The canvas bag sits empty on the bed as I rifle through our toy chest. The first thing I put in is Jill’s Eroscillator, followed by the Hitachi. These are the powerhouses of our collection, larger and versatile vibrators that never leave Jill unsatisfied. The former buzzing on her clit while the latter thrums against her pussy will cause a chain of intense orgasms, complete with ejaculation, pretty much ten times out of ten.
That reminds me. I take the Throe from the bed, fold it into a manageable size and stuff it in along with the toys. It takes up all the remaining space, so I pull it out and leave it folded beside the bag. The Throe might not fit in the bag, but there’s no way we’re not taking it with us. When sex is as wet as it usually is with Jill, it makes sense to bring something to facilitate cleanup. Making her squirt is my favorite party trick. Even among a sexually seasoned group, the spectacle always elicits a few gasps. I make a mental note to also bring a couple bath towels, in the event that the circumference of her ejaculation exceeds the Throe, as it sometimes does.
It occurs to me that the two toys I’ve packed require AC power. While I’m certain there will be electrical outlets at the venue, I can’t guarantee that we’ll find any available by the time we want to plug in and play. So into the bag go two of Jill’s favorite battery-operated toys, and I remind myself to grab some extra double-A batteries before we leave. It’s probably unnecessary; I imagine most of the attendees who bring toys will not bring the sort that require an electric current.
I consider packing her fuck-me heels; it is either these shoes or her boots that Jill usually wears when we venture out to a club or a party. However, I’m not sure which she’ll wear and which she’ll pack to change into later, so I figure it’s best to let her figure that out. Instead of the heels, I throw a flogger into the bag. We rarely use it, but the way I see it it’s best to be prepared. We’d hate to be the only ones there without some sort of spanking accoutrement. Better to have it and not need it than the other way around.
And lube! Can’t forget the lube. We don’t use the stuff enough to justify one of those industrial-sized drums with the hand-pump at the top; instead we keep a smallish bottle in my nightstand drawer. Given the efficiency with which Jill’s pussy keeps itself moistened, lube is reserved for anal sex and fisting, and sometimes for handjobs. We doubt we’ll have anal sex at the party (although it’s conceivable that we might), but in the very likely event that Jill wants to be fisted we’ll be very glad to have brought it. Additionally, she might decide to wear her plug during an exciting bout of cowgirl-position sex. Speaking of which, I pull her plug out of the trunk and put it in the bag as well.
Baby wipes go in the bag next. Not a whole package; we’ve got a couple smaller travel-size packs that we take to barbecue restaurants, and that’ll be plenty. For all I know, wipes will be provided by the organizers. But they might not, and as we learned when we attended our first party and I fingered Jill to a very gushy orgasm before a group of onlookers, unpreparedness can bring the evening to a screeching halt. We’re not taking any chances this time.
Condoms might also be provided – in our experience they usually are – but I still pack the handful we got at our last party. Given our propensity to limit interactions with others to just oral sex, it’s unlikely we’ll need them. However, Jill and I both feel that it’s a good idea to have condoms just in case; after all, as she points out, she has no way of knowing whether she’ll want to watch me fuck the sexy twenty-five-year-old who’s giving me head. It could happen.
The bag is nowhere near full, so I toss in a pair of carbon steel handcuffs and a blindfold. Moreso than the flogger, these are the BDSM items that are likely to see use by Jill and I. I handcuff her pretty frequently, typically while fucking her doggy style face-down on our bed. She enjoys the lack of control that comes from being denied one’s mobility, and she trusts me to take care of her needs. I consider the flogger for a moment, then take it out of the bag and toss it back into our toy chest. I can imagine myself trying to show off, accidentally hitting someone who isn’t Jill, and getting ejected. Best not to risk it.
The bag’s just about packed. Can’t forget the tickets!
