Welcum!

Featured

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.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

GENESIS

Of a new blog…

Why?

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…

THE RULES

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.

Drought

The temperature is climbing already this morning, in a hurry to reach its high.  Smotch is outside being a Good Steward Of The Land, and I am…  Not.

I sit on the couch under the cool caress of the ceiling fan, reveling in the touch of the breeze along tingling skin.  I hear the hitched breath sigh of the screen door opening and barely glance at the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood, focusing only on preventing myself from overheating.

My husband is a reptile.  He’s perfectly content in 100 degree heat.

I am not.

It has to be over 95°F for him to even consider taking his shirt off, yet he is panting despite the “balmy” 88 degree surroundings.  Warm from exertion, the fine sweat on his brow belies a state of antagonized befuddlement.

Something is wrong, I think distractedly, only to be interrupted from my thoughts by his urgent summons.

“Hon?” he inquires to get my attention, confused concern infusing his intonation.

I can tell from the cadence of his voice and the impatient movements of his limbs disturbing the atmosphere that yes, indeed:  Something Is Wrong.  But it’s all I can do to slit my eyes open against the sweltering air and not glare.  “Mmmm?” is my only response.

He takes a deep breath.  “Hon…” he starts with exasperation.

Oh, good grief.

I sit up more straightly against the cushions and breathe slowly, raising a sardonic brow as I give him my full attention.  This must be important.  {‘Important’ is relative; terminal crisis or minor nuisance?  Tomayto, Tomahta.}  Did the deer get the rest of the lettuce plants?, I wonder.  Or perhaps that little brown bunny finally ate the huge pickle that we haven’t picked.

Oh, dear.  He’s running his hands through his hair.  Never a good sign.  Maybe something really is wrong.  Something a normal person (i.e., a person who is NOT Master Gardener McSmotch) would consider ‘wrong’, that is.

“Out with it,” I say.  Whatever it is, it can’t be all that bad.  And getting worked up over anything on a hot day is, quite frankly, something Other People do.  SO not my thing.

He sighs.

Then, gesticulating in a way that would make any Italian mother proud:

“Hon, I can’t get my hose to squirt!”

.

.

.

. . . Looooong bewildered pause . . .

.

.

.

“Uhmmm…  I’ve heard you can see a doctor for that…”

Words

I have words, miniscule and humongous, hiding in closets and hanging from ceilings in the maze corridors of my mind.  I pull them out and dust them off, like lost treasures from an antique attic, admiring their structure with nostalgic remembrance before tucking them back inside the overflowing locked chests from which they were removed.  Words like dodecahedron and Constantinople, limpet and wastrel; words full of tongue on teeth and bite on lips.  Words that feel far too good in one’s mouth to share indiscriminately.

Verisimilitude.
Hypothetical.
Melifluous.

They roust me in the night like restless lovers seeking comfortable positions, nestling in together against their neuron blankets, cozily settling back into sleep even while keeping me awake.  Words with sharp edges and lean lines, lush curves and pillowed flesh.

Scherzo.
Eiderdown.
Ingot.
Reconciliation.

They wander sometimes, my woolly flock of verbiage, and I attempt to shepherd them back – at least to the very tip of my tongue – so as not to lose them to the wolves of ether. (It doesn’t always work.  A bleating vocabulary is bound to be devoured by fiercer language, or – at the very least – strand itself on cliffs of ineptitude once in a while.)

Occasionally a word arrives at the last minute, breathless from running rebelliously about, and shows up in the nick of time for answering Important Questions with an exclamation point.

Hypotenuse!
Cerebrum!
Scheherazade!
Einstein!
Marionberry!

They are my constant companions, my linguistic menagerie.  Palaver and chatter and prattle and clack, confabulation and conversation and colloquy and communion, repartee, observation, plaudits and tête-à-tête…  I pet and cosset and groom and herd the hairy multitude into some semblance of obedience.  (Even as I acknowledge that no tiger can truly be tamed and that elephants have a place in some rooms.)

But sometimes…

Sometimes their acquiescence is as yielding as a deep-rooted weed, stubbornly entrenched in the fertile soil of my imagination.  And, like me, they endure flood and drought, heat and freeze; they wilt and crisp and are torn from the clay in which they are so comfortably ensconced, but they will germinate again in the driest firmament.

Pertinacious.
Intractable.
Obstinate.
Recalcitrant.

“Semantics,” they say.

Ah, but ‘they’ don’t understand.

.

.

.

I have words.

Exquisite,
Magniloquent,
Diaphonous

Words.

Feast

Visions

of skin,
soap-slicked
and sun-warmed, sliding

tongues and lips lazily
tracing tattooed
flesh

undulate in an intricately detailed dance behind
lids

heavy
with lust.

