What It Feels Like to Be Objectified

It feels good.. . until it doesn’t.

Entering a space, confidence high, the appreciative looks of men feed me, building my strength. There is power in feeling like the most desired woman in the room. They don’t know me. But they want me. At least they want that which they are presented. When I’m not known, being what some would call objectified feels like a compliment. The exterior is all that can be responded to. And the armor may be artful, but it’s also titanium grade. The responsive energy just polishes it up.

There is a difference to me between being someone’s fantasy and being someone’s object. As the fantasy I’m still shielded, part of me unknown in one of two ways—either my heart or my appearance. I love being a fantasy. It’s when the armor is pierced that it goes awry.

It’s when the armor is pierced that it goes awry.

It’s when the armor is pierced that it goes awry.

“Why are you still dressed?” ExBoss once asked soon after I crossed the threshold. It wasn’t the question that stung. But his tone. I cared deeply for this man, and had opened my heart up to him. He knew me, not just how I looked, but how I thought, what I was passionate about. But that night, as far as he was concerned, my purpose was to be his release. That was it. Other than as visual and physical stimulation, I held no other value to him.

At the time I laughed it off and said something coy like, “Because you haven’t undressed me yet.” But the seed of abasement had been planted. And when I drove away into the night, the smell of him on me, I seemed to be nothing more than his cum rag. That didn’t feel good.

In the digital world it’s different. There the approach is often reversed. Emails lead to online chatting, which can turn into texting and phone calls. Time is spent knowing the other person. And sometimes it stops there. But every now and then, it doesn’t. Sometimes pictures are requested. If I acquiesce then suddenly I’m known in a different way. And then which direction will it go? The faster it escalates, the easier it is to see. Continue reading

I Just Want to Lay Here and Touch Myself

I don’t want to get off the bed. I don’t want to keep a schedule. I don’t want to be responsible. I don’t want to do what I should.

I just want to lay right here and let my fingers gently caress my smooth mound. I want to delve between the slick cleft and find the waiting pearl that is the most alert part of me at the moment. I want to be languid, and stay blissfully naked, doing nothing more than admiring the contours of my body.

But I don’t always get what I want. So up I go, into leggings, a t-shirt and Nikes, before heading to the track to push my languid ass around a small town football field in lane two until my lungs feel like they’re going to explode.

Special Coffee

During our five day trek through the alpine wilderness, Nathan and I enjoyed many things… Unobstructed views of the Milky Way, pitchers of mojitos, breathtaking hikes, and my favorite of all, lots of laughter.

The second morning Nathan woke up first and made coffee for me, a rich fresh roasted blend procured from a specialty shop he likes and brewed in a French Press. He added the right amount of cream and sugar before bringing it to me, allowing the aroma to be my herald of the new day.

I put the stoneware mug to lips and smiled. But before I could take my first sip Nathan waggled his eyebrows at me and said, “It should be the best coffee you’ve ever tasted because I stuck my wiener in it.”

I nearly spilled said nectar from laughing so hard. And I have to say, it was delicious.

Marian Goes Glamping

I’m in a remote alpine area with limited access to the outside world. We brought our food and alcohol in via coolers. So I’ve been trying to respond to comments but haven’t been able to get them to post. Hell. I don’t know if this will go through. But I’m on top of a 9,500′ mountain after a treacherous hike. So I’m hopeful.

Love you guys!!!

Sometimes I’m Demanding

Nathan doesn’t like to have sex if I’m on my period. And I can understand that. If I’m not at the beginning or the end I don’t really want to have sex either. Unless the end drags on and on and… on. In that case, if he is around and sleeping in my bed, I want to fuck him senseless.

But in the last week that he’s been here, there has been none of that. Every morning I wake up to an epic specimen of morning wood brushing my thigh, but when I mention sex the question he asks is, “Are you still broken?”

In other words, no sex for Marian. So there has been a Mexican standoff in my little cottage. If I can’t have orgasms from him, then I had no intention of giving him any form of release. But this morning I didn’t exactly stick to my plan.

As his erection nudged me I was a bundle of pent up sexual frustration. With impatient movements I stripped of my black negligee and tossed it to the side. Instantly his warm hand palmed my breast.

“Here is what is going to happen,” I told him. “You are going to suck my nipples and fondle my breasts until I say you’re done. Then you are going to straddle me and slide your cock between my boobs while I lick the end the head. And then you are going to come on them. Got it?”

He got it.

After we had finished, me somewhat sated, but still lacking release, I looked him in the eye and said, “Tonight, when we get to the hotel you will fuck me.”

He nodded, a pleased smile on his face.

We are in route to the hotel now, a half way point in our long trek across the states to several days of alpine hiking. And he will meet my demands.

Why I Don’t Like the Word “Deserve”

I have a problem with the word “deserve”. No, it hasn’t done anything to deserve my dislike. (see what I did there?) But there is a layer of entitlement that shrouds it. At least in my eyes.

