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Wherein We Finally Weigh in on Fifty Shades of Grey

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While on vacation recently, I happened to find myself on the verge of a discussion about sex with a family member who was reading Fifty Shades of Grey.  I was lying on a lounge chair in the sun when I overheard my mother-in-law ask my sister-in-law how her book was.  “Oh, it’s horrible,” she said indignantly.  “It’s so filthy.”  At the sound of this very loaded word, I opened my eyes, glancing through my sleepy haze and cheap sunglasses in the direction of the conversation.  My sister-in-law held in her hand a copy of the latest literary darling, which also happens to be the latest critical black sheep.

I noticed that my sister-in-law’s tone was not one of reticence, of coy refusal to commit, as one might employ when discussing a work of erotic literature with one’s own mother.  No, her tone was one of revulsion, conveying the feelings of someone forced to read something against her will.  In a manner of speaking, this was partially true; when asked why she was reading a book that gave her such strong feelings of animosity she said that it was her book club selection, and that she had no choice.

I am a sex blogger, obviously, and as such I presume that I have read more about Fifty Shades of Grey than most of Jill’s family, whose exposure to the book might consist solely of reading a review in Entertainment Weekly.  However, I have not read the book itself.  When word of this extremely polarizing tome began to permeate Twitter and the sex blogosphere earlier this year, I visited our local library, just out of curiosity, and found that every copy in the county was checked out, with holds in place on all of them for the next three months.  I eventually managed to get my hands on a copy, and in the hopes of seeing what all the fuss was about, I read one chapter.  However, it took only a couple pages for me to realize that this simply wasn’t the right book for me.


Disappointing, really; anything that brings a decidedly kinky practice like BDSM into the mainstream should be a good thing, right?  Perhaps someday an up-and-coming author will write a book that does the same thing for non-monogamy.  Unfortunately, I found author E.L. James’ writing style juvenile and unimaginative, with nothing to offer a reader who’s already discovered the likes of Tristan Taormino, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Kristina Wright, Allison Tyler, Thomas Roche, and others.

Yes, I can see why Fifty Shades of Grey has captivated the sensibilities of the vanilla mainstream.  It promises the average reader a taste of the taboo, a foray into a forbidden arena they’ve not yet explored.  I assume that, for the women who are consuming these books so voraciously, BDSM is far too exotic, dark, even dangerous to be a part of their actual sexual repertoire.  The closest women like these come to BDSM is purchasing a pair of pink plastic handcuffs from Spencer’s Gifts, using them once, getting a cramp, and then burying them at the bottom of a nightstand drawer.  Let’s face it, the average member of the book’s target audience isn’t a regular BDSM practitioner.  Regular BDSM enthusiasts are probably not going to waste their time reading this book.

Judging by the title and cover alone, Fifty Shades of Grey is a lot less salacious than, say, the typical erotic anthology written by real erotic writers and edited by an individual with a healthy attitude about sex.  The cover features an admittedly artistic and nicely-lit photo of a necktie.  Suggestive, but not too offensive for the delicate sensibilities of the mainstream.  By comparison, the erotic books that hold places of honor in our bookcase have covers that feature (much more artistic) photos of women in corsets, women clasping garter belts to stockings, women performing implied oral sex, and lots of naked people locked in the sort of embraces that don’t make the covers of Harlequin-type romance novels.  The title alone is less inflammatory than something like Best Women’s Erotica 2012, which might earn you a dirty look as you read it in a public place.

Most importantly – and somehow most perplexingly, even to someone who understands the appeal – Fifty Shades of Grey is tremendously popular, breaking sales records in the U.K. and elsewhere, unseating Harry Potter as the fastest-selling paperback book of all time, and landing its author on Time Magazine’s annual list of influential people.  Universal Studios holds the film rights, with Bret Easton Ellis and Angelina Jolie expressing interest in writing and directing, respectively.  That means that even if you’re given a dirty look by a conservative type sitting next to you on an airplane as you read it, you can adopt a haughty “Fifty million frustrated housewives can’t be wrong” attitude.

