Early Chirstmas Giving

 

Sam stopped by this weekend to scout locations for a western that is in pre-production at an indie start-up that is specializing in streaming services. I got to know Sam when I had a PA gig for a film about cowboys and aliens. Yes, that film.

Anyway, we've been in touch off and on for over 10 years now. When I am in SoCal, we sometimes get together for coffee or lunch. He was married up until two years ago when his wife left him for a super-rich producer at one of the majors. Sam still hasn't quite gotten over the shock and sadness of that. He's a sensitive guy who has been healing slowly.

Anyway, last night Jenny and I cooked Sam a hearty home-cooked meal, filling him with steak, potatoes, wine, and chocolate cake. We topped the evening off by getting into our 'jammies and watching the classic Howard Hawks western Rio Bravo. It was shot just over the mountain from my casita so Sam thought it might give him some ideas for his location search.

We stayed up later than we probably should have, sipping cognac and swapping stories of the film projects we had worked on since first our first meeting. The laughter lasted until about 1 a.m. with all three of us fading fast. Saying "good-nites," Sam retired to the guest room and Jenny and me to our bedroom.

Jenny and I snuggled up under the covers and, I swear, she was asleep before I told Alexa to turn off the bedroom lamp. I lay there for a while, thinking about Sam. He seemed happy enough now, but I knew that he hadn't been seeing or dating anyone since his wife left him. And that made me sad.

I got up and went to the guest room. Knocking on the door, then peeking in, I saw Sam was still awake tapping on his laptop.

"Sam?"

He looked up and closed his laptop. "What's up Sparky?"

I sat on the edge of the bed, close, and unabashedly, but gently, asked far too many personal questions about how he was doing with no partner. As ever, he was laconic in his responses but eventually opened up. He shared that it was taking far longer than he thought it would to get over what had happened. He had been on a few dates that were no more serious that a tryst here and there, with a couple of generally unsatisfying sexual encounters.

Sam took my hand and said, "You know, I thought about calling you a few times, but we're such good friends I didn't want to screw that up."

"I thought the same thing, once or twice."

We sat there in silence for quite a while.

I was trying to tune in to my feelings as best I could, when I looked at the covers over Sam and noticed a significant bulge in the blanket.

I looked at the bulge, then at Sam, then back at the bulge, then back to Sam. He was blushing brightly.

"Sam!"

"Sorry, Sparky, it's your fault for being so damn cute!"

Silence again. I put my hand on the blanket over his erection -- hard as rebar.

"Okay, Sam, here's the deal. We're friends, fine, that's as far as it goes. As far as it will go. But it's almost Christmas and your cock needs attention now. I'll suck you if you promise not to make a big deal out of it. Deal?"

"Deal!"

I pulled the covers back, lubed him with saliva kisses, and took him into my mouth and down my throat. Sam has the nicest man moan! We talked and teased as I sucked, both of us enjoying the moment tremendously. Finally, as he was about to climax, he looked at me, grinning a boyish grin, and gasped, "May I cum on your face?"

Oh my god! How did he know I love it when a guy asks me that?

After cleaning up with warm, wet towels, we shared a quick “peck” goodnight and “Merry Christmas.”

At breakfast this morning we happily sipped our coffee with Jenny, cautiously keeping from smiling at each other too much.

Christmas at Petra 2017

 

 

Shooting a promotional video for a major tour company, I found myself in the ancient city of Petra in Jordan on Christmas Day. The tour group I was with hiked to the city but did not want to make the arduous climb up to the Monastery (Ad Deir).  Only Terri, a younger woman about my age, wanted to make the trek up the mountain. The group headed back to the hotel while Terri and I began the long trail up.

We had become quite close during the two previous weeks of the middle east tour. Hiking together and chatting happily, we only met people coming down the trail as the afternoon was quickly slipping away. Terri was fit, smart, and funny. I liked her a lot.