On Thursday, a fellow blogger asked me what happened to our blog. I replied that it still exists – the fact that you’re reading this post is proof of that – but that over the last few months I’ve had far too many obligations to post much, let alone blog on a daily basis as we did in 2012.
These days, my desk is cluttered with a variety of writing projects – spec screenplays, in-progress novel manuscripts, short fiction, non-fiction works, and even a commission. I am buried in work, much of which sits undone because my stay-at-home Dad schedule kicks my ass every day of the week.
However, one thing I have conscientiously pushed myself to do every single day, at least for the last month, is masturbate. I know that some of you reading this are scoffing at the pride with which I tout this accomplishment. For you, masturbation isn’t something one somehow manages to do despite various other responsibilities. For you, masturbation is the top priority. I know; I used to be just like you.
Being a parent to a toddler, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere on this blog, can put a serious crimp in one’s masturbation schedule. Toddlers are unpredictable. They’re always on the move. They’re vocal. They’re needy. It’s easy to compulsively masturbate when your child sleeps most of the time, or at least naps once a day. My child, however, doesn’t nap. She is independent, but at the same time she likes to be able to see me. If I leave the room for too long she comes to find me, and there is no lock on our bedroom door. Even if there was she’d simply knock, yell, and cry until my erection not only deflates but retracts into my body cavity like a frightened turtle.
So while I used to be very proud of my busy masturbation schedule, I’ve accepted the fact that most of the time it’s just not going to happen. Frankly, if by some miracle my toddler actually naps, I’m usually too busy decompressing to even think about having an orgasm. Under those circumstances masturbation is the sort of thing that I tell myself I’ll do later, after I’m finished decompressing. Of course, the last three years have taken such a toll on my mental health that I’ll probably never finish decompressing. I acknowledge that sometimes I just need to say to hell with decompression – it’s time for an orgasm.
And make no mistake, were I allowed an hour – hell, thirty minutes – of uninterrupted “me” time every single day, my sanity wouldn’t be stretched thinner than a worn rubber band. As my child sometimes grants me a bathroom break, I suppose I could excuse myself and go jerk off in there, but the last time I checked I was a full-grown adult, and not a deeply ashamed thirteen-year-old. Other than on occasion when the mood strikes me during a shower, I’m no longer one to masturbate in the bathroom. I’d like to think I’ve outgrown the practice and, dare I say, I deserve better.
In the past, when my daughter was content to play in her room with the baby gate denying her egress, I might have ventured naked onto our balcony, sat in a patio chair and stroked myself to a very satisfying climax, likely while conversing with a sexy friend on Twitter or some instant messaging app on my phone. It didn’t matter if the sun was shining, or if it was pouring rain. Being outdoors afforded me a minor exhibitionist thrill that invariably intensified my play.
But you know what didn’t intensify it? What nearly brought it to a screeching halt, in fact? The eventual nagging worry, as I got lost in my pleasure, that my child might hurt herself in her bedroom, and I wouldn’t be able to hear her cries because the glass door to the balcony was always inexplicably closed. But our across-the-hall neighbors would have heard. Unbeknownst to me, they would have called the police who, upon hearing a hysterically-crying child inside our unit, would have kicked open the door and come to her rescue, finding me on the balcony mid-orgasm and inhibiting me sexually for the rest of my life. In case you skipped the second paragraph, I’m a writer. I have a very vivid imagination.
Eventually my kid outgrew the baby gate. Letting her roam free throughout the house while I retreated onto the balcony meant there was no way she wasn’t going to come knocking on the glass. So the balcony eventually lost some of its appeal as a masturbation location. These days, the only thing that’ll do me is to stretch out on my bed, read sex blogs (or Twitter) on my phone, or fire up some porn on my tablet while focusing on my goal of all-encompassing pleasure.