For example, when a coworker recently told me that I deserved my upcoming five day getaway in the mountains, it gave me pause. Sure, you can say I deserve it. (I do.) But I’d much rather say I’ve earned it. (I have.) Do you see the difference? They are so very close… and yet, not.

It hits me even harder when talking about relationships. “You deserve a good man!” one girlfriend will say to another. And sure. I see what she’s saying. But that slight bent towards entitlement once again strikes the wrong chord with me.

And there’s also the hint of exclusion. If you don’t see it, just turn the phrase around. How many times have you overheard in conversation, “He doesn’t deserve her.” and visa versa. Who are we to say? Who are we to cast judgement? Do we know what goes on in the depths of others’ hearts or what happens behind closed doors? No.

A few days ago when a close friend was talking to me about her dating woes she expounded on what she wants in a relationship and closed with, “and you know what? I deserve it.” My face can reveal what I’m thinking when my guard is down and it must have been because she immediately said, “What? You don’t agree?”

I shook my head. “No honey,” I explained, “It’s not that I don’t agree. I just don’t like your word choice. And it’s my own personal hang up. I absolutely think you should be happy. And I’m so glad you’ve got a clear idea of what you want. I just don’t like the word deserve.”

She cocked her head cocker spaniel style waiting for me to explain.

“I just think there are better words. Ones that have more meaning… more power to them,” I floundered. It wasn’t as simple as I expected to show why I cringed.

“Look at it this way,” I said, “Do I have your trust as your close friend because I deserve it? Or because I earned it?”

Understanding began to wash over her face.

“And don’t for a second think that I don’t believe you should get exactly what your heart desires,” I continued, “You have one of the kindest hearts I know. And that is priceless. Don’t ever doubt your worth.”

So when you sweet readers comment and tell me you think I deserve X and Y and Z, you may have noticed I dance around what you’ve said, thanking you, but not agreeing. There is a glitch in my brain that keeps me from being able to say, “I deserve X and Y and Z.” However, that does not mean that I don’t believe I’m worth it.

Massage Highlights

I, of course, stripped completely. I’m not the most modest girl in the world.


In the last eight days I have ridden over 50 miles on my road bike and have run around 30 miles at the track. I’m pushing my body harder than I can ever remember. And as a result, my muscles and tendons are very, very tight. So when I walked into the room with Nick, my new favorite massage therapist, I explained my recent activities.

“I feel good, but my legs and shoulders could use some loosening up,” I said.

“Alright,” Nick said, “We’ll start out with you face down. I’ll step out while you disrobe to your comfort level.

I, of course, stripped completely. I’m not the most modest girl in the world.

He returned to the room when I called out, “All good.”

“Is the temperature okay for you?” Nick asked after he had begun on my back.

“I’m actually a bit clammy. Could you turn on the fan?”

“Sure. I thought you felt warm. Do you want me to remove the blanket and just use the sheet?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

Nick has a sensual touch. But not in a creepy way. It’s hard, deep and relaxing. My shoulders sank into the table, the knots untangling. Over the course of the next 90 minutes he worked me up and down. But I’m not going to give you a blow by blow of the entire session. I have a comfortable bed and an out of town friend (Nathan) waiting for me in it, so you’re just going to get the highlights.

Highlight One
He noticed my tan lines and said so. “Are you tender here? You’re shoulders look a little pink from the sun, especially compared to the untanned part.”

Highlight Two
He brushed his cock against my hand. I was laying face down, hands palm up when I felt the distinct shape of the head of a penis graze my pinky finger. I didn’t react. I was curious to see if it would happen again. It did. Five times his cock rubbed my tiniest finger. Continue reading

Never Have I Ever Had Sex In A…

me:  I love kitchen sex

him:  I don’t think I have ever had kitchen sex

me:  It’s delicious

him:  Shall I take you from the rear up against the island?

me:  Mmmm. Yes… So I can hang on tight as you bang me against the cabinetry

him:  What else can we do in the kitchen?

me:  Cook?

him:  I was thinking more along the lines of having you splayed spread-eagle on a cold granite counter as I ate you out slowly with my mouth and fingers.

me:  Ohhhhhhhhh


A $50 Bra for a $15 Dress

Going strapless when you’re built like I am is a challenge. Not wearing a bra simply isn’t an option. And finding a strapless one that supports and lifts rather than squashing is more difficult than one might think.

But I recently purchased a strapless summer dress, my first one in ages. It was one of those times when I tried it on just for kicks, not expecting to like it. But I did. It hugs in all the right places, making me feel feminine and sexy. And it was on sale! For only $15!!! So a quick swipe of the plastic and the confidence-boosting little number was mine.

But when I got home and dug out my old strapless bra, the one that never really fit, I realized that it was much worse than I remembered. Talk about a cups runneth over situation! And not in a good way. When your breasts are spilling to the point of falling out, it’s not sexy. Gross is a much better descriptor.

So I began the hunt for a new strapless bra. As any woman with a size DD or larger cup size will attest, you can’t just waltz into Target and grab the first cute bra off the rack you see and expect it to fit. In fact, if you’re in the larger category like me, you know better than to even look. Big box stores don’t even carry my size. It requires a trip to a specialty shop.