 

We arrived at the Monastery, a giant copy of the “Treasury” building featured in Indiana “Jones and the Last Crusade” with the sun still high. We discovered that six American men were the only persons there. They were part of an Army unit stationed in Jordan that had been given a day pass to visit Petra on this Christmas day. All were enlisted men led by the eldest of them, their platoon sergeant.

 

The men seemed quite pleased to run into us. Truth is, Terri and I looked pretty good that day in brightly decorated pants and Arab shemagh head scarves we found in Egypt. We felt confident flirting a little because the guys were polite, respectful, and eager to talk about their adventures in Jordan. I had a giant chocolate bar in my pack I planned to share with the tour, but decided our new Army friends might enjoy it more. We divided up the chocolate, munched, and marveled at having the amazing Monastery to ourselves.

 

While the guys couldn’t tell us exactly what they were doing in Jordan, they hinted that it was a “just in case” kind of thing for 12 months. They were all buff with giant pistons for arms and shoulders and backs that would normally melt me into a puddle of “oh, hell yes.” It occurred to me I could duck into one of the small caves around the Monastery with any of the guys and give him a little Christmas present. Terri told me later that night she had the same naughty fantasy.

 

As the sun was setting, we all hiked down the cliffs to the main trail and slot canyon that was the entrance and exit to Petra. We laughed as we wished we had the horses Indiana Jones rode in the movie. It took us two hours to get back to the town and parking lot where our vehicles were parked. It was genuinely hard to say good-bye to these soldiers stationed far from home, serving our country, separated from friends and family on Christmas Day.

 

The sergeant was the only married man in the group, so he didn’t get heartfelt and sometimes lingering “Christmas Kisses” from both Terri and me. He did, however, get hugs and sweet pecks on the cheek.

 

Our tour group, waiting at our mini-bus watching us say farewells to the GIs, lost no time playfully harassing us about the guys calling them our “harem of men.” Terri laughed, “Hmmm… three for Sparks and three for me. That’s about right, I think.” I gave her a high five.

I'm Not Bad, I Just Like To Go Slutty Sometimes

October has been a crazy month for me. I was going to wait until after Halloween to post to this blog but friends asked me to embellish a quick blurb I wrote on Facebook regarding a night out with friends.

 

Several film and theatre friends joined Jenny and me in attending a play described as "A visceral blend of classical mythology and real-life stories told by street kids." Being so close to Halloween, it seemed the perfect venue for wearing my “street slut” look. The outfit is simply a super short and tight little red dress, thigh-high fishnet stockings, and a pair of acrylics “fuck me” heels.

 

My outfit earned me many salacious stares and a copped feel or two. Jenny wore a black silk jumpsuit, unbuttoned to her navel, and black strappy heels, so we were, if I say so myself, the sexiest couple in our group. And that is saying quite a lot as all of us were dressed as naughty as we dared as that was the order of the evening.

 

After the play, we dropped by a great little bar in the university area that is totally solar-powered and caters to the astronomy culture, associated science types, and a few geeks as well. It’s a wonderful little place with an open and liberal-minded clientele.

 

Our group made a beeline for our favorite patio table in a corner that is somewhat private, at least more so, than the rest of the tables. We knocked down two pitchers of margaritas in short order and were feeling a little buzz, just enough to make us warm and fuzzy, and flirty.

 

I’m a bit unsure how it happened, but the group decided that I was the “sluttiest” of the night and therefore deserved a good spanking. I think my friends were being generous as most of them know I like a gentle, loving spanking from time to time.

 

Jenny took the lead telling me to stand up, put my hands on the table, and bend over, which I did eagerly, ensuring my tush was pointed away from the main area of the patio. Each person at the table was allowed two or three swats at my partially exposed tush and an inch or two of zettai ryouiki between the tops of my stockings, the hem of my dress, and the flimsy lace of tiny bikini panties. Most spankers were kind, offering mostly gentle swats between a few zingers!

 

Finally, it was Jenny’s turn. She gave me a funny wicked look and pushed my head down a little to emphasize my raised rear end. I think she looked around the patio to make sure no one was paying too much attention (some were, but not overtly) then lifted my dress just enough to pull my panties down a few inches.

