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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.¬†ūüėČ

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.¬†ūüôā

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.

Hello. :)


I’ve noticed several new follows on this site over the past few months, so if you are one of those who has come on board this WordPress site since April, I invite you to update your subscription to:


If you follow via email, there’s an easy-subscribe button on my new home page. ¬†If you follow via the WordPress Reader, instructions for how to add a non-WP url (that’s me now – I’m self-hosted!) to your “Blogs I Follow” list can be found here.

All the content from this blog has been transferred over, and there are several new pieces to peruse, including posts I’ve submitted to E-lust (an online publication) and a series of guest posts I published this summer.

I invite you to come click around.

And stick around, if you like what you see.  :)

Happy reading!

Skype Sex

I watch his hand glide, slow and tight, all the way to the base of his cock before sliding up again, and when he pushes his swollen head against his own snug hold, I can see in his pleasure-slack eyes the deep black of desire.  I know, as he looks into the camera, seeking my gaze, that it is the warm wet hug of my pussy he is thinking of.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you’d be tight,”¬†he’d said, all those months ago, gasping as I snugged my vaginal muscles close and hot around his thick cock. ¬†

I smile at the memory of Then as my breath quickens, Now, my aching channel grasping, throbbing for the feel of his thick penetrating my wet.

Soon.  So soon.

I slip one finger between my flushed lips, teasing only to the first knuckle and rubbing gently against the base of my G-spot as he changes his strokes to short shallow fucks into his fist, stimulating just his sensitive tip.  I clench against the sensual onslaught of memory heightened by anticipation.  I know what that feels like, I think as I watch him push.  I know the massaging thrust of his head stretching my entrance, forcing past the tight barrier, stroking again and again and again against my swollen tissues as I rub my clit, seeking desperately to both find and fight release.


I know what that feels like, and that is exactly what I am feeling now.  Again.  Still.

The friction of my fingers and the fuel of my imagination combined with the spark in his eye when he sees I am close to cumming sends a jolt of heat to my core.  I feel my climax like a cyclone, gathering speed behind the clenched muscles of my belly and shooting lightning outward, making my skin sizzle, my legs shake.

My eyes roll back in my head and my vision goes white, the sight of his expression locked in my mind as I fall out of time.  I know nothing in that moment except his name, and I repeat it again and again and again, holding it as my tether to reality as I fall over the edge into bliss.

When I come to, my blurred gaze finds focus when it meets his, and I roll on shaky limbs to kneel before the camera.  I raise up, tightening my thighs, and lower myself again in straddle position so he can see all of me.  The thatch of damp kinky hair at the apex of my thighs pulls a choked sigh from his lips, and the act of raising and lowering myself in front of the camera like this makes me think of riding him.  I lean forward as though that is exactly what I am doing, twisting my torso as I bend, cupping my breasts, one at a time, offering them up for his pleasure.

Something he wrote recently РYou appear before me Рpops immediately to mind, and I am, now, exactly as he described when he penned his piece:  Sweaty.  Slick.  Tight.  The thought makes me smile, and I let my hands roam across every inch of skin his eyes rake.  It is only moments until his breath catches under this visual assailment, and as I watch, enraptured, his body trembles under the force of his own release.

It is such a simple pleasure, this.  Watching.  Seeing.

Being seen.

I say good night, sleepily sated, and later, when I send my daily prayers of gratitude into the universe, I grin to myself ¬†after the usual acknowledgments and say…

“Thank you for Skype.”

So. My vagina sprung a leak.

Yes, that’s what I said.

First off, you have to understand a few things about Le Vag:

  • She has a mind of her own
  • She has a mind of her own
  • And she has a mind of her own

I’ve never been a squirter. ¬†While I’m not one to disbelieve {because (a) I’ve talked to enough women to understand it, and (b) I’ve seen it with my own two eyes}, I’m just not one to let loose with a bunch of urethral fluids during sexy times.

Actually, no. ¬†That’s wrong. ¬†But watersports is something else entirely.

Let me rephrase: ¬†I’m not one to jizz in streams all over my partner(s) when I orgasm.

Fair enough?

Okay, then.  Moving on.

So. ¬†I don’t squirt. ¬†I’m told that “all women can do it” and “if you just learn the trick to it, you can” and all sorts of other total bullshit that interests me not in the least. ¬†The bottom line is, I cum like I cum and that’s all there is to it. ¬†Sometimes the wet spot is a little larger than others, but mostly that has to do with the amount of foreplay involved (I’m particularly bad at foreplay; I’ve mentioned this before), how much lube we’ve used, and how long and hard we’ve been at it. ¬†Whatever ‘it’ happens to be.

