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.

Under The Covers: Sex(y) Music

In which we explore a few of Feve’s favorite cover songs and the artists behind them.
Because music is a huge turn-on when it’s done right.
And sometimes, just like sex…
It’s better on the second try.


SO.  In no particular order:

Arctic Monkeys:  Baby, I’m Yours
Originally recorded by Barbara Lewis in 1965

Alex Turner, lead singer for the Arctic Monkeys, manages to make Sex a sound.

Alex Turner, lead singer for the Arctic Monkeys, manages to make Sex a sound.

The babyface rebel / post-modern rockabilly punk style of the Arctic Monkeys is not my typical go-to musical genre, but their avoidance of down beat and funky driving rhythms – while somewhat simplistic – are two things that make them fun to listen to.

Their lyrics – at least on their AM album – reflect a refreshingly worshipful stance toward women, and that is one of the reasons this band caught my attention (and fired my libido) when I first heard their cut Do I Wanna Know? . . .

Have you no idea that you’re in deep?
I dreamt about you nearly every night this week
How many secrets can you keep?
‘Cause there’s this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow
And I play it on repeat

. . . and I Wanna Be Yours (You call the shots babe / I just wanna be yours).  But when I heard R U Mine?, which reiterates the sentiment of wanting to belong to her, emphasized by the line “I can’t help myself…  All I wanna hear her say is ARE YOU MINE?”, I fell hard for this band.  So of course I love that they covered this classic.  It’s just fucking sexy.  In a virginal do-over kind of puppy love way.  {Except you just *know* he’d be all about the collar and cuffs.}  Have a listen:

♥  ♥  ♥  ♥  ♥

Ane Brun:  The Dancer
Written and originally recorded by PJ Harvey in 1995

. . . and good lyrical interpretation goes beyond opening you up.  It fills you anew.

. . . and good lyrical interpretation goes beyond opening you up. It fills you anew.

Most people know PJ Harvey from Down By The Water, which was the leading single on her album To Bring You My Love.  The album drew a mid-nineties collegiate following when ‘alternative rock’ was the Next Big Thing.  A fan of Tom Waits and Nick Cave, Polly Jean Harvey hit her stride in the alternative mainstream (yes, that’s a thing ~ new is only new for so long; eventually it becomes the norm, kiddos) during the Era Of Angry Female Voices (Alanis Morisette, Meredith Brooks, Courtney Love, Sinead O’Connor) and wrote lyrics that ” . . . explore[d] the open wounds and hidden scars of relationships with such a fearless eye that it’s no wonder she has been frequently compared to such rock extremists as Patti Smith and Jim Morrison.”

In an interview with the L.A. Times, from which the above observation was taken, she said of her oft-dark musical messages:

What I look for in music and what I want to produce is just . . . works that are moving and unsettling–an emotional assault.

Hmmm.  How very Bob Dylan.

And just as Dylan’s music is sometimes better understood when interpreted by another artist (Can we say Jimi Hendrix?), the same is – in my opinion – true of Harvey’s The Dancer.  Ane Brun (Norwegian pronunciation: [ɑnə brʉn]), a Norwegian singer-songwriter, takes Harvey’s lyrics and twists the darkness into hope with a gentle guitar sway that reminds me of long deep slow wet kisses on a lazy rainy Saturday summer afternoon.  Under her ministrations, the song becomes less about the the bleeding wound and more about the agonizing ecstasy of an ache:

♥  ♥  ♥  ♥  ♥

Annie Clark with Beck:  Need You Tonight
Originally released by INXS in 1987

And while we’re on the subject of musical interpretation…

"Record Club is an informal meeting of various musicians to record an album in a day," says Beck's official website.

“Record Club is an informal meeting of various musicians to record an album in a day,” says Beck’s official website.

In 2009, Beck announced his/their (Beck the individual is Beck Hansen, after whom Beck the band is named) intention to re-record other bands’ full albums with new artists.  The idea was to present a new interpretation of existing material. According to the band, “There is no intention to ‘add to’ the original work or to recreate the power of the original recording.  Only to play music and document what happens.”

