X S E X


Sweet To Eat by khemistry

So I have this problem, see? Like everyone else on this planet, I know. But mine is kinda freaky. And kinda vanilla. Maybe not so strange. I’m just not sure how weird I am. I mean, I was married once. Sort of. Back then a girl couldn’t marry another girl, not legally. But we had the ceremony. Both of us were lipstick lezzies. Everyone we knew said it wouldn’t last. And it didn’t. I mean, I’m not strictly speaking a lesbian. Neither was she. But I liked her pussy, and when she left she took it with her.

So what is my problem, then? Well, she did leave this little denim one-piece dress I liked a lot. It zipped up the back, slick as sin. An oh how I loved to reach behind her while we were kissing and unzip her. She was a tiny thing with curly blonde hair. Let’s call her J for the purpose of this discussion.

I don’t know why she left the dress. Maybe she just forgot it. But it was one of her favorite outfits, and she looked so sweet inside it. Like a piece of candy, all for me. And she used to wear a certain perfume. I think it was called ‘Red Door’. She left a little spray bottle of it, too.

Now I’ve had several partners since those days: two men and another woman. But no matter how serious it gets, I do this thing with the denim dress…not a lot…but every few months the feeling will get me going, right? Now, I’m basically a good girl. I write about my sex life with three other college friends. We started XSEX a long time ago, to discuss our ex-girlfriends and boyfriends. Our x-sexlife. Now none of us have really kept up with the site. My college buddy G actually did all the work building the site because I don’t like computers. But we all know the login codes and we all contribute. Until G stopped to become “serious” about a sci-fi novel. Plus, he said talking about this stuff was not “healthy”. I disagree. And it makes me horny.

And it’s been awhile since I got the urge, with the dress. So here it is: last night it just hit me like a wall. I even thought about calling J up. We’ve talked a few times. She’s married to a guy. She has video of him wearing women’s clothes and she will take care of him with a plastic dick. So I don’t know what that means. I guess he’s a freak like all of us. But I have these urges…maybe if I had a copy of the video I could make him leave. I could get into J’s panties. Because I really want to. So instead I find the old bottle of ‘Red Door’ and spray it on the denim dress. The denim dress is way out of style now. But I keep it in the bottom drawer of my dresser. With the perfume and some pictures (PG-13 or a soft R) we took on our “wedding night”.

I lay the denim dress over me, like J used to lay on top of me and we would touch each other. So now I have this physical weight, and it smells like her, and I unzip it and touch myself and remember it all. All the stuff we used to do. And in five minutes I am a wet rag, all wrung out. Breathing heavy. Wow.

I guess I need to get out more. I mean, I’m 40 years old now! I feel cheap when I do this. Once a year now. Maybe twice. And I went for about three years without it. So why do I still think about her? I don’t love her, she doesn’t love me. We’ve talked on the phone. She sent me a picture of her tits once. Still firm. “Remember when these used to be yours?” she texted me. What a bitch.

My boyfriend is home. Oh shit.

 



FUCK YOU, JAX! by khemistry
August 22, 2014, 6:18 am
Filed under: Love Letters | Tags: ,

Jaxon, you are a dickhead and here’s a bi girl who’s gonna kick the tar out of your ass! You SEE what you do to me, you ass! You bring out the Mississippi in me! I FUCKING HATE THAT PLACE! I left because they don’t believe in dancing! That’s right, ladies n gents! Dancing! Not talking about twerking and all that shite. I mean just gettin down town with Julie Brown (oops! Better be careful or I will reveal my age). My church didn’t believe in dancing. My Mom took ALL my Motley Crue (Nikki Sixx I want to sex your sixx stik) posters are BURNED THEM! I kissed a girl in front of them, got in my car and LEFT. And that’s the truth.

I like dick. I like pussy.  You call it the “c” word, or twat or vagina and I will KILL YOUR ASS.

Just WAIT until I see you with Purvis.  He won’t be able to help you anyway, he can’t half walk! So you are MINE!

HURRAH TO BISEXUALITY!!! Give me some pussy, give me some dick. Both at once.

I’m Katy Khemistry and I’m going to kick this guy’s ass. Dumb ass.



WOULD YOU SHUT UP YOUR FUCKING FUCKING? by khemistry

Now, most of the time all I do is laugh at my buddy. I mean, he’s a loveable bear that never found the right woman, so he went into hibernation, sticking his middle finger out at the rest of us as he entered his cave, retreating from our world: he’s 6’0″ (probably 6’1″ in those old combat boots he won’t throw away), he weighs about 240 and has a full head of short spiky dark brown hair and a goatee with a little gray in it. He looks like a punk intellectual–which I personally think is a good look if he knew how to pull off the outfit; he has no real fashion sense except a love of fountain pens and pocket watches and long coats.

