Sex & Sox

Redhead of the Week, #12

2005-04-19T14:12:00.000-04:00

Happy Tuesday, and welcome to Redhead of the Week! This week's redhead isn't especially attractive to me (browse her gallery here) but that hair... is to die for. It's beautiful, snake-like, almost writhing and alive around her form, and I love it.

Enjoy!

Next week's redhead ... is not to be. I'm done with the site. I've moved so far away from the original intent and lost so much interest in the whole "Sox" part (seriously, I don't think I've watched a minute of baseball news or read a word of it since February) that it's just not keeping my interest anymore.

Thanks for the ride, it's been fantastically fun, but this little corner of the Internet world is up for rent again.

Redhead of the Week, #11

2005-04-12T02:45:00.000-04:00

Happy Tuesday and welcome to Redhead of the Week! This week's redhead is more of an auburn than the fiery women featured so far, but she's quite deliciously curvaceous and I'm quite fond of curves. Also, she's smiling in several of the pictures in her gallery, and that's always a plus.

Enjoy!

Next week's redhead is much less about the woman than her amazing, snake-like hair itself. And no, that's not meant to say she's a Medusa!

Redhead of the Week, #10

2005-04-05T13:12:00.000-04:00

Happy Tuesday, and welcome to Redhead of the Week. This week's redhead is, as promised, quite... wet. She's also terribly thin and pale, but I liked the square shape of her face.

Her gallery can be found here, on a page that always has excellent pictures -- when I can access them.

Enjoy! Next week's redhead is ... borderline red. But she sure is cute!

On a side note -- anyone else having trouble logging into Blogspot/Blogger? It's what kept me from posting til now.

My First MILF

2005-03-30T00:34:00.000-05:00

The time: Nine in the evening on a delightfully warm late March evening.

The place: Right-most elevator in my apartment building -- that is, the one with the extra button that always confuses people.

The people: Me, wearing a tight long-sleeved blue t-shirt and brown corduroys. Sneakers, no bra, and toting a shivering wide-eyed black chihuahua. Her, wearing an over-sized, stained white t-shirt and velvety pink PJ bottoms. Flip-flops, and a basket full of neatly folded laundry.

"Oooh, he's so cute," she says, gazing at my dog with eyes the same moist bistre hue as his. Her lips are curved into a shy smile, making it hard for me to tell her age; late twenties? She looks tired, though, as though the children whose clothes she is toting about have worn her out utterly.

"He's my ferocious guard puppy!" I quip, my usual reply, and we share a short laugh. The elevator doors slide shut, as I realize I've forgotten to press the button for my floor.

I extend my arm just as she does, asking me, "Which floor?" and our fingertips brush. Though the dog cringes back fearfully, I move my hand away slowly, and she looks up at me through her eyelashes. She's shorter than me, older than me, bustier than me, and, for the moment, I'm absolutely infatuated with her.

I exhale, "Eight," and rock back on my heels, studying her. I must be imagining things -- that can't be invitation in that gentle, round face. Her lips are pursed, not puckered. Her stance, with the out-thrust hip, isn't to make curves for my eyes, but for balancing the weight she carries. Those same fingertips that touched me aren't stroking the laundry basket, but tapping it impatiently.

We don't speak. Airy curls of pale wheaten hair have escaped from the tortoise-shell clip confining them, and I make a pretense of looking at anything but where they stroke the soft white skin of her throat, because I am certainly not debating how that flesh would smell, or taste, or feel...

The elevator grinds to a stop and the door rattles open. "Buh-bye," she says, and instead of immediately stepping out as I usually do, I bend over and set the dog down. He promptly starts racing down the hall to our door, leash flailing behind him. "Knows where he lives, mmm?"

"Mmmm..." I agree. I'm blushing. "Have a night nice! Nice night!" I'm stumbling over my words and nearly my feet as I step into the hallway.

"You too!" She leans forward -- dear God, there's a little slash in her shirt collar, over her breasts, and it's not as though I can see anything besides her collarbone, but the blush grows deeper -- and presses the DOOR CLOSE button.

I rush to the apartment, toss a treat to the dog, and strip down. My bed looks inviting and as soon as I close the door (otherwise the puppy will come in and disturb me) I'm on it, spread-eagled, stroking myself.

Did she think of me? Was I reading too much into her actions? Did she go up to her husband when she got home -- she was wearing a wedding ring -- and pull him into the bedroom? Is she feeling good that she aroused such feelings in me? Does she even know? Before the questions are done running through my head, I've come.

I'm lusting after someone's mother.

Redhead of the Week, #9

2005-03-29T13:15:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday, and welcome to Redhead of the Week! This picture was forwarded to me by Steve the Mildly Unwell Bastard, and interestingly, I'd already had a gallery of her bookmarked... so decided to use it.

Enjoy! Sorry that I'm late on posting her, by the by. I wish I could say that I was having crazy sex at midnight and just couldn't pull myself away, but really we were doing a few Deadmines runs (if you know what I'm referring to, that's just awesome) and totally forgot.

Next week's redhead is very skinny, very pale, and very wet!

"Image Hosted By..."

2005-03-23T19:07:00.000-05:00

Well, so this is what happens when you get 15,000+ visitors in a week.

Um. Looks like I need to set up a few different image hosting accounts, or else just suck it up and subscribe to a premium account at Photobucket. This is what I get for not hot-linking images from other people's sites!

Thanks everyone for visiting... looks like I'll be playing with graphic arrangements.

Redhead of the Week, #8

2005-03-22T12:00:00.001-05:00

Happy Tuesday, and welcome to Redhead of the Week!

This week's redhead... well... doesn't she have a great smile?

Enjoy!

More images of her can be found here (the first two are hilarious). I kinda like that I've got a picture of a penis on my website. There's actually one that I've been meaning to post... I'll get around to it eventually.

Next week's redhead is, again, a mystery. Still working on straightening out my collection and haven't made a solid choice!

Screw the Pink Hat...

2005-03-18T00:02:00.001-05:00

... I want a pink jersey! With RHINESTONES, natch!

(Thanks Yahoo Photos gallery, and Singapore Sox Fan for the link to it)

Dear God. Someone get me one of those! I will give you the blowjob of your life (or, if you're a woman, will figure out some other way to please you!)

Redhead of the Week, #7

2005-03-15T00:42:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday, and welcome to Redhead of the Week! This week's redhead is miss Amy Sweet, a beautiful, curvy Italian model. Other pictures I've seen of her show her as much more of a brunette, which makes this picture all the more special.

It wasn't that there weren't other photos of her in this series, and naked ones, as well. Her eyes caught me here, and this picture was unanimously selected (by a panel of two, but still...!) to be featured.

Enjoy! Next week's redhead is a mystery, since I haven't decided on her yet. Guess that means I have a week of searching to do!

When Good Redheads Go Bad

2005-03-14T17:54:00.000-05:00

As anyone who has browsed Internet porn knows, there's some great stuff out there. There's also some mind-bogglingly bad stuff. I'm not even talking about production value here -- God knows I love some amateur pictures -- but things that, for one reason or another, just aren't as sexy as they're intended to be (at least to this little girl & my assistant judge).

So, when picking out future Redheads of the Week recently, I stumbled upon a plethora of wretched pictures. Here, then, are half a dozen examples of what horror can result When Good Redheads Go Bad (the titles will lead you to their gallery and, as always, they can be clicked to be viewed larger):

Number One:

This was the most inoffensive of the galleries. I hate when I find pictures like this -- ones with a fantastic redhead, that just aren't good enough. Because... look at that couch. Fucking UGLY! It was very disappointing to me that she couldn't be on a better background. That couch is just killer. Beautiful woman, eyesore of a background.

Number Two:

What. The. Fuck.

Hello, Batgirl? Yeah, I found the bitch that stole your mask. She's a flexible little one, too.

Seriously, there's a lot of pictures in this vein lately that I've been stumbling across: these weird frickin masks. Very often there's beads, dildos, and other women involved, but I've never even bothered to get past the fact that they're wearing masks.

Number Three:

One: Your outfit sucks.

Two: Your expression sucks.

Three: Your tits look like lopsided balloons.

Four: You are fucking hanging yourself and masturbating. I'm sorry, but I find absolutely nothing even remotely erotic about asphyxiation. I know some people do, but I don't, and this is my Redhead of the Week. My past pretty much explains that little, dare I say, hang-up.

Number Four:

Okay, the expression's cute. The colours are even cute. But you know what isn't cute?

A naked woman who reminds me of being 14 years old and watching "I Love Lucy" with my little sister. I just can't find arousal in that. Sorry.

Number Five:

You. Look. Like. A. Dude.

Next!

Number Six:

One: Your outfit still sucks.

Two: Your expression still sucks.

Three: Your tits still look like lopsided balloons, though slightly deflated.

Four: ... Really, you're holding a gun. IN YOUR MOUTH. What the fuck is it with that site and women who are on the brink of suicide being sex objects? Seriously...

Now that that's all said and done... a normal and wonderful redhead is coming to you shortly after midnight Eastern!

Redhead of the Week, #6

2005-03-08T12:36:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday, and welcome to Redhead of the Week!

It was this redhead's attitude in the series of pictures I took this one from that made me decide on her. I also really liked how not "pornographic" the image is, and how clean. As always, she can be clicked to be viewed larger.

Enjoy! Next week's redhead is a fairly well-known curvy Italian model. I haven't decided on quite which picture of hers I'll be using... but it sure is nice browsing them!

Oh, also -- since I don't think I'm going to be using any of the images at this link (no pop-ups!), go and take a peek. I really enjoy the colours and composition of them, but there wasn't a single image that captivated me.

Tatiana & A Trinity

2005-03-06T19:49:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been genuinely giddy? You know, that feeling where you're delighted, relaxed, and yet exhilarated all at once, where the laughter (or giggles!) just won't stop coming?

That was how I felt last night, after they made me orgasm.

I am a notoriously difficult woman to make orgasm. Before my current boyfriend, I had never had someone make me cum; certainly, I had done it to myself, and with someone encouraging me, but giving myself over completely to another person's touch had never culminated in it. Even now, when the better half goes down on me, it usually takes so long that his tongue and jaw get sore and I'll end up asking him to stop and stroking myself to climax.

This was not a problem last night, when Milla and Bruce (points if you know why I chose those psuedonyms) were taking turns lavishing my pussy and clit with attention. For nineteen months, I've felt that I'm a very lucky woman; I know I am now, for this is indeed the couple I've written about before (I also discovered that there's actually an excellent reason why things have taken so long to reach this juncture between the four of us).

I could write about the entire night, but it was the same as most visits we make with them: we chat, listen to music, eat a fantastic dinner, get into the heavy drinking, and flirt. Then, usually, my boyfriend and I leave, with me about as horny as humanly possible. But this time, we didn't. This time, we were all sitting on the couch together, touching, laughing, with Milla stripping off her top and bra to model her leather corset, and me soon following suit to try it on as well.

A corset is a sexy fucking piece of clothing. A leather corset is sexier. Curves are accentuated, and in my case, cleavage suddenly appears. It was seeing her and touching her in that, running my hands along the sides and over her breasts (larger than mine, but not overwhelmingly so) that pushed me over the edge; then, wearing it myself and being admired brought my arousal to a fever pitch.

I honestly don't remember what happened between when I took the corset off and when my boyfriend stood, holding her hand, and started walking towards the guest bedroom. I do know that Bruce and myself followed, and a few minutes later she and I were lying on the bed with my boyfriend sitting on one side of the bed while her husband watched from the other. The lights were off, candles flickering, and the world's sexiest album, Massive Attack's "Mezzanine", for background music.

Her shirt was tugged up and she hadn't put her bra back on (neither had I), and I laid beside her with a goofy grin, propped up on one elbow, trailing my fingers over her taut stomach and silky breasts. I'm amazed at how ... smooth women are, and this manifested itself in one of my childish moments: I squealed, "Is she not just... sooo... pretty?!"

I wasn't long before I brought my mouth to her nipple. This, I liked; feeling it stiffen at the touch of my tongue, feeling how warm and soft the rest of her breast was, cupping the weight of the other in my hand. We kissed, her lips pliant under mine, and I kept my eyes open to look at her -- a strange thing, I know, but what felt right.

Somewhere along the line, we got naked; I was leaning over her when she pushed me back and, smiling, started to make her slow way, with lips and fingers and tongue, down my body.

There is something exquisite about being part of an exhibition for men to admire. As anyone, I have my hang-ups; they faded away under the gaze of her husband and the quick, encouraging smile of my boyfriend. I watched her, trying to keep myself from pressing my pussy to her mouth as she kissed my inner thighs, her dark eyes gazing up at me as she moved closer and closer to it.

