February 15, 2014, 8:58 pm
Filed under: I'll Show You Mine | Tags: , , ,

After some discussion with G, I’ve decided to quit writing for the three kink blogs. Our discussion revolved mainly over G’s hatred of porn (he’s the ONLY guy I know that really does hate porn and can argue you into his corner (if you’re not an ex-stripper who makes a living partially by writing porn) and maybe he’s right but I hate his stoopid sci fi stories so ha-ha-ha.) but what he really wanted, being a male and a hypocrite, is me to resurrect XSEX as a viable blog.

Since two of the other places I write for owe me money, I have decided to stay with the non-Wordpress blog where I actually make cash, and contribute more of Katie’s Khemistry to XSEX.

He also made me promised to reveal my side of an argument he calls TOO MANY ORIENTATIONS IS KINDA DUMB: PICK A SIDE.
So that’s gonna be our first “argument post” for this new resurrected XSEX.

And by the way: XSEX meant sex with your ex, which I was having plenty of and G wanted a little of.
It also means sex as seen by two Gen-X’ers: a straight male and a bi female.
We’d like to recruit some writing talent by a straight up homosexual…ha ha ha, I love little sayings like that.

Anyway, more is to come. THINGS I SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE was GOING to be a whole separate blog about stuff we did and regretted, but it is going to fit in real nice I think. If it gets too much, we’ll make it into a blog of its own.


TIME FOR DICK by khemistry

It’s time for dick. I KNOW it’s time for dick, because my girlfriend is starting to aggravate me, and this happens every few months, which is why I can’t keep a steady relationship for longer than my sexual moods last. Supposedly, I’m a bisexual. My friend Greg says I’m just greedy, but as he’s not getting much play from either end of the spectrum, what the fuck does HE know, am I right? Even if I AM just greedy…what of it? My lesbian friends try (once a year or so) to convince me that I need to come out of the closet and quit playing with boys, period. Well, that’s not going to happen. Why? Because I LIKE dick. Duh. Which is how I know I’m not a dyed-in-the-wool lezz-bo. But I also happen to like pussy. They are different. I get in the mood for one, and then I start hankerin’ for the other.

For a few months now, I’ve been a good little girl. I’ve maintained a monogamous relationship with one woman. But we’re starting to get on each other’s nerves…and just yesterday I caught myself looking wistfully at the tight jeans of a stockboy at Wal-Mart. There’s just something about those stockboys, makes me feel all warm and gushy inside.

Now, all this long while I’ve not thought about a good stiff dick even once. Well, okay, that’s a lie. But thinking about it and having one stuck up in you is two very different things, I can assure you. I have been a good girl. I promise. But me and my girl are starting to take each other for granted…which is always what happens in my relationships. Plus, I don’t fantasize about her like I did in the beginning. For the first couple months we took a steamy shower every day…and it was bliss. We’d soap each other up and slide around on the tiles, making out under the spray until the water turned cold, then we’d tumble out onto the bedroom shag and lick each other dry. Yummy.

But now it’s like: “I’m gonna go take a shower.”  /  “Ok.”  /  “Uhm…you wanna join me?”  /  “Oh. Uhm, I don’t know. You go ahead. I’m gonna finish the TV Guide crossword.”

We still have sex…but it’s starting to feel like a chore instead of a sweaty, throbbing adventure in vaginaland.

So it’s time for dick. I’m dreading the conversation, even though I was very upfront with my girlfriend about my sexuality. But she’s one of those girls that thinks my bisexuality is bullshit. She thinks I’m still afraid to come out of the closet, that I’m afraid to admit to my friends and family that I’m a muff-diver for realsies. Which is just totally batshit, but try telling HER that! The bottom line is, it’s time for dick. In six or eight months, I will wake up one morning, look across the bed at the dick, and he’ll fart in his sleep, or reach down and scratch his nuts, and I’ll get this same sort of feeling again. But then it will be: “I really need some pussy.” Sigh.

What a life.