Sway with me to the rhythm of rope
and blade, harsh breaths
caught in throats tight with choked
need; step to the bass
of heartbeats thrumming the tempo of arousal, seductive.

Spin – bottom becomes top
and back again – to the sigh
of rests

between measures,

and move…

Give me
ragged breaths
from shaken souls,
trembling limbs from effort
spent, invested
fingertips floating over
taut pink and whispers white against the night.

Push me
your hard and dare me
your dark;  I’ll paint
your night with the spectrum of my essence,

and when the morning
cravings come,

you’ll not remember

a time
before you hungered after
anything but

Me.

Poly Interview: Ethical non-monogamy from a married female blogger

Mrs Fever:

Kitty, from Loving Without Boundaries, writes about polyamory and ethical non-monogamy. She sent me some interview questions on the subject(s) a couple weeks ago, and my responses (which may cause more confusion than clarity) can be found by following the link.

Down the rabbit hole we go… ;)

Happy reading!

Originally posted on Loving Without Boundaries:

This is eleventh in a series of interviews with everyday people who are living a poly lifestyle (either polyamorous or polysexual), from their individual perspectives. They were each given a series of questions, and asked to pick several questions that they would like to answer from their personal experience.

This eleventh interview is with a female friend, blogger and active commenter here on this blog in her late 30s. She is married, non-monogamous, and lives in America in a non-traditional marriage with an older man (16 years older). I hope that you enjoy her interview.

Q: If you care to share, can you describe some of your relationship structures?
(eg. do you consider yourself polyamorous? Polysexual? Open relationships or closed?)

A: Generally speaking, I find that people are obsessed with labels. It is Very Important for people to have a nice sturdy square box in which to easily categorize and compartmentalize things. And while labels…

View original 1,149 more words

Insert Catchy Title About Fantasies, Here: __________

The subject of fantasies (and their applicability – if any – to reality) came up in the comments section on my last post, and I’ve been mulling over the concept(s) a bit more these past couple days.  I find I am curious to hear others’ thoughts on the matter.

One of my long-time readers, who is a good friend, commented, in part:

In the case of my wife and I, our fantasies are fundamentally different from each other but still compatible. We both like porn. She likes to fantasize about individuals. I like to fantasize about activities. She likes particular actors and doesn’t care as much about exactly what they are doing, I really don’t care which actress but want to see XYZ.

I think this is one of the reasons porn is just not interesting to me.  I have no interest in the actors, and unless those actors are engaged in a scene that depicts something I am specifically interested in doing with the partner who is watching porn with me, I mostly just feel like, “Meh.”

On the other hand:  I totally understand the general concepts expressed about motivation/interest.  I’ve mentioned before that fantasies are not really my thing (I have vivid dreams, however – which are generally based on the “specifically interested in” precept set forth above), but if/when I “go there” it is person- and activity-specific.  As I said in (partial) response there:

I don’t fantasize much, and my desires/curiosities tend to be very person-specific. I like sex. But *how* I like my sex depends on *who* I’m having sex WITH. I don’t think that’s particularly unusual, but neither is it the norm.

To further expound on my point:

There are things that I have general curiosity about or a vague, undefined interest in. I don’t consider those things to be “fantasies.” If someone taps into those ideas – shares them, expounds on them, says “I want to do/try/be __________ with/for/because-of YOU” – then, for me, *that* is when I get specific in my imaginings. To me though, that’s more of a mental exploration of What Could Be than it is a “fantasy.” Because my arousal from the idea is directly tied to my desire for the individual.

Does that make sense?

And I’m open to hearing just about anything from my friends and lovers about their fantasies. But there is a huge difference between “I think about getting a blow job while I’m masturbating” and “When I stroke my cock, I imagine your mouth on me, the heat and wet, the pressure at the back if your throat driving me to the edge.” The former is generalized and clinical (yawn); the latter is personalized, in a specific and arousing way.

So my friend and his wife watch porn, and manage to like the same things but for different reasons.  I have very little interest in porn, but I recognize it as an avenue through which people can “experience” their fantasies.  Not being a particularly visual person (at least not in that way), porn does little for me.  But both concepts he mentions – being into a person, and being into an activity – register for me.  I just like things to be personalized.

As I said in my comment (above), I have general curiosities.  Those are not things I actively “feed” or “flesh out” but rather, they are things that I say to myself, “I wonder…”

Occasionally I share my wonderings with someone I trust.  How they respond will determine how that curiosity gets explored/shared, and my desire/arousal factor when it comes to That Thing (whatever it may be) often becomes a distinct desire to do a specific thing with a specific person.

