Butt Stuff Preview

Hello, much neglected masses...or rather the two people that read my creative writing blog.

I'm currently working on a short story for Kinky.com.  Recently, I had stayed up in San Fransisco where I luckily got to scratch an itch I've had for a long time.  That itch was for butt stuff. 

See what I did there?

Lucky for my readers who don't come here for the hanky panky, I'm not going to wax poetic on my marvelous experiences with butts.  However, I must warn you folks that the short story I'm working on does include butt stuff.  Not too much of it.  And no worries, the butts are all tastefully discussed.  I'm using this story was a way to push my limits as a writer, as I have never written a short story.  Also, I'm using this project as the vehicle through which I could touch on certain aspects of sexual realities. 


Enjoy this sneak peak of "Butt Stuff:  A Love Story"

The completed story will be posted on Kinky.com.

Mia

Meet and Greet

So it's about time I shittily keep my word.  Internet eons ago (months really) I made a promise to fans that I would host a meet and greet once I reached 10k followers.  And then I reached 10k followers, but a date was hastily set without much forethought.  With the burden of not having planned, the date came and went.  Shitty Mia, being shitty.  To lower my shit stock, I planned ahead and made sure that every calendar I had had allocated time just for this meet and greet.

At long last, the Mia Li Meet and Greet will happen on Thursday August 14.  Prepare to be underwhelmed.  Seriously though, this is my excuse to picnic at a beautiful park in San Diego.  I just have to sit about for two hours playing my ukulele contemplating what the hell I'm going to do if I have x amount of sandwiches left over.

Please come by.  Say hi.  And chill for a wee bit.  If you wanna talk books, I'm your gal.

I'll be pic-a-nicking on the West side of the Botanical Building from 3-5pm.  I trust you folks know how to read a map.

Love,
Mia Li

Brenda and Howard: Labor Day

Note to the Reader:  I hadn't realized that the next installation of the Brenda and Howard series has just been sitting in my blog folder waiting to be edited. Huzzah!  I have done just that.  If I had my way and in an alternate reality where I was a writer of sorts, I'd frame the Brenda and Howard series to track the entire pregnancy of Brenda.  As it stands, I decided to skip ahead.

If you haven't read the previous Brenda and Howard bits here are the links.

1.  Pabst Blue Ribbon and Smiling Mustard

2.  Meet Brenda Part 1

3.  Meet Brenda Part 2

4.  I hear you breathing when you sleep

Labor Day

There were enough mylar balloons at Brenda and Howard's baby shower to stock a clown convention.  None of them were blue or pink.  Brenda had decided that she didn't want to find out the gender of the baby.  She didn't want to fill the soon-to-be nursery with a gender polarized color scheme.  The wrapping paper that protruded from the recycling bin at Howard's in-laws were all neutral yellows, greens, and purples. 

As Howard walked the bin to the curb, he sighed in relief that the shower was long over and that they had one more night left with Brenda's family.  The trees that lined the sidewalk were clinging to the vibrancy of summer, but the creeping hands of autumn leeched out the green.  The leaves weren't quite crunchy yet, but the chill of Labor Day evening was enough to raise the hairs on Howard's arm. 

The close proximity to Brenda's parents brought on another chill.

Upon their arrival days earlier, it seemed that her father was finally able to put away his disproval of Howard.  Despite Howard's success as an attorney, and his well-dressed, well-mannered ways, her father radiated a subtle dislike or irritability toward Howard.  The man's lips always pinched into a severe line of neutrality whenever Howard was around.  The severity of line deepened when Howard and he were alone.  This hidden-apparent disdain made Howard pucker for fear that this man could see through him.  Howard feared that Brenda's father knew that their relationship was a bullshit farce for a man too chicken shit to out himself.  The man's own stoic attitude toward his own marriage brought on Howard's suspicions. 

That could be me in a few decades. 

