a memory

Peach Trees: Deviant Art -- http://dimensionseven.deviantart.com/art/Peach-trees-95850546

dreaming fucking dreaming fucking dreaming fucking dreaming

we arrived back in the Steens Mountains after a long, dusty drive. up a narrow, rough road, the camping coolers rattling, our naked skin coated with a fine layer of dust. after a week of the pulsing, pounding noise of partying and dance music and mayhem and dust storms at Burning Man in Nevada, the solitude and peace of the Alvord Desert and mountains felt like a miraculous gift. decompression before the shock of re-entry into the real world.

we wound up the hillside to a ravine where a fruit orchard sprouted like a miniature eden. there, the green leafy branches hung heavy with peaches and cherries and apples. ripe and sweet. a soft, warm wind swirled through the treetops. the wild peaches i plucked were juicy and free of worms. peach nectar ran down my chin. i didn't wipe it off.

we set up camp and soon thereafter a hippie camped down in the orchard came trudging up to our camp. he was on his way to Eugene from Mexico...something about child custody and courts. we didn't pay too much attention. he was a scrawny, dirty strange man, but friendly and seemingly harmless and offered us some hash.

the sun began to set behind the dry golden hills and we stumbled around giggling in a hash haze. then the drug hit me hard right where it counts and i shoved my man into the tent, dragging him in there like a good horny cavewoman should. just thinking about fucking in that little cave, the yellow-lit thin-walled coccoon of our own making as our skin became hot and the day became cold....leaves me wanting all over again. we took a dip in the hot springs and let the warm minerals soak deep into our bones. that night we clung tightly together, nervous about the stranger in the weeds and kept half-awake by the howling wind that came racing across the desert.

in the morning i slipped out to pee and caught the sun in my lens. he soon followed and as the coffee water heated up on the little stove i tugged my flannel pajama bottoms down, kneeled atop the cooler, and caught his cock between my thighs. he took my shoulders in his hands and pulled my face towards the sky by my hair. he fucked me hard from behind, growling and grunting, his hand warming my ass with swift, firm slaps. he shuddered and pulled out and stroked himself until came on my face. his thick, warm nectar ran down my chin. i didn't wipe it off.

we fucked and fucked and fucked like animals on the hillside, the sun warming our backs while the hippie lie sleeping in the orchard below, dreaming with the snakes.

that morning, i became immortal.

Butter

We flirted in a kitchen, a slap here, a nipple pinch there, waggling and licking. We cook naked, of course. Makes waggling a helluva lot more fun. After 100 years of fucking, we're still flirting. I love that about us.

I got all hot and bothered reading about polygamists and octopus larvae in National Geographic. I could see his ass and chest and gorgeous muscular arms across the room while he fussed around with pans, getting the fat, white shrimp ready for the butter and garlic saute. The thick, glossy magazine paper on my fingertips and all those pretty pictures and the smell of hot butter and finely minced garlic heating up in the pan made me wet. His movements, an animal in our kitchen, made me melt. I could feel it on my hands before I did it, the warm, slippery slide of butter. The sweet, milky spread of buttered fist onto warm cock. The sheen, the heat, the soft moan when I reached around with my small hand and slathered him.

I stroked his buttered cock all shiny and polished and glistening with saliva and oil. The butter spattered in the hot pan, bits of garlic browning nicely.

My mind spun around nervously. The soft butter in the dish had just one little dip out of the top from my greedy finger. It would take a lot more than that to moisturize his beautiful ass. Impulse beat me to it. I smacked him hard across the cheeks and rubbed in a palm full of fresh, silky soft butter into his butt. The kitchen smelled like home, like sex, like bending over and grabbing hold and arching back and......"Oh yeah, how about a buttery nipple," he spun me around but his mind didn't follow, his mind doesn't care about messing up the butter cube. His whole hand dove in an snatched up a fistful and he pounded it into my chest. My heaving mounds, if this were a Zane Grey western, but it's not. He smeared it all over my aching little breasts and made those tiny, hard nipples glow.

The butter began to brown in the pan as the butter on our skin became slick with sweat. His butter-flavored tongue found my pulse and when he finally shoved my face onto his hard, buttered cock, I was overcome with lust. Sword swallower, fire breather, wanting to swallow him whole, I took him deep and long, the smell of warm butter surrounding me like the hot summer wind. He tossed the bowl of glistening shrimp into the pan and grabbed my hair furiously, bringing me to my knees, the head of his cock erasing all memory of civility, of humanity. The shrimp began to color as he pulled my drooling mouth to his and bruised my lips with passion, then brought me down again, harder, harder, his balls smacking my cheeks, a stream of cum and saliva pooling on the shiny triangle of linoleum between his feet.