And my body is weird. ¬†I have some reproductive health issues, which feeds into the overall oddity-ness, but I also have the basic growing-older weird stuff that happens. ¬†Like, I’ll be dry as a bone but horny as hell. ¬†Or I’ll ¬†be so turned on by the sound of someone’s voice – even if they’re talking about something totally mundane – that creamy liquid coats the insides of my vaginal walls and creates a perfect pool at my entrance from which to draw the waters of my natural lubrication and get on with the business of rubbing myself to ecstasy. ¬†(Move over, Yellow Pages. ¬†Let your fingers do the walking…) ¬†Still other times, I’ll wake up in the morning with a soaked spot on the sheets, sopping wet, and I’ll have no clue why because (a) I can’t for the life of me remember what the fuck I was dreaming about, and (b) I’m not even remotely turned on. ¬†(But I reaaalllly have to pee!)

Anyway, the point is, I never quite know what to expect from Lady V.  Except to expect the unexpected.

And so it was that one evening, with my husband’s face planted against my pussy, his tongue furiously licking my clit, and his fingers – two long strong fingers, much more substantial¬†than the eye perceives them to be because their length belies their thickness – pushing hard in upward thrusts and scissoring, again, again, again… ¬†Something a bit strange happened.

There I was, about 13 steps from dropping over the edge, and all of a sudden, against this onslaught, I started to leak.

Yes. ¬†That’s what I said.

My vag sprung a leak.

It was slightly disconcerting, but he didn’t seem to notice (I confirmed later that he didn’t notice anything at all, but then again, he wouldn’t notice if a train crashed through our house when he’s in that position) so I tried not to think about it and just relaxed and let my hips ride out his rhythm until I was keening out my orgasm.

As a side note: ¬†Am I the only one who thinks orgasm noises are funny? ¬†In the moment, they’re sexy as hell, but really… ¬†Who thinks a groaning croaky shouting grunt is sexy in real life? ¬†It’s not, I assure you. ¬†Neither are the ridiculous open-mouth-O pain faces we make when we cum. ¬†If we saw or heard those things anywhere else but during a sex marathon, we’d be calling 9-1-1. ¬†But somehow in the moment it’s a symphony of gorgeousness. ¬†Humans are weird.

But basically, I felt this… trigger(?)… up near my cervix, and before I knew it, it seemed like something inside of me opened up, and then fluid was streaming down the back wall of my vagina and I could feel it dribble out of me and drip down the crack of my ass. ¬†It was as if my womb decided to drool.



I checked the wet spot afterward.  Just a cursory examination.  I touched it, I eyed the circumference, I stuck my nose down in there and had a good sniff.  There was nothing unusual about it.  Thankfully.  (Disappointingly?)  So I just shrugged and hit the shower and went on about my life.

I brought it up to mi esposo fabuloso a bit later. ¬†(That night? ¬†The next day? ¬†I don’t remember.) ¬†He was like, “What? ¬†I have no idea what you’re talking about.” ¬†And then, as an afterthought, or possibly as a Dr. Watson-esque observation, he said, “You’re not thinking you squirted. ¬†You didn’t squirt. ¬†There was definitely no squirting. ¬†I think I would have noticed squirting.”

Pfffft.  Thank you, detective.

So I didn’t squirt.

Maybe I squeeshed?

Whatever the hell it was, I definitely sprung a leak.

Like I said, my vagina has a mind of her own.

The BEST Sex

What is the best sex you’ve ever had?

Every time somebody asks me that question, I am tempted to respond with “Yellow.” ¬†Or, “Hat.” ¬†Because to me, those answers make about as much sense as the question does.

But I try my best to avoid sarcasm, and I can’t fault people for being curious, so typically I respond with, “Define your terms.”

You want to know about the best sex I’ve experienced? ¬†Define your terms.

First, you need to define ‘sex’. ¬†Odds are, I think about sex differently than you do. ¬†So you need to tell me, since you are the one asking, what you mean by ‘sex’. ¬†PIV? ¬†PIA? ¬†Oral? ¬†Self-stimulation? ¬†Toys? ¬†Mutual masturbation? ¬†Phone sex? ¬†Cam sex? ¬†What? ¬†Define your terms.

Then: ¬†What do you mean by ‘best’?

‘Best’ could mean any number of things. ¬†Do you want to know about the riskiest? ¬†The longest session? ¬†Greatest number of orgasms in the shortest period of time? ¬†The most emotionally connected? ¬†The most fun? ¬†The most unusual location? ¬†Least effort on my part? ¬†Most memorable cock? ¬†Or perhaps the biggest? ¬†Most athletic interlude? ¬†Most romantic? ¬†What? ¬†Tell me what you mean.

