hurting, but neither did I have the... strength of character... to say goodbye. I just wanted to be separated from him.

Everything ended when I was on the phone with my mother one day and she just started crying and said, "You sound so unhappy. Come home." I told her to fuck off and hung up.

She called me the next day. She and my stepfather were getting back together and that meant he'd be moving out of his apartment. It was $450/month, he'd leave it to me fully furnished, and it was in the only 'town' in the area, so I'd be able to find a job and walk to it without trouble.

My boyfriend and I decided we would move. We decided it wasn't healthy for us to be staying in his parents' house. I was terrified of him coming with me -- I looked at it as, "If he comes with me, I am dedicating the rest of my life to him." I knew I didn't want to do that... so I somehow convinced him to stay in Michigan. To see if he could find a job to save up some money.

When I left, it was heaven. I was so happy to be "single", to be without him. On the day that ironically was my now-boyfriend's 28th birthday, my ex was on the phone with me and he asked, "Will you love me forever?"

"No," I said, "No, I won't love you. I don't love you. You're not coming out here."

That was the most freeing moment of my life... and I hope it remains that way. I don't ever want to feel like I have escaped from something again, because it means that I will have felt trapped by something.

Anyhow, that's the overview. The details aren't something that... need to be talked about. Hopefully, though, it serves as some type of answer and insight.

Sunday, December 05, 2004

Sacred Sexuality

Once upon a time, I had a "boyfriend" that was an abusive asshole and hated sex.

Hated. Sex.

We went to the bookstore together one day, and while browsing the bargain books, I picked one up, flipped through it, clutched it to my chest, and declared "Mine!" He glanced over, looked at the title, and sneered, "Why do you have to get such a shitty, whorish book? Put it back."

In a then-uncharacteristic act of defiance (and a now-unnecessary one), I refused to. The book? "The Encyclopedia of Sacred Sexuality". I knew what I was interested in; I knew what was worth my money.

Hence, this beautiful book came home with me. When I left him, it's one of the few books I cared enough about to take along to Connecticut. There's nothing terribly revolutionary about it, and while it's certainly educational in both text and pictures, I love it so for one image:

I love everything about this picture. I adore the bats hanging upside down from the nipple rings, and the glistening, oiled skin. I admire her shorn, smooth mons veneris, and the pouty weight of her breasts. I idolize the simplistic stylized black tattoos fiercely protecting her ovaries and pointing down towards that promising gleam of silver clasped between her labia. But most of all, I love the freedom here: this is her body, and she will decorate it as she pleases, adorning the natural work of art that is a woman's form with the jewels and inks that express who she is.

It was the freedom I didn't have, because I wouldn't take control of my situation. He hated that I'd gotten my belly button pierced, especially since I hadn't told him when I was going to, and even moreso because I'd done it with a female friend. So did I attend to my piercing, coddling myself, taking care of it because I wanted it so badly? No. I neglected it. I let it get infected. I constantly kept it hidden. He did not like it, so why should I? I wanted to get my clitoris and nipples pierced. Only sluts do that, and you're sluttish enough that you don't need to, and if you did you'd probably just let the guy who pierced you fuck you anyway, since you can't control yourself. I wanted tattoos. Only whores and bitches get tattoos, and when you get pregnant, they'll stretch out and be flabby all over the place and you'll never lose the weight to make them look decent again.

I wanted to be me... but I was terrified of it.

I won't be so melodramatic as to say that book and image changed my life. They didn't. But they did open my mind and eyes to an entire world and idea of what 'womanhood' encompassed that I had never dared to imagine before. "Sacred sexuality" became the mantra I repeated in my mind as I fell asleep. It was the ideal that kept me sane when desire, even for the man I hated so much, threatened to overwhelm me. I didn't need the physicality of sex so much that I would debase myself by begging him for it (though I did, several times, each rejection cutting sharper than the last), but I needed that spiritual connection with someone, atop of which the actual physical caresses would be sweeter.

I was eighteen.

Standing here on the brink of twenty-two, my views of sex and sexuality have changed. I appreciate it from every aspect, as I think has been made clear in several entries here. But that awakening is something I still look back on with intense fondness and appreciation.

Oh, and my boyfriend now? Loves that picture. Loves that book. When I tell him that I want to get kundalini serpents tattooed at the chakra at the base of my spine, he understands. And he supports me.