Then ... as I laid there wet, hot, aching, amazed, she slid her tongue between my nether lips and over my clit, and it felt heavenly. It's not that what she did was so different from what other people have done; it was the fact that this was a woman 'servicing' me, her slender fingers slipping into my pussy, her pierced tongue flicking at me, those lily-petal lips glistening with the same moist sensuality that we share, her chin and cheeks like satin against my skin. I felt bad that I hadn't shaved clean, as I prefer, and that my hair, short though it is, was rough upon her.

Soon, we had the men involved, her husband caressing her thighs and ass with his mouth while stroking my legs, and my boyfriend alternating between sucking and biting my nipples (I am quite fond of pain-as-pleasure).

"Come here," I begged her between my whimpering and moaning, but I was too quiet to break through how intent she was. "Milla," I tried again, "c'mere, please," and I remember someone chuckling as my boyfriend pulled away, then our lips met and I was licking my juices from her mouth. Her breasts pressed to mine, and I moved to tweak one of her nipples. "Thank you," I whispered, and saw her smile, "it felt surreal." I remember that she looked back at Bruce, and then he was going down on me. His face looked smooth, but after having had a woman there, the difference was unbelievable. The scratchiness of his stubble heightened how soft and experienced his lips and tongue were, and I nearly orgasmed from that alone, but mellowed quickly and enjoyed the sensations of having not-my-man attending to my clit.

I think... think... it was then that I reached for my boyfriend, unfastening his pants and pulling his cock into my mouth, but it could have been earlier; honestly, I've been remembering the entire experience with such fond fogginess all day that the memories blur. Whenever it was, it didn't last long before he moved around to the other side of the bed to be closer to Milla, and as she sucked my nipples, I looked down the length of her body to see him kissing at her body.

One of my hands stroked her, the other caught in Bruce's hair; all I could think, when I managed thought, was how fucking lucky I was, to be there as the focus of three people's erotic attentions. Eventually he pulled away and she replaced him, and as she worked me I thought, "Oh, God, I'm not going to be able to cum, and I want to, and they're going to think I didn't enjoy all this as much as I have," before forcing myself to get a grip and relax -- because if I kept thinking like that, it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

As soon as I had pushed those thoughts from my head, my boyfriend pressed his lips to my ear and started growling about how fucking sexy this was, how much he was enjoying watching, and various sundry phrases, and before I knew it, my body was beginning to tremble and my breath coming shorter, and I was begging her not to stop, and he was still whispering to me but sound meant nothing because sensation was everything, and an intense orgasm swept over me, making me shudder and gasp -- but she didn't move away from me. Her lips stayed against my clit, and I started giggling, because she knew exactly how little pressure to apply to keep me feeling pleasure without it being too much -- because, of course, she is a woman, and knows where that line is herself.

For sexual activity, that was it. After I stopped laughing and kissed everyone and thoroughly thanked them (and told her that I owe her big time and look forward to reciprocating), we all settled into chatting, my naked body curled around hers. "You were more vocal than anyone else we've had in our bed," Bruce told me, and as I replied, "Oh! I was trying to be quiet," my boyfriend said, "That... was her being quiet." I'm a talker.

Eventually, it was "bed" time, which I'm certain meant each couple fucking in different rooms -- they in their bedroom, us in their guest room.

I've been wanting what happened last night since my boyfriend told me they were open to the idea, over a year ago. It was well worth the wait.

And I? I am one lucky woman.

Redhead of the Week, #5

2005-03-01T00:04:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday, and welcome to Redhead of the Week! What a long frickin' week it's been, too.

This week's redhead's pale gray eyes and pouty lips were nearly as attractive to me as that lustrous coppery hair, and I appreciated the fact that I was able to see her in three different "outfits" in her gallery here (no popups!) There are nude photos there, but since I couldn't decide which of them I liked best, I ended up choosing this one because the bikini's so adorable!

As always, she can be clicked to be viewed larger.

Next week's redhead... is wearing nothing but boots!

Commandeer me, Baby!

2005-02-28T00:17:00.000-05:00

Any man who can wear this....

(Thank you, Yahoo Images)

... and still look unbearably sexy is a fucking god.

Look at that little peek of cummerbund. I'm so all about him. I want him to captain my vessel all over the seven seas, and then some.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

2005-02-25T16:39:00.000-05:00

This story, about a female runner from Zimbabwe who was actually a male, is interesting in several aspects.

One -- are female athletes in that country that masculine, or was he just very feminine?

Two -- a "witchdoctor" basically declared him to be woman.

Three -- don't athletes undergo physicals?

Four -- his last name is Sithole *gigglesnort*

Sex Blog Addition

2005-02-24T11:41:00.000-05:00

I read several blogs, many of which aren't listed on the sidebar here because they don't fit neatly in to one category or the other. But one which I have added (along with finally getting around to changing the name of Sam's site) is that of Steve the Mildly Unwell Bastard.

If you've got reservations about getting addicted to yet another blog, just go and read this entry. Okay, it might be hotter to a woman, but ... well, like I mentioned to him when we chatted last night, it's practically an orgasm in a website. And that's another thing -- he's very cool to talk to. I realized we think alike in quite a few things and we could've talked longer than we did.

Too bad I don't have any naked pictures to send him.

Oh! And to make this post even further palatable to the ladies, ErosBlog is running a "Top Cock" of the week, picking from entries that her readers send in. While I have little to no interest in receiving such mail (sorry!), it's been interesting to go look.

As to that... wellllll... just imagine standing behind them. And looking at all those tight bums. Mmmmm-hmmmm.

I <3 Thongs

2005-02-23T15:17:00.000-05:00

This is a cut and post of my take on a conversation on a bulletin board I'm a member of, after a bit of chit-chat back and forth between people about teenage girls looking like "sluts" because they wear hip-huggers that expose their thongs, and them talking about how they're going to control their children's clothing and behaviour.

Here goes -- all of this is opinion, of course, a rather strong one, but opinion nonetheless, and I'm certainly not trying to slap people's wrists and tell them they're wrong. I'm simply not that kind of person. Anywhere that I've used "us", "we", and "you", I'm referring to people who are 'adults', in whichever sense of the word you wish to use.

North American culture is uncomfortable with the maturation of its children. There are few rituals we can point towards and say, "Look -- this child is now an adult in the eyes of our community." The nearest thing to this is the Jewish Bar/Bat Mitzvah, and even that has become a commercialized party rather than a spiritual celebration and welcoming.

Do we take our children aside and discuss sexuality with them? Do we celebrate the changes of their body, support their explorations of self, and invite their questions? Do we discuss what sex is ideally? No -- we give them the basics (his thingie goes in your private parts and you can get pregnant) or, worse, leave it to Sex Ed. classes where the environment is one of embarassment and laughter. Having to study and learn these basic physical functions/reactions of your body in a place where you are surrounded by other young adults that have been conditioned to be uncomfortable with themselves is not conducive to a positive experience.

However, as these young adults are exposed to the media, as they invariably are, they learn an entirely new commercialized view of sex and what "being sexy" entails. This sense of sexiness doesn't involve knowing and understanding yourself and your partner(s), but rather the eager pursuit for the pinnacle of perfection.

Teenagers are sexual. We all are. It's a basic, primal fact of human existence. And, instead of letting sex become an issue about which our youth are thoroughly educated, we shroud it in taboo and mystery. What is more intriguing, when one is rebelling, than that which is forbidden? The teens I knew were all practically frothing at the mouth to toss away their virginity on the first likely suitor.

Do we tell our children anything about pleasure? No -- we don't even acknowledge it. Sex is something to be feared, because it can lead to pregnancy and disease.

So then, young adults have sex, and if something goes wrong, or they have questions, their entire upbringing pushes them away from the people who have truthful answers (or know where to get them) -- their parents.
Our culture leaves its youth to discover their sexuality, and what it entails, with no intelligent source of positive, factual information. I think this is a shame.

The cliche goes, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Modified, we can apply this to the situation: "If you can't eradicate it, embrace it." The exploration of such a basic need cannot be eradicated. (I'm reading a book called "The History of Celibacy" right now, so who knows what new kinds of things I'll learn about that particular thought!)

I am certainly not saying to encourage young adults to have sex with anyone that crosses their path. I do feel, however, that we have a responsibility to teach them about it, and not leave that task to others.

As to the entire "revealing" clothing thing, looking at it solely from a female perspective, we have this: teenage girls do not know how to be comfortable with, or in, their growing bodies. If what they're wearing makes them feel sexy and us feel uncomfortable, whose feelings are we more concerned with? Do we exclaim, "Wow, honey, you look really grown-up and beautiful in that!" or do we demand, "Go get changed, you shouldn't be wearing that."

Not being far from a teenager myself, as well as having a sister that age, and being an avid reader of books dealing with any aspect of sexual anthropology, I can confidently say that the latter is certainly damaging to the psyche. You are invalidating your child's sense of self -- but even moreso, teaching her to distrust you and simply hide who she is, what she wears, and how she feels until she has left your sight. The distrust comes from the sense that as a teenaged girl, no, you simply cannot identify with nor confide in your parents.

I feel grateful to have a mother who, while she certainly didn't approve of everything I did, never made me feel ugly or like I couldn't talk to her about something.

Redhead of the Week, #4

2005-02-22T00:02:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday and welcome to Redhead of the Week.

I almost stopped looking for other redheads after this one. She is absolutely fucking beautiful, with a wholesome look to her (obviously exploited by the photographer in this particular shot) wholly belied by the inviting arch of her eyebrows and the sensual curve of her back.

I do have a high quality version of this image available, much larger, via e-mail.

Enjoy (I know I did)! Next week's redhead is wearing a swimsuit, and I'll even provide a link to a gallery of images where she isn't!

Mid-day Mush

2005-02-21T14:50:00.000-05:00

I love when he leaves my knees weak in the middle of the day.

I love lying there with his cum on my breasts, making my nipples glisten.

I love how that smile comes to his lips as he kisses my thighs and watches me stroke myself.

I love his fingers pumping in and out of me, caressing all the right spots, so that I writhe and whimper and moan at his touch.

I love sitting here in the afterglow, being in love.

Graphics for the Yankee Fan

2005-02-20T03:05:00.000-05:00

There are people who actually like the Yankees.

No, really.

Okay, so I got a few good laughs out of it.

As for this, well... Boston fans DO make better lovers!

The Disappearing Man

2005-02-18T01:33:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, there was this man who worked at a newly-opened Advance Auto Parts store that I went into with my family because my mom needed... some little car part or something. I don't remember, because I was busy looking at the man.

His name was Kevin, and he wasn't much taller than I was, but looked just adorable in his red dress shirt and clean black baseball cap. His eyes were dark, but at the same time literally sparkling, and he had a hard time taking them off me to talk to my mother (his customer).

I didn't talk to him then, just smiled and glanced up at him through my eyelashes. When we left, my mom and sister both said, "Geez... he was really in to you."

When I got home, I called the operator to get the number for that store -- since it was still celebrating the "Grand Opening" sale, it couldn't be found in the phone book. Then, I called.

"Advance Auto, Kevin speaking."

"Kevin, hi... umm, I'm Tatiana, I was just in there with my mom, I was wearing the black..."

"OH! Yeah, I remember you. Hi... uhh... is something wrong?"

"No, I just wanted to call you."

"I was hoping I'd talk to you again."

I grinned. "Do you want to get together sometime?"

"S-sure! What's your number?" I could hear him scrambling around for pen and paper, and his co-workers teasing him. It was cute.

I gave him my number (I don't remember what it was) and spelled out my name for him. Since I was living alone, it was fine for him to call me anytime, and that night at 11 pm he did.

The next night, he took me out to eat Chinese, and we spent a few hours in the park afterwards, chatting.

We hadn't kissed, but we were sitting close together, and I rubbed my lips against his cheek. "I'm glad you didn't shave," I purred, "I like a little bit of stubble." This is very true -- I adore all things manly, whether it's stubble, chest hair, sweat, or a penis (I fucking LOVE those things!).

He kissed me then, and I admit that I thought of Rhett's line from Gone With the Wind: "You need to be kissed, and often, by someone that knows how to kiss." He knew how to kiss.

We ended up going back to my place because a Red Sox game was on (hey! I know my priorities), though I admit to watching very little of it as my attention was mostly on him. When the game was over, I turned my head from the television and pulled him up towards me, sliding my hand down the front of his pants.

He looked faintly nervous and said, "I don't like to sleep with a girl on our first date."

Okay. For most women, a comment like this melts them. It froze my heart. "You don't? Why? What if I want you to?"

Men must not be used to forward women, because he'd already confessed to being amazed (and pleased) by the initiative I put into calling him, and now he was staring at me like I was made of sugar and he was afraid I'd dissolve away if he touched me again... but wouldn't it be nice to get in a few licks?

We ended up fucking like animals, and he spent the night. He was a fantastic lay. In the morning, I got up and made him coffee, and we ate toast together before he went home.