Everytime I see a post by one of my Facebook friends – usually a high school or college acquaintance – gushing about how Fifty Shades of Grey is the hottest thing she’s ever read, my respect for that individual nosedives a bit.  Make no mistake, I’m always in favor of people reading rather than languishing in front of a television set watching Jersey Shore.  And I certainly have nothing against someone declaring Fifty Shades of Grey a decent time-waster, the sort of throwaway read one might take to the beach, enjoy, and forget about, especially if said someone isn’t very sexually adventurous.  But hearing someone declare this book the hottest thing ever makes me want to beg them to read something better, by a writer who’s actually been there.

It’s worth mentioning that these are the same Facebook friends who regularly line up for the midnight premiere of the latest Twilight movie.  This is especially noteworthy when one considers the fact that Fifty Shades of Grey started life as Twilight fanfiction.  And although no significant resemblance exists between the overrated vampire romance novel series and the overrated BDSM romance novel series, the fact that someone who is sufficiently interested in Twilight to write fan fiction about it under the nom de plume “Snowqueens Icedragon” should be rewarded with a publishing contract is baffling, and not just because I’ve yet to be rewarded with one myself.

One of the things that has gotten under the skin of most of the BDSM community is the fact that James reportedly had no prior first-hand knowledge of or experience with BDSM, and corresponded with a Dom she’d met online as a way of doing research for the book.  For this, I hesitate to compare James to Vanilla Ice, if only because when the exaggerations of Vanilla Ice’s hip-hop qualifications came to light his career fizzled, while no one seems to care that James’ BDSM qualifications are spurious.

Technically it shouldn’t matter; to my understanding the author has not claimed that Fifty Shades of Grey is a true story, or that her protagonist Anastasia Steele is meant to represent her; James is an author of fiction telling a story that is presented as such.  Whether her research methods consist of first-hand experience, interviews, reference books, or online resources, they should ideally have no bearing on how the book is received provided an entertaining, factually accurate story is told.  This brings me to what has raised the ire of most of the BDSM practitioners who’ve voiced an opinion on Fifty Shades of Grey.

Christian Grey, the love interest of Anastasia Steele, practices BDSM as a result of deep-rooted childhood trauma.  I can’t say whether the author is attempting to claim that the link between psychological damage and interest in BDSM is an across-the-board constant, but if so it clearly betrays her lack of knowledge on the subject.  There is no factual accuracy to the theory that all or even most of those who practice BDSM have such issues; additionally this is an extremely short-sighted sex-negative position that insults not only those who enjoy BDSM, but also those who have suffered a similar trauma.  Actually, the sex-negative aspect might help to explain the book’s mainstream popularity.

Additionally, many mainstream literary critics have condemned Fifty Shades of Grey for ostensibly negating feminism, and furthering the false notion that women who submit do so out of a lack of self-respect and the desire to relinquish their free will to a dominant male.  This criticism is ridiculous; those who lack self-respect are unlikely to actively seek out fulfillment of their healthy sexual desires in a consensual fashion.  Perhaps James should not be blamed for how others interpret her work; having failed to complete more than a single chapter I can’t reliably say whether or not such an attitude was her intent.

As you can tell, my feelings are strong despite the fact that I only made it through eight or nine pages.  Actually, it might be more accurate to say that my feelings are strong because I only made it through eight or nine pages.  I might have viewed a book written by a more competent author, with better-developed characters and greater substance on offer, more forgivingly than I did this one.  At any rate, it’s due to these strong feelings that I wisely opted out of the discussion despite the tractor-beam-like forces drawing me toward it.

I would have gladly discussed the book’s pedestrian roots as fan fiction, E.L. James’ questionable qualifications to write it, and the book’s reputation as an “easy read”, a book designed for those who find the typical romance novel too wordy.  I would also have recommended the alternative of Taormino, Bussel, et. al in a heartbeat.  But I wasn’t about to get drawn into a debate on the merits of alternative sexual practices lest I inadvertently reveal details about Jill’s and my sex life to individuals from whom we’ve thusfar done a great job hiding them.