Yes, I’m watching more porn than I was a year ago. No, I’m not proud of this. Make no mistake, I’m not ashamed of it, either. I like porn. But I’m also the sort of person who prefers to be stimulated mentally: Some intense flirtation, a sexy chat, whatever. I’m as turned on by a hot visual as I am by a good blow job, but I prefer to let my arousal build gradually, whether I’m masturbating or having sex. I love the anticipation that comes from waiting for an instant message that I just know is going to be hot. I love the sound of an incoming video call on Skype. I love progressing through a sexy chat, knowing the other person is every bit as aroused as I am.
However, I’m not always afforded the luxury of time. That’s why, at least half the time, when I am looking to get off I simply select a favorite porn clip and get to work. If my child is awake elsewhere in the house, occupied perhaps with a few books or a television show, I am aware that she may come running in at any second. If she does there’s no chance she isn’t going to climb up on the bed where I have hopefully wrapped myself in a blanket the instant I hear her approaching footsteps.
The smart thing to do, of course, is to wake up early and get it out of the way while she’s still asleep. However, given my penchant for late nights I find it difficult to haul myself out of bed before my daughter wakes up and comes wandering into my room. Additionally, while I know that a quick orgasm first thing in the morning will help me stay focused throughout the day, and thus be a better dad and generally more productive, I realize that there are no guarantees. Arousal dogs my every step. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. One minute I might be perusing legal documents, scrubbing the grout in our bathroom, or preparing lunch for my daughter. The next minute I may well be contemplating my sudden erection, wondering why it seems to be mocking me.
With all of this in mind, the fact that I have managed to masturbate daily throughout May – that’s right, every single day of Masturbation Month – is actually quite impressive. In fact, most days my body has cooperated fully, granting me my usual short refractory period and allowing me another orgasm or three, time permitting. Some mornings I have one. Other mornings I have none, and must get creative in order to manage one later in the day. Some mornings I have five. And let me just say that at age thirty-six, the volume of my fifth ejaculation over the course of an hour and a half is much greater than I would have thought it would be.
Sometimes I wonder if position has any effect on ejaculation. Masturbating on my back is a relatively new thing, and I really enjoy it. Not only is it fun and relaxing, but it also facilitates my orgasm when Jill is riding me, something that has been fairly elusive in the past. On the other hand, if ejaculation is affected by position, it stands to reason that masturbating on one’s back might lessen the volume, given that the semen must flow upstream, as it were. It seems like ejaculation would be assisted by gravity, meaning that kneeling or standing might result in greater volume.
On the other hand, I’m relatively certain that when I masturbate while kneeling, sitting, or standing up I rarely observe my ejaculation. I’m not sure what my eyes are doing – probably rolling back in their sockets, if I had to guess – but I generally don’t focus on my cock as it’s erupting and I therefore can’t accurately describe my load. On the other hand, lying supine affords me a better vantage point, and I can admit that as I’ve been utilizing this position my eyes are generally drawn to the epicenter. I enjoy watching myself ejaculate, and am generally content to let it fly, rather than inhibiting the flow of semen as I might when on my knees or perhaps sitting in a chair.
To those that might worry that stay-at-home parenthood – or parenthood in general, for that matter – must in some way limit one’s sex life, specifically one’s masturbation regimen, I am here to disprove the rumor. Yes, my relationship with my cock has evolved over the last three years, but we aren’t estranged. My urgent need for regular sexual release has caused me to alter my masturbation habits, and in my opinion that’s always a good thing. Routine is the enemy of anything worth doing. Little Jack and I are rekindling our relationship, finding new ways of keeping the fires lit, and just because Masturbation Month is drawing to a close I see no reason to lessen the momentum.
I will leave you with a link to last year’s Masturbation Month post, wherein Jill shares her thoughts on self-pleasure and a sexy video wherein she brings herself to climax – and ejaculation – with her Eroscillator. If you haven’t yet checked it out, now’s your chance.
Oh, and one last thing: This year it’s my turn.
Having trouble playing the video? Here’s a direct link to the original post in our Moby album.