On the other hand, I also have ideas/images that pop into my head at random times that take me by surprise.  Things I haven’t given conscious thought to.

I will be soaking up the sun’s rays, in a state of drowsy arousal, feeling the heat against my skin, and I’ll get a vision(?), for lack of a better word…  States of being, roles, situational subsets, etc. Things that I go “Whoa…” about and then sort of file away to mull over later.  Or I will be masturbating and juuuust as I reach the edge, I flash onto a crystal-clear picture in my mind that seems to come from nowhere.  I have found that, for me, these “whoa” moments tend to be directly tied to my limits; sometimes physical limitations apply, but more often these Flashes are related to my/my partner’s psycho-sexual (hard) limits and/or the emotional limits of one/both of us.

Which can be confusing if you let it.

{I don’t let it.}

;)

Do I think about those things when I masturbate? Yes, sometimes. Other times I just let the sensations wash over me. My husband is often dumbfounded, because when he asks me what I’m thinking about when I orgasm, my response – more often than not – is something along the lines of “The colors exploding behind my eyelids.” Also, when I masturbate, I don’t think it’s fantasy-driven. It’s much more of a biological need. When I’m hungry, I eat. When my bladder is full, I pee. When I need to cum, I masturbate.

Is this just a Me thing?  I tend to be equal parts intellectual and imaginative, and I wonder sometimes if this not-really-fantasizing is “normal.”  I’m not overly concerned about normality, but I’m curious if other people can relate.  Or maybe I’m just overthinking it?

Also, there is this:

Fantasy is all mental.

I don’t agree.

I don’t think fantasy is all mental. Fantasies can be imaginative, yes. But we develop fantasies to escape or to explore or to “try on” ideas. Fantasies can be motivated by emotional needs just as much as by physical. Or psychological needs/wants/desires. Adrenaline junkies and danger addicts have very different fantasies than an agoraphobe or a spouse in a sexless marriage. Creating a fantasy that gives you a high as opposed to one that makes you feel “normal” or allows you to feel loved/desired… Very different things, no?

Fantasies come from somewhere.  And they speak to a need/want/desire inside a person.  Whether that need is psychological, emotional, social, intellectual, physical, spiritual, sexual…  It varies.  And if I’m going to explore your fantasies with you, or you with me, I think it is important to uncover what’s underneath them.  Because that, in my not-so-humble opinion, is the key to turning fantasy into reality.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What about you?  

(How) Do you fantasize?
What are your thoughts on fantasies?

FemDom, Cuckoldry, Polyamory, MFM, FLR, and WTF

‘Kaysooo…

Robbie Williams

Mmmm… Robbie Williams. Eye candy. You’re welcome.

LOTS of stuff has come up for me over the past week, in conversations both on- and off-blog, because of all the great leads and segues and offshoots and branches (and whatnot) from the various posts you’ve been reading here on the topic of Coming Out.

And me being…  Well, ME…  I figured now was the time to bring some of those things to the fore – to “come out” myself, a l’il bit – because, thoughts.  Thoughts.  Are jamming.  Mah brains.

Plus, Robbie Williams lyrics.

Which really…  The lyrics should explain everything on their own.

From Love Supreme (which is a total spoof on I Will Survive):

Oh, what are you really looking for?
Another partner in your life to abuse and to adore?
Is it lovey dovey stuff or do you need a bit of rough?
Get on your knees…

And, from Angels:

And through it all, she offers me protection
A lot of love and affection
Whether I’m right or wrong

And down the waterfall, wherever it may take me
I know that life won’t break me
When it comes to call

She won’t forsake me

What, that’s not clear?!?

*huffing my bangs out of my eyes*

Okay, I shall endeavor to explain:

Um, NO. Just...  NO.

Um, NO. Just… NO.

So there’s this…  Schema…  A porn-born, fantasy-driven, completely *unrealistic* schema, mind you…  That a Female-Led Relationship (FLR) or any sort of Femmedommery {I am much more the former than the latter} is all about thigh-high patent leather platform boots and big boobs in bustiers and big hair and red nails and whip cracking and other such ridiculous frippery.  There is also a H.U.G.E misconception that a man who is partial to FLRs is somehow “not manly.”

Let’s see, how can I put this delicately?

Uhmmm…

FUCK YOU.

See that second set of lyrics up there?  THAT’s what it looks like for me.

Protection.
Affection.
Strength.
Respect.
Emotional fidelity.
Come hell or high water.

And for the record, I’m partial to denim cut-offs and tank tops.  And that’s *if* I bother to wear clothes at all.  So kindly consult Wardrobe and give your imagination a little tweak.

Also, no whips.  I’m a hands-only kind of girl.

