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.


The slow burn in your eyes gets hotter with every downward stroke of your hand on your cock, and a primal vibration awakens in me, knowing that the fever in you tonight is mine.

I love the way you watch me, watching you.

The hitch in your breath tells me you’re close, and draws my attention to your lips, slightly parted and forming my name with a sensual softness that matches your eyes.

I love the way you look at me, baby.  Sultry.  Sweet.  Seductive.

The way you swell and strain when you stroke yourself for me sends a shiver down my spine.  Your pulse, throbbing against your swollen head, triggers an answering thrum inside my womb, and the primal response creates a new heat that sparks recognition in your eyes when they lock on mine.

This view I have, of you, is perfection.  Can you feel the weight of my head against the inside of your thigh?  The strength of my gaze?  The lightness of my breath?  The beat of my heart?

I love to watch you.

Your shuttered exhalations escape around the shape of your lips once more, forming my name, and my eyes alight again on your mouth.

Your mouth.



My desire is channeled now, and there will be no stopping once I start.  One thought alone consumes me:  I need those lips on mine.

Take a deep breath, baby.

When I climb up your body, it’s your lips I’m going to ride . . .






. . . FIRST.

Cumming and Going: The Import/Export Business of Blogging

So as some of you already know, Blogger is doing a crackdown on so-called “Sex Blogs” ~ specifically blogs that contain “images and video that are sexually explicit or show graphic nudity” ~ and as of March 23rd, policy changes will take place that will affect the visibility of said blogs.  Ferns and Tom Allen have both posted about this recently, and there are additional links and suggestions in their posts and comments sections.

While I am not a fan of censorship, I *do* respect the fact that Blogger is communicating their intent and is addressing specific facets of content in their policy change, as opposed to the gestapo-like lockdown that happened on WordPress in 2013.  The WP crackdown came out of nowhere, and people were locked out of their own blogs, had to pay to retrieve their (original!) content, and then either had to figure out how to export or self-host without any guidelines/backup/assistance.  (For the record, WordPress’s TOS addresses Mature Content here.)

So today’s How-To post will address importing and exporting content to/from WordPress.  I assume Blogger (as well as other blogging platforms, like LiveJournal, etc) have a similar process, so you can adapt as needed and go from there.

First and Foremost:  BACK YOUR SHIT UP!

To save your blog content in an easily-converted fashion, do the following:

  1. From your blog’s Dashboard, mouse over the Tools icon (looks like a wrench).
  2. Click ‘Export’.
  3. You will see a screen that looks like this:


In case it’s not obvious, click ‘Download Export File’.  Then you can save the .xml file to your computer and it is ready to be imported either (a) into a new WordPress blog / under a new user name, or (b) into another blogging platform.

I generally do this every few months, but considering that the Sex Police are out banging their batons again (heh – take that as you will), I have upped my schedule.  Every time you do an export-save, your computer – being the intelligent, sentient being that it is – will ask you if you want to replace the previous version of blahblah.xml.  You – being the intelligent, sexual being that you are – must remember to click ‘Yes’.  Otherwise you will have 12 different versions of your blog files eating out your hard drive.  I mean…  Eating up your hard…  Well, you know.

To import your blog content to WordPress from another platform, do the following:

  1. From your blog’s Dashboard, mouse over the Tools icon (looks like a wrench).
  2. Click ‘Import’.
  3. You will see a list of systems that are importable, including but not limited to:
    1. Blogger
    2. Israblog
    3. LiveJournal
    4. Posterous
    5. Storylane
    6. Tumblr
    7. WordPress
    8. Xanga
  4. Pick the appropriate platform (if you are importing content previously hosted on Blogger, you click ‘Blogger’), and then follow the import prompts.

Easy peasy.

Just not teasy or squeezy.  ‘Cause, sex.  GASP!

If you have questions, or need additional information, there are additional details listed on the WP Support Page.

Share as you will.

You’re welcome.


Just Breathe

I’ve been having a hard time writing lately.  I have ideas swirling around in my brain, I have conversations logged in my memory, I have a hundred moments – quiet, funny, reflective, sad – that flit like butterflies, uncatchable.  I can see them, in all their delicate beauty, poised for flight, but to reach out and grab them damages their wings, and I hold myself back for fear of ruining something beautiful.

Sometimes all I have to do is pause for a breath and the words assemble themselves in my mind, forming post-worthy punctuated pictures, ready for publication if I could only type them out.  But I am either at work, or in the car, or at the grocery store, or have awakened in the middle of the night to go pee (my bladder is the size of a lentil), or am cooking, or walking the beach (which is more like a panting waddle, ‘cos my ass is seriously out of shape), or just plain not interested in sitting down at the computer (there’s a whole history there that it would take me 3,000 words to suss out in any way that makes sense – I’ll spare you, as this post is quite long enough as it is), and they never make it from passing fancy to flying fingertip to get typed out.

And so they stew until they stagnate, and trying to resurrect them from the mire is…  Exhausting.

So I put it off.

And I put it off some more.

And then something happens that I really.must.write.  Except…  Oh yeah, there’s no background for the story because I have failed to write 147 things already, so I’ll just add one more item to list of un-dones and let it go.

*rubbing temples*

It’s sort of…  Defeating.

I write to process, especially to process emotion, and when I just.can’t.do.it, I start to feel overwhelmed.