However, when he saw Howard flit around like a nervous hummingbird at Brenda's beck and call, the tension between the two men eased.  The subversively irate nature with which he addressed Howard appeared to have dissipated.  The noose Howard felt around his neck finally loosened.

Luckily enough, Brenda's mother begged off from joining the expecting couple for dinner.  Naturally, her father followed suit.  The excuse to do the whole visiting not visiting thing relieved a knot between Howard's shoulder blades.  It was bad enough pantomiming a romantic relationship with Brenda without an audience.  They left on foot into town for dinner.

"Just like when we first started dating."

"Hrm?" Howard was lost in his own thoughts when Brenda broke the comfortable silence.

"We used to walk everywhere when we started going out."  She smiled up at him as she said this.  Reflexively he smiled and wrapped his arm around her.

"Well, I couldn't help but want to show you off," Howard admonished.  It was the damned truth.  He hid his frown behind her as he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders.  Howard did this without prompting thinking as he had on all the walks to the dates they had in that town.

It's what boyfriends do.

***

They had dinner at a diner.  Red vinyl booths and that greasy spoon smell filled the place.  Brenda's cheeks were blushed from the cold and pregnant vitality.  A grin split her face when a kid ran over to pop quarters into the archaic juke box by the bar, where it had always been since she started going there.  This was where Howard first took her out to dinner.  This was where Howard first kissed her.  This was the diner where Howard proposed and where she promptly choked on Coke and gurgled yes.

"Don't you-" her question was cut off by an angry buzzing in Howard's coat pocket.

He held out his hand to have her pass the phone.

"Don't I?..."  His eyes were for the phone's screen, but hers were trained on his face. 

"Don't you remember all of the memories we have here?"

"Of course, darling."  His fingers moved deftly over the tiny screen, texting. Howard threw a radiant smile her way. 

Brenda rubbed her foot leisurely on Howard's calf.  Her lips curved lovingly as he worked on his phone.  She understood that his job was demanding in regard to the constant communication with clients and coworkers. 

Absentminded you may be, Mr. Howard, I adore you.

Unbeknownst to Brenda, Howard was managing his affair.  Ten texts into the baby shower earlier made him decide to end things with SPIN CLASS. 

By the time his unsweetened ice tea and her Sprite came, the torrid affair was ended. 

Throwback Thursday

Hello dear readers!

In honor of throwback Thursday, which is apparently a thing, I'm posting a piece I had written in college.  Back in those days circa Fall 2011-Spring 2012 I joined the staff of the college newspaper.  I didn't and still don't see myself as a news reporter or journalist at all, but rather an English major who simply wanted to write something.  Eventually after several articles that had nothing to do with on or off campus current events I gained the title Evergreen Queen.  Typically my writings erred on the side of general and random topics as a means to have a witty-ish title.

With that, I present to you:

How to Take a Dump

Throughout the course of one’s love life, a little heartbreak is inevitable. Some may never have to weather the storm of post-relationship depression, anger and tempestuous revenge-hunger, but for those of you that will have to and have had to…here’s some advice about how to take a dump:

Take a dump with friends: Being dumped is a tough, and often isolating, experience. Return to your social roots, your friends before Sam, Amanda or Charlie. They are the ones that knew you with all your quirks, habits, and impromptu celebrity impersonations. They will tolerate your wet works and then backhand slap you back to reality and self-worth. Friends are unafraid to tell you how simultaneously insane, awesome and obnoxious you are.

Take a dump with distractions: Losing what you thought was your other half is a disorienting thing. You begin to wonder if the things you loved were really the things you loved because the, one you loved, loved them. Thus you find yourself without the person that wrote up your itinerary for fun. Pick up new hobbies that will stimulate your mind and draw attention away from the gaping chasm in your chest, where your heart once was. These distractions may be fleeting hobby fads or something that leads you to your new lease on life. The point is to find things you like to do. Stalking your ex  and making hate collages with old photos are not viable options.

