ormunroe

I feel like I'm becoming some sexually frustrated breast fiend. Aside from the great people, I'm not too sure joining this site was such a good idea. Everyday being confronted with pictures and words of real women, as beautiful as they are intelligent seems like some self-inflicted tease/torment. I've been reading romance/fantasy so forgive my tendency for being melodramatic. Ha...

I need a good fuck. Not love making, not kissing with cuddles, but an oh-gosh-my-toe-is-cramping-its-too-good-don't-stop-too-sated-to-move-put-me-to-sleep fuck.

Part of myself feels that was somewhat vulgar and I want to tell that part of myself to screw off but that's not polite. Ha.

So, the new Laurell K. Hamilton novel arrived today along with the new Boondocks book so now along with the Hitchhiker's Trilogy I have entirely too many good choices and I dislike starting more than one book at a time but it looks like that is what will happen.

I'm tired of performing during sex. For once (with a man) I'd like to feel that I didn't have to do the requisite porn-star moans and groans and 'sexy' looks...all that crap. That I wouldn't be thinking about irrelevant daily matters or ways of avoiding certain things. I want to be caught up in passion and sensation, emotion and desire. That's not something just in the romance novels. I'm not asking for sex (or love making) that creates stars and destroys moons. But passion and desire at the exclusion of everything else but pleasure and release. Surely, that can't be fiction.