For a few weeks, we had a routine. He'd come over after work, we'd fuck, he'd usually sleep over and then in the morning, I'd make him coffee while I got ready for work (I had a 9-5 office job that my mother drove me to) and he'd leave before my mom got there.

He started asking about commitment. I was honest: "Kevin, I'm not sticking to one man. Sure, I enjoy being with you, lots, but I'm not getting tied down. You're free to do the same, I don't expect you to be exclusive to me."

He didn't like that I wouldn't commit to him, but I didn't see a problem with it. If he wanted ass, I was available, and I'd even make him coffee in the morning. If we were working the same shift (which happened very rarely), I'd call him before I left for lunch to see if he wanted anything; if he did, I'd pick him up some food and drop it off at his work. It was casual, and I really enjoyed it.

Then, one day, he stopped calling, and stopped showing up at my house. I was too proud to call him; I was not going to chase after the man. I'd still see his truck at work, or driving around town, but that was it: the relationship was over.

I still laugh to think of it now, and wonder what the hell went wrong. I mean, certainly, I would rather have my man now than anyone I've ever even fantasized of being with (this means you, Colin Farrell), but it still amazes me that the guy had a woman fucking him and making him coffee... and he disappeared!

These Ain't Warm and Fuzzies...

2005-02-16T22:54:00.000-05:00

Thanks to one of my readers (that sounds so pretentious), I was pointed towards this thread on the SoSH boards, where Curt posts as gehrig38 and has been given a custom title...

... I can't fuckin wait for the baseball season to start again.

Redhead of the Week, #3

2005-02-15T00:17:00.000-05:00

When I first saw this picture, it was the beautiful gold corset that captured my attention. Then the red hair... then her curvy form... then the mirror, and finally, those pouty little nether lips in the reflection. She doesn't have that intentionally sultry gaze so common in pornographic photos, which I found refreshing -- it's not even a come-hither look, more the look of someone who's just been caught admiring herself and doesn't give a fuck that she was.

Next week's redhead is... stunning (vulvalicious, one might say). Absolutely the most beautiful one I've come across yet, and, like last week's, she has freckles.

I Can Taste Success!

2005-02-14T02:27:00.000-05:00

I'm well on my way to writing a cheesy romance novel! Or at least... according to this guy I am.

I swear, someday my mother's going to find out about this site, and I'm going to have some explaining to do.

Just a Lil Update

2005-02-11T22:21:00.000-05:00

I'm still around, anxiously waiting for pitchers and catchers to report.

I've got a little entry-type thing I'm working on that'll be up... sometime before next Tuesday's Redhead.

It's been a slow few weeks for me, and I think I'm about all storied out. I've debated writing fictional erotica just for the hell of it, to get the site through the rest of the off-season, so some of that might possibly -- and I mean there's a very slim chance of it -- be coming up.

I'd also like to arrange for 'guest' bloggers (preferably female, but males are welcome) if anyone's interested. Sex or Sox, or both, whichever floats your boat -- my email address is in the sidebar.

I get quite a few visitors from search engines, which makes me giggle. "Knee high schoolgirls" (I pray that was related to socks and not midgets) has been popular lately, as has "Red Sox hairstyles" (please tell me some Korean team isn't copy-catting them), and "www.xnxx.com" (WTF, if you can go to a search engine, you can type that in the address bar). I've also gotten people here for "freetime sex", "toronto anal prostitute", and "red sox nightgown" (to whoever's mom was looking for that one, I am profusely sorry that you ended up on the antique-nightgown-vampire entry).

Oh, and, if anyone's not seen it yet, or at least not lately, here's the fairly unimpressive -- yet inspiring! -- Fenway webcam.

All Your A-Rod Are Belong To Us

2005-02-09T00:08:00.000-05:00

I stole this link from... uhh... someone's webpage. But I can't recall who. I generally hate quizzes, but this one had to be taken and shared!

You scored as Jason Varitek. You are Jason Varitek. You are a natural leader and are highly respected by many. You are tough and will duke it out with any purple-lipped princess when it comes to defending your buddies, which makes you a very loyal friend. Oh Captain, my captain!

Jason Varitek

73%

Theo Epstein

57%

Johnny Damon

53%

Kevin Millar

47%

Manny Ramirez

47%

Curt Schilling

47%

Mark Bellhorn

43%

David Ortiz

40%

Which Red Sox Player Are You?
created with QuizFarm.com

Redhead of the Week, #2

2005-02-08T00:15:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday!

I agonized over this week's redhead. I have a few really great pictures I'm dying to get up on the site, but I realized that last week I'd assured you we'd have a natural redhead again, so that narrowed my picks down. I ended up going with the one I'd originally intended to: this lovely lass named Anna, courtesy of domai.com.

I had to do some considerable trimming (the original's 1114x1000 pixels) to fit her here, so she can be clicked to be viewed uncropped, and larger.

Enjoy! Next week, no nipples. But there's other bits, and a very hot corset.

It's Less Innocent Than You Think....

2005-02-05T13:21:00.000-05:00

See that? It's pink. And the fact that I like that hat, that I own that hat, that I've worn that hat to the last five Red Sox games I've been to, apparently discounts me as a fan.

How dare I wear a pink baseball cap?!

I'm sick of taking grief for this.

People need to get their heads out of their asses.

Me / Naughty

2005-02-03T02:26:00.000-05:00

Back when I first got into this whole 'personal webpage' thing, it was a good friend of mine who lent me space on her domain. She helped me out with rudimentary HTML code (mostly by pointing me towards the resources that she'd used to teach herself), and was always there when I had an ignorant question (usually about tables; I hated them damned things).

We were quite close, and she's the one I went with to get my belly button piercing. Nightly talks about girly stuff led to one overwhelming impression: she built her concept of 'self' around what her boyfriend thought of her (not that I was much better at the time). He lived 800 miles away, and she got liberal use out of her webcam, talking to him online.

I didn't like him, but whatever, she didn't like mine, so we just avoided talking about that entire subject. Until... he dumped her. Because, he said, he loved her too much. And then, as she sat online crying to me about this and writing depressed poetry, he'd go out, fuck other girls, come back, tell her about it, and insist that he felt nothing for them. A few weeks went by, and they got back together.

Repeat the process, ad nauseum, for the next two years. Every six months, even after she moved out to live with him, he'd decide he loved her too much, send her away, sleep with someone else, and call her back when he was done.

We stopped talking after that -- I'd gotten my head out of my ass and expected her to, as well. But you can't help people that won't help themselves (how true that is), so the friendship crumbled.

Still, I kept my portion of the website and she kept hers, and one day I went to check hers out. At the bottom of her main page was a tiny link that read, "I love him, always!" When clicked, there was a prompt for a username and password.

Of course, this piqued my curiousity. I went digging around through FTP in her files, and found the folder the link lead to: "me"... subfolder, "naughty".

And then, I spent half an hour browsing through intimate photos she'd taken of herself for her boyfriend. I shared them with the boyfriend. I sent the majority of them to a mutual friend. I even sent one to a fellow I'd met at school, just because I thought it'd be amusing. I never talked to her about it, and, as far I know, she never knew.

This only comes up because today I was rummaging through some old versions of my personal website (that is, the website I shared with her until she IMed me abruptly one day and told me to delete my stuff) and found these folders. I looked through the pictures again, got a little bit of a laugh out of it, and then shook my head, sad at the friendship I'd lost for the sake of some immature asshole of a boy.

I've often wondered if I should feel guilty about this... or how I'd feel if someone did the same thing to me that I did to her. I guess that's what happens when you put a link to stuff like that on the front page of your website. People are curious, and some of us are voyeuristic.

Though, that said, I have to admit the pictures weren't very sexy... at all. Some of them were downright icky.

And I still don't feel any guilt.

Redhead of the Week, #1

2005-02-01T01:31:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday... and welcome to 'Redhead of the Week'. I am a big fan of redheads... natural, unnatural, whatever, as long as a woman's hair is in cherry hues, I am all about it. I decided to make this a feature here on Tuesdays because, as Jon Stewart notes, "Tuesday is considered the least important of all the workdays." (And, if you haven't read "America (The Book)", please, do yourself a favour and get ahold of a copy).

So! This is our first redhead, courtesy of... Mr. Snarky Bastard, actually.

She can be clicked to be viewed in a larger size.

Enjoy! Next week's girl is also "natural".

Oh, Yes We Do!

2005-01-31T00:00:00.000-05:00

So, I was talking to a fella from one of the games I play, regarding a post I made on the game boards about 'playing' sports... basically I completely turned the playing into a sexual thing. He IMs me:

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:01 PM): We do NOT make baseball a game watched for purely sexual reasons!

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:09 PM): Or any percentage of the reason at all!

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:11 PM): *scolds!*

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:20 PM): Baseball is watched for the game and not the pants. *scolds more!*

Baseball-Playing Friend (11:07:23 PM): Entirely!

Me on AIM (11:16:02 PM): *laughs!*

Me on AIM (11:17:37 PM): Perhaps, dear, that is your way of looking at it... but I have an entiiiiiiirely different view :-)

Baseball-Playing Friend(11:17:49 PM): I know!

Baseball-Playing Friend(11:17:54 PM): *sprays with water bottle*

Baseball-Playing Friend(11:17:56 PM): Wrong!

Me on AIM (11:23:06 PM): Ahh... alas for my policy of not getting personal with people from the games :-)

Baseball-Playing Friend(11:23:16 PM): Oi? *peers*

Me on AIM (11:24:06 PM): Baseball and sexuality are two things I can talk about for hours, as I run a website dedicated to the subjects... but... suffice to say you could spray me with a water bottle for days... or dump a waterfall on my head... and I would just raspberry ya :-P

... Oh, sweet boy, all I would need to do is give you this website. Or, all you would need to do is use Google wisely!

Knee High Sox... and Schoolgirls

2005-01-30T13:11:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, the sexiness of socks was discussed. Ankle socks, it was noted, should be removed before having sex, but knee highs? They were cute. They could possibly stay (as could knee-high boots).

In homage to the knee high, and cute schoolgirls everywhere, I spent the entirety of last night scouring the internet for pictures. It was a tough job to find pictures of women wearing those socks and other clothing, and because this wasn't to be a gallery full of nudes, I had to pick and choose carefully.

These, then, are my choices:

Okay, so it's thigh-high stockings. Still, it was too cute to pass up, especially with those seams up the back, so we'll get this little bit of cheating out of the way first. By the way, that particular style is called a 'Cuban Heel' and you'll notice that there's a diamond-shaped solid patch covering her heel from which the seam rises. Oh, and I like her corset :) And her hair :)

A flock of schoolgirls! There's a Catholic high school somewhere close-ish to here, so we very often get to see young women who look much like this (though their uniform is more maroon than cherry red) prancing around outside or through the mall across the street. I'm really tickled by the fact that they have their shirts tied up.

Hot hot hot. I could totally go for coming home to her waiting in my bedroom for me (okay, so I don't leave home much, but that doesn't change that I'd like to have her there). This came from a series of pictures of a pair of women, but I cut out the other woman because she was fairly trashy looking and she wasn't wearing the requisite knee highs! I love the riding crop.

This girl could possibly be wearing knee highs. But there wasn't a picture showing her legs, until they were up in the air doing some crazy splits and she was totally naked. I cropped her head off because she had this completely vapid deer-in-the-headlights look to her, but I thought her outfit was fucking adorable so had to include it.

After scrolling through thousands of pictures, I literally stopped and stared at this one. The girl herself is absolutely lovely. Just look at how big and blue her eyes are and how dark her hair is... I don't know. I wish now I'd picked another picture of her that better showcased her face and was a bit less about her bum.

And now, something that made me stop and laugh in my searching: Google Images was kind enough to turn out this picture for me while I searched for "knee high model" (thankfully, no midgets showed up, though I did later find a gallery devoted to them, which I didn't explore):

That's it! Most of these pictures are courtesy links from http://www.xnxx.com, which is a huge source of free images and movies -- WITHOUT pop-ups.

Oh, and, after all the hours we spent peeking at pictures and movies, laughing about the different taglines on websites ("When they have their stockings on, they're naughty!"), and admiring the women... we had some wicked sex!

Who Stopped the Rain?

2005-01-28T15:03:00.000-05:00

For someone that writes and thinks about sex as much as I do, I sure am experiencing a drought in that aspect of my life right now. We haven't had sex in a month. It's the longest we've gone without while together.

Now, in most relationships, I'd say this could be a sign of trouble. Not so, here. We still kiss, snuggle, say "I love you", sleep together naked and pressed close, smile, talk, laugh, and make each other breakfast. We're just experiencing (fortunately, at the same time) lack of desire. He works sixty to seventy hours a week, with only Saturdays off, and I sit at home feeling guilty about that fact.