 

She laughed out loud as she discovered I was wearing a little red jeweled butt plug. She gave me three quick, hard swats. Still giggling, she thumped my plug a couple of times and pulled my panties up declaring, “Happy Birthday” for the benefit of the onlookers on the patio.

 

I sat down, warmed by the love of understanding good friends, a naughty, public spanking, and a couple of margaritas.

Every Girl Needs a Denim Jacket

After the first week of classes, I'm looking forward to hanging out with the film, TV and theatre folk to celebrate the return to face-to-face classes, plays, and film productions. I want to wear my comfy denim jacket to show off the fact that I worked hard to avoid tan lines this summer.

Welcome back to school everyone!

Jenny

 

At the beginning of my sophomore year at USC, I was asked to welcome and “sponsor” a new freshman entering the Cinematic Arts Program. Her name was Jenny and she was a prodigy, sixteen years old, and the daughter of a prominent film editor in Hollywood. She had been making movies since she was a mere babe and already had her short films screened in prestigious film festivals.

 

She was also the horniest and most sexually active girl/woman I have ever known.

 

I had not seen her since I moved to Arizona, so I looked her up this week during my visit to SoCal. We met for lunch in Huntington Beach, where the National Surf Championships are being held. We figured we’d watch some surfing in the morning, then chow down at a favorite Mexican restaurant.

 

I agreed to meet her in front of the Huntington Surf Shop, across the street from the pier. I’m not sure what I expected at seeing her again, but when she appeared in a playsuit with a neckline that plunged to her lady bits and short shorts that caressed her little tush just so. I was not surprised. What did surprise me was an outrageously beautiful full-color tattoo of a mermaid that covered her chest and ended below her navel. This was a true, bright work of art, not a sloppy, faded street tattoo from some hole-in-the-wall shop. This was Hollywood perfection, albeit, a beta temporary tattoo that looked the real thing.

“Sparky,” she squealed and hugged and kissed me as if we were long-lost lovers. And, well, that is as good a description of us as any.

 

Arm in arm, we strutted down the pier giggling like we did in college and found a place to watch the surfers compete. With the wind blowing, the surfing commentator on giant speakers, airplanes overhead, and the general crowd noise, we had to lean close, face-to-face to converse. She was wearing her signature fragrance, brown sugar, which somehow fit her fragile 5’1” thin – okay, skinny – frame. The surfing was not great as a storm offshore was causing awkward swells and rip currents were mean.

 

We lasted on the pier for maybe an hour before we made our way down Main Street to one of our favorite eateries, Avila’s El Ranchito. It was Tuesday so the Farmer’s Market was converted into a pedestrian area. Colorful stalls of everything from fresh fruit and produce to E-Bikes lined the curbs. In the center of the market, a three-piece band was playing A Whiter Shade of Pale. Jenny, a far bolder exhibitionist than me, became one with the music and began to dance about in wide graceful moves engaging young and old folk with her seductive smile, turns and twists. Her tiny outfit with her high-top sneakers, I think, made people believe she was part of the act. The band and the crowd liked her. She danced to one more tune, Hotel California, earning vigorous applause from passers-by.

 

At Avila’s we shared a Taco Tuesday plate and happy hour margaritas. We sat side-by-side like we almost always did at USC, so we could tickle and tease each other more easily than we could from across a table. And we did just that. It was like no years had passed at all.

 

Jenny's career is ferociously successful. She followed in her mom's footsteps and pursued film editing working for several of the major studios. She is in high demand cutting features as well as mini-series on the streamers. Like everyone in Hollywood, she has a couple of scripts making the rounds too. Hearing about her adventures tweaked something in my brain, and heart, so now I'm thinking about and longing for being back in the "industry" full time. Hmmmm....

Time passed ever so quickly until the afternoon wore into the evening and we found ourselves walking along the beach at sunset. Jenny had driven all the way from LA, so had the foresight to book a room because she was sure lunch would lead to dinner and dinner would lead to spending the night together. Jenny always was clever.