But he focuses on things lots of aging Gen-X’ers are dealing with: years of having no affordable healthcare, highly-dysfunctional (and aging) parents, a disappointment that the world didn’t go through a zombie apocalypse, and a penchant for turning into a kind of “angry old Henry Rollins” (“Get off my fucking yard you little malformed mutants and take all those copies of ‘The Watchtower’ and stick em up…”, well you get the idea; the old man persona taken on by Gen-X’ers entering middle age is NOT pretty).
I mean, I KNOW what kind of girl he needs: 34-44 years old, unconventional, artistic, maybe a librarian. A designer of some kind, maybe. A Eurotrash heiress. Someone who likes history (he reads crap like the history of the Borgias or Simon Schama’s ‘History of Britain’–that’s his version of porn), movies (err…film, sorry G), and writing. He’s a geek, but we all are. Let your geek flag fly my friends. He was 7 when Star Wars came out, and he never forgave his Dad for not taking him to see Alien when it came out a couple years later.

Oh, and he did manage to procreate: a 20-something who never listens to a damn thing his dad tries to tell him. He did manage to imbue in the kid some appreciation for music, but apparently the kid is getting into DJ electronica, which my man calls “pure shite” even though he was the creative force behind a Nine Inch Nails-‘kinda like’ band in the 90’s.
But I still laugh at him. I can’t help it. He lives with his brother, who I think spends a lot of time online and is maybe a DJ or a party planner or a long-haul truck driver. I can never remember. They hate each other. Oh, and he ALSO lives with the aforementioned son, who has kids, and is in the middle of a divorce with one of those twenty-something girls who thinks the hippies are the pinnacle of human evolution.
So WHAT’s so funny about any of that? Sounds kinda sad, right? Borderline pathetic.
Well, his kid has started dating some Gen-Z (or are they called Millennials? I’m not sure) girl, and ALL they do is eat, fuck, and take showers. My buddy grumbles about this. Sometimes he yells “Shut the fucking fucking off!” towards the other end of the house. Sometimes he pops a Xanax and tries to ignore it.
“It’s not working!” he wailed at me yesterday.
“WHAT isn’t working?”
“The drugs. The screaming. Living in this house. My God, I can’t take all this fucking fucking anymore!”
So I’m laughing so hard I pee a little bit. I mean, I know that he’s just jealous that his kid is getting WAY more than him.

“Well, you’re just an idiot,” he fires back.  “The name of our blog is XSEX. It MEANS the lack of sex, Generation-X sex–in other words, a sexual sociological study, and it sounds cool, too, I guess.”

“Maybe it’s X-SEX like sex so hardcore that it has to have an X before the SEX…like a warning.”

“They already have that, dumbass.  X and NC-17.  I don’t know if X is a valid rating anymore, though.  And XXX was just to sell porn.”

“I was TALKING about BLOGGING.”

“I hate my life.”

“Listening to your kid have sex is that bad?”

“It’s fetid.  Like that movie ‘A Serbian Film’.  Just wrong.  I need a shower.  But I can’t TAKE a shower…wanna know WHY?”

I didn’t.

“BECAUSE THEY FUCK, FEED, and FLUSH.  Like some weird Japanese porn-toilet.  All they do is make food, have sex, and take showers.  I have got to meet someone.”

“AWESOME! It’s about time you got back on the wagon!”

“I’m hoping they might have a room.”



Giggling Teen Girls Aren’t All That by Gregory Purvis
May 1, 2010, 2:20 am
Filed under: Love Letters | Tags: , , ,

3Jane here, hiya.

So I’m reading Greg’s last post and I’m absolutely amazed at what he doesn’t say. I’m assuming because–as I mentioned the other day–our menfolk have become little whiny scaredy-cats, he just won’t say what he means. So I will.

Every swingin dick over 29 that I know wants to bang a hott young thang. Why do you think Chris Hanson’s “To Catch A Predator” series keeps getting plenty of takers? Now, I’m not equating the guys on Hanson’s sexploitation series with your average swingin dick. Obviously the guys that Hanson gets to play his reindeer games aren’t just playing out a Hanna Montana fantasy in their heads. They take it to the next level. Now, the reason I can’t stand this series is simple: these guys AREN’T being arrested for committing any REAL crime. The girls they engage in cybersex with are adults who PRETEND to be teen girls. Now, I’m not saying it isn’t creepy that these dudes show up at Hanson’s sting ready to party with who they THINK is a teen girl (or boy). But they are chasing an illusion. We’ve gotten to the point in this country where we’re arresting people for showing up at a HOUSE?? Come on! I mean, as Greg pointed out in his post, quite a large percentage of people online aren’t who they seem. I mean, take me for example. You prolly think I’m a loud mouthed fat chick who is pissed because I can’t get a date. Well, you’d be wrong. I’m a hott, 30 year old who’s pissed because she’s 30. If we start persecuting people for TYPING…well, maybe its time I become a revolutionary or something.