I certainly wasn’t going to debate the issue with an individual who’s recently made it clear – only to Jill and I, presumably not to everyone else in the family – that she thinks I’m a sexist pig, a disrespectful chauvinist, and perhaps if I’m willing to read between the lines not good enough to be married to her sister.  We have long suspected that certain members of our families would judge us if they knew some of our sexual interests – read more about that here – but the revelation that our suspicions have merit kept me lying silently on that lounge chair.

I considered getting into a BDSM debate with someone who’s reading 50 Shades, insists that female subs have no self-respect, and says the…
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) June 28, 2012

…book is horrible (which it is), but refuses to stop reading it. Instead I debated politics with my 14-year-old nephew. #ikickedhisass
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) June 28, 2012

@jackandjillcpl just send to molly’s 50 Shades of me post 😛
— Signs (@DomSigns) June 28, 2012

@DomSigns I actually considered that! What an excellent post. This is just not the sort of person we can have discovering our own blog.
— Jack (and Jill) (@jackandjillcpl) June 28, 2012

(The above-referenced post can be found here.  Though Molly classifies it as a rant, it’s a much more complete and eloquently-stated presentation of the issue than I could ever have written.)

At some point, Jill also noticed the book and asked her sister what she thought of it.  She was given a diatribe on the protagonist’s lack of self-respect, followed by the clueless argument that those who practice BDSM are fucked up.  The entire rant – and believe me, that was a rant – was capped by the following argument-winning checkmate:  “It doesn’t matter anyway because the book is just disgusting and the only reason I’m reading it is because I have to.”  Frankly, I’m disappointed that her main gripe about the book was a negative judgment about its subject matter.  Had her main gripe been “This book is horribly written and whoever gave the author a publishing contract should be fired”, I would have been powerless to resist piling on.

To Jill’s credit, while she didn’t get dragged into the debate – if you can call it that – she did ask her sister why she has to read it.  It’s a book club selection, after all, not an English class assignment.

“Well, you have to,” she said.  “It’s the selection for this month.”

“What happens if you just don’t read it?  If you feel so strongly about it, refuse on principle.”

I believe the discussion died off at this point.

I am always frustrated to learn that intelligent and mature people I respect and care about have bad attitudes about sex.  It shouldn’t be surprising, of course; we are conditioned to believe that sex is a necessary evil, something we do for procreation but not for pleasure; or else something that we do for pleasure, but only with strict adherence to conservative guidelines, i.e. behind closed doors; and that daring to talk about it with other adults is akin to urinating in your grandmother’s face.  So it doesn’t shock or surprise me, but it does make me sad.  Such people could be getting so much more fulfillment out of life if they simply embraced the notion that sex is normal and healthy, and meant to be enjoyed.  Maybe that’s the real reason that we don’t talk sex with people unless we’re certain that they have similar attitudes to ours:  We just don’t want to be disappointed.

-Jack

Courtesy of Wordsmoker

Sinful Sunday: In Low Light

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I love the way my new corset blends into the shadows.  I love how sultry I feel when I wear it.  I hate how empty this bed is.  Come join me.

See who else is being sinful at Molly’s Daily Kiss!

Sinful Sunday

Daniel and the Rape Joke

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When I was in high school, some guest speaker – a psychologist, maybe – told my class that men can’t be raped, because men do not have vaginas.  When men are forcibly penetrated, it is – or at the time it was – called sexual assault.  Imagine telling that to a man who’s wrapped in a blanket, fearfully and shamefully telling police through sobs and trembles what happened to him.  “Hey, thanks.  It doesn’t hurt anywhere near as bad now as it did when I thought it was rape.”

We have no open dialogue on rape in this country.  Recently, comedian Daniel Tosh came under fire for a performance in which he said that rape jokes are always funny, and when heckled by an irate member of the audience, said it would be great if she was gang-raped.  When I say “came under fire”, what I mean is that he was vilified by sex-positive bloggers and columnists, and then universally defended by his fellow standup comics via Twitter.