 

I was not surprised that the room Jenny had reserved had a small, two-person Jacuzzi tub. We were salty all over from being in the sun much of the day and sandy from our walk, so the tub became our first priority. We sank into the hot water, turned up the jets, and took turns washing each other – you know, feeling each other up – all over with shampoo, soap, and smiles. Afterward, we bundled up in big, soft terrycloth robes provided by the hotel.

 

We weren’t very hungry, so we just ordered a pizza for dinner from ZeroZero39 Pizza (when in Huntington Beach, a must). Jenny decided to dash down the street for a bottle of wine, yes wearing the robe, while I called my mom letting her know I wouldn’t be home. This also gave me some time to think about how I felt about seeing Jenny again.

 

Remember, Jenny was just sixteen years old when I was her “sponsor” at USC. I was only nineteen yet had already developed a particular affinity for girls younger than myself. With Jenny’s hyperactive libido and my desire for teens, we were a match made in nubile nirvana. We simply loved loving each other. We weren’t “in love” or a couple or even an “item” to use a term of the day. Between classes, productions, projects, other girlfriends or boyfriends, or other life stuff that kept us busy, when we had time to be together, we played. Oh my, how we played!

 

Remembering Jenny then and how we played, made me laugh out loud, shiver, and get all goose-bumpy. I wallowed in the feeling.

 

There was banging on the door. I noticed Jenny’s room key was on the table by the door, so assumed she had forgotten it because it was too soon for the pizza delivery. I hopped up and dropped my robe to greet her buck naked. Okay, I know, you saw this coming I am sure, but, yes, it was the pizza guy. Honest. It was a true cliché. I’ve greeted pizza delivery guys naked on purpose, on dares, but never by accident. He laughed and told me I was the second one this week. Go figure. 

 

As I said, Jenny is clever. She bought wine with a screw cap because we didn’t have a corkscrew. We munched pizza in our pristine white robes on the little balcony of the room that looked out over the PCH and the beach.

 

It wasn’t long before we were entwined this way and that and head over heels taking advantage of almost every inch of the California King bed. We’d been down this highway before and knew every road sign and bump in the road of each other’s bodies. Jenny kissed me like no other person in the world. Her tongue was magic, with the light touch of a butterfly and the motion of an ocean swell. I remembered it delightfully as she rediscovered me and my body. Her mouth drifted to my breasts where she did a little lick, nibble, and tiny bite thing that has always made me shiver. She used her slender hands and gentle fingers to slide into my curves, crevices, and orifices with remembered practice. After all the years we have been playmates, this seemed, again, like one of the very first times, new and naughty.

 

I found myself remembering a night only a few weeks after we met. We were exploring the merits of female 69 when Jenny asked simply, almost in a little girl voice, “May I put my finger in your butt?” I laughed, completely taken aback, but was amused at the question. “Sure!”

 

I had dabbled in some ass play before but did not become a fan until Jenny made it playful, funny, and fun. And she was only sixteen then. Over the years she refined the art and this night she was more astonishing than ever.

 

Finally, both of us exhausted from the day and over-the-moon orgasms, we were drifting off to sleep when Jenny whispered, “When I finish the editing project I am working on, may I visit you in Tucson?”

 

“Of course, darling.”

Little Girls

 

Last night I attended The Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach, California. It’s a fascinating show where performers and artists recreate works of art blending live performers with intricate set stage settings. When combined with a live orchestra and narration, the productions are thoroughly entertaining.

Before the performance, I was walking through the shopping and restaurant area of Laguna showing off a bit in a tiny, crocheted boho top. It’s soft, with a small shelf bra sewn in that makes my little boobies bounce in a rhythm of bounce-jiggle/bounce-jiggle with each step. The top usually garners a bit of attention and sly glances.

As I walked, casually dodging other oncoming pedestrians, I noticed a cute freckled redhead coming towards me wearing a similar top. I laughed because her boobs were small like mine and bounced as much or more in the same rhythm. She saw me too, in an instant of recognition, and began laughing too. As we approached each other, we both slowed, staring at each other's tits, grinning.

