If you’re new here, welcome! If you’re returning, welcome back!

Looking for my most recent posts?  Scroll down a bit. 

*This* is a sticky post. (Keep comments about the stickiness of *your* post to yourself, please.) It was the first post I wrote on this blog space and it’s a permanent fixture on my home page for two reasons: (1) It clearly outlines my rules (please read them if you haven’t already), and (2) It helps a very specific group of people find me.

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Of a new blog…


Because of my Exodus from the Blogland I formerly called home.  (A.F.F. anyone?  Beuller?  Beuller?  Anyone…?  Beuller…?  Feverpitch60 has left the building…)

So.  Genesis because of Exodus.

Perhaps you were thinking along the line of Leviticus?  Deuteronomy?  Numbers?

Think again.  ;-)

There will be no commandments, but there will indeed be RULES.  And while I can’t promise to stay on topic (sex, love, gardening, pet ownership…one thing leads to another, I’m afraid…and all topics eventually lead back to sex ~ it’s a hazard of being a certain age, I think), I can promise that there will be…erm…language…and photos (if I can figure out how to upload them) and occasional glimpses at my mind, body (yes, I’m an exhibitionist), and soul.  Oh!  And my funny bone.  :)

I’d like to say all are welcome.  But really, you should be over 18.  And you will have to adhere to the rules.

Oh dear, you are thinking, with all this talk of rules…  Is she a (gulp) Domme?

Yes!  (Insert evil laugh and whip-cracking noise here.)

Well, actually…

No.  Not really.  I mean…

Let’s save this discussion for another time, shall we?  ;)  The reason for the rules is more along the lines of preventative maintenance.  I learned the…hard way (heh)…on my previous blog that internet anonymity can sometimes bring out the worst in people.

So without further ado…


1.  I am a PERSON.  Not an OBJECT.  Treat me as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

2.  While I’m usually pretty fun-loving and don’t take things too seriously, I am still a REAL PERSON with REAL FEELINGS.  Treat me as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

3.  While I may talk about sex on this blog, that does not give you the right to treat me like a sex worker.  I am a WOMAN.  I am MARRIED to a REAL PERSON with REAL FEELINGS.  Respect us as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

Also, don’t steal stuff. Creative Commons Attribution License applies. Read that, and this, before you borrow from me.

These rules apply to ALL interactions and exchanges, including but not limited to blog comments and other bitland conversations.  Anyone who feels they cannot follow these rules is free to leave at any time.  Deliberate ignorance of these rules will result in banishment from the Land of Fever.

Mrs. Fever has spoken.

So it has been written; so it shall be done.

I came…

…just now…

with a moan and a sigh,
taut and shivering, bowed
in a rippling shudder

drenched and quivering
in my own
liquid lightning,
with a flood and a spark,

I came

with your name
on my lips.

You’re so far away.

Yet the echo of the wind against my windowpane makes me wonder,
in the silence of the miles

Did you hear me?

When I came,
it was for

Perhaps we are not so distant after all.

All we’ve got is that maybe you love me and maybe I love you.

Brigid:  You’ve been playing with me. Just pretending you care to trap me like this. You didn’t care at all. You don’t love me!

Spade:  I won’t play the sap for you!

Brigid:  Oh you know it’s not like that. You can’t say that.

Spade:  You never played square with me for half an hour at a stretch since I’ve known you!

Brigid:  You know down deep in your heart and in spite of anything I’ve done, I love you.

Spade:  I don’t care who loves who!!  I won’t play the sap for you.


I won’t because all of me wants to, regardless of consequences, and because you counted on that with me the same as you counted on that with all the others.


I’ve watched this scene unfold countless times, but I rewind it anyway, watching as again the masks come off, as again the facts become clear, as again The Pretenders realize that the reality they’ve woven around themselves is an illusion.  The truth will out.  There are no good guys here, only graduated degrees of doctoral liars.

The hard set of Bogie’s jaw gets firmer with every tear Astor cries.  The film’s lack of color is the perfect foil:  In life there is no such thing as black and white.

I watch, always in horrified fascination, as he steels his resolve and she finally comprehends that there is a difference between a criminal and a not-so-good guy.

At last, the facade falls away.

She is the diamond, sharp-edged and hard.

