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.

Quarterly (Re)View

I was gadding about on my blog this morning, updating pages and rethinking widgetry, and in the process, I was reflecting on what this blog is about (if, indeed, it is really *about* anything at all – I don’t have a themed blog, after all) and I got curious:  Are there consistencies in the material found here over time?

(I realize that this question is probably of little interest to anyone besides me, so feel free to stop reading now.  I won’t be offended.)

I’m not sure, really.

In a way, I know the answer is NO, because (1) I just write whatever I feel like writing {key word:  feel}, and (2) One of the original ‘features‘ on this blog was discontinued after the first year; both reasons impact(ed) and shift(ed) the content to a rather significant extent.

Yet, subjectively speaking (perspectively and topically), the answer is YES.  (Or at least I think it is.)  Because…


Because why?

Hmmm…  Well I still write about my husband.  And sex.  And I publish bad poetry.  And…  Other…  Stuff…

Ergh.  That’s not very definitive, is it?


So I’ve decided to do a self-check of sorts, in that I’m going to review – on a quarterly basis – a few of the things I’ve written and see if there are definitive consistencies over time.  Thus, the first installment of my Quarterly (Re)View, so named because I am basing my ‘whatsit?’ (that’s a highly technical term, meaning:  1/4 to 1/3 representative quarterly sample, no less than 5 and no greater than 10 within the publication dates) on what posts get viewed.  Because, quantifiable evidence and non-bias and seeking common threads and all that jazz.

Blah blah blah.

Yes, I am a geek.


QUARTERLY (RE)VIEW:  January 1 – March 31, 2015
{Otherwise known as What the hell are you writing about anyway, Feve?}

I posted an answer to a question, posed by a good friend via email, that went into detail about the type(s) of attention I enjoy/permit/demand when it comes to my breasts.  {I’ve done something similar in the past, on another topic.  People seem to gravitate to these posts.  Note to self.}

I wrote about the things I have, which was sort of a reflection piece, just prior to my 500th post.  {With pictures!}  Apparently one of the things I have – in spades – is Daddy Issues.  {With music!}  They came out of hiding and sucker punched me (bastards!) during a particularly trying time at the beginning of the year.

I posted a how-to about saving blog content for import or export when blogspot was on their censorship rampage.  {If you find the how-to posts helpful, and there’s some bloggy thing you’d like to see more information about, let me know.  I keep meaning to post one about widgets.}

I got possessive.  (Damn do I miss him when we’re apart.  I hate that there are so many miles between us.)  Remembering that interlude makes me wet.  *shiver*

I got celebratory.  (Birthdays were somewhat of a theme this quarter, I think.)

I got carnal.  *sigh*

And I got real.  Because, issues.

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Sooo…  Sex, reflections, musings (partly about sex), mourning, bloggy schtuff, personal stuff, sex(y) stuff, celebratory stuff, and more sex…

Hmmm.  Theme, much?


If you’re still reading (I don’t blame you if you’re not – this is a level of self-absorption that would leave me screaming for the hills), and you read regularly, I wonder if you see any common threads in the posts you’ve read recently?

I’m not a total narcissist, I promise.  I’m just in Analytical Mode.


Please and thank you!



I feel the soft
of your skin
against mine

~ tempered,
exaggerated ~

through the veil
of sleep and taste
on my parched
when I

“You are always on my mind”
does not do
justice to
this ache.

You are under my skin.
You are seared to my soul.

You are
the memories and hopes that walk
with me

in absentia

You are

but here.

Move Over, Julie Andrews

Welcome to the Daytona Fever 500.


Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens (my whiskered one is a troublemaker) are Good Things, but if I was to sing a song about my favorite things (and I *do* sing, as you will see when you scroll down), I would not include bright copper kettles (copper rusts) and warm woolen mittens (allergic to wool!) among my favorites.

And just what would you include, Feve? you are wondering.

As if I wouldn’t tell you.


(kidding, I’m kidding…  there are only ten)

Nicknames:  There is something special about nicknames, when they are developed between two people.  Being bestowed a nickname by a friend or lover – one that is exclusive to the two of you, sui generis – is an intimate and unique way of sharing a story, your story, and the symbolism gets stronger as time goes by. Terms of endearment are dear to me as well, especially when I know that they are mine alone to say or to hear, but there is something about a nickname that takes it one step further.  It is somehow more powerful.  Perhaps because it is something that belongs only to the entity that is defined as “Us” (whoever that ‘Us” may consist of).  There is, after all, something to be said for pride of ownership.

kissy faceSnuggles:  I am of two extremes about touch.  For the most part, I am a hands-OFF kind
of girl.  But physical touch is one of my love languages, so with the people I care about – people who are “my” people – I can be a cuddly bunny.  (The kitty is an excellent snuggler, by the the way.)  It is rare for me to find people who ‘match’ me in that way, but when I do…  Well, let’s just say the term “wrapped up in you” can be taken literally.