Take a dump with confidence: So you’ve just been dumped and this could easily send you into a downward spiral of Häagen Daz ice cream and self-loathing. Don’t give in. Embrace yourself in your epicness. For x amount of time you’ve identified yourself with that other person to the point that he/she is another facet of you. Sure there’s a vacancy in your bed and/or social life, but there shouldn’t be an all-consuming loss of what makes you, you. Celebrate the fact that you are now a free spirit and that you are free to eat an entire pint of caramel cone Häagen Daz motivated by cravings and not by break up blues.



Here’s some advice about how not to take a dump:

Do not take a dump vocally: It’s fine and dandy to weep and rage to your inner circle of friends. However, tweeting, blogging, and ranting through a social media outlet will garner bad attention. You may win some sympathetic, empathetic comments and likes. But don’t dwell on the negative. If you must status-update, tweet or whatever, do so by focusing on the positive. Here’s an example status update, “Wow, I didn’t know how much room my tiny extra long twin bed had until last week. WIN!” or “So this is what it’s like not dipping into my roll-over points come Tuesday. Weird!”

Do not draw out a dumping with denial: You know when you’re being dumped. You may get dumped via email, text, tweet, Facebook message or even old fashioned face-to-face dumping. Do not pretend that you weren’t dumped and hold your breathe for the next four months waiting for the dumper to realize his/her wrong. This is a very painful way to take a dump. Take your dump as cleanly and maturely as possible. Don’t deny the dump because it’s real and the relationship is dead all the same, even if you pretend it isn’t. Accept what’s happening and move on.

Remember that taking a dump is a messy, painful, and, at times, stressful process.   However, in the end you will come out whole, happy, and free.


- See more at: Original Source

Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been?

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Brenda and Howard: I hear you breathing when you sleep

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Brenda and Howard Series: Meet Brenda Part 2

Hello Readers!

What do you mean you have no idea what the devil you're doing at my blog?  Surely you're here to read the next installation of my Brenda and Howard series!  If you have no bloody clue who Brenda or Howard is, do yourself a favor and read the beginning of the series here.  If you want to read the part 1 to this part 2, by all means click this sweet fucker.

So for those of you who have been on board since Howard killed Brenda (that was a misdirect for the new readers), I've tweaked the last entry's last paragraph a wee bit.  Nothing too crazy, but you may want to catch up as I have in my neglect to thoroughly edit that last paragraph.  Here is photograph of your smug blogger to make up for it.

Iron Man all day.

Enjoy the blog!
Hermia

Meet Brenda Part 2

Relief.  That was all Brenda felt when Howard pulled into the driveway.  She resisted the urge to call him all day as anticipation gnawed at her gut.  Around six her resolve broke and she phoned his office.  His secretary told her that he had left the office a bit early, vomited in the a.m. she said.  This was no comfort.  Concern polluted Brenda's anticipation, but didn't dim it.  However as the light faded, worry and night darkened her mood.

Although they had discussed ad nauseam to stop her birth control months ago, the actualization of their dreams would certain require adjustment.  She hadn't slept the evening before save for semi-conscious tossing and turning as light began to silhouette the curtains.  After hours of contemplation she decided to break the news coyly by making the mundane into a miraculous message

We are indeed pregnant! was the original words.  The indeed was cut to curb theatricality.  The we are joined in a conjunction that cut the message to two succinct words.  

We're pregnant 

She had covertly scrawled the words while Howard showered that morning.  Brenda knew that Howard would appreciate the execution.  Well, had Howard not fallen ill so suddenly, he would have appreciated it, schemed all day as he does to execute a wonderfully romantic dinner with lots of wine. 

By eight o' six on the fast kitchen clock, Brenda realized either one of two things occurred:  Howard got into an automotive accident and was occupied, or Howard was stubborn stupid and went to his spin class in spite of his early cookie tossage.

Her relief eclipsed her excitement when her arms were able to verify her husband was in one piece, albeit severely pale and clammy.  Poor love.  Brenda voiced the obvious from years of caring for sick Howards--he hadn't even looked at lunch, as even the sight of food would have risen a wave of nausea.  Thus, she thought to herself, he still doesn't know.