I understand the implication:  By muzzling a comedian who dares to resort to material that ventures so far beyond the realm of politically incorrect that it can be termed “inflammatory”, “offensive”, and “an incitement to violence”, we chip further and further away at our collective right to free speech until it is just a momory.  I consider myself a fan of standup comedy, and in the past I’ve defended the rights of other comedians to say things that I personally found reprehensible.  And I defend Daniel Tosh’s right to do the same, even though the tirade in question does nothing to change my opinion of him as a lackluster comedian who somehow got lucky.  Much like Dane Cook.

My favorite performance of his is the one where Kevin Costner kills him.
I may have a problem with Daniel Tosh’s image as an obnoxious wannabe frat boy who tries too hard to get laughs, but as a writer I simply cannot fathom a comedian, a writer, a director, a musician, or some other artist being handcuffed by the possibility that someone might commit a crime and blame it on his or her work.  I’ve loved horror movies all my life, and I hate it when religious conservatives claim that such films are to blame when la heinous crime is committed.  First off, rape and murder existed before movies did.  Second, I watched the same films, and I’ve never raped or murdered anyone.

I understand that a clearly fictitious piece of entertainment such as a movie, a book, or a video game is much different than a performer seeming to exhort – even in jest – a crowd to visit an act of unspeakable violence and hatred upon another person.  I get that.  And while my opinion on Daniel Tosh’s words remains unchanged, I question how what he did is any different than similar outbursts by Michael Richards and Tracy Morgan, both of which resulted in tremendous backlash.

In 2006 Michael Richards screamed racial epithets and threats at an African American heckler (“Fifty years ago we’d have you upside-down with a fucking fork up your ass!”).  In 2011, Tracy Morgan said during a performance that he would “pull out a knife and stab” his gay son if he spoke in an effeminate voice.  Acting out of anger, one performer advocates lynching blacks in 1950s America.  The other ostensibly normalizes violence against LGBT individuals, presumably for laughs.  Both comedians were widely ostracized for their words, and both were eventually driven to apologize.

While writing this post this morning, I saw that Tosh has apologized for his remarks.  I’m not a fan of forced apology; telling me that you regret losing your shit and resorting to racial epithets is nowhere near as meaningful as simply not saying it in the first place.  This is doubly true when I consider that such apologies are almost always the result of a consumer or viewer backlash, and not any actual contrition.  Additionally, such an apology allows the audience to give the performer (or the athlete, politician, or other public figure) the benefit of the doubt and continue to enjoy his or her work.  In the eyes of the general public, all is forgiven but nothing actually changes.  Note that while I may be unequivocally in favor of a performer’s right to free expression – after all, an incitement to violence doesn’t work if the audience isn’t already prone to violence – that doesn’t mean I’m going to refrain from calling you an asshole after you put your foot in your mouth.
The difference between the Daniel Tosh incident and the Michael Richards and Tracy Morgan incidents lies in the public perception of their hypothetical victims.  If anyone other than Michael Richards thought it was a good idea to stand on a stage and shout the word “nigger” in the presence of an audience, they were either unrepentant white supremacists, or too ashamed of their position to stand with him.  And in the wake of a well-publicized spate of physical and emotional violence against LGBT individuals, there was no chance that Tracy Morgan’s comments would be taken as a joke by society at large.

There is no “It Gets Better” project for rape survivors.  Instead, our society trumpets an inexcusable, widespread “blame the victim” policy, and seems far too preoccupied with what a rape victim may have done to make the rapist rape her, or him, than it is with punishing, or even rehabilitating, those who rape.  That a woman may be hesitant to report an incident of sexual violence for fear that she will be judged, belittled, or even penalized for having been a victim is a set of circumstances that I cannot bear.  When someone reports a car theft, the police don’t suggest that this is what happens when one owns a nice car.  Likewise, “What were you wearing?” should never be uttered by a detective investigating a rape.

I don’t necessarily blame Daniel Tosh, at least not primarily; while it’s true that unfunny comedians have no choice but to attempt to shock their audience, I believe that he was influenced the unfeeling reactions of an entitled, male-dominated society that has long stopped pretending to care about the rights of women.  And I don’t necessarily blame his audience, who I’m guessing turned against the offended woman in the hopes that Tosh would invite them all backstage after his set.  While their actions may have been insensitive and even cruel, they are to an extent victims of an all too unfortunate misogynistic standard that society – American society at least – seems determined to retain.  But that doesn’t make them any less culpable.