Close now, we stopped. She looked me in the eyes and popped her hand up for a high five, which I immediately returned. We stood there for a moment before she said, matter-of-factly, “nice tits.”

I didn’t think or even glance around as people strode past us, as I lifted my top briefly, flashing my girls for her to see. She didn’t hesitate. She returned the favor and flashed her little boobs. Much to my delight, her nipples were pierced with delicate gold rings.

We both stood there, for a mere second with wide smiles, before she continued on her way, strutting happily away.

My date looked at me, shook her head, took my hand, and walked with me to the theatre.

In Facebook Jail for Meme Two Years Ago

 Yes, Facebook put me in jail for three days because I shared a memory post from almost two years ago. It was okay then, but now much later, it is not?

"...I feel like I should wear a hat."

 

My new pixie cut!

"Sometimes the shit comes down so heavy I feel like I should wear a hat."                        - Ned Racine in "Body Heat"

I feel that way lately. From COVID to inflation, to voting rights, to a woman's right to choose (thanks a lot, "Extreme Court), to climate change, to the "big lie" and the willfully ignorant far right, to the war in Ukraine, I've had it. So easy it would be to turn my brain off, teach my classes on autopilot, and spend my nights dancing at Curves Cabaret or cruising the bar at the historic Hacienda del Sol.

But, I won't give up, or give in, or shrug off the hell of today's utterly polarized and dysfunctional state. I'll keep hitting myself over my head with the hammer of hope that we'll fix the mess our country has become because it will feel so good when I finally get to stop. Yes, I am one of those hard-core optimists who join groups, attend rallies, and contribute to Democrats when I can. I subscribe to the notion that the mainstream GOP has become evil and must be exorcised or put to death.

So I have to balance my life as best I can. For everything that drags my mind and heart down towards the heavy wet blanket of depression, I have to find options that are equal to and opposite the negatives.

So, I am weaving a hat against the rain of shit. Here is how I am doing it.

I jog or walk at least 3 miles after rolling out of bed, early, before the summer heat makes this impossible. Then I shower and listen to music on my waterproof smart speaker. Often, I raise my spirits by singing at the top of my lungs while enjoying the feminine benefits of a powerful shower massage. Next, instead of dressing and reading the newspaper or listening to NPR, I putter about the kitchen naked fixing a light breakfast and mixing sweet ice coffees. If I have the time, I read a few pages of whatever book I am reading with a second coffee.

With exercise, a shower, an orgasm, breakfast, and coffee, I am ready to get dressed and face the day. If the day is one where I work from home, I toss on my home uniform: tank or t-shirt and light cotton shorts (no underwear necessary), and flip-flops. I'd go barefoot, but we do have scorpions about this time of year. If I am going to campus, running errands, or will otherwise be in public, I put on real clothes that are normally appropriate. If I am feeling naughty (my shy exhibitionist way) I will dress to tease: mini skirt or dress, short shorts, open or see-through top, strappy, sexy sandals. Either at home or out, wearing outfits that make me smile, make me feel sexy, or even aroused, contribute to my "hat."

Essentially, I avoid the negative and tend to things that make me happy before I go anywhere near the news of the day. Once I've had a halcyon morning ignoring the current day-to-day hell, I can glance at the newspaper or online news, but not cable. The exception recently has been the January 6th Committee hearings. I allowed myself to watch that.

If I find myself growing negative or angry, I try to change gears and do something that fights the good fight as I mentioned above, supporting a group, a movement, or a candidate that can make things better.

Yes, I watch the evening news. Ugh. I know it is usually negative, but sometimes, there is good news. With luck, I've experienced enough "good" during the day to offset nightly news.

Evenings, when I am not at home alone reading or enjoying a movie, I spend with people of like mind, those friends or lovers who swim, dine, listen to music, watch movies, go to the theatre, a concert, or even dance! All of these activities make my heart happy and quite often allow me to show off, be naughty, and even be a bit promiscuous.

It's all part of weaving the "hat."