I hate having sex in the morning -- I don't like the groggy, dry-mouthed, "I have to pee" feelings, or the too-bright sunlight streaming in through our windows. Oh, have I mentioned we don't have curtains? On any of our windows? Voyeurs across the street must be sorely disappointed lately. Now, at night, I'm ready to go. It's dark and sultry, and I can set up candles to change the lighting. The apartment's nice and warm from me having the heat blasting all day while he's at work. But that's precisely it: he's been working all day on a freezing cold dock, supervising and loading and unloading, and he's exhausted.

We're on different rhythms, and it's showing.

Now, despite everything I write, and how I act, I'm still a quite normal woman, given to all the self-berating that women are. We'll have sex and instead of enjoying myself, I'll worry about whether my hair's getting knotted, or if there's cellulite showing, if I've got sock lint stuck to my toes or if I should've brushed my teeth first. I worry about how I feel, how I taste, how I smell, whether I've shaved recently and whether he cares, whether I'm making him do all the work or whether I'm doing enough, and most of all, I try to hide that extra chub on my belly. I'm usually excellent at controlling my thoughts and ignoring things that bother me, but I've been having a hell of a hard time doing it for the past few months.

I know a lot of this is psychosomatic and has to do with being stressed. I'm not relaxed and I'm very unhappy with myself. As those of you who have read here for awhile know, I lived with a man three years ago, and while I worked full-time, he sat at home playing computer games. Now, the situation is reversed: I'm sitting at home playing computer games while my man works. I feel so guilty and wretched, and while he assures me that everything's fine and that he'd rather have us together like this than in different countries and both working (I agree), it's very hard for me to get myself out of my head.

We've talked about the drought, and were even laughing about it earlier today, but it's definitely something that I'd like to avoid having happen in the future.

Usually, I'd put a post like this in my personal journal, where a grand total of six people would read it, and we'd possibly talk about it but mostly likely just ignore it. But it does have to do with sex, and there are so many more people who visit here that I figure someone's got to have some story to relate.

Oh, and, on a happier note: next week, on Tuesday, I'll be starting up a (not-safe-for-work) weekly feature here at Sex & Sox that will hopefully go over well!

Almost a Bride, in Mourning

2005-01-27T02:11:00.000-05:00

Well, it's taken me til now to be able to type out these words: Goodbye, Minty. I will miss you.

I could try to be poetic and classy, but the way I feel for you is a bit more raunchy than that. I've said it before, but I'll say it again, now that you'll be in New York, which is, as we all know, closer to Toronto than Boston is (though infinitely less interesting): please feel free to swing by my place and use me for some stress relief. I promise I'll even lock the chihuahua out of the bedroom so that his cold, wet little nose doesn't poke at all your manly bits (that's for my warm, soft little fingers and tongue).

I know, I know, you hear this from all the women, and the wife seems like she's pretty badass and would probably beat the snot out of me for putting these thoughts out there for the world (Mrs. Mientkiewicz, e-mail me to discuss; I promise you that we can be friends, but please note that 'friends' has a different connotation in my world than it does in more upstanding circles), but there are some feelings a fine Russian lass such as myself cannot idly dismiss.

I'm considering Mets fandom, though word on the street is that it's agonizing. I can deal with that, I think, but I don't know if I can put up with watching Pedro bat. It was funny in St. Louis, but I don't want to remember World Series Pedro, because it just makes me sad to think of how crankily (yes, that is a word, even if it isn't!) he left us.

So, darling, know that there is at least one heart (and various other parts) in Red Sox Nation (admittedly, not one that's officially registered; one might say I have not been authenticated, but you can come authenticate me anytime) aching for you, and wishing you only the best. Kentucky Fried Kevin may be funnier, but I don't need a man to make me laugh when I'd rather he make me moan.

As always,
Your not-so-secret admirer,
Tatiana.

Foosball....?!

2005-01-25T02:04:00.000-05:00

Everyone in the Boston sports blogosphere, at least my little corner of it, is writing about football. Now, I have been avoiding commenting on this sport, because it's not my forte, and I don't particularly like going along with the crowd, but I also am in desperate need of an update, so, here tis:

I like football. It's a fun, gritty sport that I enjoy playing, even though I always got my ass kicked when we played it in high school (for some reason, the boys were very aggressive towards me, though it might have had to do with the fact that I verbally castrated them everytime they looked cross-wise at me). However, I'm not attached to it -- at all -- and I don't feel any sense of loyalty towards any given team. If football's on the television and I've nothing better to do, I'll watch it, but it doesn't matter who is playing, or what the standings are ... I watch it to watch a game.

This is in stark contrast to my feelings about baseball, which I love. Well, okay, maybe I don't really love baseball, but I love the Red Sox, and I am attached to them. With ten major players on the roster at a time and 168+ games a season, I don't really have a choice.

But football? There's what, 19 games max in a season? And there's three different groups on a given team? How the hell do you get attached to all those men in such a short amount of time? One game a week, less if there's a bye? It just doesn't add up to me.

Maybe if I were in Boston, and surrounded by football fever, I'd feel it. I dunno. I mean, I'll still go to a Super Bowl party, should we be invited to one, and I'll still cheer on the Patriots, because I luv New England sports (I don't love New England as a whole; I hate the cold goddamned weather, even if I love the landscape -- no, this doesn't explain me living in Canada). But if it were any team other than the Patriots there against the Eagles, I'd cheer just as whole-heartedly for one of them.

So... someone explain?

No, It's Not Me.

2005-01-22T02:33:00.000-05:00

I was going to look for some interesting picture to put up, but I think this link (un)covers that.

It's extremely not safe for work. Unless you work someplace really cool that doesn't mind you having naked pictures on your screen, in which case, I need a job.

So, go look! There really is some interesting stuff in these two galleries.

Close Your Eyes...

... Open Your Imagination.

Why I Love Toronto

2005-01-21T00:11:00.000-05:00

There are a lot of reasons I love Toronto, but one of them is eye, the local 'alternative' lifestyle newsmagazine. While it's often full of itself and has a vaguely condescending tone to the writing, I still love flipping through it to find out what's going on in the city, and daydream about when I'll be able to afford going to all these artsy plays and concerts.

However, as anyone who reads knows, the absolute best part of these things are the personal ads. "27 y.o. SWM seeking A/BM to suck on. Not gay, but bi-curious"; "Sexy beautiful busty long hair brunette wants to please you. Orally gifted" and such.

But this? This takes the proverbial fucking cake.

Are you KIDDING me? As I told the boyfriend, I want an agent that travels the world looking for people to give me money to fuck me. God. What a life!

The Construction of a Zealot

2005-01-20T01:14:00.000-05:00

So I was sitting around the other day, trying to remember what it was that made me start liking baseball. My father hated sports, and my mother viewed them indifferently, so it was not a part of my life when I was a child. That time was filled with puppy dogs and video games, reading fantasy novels (with the notable exception of Tolkein, whose Lord of the Rings trilogy I picked up for the first time in September) and picking on my younger siblings (yes, I have an eighteen year old sister; no, you can't have her phone number).

I really only remember my mother and brother sitting down together in front of the television sometime in 2002 and watching baseball games together. Unbeknownst to me, my mother, who grew up in the same damned Connecticut town that she later uprooted us to, was a long-time Red Sox fan, and had been brought into the fold by her brother, who had grown up with aspirations of being on the team, like any good New England boy.

But I didn't watch baseball with them; hell, I didn't particularly like either of them. I suppose that, once I moved back to Connecticut in 2003, I must've sat down and watched baseball news with my family. That was in April; all I know is that, in May, when baseball began, I was living alone in my apartment, and I was addicted.

I'd wake up and go to work, 8:30-5:00, like every other good peon. I had the TV Guide with Nomar on the cover propped up on my desk, surrounded by a halo of "Dilbert" comics (comics that aren't quite so funny now that I'm not in those situations daily), and when the end of the day rolled around my mother would pick me up, tote me home, and I'd go for a run.

I loved running. I'd strip down, toss on a sports bra, tank top, little shorts, ankle socks, and the same damned pair of sneakers I've had since high school, and go. Men would drive by and beep at me. I'd take my time going by the fire station, often pausing to bend over and adjust my shoelaces or stopping to stretch (I have a serious thing for firetrucks and hot men draped upon them).

But the best part of my run was the end -- when I came home, started dinner, and turned on NESN's pregame stuff. It might be on mute while I blasted one CD or another, or I might not be watching it while playing on my laptop, but as soon as they showed that far-away shot of the ballpark, stands full of fans, maybe a white dot or two roaming the field, my full attention was on that television.

2003 is when I fell completely in love with the Red Sox. There was Pedro, the ace, his red glove shading his face, those eyes deep under the gleam of sweat on his brow, with that intense look towards home plate. There was Todd Walker, his stance wide, rocking to and fro on his heels, waiting. There was Grady, not yet taboo, still wholesome and grinning and quintessentially trustworthy, swiping his nose or tapping the bill of his cap or pinching his earlobe. There was Bill Mueller, or at least there he was when Shea Hillenbrand wasn't, and there was Kevin Millar. There was Manny Ramirez, a mysterious and powerful presence, and there was Johnny Damon, waiting to run head-first into the wall and bounce back off, ball in glove. There was Ortiz, huge, unknown, but poised to make an immeasurable impact on Boston baseball. There was Casey Fossum, strong and promising, who would later be the basic block upon which we acquired Schilling.

And there -- the center of my Red Sox universe -- was Nomar.
It was his muscular but lanky build and infamously aquiline nose that caught my attention, his consummate athleticism and obsessive quirks that kept it. I laid there on my couch, in a supine position that later lent itself quite well to sex, and while I watched the team, I studied him. I had heard of him. He graced a pair of posters decorating the hallway near my sister's bedroom, and I can still picture, vividly, that Sports Illustrated cover.

There were times he would make a play and my phone would ring, and before I even answered I knew it was my mother. "What. A. Man-God," she would say, and I would agree, then we'd cheerily exclaim, "Bye!" and hang up.

Of course, I grew to love the entire team. How could I not? I've come to feel that's how being a Boston fan is: all-or-nothing. Not that such a mentality is demanded of us, but something about our boys inspires such a passion that when you talk about the game at work the next day, you don't say, "They had a great game," you say, "We had a great game." You experienced the game, you exalted in every positive and grieved at every negative.

Now, with our long overdue victory, people worry about bandwagon jumpers. The media snickers and expects us to lose our identity as fans. There's a whole slew of naysayers waiting for us to self-destruct, carried down by our own self-righteousness and adoration.

You know what? They can keep on waiting. I may not know how I ended up being addicted to this crazy ride, but I sure don't see myself leaving it any time soon.

Filler

2005-01-18T20:26:00.000-05:00

Fine, so I have absolutely nothing to post. There's not shit for news in baseball (re-signings of Cornrowyo and Bellhornyo), and there's nothing sexual going on either.

So. Filler. My playlist on a diet :)