The game is on. 

Brenda had yet another opportunity to sharpen her coyness to tell Howard the news.  She smiled secretly to herself after nudging her naked husband into the shower.  News could wait, Brenda resolved to reschedule the talk until after his recuperation.

 First, soup.

Brenda and Howard: Meet Brenda Part 1

*Updated on January 22, 2014 because I failed to edit the original last paragraph that probably read as random...I mean, there was no mention of going out to dinner.  In the next installation they're staying in.  Whoops.  Spoiler alert.*

Hey there readers,

I hope that those of you that celebrated the holidays had a fabulous time and didn't have too many regretful New Years Eve trysts.  If you did, I hope it was worth it.  For the last twoish weeks I've been contemplating the direction of the Brenda and Howard series.  Am I just going to write through Howard's perspective?  Whose story is this really?  How is Brenda going to fit into this story?

I'm still tackling many questions, but that's part of the fun in writing.  I have a general direction, so it's time that I wrote that way and see where it goes.  For those of you who comment, please let me know what you think of Howard and the story so far.  There isn't too much yet on Brenda, however I promise you will see more in the pieces to follow.

Best regards,
Hermia

P.S. Enjoy!


Note:  Please read the first installation of the Brenda and Howard series here.

Meet Brenda Part 1

Luckily the break room at Howard's work had an usual variety of Cliff bars, a Keurig, and some left over celebratory whiskey in the freezer.  His lunch tasted like a blueberry hangover.  The Cliff bar and Irish coffee he had were dancing a pagan ritual to god of Saturn deep in his abdomen.  Each pulsing drumbeat matched the throbbing over Howard's right temple, which was neatly framed by his immaculate hairline.  With fumbling hands, he dug in his briefcase for anything minty.  His endeavors encounter stray wrappers of long consumed cough drops, adventurous paper clips, and a tin mints Brenda snuck into that particular pocket.  The mints were as stale as his marriage.

Apparently the time they had spent together really melted the boundaries of personal space and ownership of briefcases to a point of intimacy.  The color of the post its in his desk drawer were chosen by her.  The vast majority of her flats were chosen by him.  They had met at a pep rally in Brenda's senior year in high school.  She had a vague, post-romantic relationship to the remnants of his old clique.  He was a freshman in a far away college visiting his alma mater.  Although he told himself he would never visit home, he found himself looking for something familiar as a reprieve from collegiate experimentation.  She was a go-getting star senior already accepted into her reach schools and looking for an adult romance.

Sitting at his desk rather unproductively, he flung rubber bands at a framed photograph that stood sentinel by his computer monitor.  Brenda and Howard were dancing closely in the shot from a college friend's wedding.  He recalled being genuinely happy playing at an ingenuine relationship.  Anger and nausea rose like waves while he reminisced on his secret trysts, his missed opportunities, and his relationship with Brenda.  One of his rubber ring missiles knocked it's adversary to the ground.  A call from his secretary distracted him from replacing it. 

Due to a strangely awkward spin class, Howard didn't get home until 8pm.  As he pulled into the driveway, the front door of their raised ranch house flew open.  When he saw Brenda standing in the front doorway silhouetted against the lights from within, he realized that he hadn't called or texted her to confirm and celebrate their new situation.  In truth he left his cell in his car all day, still plugged in and currently playing Moby.

Fuuuuuuuck

Brenda launch herself from the stoop at Howard.  From the lack of light to perceive her facial expression, he tensed as her robe clad arms snaked their way around him.  He registered this as affection and not an attempt to squeeze him in contempt.

"I thought there was an accident," Howard heard from the wavy bob smothered against his chest.  A long rambling lost itself in muffled expressions of distress and explanations that his secretary told her he had been sick.  Just when he was starting to believe that her head couldn't get further buried from worry into his chest, Brenda looked up.  Her arms were still belted around his waist.