Oh, and with a time limit:  One day in the studio and that’s a wrap.

Tracks are posted on the band’s website once a week.

Annie Clark (also known as St Vincent), along with a few other musicians, joined Beck’s Record Club endeavor on the re-interpretation of the INXS album Kick, and…


Hmmm…  How can I put this?

Picture, if you will:  You know that highly-aroused breathless moan that escapes her (whoever ‘she’ happens to be ~ use your imagination!) lips when she’s hot and wet and climbing to the edge, but she’s not…quite…there…?

Y e a h . . .

It’s kinda like that.

♥  ♥  ♥  ♥  ♥

I think I’m going to have to do this in a series, because the more I think about it, the more songs pop to mind. I could easily monopolize all your time with my sexual musical musings.

I trust you have other things to do?

Alas, so do I.  (Typing this up has been fun and all, but I have *other* Very Important Things to be doing with my fingers…)

Perhaps I will share more later.


But for now…  A few other covers that hit my sweet spot:

Kate Tucker:  I’m On Fire (Bruce Springsteen)
Brandi Carlile:  Hallelujah (Leonard Cohen)
KT Tunstall:  Tangled Up In Blue (Bob Dylan)


What about you?
Which songs are sexiest the second time around?

NOTE:  Image of Alex Turner found via Google and attributed to antiquiet.com.  Lyric meme from etsy.  Image of Beck Hansen from the Record Club page at beck.com.

Indoor Plumbing, Blogiversaries, and Other Man-Made Disasters

So in addition to breaking my computer this week (which I managed to fix)…

My shower exploded.

{Only me…}

No, it’s not what you think.  I was *NOT* misusing the variable pressure on my removable handheld massaging shower head.

I mean, if that was the case, *I* would have been the one screaming and gushing all over the tub.

Alas, that was not the case.

No, no…  Apparently my pesky little faucet drip turned into a steady stream leak, which – after a few fix-it pirouettes in between – turned into a (fully clothed) soaking wet Smotch standing ankle deep in fire-hose strength spray splashing out of the wall (yes, the wall).

He was attempting to repair the problem…  Let’s just say:  It did not go well.  [There was definitely gushing and screaming involved.  However, it was not – I repeat, NOT – of the orgasmic variety.]

Plumber’s bill:  $244.47
Smotchy’s damaged ego:  Astronomical
Having a working shower:  Priceless

Add in the fact that I also paid for car repairs (radiator) and remitted the hospital bill (surgery) on the same day as said Adventure In Plumbing – in addition to typical money-bleeding activities – this was an exceptionally expensive week.

{We’ll cover the amazing feats of The Incredible Shrinking Bank Account another time.}

Factor in the fact that we have both been sick, and I think it’s fair to say that Life was a bit… distracting… this week.

Which is why I sort of missed this:

Apparently I've been on this cloud for 3 years now.  I think that makes me an official Toddler of Blogging.

Apparently, as of Thursday, I’ve been on this cloud for 3 years now. I think that makes me an official Toddler of Blogging.

I must admit, I was a bit surprised when I saw the little notification saying, “Hey, you’ve been rambling on about nothing for three years now!”  (Mostly because I totally forgot about my blogiversary.)  I mean, if they’re going to throw my blogging age in my face, the least they can do is bake me a cake.  Or give me a crown.  Or something.  But nooooo.  This little Bacchus-inspired medallion is all I get.

Ah, but that’s not exactly true, is it?

I mean, the medallion is nice and all.

But there’s quite a bit else I get from three years of blogging:  I get all of you!

I’ve been fortunate to have great people in my virtual life (which is pretty much here and only here ~ I’m one of those strange creatures who does not believe in social media) over the past few years.  Some of whom have become off-blog friends as well.  People who call and text and email and care.  People who listen and share and laugh and plan and meet me in the flesh.  People who commiserate with me and cheer me when I’m down.  People who question.  People who feel.