Conversations:  The kind that free-flow with the tide of thought.  These are rare gems.  When people can just relax and not try to justify or convince or persuade or soapbox, but just…  Talk.  Think.  Share.  Question.  Answer with more than one word.  Engage.  Listen.  Truly listen, without argument or judgment, but with the goal of understanding.  Let one concept or word or phrase or idea spark another and then another and another.  I have had the pleasure of experiencing those kinds of exchanges at various times throughout my life, and some of the best conversations I’ve ever had have been with other bloggers.

Link Shares:  I love it when people share links with me.  An article, a song, a quote, and info page, a photo.  I like it any time (provided it’s well-intentioned), but I especially like it if it is done post-conversation (see above), because it shows me they are thinking about the things we discussed, and that shows me – in a tangible way – that they are invested.  I also love post-conversation ‘follow-up’ emails.  Particularly when those emails include additional information about something we discussed.

Old Hollywood:  I am a fan of classic movies, particularly from the 1930s to the 1950s. I grew up on Cary Grant and John Wayne and know entirely too much about Katharine Hepburn and Myrna Loy.  The fact that the studios (back when there were hundreds of them) used to put out a movie a week and that a month-long shooting schedule was considered an exorbitant expense…  Five days to three weeks was the average production schedule, start to finish.  It’s mind boggling.  Watch The Maltese Falcon some time and keep that little tidbit back of mind throughout.  Or His Girl Friday.  There is no one in modern movies who can compare to the directorial genius of Huston or Hawks.

"Is your husband working on a case?" a reporter asks.  "Yes," replies Nora Charles.  "A case of scotch."

The Detecting Couple of the Martini Era: “Is your husband working on a case?” a reporter asks. “Yes,” replies Nora Charles. “A case of scotch.”

And the lines!  Ironic:  “How dare he make love to me and NOT be a married man!” shouts an irate Ingrid Bergman.  Even more ironic, but in a completely different way:  “Put me in your pocket, Mike,” says Katharine Hepburn, breathless.  Sigh.  Love ~ LOVE ~ LOVE old movies.

(I love quotable movies in general, and there are some more modern ones that I enjoy ~ Galaxyquest, anyone? ~ but classic Hollywood takes the cake.)

Music:  I am particular in my varied tastes, and I do not think of music as background noise.  It is something I focus on, something I listen to.  It is not a distraction, it is an activity unto itself.  I can perform tasks (driving, cleaning the house, etc) to a “soundtrack” of sorts, but if I am listening to music, that is exactly what I am doing.  I am not filling the silence with white noise while I concentrate on some ‘greater’ task.  And when I like an artist, I hear something new every time I hear their cuts, no matter how many times I’ve heard the same track before.  There is an art to listening.  And listen, I do.  It could be a manifestation of my ADD/OCD tendencies working in tandem that jacks up my senses in this way.  Or perhaps it is a result of my classical training.  I am a musician.  I married a musician.  I play two instruments, and I sing.  I belt out lines from little-known songs at random times.  I hum softly to myself, or carry a tune in my head, almost all the time.  If you talk to me on the phone for any length of time, you will hear me sing.  I carry lyrics in the pockets of my memory, and I have lived a life creating harmony in dissonance.  Music is an emotional experience for me, and often a physical one.  It is also intensely personal.  I won’t go to just *any* concert, and I certainly won’t go *to* a concert with just anyone.  Live music is especially potent in its effects.  I laugh and I cry.  I sway my hips and raise my hands and hold my breath and move my feet.  I experience music. Actively.  Someone who once loved me told me I was his favorite song.  It is one of the most uniquely tailored compliments I have ever received.

Books:  I love books.  Real books.  I love the feel of them in my hands.  There is something special about holding bound spines and turning pages.  Books tell stories beyond what is inked on the pulp they contain.  Reading fuels my imagination.  I devour books with a voracious appetite, and I collect a genre that may surprise you.

Date Nights:  My husband and I get very few of these.  But when we do, we set about discovering new things together, and we learn new things about each other in the process.  I am lucky enough to be married to somebody who cares about experiences.  We share them.

This is a 1% representation of my nightly reality. Cameras can never do the colors justice.