"If you were sick, I'm assuming you didn't eat lunch.  I know how food upsets your tummy when you're unwell." Howard's ears perked at the all too ready alibi for his lack of celebratory flowers and enthusiasm for the news he allegedly hadn't received.  How best to twist this turn of luck?  With a pseudo contemplative kiss to her fringed forehead, he conveniently and romantically suggested a dinner out because the night was too beautiful to not enjoy.  Luckily the sky was clear enough to kinda-sorta see the stars.

Brenda didn't bring up the pregnancy as she flitted between the kitchen, where she was working on soup for him, and the bedroom, where he semi collapsed on the bed still in his gym clothes.  She rambled on about the end of the year faculty meeting and proposed goals to improve next year as she ushered him into the bathroom to coax him into the shower.  He smiled as she walked away on silent feet clad in flats he chose for her.  There was no mention of maternity leave or plans.  Surely she would drop that news soon enough? Her uterus bomb won't go off for at least another seven months.  Seven months was plenty of time for Howard to evacuate ground zero.

Brenda and Howard: Pabst Blue Ribbon and Smiling Mustard

Note to the Reader:  I've been struck with a great idea for a 7 part serial following two characters and their married life.  Trust me, it'll be a bit more interesting than that description.  Enjoy!

Pabst Blue Ribbon and Smiling Mustard

            There's a day in a man's life when his wife's usage of two simple words cause an internal apocalypse.  On a June Tuesday morning after 5 years of marital bliss, Howard's wife Brenda handed him his lunch with the usual good bye kiss on the cheek.  What was unusual was the extra weight in a usually light sandwich ladened bag due to the celebratory beer she had packed for him.  A beer celebrating the two words she had scrawled on a neatly folded paper towel.  Two words that oozed the scent of Sharpie, mustard, and turkey--"We're pregnant". 

            In Brenda's excitement hours earlier, she squeezed yellow lines of mustard into a smiling face before layering on lettuce and lunchmeat.  She subscribed to the belief that love made sandwiches better.  Howard's face was anything but happy sitting behind his glass desk behind glass partitions.  In fact for the last four months of their trying to have a baby, it was really a one sided venture.  Sure sheets were grasped, the appropriate cum faces and cuddles were done, but Howard was dreading the fateful day Brenda's urine would become potent with baby indicating hormones. 

            The sandwich was dumped and the PBR can drained.  Howard, who was unaccustomed to drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon at 11:30 in the morning, promptly speed-walked to the office bathroom to vomit.  He got as far as the ladies room sink.  With the taste of alcohol and half digested oatmeal fermenting in his mouth, he stared at his exceptionally groomed face in the mirror.  The furrow between his well maintained eyebrows belied the waves of self loathing and anger.  Anger at his life long cowardice.  You see, dear reader, Howard was a closeted homosexual. 

Regret

Note to the readers:  Because I'm attempting to keep the pledge I made to my blog readers, I'm going to not watch Vampire Diaries Suits right now.  I had a physically miserable day yesterday because of some bad decisions disguised as a good idea.  I went through something I really never had before.  If you're unlucky, it's a something you may experience time and time again.

Regret

Regret.  It's a hard thing that grows and swells in your gut like a miscarriage waiting to happen.  The rolling of its shoulders and the kicking of its feet punch the breath out of your body.  Perhaps you'll find yourself lying awake at night mulling over all of your decisions leading to this inexorable pain.  Pain that chokes your throat and clenches your bowels. 

That's how she found herself at 2 in the morning.  She awoke beside her ex in sheets that were soaked in sweat and other shameful things.  The last few hours had been spent in revelry, the press of warm bodies, and mind altering substances--all to the tune of food and drink.  A desire for gluttony and hedonism was the excuse they gave to spend time together. 

Everything in excess when the world was ending, so they told themselves. 

She had been battling the pain in her mind and body beside his restless silhouette.  The emotion she had been denying was growing too large for her to ignore, let alone coherently contemplate.  It was as if the first shared bite of that evening's dinner sealed her fate to internal damnation. 