The more I have, the more I want. If you're in the kitchen, get naked. If you're naked in the kitchen and you spy a butter dish off to the left, between the drying rack and the sink and the peanut jar, remove the cover and dip your fingers and start a food fight. 100 years from now, when you're still flirting and fucking and laughing and slapping and drooling and fire breathing, you'll thank me.

After that, go to the desert, find a mudhole, and jump in.

Recreation report

"The coho passage is nearly over, but winter steelhead numbers are looking good. Through Jan. 9, 812 winter steelhead had moved over the ladder. Hydro readings at Willamette Falls on Monday showed flows at 54,000 cfs, the water temperature at 44°, and the visibility low at 1.4 ft."
--Oregon Dept. of Fish & Wildlife Recreation Report

The winter storms just keep rolling in, here in OryGun, but they don't bring anything exciting like buckets of beautiful fluffy snow or frozen skating ponds. Just heavy layers of dark, grey clouds and rain and blustery wind. All kinds of rain. At least seven different kinds. Probably 20 or so types of drizzle, fog, mist, too. That's a lot of drizzle. A few sprinkles and the Californians freak out on the freeways. If "the orb" busts through for a few minutes, everybody goes nuts, looking up at the sun god for redemption. The winter sun is such a mean bitch, though. She usually only pops out for seconds and puts people in a frenzy, resulting in wrecks and fender benders and hour-long freeway delays. If it snows, the Oregonians wet themselves in a fit of panic over "driving in this stuff" and all hell breaks loose then, too.

Well, not ones to get down in the dumps over the missing orb, Californians, 20 kinds of drizzle, and another week of storms in the forecast (though they did promise a 3-hour dry weather window yesterday and by golly the forecast was right -- even saw "it" for an hour or so. It touched my face. I nearly wept with joy) we headed back out to the clothing optional beach on the weekend. Yep, optional. Even in winter.

A thin mist floated above the water. The rain came down in tiny droplets. Shots fired by duck hunters broke the silence now and then. There was no wind. There were no people, except for an old hippie with a metal detector -- in jeans. But on the way back, we noticed the denim was gone, revealing a pinkish white creature with a metal detector wandering up and down the shore.

We ran, did cartwheels, skipped, looked at birds, posed for the 10-second timer, played on logs. We took a health dip in the 44-degree Willamette, which felt like minus 10 degrees on my bare belly. We hugged and kissed and told winter to fuck off.

We warmed up in the truck with Lyle Lovett and John Prine, sipped some whiskey and went for a hike in search of winter birds and fern spores and snowberries.

Then we went home and ate catfish....that we bought at the grocery store.

Spank Me

Vintage spanking pics here

______________________________________


I got the fever. Spring fever, that is. Damn, it's still January. Too bad for me. I need a 'tude adjustment. Spank me. Klonk me over the head. Put me back to bed. Spank me again. Ply me with something that burns as it goes down.

Until the mysterious orb returns, it's all about polar bear swims, big bowls of buttery popcorn, down comforters, hard core Scrabble, and big ol' attitude adjustments.


It's a great time to write and submit and bend over, yes? A good time to set goals. A great time to ponder. A wonderful time to stare at the cold, grey sky and watch the rain come down. The other day the weather lady actually said this: "You'll have your best chance to see rain this weekend along the coast." BAK said, "Oh look, I think I see a raindrop. Should we get the binoculars?" Seriously, the weather people here are so freaking weird. There are at least seven different kind of drizzle! We don't need help finding rain!


Fuck, I'm a whiny brat. Spank me again....and make me one of these: Spring Fever Cocktail


I'm not quite up to my January goal of a-submission-a-day, but maybe I'll get caught up this weekend.


Daisy James sent a few out, though, including a sexy piece about a warm, sunny day and a fast ride in a convertible.

Here's an excerpt:


Sunday Drive
by Daisy J.

"Marie was nearly in a frenzy as we started to decelerate. A patch of pre-cum spread across the front of my shorts. When we rolled to a stop next to the van full of cheering young studs, Marie raised her hips off of the seat so the appreciative audience could get a full shot of that nine-inch tool pistoning in and out of her sopping cunt. I didn’t need to be asked twice. I licked my fingers, reached over and rubbed her screaming clit furiously. That was all my little exhibitionist could stand. Her body arched like a bow, her smooth belly and jiggling nipples jutting to the sky. Her cries of pleasure drowned out the cheers of the crowd in the van.

She thrashed and bucked and tore at the seat until the waves of her orgasm started to subside and, as we turned right and headed out of town, she melted into the seat, whimpering, legs still splayed in desire. She dipped her fingers into her flowing hole and gathered her nectar. Over and over, she anointed my face with the essence of her desire, while her hand cradled my aching balls in her other hand. The smell of her, alone, almost made me spill."

Rocking out

Congrats to Jeremy Edwards on the launch party of his new novel, "Rock Your Socks Off."

http://jerotic.blogspot.com/2010/01/rock-out-with-your-socks-out.html

Hurry -- go on over and party!

Thanks to BAK for this delicious rock shot.

On the way to Nutzville

Atemporal mycological discontent (Shroom Lust)

The upset of our collective
digestion is that we forgot how to wander,
can’t recall even an inkling of
how to hunt & gather
These days we are not content to sit hunched
and twitching, hairy grumpy lackluster
scrounging food inside of stone and
mortar, aching inside cardboard boxes

Hunting took us splashing across
stone-strewn creeks. Gathering drew us tumbling
into maidenhair pools after Dicamptodon
Tenebrus, stalking his disturbance and
digging for sweet fishy flesh deep in misty forests

Seared by flame, faces drained
of lymphatic reason
flicker in log-walled lamplight. White blood leaks
mycological ink, drooling
love poems onto scorched parchment

Poisoned pen and frog-tipped arrow,
timeless satisfaction endures
the rage of winter, storm-tossed
into copper lined saute, shuffling
a release of basidiospores
singularly satisfying
as inky capped self digestion

Evolution of parts to whole
into a subspecies -- the well-oiled brain
just slimy enough, just wild enough
to survive yet another deep freeze.

The ideas are flying around in my head like bullets, pinging off of rocks and tin cans and barn roofs. I don't know if they are hitting their targets or not, most likely not. There are stories here and stories there and my riding and roping skills are so rusty that I keep falling off the horse. Last night I had a dream about Ed Grimley. He reminded me that one of his favorite expressions is not "outstanding" but "excellent."

"Oh, that is a most excellent ballad, I must say" or "Isn't that the most excellent of excellences."



I think I might be on the way to Nutzville when it comes to holding this writing thing together. But maybe that's good, just maybe? Maybe I haven't been crazy enough and therein lies the problem. Maybe, just maybe Ed Grimley appearing in my dreams is a sign that I'm about to strike oil. The big gusher! All it will take is the knifeblade of crazy slicing through the final paper-thin sinew of reality to allow the words and their necessary evil, otherwise known as staying organized and pimping yourself, to bleed thoroughly, soaking the frozen, snowy trail with bright red blooms of passion.

Meanwhile, there are mushrooms and misty riverbanks, tree holes, poetry, stripping down to bare skin on a January day, Norwegianesque health dips in icy rivers, dripping ferns, trout-filled creeks, and love.

A funny thing happened on the way to Nutzville.....maybe that's how the story begins.

Whatever porn starlets did in caveman times

"There were vibrators, but they were made of wood and powered by pedaling, or frightened rodents running in little exercise wheels. Everything had to be done by hand. There was no lube until 1910, so if the friction didn't kill you, fire was always a concern. You had to use corncobs as freshwipes. People had to make their own amateur porn.....The horrors of the past are mostly behind us. Now that we're more civilized about our sexuality, we no longer have to suffer achieving orgasms through primitive methods, carving our dildos out of root vegetables or whatever porn starlets did in caveman times. Now we have technology."
" -- Violet Blue

But making amateur porn is so much fun. Like putting the little camera on video mode in the old barn. Making a self-directed movie out in the desert and setting it to a hot latin beat. Laughing your ass off when the cucumber busts in half and you give birth to a mutant vegetable right there on the couch. The caveman's ways are raw and real.....and hilarious sometimes.

But I do agree with Violet that technology can be a helluva lot of fun. The smell of the warm vinyl collar around my neck and salt from my own armpits was good. I felt raw and exposed. The burn on my ass from "your choice of bull or elk" took me to another place. And then this sensation began to drift over my body. A machine that sounded a bit like my old KitchenAid mixer on bread kneading mode pulsed and rotated across my hot skin, eventually undulating to a happy, wet place between my legs and......holy fuck! When my hands found the handle, I knew it was a massive machine of a thing, but the blindfold prevented a visual.

When I finally got a look at the beast, I was amazed. It looked like something I might find next to the egg beaters, toasters, and hot roller sets at a Goodwill store. But oh, Baby, you are fine! You have balls of steel, a heart of gold, and the amazing, powerful buzz of a go-kart motor. It was a Hitachi vibrator. The big old clunky plug-in one with the massive head. It is a fucking fairy wand! It was my first time with the classic toy and now......now there is even an adapter in the truck for road trips to accomodate this cave bitch. Batteries.....nah! Extension cords and a hammer holster are next, so I can walk around the cave with it.

This discovery -- well, it's a Christmas "murkle" as they say in Tuna, Texas. Never too old to learn new tricks! You really just never know what's around the next bend.....or in the next cave, do you? Oh, and Happy Festivus everyone!

Photo and Hitachi education by David Rolin. Thank you to BAK for truck adapters, amateur porn & caveman ways. GodBunny is watching!