Tweeted this on Tuesday. It didn’t get much of a response, but even if it had, it bears repeating.
Just walked into the children’s section at my local library, where storytime had just let out. A huge group of moms were gathered. — Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) March 26, 2013
One dad playing lovingly with his child amidst a sea of moms. I might as well have been the hairless werewolfboy from Twilight. — Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) March 26, 2013
I like the idea that I will inspire many vibrator-assisted orgasms amongst these ladies when they get home. — Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) March 26, 2013
Not only is stay-at-home fatherhood a great opportunity to bond with one’s children, but it can also be an enormous ego boost.
Well, we were nominated, anyway. This time the nomination comes from Brigit Delaney at The Lustful Literate. Given our blogging lull of the last few months, Brigit’s blog is fairly new to us, but we hope to change that, as Brigit has shown herself to be a pretty prolific blogger with tons of worthwhile content. Check her out.
We’re always pleased to be recognized by our blogging peers! However, given that we’ve thusfar published a mere four posts in 2013, the honor is even greater. We hardly consider ourselves bloggers lately, much less inspiring ones. Therefore, we are thrilled to accept this award.
And now, onto the rules:
1. Display the award logo on your blog. 2. Link back to the person who nominated you. 3. State 7 things about yourself. 4. Nominate 15 other bloggers for this award and link to them. 5. Notify those bloggers of the nomination and the award’s requirements.
The first two rules have been followed. On to number three:
7 Things About Us:
Jack’s Things
1. I don’t like eggs.
2. I’m a stay-at-home dad.
3. I’ve never lived outside of Northern California.
4. My alcohol preference is Jameson Irish whiskey, served neat.
5. I lost my virginity at age sixteen.
6. Monogamy is difficult for me, and has been to some extent for all of my adult life.
7. Despite the above, I can recall only a single instance of infidelity on my part.
Jill’s Things
1. I’ve always wanted to own a bed and breakfast. I even created a hypothetical menu.
2. I love being kissed on my neck or behind my ears. It makes my whole body tingle.
3. I am an elementary school teacher.
4. I love murder mysteries and can usually solve them before the end.
5. I love to travel by air.
6. It’s difficult for me to focus on one thing. I have to multitask.
7. I function best in absolute chaos. (Editor’s note: No. No you don’t.)
Our Nominations:
Note that we are not nominating fifteen bloggers, because as far as we know, the majority of blogs we follow have already been nominated by others. We will instead nominate as many bloggers as we can think of who provide regular inspiration for our own blog. We do this with the understanding that some may have, unbeknownst to us, already been nominated. If that’s the case, please accept our apologies for unintentional double-dipping. Additionally, we have undoubtedly been inspired by more blogs than these, but as our blogging has suffered of late, so has our blog-reading. If there’s anyone we’ve neglected to mention, please accept our apologies.
So there you have it. We’ll inform all of our nominations of the honor, though we won’t be offended if anyone chooses not to participate. We know this sort of thing isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and we’d hate to give any of our fellow bloggers an obligation. It’s just our way of telling them we enjoy their work.
In our last post, published way back in mid-February, we talked about an “anti-Valentine’s Day party” thrown by some friends of ours. We’d been invited to said party despite the fact that we assumed it was a singles-only event, and while I joked that we might be set upon by a crowd of bitter singles and mutilated beyond recognition, I can say for the record that we did attend the party and we are still alive.
Beyond that, we managed to have a pretty good time. We were, despite my assumption to the contrary, the only couple in attendance. The gathering consisted mainly of women, though there were a handful of single males as well. Some people I knew, though some I did not. Some of the attendees were members of my high school graduating class, others were people I knew from elsewhere – friends of friends and such – while others I was meeting for the first time. No one looked down their noses at us for daring to breach their romantically-unattached inner sanctum. Overall, we had a good time.