People who send me things like this:


People who say “I hazsh been driiiinking” and proceed to philosophize.
People who go “Ghruuuuh…?” when I come at them out of left field.
People who don’t say anything at all when I need silence.

People who say “I love you” and mean it.
People who don’t say it but show it.

People who are strangely fascinated by hashtags.



People who don’t have all the answers and don’t expect me to, either.
People who have heard my story.

People who read between the lines.
Who seek the truth.
Who know heartbreak.
Who work toward healing.

People who engage with me.
On… multiple… levels.


People who make mistakes.

People who are perfectly imperfect.

People who are real, and realness is a rare find in a virtual world.

I’ve had a helluva week.  It’s one of those that will go down in the record books as Notably Hilarious In Retrospect (Smotch was quite a sight, standing in the shower spray), but that was a little tough to deal with In The Now.  It was also one that made me really appreciate the quality of my relationships.  Especially the ones that began as a result of my choice to inhabit this cloud space.

So whether you’re a first-time reader or a casual blog acquaintance, an exploratory visitor or a long-time friend…

Thank you for being here.

It’s been a great three years, and it’s all because of YOU.


Say My Name

Just three syllables, tripping off your tongue in ragged breaths released…

Please please please
(Yes you may)

Oh God more
(My sweet boy)

I need you
(I’m right here)

I’m gonna…
(Yes you are)

But-but… but…
(Shhhh… Give me)

Yes… Please yes…
(Cum for me)

Ohhh… BABY…
(Say My Name)

The shuddering of your body and the too-fast beat of your heart create the rhythm to which your cheeks flush hot from the dance of your hands; arms open to pull me in and eyelids fluttering shut, your whisper tickles those three syllables once more against my ear.


How I love
the way you
say my name.


Not me.

I have my issues, yes.  And one of my issues is that I make technology blow up, just by existing.

Need your hard drive erased?  I’m your girl!  Let me stare at your computer screen for 37 seconds. That’s all it takes.

Talk about a magnetic personality.  I am a forcefield to be reckoned with.

Don’t believe me?  Just ask my computer.

Oh, nevermind.  You can’t.  Because IT’S NOT WORKING!



[Install updated driver]

Um, why don’t you have your license Miss Daisy?

*beating head against desk*

All this malfunctioning is making my head spin.

Oh wait…  That’s just the blood rushing back to my brain after crawling out from under my desk.

I’ve got more wires than the FBI.

{Picturing the scene in Starsky & Hutch where Snoop Dog gets wired.}

“I know about grass.”

Yeah, me too.  I mean, I know mine is dead.

But I didn’t kill it.

I only kill machines.

What is wrong with this computer?!?


It’s in my presence.  Which means…

It’s broken.

What a shock.

At least I still have my smartpho–

Music To My Ears

Warm and hard, he surges against my hand, stroking the velvet steel head of his cock against my palm with ragged breaths.

“Hon,” he says with plaintive insistence, shushing his long fingers over my breasts, “I need to be in you.”

“Mmmm…” is my initial reply, content for the moment to slowly swim to consciousness, absorbing the morning light at my leisure.

He takes my non-response as acquiescence and straddles my hips.  Strong.  Insistent.

I open my eyes fully, awake and amused, taking in the sight before me:  Desperately Aroused Male.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

“I need to be inside you.”

I quirk my brow.

“Hon…”  His voice is querulous.


“Just…  Two strokes.  One.  Something.  ANYTHING.”

“And that would do…  What?…  For me?”




“This is not about your pleasure.  It’s about mine.  And what you are suggesting does not please me.  It’s time to get up now.”



I can see the battle waging on his face, and it is with a curious mixture of pride and exasperation that he unbends his knees from where they are pinning me captive and moves to lay alongside me.

My chuckle at his plight does not go unnoticed, and I smile at his consternation while savoring the sensation of his hard cock pressing against my outer thigh.

He takes a deep breath – the kind he takes just before a well-formulated plea escapes his lips – and I cut him off before he can begin.


A beat of silence.









Oh how I love that sound…