1. A Perfect Circle - Counting Bodies Like Sheep To The Rhythm Of The War Drums (6:10)
2. Auf der Maur - Followed The Waves (4:48)
3. Blonde Redhead - Elephant Woman (4:53)
4. Blonde Redhead - Melody (4:35)
5. Blonde Redhead - Misery Is A Butterfly (5:10)
6. Boomkat - The Wreckoning (3:21)
7. Boomkat - Wasting My Time (3:38)
8. Burlap To Cashmere - Skin Is Burning (3:45)
9. Call Me Alice - Life 101 (5:49)
10. Chris Cornell - Can't Change Me (3:23)
11. Delerium & Sarah McLachlan - Silence (6:33)
12. Edwyn Collins - A Girl Like You (3:57)
13. Evanescence - Bring Me To Life (3:58)
14. Evanescence - Going Under (3:34)
15. Evanescence - Lies (3:49)
16. Fiona Apple - Across the Universe (5:07)
17. Garbage - Cup of Coffee (4:33)
18. Garbage - Deadwood (4:23)
19. Garbage - Nobody Loves You (5:07)
20. Garbage - Sex Never Goes Out of Fashion (3:53)
21. Goldfrapp - Twist (3:32)
22. Greta Gaines - Firefly (3:49)
23. HIM - Gone With The Sin (4:21)
24. Hooverphonic - Shampoo (4:10)
25. hooverphonic - vinegar & salt (3:20)
26. Jakalope - Come On (3:26)
27. Jakalope - Creeper (Coming for You) (3:27)
28. Jakalope - Don't Cry (4:02)
29. Jakalope - Feel It (3:53)
30. Jakalope - Go Away (3:33)
31. Jakalope - Night After Night (3:41)
32. Jakalope - Nothing, Nowhere (4:58)
33. Jakalope - Pretty Life (3:36)
34. Jakalope - Screecher (2:36)
35. Jakalope - Tell Me Why (4:34)
36. Joydrop - Beautiful (3:59)
37. Joydrop - Beautiful (acoustic) (3:59)
38. Joydrop - No One (2:53)
39. Joydrop - Viberate (4:40)
40. K-Os - Crabbuckit (3:45)
41. Kara Jelly - This Time Around (3:00)
42. Kenna - Freetime (3:24)
43. Kenna - Hell Bent (4:54)
44. Kenna - Man Fading (4:05)
45. kill hannah - I Wanna Be A Kennedy (3:43)
46. Kittie - Charlotte (Acoustic) (3:47)
47. Lacuna Coil - Cold Heritage (5:23)
48. Lacuna Coil - Entwined (3:59)
49. Lacuna Coil - The Ghost Woman And The Hunter (4:08)
50. Lacuna Coil - Tight Rope (4:14)
51. Lacuna Coil - Unspoken (3:39)
52. Lamb - Gorecki (6:30)
53. Lovage - Anger Management (4:13)
54. Lovage - Archie & Veronica (6:02)
55. Maroon 5 - Shiver (2:58)
56. Maroon5 - Harder To Breathe (2:53)
57. Massive Attack - Angel (6:10)
58. Massive Attack - Dissolved Girl (6:07)
59. Massive Attack - Inertia Creeps (5:56)
60. Massive Attack - Risingson (4:58)
61. Metric - Raw Sugar (3:47)
62. Modest Mouse - Float On (3:29)
63. Moulin Rouge - El Tango De Roxanne (4:43)
64. Muse - Apocalypse Please (4:13)
65. Muse - Hysteria (3:47)
66. Muse - Time is Running Out (3:56)
67. Muse - TSP (3:29)
68. My Dying Bride - The Scarlet Garden (7:50)
69. Nine Inch Nails - Closer (6:13)
70. Placebo - Bigmouth Strikes Again (3:49)
71. Placebo - My Sweet Prince (5:46)
72. Placebo - Pure Morning (4:16)
73. Placebo - Running Up That Hill (Kate Bush Cover) (4:54)
74. Placebo - The Crawl (3:01)
75. Placebo - Without You I'm Nothing (4:11)
76. Portishead - Biscuit (5:04)
77. Portishead - Nobody Loves Me (4:11)
78. Portishead - Numb (3:58)
79. Portishead - Over (4:00)
80. Pretty Girls Make Graves - A Certain Cemetary (5:07)
81. Rachel Yamagata - Be Be Your Love (4:12)
82. Rachel Yamagata - I Want You (2:57)
83. Rachel Yamagata - Letter Read (3:44)
84. Rachel Yamagata - Under My Skin (4:13)
85. Rasputina - Tourniquet (3:22)
86. Sarah Slean - Lucky Me (3:29)
87. Sarah Slean - Sweet Ones (3:14)
88. Shea Seger - Clutch (3:55)
89. Sia - Butterflies (3:26)
90. Sia - Don't Bring Me Down (4:25)
91. Sia - Natale's Song (2:32)
92. Sia - Numb (4:40)
93. Sia - Sunday (4:17)
94. Sia - Sweet Potato (4:00)
95. Sia - The Bully (3:51)
96. Sia - Where I Belong (4:43)
97. Sneaker Pimps - Bloodsport (5:24)
98. Sneaker Pimps - Destroying Angel (4:26)
99. Sneaker Pimps - Grazes (6:43)
100. Sneaker Pimps - Low Five (4:40)
101. Somegirl - Morning (5:16)
102. Stacie Orrico - (There's Gotta Be)More To Life (3:20)
103. Steriogram - Walkie Talkie Man (2:16)
104. Switchblade Symphony - Anmorata (6:39)
105. Switchblade Symphony - Invisible (3:56)
106. System of a Down - Spiders (3:36)
107. The Cardigans - Erase/Rewind (3:38)
108. The Cardigans - Lovefool (3:18)
109. The Cardigans - My Favourite Game (3:39)
110. The Gathering - Even The Spirits Are Afraid (5:12)
111. The Gathering - Monsters (4:18)
112. The Gathering - Rollercoaster (4:45)
113. The Gathering - Saturnine (4:54)
114. The Gathering - Shot To Pieces (4:10)
115. The Gathering - Shrink (2:58)
116. The Killers - Mr Brightside (3:47)
117. The Wonders - That Thing You Do (2:46)
119. Tool - Sober (5:03)
120. Tori Amos - Raspberry Swirl (3:57)
121. Tori Amos - Siren (4:01)

I Kissed A Girl...

2005-01-16T19:42:00.000-05:00

When I was a freshman in high school (that's grade 9, for any Canadian readers), I had a penchant for antique nightgowns, Broadway musicals, and Ouija boards.

No, really, stick with me here, it's worth it.

I hung out with a group of girls who were universally decried as "freaky" geeks, because they were simply so un-cool that even acknowledging their existence lowered your standing in the eyes of your peers. Well, these were my friends, dammit all to hell, and their oddities were what made me like them (it should be noted that my reputation never recovered from this blow). We wrote moody, romantic poetry, told each other gothic love stories, and they worshipped Ann Rice while I despised her work, though I pretended to like her as well (this entailed carrying around one of her novels in my backpack at all times, along with the soundtrack to either "Les Miserables" or "Phantom of the Opera").

We had frequent slumber parties at the home of our 'leader', Kim. Kim lived in the most beautiful farmhouse with her grandma and mother, sang soprano with the voice of an angel, and had a body that, while vaguely pear-shaped, fourteen year-old girls would kill for (and fourteen year-old boys ogled shamelessly). That first semester, I was lucky enough to be her favourite, and while the other girls sat next to each other, Kim and I sat against each other.

Kim was also suffering -- well, perhaps joyfully living -- under the delusion that Lestat loved her. That he stood outside her home at night and sang to her with Michael Crawford's voice, purring words of love for her ears alone. "He'll do it with you there, I know," she told me once, as we sat beneath a tree sharing lunch, "I want you to spend the night on my birthday. He said he'd come to me then, and I want you there." Her earnest eyes were endlessly deep, and I happily agreed.

Her sixteenth birthday was on a chilly day in late November, when the trees were bare and the ground dusted with snow. Looking from her bedroom window, you could see a graveyard of tilted headstones and mold-covered monuments, surrounded by those half-crumbled stone walls that are so prevalent in New England. This, she claimed, was where he stood, and where she would go to be near to him.

Our group of geeks celebrated her birthday by playing the "Phantom of the Opera" soundtrack loudly enough to cover our breathless giggling and chattering about what the Ouija board told us. The other women of the household were too far away to hear us, but when 9 o'clock rolled around, Kim's mother came in with a smile and escorted all the other girls away to where their parents waited, in the graciously appointed living room.

"So, I want to show you this nightie I bought," I told her. There was an antique store across the road from where I lived (it should be noted that northeastern Connecticut, as I'm certain much of rural New England, is full of antique stores) that I visited weekly, to browse the new wares. This nightgown I was proud of: crafted of lustrous ivory silk with a black voile overlay and a sleek scarlet ribbon under the breasts, the low-cut black lace bodice had narrow spaghetti straps -- I could just picture a courtesan lounging in her apartment wearing it, shrugging off the sheer long-sleeved ebon surcoat that came with it. We romanticized prostitutes: Les Miserables featured one, and that was reason enough for us.

When I stepped into the bedroom wearing it, she squealed, "It's beautiful!" Then she frowned slightly and added, hesitant, "But... it doesn't fit you right."

I didn't have her shape; the nightgown hung on my gaunt adolescent form just like it had from the hanger. "Well, you try it on," I said. I still don't know if I actually had a plan, or if it all just fell together, but I changed back into my other clothing and handed her the nightie.

Imagine, then, a burlesque dancer, shapely, curvaceous, utterly woman, wearing something that fit like a glove, pushing her already ample breasts together and up, caressing her waist and hips, making of her something you could never have envisioned but, having seen, knew was the way she was meant to be seen. This was Kim, in that nightie. I couldn't speak when I saw her. "Happy birthday," I finally managed, "You can have it. I can't wear it after seeing how perfect it looks on you."

We sat down and continued playing on the Ouija board, me in a t-shirt and panties, her in ... that. She didn't wear the surcoat, having modeled it and discarded it, and as I allowed her to spell out the things she wanted to hear ("This is Lestat... I have come for you... We will be together tonight... You are so beautiful..."), I finally blurted, "Tell him he can take over my body."

Her smile lit up the room. She told him. She turned on the "Interview with the Vampire" soundtrack, and turned off the lights. She laid down on the bed, under the covers, her eyes closed, her face radiant, her lips curved into a slight smile. I laid beside her. I closed my eyes. I held her hand. I controlled my breathing, and counted to sixty. Then, with a quickly dismissed thought of "You should not be lying to her," I began to touch her.

It started with me sliding under the covers, my fingertips on her legs, pushing up the soft voile and the smooth silk, my lips on her hands. She was utterly still. She gasped when I rubbed my hands higher and, frightened, I pulled away. Laid down again. Told her it was done.

This happened twice. And twice she insisted, "No, it's okay, don't be scared Tatiana, he won't hurt you, and I don't mind."

So then. The third time. It's a charm, you know. This was where I kissed her (before, it should be noted, I had ever French-kissed a boy). This was where my fingertips traced a path for my lips, down her jaw, her throat, over her chest. I tugged at the neckline of the nightgown, running my tongue over the curves of her breasts, then sank under the covers, where the hem of the nightie twisted around her thighs from my previous explorations, and pushed it up to her waist. I kissed her plump thighs, pressed my lips to her high-cut black panties and breathed in the scent of her arousal, nuzzling against her but not daring more.

I can't recall how long this, the third time, went on for, but I remember her shuddering under my fingertips, and how powerful I felt, to have someone respond to me like this. I remember the whimpering of her breath, the fluttering of her eyelashes as she struggled to keep them closed. I remember how, while I touched her, she didn't touch me, and I didn't want her to.

And I remember, with perfect clarity, when she finally gasped the words that broke the spell: "Lestat. My love."

It was a shock to me. She actually believed what she had been 'told'. She thought a fictional character had taken over the body of her fifteen year old friend, and come to her on her sixteenth birthday, and was doing these things to her out of love. She didn't, at least in her state then, realize that it was me, Tatiana, the geeky little blonde alto (I later found out that I had been voted cutest girl in freshman chorus, but no boys would talk to me because of my friends).

I pulled away from her. I laid down. And, when her breathing slowed, I said, "It's over. It's just me."

After that night, our friendship cooled. I couldn't look her in the eye, and though she asked me repeatedly to come over for the night again, I wouldn't. I wouldn't be alone with her. I wouldn't sit next to her. I relinquished my place as her favourite and drifted off into loneliness. I ate lunch alone every single day of school for the rest of that year. That all changed the next year, when I found Melissa, but that... is a different story altogether.

10 Moments... and Some Ass.

2005-01-14T18:57:00.000-05:00

So, it's day two of "Tatiana as a Mute", installment four in the "Tatiana is Wicked Sick (And Not In A Good Way)" series. To celebrate my inability to speak -- and believe it or not, it's really pissing my boyfriend off that I don't talk, he says it's depressing -- this post is exploring 10 moments in Red Sox baseball that have left me (momentarily) speechless.

1. The first time I saw the picture above. I know, I know, I've used it here before. That doesn't make him any less hawt, and frankly divine.

2. Realizing that I was in love with Nomah.

3. Realizing that Nomar was not in love with me.

4. When Nomar got traded. No, really, he got traded. I know, I still question it myself, and I wonder whether Theo or Bronson has bigger balls.

5. Dude, we did what? And Mr. Mia Hamm wasn't on the team? Are you for fucking real?

6. July 29, 2003: Billy Mueller's three home run game. Where two of them were grand slams... from different sides of the plate.

7. Sitting with my mother, in Connecticut, watching the last game of the regular season in 2003, on NESN. Hearing Jerry Remy chirp, "Buenos noches, amigos!" and knowing that was the last game I'd watch on NESN for a long, long time.

8. The first time I saw Orlando Cabrera make an unbelievable, Superman-esque catch and thought, "Wow, I don't know if Nomar could've done that."

9. When Big Papi bounced a ball to me over the top of the Blue Jay's visitor dugout, and the asshole next to me snatched it up. Then Ortiz pointed at me, said nothing, and gently rolled a ball in my direction. Fucker is bad luck to hold on to while watching games on TV, but it sits under my monitor all the time. Ortiz is about the most huggable, loveable scary-man that I've ever laid eyes on.

10. What else could this possibly be? 86 years since the win. An 86-run ALCS. 1986: Last World Series appearance. A fucking eclipse, which has provided the loveliest desktop wallpaper for me for months now. Our. World Series Champion. BOSTON RED SOX. It still makes me giddy.

Oh, and, not related to baseball, but to lovely women: a gallery of NFL cheerleaders. Ohhh yeah.

Reincarnation (or, It's ALIVE!)