When Dharun Ravi was found guilty in the Rutgers University webcam case that led to the suicide of his roommate Tyler Clementi, columnist Dan Savage and other gay rights advocates cited blame-shifting, likened Ravi to a scapegoat, and said that society as a whole was complicit in Clementi’s death.  While having a sexual encounter broadcast via webcam – and being forcefully outed at the same time – was a horrible violation, it was likely a lifetime of adversity that drove Clementi to suicide.  The point made by Savage, et. al was that by making an example of Ravi, society could alleviate its own guilt.  To an extent, I get the same sense from Tosh’s rape joke.  Yes, he said something that I believe transcends poor taste.  But he was emboldened to do so by a society that apparently considers rape no big deal.

In the wake of the Tracy Morgan incident, Louis CK, a comedian I highly respect, defended Morgan and lamented the fact that by attacking him, LGBT individuals squandered an opportunity to open a dialogue not only on LGBT issues, but also traditional views of masculinity.  He’s right; while offended parties are within their rights to voice their opinion of a comedian – or any artist – and his or her material, engaging in a sensible dialogue will benefit society in the long run as it may reshape long-held attitudes in need of changing.  I’m not optimistic, but I hope that Daniel Tosh’s rape joke will not result in a squandered  opportunity.

Update, 4.27.20: Obviously I no longer respect Louis CK. Anyone who still does following the numerous accusations of sexual misconduct against women (and the comedian’s subsequent admission thereof) probably stopped reading this post a couple paragraphs in.

Not long before this post was written and published, I’d mentioned my enjoyment of Louis CK’s comedy to a friend, who in an attempt to dissuade me said she’d “heard things” about him but wouldn’t elaborate as to the specifics. As she was a woman of color, I assumed she was talking about his casual use of the N-word – or various other words that straight white guys shouldn’t want to say – as part of his edgy persona, and I’m sorry to say I largely disregarded her concerns as I found his comedy relatable, especially what he had to say about parenting.

I could have googled it, but honestly I had no idea that it was anything more alarming than that. (I admittedly did find CK’s use of such language problematic, just not enough to abandon him.) Granted, I was well aware that masturbation made up as much of his comedy as it does my tweets, but the thought that he was the kind of malformed, inadequate person who needed to inflict himself on women by forcing them to watch? No way. It wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years.

Except of course it should have occurred to me because less than a year earlier his F/X show Louie featured a scene wherein the comedian faced off against an anti-masturbation activist on a panel discussion show about the topic. Exasperated by her puritanical views, he tells her that masturbation keeps him sane, and enables him to be a good person. “I’m a good father,” he says. “I recycle and I masturbate. And I’m proud of it. And God’s happy.” All rational, salient points with which I certainly can’t find fault.

He continues: “And later I’m going to masturbate, and I’m going to think about you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Cue needle scratch. I get feeling threatened by someone who believes that something that makes you happy, that makes you you, is morally wrong. I get wanting to push back against them. But when you wag your dick in their face, literally or figuratively, that’s when I get off the bus.

Because is it me, or does telling someone something like that come off as assault? Not physical assault, obviously, but anyone who gives the subject any considerable thought must realize that lack of physical contact doesn’t preclude trauma. It’s not unlike the tweets I occasionally see wherein people call out kinksters for, say, performing an elaborate D/s routine on a crowded subway car; if you involve someone in your sex life who hasn’t consented to be a part of it, you are potentially doing harm to that person. And as opposed as I am to the anti-masturbation activist’s position that self-pleasure is harmful – and I recognize that she is a fictional character played by an actor – she didn’t deserve to be harmed. As CK said moments earlier, nobody gets hurt by masturbation. Which is ironic considering the amount of people Louie CK hurt by masturbation.

I’m at a point in my life where I am actively trying to do better. Not necessarily better than other people, just better than I was the day before, or in this case several years before. And part of doing better involves not making excuses for people who do shitty things.