Flashing Fun

Most of my friends who keep up with me here and on Facebook know that I am a hopeless exhibitionist, albeit, a shy one. That is, I love to show off, but not for the general public (at least purposely) but for friends, lovers, and at appropriate places or venues like private parties or concerts or festivals that encourage a bit of flaunting one's body.

One activity that I like to do is a photo shoot of myself and friends flashing in public places. We are careful, for the most part, and choose places where a bit of nudity might be fun and naughty, not purposefully lewd or lascivious. We never flash if children are anywhere near.

So yeah, we're careful. We flash the camera and each other. We never purposely flash anyone directly unless they indicate specifically it is okay.

We have discovered in almost all of our photos we are smiling, grinning or outright laughing. How can you not when you're being silly and flashing your pussy? It's fun!

So, because all the news has been terrible this week, I offer this set of photos of women flashing their girl bits with big smiles on their faces. I hope it cheers some of us up, at least a little. 

Click on the photos to view full size. Have fun!

Mind Flowing Free on Father’s Day

 

I’m letting my thoughts flow freely this Father’s Day because I tend to drift into melancholy when thinking about my dad. He was a jazz keyboard player. He took me on tour with him as soon as he thought I was ready, even though I was just a young girl. He let me sing with his band starting at age 10. He’s been gone a while now, a victim of a random pulmonary event. Yes, I miss him.

He knew me. He thought my bisexuality was “convenient” because it gave me more choices. He liked and respected my girlfriends and boyfriends alike. He took great care of my mother and made sure she would never want for anything if he checked out early, which he did. A member of his band said of his early death, “He’s lucky … no growing old, no assisted living, no nursing home, no hospice. He did it right.” I suppose he did. In a way. But then, I miss him and would have gladly helped him live a much longer life. That was not to be.

No Pants Day and World Naked Gardening Day

 

I haven’t been motivated to blog lately with lots of work-related activities keeping me occupied along with a last-minute week-long escape week before last. What is the saying, “I have to go back to work to rest up?”

The last few days have been interesting though. With last Friday as “No Pants Day” and Saturday being “World Naked Gardening Day,” I’ve been enjoying a few public exhibition giggles and some just plain old being naked revelry with friends.

For No Pants Day, I wore a pair of boy short panties and a simple tank top. I had done this last year for an entire week, so it was easy. Some boy short panties look so much like yoga shorts or girls’ gym shorts no one really pays attention. I learned this from young London girls (pre-COVID) who would wear panties just like short shorts to shop, hang out with friends, or even to the theatre. If anyone looked close enough, they could tell I was only in panties, but only a few people did. I rewarded those who noticed with a big smile or a laugh. If a girl is going to strut her stuff, a smile is required so people are included in the fun. One cannot be serious or glum when publicly preening in underwear!

World Naked Gardening Day could have been called Being Careful While Naked in the Desert at Sparks’ Casita. I only have a small potted herb garden among the natural flora of the Sonoran Desert in my small backyard. We had to dodge the spikes and spines of yucca, agave, prickly pear, and saguaro as we cleaned up and weeded the little yard and trimmed my potted herbs.

I got the morning event started off by greeting each person at the door dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. After coffee and pastries, when it was time to garden, I took my clothes off in front of them all, reminded them to wear their hats, and went outside. The girls followed my lead, neatly folding their clothes in the kitchen and emerging buck naked in the backyard.

 

I learned this from a seasoned river guide, “…if you want folks to get naked, don’t talk about it, just set the example and take your clothes off. Those that want to get naked, will.” On river trips, he and his girlfriend led, they would stop at a particular swimming hole and simply drop their shorts and jump in. Most of the time, people assumed this was the thing to do and did the same. His girlfriend, instead of buying swimsuits for river trips, just wore cute panties and went topless when not wearing the required life jacket for padding and rowing. Often, female passengers followed her lead. What happens on the river, stays on the river, you know?

It follows then that, “What happens at Sparks’ Casita, stays at the Casita.” Four of my girlfriends and I lasted about fifteen minutes before we found ourselves slathering sunscreen on each other, all over, with lots of giggles and grins. It was slippery fun for a while.