And that’s how I happen to be the proud new owner of a strapless bra that actually fits. Now, the irony is that it cost $50 compared to the $15 I spent on the dress. But that’s okay. Because when I wear it and the dress out dancing tomorrow night I’ll feel beautiful. And if the dress slips down later in the night… well… I think the bra looks pretty good on its own. But I’ll let you decide.

strapless bra

What It Feels Like to Be the Second Choice

Upon realizing I was second choice I first tried to rationalize it. Though I wasn’t what was really wanted, I was still desired… desired deeply. And that was good, wasn’t it? And we could create something all our own, couldn’t we?

So in the beginning, being second choice feels hopeful. Because you’ve still been chosen. And perhaps you weren’t the original dream, the original fantasy, but you were the reality. And living, breathing flesh and blood is better than what might have been. Isn’t it?

I tried. I did. I tried to not let the friendship with his One bother me. But instead, it began to slowly eat away at the foundations.

He tried. He did. But I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t be what he needed. And I wasn’t strong enough to share the stage with another. Especially when it felt like he needed her more than me.

So at the midway point being second choice feels confusing. As one who always believes things can be “fixed” I thought, if I’m just understanding enough… if I can just be what he needs enough it will work. A pattern of less than full disclosure began. He avoided telling me about their communication. And I avoided asking. Because how horrible would it be to ask… And then be told no… that I couldn’t know what was going on between them.

So then being second choice begins to feel scary. Because I didn’t know where I stood anymore. Everything felt out of balance. Uncertain. I felt… less than.

In the end, being second just isn’t enough. Not for me. I admire people who are self assured enough to share the stage, to share their man or their woman, who can balance three-pronged relationships. But that isn’t me.

I need to be someone’s One.

How to Treat Cocks Lightly

I never get tired of penises. I know it’s sexier to call them cocks, but sometimes I’m just old fashioned and prefer to call them by their official name. Why do I love them? Well, honestly have you ever seen anything so appreciative? You pet them and they sit up, showing you have their attention. Gently stroke and hover your hand just out of reach and they will bob up and down, waggling for another touch. Adorable! Kiss them… and oh my. They get even harder! Let them fill you (in any way) and after a little (or in some cases longer) while, you get the surprise inside! From my perspective they’re just plain fun!

A friend of mine sends me the occasional artfully taken photo of his body. Sometimes it’s his torso, which is firm and covered in fine black hair. At other times it’s of his legs which have the strong, sinewy quality of one who hikes mountains. And every now and then he graces me with one like he did today, which is included in this post. Before you think I’ve developed a sudden blatant disregard for his privacy, yes, I asked him if I could post it. And yes, he said I could. And yes, he’s a reader.

A visual gift from a friend.

A visual gift from a friend… which happens to demonstrate how to perfectly light a cock.

What I love about this particular image isn’t what you might suspect given my opening paragraph. It’s not the swelling shaft held in check by the taut cotton boxer-briefs. Nor is it the rippling abdomen with muscular swells in all the right places. Nope. My favorite aspect of this photograph is the light.

For without the light casting its bright glow, the arched ridge of his generous cock would not be noticeable. The faint outline of the helmet that I imagine to be glistening with the tiniest amount of pre-cum would be invisible. Because of the light, what is left in shadow tells me so much. I can see the depth of his muscles, the hollow at his navel, the thickness of his shaft.

The light paints a trail I’d enjoy traveling with my fingers. It would be a lovely journey, don’t you think? Not only for the one touching… but the one touched.


I Have No One to Blame but Myself

​It is not the world’s job to make me happy. Nor is it his job. Whoever he may be at the time. I don’t have quite as many disillusions about control as I have had in the past. I realize that, as much as I want to hold all the puppet strings in my life, it’s not possible. Things will happen that are of my influence.

But some things are in my control. If I do things that result in me feeling negative about life and myself, I have the ability to stop doing them. Or to do something different. And if I don’t take those steps and stay unhappy, I have no one to blame but myself.

​Sometimes that’s a scary thought. And other times I twist that perspective and think about all the times I’ve felt joy that had nothing to do with my decisions except for taking the time to notice the moment. ​

Like the other night while I was running at the track. A rainless thunderstorm had passed by ten miles to the south leaving a sky full of dramatic clouds that stretched to the horizon. And as the sun set, its pink light broke under the clouds and through the humid mist, coating everything with the most beautiful copper light I have ever seen. As my feet and breathing kept a steady rhythm I wished for a camera. But then thought, no. No camera could capture this. Just soak it in. This twilight is yours. Commit it to memory, for it will live there far better than in tiny pixels on a screen.

I could dwell on how many moments like that I’ve missed. But I won’t. I’ll just keep treasuring them as they come, realizing the gifts they are, not unlike the people who I have come in contact with via this blog. Thank you all for reading. And I’m so grateful for the relationships that have developed.