Why is my boyfriend a little whiny bitch? by khemistry


How many boyfriends do I have to chew up and spit out before I get one who’s not a whiny little wussy? Jeesh! I’m starting to see why so many of my friends describe themselves as bi-sexual. When I was a younger, moodier bitch I thought testosterone was kinda like Kryptonite. I mean, I know a tranny in Atlanta named Ramonda (NOTE: actually, her name is Ronda but she goes by Ramon even though she’s a red-headed Irish girl, and just F.Y.I. she’s TOTALLY obsessed with Ricky Martin and Menudo in general, but she’d like to do him as a GUY, and nobody’s really sure exactly what team Ricky plays for, so I’m not sure where that puts Ronda’s chances for realizing her dream. Anyway, I call her/him Ramonda Martin)…and lemme tell ya, Rayray is, like, a T-stone junkie. It does REALLY gross stuff to her, and pretty soon I guess she really will be for all intents and purposes a he. I looked up T-stone in this HUGE book doctors use to write out prescriptions called the PDR. I did this with the intent of showing Ramonda aka Rayray that T-stone is (as I said) kryptonite on your delicate, flowery wimmin parts.

But Rayray? He didn’t care! That stuff is a CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE! Like those REALLY good diet pills my mom used to get that gave her housecleaning superpowers…T-stone is like that kind of speed, or Oxycontin (without the date rape potential or the tendency to puke all over the place). Now, personally I think that’s sexist. I mean, FEMALE hormones aren’t controlled substances! You can practically get them out of gumball machines, and they do all kinds of damage to our delicate little flowers petals. Anyway, I’m slippin’ away here, so its time to reel myself back in or I’ll be jabberin about a hundred different things and I’ll have to sign this post “Gregory Purvis” (sorry, G, but you are one wordy dude).

So, like, I used to figure that T-stone was the shit that made a guy a GUY. So if thats true, does this mean all the guys in my life need a booster shot?? I betcha John Wayne never needed T-stone. Or Gary Cooper, Charlton Heston or any of “the classics”. I bet even Rock Hudson never needed any, and I hear he had a real gentle and loving nature and was fond of spooning. And you KNOW Elvis never needed topping up…even the fat, ‘nanna-n-peanut butter sandwich Elvis, the one that was fond of white leisure suits and rhinestones.

So why do MY MEN need the stuff? Cause they cry at the drop of a hankie, and I’m just so SICK of all this sensitive male stuff. WHAT HAVE WE DONE? We’ve demasculated our menfolk!!! Now all my last two boy toys want to do is to ask me about my day and they don’t even put up half a fight when I suggest we go see a romantic comedy. AND I HATE ROMANTIC COMEDIES!!!

I caught my latest crying last night over a TV SHOW!!! What is happening?!? DUDES WHERE ARE YOUR BALLS?

Somebody please help. I ‘m actually crying, now! This sucks!

DRIVIN’ AND CRYIN’ by Gregory Purvis

So I’m now living in the middle of nowhere instead of a van down by the river. Which does wonders for my social/sexual life. I moved back to Alabama to write the “Great American Novel” which in my case is self-described as  “dark southern gothica”. I figured the place would inspire some characters (as it inspired the setting twelve long years ago…and it did), and I figured I’d be able to step back into some of my social/sexual relationships from back in the day. Problem is, my pseudovampire narcoticized blood may keep ME from aging…but it does shit for other folks. I run into people from my high school and early-college years and it really FREAKS ME OUT. Plus, most of my hott little bunnies from back in the day have married and bred themselves a mini child labor force for the region’s carpet-bagger textile mills. It’s a small place full of small towns…but don’t be a classcist: I’ve tried myself to stop using the term “redneck” because the truth is, just because you are from the South doesn’t mean you are a brainless, mouth-breathing racist thug whose hobbies include partying at ‘Taters and lynching “coloreds”. (NOTE: YES, there is an actual “Tater” and yes, his trailer has been a well-known hang-out for “rednecks” for two generations.)