2005-01-07T13:33:00.000-05:00

For several weeks now, I've been thinking about where I'm going -- and where I've been -- with this site. In all honesty, it started out in my head as "my sex blog", because I have family members reading my personal site and I didn't want to discuss that aspect of my life there. There's one link to this site on there, buried back in the archives. So how did the whole Sox part come into it? I was trying to think of a name for this site -- and "Sex & Sox" just sounded really good to me. Plus, being pretty involved with reading, if not always participating in, several Red Sox fansites, I'd come to realize that I wanted to express my feelings about the team.

So. There's been a noticeable dearth in the entire "Sox" aspect of the site lately. Basically, that's because the two topics aren't precisely good fits with each other, but, whenever there's not baseball to talk about, there's sex to talk about.

I don't want to sit here and repeat the news stories you can find on other Red Sox sites, or from turning on NESN, or from listening to WEEI. Admittedly, neither of those last two are an option for me, so I get my sports news from other sites and don't want to come here and repeat it as though I'd heard it myself.

Anyhow. That being said, I need to step away from the 'smut' (I use that word lovingly; after all, it is my own work) and back towards my second goal (once I decided to bring in the Sox stuff): a readable blog, for both sexes, that has something witty and intelligent and occasionally insightful to say. Something more along the lines of the "Pondering Sex Workers" post, or "Open Letter to Monsieur Douglas Mientkiewicz" (one of my favourite amusing things I've written).

Basically, I feel that I've been ignoring some major aspects of what drew me to this venture in the first place, and a comment on Surviving Grady confirmed what I'd been feeling strange about for a bit.

So! Sorry to those of you who might have been put off by the direction I've been writing in for the last while. There's a bit of the old, and a bit of the new, in the works.

Ringin' in 2005

2005-01-03T18:40:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been faced with a situation that you thought you wanted to be part of, but had doubts? I was, on New Year's Eve. Well, actually, I have been, for the past year.

Several entries ago, I wrote about our friends who are a couple, that we've been toeing the line of having group sex with. They came over for dinner a few weeks back and things were a little bit strange; I didn't take a few cues I was given to go ahead and get the situation started, and nothing happened.

New Year's Eve, we were invited to their place.

I came to realize how well my boyfriend can orchestrate... how well he can read people.

He and I were sitting together on the loveseat; the woman was on a chair and her husband on the couch. After midnight, when we were all bright-eyed and laughing loudly and drunk, she stood up to get another drink and my boyfriend went and sat in her chair. She came back and sat next to me, and while the boys talked about the best way to teach karate or something, we snuggled up with our heads close to one another, hands high on each other's thighs, and whispered about going to see movies and concerts together.

My boyfriend moved to sit on the end of the couch closest to me, and pulled me over into his lap, talking to the woman. Twenty minutes of conversation between us all later, he nudged me off his lap and towards the other man, who I promptly curled up against. Shortly thereafter, the woman moved to sit between my boyfriend's legs, her chin resting up next to his groin.

I couldn't stop smiling.

I was always vaguely uncertain about how I'd feel to watch my boyfriend seduce someone else -- not the act of having sex, but the slow convincing, the stroking and smiling and smooching. Half an hour later, when she was next to him on the couch, his hands slipping up her shirt or down the front of her pants, those uncertainties disappeared. Snuggled up against her husband and shivering as he toyed with my hair or stroked the sides of my neck, we just watched the foreplay between the other two.

"We'll have to do this again," she whispered, "when there aren't so many people in the house." So true. There were two other couples (useless, in this context) in the house -- one near the master bedroom, one near the guest bedroom we'd be sleeping in. Our orgy wasn't an option, that night.

Hours later we separated, and as the boyfriend and I stripped down and crawled into the bed together, I asked, "Sex?"

"Tired," he replied, "Drunk. I don't know..."

That wasn't about to stop me -- not after a night-long ritual of arousal and seduction, watching those not-so-innocent but restrained flirtations that aren't usually a part of adult life. We (I) don't take our (my) time with lovers: we meet them, we make a tacit agreement to sleep together, we sleep together. There is no courtship, no "getting to know" one another; there is the simple acknowledgement that "I want to fuck you" and it goes.

At least, that was my experience. I recall inviting a male friend down from New York to spend the weekend with me in my apartment in Connecticut. As we sat talking in the living room, I said, "I should go get the extra blanket and pillows for you," followed by him looked me straight in the eye and replying, "Don't play around like that... we're sleeping together." He was my first after my ex, and I realized that lying to myself, and whoever it was I wanted to sleep with, was silly: a single, virile man wasn't going to refuse a willing woman.

Anyhow, I needed that sex we had on New Year's Eve, the boyfriend and I. I needed to bite my lip and control my voice, because I couldn't control my desires. I needed the erotic connection with him that drew us together, rather than the mental one that keeps us going. I needed to scratch my nails down his back and hiss that he was mine and know that, even though he had been focused on another woman, I was his ultimate aphrodisiac.

I needed a rough, feral, growling fuck. I got it.

And when we'd both orgasmed, he leaned over me and we kissed and kissed, quick, sloppy, alcohol-scented kisses, gasping "I love you, I love you," between them.

Happy New Year.

It IS...

2004-12-24T13:47:00.000-05:00

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

(Bow to me and my Photoshop prowess!)

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

2004-12-21T11:32:00.000-05:00

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.

It Wasn't Me!

2004-12-20T13:05:00.000-05:00

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?"

What?

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!"

Is this the same Burger Barn as LAST week?

2004-12-17T18:15:00.000-05:00

(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?

Asstasticism

2004-12-14T20:26:00.000-05:00

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!)

Pedro... Is... Gone?

2004-12-13T22:32:00.001-05:00

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.

My Thoughts:

2004-12-12T01:25:00.000-05:00

Anal.

Sex.

Rocks.

I have the munchies.

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

2004-12-10T20:21:00.000-05:00

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.

Reflection

2004-12-10T16:09:00.000-05:00

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).

The win probability was epsilon...

2004-12-08T02:06:00.000-05:00

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

Casey's Random Batting Trial

Enjoy!

Kissy-Kissy, Big Boy!

2004-12-07T21:38:00.000-05:00

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?

Answer to a Question

2004-12-06T17:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Sacred Sexuality

2004-12-05T18:25:00.000-05:00

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?

Fuck the Cranky Outta Me

2004-12-03T15:36:00.000-05:00

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.

Open Letter to Monsieur Douglas Mientkiewicz

2004-11-30T18:37:00.000-05:00

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.)

Of Seeds and Skydomes

2004-11-29T16:44:00.000-05:00

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.

Bodypaint

2004-11-24T23:01:00.000-05:00

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.

Farewell, Buff Puff

2004-11-23T16:47:00.001-05:00

I had very un-kosher thoughts about you.

Too bad you never got to spank me for them.

Love,
Tatiana.

Mmmm....

2004-11-22T19:41:00.000-05:00

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.

Pierce My Body The Way You Did My Heart Years Past

2004-11-21T20:55:00.000-05:00

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!!

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

2004-11-19T15:41:00.000-05:00

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.

My RPG idea

2004-11-17T22:50:00.000-05:00

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

Bugger Steiney!

2004-11-17T17:37:00.000-05:00

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.

You Can't Have It Both Ways

2004-11-15T18:05:00.000-05:00

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?

What Sucks Is This...

2004-11-14T02:33:00.000-05:00

... 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.

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

2004-11-10T18:50:00.000-05:00

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.

Corselet

2004-11-07T21:13:00.000-05:00

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?

Sharing Sox

2004-11-05T22:51:00.000-05:00

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!

Wearing: Pale Yellow jammie pants...

2004-11-02T15:33:00.000-05:00

... 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.

There's a smile on my face, for the whole human race....

2004-10-31T18:58:00.000-05:00

... even Yankees fans!

I still haven't stopped smiling.

Last night we went to visit some friends for dinner, and as soon as we walked in the door I exclaimed, "Hi! The Red Sox won the World Series!" and proudly pointed at my (pink) Boston cap. They smiled and nodded, not being baseball people at all (they mountain bike), but I couldn't have been happier. I want to share it with the world: I am a fangirl of the World Champion Boston Red Sox.
I've written up a Christmas list of all the Red Sox paraphenilia I want. I want the "Pigs Can Fly" shirt from theredseat.com desperately. Flying pigs is a running joke (hehehe) in my family, though the manmeat doesn't get it. I want the MLB.com adjustable cap (since it's dark blue, I could even get the man to wear it), polo shirt (even though for $50 + shipping I'll never own it), and the girly gray sweatshirt (again, $50 + shipping so I'll never own it). If I had a job, I'd so splurge, but I don't, soooo... I'm dependent on other people's kindness!

Insofar as the 'sex' part of this site goes, well, I'm still not quite sure how I want to handle it. I think talking about sex and sexuality in a general, opinionated way is better than getting into details about my personal sex life. We'll see.

Try this on for size:

2004-10-28T11:34:00.000-04:00

Feels fuckin' good, doesn't it? I don't know what else to say. I know that I'm thrilled with our boys, and that I am a proud fangirl of a World Championship team. I know that I didn't all of the sudden lose my reason for existing and curl up in a fetal position, now that an 86 year long drought has been broken. As much as my boyfriend has expected me to, I'm fairly certain he's pleased that I didn't. I'm so happy for my uncle, who years ago said to me, his voice thick with yearning, "I just want to see them win it before I die." Well, Uncle Vic, you've still got half your life ahead of you, and they did it. I'm so happy for my fourteen year old brother, who after the Nomar trade was furious with the team, not understanding why his idol had been shipped away, but who can now don his World Series 2004 cap and know he has an entire organization to idolize. What fan could not see and hear the admiration of those players for us, in all the post game interviews? What fan could not feel their relentless gratitude for our support, for us keeping the faith? There, Jared, is something to aspire to: a brotherhood of appreciation.

I started crying after the second our of the ninth inning. The camera cut away from the field to show David Ortiz, pointing with both hands up towards the sky, shaking his fingers slightly and smiling broadly as he whispered. He held up one finger, and a sparkle came to his eyes; he raised his other hand again and spoke once more. How sweet, I thought, he's praying! A moment later, I realized he wasn't "praying" in a traditional sense -- he was talking to his mother.

We have a World Champion team in every sense, people. They are not just sports icons, but role-models of a personality, a lifestyle, and a fortitude that we should all aspire to.

It's time for a dynasty.

Albert Who-Holes?

2004-10-27T16:39:00.000-04:00

What a weekend! Could we possibly have asked for more?

We're up 3-0. In the World Series. The Boston Red Sox.

With that said, and with my delight understood, I have this to add:

It's not as exciting as I thought it would be.

It hasn't been a challenge thus far, and while I fully expect the Cardinals to come out fighting and fiery tonight, I expect our boys to play eighty-six times as ferociously as they have. I don't think that the history we just wrote will repeat itself against us; while I'm certain that would be "poetic justice" in the mind of Yankees fans, it would be unnecessarily cruel to anyone with a heart. It's not that I don't want this World Series win; I do. I want a fucking dynasty. I want a win for those people who have been living and breathing this team for longer than I have -- I only became a rabid fan last year, though I've loved them for longer than that.

I've been embarrassed by our errors, and amazed when we won despite them. I've been cheering when we capitalized on the Cardinals's errors (Suppan, nuff said), but I've sympathized deep in the pit of my stomach with the blank-faced fans sitting in the stands staring with disbelief at the field.

I feel for the enemy. God help me, but I do. I love our team and I bleed for them, and I want desperately to see a fourth win for us in this Series, but I really and honestly do wish this were more pleasant for the St. Louis fans to be watching. Not so pleasant that Red Sox Nation is moping, mind you.

Just... not like this.

We've held their offense down and we've broken through the weak points of their defense. Tonight, I want to see a battle. I don't want to see us handed the game on a golden platter by Edmonds wearing a French maid costume. I don't want to see Rolen bend over at the plate, smiling, and hand Tek the lube. I don't want to see the Cardinals win, but I want to see them battle.

I want intensity. I want this to feel like a World Series.

----------------------
Side note: I'm not reading any blogs or visiting any Red Sox fan sites (including Simmons!) until this Series is over. It's a suspicion: I didn't do it while I was gone, and we won three games. Hopefully, this means I'll be back on them tomorrow.

Integrity & Peace

2004-10-22T11:20:00.000-04:00

This is humbling, disgusting, and a rude slap to the face.

We are better than this, Red Sox Nation. Victory does not necessitate nor validate violence.

I encourage everyone to visit http://www.heraldinteractive.com/contactus/index.bg and fill out the form, which is the online feedback for the Herald, expressing your disdain for their "shock and awe" tactics of publishing a picture of the dying Victoria Snelgrove on their front page. Certainly, let us honour her memory, but let us not glamourize her final moments.

No Sex In My Own Bedroom!

2004-10-22T04:35:00.000-04:00

Confession! I can't have sex at my mother's house, and that's where I'll be this weekend. The manmeat and I are leaving for the 9-hour, international (Ontario to Connecticut!) drive sometime around 11pm tonight and returning on Tuesday; we'll be staying there. I miss my family, as I haven't seen them since the beginning of the year, so I'm really looking forward to it.