After the gardening, we slipped into swimsuits and dashed for the community complex pool for the first swims of the season. The water was cool as yet, but swimmable. I yearned to put on a crotchless swimsuit I bought a couple of years ago, but decided the nude gardening was enough exposure for the day. This particular swimsuit works better for evening swims anyway.

 We splashed and played like school girls before each girl finally had to leave. Back at my casita, I showered off the pool chlorine, washed my hair, and slipped into a soft, open-sided t-shirt. I had some grading to do, so I nibbled on a nice Ogeez Indica gummie to extend the wonderful mood of the day. My afternoon was mellow, happy and my students earned some very high scores.

Math Tutoring

 

My good friend and tutorette “Trouble” and I talked late into the night following the Oscars telecast last weekend. She’s 17 years old and about to graduate high school. We’ve been talking about prom, graduation, going off to university, boys, and all the other things teen girls dream about. Her senior year is finally on track post-pandemic and she is looking forward to a future full of excitement.

 

As we talked, I remembered a unique experience I had at her age as a senior in high school.

 

For admission to USC, I had to list “service” work on my application that demonstrated my community involvement. One such service was volunteering to tutor younger students in math. A sophomore girl, named Brenda, asked me to help her with geometry. She was a cute little thing and asked so nicely I could not say no. Besides that, she had a reputation around the school for being promiscuous. The boys flocked to her. I was curious about her because I shared a similar reputation, only, I was swinging both ways.

 

We made plans for a Saturday morning tutoring session at her house. I showed up at the agreed-upon time with a geometry book and notebook only to be greeted by her at her door wearing thin cotton baby doll pajamas. I asked if she slept late. She laughed, led me into her living room, then flipped the hem of her pajama top revealing she was naked underneath. She said, “On Saturdays, I don’t dress unless I am going out.” She held the hem up long enough to make sure I had a good look at her perfectly trimmed girl bits.

 

I sat down on the living room sofa, opened up my geometry book, and asked, “So what are you having trouble with? What do you want to cover?” Brenda sat down next to me, as close as she could without being in my lap, and said, “I don’t care about geometry, I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

 

I pretended to object, but she seemed sincere. I was flattered as she told me I was something of a role model for her, that she had heard I was a “wild child” who did as she pleased, didn’t tolerate bullshit, and fucked whomever I wanted – boys or girls. My head began to swell horribly.

 

Recovering somewhat from the hyper ego boost, I mentioned I had heard she was gaining her own reputation as a fuck toy for the cool boys at school. Wistfully she agreed but said the cool guys were mostly boring. She added she fucked them anyway because she liked the attention. This girl, almost three years my junior, shocked me. Not because of her open promiscuity, but because she was so much like me at 14, but, I thought, on steroids.

 

Brenda cozied and wheedled her way into my lap to where we were face-to-face our eyes and mouths only inches apart. “I’ve never been with another girl, Sparks,” she said, “I want to be, with you.” She kissed me. It was an eager kiss, an urgent kiss with an overactive teenage tongue. I kissed back and pulled her tiny frame to me. What the hell, I thought. Brenda threw herself into me energetically something like an excited puppy. It felt nice.

 

Kissing led to petting, touching, fingers probing. Quickly, and too soon, Brenda dropped between my legs on the floor and pulled my skirt up to pull down my panties and explore. At that moment, the front door of the house opened and her mom walked in on us.

 

Brenda didn’t move. She remained between my legs so I couldn’t close them. I pulled my skirt down as much as I could as Brenda looked up, not fazed at all by the appearance of her mom, and beamed, “Hi, mom, this is Sparks, the girl I told you about.”

 

Her mom looked a lot younger than I would have thought dressed in a pair of low-slung jeans and a t-shirt. She came over to the couch, leaned down, and kissed Brenda, her lips to her daughter’s, softly, almost sensuously, and said, “Hi, baby!” She smiled because leaning over as she did, she could see my full, bald Brazilian up my skirt. Sitting down, she leaned towards me and said, “Nice to meet you, Sparks. Do I get a kiss from you too?” She didn’t wait, she kissed me, a warm sweet kiss that said hello and promised a lot more.