He is the rough.  The stuff that dreams are made of.

I’ve seen this scene before, innumerous times, but still I hold my breath until he makes the call.  Until he finalizes his decision.  Until he does the right thing.

The right thing.

Do the right thing.

The air escapes my lungs on a whoosh, and I press rewind, my faith in humanity temporarily restored.

I smile at the memories this movie conjures, and with a nostalgic sigh I press the button on the remote and think…

Play it again, Sam.

In which Feve rambles about fantasies…

Because I’ve been meaning to write some response-to-others’-thoughts type posts.
And I am avoiding doing chores.



Do you remember that song by Air Supply?  The one that spouted all that nonsense about one woman being “every woman in the world”?

No?  Perhaps you are too young.  A sampling:

I was dancing in the dark with strangers
No love around me
When suddenly you found me, ohhhhh…

Girl, you’re every woman in the world to me
You’re my fantasy
You’re my reality

That is a fantasy.

That one woman – that one person – can be everything.  Specifically that they can be everything to/for/with one partner.

Aside:  Yes, I recognize that this is supposed to be complimentary, but…  Really?  I mean…  Really?!?  Because if I’m having sex with you, I really don’t want you to consider me as a sister, yo.  And while I may occasionally act as your mechanic, I would find it vastly annoying if you thought of me no differently than the chick who works the register at the auto parts store.

While what you can or can’t do/be with a partner is a topic worthy of its own post (I am more apt to ramble on other people’s blogs on this subject, however), it is something that affects my interpretation not only of (1) what a fantasy is, but most especially (2) how a fantasy plays out.

As for #1:  I have no idea what a fantasy is.  Because I DON’T HAVE THEM.  The closest thing I have to a fantasy is wishing that I could have my very own laundry fairy.

The definition of a fantasy is as follows:

fantasy [fan-tuh-see, -zee] (n):  (a) extravagant, unrestrained imaginings in the form of unrealistic or fantastical mental images; (b) a conjured sequence that fulfills a psychological need; (c) hallucination

Yeah, no.  I don’t fantasize.

Tom Allen wrote on the topic of The Typical Male Femdom Fantasy recently, and said:

The stories usually go something like this: A guy is getting bored in his relationship, and spends more time masturbating to porn, and less time romancing his partner. She notices his lack of interest and becomes upset (alternately, she thinks he’s having an affair), and then begins to snoop. She then finds his secret porn stash, or browser history that he forgot to erase, or his links to FetBook, or whatever, and thinks to herself “If he wants a cruel bitch to dominate him, that’s exactly what he’s going to get, the bastard!”

The unsuspecting guy then comes home to find his partner dressed in a leather jumpsuit, dangling cuffs from one hand and swinging a crop with the other. Or Ms. Vanilla suggests a little light bondage one evening, and after he’s securely tied down, she changes into her newly bought Dominatrix outfit and then…

The stories usually end with the couple enjoying their new life, generally with the woman totally comfortable with her new role, and the guy expressing some kind of “Be careful what you wish for” ending.


I don’t get this.

I don’t say that disparagingly; I just really, truly, honestly don’t.get.it.

Oh, I *get* that it would just be easier (on the wanna-be subby) for him to not have to put words to what’s on his mind, and that it would be so much simpler (again, for him) if she would just “discover” his interests/kinks/fetishes and then, of course, immediately embrace his wants as her own (because heaven forbid should she want anything different!) and set about making his every dream come true.

{No, I did not roll my eyes while typing that.  Seriously.  o_O  No, really!  Cross my heart and pinkie swear.}

And I *get* that in that easy, simple, immediate blah-blah-blah-ness, he doesn’t have to do any work (mental/emotional/communicative) to get what he wants.  (Reality check, much?)

So in that way, I get that it’s a fantasy.

Of course it’s a fantasy.  IT’S UNREALISTIC.

And that, I think, is the crux of the fantasy thing for me.  I just don’t do unrealistic.

I also don’t…desire(?)…for lack of a better word…sexual things in a “general” kind of way.  Some people do.  And intellectually, I can wrap my head around that.  Maybe you’re into watersports (or pegging or bondage or whatever else) and who you do those things with doesn’t matter so much, so long as you do them.  But that’s not how I roll.  My desires are partner-specific, and that is exactly what they are:  Desires.  Wants.  And those wants are based on what I know of that person, what their hot buttons are, what our dynamic is together, and what kind of pleasure I wish to give/take/share with that person.