The sad part is, it’s STILL a dry county…even though a few years back they voted to go wet in the county seat. “Dry” meaning “without sexual juice” in my case, at the time being at least.

So I’m sitting at home, watching ‘Austin City Limits’. My Morning Jacket is playing. A great example of a southern band that manages to meld southern musical roots with experimental funky rock stylings without delving into the alt-country or “Freebird” crap. Plus, they don’t stray into the “let’s make fun of the South” alternabands like Southern Culture On The Skids, the Rev. Horton Heat, or (to some extent) Nashville Pussy. Not that all three of those examples aren’t kool in their own ways.

Still, this band is flowing from an emotional place I seem to be in at the moment. They’re not a band I would select for sex (Nine Inch Nails tops that list), but they are a good band to THINK about having sex with someone…like..say..your ex-wife (whom you secretly miss and hate yourself for missing).

I mean, any band that can manage to pull off so many integrated textures and influences HAS to be good for something, right?

So I decide to go out…and though the county is now (partially) wet (for Yankees: this means alcohol is allowed to be sold so long as the politicians get a little taste and/or some under-the-table love…as opposed to a “dry county”, where alcohol cannot be sold, bought, or (in some cases) even CONSUMED legally.)…it’s not THAT wet.

 Now, if the county WAS still dry, I’d have chosen Steve Earle’s “Copperhead Road” to listen to on my way to the watering hole that (so far) hasn’t been shut down by The Man. Instead, I chose Georgia boys Drivin’ n Cryin’…followed by Dreams So Real. I get to my destination after a song from each, and half of “Copperhead Road”, too.

I’m listening to live music, wishing a certain young lady (who may have some vampire blood in her as well, as she has obviously–by her Facebook bio–aged very nicely, too) I used to know would stop by. I’ve been back in town for a couple years now, and our paths have yet to cross–yet.  But, alas, she is not here. So I’m listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd shite played by admittedly talented local musicians, over and over. You see, this county was made famous by the Country supergroup ALABAMA. They even have bronze, life-sized statues near the entrance to the City Park, and their fan club (and mansions) are nearby. A local musician and artist I really respect (Colin Kirby) said it right when he quipped that he’d never visited or lived in a town with more gifted musicians per square mile. We also have more churches per square mile–which is where many of these musicians get their early training. I visited a Primitive Baptist church (yes, that’s the real name of this denomination) last year to hear some of the INCREDIBLE “shape-note singers” who were featured in the Nicole Kidman/Jude Law movie “Cold Mountain”. Anyway, all I can think about is WHY don’t more of these gifted musicians quite playing covers and blah southern rock and do what My Morning Jacket has done. There IS that calibre of talent here…if you can find em. I saw a band named Marsh Elder last year that totally blew me away…but for most of these guys, doing country and country-rock covers is all they seem to want to do.

Even so, I don’t leave. Because I’m hoping this young lady might pop in. Hey, it COULD happen!

But it doesn’t. So I spill a tear in my beer, listen to some passable Merle Haggard, and leave.

I play “Down In It” (loud) all the way home, along lonely country roads, have myself a pity party, watch some porn, and call it a night.

As they say ’round these here parts: Woo hoo. Woo fucking hoo, indeed.

EX SEX by Gregory Purvis
April 19, 2010, 4:34 pm
Filed under: I'll Show You Mine | Tags: ,

So here’s what’s been happening: First off, I moved from a van down by the river up to a woodsy abode on bee-you-tee-full Lookout Mountain. Unfortunately, as is often the case when relocating in the Digital Age, there’s about a million new “connections” you have to make, utilities-wise. My personal (and non-sexual) goal(s) for the next coupla years include re-formating all of my utilities that keep me connected to the Grid aka The Matrix, i.e. “The Man”. Basically, and I don’t mean to be too homoerotic, but living on the Grid is basically like being connected to the Man in a awkward and probably painful anal position, now isn’t it? Which–if I were gay–would prolly be totally fine. But being more interested in connecting to Mother Earth than The Man (put THAT in your pipe and make The Man smoke it), both figuratively and sexually, I can’t in good consciousness stay bent over for the anal pleasure of The Man.