Especially Jill. She tends to drink at home, though when we go out she is often the designated driver. That night, however, we hadn’t discussed which of us was going to take one for the proverbial team and stay sober. We hadn’t planned on being at the party very long; we’d only gotten the babysitter until 9:30 and figured even that was probably pushing it. Over the course of a couple hours, one drink, or maybe two, for each of us, was probably reasonable.
I should also mention that we managed to enlist Jill’s sister to watch our daughter. She’s unreliable as a sitter, often calling us home long before the agreed-upon end time. Her general flakiness has proven frustrating on more than one occasion. That we offered to let her babysit at our house rather than hers probably sweetened the deal, and while we told her we’d be home by 9:30, both Jill and I expected to start receiving texts shortly after we arrived at the bar. Because there’s precedent for that.
As soon as we arrived, before I could get myself a drink even, I got pulled aside to catch up with a couple friends. By the time I looked over at Jill she had a beer in hand and was engaged in raucous conversation with M and a couple of our mutual friends. She wasn’t drunk yet, but I knew it wouldn’t take long. As the evening continued on, I looked over and saw that my wife was having a blast. I didn’t mind staying sober.
Eventually I made my way over to Jill. By this point she was more or less drunk. Jill gets affectionate when she drinks, and while the requisite flirting with M did occur, she also flirted with a number of the other women at the party including M’s conservative best friend, who had fortunately had a couple drinks herself, flirted right back, and laughed it off.
Jill whipped out her tits so many times that the bartender named a cocktail after them. — Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) February 16, 2013
Other things Jill did that night include pulling out her tits ostensibly whenever she got the urge, though in a fairly surreptitious fashion; and talking quite loudly about our having had a threesome with M. No one seemed to hear – she didn’t mention it when engaged in conversation with anyone else – but that didn’t stop M from playing along. If anyone overheard, she rationalized, they’d assume it was a joke.
By nine o’clock neither of us had heard from Jill’s sister, which was encouraging. Still, we expected to start getting texts around 9:15, asking if we were going to be home on time. We didn’t. We didn’t even get a text at 9:30, or 9:35. Around ten o’clock, after more than a half hour of avoidance on my part, I asked Jill if she’d heard from her sister. She said she called her right around 9:30. Our daughter was fast asleep, and her sister told us to stay out as late as we wanted. That was unexpected.
We finally left around 11:45, stopping to pick up Taco Bell en route because my wife craves cheap pseudo-Mexican fast food when she’s been drinking. M was close behind us; we had her hang back until we verified that our daughter was still asleep and dismissed the babysitter. When that was done, we texted her the all clear.
Jill had already poured wine by the time M got upstairs. I took a seat on the armchair while the two ladies got comfortable on the sofa and picked up where they’d left off at the bar. I felt my arousal build as I watched them kiss, first tentatively, teasing. Before long, though, their play intensified, hungry mouths biting gently as tongues darted between lips and hands found thighs and breasts. As Jill nuzzled and sucked on her soft neck, M beckoned me to the couch with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow.
I wasted no time, squeezing in behind my wife and freeing her breasts. As I kneaded them with my hands, Jill leaned back so our guest could have a taste. It was only a moment before I moved around to join M, stopping only long enough to cast off Jill’s top. We sucked her nipples heartily, noisily, eventually coming together on the same breast, then switching to the other. Jill reclined on the sofa and caressed her thighs, her moans soft and steady.
It was then that I noticed that M was unbuckling Jill’s belt and opening her jeans. Her hand sunk beneath the soft fabric of her panties, and the smile on M’s face when she discovered Jill’s wetness betrayed her elation. As her fingers danced within, Jill hurried to open my own jeans and withdrew my cock. As she swallowed it whole, M stripped her from the waist, leaving jeans and panties discarded and out of sight. Now wearing just her bra – barely, I might add – Jill licked and sucked as M got to work, caressing her wantonly before replacing her fingers with her tongue.