Which brings me to my second point, which is How A Fantasy Plays Out.

SeattlePolyChick (who is, oddly enough, a poly chick who lives in Seattle) posted yesterday about one of her fantasies ~ which was partner-specific ~ and how, in her head, that played out.  It was all about cuffs and piercings and blindfolds and fisting and fucking and D/s delights…  But all of those things, and how they played out, were partner-specific.  Her arousal and excitement and imagination and delight in thinking these thoughts, and sharing these wants, was very evidently magnified by the fact that it was not so much about the activities as it was about *participating* in those activities with select people.


{Yes, I realize I am talking in all sorts of CAPITALS and italics and underlining boldy-ness today.  It’s called inflection, people.  And it’s how I talk furreals when I’m in rambling mode.  So you’ll just have to bear with.}

I get this because for me:  It’s about the WHO, not just the WHAT.

I get it because it’s a want.  And it’s specific, not only in terms of activity, but in terms of participant(s).

And if we (we = you + me) are…involved (for lack of a better word)…I want to know your wants.  I want to know what turns you on.  I want to know where you go in your head.  And if you are “fantasizing” while we are…engaged (again, for lack of a better word)…I want to be part of that.

Well, to a point.  I mean…  If you are beating off to the thought of the Flying Wallendas fucking some rabid clowns in the center ring under the Big Top…  Yeah, maybe not.  I’ll just go visit the elephants while you do your thing.

But if you were thinking of me while you stroked your cock in the shower this morning?  I want to know that.  Tell me.  Specifically.  In detail.  More.  Please.  Let me be there with you in my mind.  Let me feel your arm around my waist and your teeth scraping my shoulder while you shield my face from the splash and press your body into mine.

Because all of those things…  They aren’t unrealistic.  They aren’t fantastical.  They are – or can be – real.  And they are based on who we are, and on who we are together.  On things we’ve shared with each other, on desires we have for one another.

It’s not a fantasy.

It’s a WANT.

And oh boy, do I have wants…



Penny for your thoughts?


The Way We Were

I think of him sometimes.  The him he used to be.  My friend, my confidante, my sexy soldier.  My first love.

We were fire and ice.  Fight or fuck.  Compromise meant the match burned down to the base and the ice melted just enough for tepid liquid complacency to soothe the singed fingers holding it.

I was whiskey on his wounds.  He got drunk on the possibility of Me.

We were not meant to be.

We had our moments though.  Bright shining starry moments when we stopped fighting ourselves long enough to stop fighting each other.  Moments when galaxies spun inside our eyes and we sent the world up in flames.  Moments of clarity.  Of joy.  Of truth.  Of pain.

Of “I love you.”

He was the first.

I don’t say those words to many.  It’s an invitation to heartbreak.  He taught me that.

He taught me a lot of things.

How to put more spin on my serve.  How to lay parquet flooring.  How to have an orgasm in complete silence.  How to relax enough to let him hold me.  God, he was good at that.

I used to climb up on him to sleep.  He was… big… and I never had to worry whether I’d steal his air of if he could take my weight.  I just climbed on whenever I needed to.

He loved it when I did that.  He wanted it, and he proved it, over and over and over again; it is a gift I’ve never received from another.  He’d lay on his back and I’d drape myself over him like a blanket, my head against his chest, warm in his embrace.  I’d wrap my arms up under his shoulders and frog my knees up against his hips and he’d hold me there ~ petting and soothing and shushing, stroking his big hands over my head, down my back, gently and surely, again and again ~ until I finally unwound enough to fall asleep.

I sleep alone these days.  And when I dream, it is not of him.

But I do think of him sometimes.

I think of him…

Of what we had and who we were…

I think of him, that boy I used to know.

I remember him, and smile.

In Country

She is a veteran of domestic wars,
her childhood sacrificed on the battlefield
of jealous dogma,
soul stained
with blood and


Goddess of war

Lay down
for her
your weapon

Her justice is waged
on angel’s

She does not need your sword