And honestly, isn't understanding and support what a loving relationship is all about?

Friday, December 03, 2004

Fuck the Cranky Outta Me

Stepping away from baseball and sex (don't worry, we'll return) for a moment, it has been a stressful few days for me. I'm trying to get my residency up here in Canada, and it's amazing all the bullshit that the two governments make you go through. There's so much paperwork, and the requirements to prove that my relationship is 'valid' are obnoxious, and I have to get a physical, get fingerprinted, have about a trillion pictures taken, and collect all sorts of little tidbits. I've been so busy screwing around with getting all those things together (we planned to submit everything to the lawyer today) and travelling all over the place to do so, then running into so many unexpected bumps (my Michigan driver's license is expired [I didn't get a Connecticut one when I moved back there], the doctor's office needed my lawyer to fax some paperwork and couldn't accept it from me, nevermind that the office was impossible to find and we ended up paying $2.25 to drive in and out of some parking lot that wasn't it) that I've been plumb tuckered out. And cranky.

When I'm in that kinda mood, one of the things my boyfriend says to make me smile is, "Want me to fuck the cranky outta you?" This comes from a few months back when I was just totally irked about everything, horny as fuck, but had a permanent scowl on my face that I'm almost positive is the most unattractive face ever. I walked over to where he was sitting on the couch, put my hands on my hips, kicked his foot, and demanded, "Come and fuck the cranky outta me."

Surprisingly (that is, looking back at it), this command worked, and not too much later I was wearing a goofy post-orgasmic smile, a sheen of sweat on my skin, and the taste of him on my lips. And I fell asleep. I either sleep or get the munchies after sex.

I've been thinking about sex these past few days (wow, big surprise there), but especially since last night. My boyfriend came home from work, grinned at me, and said, "So, I have a kinda funny story."

He got his friend a job at the place he works, and though their shifts aren't quite the same they overlap by a few hours. My boyfriend was getting ready to leave when his friend looked over at him carrying out his 'lunch bag' and asked, "Hey, can I have your fork?"

Only, my boyfriend didn't hear this. He heard, "Hey, can I have your whore?"

"Can you what?"

"Can I have your whore?"

"Um... just say that for me one more time. Because I really don't think you said what I thought you said."

"Can... I... Have... Your... Fork... you know, in your bag."

He started laughing and replied, "Yeah, that's definitely not what I thought I heard you say. Sure, you can have my fork."

"What did you think I said?"

"I thought you asked if you could have my whore."

"Oh!" His friend snickered, "Nah, but I know what you'd say to that."

What he'd say, of course, is yes. My boyfriend has been in a threesome before; I have not (not unless you count the night before my SATs where I got piss drunk and let two guys kiss and lick and bite at me, but seeing as that didn't go on for very long as all of their friends were not only cheering us on, but spraying beer at us [I later scored a 1370 on them]). I am very, very jealous that I have not had that experience. This friend and his wife are people that my boyfriend has discussed the possibility of group sex with; while they seemed welcoming to it, and his wife and I have certainly kissed and snuggled a bit, nothing has come of it.

I love this couple anyhow, because they're the only other "perfect" couple I know. You can tell, when they look at each other, that they are beyond the phase of being in love... they're one mind, one soul, in two bodies. They're that connected. They've been together forever -- in a few months, they'll have spent more of their lives being a couple than being single. Not only that, but they're both intelligent, open-minded people with a lot of similar interests to my boyfriend and I. All that combines to make them very attractive to me, despite the fact that the man's build and the shape of the woman's face were not initially so (they're both in excellent shape and physically pleasing; it's just that the man's build reminds me of my ex [minus quite a bit of weight] and the shape of the woman's face is a bit more angular than I'm usually drawn to).

I've been living up here for almost a year now, and we get together with them for dinner or whatnot at least once a month. They're going to be moving across the country next summer, and I'm curious as to whether this thing between us is ever going to happen. When we go to their house and drink, they always invite my boyfriend and I to stay in the spare bedroom if he's feeling too drunk to drive home. It's not that there's pressure in the situation -- there certainly isn't -- and I consider myself lucky to be friends with them, but I'm definitely intrigued by the idea of bringing a sexual aspect into it.