I’m by no means the most experienced woman on the planet, but I have lived long enough and explored my own body well enough and had enough sexual partners to have learned quite a bit about what I like. ¬†However,¬†sometimes ‘the best sex’ is not about what I know I like. ¬†It’s about learning – sometimes learning what doesn’t work – and moving forward on a positive note. ¬†It’s about exploring new things – alone, with a partner(s), for my own pleasure or someone else’s – and finding joy in the process. ¬†It’s about owning my quirks, communicating my needs; it’s pushing boundaries and resisting stagnation, opening up to new ideas, taking someone inside of me and allowing them to do the same, emerging from S/He and Me to a version of our collective sexual selves that becomes an Us.

Is ‘the best sex’ about the pleasure? ¬†If so… ¬†Whose?

Perhaps, if it is about giving pleasure, I would say it was the time he presented himself to me, kneeling and warm and naked and willing, and I spanked him to (a completely unexpected Рfor both of us) orgasm in a matter of minutes.  He thoroughly wrecked my new comforter and was both shocked and abashed at his response.  But I was delighted.  (And I never even took my clothes off.)

Is it about receiving pleasure?  Perhaps, then, it was the time when Рafter already giving me more than one orgasm Рhe curled his fingers into my pussy, scissoring sure and strong against the counter-rhythm of my own fingers swirling over my clit, not stopping until Рshaking and tearful РI rocked my hips against our mutual onslaught and came.  Hard.  Clutching at his body lined up against mine, turning my head into his shoulder as I shuddered while he shushed me softly through the aftershocks.

Sharing pleasure… ¬†Well, for me, that’s¬†requisite to every sexual interaction. ¬†It pleases me greatly to give and to receive, and there is an element of receiving in the giving, even if it is indirect. ¬†I think I first learned about the concept of shared pleasure – though I didn’t have a name for it then – as a preteen. ¬†Exploring with my girlfriends and cousins – cautiously, trepidatiously (What if my brother walks in?!?) – ¬†how it all feels. ¬†Knowing, from trailing my fingers along their wet cotton panties, that the damp heat between my legs, caused by their kisses and adolescent exploratory caresses, was mutually experienced.

But are any of those things even ‘sex’? ¬†Let alone ‘the best’?

I have typically loosely defined ‘having sex’ as traditional penetrative intercourse. ¬†Everything else… ¬†Well, it’s definitely sexual activity. ¬†But is it, for the purposes of the question, ‘sex’?

That depends on who’s asking, I suppose.

Sex, no matter what form it takes, is often the most memorable when it’s not necessarily ‘sex’ – in the traditional form – at all.

Sure, sometimes it is a screaming orgasm, the memory of which still fans the flames of my imagination and fuels the fire I stoke with self-pleasure.  Other times it is the wait, long and bittersweet, drawn out by distance and denial, that culminates in rasping-breath request granted by dizzying demand.

What about¬†the time, in a room full of people, my husband made me cum – again – to the gasps and moans of an enthralled audience? ¬†Perhaps it was the time my lover, seated between my legs while I lay back in the buoying water of the bath, used his hands to work my body to a long, relaxed, rolling release – one that triggered his own, without my ever having touched him – that left us both smiling in half-conscious bliss. ¬†Or maybe it was when, in the middle of a phone call, aroused from the sound of his voice, I gave myself an orgasm to the soundtrack of my paramour’s¬†coaxing words and my own unfettered moans, and when my breath returned to my lungs and I could focus once again on the conversation, he said, “God, I love to hear you cum.”

The Best Sex is not formulaic.  It is not a recipe, it does not require any one specific ingredient.

It is all the sex I’ve had, and all the sex I haven’t. ¬†It is the choices I’ve made in the past, and the ones I will make in the future. ¬†It is the sex for which I am fully present, in the Now, that I will remember later and smile. ¬†Or cringe. ¬†Or puzzle over. ¬†Or fantasize about.

It is the shared looks, the whispers, the silence.  The talks, before and after, about what we want, and where we go from here.  It is shattered breaths and wracking sobs and full-belly laughter.  It is joy and pain and firsts and lasts and all the in-betweens.

It is about what I know now, compared to what I knew then.  It is what I will learn in the future, and how those building blocks will stack against the present.  It is not one time, or one person, or one event.  It is less than the sum and more than the total of all my experience.

That is the best sex.

And I hope to have a lot more of it.