Now, I know that this is WAY over my daily limit for gay jokes, even couched in dirty hippie humor, so before someone begins throwing accusations, let’s just agree that regardless of your orientation, “The Man” is NOT a desireable or particularly loving sexual partner for anyone. So my goals are to figure some way to trade in my Honda for a diesel that I can slap a kit on and start using KFC grease for more than coating the insides of my arteries; to get OFF any hardline connections to the Internet and brain-sapping TV (partially accomplished already); and (last but not least, though certainly most expensive) I wanna find a way to be more responsible with my water and electricity consumption–and get off the TVA power-tit as soon as possible). Having said all this, the only really important part of this diatribe is, I haven’t had any Internet access for 3 weeks…so, with Jane being on vacation (which is code for enjoying hott lesbian action is The Sunshine State), I haven’t had much to say on XSEX…and no way to say it regardless.

Until today. So here goes, ya freaks:


“XSEX” was chosen (as a name) for a LOT of reasons. First off, we are the first to use the names “XSEX”, “SEXXX” and “XSEXX” online, for ANY purpose. The genesis of this idea goes back to the BBS days which is pre-World Wide Web, so don’t bother to tell me how your fave porn site used the name(s) first. NO THEY DID NOT. But, you snooze you lose. I overslept, and porn sites snapped up my naming schemes for their own perverse (but much more nefarious) purposes. You see, XSEX (meaning this blog) was originally TWO distinct ideas: 1. SEXXX (as a BBS, then as a proposed .com site and a webring connected to the WIRED.INformation Architecture) was gonna be an online magazine. 2. XSEXX was to be a blog mostly dedicated to geeksex and cosplay and the like. I overslept and two of those names were nabbed, and the dot com crash had already put paid to the WIRED.IN idea. If you care, WIRED.IN was basically the concept of a webring before anyone called it that, and the first one was a connection of my own start-up’s and those of my friends. Some of the names you might recognize, some are totally obscure.

And I wound up living in a van down by the river instead of getting invited to parties at The Playboy Mansion. Yeah, well…since I KNOW many of you are sobbing at my dot com misfortunes, wipe yourself off and read on (or not)…

So XSEX THEN became a blog to discuss my sexual success stories, failures, and my ultimate semi-self-imposed celibacy. It was a way to talk about my frustrations. It was about being “ex-sexual”…which was how I looked at it at the time. Then I heard from my ex-wife. And then I begin having a VERY complicated cyberrelationship with a charming young lady named Jane who responded (quite harshly) to a blog post entitled “Why Bi-sexuality is Bullshit”. She (ahem) showed me the error of my thinking in a MOST pleasant way, and to say more would violate a promise so I shan’t…yet.

So XSEX became a blog about sex with my ex(es), celibacy, Xrated lifestyles, and Gen-X sexuality. Which is what I’m TRYING to do today. and I admit…I have had some problems. But be patient. I’m trying.

So since I’m back in the saddle (yes) I shal commit sexual treason and talk next of my Ex. You’ve seen her picture, after all, and many of you have written to ask about how I could “give that up”…so I shall tell you the sad story.

We’re back. And hopefully we won’t suck as bad.

Dildo-A-Thon by khemistry

My girlfriends swear by them. Even my mother has one–though I doubt my father is aware of this. They come in all sizes and colors and shapes. The Dildo.

My (straight) guy-friends roll their eyes and smirk, as if to say: “If you had a REAL man [presumably like him], you wouldn’t NEED one of those.” My gay guy-friends are 50/50. Meaning that 50% of them like them and use them as well. The other 50% have a similar reaction to the straight guys, except their reasoning doesn’t include plans to prove their manhood to the ladies. They figure: why use one when you’ve got the real thing standing up and saluting right in front of you? But for some reason, it seems a bit different than the heterosexual equivalent.