As my wife drew me deeper into her mouth, M applied long, deft strokes to Jill’s wetness, making eye contact with me every few licks. I tried to concentrate on Jill’s mouth and the erotic things she was doing with it, but as she neared climax it became evident that I was but an afterthought. And rightfully so. I slipped from her mouth and lowered my mouth onto her breast just as she began to convulse. Her moans were loud and unrestrained. She reached down and held M’s head in place as her hips bucked. I imagined the tightness of Jill’s thighs against my face as I licked and sucked her nipple, and when her orgasm had subsided I lay against her chest, still rising and falling rapidly even as M came around to resume their makeout session.
When she could speak again, Jill expressed amusement at the fury and intensity of her orgasm, and suggested we move things into the bedroom. On the way, she stopped in to check on our daughter, still fast asleep. And that’s how we found her later, as we walked M to the door. Given the number of near-misses and babysitter-related drama we’ve experienced on the quest for another threesome with M, we couldn’t have imagined that all we needed to do was let her fall asleep for the night.
Three years ago we published a post wherein we talked about how an unattached female friend of ours threw a Valentine’s Day party for single people, an anti-Valentine’s Day party if you will, designed for single women to network with other single women for the purposes of analyzing their failed relationships, complaining about how they’d been screwed over by men, and presumably organizing some sort of hunting party and killing and dismembering either their unfaithful and/or emotionally distant ex-boyfriends or else successful couples that have the audacity to be happy.
It appears that I may have been hasty in my assessment of the party in question. First off, it apparently wasn’t a women-only event. Couples might even have been invited, though at the time it didn’t seem that way, and I know that Jill and I certainly didn’t get an invite. But whereas I categorized it as a get-together for bitter, lonely individuals who can’t get dates, much less find love, it was likely a low-key gathering of single people held for the purposes of deflecting societal pressure on that most Hallmarky of Hallmark holidays. I can’t fault any single individual for wanting to be part of something like that. Hell, I can’t fault the attached for it either. As someone who has no problem making grand gestures of love on random days throughout the year, I’m all for ignoring Valentine’s Day.
Let me rephrase that: I would be all for ignoring Valentine’s Day if my wife didn’t have co-workers and friends whose envy motivates me the way revenge motivates the protagonist in a squalid 1970s grindhouse flick. Essentially, the holiday – sorry, “holiday” – does little for me; while I enjoy hearing Jill gush and brag about the dozen roses I had delivered to her place of work, I know that she doesn’t expect them just because it’s Valentine’s Day. While I am comfortable being romantic on February 14 each year, I am also pretty romantic on February 13 and February 15, and for that matter August 29. I love the fact that my wife is aware that Valentine’s Day is a corporate holiday designed to sell greeting cards, chocolate, flowers, and lingerie, and for that matter I love the fact that she refuses to go out on Valentine’s Day as restaurants are overcrowded and often feature a limited and expensive prix fixe menu.
That doesn’t mean that, to some extent, Jill doesn’t want me to pull out all the stops on Valentine’s Day. We may sidestep the issue of overcrowded and overpriced restaurants by having a nice dinner out several days beforehand – this year we celebrated Valentine’s Day with a four-course dinner out more than a week in advance – but for us Valentine’s Day still tends to include cards with heartfelt messages, gifts including candy, and hot sex that generally incorporates a half-dozen or more positions. But then all of those things are fair game on any other day. Jill just doesn’t want to have to forego them on the one day a year that everyone she knows is openly talking about them. Except for the hot sex. Most of our friends aren’t the sort to talk about that.
Getting back on topic, the friend who was responsible for that jaded anti-Valentine’s Day party is throwing another one tomorrow night. We’ve been invited. Now, knowing the friend as well as we do, we are reasonably certain that we will not be tarred, feathered, and set ablaze. In fact, we will not be the only couple in attendance. Upon perusing the guest list, it appears that the couples-to-singles ratio is such that the couples could easily take the singles should they try anything. And they’d have to be crazy to try anything. We may be happy, relaxed couples and they may be on-edge, perpetually-pissed-off singles who haven’t gotten laid in months (not saying they are, just that they might be), but the first sign of aggression will be met with swift and decisive action on our part.