And don’t even start with me on the whole, “Oh Feve, just write when you feel like writing” bullshit because I already tried that on myself and it doesn’t help.  Thanks anyway, but save your breath.

And if you’re thinking, What’s the big deal, anyway?  It’s just a blog.  Well, let me tell you…  You’re absolutely right.  It’s just a blog.  But it’s my blog and I don’t like it right now.

And I think that’s part of the problem.

Generally speaking, I like this little space of mine, my tiny corner of the internet cloud-o-sphere.  I like the people I meet and the conversations I have and the things I learn.  Playing with words, having discussions, learning about my community (interpret that as you will) – these are all things I enjoy.

But right now…

Not so much.  And it’s hard to articulate all the why’s (see prior reference to the Unwritten 147), especially as it’s not down to any *one* fixable thing.

But it’s hard for me sometimes.  Because I invest myself here.  On my own blog and on others’.  And I’ve lost a lot in the process.  (Yes, yes, I know you’d love to hear the details.  But I’d love to be independently wealthy, and sometimes we just don’t get what we want.  Plus, as I already mentioned:  This post is quite long enough as it is.)

I understand that people leave.  The turnover here (in terms of who engages regularly) has been pretty high from the very beginning.  (And the whole censoring-sex-blogs thing that happened on WordPress in 2013 is in the works on Blogger right now, so I expect another mass exodus from both platforms in about 3.28 seconds.)  Generally speaking, I just roll with it.  People come and go, some come back later, some disappear into the ether forever.  With most, it’s like strangers passing on a train.  We take a meal or two together, have a few interesting conversations, laugh a little, and leave each other a little better than we were before we met.

Some, though…

Some of the people you meet via blogging become part of your life – your real life – and you let them in…  Only to have them steal pieces of you when they leave.

It’s just life, I guess.  And online life is a microcosm of the greater world.  But it’s hit me hard over the past year, and I am not one for hard hits.  Especially this time of year.

February is a hard month for me.

Last Wednesday would have been my grandfather’s 90th birthday.  This Thursday will be the 25th anniversary of his death.  It’s a grief that renews itself every year, but moreso this year for some reason.  It could be that the Last Man Standing from my grandfather’s generation was laid to rest on Valentine’s Day.  It could be that my mother is inching closer to the age her father was when he died, and I see so much of him in her (even though I hardly see her at all), that it’s a constant reminder that The End is just around the corner.  It could be that I recognize the next generation to go is my parents’ generation, and that puts death one step closer to my own door.

It could be that I am affected by things unrecognized, by circumstances unclear, by happenings unknown to me.

It could be that I’m neurotic.

But neurosis or no, February is a hard month.  It is a month I associate with leaving.

Last year in February, the two people who supposedly love me the most, turned my world upside down.  One left me.  He turned inside his shell and hid from the world and shut me out, without apology or explanation.  I understand, intellectually, that he was turning inward as opposed to turning away.  But it manifests the same, doesn’t it?  And his timing was pretty fucking shitty.  (Yes, that’s what I said.  Pretty fucking shitty.  Say that ten times fast without laughing.)  Not only did/does he know how hard February is for me, but his turning away came on the heels of a Very Bad Time:  literally, the same day that lightning struck my relationship with my husband, and the emotional severance that followed *that* particular storm took months to repair.  (There’s a lot I don’t write here, for good reason.  Suffice to say The Year of The Horse was the year of the bucking fucking bronco, and no matter how hard it tried, it could not throw me off.  I may be walking funny and feel a little saddle sore, but I won.  “Fuck you, horse!”  For that, there is a tattoo in order.  Also, we’re fine now.)

So.  Three men I loved have left me – one way or another – in February.

Two men I loved were buried in February.

Mortality rears its ugly head.

Emphasized by the beginning of lent.  Ash Wednesday.  Which was the anniversary of my grandfather’s birthday.

And the wheels on the bus go ’round and ’round…

There’s more, but I really don’t feel like getting into all of it here.

But that’s a problem.  Because I need to get it out.  And writing – whether I hit ‘publish’ or not – is how I do that.

A la Anna Nalick:

If I get it all down on paper it’s no longer inside of me
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them however you want to

So this is me, writing.

Because I have to.

Because keeping it in is toxic.

Because I’m neurotic.

Or whatever.

Couch time is over.

Amateur psychologists, do your thing.  I’m gonna find something to eat.


. . . her quiet, controlled manner suggested to me that an orgasm would only manifest itself as tiny ripples on the surface, which I might simply fail to notice.  And she was much too delicate a creature for me to expose her to any stress by asking.  That was why I was totally unprepared for what happened.  I sensed I had to stop but allowed myself a final hard poke.  And sensed that I had hit something deep inside.  Her body stiffened as her eyes and mouth were thrust open wide.  This was followed by some trembling and for one tiny insane moment I was afraid I had induced an epileptic fit.  Then I felt something hot, even hotter than her vagina, enveloping my genitals, and then a tidal wave washed against my stomach, hips, and balls.

I levered myself up with my arms and stared in disbelief and horror at the point where our bodies were conjoined.  Her lower abdomen was contracting as if she wanted to eject me, she gave a deep groan, a kind of lowing I had never heard before, and then came the next wave.  The water poured out of her, spurted out between our hips and ran down into the mattress that still had not succeeded in absorbing the first wave.  My God, I thought.  I have poked a hole in her.

~ Roger Brown
from Jo Nesbo’s Headhunters