However. Sex. In my teenage-self's bed. Next to my sister's bedroom. In my mother's house.

We've done it before, and it was just totally freaky. Though we were quiet and it was very slow and subtle (too much so, for my tastes!), there was still that nervousness that someone from my family could walk in. It happened before, the first day we met; my mother decided to drop by at 9:30 PM and there I was, riding him on the couch, and I had to roll off him as he went racing upstairs naked and locked himself in the bathroom, while my mother ran after him. My bathroom was right there, so I managed to put it on before I had to literally block her. It was quite the dramatic experience (all of his clothing was, well, thrown behind the couch, so there wasn't time for him to grab it and talk face-to-face with her. You should've seen the look she gave him when they actually "met" -- she put friggin' nuclear missiles to the head to shame), and it's not one I think we're keen to repeat. Especially when my mother asked me, "Please don't have sex while people are home."

I should also mention that my mother once told me that when my man and I look at each other, you can tell that we just want to devour each other. It still makes me smile.

Anyhow, I won't be around til Tuesday, so sayonara!

Free reign of the credit card, WHAT!?

2004-10-21T17:04:00.000-04:00

So, this afternoon as my boyfriend left for work, he gave me his credit card and made me practice signing his name (it's quite easy). I've been complaining about needing razors and the dog needing treats and such; just before he closed the door to leave, he said, "Just use that to get whatever you need."

Like... World Series tickets? We'll be in the area....

He'd kill me (I'd probably kill myself too), but wow, the temptation is there. It's strong. It's a love for twenty-five men and their organization that just can't top the love I have for my man, but it sure is trying to!

Oh, and...

2004-10-21T01:41:00.000-04:00

Curt Schilling, in reference to the Yankees said, "mystique and aura, those are dancers in a nightclub". Fuckin' right.

ALCS, 4-3, RED SOX, FUCKIN' RIGHT!!

2004-10-21T01:09:00.000-04:00

Between innings, I was pacing. Desperately. Wearing a track from my living room to the dining room, through the kitchen and back again. The first few times, Mannybear followed me, thinking he'd get a treat out of it; he stopped.

My heart was residing somewhere near my tonsils, fluttering wildly. Everything the Red Sox did was both beautiful and terrifying; I gasped "Thank God" at every catch they made, every throw they finished up, every Yankee that they got out, every bloody positive thing that happened, no matter how routine.

Because nothing tonight was routine. The magnitude of every action in that park (where I saw my first Red Sox game, an 11-2 drubbing on July 5th 2003, with the man I plan to spend my life with) is amplified a thousandfold.

Our season is one inning long. This resonated within me still. Hell, I feel like our season is one breath long; every moment is to be cherished. I watch Derek Lowe with a deep-rooted goodwill: it was not 'his' year, but his 14 wins were eclipsed by Schilling arriving and Pedro "maturing". He won't be back with us next year, but I hope he finds a place to enjoy. I do. I hope his performances in this ALCS warrant him a big, fat, contract.

MVPapi!

See you Saturday!

ALCS, 3-3, Yeah, Baby!!

2004-10-20T01:26:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I will have multi-purpose sex. Now, usually, when my boyfriend comes home, he is tired and doesn't want to have sex; I will sway up to him, wearing just one of his t-shirts and a pair of lacy panties, eyes bright and pupils large, smiling, sliding my hands up under his shirt, then down to his pants, and drop to my knees.

How's that multi-purpose? Well, to start with, it's always nice to have sex just to say "I love you". Which I do. However, I also fucked up my knee somehow earlier and it's felt like it needs to be "popped" for the last 10 hours; I figure if we get some doggy style going on, that's bound to work my knee and hopefully get whatever tendon's out of place back where it belongs.

Third, and most overwhelmingly, the Red Sox won!!! Now, I'm not going to talk about tomorrow's game... I'm going to let that come as it does. I'm going to keep my feelings about that stored closely to my heart, and just bask in how I feel right now. And right now? I feel amazing.

A-Rod has absolutely no class. I'll admit that there have been times this season that I wished he were on our team. Usually these transgressions in sentiment have been straightened out by seeing Manny, who would have been gone; tonight, I'm positive that I will never feel them again. After his childishly batting away Bronson Arroyo's glove and knocking the baseball out, trying to weasel his way onto first, I am convinced that he is Derek Jeter's evil scumspawn twin. They can rot in hell, together.

God, there's baseball tomorrow. I can't believe how good it feels to know this.

ALCS, 3-2, Y*nkees

2004-10-18T23:03:00.000-04:00

Two wins. Two more to go and we're there. We're that much closer.

So this is what it feels like to fly...

ALCS, 3-1, Y*nkees

2004-10-18T14:55:00.000-04:00

But what a sweet one win that is.

I spent the last four innings of the game last night (this morning) staring at the TV, hooting and hollering and pumping my fist the way I'd imagined only NASCAR fans to do but apparently segues perfectly into Red Sox lovers. My boyfriend was laughing at me, my puppy bouncing excitedly around me, but I was not here... I was at Fenway. My heart was filled with love and hope and fear, excitement and tension and faith.

Ninth inning. JD's running to first and Lando's about to come up. I'm cringing inside, but outside I'm cheering him on as though he's the best offensive bat in the history of baseball, an amazing clutch hitter. I grab my pink Red Sox cap and turn it inside out. I ask my boyfriend (who has come to sit beside me) where his baseball cap is, and he glances behind me and says, "I don't know." I reach behind me. It's right there, on top of the couch. Not looking away from the television and Lando's warming up, I turn the hat inside out and hold it towards him. He refuses, telling me it looks goofy. This warrants him a ferocious glare, but I put his hat on top of mine. Two rally caps. Good mojo, right?

Um, no. Apparently, it's bad mojo. Lando strikes out in record time and I throw my boyfriend's hat across the room in utter disgust, just as I realize who's coming up. My breath catches in my throat and I manage to choke out, "Manny. Honey. It's Manny."

Manny Ramirez, "Just Manny being Manny", Manny-fest Destiny, the only man with that kind of face that I have ever been sexually aroused by, the only one I would let fuck me, and hard at that. "Manny."

My toes are wiggling, the fingers of one hand drumming on my fleece pants, the others digging into my boyfriend's leg. God bless him, he puts up with it.

Manny gets on base. I am screaming, "BIG PAPI! BIIIIIIIIG PAPI!" I wonder if my neighbors think I'm having sex. So few people watch baseball in Canada that I bet ours is the only apartment in the building that is, but I've got enough passion in me to put all of these Maple Leafs lovers to shame. "We haven't won a Stanley Cup since" *sniffle, sob* "1967! For shame!" For shame is right.

"C'mon, Ortizzle." I can't believe I called him that. He looks like a behemoth at the plate, his eyes displaying a ferocity and intensity that makes me firmly believe he is going to blow this game open... or more accurately, shut it down. I pick up my chihuahua and rechristen him "Mannybear Ortizzle the 45th" by smearing some Kool-Aid on his forehead... he just tries to lick it off.

They battle. I wish I could remember exactly how it went, but I know that at some point when there's two strikes, my boyfriend says, "His ball!"

What?! I think. Then I remember. Ortiz's ball. He gave me one, at the "Roy Halladay bobblehead doll" game we went to at the Skydome; I was standing behind the Sox dugout during warmups and he was stretching. He came over and tossed a ball along the top of the dugout towards me; the guy next to me snatched it up and I almost killed him (behind me, I heard my boyfriend say, "That's it, buddy..."). Ortiz glanced at the guy, picked up another ball, pointed at me (I can't even imagine what a despondent look must have been on my face until that moment, where it changed into the world's giddiest grin) and gently rolled it over the top of the dugout.

"Last time I held that ball and prayed for him to do well he didn't do anything!" I protest. And stand up, sprinting over to my computer desk to grab it. I caress it. I whisper to the ball that while it was destined for me, the one coming towards Ortiz is destined for greatness.

Ortiz strikes out.

Extra innings.

I could go on and on about what happened during those innings, but the 9th was the most intense for me. Papi making the hit that won the game made me smile: that was the hit he'd wanted in the 9th.

I hope he slept well and dreamt sweetly. I hope they all did. We've got some baseball to play.

Game 3 Log

2004-10-17T06:30:00.000-04:00

Simmons-esque (but neither as funny nor as coherent), I kept a log last night while watching the game. Since I can't sleep and I smell like rum, I had the time to type it out at an hour that I haven't been awake for in QUITE awhile. Here it is, for your perusal.

8:15 -
Immediately preceeding Jeter's walk-off walk, the FOX announcers remind us that the Yankees are up 2-0 in the series. Thanks. I didn't know that. Assholes.

8:16 -
Manny is slow. I hate the run-Jeter, who was "sensing it, sniffing it" (man, these guys are poetic). Ass-road is on 2nd. I wish him death -- what's up with unlucky #13?!

8:17 -
Sheffield fouls off the 0-2 pitch and I wish it'd conked him on the nose. I'm feeling violent. As we were walking back from picking up Pepsi (I don't do Coke with my rum), my man started to talk about how I, and all Red Sox fans, have an inferiority complex. Despite the fact that he's joking, he should know better than that, tonight. I called him "an asshole" and let him know that "we're not friends anymore".

8:22 -
I just threw up in my mouth. Seven times -- once for every time I screamed FUCK! watching Matsui's ball fly.

8:25 -
What they do to us, we can do to them. I HAVE to keep the faith.
*I HAVE to keep drinking.
*Double play -- but I still hate them all.

8:29 -
Kevin Brown had an "intestinal parasite"... teehee!

8:31 -
As has been said elsewhere... don't worry, Tito. You can watch Wapner after the game.

8:32 -
Mark Bellhorn strikes out. There's no noise from the crowd. It's funereeal. Manny comes up -- I hear a few shouts.
*More rum goes in my drink.
*FOX: Really? You want to get batters out, as a pitcher? AMAZING!

8:34 -
I can't believe Manny got on base.

8:37 -
As I'm shouting, "YOU ARE NOT FAST, MANNY!", he gets tagged out.

8:41 -
Leadoff double for the Yankees.
*Replay shows SVEUM WAVING Manny to third. Someone make him an amputee. Please.

8:53 -
Oh, thank God!! Nixon's home run just lifted the weight that's been on my heart since the first loss. He's a God. Someone put him in a toga and laurel crown.

8:55 -
"If you don't think you can lift a ball that's low..." YOU'VE NEVER WATCHED BASEBALL!

8:58 -
I have no idea what the Fenway Faithful are chanting, but I love them for it.
*A-Rod is an ass monkey.

9:01 -
Jesus is in the house. Keep the faith.
*My boyfriend tells me I sound like I'm having an orgasm. Why, yes! Yes, I do. And isn't it fucking lovely?!

9:05 -
Full count to Bellhorn. I would give my left tit to be at Fenway.

9:08 -
Yup. I'd definitely have given my tit for that. Maybe all of our blowjob mojo works?

9:10 -
Jesus was clipping his toenails. The hell?

9:14 -
This is a Major League breaking ball? Really? I thought it was Little League -- I was wondering why the kids were so tall!

9:28 -
I don't understand a "balk" but I intensely dislike it. A ton.
*Francona arguing is... futile. And disturbing.
*I'm tired of chasing the Yankees.

9:41 -
The phrase "streaking Patriots" makes me giggle the way the thought of Lowe does not.

9:44 -
Tek's gyrations to stay on third are oddly arousing. I am THRILLED that they switched Billy and Lando in the lineup.
*I don't dare to hope, but I keep the faith.

9:53 -
Billy out at the plate. Man says, "Some weird fucking plays in this game, I have to admit." I smile and continue drinking my rum & coke & rum.
*I hope that Jesus's newly-clipped toenails help him hit better, cause that's what I care about.
*They don't.

10:01 -
Boyfriend's response to me saying, "How can you not hate Jeter, I mean, just look at him!" is a stunning "I dunno, I think he's kinda cute."

10:07 -
Sheffield's home tun. I ask my man if he will kill me. He launches into a diatribe on how "it's just a game" and how I "take it too seriously". Needless to say, I write this off as him not understanding and start plotting a glorious death that implicates all the Yankees.

10:15 -
"This game may never end" -- yeah, that's exactly what I feel like. This is like an eternal, never-ending nightmare.
*Not nightmarishly at all, my mother is on the phone with me -- she's hilarious, bitching not only about the FOX announcers but the ESPN ones as well.

10:30 -
Big Papi gets tagged out on Tek's broken bat. I tell my mother, "I hate the Yankees with a passion that burns hotter than the fires of Mount Doom." She agrees: "Me hates the Yankees!"

10:34 -
Top of the 5th, Lando's "brilliant play" is reminiscent of Nomar only in a "that's more beautiful than anything Nomar would do" kind of way. I realize this is the first time I have thought such a thing about him, and smile.

10:38 -
"Fantasy Player": Clemens. I can't control my gag reflex and I'm sure Mike Piazza, if he's watching, feels the same. These FOX announcers so fucking love Yankees and ex-Yankees cock.

10:42 -
13-6: Why does God hate us? We are not a bad team. There is a divine hand at play here. I am not a "serious" Curse believer; that is, I jokingly refer to it, but I do not believe it.

I'm literally in pain. I can't comprehend this endless chase; my love for the Red Sox is as deep as my fury at their betrayal of that love. I TRUST them to win. I LONG for them to win. When they lose, I bleed for them; when they win, I breathe for them. I know they want to win -- after all, who would want to lose? I can't cant understand why it is that we forever succumb to this team.

I wonder if the Yankees delight is in defeating us, or simply in winning. After seeing their lacklustre (in comparison to the Sox reaction) "celebrations" when they won the ALDS this year, I'm uncertain that it's either.

10:52 -
Still 13-6. What the heck, we challenged this deficit in Game One. We can do it again!

10:58 -
I tell my boyfriend, "I'm trying to get drunk, but it's just not working. All I want is to drink away the pain." I realize I sound like an alcoholic, and don't even care.
*They praise Clemens. I feel like tarring and feathering someone.

11:02 -
Between the top and bottom of this inning, I go to the lav. I think deep thoughts. I come out and stick my picture up against the corner of the TV, using the static to keep it there. I'm refreshed, eager, and confident.
*"C'mon baby, you can do it," I keep repeating.
*Stephen King's response to "How horrifying is this for a Red Sox fan?" rocks. All of his responses are awesome and the FOX reporter is a moron. He's quite silenced and I am ferociously proud of Kin. I've never read one of his books, but I will have a copy of 'Faithful'.
*I immediately wonder if my support of him is a bad thing. And remind myself I don't believe in the Curse.

11:14 -
D. Lowe has a chip on his shoulder, they say. I'd like to see him prove us wrong.
*Also, I LOVE JESUS!!
*Oh, and I am definitely drunk. Gloriously drunk.
*I would like to point out that Bellhorn's error would not have been Pokey's.
*Tim Wakefield's gaze is wounded. But utterly captivating.

11:18 -
Hey! A Maple Leafs team has come back from an 0-3 deficit in a best of 7 series! My man loves the Leafs! If... IF... we get down 0-3, we could win. Karma rocks!

11:22 -
I bet Jeter and A-Rod enjoy anal sex with one another. I enjoy anal sex.
*I bet Matsui does not get any sex. That's why he hits. He has a lot of sexual frustration.
*I love sushi. I hate Japan for loving him.
*When my mom suggested that we pursue him, I nearly hung up on her.

11:25 -
16-6. My heart aches. I want to commit seppuku. I don't blame Jesus. I just ache for him.
*Fenway. Please. Cheer on our boys. My god. Give them hope. Please.

11:28 -
17-6. I can't even describe it. I don't need to. You know. And you know what else? I STILL BELIEVE in our boys.

11:32 -
In my drunken stumbling, I lose my purple pen, god fucking dammit. I am positive that this is a very bad omen. I scream at Sgt. Dan Clark as he sings "God Bless America" to just yell "Go Red Sox!" when he's done.
*I can't see straight. Hell, I can't see crooked. I'm delirious and completely still optimistic. Every Red Sox hit is greeted with a childishly-voice "Yay!" and every Yankee hit with an emphatic, un-lady-like "FUCK!"
*I want to marry Captain Morgan.

11:36 -
Home run Tek! 17-8! There is hope! He is such a beautigul man. Fenway, cheer like they're only one run behind.
*FOX, don't talk about Ortiz being hurt. It is so not funny.
*My toes are so cold.

11:39 -
I can hear a child yelling "Let's go Red Sox!" That is what we all need: that youthful exuberance and faith. Believe. If not today, tomorrow. If not tomorrow, next year. "These boots were made for walkin', and that's just what they'll do, and one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you!"

11:47 -
Tek and Lando, on 2nd and 1st. I delightedly inform my man, "If Jesus hits a home run, we'll only be 6 runs back!" He replies, "Cool!" and I think he pities me. I'm going to get "I'm sorry you were stressed tonight sex!" (Author's note: I didn't; I ended up passing out.)
*"7th inning of a 17 day game." That was actually kinda clever!
*I telepathically communicate to Matsui that he doesn't want to catch Damon's fly ball. He does not comply. I hex all of the Yankees fans that sent him the opposite message.

11:51 -
I'm watching the game on a Canadian station, so during breaks in the game, there are commercials about hockey. Man. They miss their hockey up here.

11:53 -
The Belli? I love the Belli! He has the most beautiful eyes, so soulful. And hey, I'm a woman, I can talk about a man's eyes without it sounding homoerotic, obviously.
*Myers's pitching was sublime. Literally sweet. I'd so fuck him.
*Saying "Byung-Hyun Kim" when you're drunk can be a really fun experience.
*And, FOX, my glass is half-full.
*Lowe's smile actually comforts me. Comforts! Lowe! Amen. I hope he does well tomorrow. And if he does, I hope he gets a big fat contract (elsewhere) next season.

11:57 -
"Never been done. Why not?" Why not, indeed. I smile, but the man laughs. "We can still win," I let him know. I believe it. Being pickled is awesome for a game like this.
*He asks me if I'm going crazy when I flip out at him for changing the channel to SNL. I tell him we can still win. He says I'm delusional (but I win anyways). We make an out on Jeter. I stick my tongue out at him (my man), which my chihuahua apparently takes as an invitation as he immediately hops into my lap and starts licking my face off.

12:04 -
This is awesome. I don't care for the circumstances, but I'm thrilled to have watched my boys for this long. I also found my purple pen. I had stuck it in my ponytail, so it was with me the whole time.
*I hate FOX. Why had they not shown any celebratory fans during their shitty montage? Because they are Yankee cock-suckers, that's why. Fuckers.

12:07 -
We can still win. I am insisting on this, lest I lose my sanity.

12:09 -
The Toronto sportscasters have no faith. Unrelated, they talk about St. Louis and Houston and say "Pujols". I giggle and chirp, "Poo Holes!" My boyfriend doesn't get it, but I find it to be an unguent. Something. Tomorrow. Four in a row. Believe it.

12:11 -
Despite how numb my head is, I say, "Words cannot even encompass how I feel about him." (Matsui)

12:18 -
I recommend drunkenness as the ideal state in which to watch a game. This is the only post-season Sox game for which I will be in such a way. It sure is like wearing rose-coloured glasses, ones that make you laugh! (Author's note: And rather wryly, I must admit that it is NOT the ideal state in which to write something that you later intend to read. Good grief!)

12:24 -
Bottom of the 9th. One out. Nixon up. I know my faith is unfounded. Pitch #400.
*"We can change history. Believe it." I don't. But we can create the future. We can own tomorrow. The day is ours. Let's hold it, and savour it. In the end, after all, the good guys always win.

Commenting

2004-10-16T13:01:00.000-04:00

I registered with Halospot and set up that commenting system instead of the default crappy Blogspot one. Sorry to my very first commenter... your kindness has now been lost to the ether!

I'm on Mint's side!

2004-10-16T11:04:00.000-04:00

Well, since there's no game news to talk about (which could, in and of itself, be a good thing, though God knows I'm desperately anticipating tonight's game), I thought this was worth note: An article on the relationship between Alex Rodriguez and Doug Mientkiewicz. I remember hearing someone referring to the fact that they'd played sports together in high school, but hadn't realized that it wasn't just ANY sports teams: the football team was excellent and the baseball team, national champions.

So tell me this, now: Those shots of Doug on the FOX broadcasts, where he's gazing longingly at the field... don't they mean so much more now? What must it feel like, to be part of something that's so much in the public eye and yet remain in the background, watching your high school buddy be in the limelight? It's kind of one of those "so close, yet so far away" feelings, which I'm certain blows.

C'mon Tito, give him a chance. Put him out there. I don't care if it's the seventh inning and you can bet your ass he doesn't either. He just wants to play.

Pondering Sex Workers...

2004-10-15T22:04:00.000-04:00

Global Sex, pg 113: "This is not to deny the very real abuses and exploitation which surround the sex industry; it is to recognize that moral indignation is inadequate when people are forced into selling their bodies to survive and uncalled for when people enjoy a real choice."

Sometimes I wonder what it is that draws people into the sex industry (being a prostitute, an escort, and almost, a stripper). Is it a "last resort", an option when you feel like you have no others? I find it difficult to believe that the choice has anything to do with feeling desperate and worthless; certainly, it might be related to wanting to feel wanted, but in those professions you are patently labelling yourself as something that has worth. Those professions are ones wherein you offer your body and your services to someone for a price (whether this be a customer or an employer): you are worth these people's time, and worth their money.

I've thought about being a stripper. God knows I don't have quite the body for it: men do not want to see the girl next door with small breasts and a soft belly, but rather the porn-star candidate with a pillowy bosom and rock-hard abs (my boyfriend told me that one of his exes "had a body like a Barbie doll, long blonde hair, big tits, tiny waist"; needless to say, I was quite intimidated when we met). Now, I should also note that while I've never been to a strip club, nor encountered a prostitute, nor requested the services of an escort, I harbor no illusions that women (and men!) in these professions are all 'perfect' by Western standards; however, I'm certain that they don't have 20 extra pounds and ant-hill tits.

But that is a choice, and people in those professions, in North America at least, certainly have a choice as to whether or not it is one they will pursue. In places like India, no, choice is not always an issue: if you are a thirteen year old and your father is pimping you out, there's nothing to be done but to cope. However, I'm not writing from that perspective (not that it is unworthy, simply that it is not my current concern); I'm writing from the perspective of someone who lives where we do have choice.

Governments try to restrict it, of course, as they do so much else in the personal realm. I think this is a vast oversight that will become apparent in the following years, as the sentiment of "my body, my choice" comes to encompass far more than the abortion debate and reaches into the realm of sexuality as a whole, affecting such issues as virginity reconstruction, female genital mutilation, and homosexual marriages.

In any case, I believe that legalizing prostitution and regulating it as an industry rather than persecuting it as an abomination when sex is the most natural and primal of human urges is a wise move. Women and men in North America choose to be sex workers and rather than looking down our collective nose at both them and their patrons, we would do a far better service to ourselves and our country by recognizing their work as worthwhile. Someday I'll write an actual dissertative essay on this, but for now, this'll do!

Sensual Massage

2004-10-15T21:02:00.000-04:00

The Sox game is rained out *groans* so I decided to do some "rainy night" reading. I've been wanting to learn a bit more about massage... since the man always appreciates massages. With the way he groans and his eyelids kinda flutter when I rub his feet, I think I'm doing well there. With this in mind, I decided to visit sexuality.org (which this week features a very non-sexual image of a large naked woman on the front page) and read the guide to erotic massage. "Perpetual Penetration" is a winner in my house and I'd suggest it to anyone!

I'm really feeling like I'm going to go stir-crazy waiting for Game 3. God, I don't want to wait; I just want it to happen. Tomorrow I have to pick up a two liter bottle of Pepsi and mix it up with some rum; I think I'm going to need it.

We Love Hair, Not Baseball!

2004-10-15T19:43:00.000-04:00

Good grief. I'm so over hearing about the Red Sox hairstyles. There's a link to an article on the GODDAMNED FRONT PAGE of redsox.com that's all about the boys' hairdos. Okay. Whoever the hell the weirdo out there is that cares so much about these baseball players' hair, could you please stop? It's really quite disturbing. None of us care that much. We really, really don't. Pedro could have a curly ponytail that fell down to his ass and as long as he could still pitch, I'm fine.

Besides, anyone that doesn't appreciate the beauty that is Johnny Damon's thick, dark, glossy, Native American hair is just lying to themselves.

Mmmmm... !

Concensus on the Surviving Grady thread devoted to "dress up" (gosh, it's like playing with dolls) seems to be that JD should be a pirate. I agree. A pirate, wearing a kilt. And nothing else but a tricorne.

Pink?!

2004-10-14T23:34:00.000-04:00

It's bloody pink here, eh? Why not?! I love pink, and I'm girly, and hence, my blog is too.

The Red Sox 2004 season is almost (!!) over, but that doesn't mean there won't be plenty of news to talk about; and besides that, my other passion, sex, is not only constant, but universal!

On that note, I'm currently reading Robert Altman's "Global Sex". It's pretty interesting thus far; it's an examination of how economic political issues effect sexuality, and shows that there are very similar manners in which people in different countries are coping with things like the AIDs crisis, the prevalence of Internet access, and the 'labelling' of different sexualities (with all the expected identity traits that come with that label).

Tomorrow, the Yankees will be at Fenway; it's time for our boys to blow them out of the "dirty water". Arroyo, our Saturnalia god, will show them!