Sunsets:  I’ve been asked why I prefer sunsets to sunrises.  It could be a matter of which coast I live on – the sun doesn’t rise with much oomph in my neck of the woods.  {It could also be that I’m not a morning person.  The sun peeking through curtains means I have to get out of bed.  Five more minutes, Feve mumbles, burying deeper into the covers.  I don’ wanna get up.  ;) }  There is something poignantly symbolic about watching the sun go down.  The inevitability of the end, I guess.  And every sunset is different.  The western sky is ablaze every night with hues of pink and orange and colors undefinable.  Sometimes it is a golden glow; other times it is a purple haze.  No two are the same.  Yet every one is beautiful.  And, just as in the cycles of life, the end of each day is a natural requirement for the beginning of another.  Sometimes there is relief; sometimes there is sadness.  Always there is the assurance that a bright light will be on the morning’s east horizon.

Orgasms:  If I said one of my favorite things was sex, you’d say, “Duh.”  But really…  Sex, in and of itself, is NOT one of my favorite things.  (Gasp!)  Because, truthfully…  It’s not the act of sex (intercourse has its place and its purpose, but there is very little joy for me in simply fucking) I like so much as the orgasm.  I like having them and sharing them.  Granting them.  Demanding them.  Denying them.  Controlling them.  I like listening to my lovers, watching them when they cum.  I like being asked for orgasms.  Building them.  Delaying them.  Gifting them.  Experiencing the release.  I like the hitch in his breath, the involuntary twitch in my legs, the strain and the pleas and the desperate wanting that pushes us both over the edge.  I like the slow dance and the fast ride and the Now, please please NOW and the Cum for me, baby.  *shiver*  Yes, orgasms are most definitely one of my favorite things.



What are your favorite things, hmmm?

I have stories.

I have stories.  They are written on my skin in creases and lines, tattoos and scars.  My body helps me remember and won’t allow me to forget.

I have a birthday.  It marks, today, an odd number of years I have spent on this earth.  I am aging.  It is a gift.

I have an ancient spirit and an elfin smile.  I am mischief and widsom, sparkle and depth.  I am older than the past and younger than the future.  I am timeless.

I have an agile mind and arthritic limbs; life is, after all, nothing if not an exercise in balance.

I have a steel spine and a silken soul.  Formidable softness and threaded strength.  Test me at your own risk.

I have a voice.

I have music.

I have dreams.

I have nightmares.  Some Most of them are real.

I have words.  Try as I might, I don’t always use them wisely.  It is this failing in myself that makes it difficult for me to forgive this fault in others.

I have flaws.

I have a mouth made for kissing.

I have weight.  I do not throw it around, and I pull my own.

I have hair.  It is not as thick as it once was.  But it is long and soft and, like my heart, it is unruly.  I am not afraid to let it down once in a while.

I have fun.

I have a depth of humor that comes from a breadth of experience.  Sarcasm does not amuse me.  It is bred of pain and contempt.  There is too much of both in the world, and I have had my fill.

I have joy.

I have sorrow.

I have responsibilities.  I take them seriously.

I have a past.  I do not dwell there.

I have a house.

I have a home that is not defined by the four walls within which I live.

I have a full cupboard yet I have hungers that will never be satisfied.  I am insatiable. Thirsty.  Knowledge is a craving; sex is sustenance.

I have a voracious appetite for life.  Feast with me.  Tell me your stories.

I have stories.

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This is my 499th post on this blog.  The albatross of 500 hangs heavily around my neck.  It shouldn’t be A Thing.  Especially since traditional milestones are something I typically care very little about.  But for some reason it is.  Perhaps I am wondering what I am (still) doing here (after all this time).

This piece started out in my head as “I have a blog…” and was inspired by middleagebutch‘s post, I have a desk.  Which was inspired by another writer’s I have a horse.  And so on and so forth.

But when I started writing, I realized…

I have a great many things.  Intangible and precious and not easily identified or defined.  Thus, the birth of “I have stories…”

If I were to add anything to what is written above, it would be this:

I have faith.

I have love.

And I have the freedom to practice both in the manner I choose.

I make it a point to always remember that.

What do you have?


He is shivering heat and thickening hard, willing prey to the beast in me.  The way he shudders in whispering moans ~ speechless ~ and pleads in body-pressing beseeching non-words sends lightning bolts of pleasure coursing through my veins.

I love the way he feels under me.

His sigh is a plea, a please, and as I kiss my way along his jawline, I can feel him – all of him, everything he is to me – willfully submit to my ministrations and he sets my body alight, burning with his fire.  In this moment he is everything I know and the only thing I want.  He is my precious baby boy, my sweet daddy, my dirty fuck toy, my cherished friend.  My pet, my plaything.

My lover.

My Love.

All and none, and everything in between.

I press my cheek against the softness of his beard, and in his ear I breathe the weight and complexity of all he means to me – all he is to me – in one word.  Smooth and low, my voice entenders a single syllable that makes him gasp as his arms tighten around me and his body rocks in response: