I’m just back from a visit down South. Yes, I’ve been visiting my dad again, which is never as relaxing as it sounds. He saves up chores for me during the months I’m up here in Yankee-land, then springs them upon me when I arrive. No matter when I go down, I know I’m in for a hectic few days of yard work, chauffeur service, handyman duty, and personal shopper assignments.
Which is all well and good. But you know what I hate about the visits? Having to sleep in my old bed.
Now, the bed in which I sleep when I go down there isn’t the bed I had as a kid. That would’ve been my dad’s old childhood bed, a creaky wooden affair that I inherited, ancient mattress and groaning bedsprings and all, when I graduated out of the crib. It only lasted until I was in my early teens when my parents decided to shell out the money for a box spring and a new mattress.
I was grateful for the change, because by then I was painfully aware that every slight movement I made resulted in a symphony of springs straining and rubbing at top volume. Attempting to masturbate on that old bed would’ve brought the whole neighborhood running. If I wanted to get my juvenile dick off at night, I had to climb out of the bed, lie down on the floor, do my business, wipe up, and get back into bed again, just to avoid detection—and the gunshot sounds the springs released on my exit from and re-entry back into the sheets were probably a dead giveaway in themselves.
With the new mattress, though, I could whack away for hours and no one would be the wiser.
I only had sex once on that mattress, however. When I was living with my parents the year after I graduated college, I’d moved into their basement because it was an apartment unto its own self—it had its own bathroom, its own air conditioning, a separate entrance, and a lot more space than my old bedroom. One night I was bold enough to sneak home my old college boyfriend, who was two years older than I and for whom I had a soft spot, even though he had a tendency to treat me like gay dirt. I met him at the end of my block, walked him to my parents’ house after dark, snuck him in through the basement entrance, and had very mediocre sex with him until dawn, at which point I snuck him out again before my folks would be awake.
But now, when I go back to my childhood house again and toss down my bag and look at the single bed that my dad has carefully made up for me, I think to myself, I actually had sex on that? How?! The mattress is so damned tiny. When I try to sleep on it, either my head or my feet dangle off one of the ends. If I attempt to flop my body over in the middle of the night, the same way I do at home, I usually wake up in a panic, mere milliseconds away from tipping off the side to the floor. I’m pretty sure I could have athletic sex on it without making a sound, but what’s the point? I’ve got an ottoman at home that’s bigger than the bed of my teen years.
But let’s get to some reader questions. Thanks to those of you who’ve been sending in new questions for me to answer—I’ve added them to the queue and you’ll get answers soon. Eventually, anyway. If you’ve got questions you’d like to ask, whether they’re grand and general or short and specific, pop over to spring.me and type them in, or else email me directly at the address in the sidebar with the word Question in the subject line.
I apologize if this is a duplicate: Are you still using your Aneros Prostate toy? Describe more recent experiences. I love to use mine in the jacuzzi tub weekly following my personal fitness training sessions. Aiming a water jet just right really works.
You don't need the Aneros to get a good prostate massage with the water jets of a Jacuzzi. All you need to do is back your hole up to the jet, turn it on, and you get the massage AND a enema.
Man, I miss my hot tub.
I still use the Aneros fairly consistently. I like the extra stimulation it gives me when I masturbate. I've said a few times before that I prefer sex with someone else (or multiple someone elses) to solitary masturbation, so I tend to keep my solo sessions infrequent. When I'm looking for a good long self-pleasuring bout, though, I'll grease my hole, insert the Aneros, and go at it.
Twitter, blogging, etc. can create a very lopsided intimacy between people. How do you deal with people who feel they have a personal relationship with you from reading your posts, yet are complete strangers to you?
There's a huge lop-sided balance between most people who read my blog, and myself. They've had the opportunity to read over four years' worth of my writings—two big thick books worth of it—where I've talked about my childhood, my teen and college years, and my day-to-day sex life now. In many cases, the readers have already made up their minds about what kind of person long before I ever begin to interact with them.
And that's okay. When I write, I know that my readers react. Sometimes it's positive and supportive. Sometimes I challenge them or turn them off. That's what opinions do.
The problem, however, usually arises when the reader forgets that although they know everything about me from the age of ten up, I know very, very little about them. Sometimes I have a face shot. Sometimes not. Their expectations of deep and immediate intimacy—either conversational or physical—aren't something I can usually offer with so little to go on.
When my readers and followers actually take the time to engage with me, to let me get to know them and their senses of humor or their quirks or interests, I'm usually much more at ease with them when we meet than otherwise. I'm wary when someone starts attempting to use the information I've shared against me; my problem with a stalker last year arose from a reader who exploited me based on what he'd read in my blog, and it not only made me think twice about my online fans and friends for a while, it made me not want to write anything anymore, ever again.
So all I ask of my readers is a bit of reciprocity. I give a lot of myself. I'm not asking them to write me two books in exchange, but neither should I have to dig and wheedle and beg to get more definite information out of them in order to establish a friendly relationship.
How do I start a sex blog? Do you make a lot of money from it?
Starting a sex blog is easy. It merely takes three steps:
1) Have great sex.
2) Write about it.
3) Post what you write publicly for everyone to see.
Do I make buckets of cash from it? No. I don’t make a cent. I don’t make any money from advertising because the site hosting my blog doesn’t allow advertising on sites with adult content. Even if they did, I don’t like advertising flashing its message in the margins. So during the several years in which I’ve put my life out there, I’ve done it for the love of my readers, and for the love of the experience.
Daddy likes his folding bills too, don’t get me wrong, but he ain’t gettin’ any from his blog.
I accept gifts from readers who’ve wanted to look over my Amazon wish list and purchase something for me, but no one is required to do so, and very few do. I’m always grateful when it happens, though.
So if you’re looking to start a sex blog because you want to have interesting dialogues with others, and occasionally meet new people, and because you like writing and you like sex, go for it. If you’re doing it because you want to have extra spending money . . . well, excuse me for a minute or two. I need to have a good giggle for a little bit over here in this corner.
What's the weirdest request you've had... in bed?
I suspect you were looking for an answer that involved kinky and depraved acts of sexual deviance. Oh, I’ve had plenty of those.
The weirdest request I've had was a marriage proposal, though. It happened in bed, after sex. Apparently it was great sex for him . . . for me it was kind of eh-to-average.
The whole conversation started with me pulling out of his hole, whereupon he started gushing about how fantastic I had been (naturally!), then asking me what color I'd paint the bedroom if I lived there. I told him I liked it as it was. Then he asked which side of the bed I slept on. I told him I slept on the right side, and he replied I'd have to learn to sleep on the left because he took the right, hah-hah-hah. Then he asked where I wanted to go on a honeymoon. Thinking he was joking, I started to name some actual location. Then I stopped and said, "You're joking, right?"
He was not. Then he suggested I move in and that we get married. He had known me ONE HALF HOUR.
I mean, I know sometimes I'm good, but damn!
When You meet up with guys is it always for sex or do You just hang out with them.
It's for sex.
That's the short answer, anyway. When I meet up with friends—that is, people I've known for a long time, with whom I like spending my free time, guys who've opened up to let me into their lives in the same way I've let them into mine—we will hang out. We'll go to a bar and drink and talk. Or we'll watch television. Or we'll do a movie and dinner. Or we'll play video games together. Something friends do.
On the other hand, if a guy has approached me online or on some app on my cell phone and has told me I've got a great dick and asks if I want to ‘hang out,’ I expect that ‘hanging out’ to involve his tongue hanging out of his mouth as I pound him from behind.
If the sex leads to a friendship at some point, awesome. But I'm not going to drive a ways to the guy's house and sit around awkwardly while we both try to ignore the fact that we met only an hour before on pigsforporking.com.