I’ve always been a bit adventurous in the boudoir, but that Lewis and Clark spirit never extended to toys. I’m not really sure why…maybe it’s just that most of them look a bit intimidating. I was in my mid-20’s before I worked up the nerve to buy my first “little friend”. I say “little” because I’ve read that the best way to introduce such toys into a relationship is to stick with the smaller sizes. Why? That should be obvious. But apparently most men are put off by the idea of competing with a “toy” that is larger than their own manhood. Since I was in a long-term relationship at the time, I decided to follow this advice and chose an appropriate “starter model” that was skinny and about 5 inches long.

Though I’d never measured my boyfriend, I knew from an episode of ‘Sex in the City’ that the average penis is about 5 to 5 1/2 inches. I figured a five-inch friend would be playing it safe. I also chose a model that was made of neon-pink plastic. It looked like a giant tube of lipstick much more than a penis, so I figured the boyfriend wasn’t going to freak out about me choosing a “replacement”. After all, the sex store where I purchased the thing had a thousand different models to choose from. Most of them looked a bit creepy hanging there on the brightly-lit shelves. They looked, for all the world, like they had just been chopped off some boy toy and wrapped in plastic. I figured an oddly-colored model that had no realistic veins (yuck) would be the safest for a trial run. And just in case my boyfriend freaked out anyway, I bought a cheap no-frills model and made sure to keep the receipt. (NOTE: I found out when I got to the counter that dildos and other such devices cannot be returned. I suppose I should feel good about that policy.)

I chickened-out that night. In fact, I was so worried about how to introduce the thing to my boyfriend that I actually worried myself into a sex-destroying migraine. Not tonight honey, I have a headache. Oh…nothing happened at work. No, I don’t think I’m getting sick. Its just that I bought a pink dildo today and I’m a bit stressed about how to let you know.

Later that night, I snuck into the bathroom and took a nice, long shower. I had to try out my new purchase. And who knows? I might HATE it.

I didn’t. Quite the contrary. It was like a whole, new universe had exploded all around me, showering me with warm golden sparks and a silver flood of angelic singing drowning out all the other noises around me. WOO-HOO!

The next night, I was ready when the boyfriend got home. I had already showered (several times, actually), slipped into the little negligee from Victoria’s Secret he bought me for Valentine’s Day, and put my favorite fuzzy bathrobe on over that. I fixed his favorite dinner (Beef Stroganoff…no I’m not trying to make a joke), uncorked a bottle of red wine, and lit a few candles. I could tell he was a little surprised…watched the thoughts cross his mind (“Did I forget her birthday?” and “Is it our anniversary?”), and then gave him a long, wet kiss with just a hint of tongue. That’s how we girls tell you that you’re getting some. After all, has your girlfriend EVER given you any tongue if she was developing a no-sex-tonight headache?

After the meal, we slip into the bedroom and I slip out of the bathrobe to reveal…well, ME. Well, the Victoria’s Secret version of me. We make out for a bit, and I’m putting everything into it, making sure he’s most definately in the mood. It’s in this “mood mode”, guys, that we can pretty much do with you as we will. When you guys get that excited, I honestly believe most girls could tell you they had been born guys and you’d just grin stupidly. It always reminds me of that cartoon with the little dog following the big bulldog with the spiked collar around excitedly: “Sure, sure, Spike! You were born a dude! Sure, sure!”

So I stop the sexual torture and reach under my pillow to get the pink dildo where I’d stashed it.

It’s not there.

That’s when I notice the boyfriend, holding out the dildo, smiling.

“Looking for this?” he asks.

“Uh…well, yeah. I know you said you felt kinda weird about these things, but…”

“Oh, not anymore,” he tells  me, sheepishly. “I watched you take a shower last night. It was really hot.”

So the moral of this story is: guys will pretty much accept anything sexually, no matter what they might say. It’s all in marketing, baby. Had I known he was watching, I would have been too intimidated and shy to masturbate. But since I didn’t know he was even awake, I really got into it…which of course got HIM into it.