{Except with women…  But that is a subject best avoided til another day.}

I really dislike labels, but since these are two labels (FemDom and FLR) that people have attached to me (mostly due to my comments on other blogs; I don’t talk about this stuff very much here) as a way of understanding my relationships, let me enlighten you:

It’s not about the wardrobe or the whips.

And it has nothing to do with “weak” men.  A weak man would not be able to handle FLR.

Mostly, in my house, with my husband, it looks like this:

{Hmmm, this may not be the best example, but I’m going to use it anyway and hope you get the point.}

My husband and I both work:  he, fulltime; me, partime – because that is the choice I make for myself within our relationship structure.

My husband’s money is “our” money.  My money is MY money.  Mostly, I contribute my money to the “our” money pile because I want to, but I don’t have to; it is a choice I make.  I manage all the money.  When he wants to buy something or build something or DO something, he tells me what he wants and I say ‘yay’ or ‘nay’.  And it’s not about keeping him from the things he likes.  It’s about being practical and living within our means.  And that’s my department.  He does an immense amount of work – not only outside the home to provide for us, but also at home to make our home the kind of place we both enjoy coming home to – and I say “yes” as often as I can.  But I am the one with my finger on the pulse of our finances, because I manage them (frugally and carefully), and while we can (and do) discuss things as they come up, I am the one with the final say.

Pretty much, if you take that formula, and add a pinch of salt and a dash of lime, shake with ice and pour…  That’s what you see when you look at us.  Because as a basic model, this is true for everything we do, from deciding what’s for dinner to deciding who orgasms, along with all the whens and wheres and with whoms.***

Bottom line:  He recognizes my various talents and appreciates my good judgment.  He places me first and he follows my lead because he adores me.

Yes, there is – to quote the lyrics above – some lovey dovey stuff and a little bit of rough.  But that’s not the brick and mortar.  It’s not even the furniture.  It’s just the decorations.

Making sense so far?

‘Kayso, how exactly does polyamory fit into this?  And why am I talking about cuckoldry?

Un momento.  I shall endeavor to explain.

Pinky and The BrainSo last week, seattlepolychick and I sat down to record a podcast.  {I will post a link to the podcast once it is up.  It might be a while.  She’s the techie, and she’s a busy girl.}  During our conversation about polyamory (and she’ll get into her definition of what that means on the podcast, as well as the differences between polyamory and polygamy), she brought up MFM threesomes and the total hotness of a man who gets off on seeing his girl (yeah, yeah, ownership and blah blah… you get the point) get good and fucked.  The total hotness of the fantasy of having two guys at the same time.  Of being the center of attention.  (If they are straight, that is.  MMF is something else entirely; the placement of the letters in threesomes is uber-important.)  And the total hotness of wanting him to know you are taking your pleasure with someone else.  Of knowing that he is excited by you doing exactly that.

Well, guess what?

It’s not a fantasy in my world.

It’s a reality.

threesomeBecause my husband LOVES to see me on the receiving end of pleasure.  And that’s true whether he is participating, or watching, or just knowing that it’s happening.  (Because I have other partners that I see alone.  And since I don’t do sex without relationships, we have our own style of non-monogamy ~ which fits under the general umbrella of polyamory ~ that we’ve worked out to fit.)

***And this is where the ‘with whoms’ come into play.

See, a lot of people associate the idea of a man’s wife fucking other guys (with his knowledge) with the concept of cuckoldry.  And there is a misapprehension that if she’s out with other guys, she’s not satisfied at home, and that therefore the husband/boyfriend/whoever-the-fuck should be ashamed.

NOPE.

Don’t get me wrong.  There are definitely people who kink to this.  But the humiliation factor in the ‘typical’ interpretation of cuckoldry just doesn’t work for Me.  I do not – now or ever – ‘do’ humiliation.  Not in any form.  NOT MY KINK.

So, to review:

Robbie Williams lyrics.  FLR within the context of a loving, committed relationship.  No whips.  Poly.  Partners.  Pleasure.  In whatever form that may take.

Clear as mud?

Heh.  Well, that’s where the WTF comes in, eh?

;)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

NOTE:  This may well be the only time I go into this much detail in terms of What It Is That We Do (WIITWD), so I would recommend that if you have questions, ASK.  I’m happy to answer them.  And if you aren’t sure you want to ask publicly, you are free to email me.

ANOTHER NOTE:  There are still a couple people who are working on their Coming Out stories/posts.  They will be published as they are completed.  In the mean time, we will return to our regular programming.

AND A DISCLAIMER:  No cartoon lab mice or Matel dolls were harmed in the production of this post.  And I did not take that picture of Robbie Williams.  Some dude in Italy did.