It wasn't that she was not accustomed to pain.  Nicks, cuts, broken bones were merit badges she collected as she walked through life.  But pain that sizzles, pops, and explodes to fill your body like a bag of mating snakes was something new.  Something that snuck up on her after too many bad decisions albeit among good company.  Regret poisoned her and infiltrated her every nook with each bite of food shared with the sleeping man beside her. 

Regret gestated within her as they lost themselves in a tangle of bodies to the tune of a TV turned down.  It lied in wait until sleep sucked her under and made her vulnerable.  When her eyes snapped open hours later she realized what she had done, and she fled to her only escape.  The bathroom.

Quiet with a door that locks, the bathroom was her sanctuary.  She gave herself over to the pain and vomited until even her soul was scraped out from the bottom of her gut.

Staring into the newly flushed toilet water as the porcelain sighed, she condemned herself to a sleepless night. 

After all, food poisoning is a demanding bitch.

Clocks

Where this piece came from:  I hate time--well, at least the measured sort.  I hate how in the hustle and bustle we often glance at our cell phones or watches one, two, three times consecutively to even have the time register.  It belies our preoccupation of having to be wherever at a very specific whenever.  Frankly when one lives in the modern first world, it's hard to get away from the clock.  There will always be places to be and people to meet, but we have to remember the wise words of Simon and Garfunkle when we get in a time funk:

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feelin’ groovy
Ba da da da da da da, feelin’ groovy

A lot of people hate the mornings.  On my own, I'm a morning person.  I usually get up with the sun, but on some early shoot days I'm up as early as 4:30am.  But fuck it, as long as I plan I won't be rushed.  Hell, if I'm proactive enough I have sufficient time to wake and bake...muffins, of course. Winky blinky.

Just know, as hectic as life is, there is always time to look for fun and feel (as they say) groovy.

Enjoy "Clocks"

Clocks

How often do you check the time?

With places to be

People to see and date,

Ruminate for just one second how many moments were wasted

looking at your cell's face counting down until you're late.

Do you find yourself staring at the at the glaring red lines

waiting for :59 to bloom into zeroes that blare

declaring your booting out of bed?

Instead, forget the numbers

and enjoy your sleep.

Keep close the memories you make

and not the appointments that keep you up at night...

when really you should be focusing on holding your wife.

Third Installation to Danger Series: Hunger

Where did this piece come from:  I'm fucking starving right now.  As an individual who is very much driven by my stomach, hunger is a very dangerous thing.  For a long time I've been intrigued by the idea of the body's two hungers--the hunger for food and nourishment, and the hunger for sex, flesh, and human connection.  From seeing many folks fall into regret over eating too much cake and regret over the unnamed person in their bed, I thought it appropriate to play with this idea for the Danger series. 

There are two things I've realized in my life in regard to the two hungers:

1. Never go food shopping on an empty stomach because that leads to an empty wallet.
2. Never go to a swinger's club without having masturbated furiously before hand, so as to not let your standards dip too low because the itch is too damn strong.

Enjoy Danger (III)!

But wait?!  I haven't posted Danger (II)!  That's because it really isn't worth posting quite yet.  Keep an eye out down the road for it. 


Danger (III)

The most dangerous thing is hunger
When hunger consumes you
      your body and psyche is stretched out of proportions.

You order twelve pancakes when you can only eat three.
You sleep with a two when you deserve an eight.

So don't eat with your eyes
and don't think with your dick...

Unless you're that hungry.

TMI: Society's Curse of Too Much Information

Where this piece comes from:  Upon being asked to dinner, I found myself in an internal debate--to creep or not to creep?  This is the answer to that question.

TMI:  Society's Curse of Too Much Information

Through the act of creeping, it's very easy to get to know people through Facebook, blogs, Twitter, etc...  However, how true to reality is the information filed under "Five Things I Couldn't Live Without"?  I find social media and the internet a little off putting in regard to socializing.  