Ahem. I’m not expecting a battle royale tomorrow night. Just some laughs, some dancing, and probably some magnesium hydroxide slipped into my cocktail by some single guy who wishes he was married to Jill. We’ll keep you posted. Until then, however, we just wanted to wish you all a good day, whether you celebrate Valentine’s Day, Singles Awareness Day, or some other fringe holiday or pseudo-holiday. (Did you know that today is my half-birthday? It is.)
We’ve had a nice month off. It was definitely a necessary break, as we were aware of feelings of burnout toward the end of our long near-daily blogging run. We like blogging, and we don’t want to feel burned out by it. But our determination to publish more blog posts in 2012 than any sane blogger should drove us to extremes. We thought that having a few weeks off would help refresh us.
Then it hit us: Terminology like “a few weeks off” is a clear indication that we’ve been viewing our blog in the wrong fashion. It’s not a job. To be fair, we never really thought of it as a job, exactly; however, the routine into which we fell, complete with deadlines and performance reviews, was very reminiscent of a job. And while we didn’t get paid for doing said job, the amount of satisfaction we get from knowing that other bloggers, and even non-blogging lurkers, enjoy what we do here is just as appreciated as a salary.*
That’s when it hit us: Over the past year-plus, we slowly shifted focus from blogging for ourselves to blogging for feedback. You’re likely aware that we have always been our own biggest motivation for blogging. We started this blog as a means of vocalizing things, typically sexual in nature, that we often can’t say in mixed company. We needed an outlet where we could write about our own sexual lives, and to a lesser extent discuss with like-minded individuals the things that turn us on and the experiences we’ve had. We wanted this blog to exist as a repository of our writings and a record of our relationship years into the future, perhaps even after we’ve stopped contributing to it.
But as our following grew in the months following our return in August 2011, we found ourselves greatly enjoying the feedback we’d get from an astute political post, a sexy HNT picture, or a particularly funny set of TMI Tuesday answers. While we continued to blog for ourselves and for the most part resisted the temptation to write for our audience, we did feel pressure to continue posting nearly every day, if not to regularly outdo what had been posted the day before. Granted, virtually all of this pressure was self-imposed. Well before the end of the year, we had resigned ourselves to continuing on our regular blogging schedule, participating in each meme.
Wait a minute. Resigned? People don’t resign themselves to doing the things they love. They resign themselves to a long wait in line at the DMV. They resign themselves to paying taxes. They resign themselves to being lied to by politicians. We shouldn’t resign ourselves to doing something that we enjoy. We should do it without reservation, or hesitation, on a schedule that works for us.
We’ve spent a couple weeks focusing on the future of this blog. We’ve brainstormed ideas for new posts. We’ve thought about activities in which we could engage that might inspire future posts. We’ve picked at the threads of potential erotic stories in the hopes of bringing to life something promising. We considered various means of preventing overwork and the burnout that is likely to accompany it.
So we’re back, more or less. That doesn’t mean that we’re going to blog as regularly as we did last year. That was never a pace we were going to be able to sustain for long, and the fact that we did so as long as we did says something about us, I guess. But don’t expect us to start participating regularly in memes just yet. No, a gradual return seems the wisest course of action here, and will hopefully enable us to publish the kind of original non-meme content that was our original intention.
Yes, I realize that in doing so our readership may decline. It’s likely declined significantly in the last month; I’m certain that, in light of four weeks with no posts, many readers are now former readers. Not participating in TMI Tuesday, Sinful Sunday, Wicked Wednesday and the like every week is unlikely to change that. On the other hand, we broke 200,000 page views sometime in January, so it stands to reason that people are still checking us out.
If you’ve read this far, thanks. We appreciate you sticking around!