Of course, I couldn’t get him to try many more toys, and when we broke up he actually asked me if it was because of my new-found “friends”. I didn’t tell him this, but it actually WAS because of sex toys. Sorta.  He just wasn’t adventuresome enough for me. I’ve always been a bit shy about toys, so I needed a lover that wasn’t shy at all, someone who wasn’t intimidated about encouraging a little sexual exploration.

I could say more about my adventures with the pink penis, but I’m a dirty girl and I need a shower. Or three.

By 3Jane

Classic Girl: A Recipe for Lesbians Everywhere by khemistry
September 5, 2009, 4:19 am
Filed under: I'll Show You Mine

Once upon a time I was a Classic Girl. You know, like the Jane’s Addiction song. Never heard it? Okay, well, me and mine were brought up classic feminine stereotypes. Growing up in the Deep Down South, this means a lot of things that Classics from (say) Michigan or New Jersey may not be too familiar with. For example: I never heard the word “pussy” until I was in Middle School. But then again, I don’t remember hearing “vagina” or the decrepit-and-extra dry sounding “twat” either. Growing up Church of God means that human beings are made through Divine Will or maybe brought in by a phalanx of storks. My sex education (outside the 10th grade health classes) consisted of my Aunt handing me one of those fold-out inserts that tampon manufacturers put in each and every box of Kotex for just such an occasion—oh, and to ward off lawsuits concerning Toxic Shock Syndrome. The insert shows an almost-completely de-sexualized drawing of a woman inserting a (BRANDtm) tampon into a hairless receptacle representing (I think) her va-jay-jay. You know, her V-A-G-I-N-A. Sex Ed Part 2: I think my mother may have muttered something about not letting the boys touch my hoo-hoo at breakfast one morning. But that might have been a conversation about what I wanted packed in my lunch (as opposed to my va-jay-jay?).

Any hoo, the Church of God’s aren’t all bad people. They’re just really, really boring. We were required to wear skirts, and we weren’t supposed to cut our hair or wear make-up, though our particular preacher’s wife must have been a feminist among COG’ers. She set the tone by wearing Mary Kay make-up, thereby giving all us hoo-hoo ho’s the DIVINE RIGHT to wear (Mary Kay) make-up, too. So long as we bought it from her. She drove the Good Preacher and their sexually-repressed, closeted gay son and not-the-least-little-bit-repressed WHORE daughter (and my nemesis) to church in her pink Mary Kay Kommando Cadillac every Sunday.

In my high school, you could tell the COG’er girls (like me) because we always wore denim skirts–never (and i mean NEVER) jeans or shorts. And by skirts I do not in any way whatsoever mean skirts of the mini-persuasion. I mean long, shapeless thick denim skirts. Womanwear. 

Classic Girls are supposed to ride next to their boyfriends in their trucks. If you’re taking us to the movie’s, we don’t care what we go see. “Whatever you want,” is practically the first words we learn to speak after “Ma-Ma”, “Pa-Pa”, “Doodie” and “By Your Command.” If we have an original idea, it is our duty to convince our boyfriend it was actually HIS great idea. Folks, it’s not rocket science. Perry spelled it all out in the song. Look it up if you don’t believe me.

What happened to most of us classic COG’ers? Well, a sizable chunk of us became lesbians. AFTER we ho’ed out for a while, post-high school. We discovered our pussies (not our vaginas) and then we discovered those idiots next to us in the truck were as clueless about what to do with their “ding-dongs” as we were. Thank God!

I’m still not sure HOW (exactly) my parents managed to conceive children…with all the ding-dongs and hoo-hoo’s being consumed and all. But I’m really quite thankful they accidentally did manage to make whoopie, or whatever dumb-ass name they call…you know, scroggin’. Ye Olde Bone Dance. Etc.

Because I for one am rather fond of my hoo-hoo and plan to keep using it at every opportunity.

3Jane / author of KINKY KHEMISTRY