This isn't due to the content.  This isn't due to my hate of internet shorthand and text inundated with grammatical errors. But rather I hate how easily information about someone is available.  It kills the mystery of the individual.  Why get to know someone when all their thoughts, emotions, work history, and life is posted online on a web page?  As curious as that internet version of someone is, I'd much rather hear all that from you. 

Through cyber stalking socializing, almost everyone with internet can find out anyone's favorite sushi joint, turn offs, and what they were doing in 1982.  It turns me on to know that there are some folks that don't use Facebook, Twitter, or much anything social networky.  These individuals preserve the enigma of who they are, and can control who and what knows anything about them and their thoughts. 

Frankly, I wonder how the people who fall into celebrity cope.  With enough Googling, I'm sure we could find out James Franco's favorite flavor of ice cream.  With everything to know about this echelon of people available with a few strokes of the keyboard, what happens to the mystery of this lucky slice of the population? 

Socially speaking, shouldn't an individual be able to cling to the mystery of himself as any other human being does?  It blows that that facet of humanity is denied privacy by having every career move and sneeze documented.  Certainly, this awesome for fans.  It's different in the case of politicians, as they need to be scrutinized and made transparent.  However, those who fall into the light because of their talent to entertain a population...let them hold their personhood close and reveal as much or as little as they want. 

When everyone and anyone can know everything about you, what do you have left to share?  Perhaps you find yourself in awkward situations where the people you meet remember and know more about you than even you do.

You line up a particularly awesome anecdote to share with someone you're trying to get to know, and it anticlimactically is cut short with "Oh, I read that story already somewhere."  So much for sharing a piece of yourself when the internet has enabled another to do so already.  Although this has never happened to me personally because (let's be real) I'm very much a nobody, this situation falls within the realm of possibility for many others. 

I want to get to know you.  Not the perfectly aligned, triple spell checked Facebook statuses that still manage to have errors.  Fuck that.

Tell me the unedited, on the fly with good eye contact stories about yourself.  Gesticulate, inflect, waggle your eyebrows.  Let's unravel the mystery of who you are, who I am, and who the fuck anyone is in person.  It's better than spending hours scouring Facebook, Wikipedia, or IMDB to get to know someone. 

Tell me the story of you by you. 

Give it to me raw.

Will Post Wednesday...But for now the Significance of Funny Stories

I could never do stand up comedy, but I would just love to have a venue to tell funny stories.  Perhaps one of my favorite tropes in literature is the bard.  The bard is the keeper of stories and histories.  This tradition is preserved and maintained by telling stories and the like in a way to maintain interest and continue the diffusion of stories through generations.  Rather than having the responsibility of preserving history, I like to plant stories that will be retold because they're funny.  Comedy is something I try to weave into my story telling and my blog posts.  Making someone laugh or even smile is such an easy and small thing to do, so why not do it? 

I'll leave you with this--an example of wordplay and humor from the movie Clue.  It's shit like this I hope to include in future projects.

Yes, it's based on a board game.  And yes, it's still bloody hilarious to this day.

Love,
Hermia

P.S.  Normal blog post on Wednesday.  Love your faces.

Live Long and Wank On

Where This Piece Came From:  Often times I close my cam show with something quippy.  The go-to one liner is "Live long and wank on".  This piece came about after really considering what that phrase meant to me and to those who consume porn.  I thought rather arduously about whether or not I would post this piece, as it is about pornography.  This blog is dedicated to creative nonfiction and I didn't want to bring any porn biz here.  However upon reading and rereading this piece, it's message needs to be posted.  So, enjoy Live Long and Wank On.