 

I would learn much later that Brenda and her mom occasionally double-teamed Brenda’s boyfriends. I’m not sure, but I think I may have been the first female three-way they orchestrated, but not the last.

 

The rest of that Saturday morning was beyond memorable. Mom was unabashedly open, expertly teasing and thrilling every nerve center and orifice on my body. Brenda was a quick learner, if awkward at the times. Mom’s guiding hands and advice made most choices work. Her mouth was magic. While I was the subject of their attention and activity, there were a few odd moments when mom and daughter would touch, even kiss, for the slightest moment, as they enjoyed making me squirm and squirt with delight.

 

The three of us were exhausted after an hour or so of introducing Brenda to the joys of girl-girl sex. The one thing that struck me as truly funny though was Brenda’s mom making us grilled cheese sandwiches and soup for lunch after we showered. We sat in the kitchen, in various stages of getting dressed, and munched our sandwiches sharing naughty stories.

 

I didn’t have sex with Brenda or her mom again after that Saturday. I’d see Brenda at school and we’d share knowing smiles. She really was a cutie. Brenda’s reputation grew to eclipse mine, especially for her three-ways with the cool crowd.

 

To this day, Brenda swears it was not her intention to include her mom that morning. I never believed her, but that’s okay. It worked out quite nicely.

Facebook Jail Again

Facebook put me in jail for trying to post the photo below. Note that this photo is the profile picture for Dakota Rose, https://www.facebook.com/TheRealDakotaRose . It appears Facebook is targeting me now for past issues.

This is the offending photo that got me two days of not posting and six days of not accessing my groups.

Dressing for Someone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday my teen friend “Trouble” confided that the girl she is interested in at school – call her “Flirt” - had her over for a sleepover. Flirt asked Trouble to be sure and bring a sexy little nightie to wear, which she did. Trouble smiled a naughty smile and said, “we had fun!” She mused though, “I’ve never been asked to go all ‘Victoria’s Secret,” even by a boy.

We talked about how dressing for a friend or a lover can be more than teasing. Often, both men and women, simply like to see a partner look beautiful, alluring, or, yes, just sexy. I shared that in my experience, men ask for the sexy (short skirts, plunging necklines, no panties) and women seem to prefer certain looks or styles, that may or may not be “sexy,” but are usually attractive and fashionable.

 

I told Trouble about a guy I dated in college who had a serious thing for baby doll lingerie. He bought me several very nice sets and asked me to wear them on dates. I thought it was crazy, over-the-top, but I tried it because he was a really nice guy. I’d wear the baby doll under a loose dress to start the evening, then lose the dress along the way. As a hopeless exhibitionist, it was rather thrilling. He would take me to nicer bars or restaurants as well as “luxury” movie theatres in Beverly Hills, Westwood, or Newport Beach. I would get some very curious looks, but no one, not once, questioned my wearing lingerie in public. A girl can get away with that in Southern California, but only in the right places.

 

I did add a caveat to this story: don’t do something like this unless you are absolutely sure of your partner and have the kind of trust to allow such play. And never, ever, be apart from that person in public. Better yet, have another trusted friend along too.

Age Shouldn't Be a Big Deal - 100 Words

I’ve ragged on this topic before. I believe a woman of nearly 40, as I am, should be able to dress and look as young as she desires and feels. On Facebook I wrote, “[I am] sometimes criticized … for "looking too young ... dressing like students ... pretending to be 16 ... and wearing risqué outfits” on the university campus where I work. Consider, the women below are very near the same age as me. Granted they are celebrities, but who is to say ordinary people (although I don’t think of myself as ordinary) shouldn’t dress however they like?

Amanda Seyfried

Anna Kendrick

Brittany Snow

 

Girls - A Photo for Some Facebook Friends

I wanted to post this over on Facebook for something called Maya Monday, but didn't dare because there is a nipple showing! Click it for full size.