Also, I should point out that the guest  speaker to whom I refer in the second paragraph was wrong: Men sometimes have vaginas. Granted, I’ll wager that his ignorance stemmed less from willful transphobia and more from ignorance; it was 1993 or 1994, and though I don’t wish to speak for all cisgender people, I can say with complete candor that as a cisgender teenager who thought he knew everything about sex, I knew little if anything about what being transgender meant.

Formspring Friday: Satisfaction

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On a scale of 0 to 10, how satisfied are you with your sex life?

We wrote and scheduled this post on July 2nd.  By the time it is published on July 13th, we will have been on a road trip with Jack’s parents for almost a week.  We imagine that having them in close quarters for so long will be hell on our sex life, and would probably skew our answer.  Therefore we are opting to write it now, in the comfort of our own home, and in the afterglow of really hot sex.

Rather than posting two separate answers to this question, we discussed it and discovered that our feelings are about the same.  On a scale of 0 to 10, we both consider ourselves about an 8.  Why not a ten?  Well, we are realists.  While it’s true that we are very satisfied with our sex life, we know that there is always room for improvement, and we strive constantly to do better.

Also, we can’t always have sex as often as we’d like.  Various obligations including work and family interfere with our dreams of having sex twelve hours a day and sleeping the other twelve.  If we could live that kind of life, that would take us up to 9.5 easily.  But we really have little reason to complain.  Our desires are regularly indulged, most of our (reasonable) fantasies are fulfilled, and we have pretty much everything we require to truly be sexually satisfied.

Still, there are always going to be new things we want to try, including toys, positions, locations, and people.  To some extent these things act as motivation, and keep us wanting more.  Thus we remain focused and not complacent.  Sexually, we are always on the move.

Despite the joke I made above, I don’t know that anything would really elevate us above an 8.  Our attitudes toward sex mean we’re always grounded in reality, and we realize that perfection is hardly ever achievable.

If you want to ask us anything, drop us a line on Formspring, or use the handy Formspring widget on the right-hand side of our blog.  We like sexy questions!  To see who else participated this week, visit Twitter and search for #FormspringFriday!

Flash Fiction Friday: The Main Course

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Image credit: Andrew Lucas
They sat in their chairs, each naked save for a pair of black high heels.  The lack of clothing made the heat radiating from a brick pizza oven easier to bear.  And of course the waitstaff had no complaints.
The restaurant was legendary, a place where one could sample exotic dishes offered nowhere else.  Diners and critics alike were known to insinuate that there was something unusual about its menu.
The waiter brought out the main course.  She was obviously drugged, bound at her wrists and ankles.  Her movements were sluggish as he prodded her across the dining room.
He set their feast down on the table, and they dismissed him.  The main course lay there, feminine and vulnerable, ready to sate their hunger. 
The women sat in silence.  “How do we do this?” one asked after a moment.
“I don’t know,” said another.  I’ve never eaten pussy before.” (149/149)

Behind the Scenes

I wrote this story in about twenty minutes on Wednesday evening.  The prompt photo didn’t exactly speak to me; I found myself scrambling to come up with an idea as I didn’t think I would have an internet connection at all on Thursday.  Even when the idea came to me I was convinced that it was the least unique idea imaginable.  Still, I went with it.  I note that it’s a bit unclear as to what exactly is occurring in my story, though that is due to the fact that the picture itself is unclear.  Are they going to actually cannibalize the woman on the table?  Or are they, as is stated in the final line, planning to perform cunnilingus on her?  If so, what’s with the silverware?

Among the parameters for this week’s Flash Fiction Friday challenge was a word range of 145-149.  I always find such a range particularly challenging; anyone can write a story that is 149 words or less, but it takes precision to write a story that must fall within such a tight bracket.  Additionally, this week’s required word was “…insinuate…”  Not “…insinuation…” or even “…insinuated…”  Unlike most weeks, I remembered to include the required word, but found it very difficult to do so.  The verbiage about diners and critics being “known to insinuate” was a direct result of the required tense; had the word been “…insinuated…” I could have gone with “diners and critics alike insinuated…”

I realize that the brick structure in the background of the photo is clearly a fireplace, but I chose to make it a pizza oven.  Despite the fact that no restaurant that I know of has a pizza oven in a location other than the kitchen, but I thought it drove home the point that this is a very unusual restaurant, and not some sort of BDSM dungeon.  Incidentally, “A Very Unusual Restaurant” was the original title of this story.