Live Long and Wank On

Porn is an amazing way of getting to know yourself and lose yourself at the same time.  Strange as it may sound, I remember enjoying pornography a lot more as a teenager than I do as an adult.  I believe that what we find sexy, especially in the case of fetishes, awakens through exposure.  Hell, I didn't realize I was attracted to women just as I'm attracted to men until I saw a pair of the rather sexualized and perky tits of Kate Winslet in Titanic when I was seven.  Although watching Jack draw her like one of his French girls wasn't explicitly pornography, it was explicitly adult content.  It was also, indubitably deposited into my spankbank. 

It's know that there is a great camp of men and women, probably mostly women, who rally against the usage and distribution of pornography; however, it's usage is a safe and private way to understand your own desires and kinks.  The knowledge and understanding of which can lead you to more honest and hopefully orgasmic experiences.

Now comes the tougher part of this conversation--the good, the bad, and the perverted outcomes to pornography usage.  And to be perfectly clear, the usage I'm commenting on is the stimulation of one's own meat stick or land clam--masturbation.  The good that may come out of using porn is for the individual release.  Physiological, psychological, and perhaps even emotional release.  That release may mandate the usage of socks, tissues, or vibrating devices, but it's positive.  Not only does orgasms make people happy, but oftentimes post-O folks have a radiant glow about them.  But how does the usage of porn benefit the overall population?  Other than multiplying the amount of sexually gratified people in the population, porn benefits the overall population by providing a sexual outlet to those how can't or don't want to have sex.  Frankly, people masturbate for a myriad of reasons.  All sorts of folks masturbate.  It doesn't matter if you're young, old, married, single, divorced, or a cat.  You have probably wanted to or have masturbated.  

It's funny because as a teenager I heard from all the parents that too many people are having sex.  As an adult, I look around and I see a lot of people not having sex.  A lot of those people are in my cam room.  And believe me,  most all of them want to, but can't for lack of social environment, time, or money.  Kidding on the last. 

Pornography is the oasis during a dry spell of sex.

Now for those who wank it to the more deviant of pornography.  And by this I mean pornography that falls at least one standard deviation from basic boy girl, d in the v stuff.  Let's pretend one standard deviation is anal, and two is DP, and three is a donkey show with tentacles.  It's a truth worth mentioning that everyone's palates varies.  Some may be perfectly content with vanilla boy girl porn with missionary and perhaps even a cream pie if you're feeling frisky.  But some may desire BDSM, SPH, group sex, bukkake, incest, or even 2-girls-1-cup caliber kink.  Many people may turn their noses away in disgust, but these folks have the kinks and desires they have. 

Why completely defame an entire industry, in which all parties are willingfully partaking in creating content that you or anyone can enjoy?  Why completely cast hate and disgust on those viewers of nastier porn?

Because masturbating is a goddamn right, and there is an entire industry founded on the expression of that right.  As long as someone has physical access to the skin flapping between their legs, they are able to deliver unto themselves waves of visceral pleasure.  The  honest truth of porn is that like anything that causes or inspires pleasure--it's an escape.  Just as video games, books, fantasy football, or Netflix can be an escape from stress, work, life, or anything of the sort.  Who is anyone to judge anyone else's desire to watch horribly rated content, be it a television show or a live streaming sexfest?  Limiting someone's choice in pornography would be the equivalent of limiting someone's lurid imagination.  Just because their isn't porn of an athletic Asian doing squats in athletic, though crotchless shorts, doesn't mean you're not going to now imagine it and not touch yourself.

In regard to the perverted outcomes of the usage of pornography, those who judge need to ask themselves a question:  Who is anyone hurting by masturbating cumming for the umpteenth time alone in a closed environment to whatever content suits his or her fancy?  You'll realize that no one is being harmed by masturbation.  If you're a spouse, girl friend, boy friend, or partner of someone and you find yourself repulsed or betrayed by your partner masturbating to porn, fuck you.

How dare you try to control every fantastical thought any individual may have?  I often fantasize about eating ice cream while eating cake.  Does that mean I love cake less?  Fuck no. 

It's really none of anyone's business as to what anyone else is masturbating to.  It's all personal choice. So I say to you, as I often say to close my cam room...

Live long and wank on.