Deleted Scenes

Despite my story’s lack of substance, I found the 149-word maximum a bit limiting, and because of this I had to trim about fifteen words to make the limit.  Additionally, while the story was still underway I pre-emptively excised the following passage in order to make room for the second paragraph containing the required word.

They stared at the empty oak tabletop, anticipating their feast.  One of the women impatiently tapped her silverware against the surface.  The service wasn’t slow; on the contrary, their waiter was very attentive.  But their anticipation was great.

Soundtrack

As Billy Joel is one of her favorite artists, Jill will probably never forgive me for going with “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant”.  It was the first song that came to mind.

Programming Note

We’ll be out of town next week, and may or may not have internet access.  While I will make every effort to participate in Flash Fiction Friday on July 20, if we don’t it’s because we’re unable, not because we’ve in any way lost interest in the meme.

The Naughty Hangout: Pop!

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This week’s theme at The Naughty Hangout is “Balloons/Balls”.  Although Jack was dying to post a picture of his balls, I thought we’d try something different instead.  Since one of the backup themes was “Sharp”, I’ve got a balloon in one hand, and a sewing needle in the other.

Jack says that my nipple qualifies for “Sharp” as well.

Go see who else is being naughty this week!

-Jill

Wicked Wednesday: The Barter System

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She meets me in the alley behind the restaurant.  The smell of grease and exhaust from the cars idling nearby hang heavy in the air.  We don’t exchange conversation or even greetings.  By now, she knows the drill. 

She drops slowly to her knees, using the heel of her hand to rub me through my pants.  But I don’t have time for that.  I need to get back inside before my break is over so I unbutton and unzip, and she fishes out my cock.  It’s already hard and her lips wrap around the head, making it even harder.
She sucks me deeply, taking me all the way to the back of her throat.  She holds my cock there for a few seconds before she comes back up for air.  She does it one more time before I begin to rock on my heels, slowly fucking her mouth.  She takes the hint and sucks faster.
While it’s happening, I imagine that she’s my co-worker Sonia.  Sonia is a lot hotter than she is.  Sonia works the night shift and I hardly ever get to see her.  One of these days I’m going to ask her out.  For now, though, just imagining Sonia’s full ruby lips sliding up and down my cock will do the trick.
It does the trick very well, in fact.  Just another moment and I’m there.  I tell her I’m ready, and she takes her mouth away.  Instead she opens her top and I stroke myself the rest of the way, cumming all over those great big tits of hers.  She never swallows.  Maybe one day she’ll let me cum in her face.
“Towel,” she says.  I take the dishrag out of my back pocket and she snatches it away.  While she’s mopping up my cum I put my cock back in my pants and zip up.  I lift her back up to her feet because I’m a gentleman.
My break is over.  I tell her to go around to the main entrance and I’ll hook her up.  Her order never changes:  Big Mac, no pickles.  Large fries.  Medium Diet Coke. 
Just another day at McDonalds!

This week’s prompt:  #arch

Retro HNT: Camisole and Panties

jackandjillcpl2 Comments
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“Camisole and Panties”, posted August 11, 2010

In 2010, we posted fifty-two consecutive weeks of pictures at OHNT.  We’re posting them on our blog, one per week.  They can be found here, along with background information and all the comments they received.

TMI Tuesday: July 10, 2012 – Blankety Blank

jackandjillcpl9 Comments
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Complete the sentences by filling in the blanks.

Jack’s Answers
1. I could spend all day _______  but couldn’t stand five minutes  _______ .
fucking; watching reality TV.  Does that work?  Are the two answers supposed to be more related, along the lines of “cooking; washing dishes”?  While it is technically true that I hate washing dishes by hand – hell, I’m not crazy about pre-rinsing them and putting them into the dishwasher – the first thing that came to mind when I read the questions was fucking (or masturbating, having oral sex, etc.) and watching reality TV.
2. I would love to have a robot in my house to do _______  because no one else ever does.
I don’t know how to answer this.  There really isn’t anything that doesn’t get done.  Cooking, cleaning, laundry, and other household chores all get done, and presumably once our daughter is able to understand that room, board, and meals don’t come free, she will contribute as well.  However, if the question had been about chores we simply don’t want to do, or could use some help with, we’d have much to say.

Can this guy write blog posts for us? I feel like we’re not posting enough.
3. The older I get the more _______  I get.*
socially liberal, especially when it comes to LGBT issues.  Not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but I’ve always been pretty progressive and never understood why anyone would bully, persecute, or attack another human being because of who they love or who they fuck.  But in my younger days I was unable to see the importance of the overall issue.  Today, though, as a thirty-five-year-old man, I have dozens of friends who so identify, and who are denied basic rights because of who they are.  Beyond that, I can see clearly that there is a very fine line between discrimination against LGBT individuals and those who have recreational sex.  Fundamentalists hate us both.  
4. I want to  _______  when I _______  .
have sex; am not having sex.  I have the attention span of an awkward eleven-year-old who is just discovering girls.  Whatever I happen to be doing, I would rather be fucking, or doing something else in the sexual spectrum.  Waiting in line at the DMV?  I’d rather be fucking.  Sitting down to Sunday dinner with Jill’s family?  I’d rather be fucking.  Flying first class to an all-expenses-paid resort vacation?  I’d rather be fucking.  Changing my daughter’s diaper?  I’d rather be fucking.  Celebrating my birthday with all of my closest friends and family, with the promise of fucking afterwards?  I’d rather be fucking.  Taking communion?  I’d rather be fucking.  Falling asleep after fucking?  I’d rather be fucking.
5. My appetite for _______ can never be satisfied.
sex (obviously).  If you have to ask, then I have failed as a blogger, especially after my answer to #4, which I’m pretty sure I wrote in English.  I’m getting a decided Cool Hand Luke “failure to communicate” vibe off of you people.  
Bonus: If I were a hoarder, I would hoard _______ .
Adorable soft bunnies.

Yeah, that was bullshit.

Jill’s Answers

1. I could spend all day _______  but couldn’t stand five minutes  _______ .
getting a massage; around narrow-minded, prejudiced people.

2. I would love to have a robot in my house to do _______  because no one else ever does.
the laundry, sweeping, and vacuuming.  These are the three chores that I always seem to get stuck doing for some reason, and I hate all of them.  Jack needs to realize that all those blowjobs he’s been getting aren’t free.

I hope he’s been saving his allowance.

3. The older I get the more _______  I get.*
unconcerned about other people’s opinions about me.  When I was younger, I was embarrassed to act the way I wanted to.  I was so hung up on living up to other people’s expectations that I didn’t think I could be silly and for lack of a better word carefree.  I might let go a  little bit in my classroom because I was working with children, but there was a huge difference between the way I behaved in a classroom and the way I behaved the second class was over.  As I’ve gotten older I find that I have far less time to give the smallest shit about what anyone thinks of how I live my life, and having a baby has facilitated these feelings.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked into important meetings and other serious social functions with stickers stuck surreptitiously to my clothing.  To some extent this attitude has extended to my sex life as well, though I can admit to being a bit concerned about how I’m perceived sexually due to the sensitive nature of my job.

4. I want to  _______  when I _______  .
have an orgasm; have sex.  It doesn’t have to be during penetration, though I don’t complain when it is.  I just want to make sure that my needs aren’t forgotten about.  Fortunately with Jack it isn’t an issue.

5. My appetite for _______ can never be satisfied.
potatoes.  And by potatoes I mean sex.  But I also mean potatoes.

That is one sexy potato.

Bonus: If I were a hoarder, I would hoard _______ .
thousand dollar bills and private jets.  I would also hoard tropical islands with mansions and sexy, well-hung cabana boys with washboard abs.  And gold.  I would hoard gold in a series of underground gold mines under each of the islands.

How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!

*This question is worded differently in the published version of this week’s TMI Tuesday.  We worked off of a preliminary list of questions.