Let’s face it, folks…guys ALL want to bang hott teen girls. They’re mad because they didn’t do this in high school when they were practically SWIMMING in teen poon. And many of these guys are having a mid-life crisis. Why do you think you see these balding 45-year old tax attorneys with two kids and a mortgage driving around in a Trans Am blasting White Snake and trying to pick up girls on the high school volley ball team..? Oh, wait…that sounds like my dad.

But as a confirmed bi-sexsual, I can tell ya, people: giggling teen girls aren’t all that. For the very reasons Greg pointed out in his post. I’ve shagged a few in my day, and, believe me, I’d rather have a 25-year old dental hygiene tech ANY DAY. After all, teen girls aren’t in their prime, as his post suggests. Supposedly that comes later for us chicks. I dunno about that, but I can honestly say, I’d rather leave the teens to their algebra tests, dermatologist appointments, and BFF-texting.



The Pope: Sorry for the Sodomy by Gregory Purvis

The Pope has penned a pastoral letter to the long-suffering and be-buggered Catholics of Ireland. His basic thoughts: “It was wrong of the Church to bugger your children. Sorry about that. Love and Kisses, The Pope.”

I suppose if you want more of a “traditional, journalistic slant” on my interpretation, you can follow the link above and read what the BBC has to say. Or not. I’d love to regurgitate some more clergy molestation humor for you, but Father O’Hoolahan is coming over to show me what growing boys like me should know about impure “sticky thoughts”.



TXT 4 SEX by Gregory Purvis

So how desperate do you have to be to send out a “woman wanted” text message to the cell phones of strangers all across this deviant nation of ours? Pretty goddam desperate. Which carries the death penalty. 

Okay, so my friend Lucifer (Lee for short) and I are “talking” last night. Which is to say, we’re texting. This is because I communicate much freely and faster when I’m writing, and because texting is the only way I can stand to be around my cell phone for any length of time. (I despise cell phones because they enslave you, forcing you to ignore people in order to get a break from the constant demands on your attention. That’s just how I roll. Deal with it, talkers.) Lee is online and he’s using his instant messenger program to send me texts. I’m using my cell phone. Anyway, we’re talking smack about the world and bitching about our places in it (or whatever), and the subject matter slides (as it so often does) into depravity. We are, after all, a couple of old-school potty-mouths. The conversation had turned ugly because the subject matter was ugly. That’s often how these things work. I’ve just finished watching “The Stoning of Soraya M.” and I’m in a lather about religious fundamentalism. Lee hasn’t seen the movie yet, but he’s telling me about a paper he wrote for school on a similar subject, and then we start bashing the Westboro Baptist Church nazis. Lee’s good about being an equal-opportunity hater hater. I was revved up about Muslim fundamentalists, but he mixed it up and reminded me that we have plenty of home-grown fruit-cakes in these here parts as well. Which is true. Very, sad-to-say. Then I tell him about watching “Lake of Fire” (a documentary about abortion that fascinates me for some reason). One of the crazies they interview admits that he’d like to see the death penalty apply to people who say “goddam”. Talking about abortion and the death penalty led inexorably to sex, as you might imagine. I guess those topics are just naturally supersexy, right?

Actually, I think discussing movies led to me describing “Marie-Antoinette” (the 2006 Sofia Coppola film), and how the movie always makes me think of sodomy and wedding cake. Maybe sodomy ON wedding cakes. Lee suggests sodomy USING wedding cake. This is pretty much how our conversations always degenerate. So we haven’t done much more than trade a few sniggers when I get another text message–not from Lee, but from some stranger with a 281 area-code.

The text message reads: “Looking for single woman over 18. If this ain’t you then don’t answer.” How precious.

Now, I’m naturally a pretty paranoid person. And this kind of thing doesn’t help. After all, I tell Lee, he’s sending me text messages while he’s online, even though I’m texting him back from my cell phone, offline. I ask Lee if he thinks maybe this creepy guy is using some kind of advanced spybot or malware to read other people’s messaging containing certain keywords… like “sex”, for example. Maybe he’s a REAL freak, and what caught his attention was the combination of “sex”, “abortion”, “sodomy” and “wedding cake”..? Then he grabs the cell phone number these messages are going to, and voila! Creepy text message! Then Lee calmly reminds me that “sex” has got to be the most searched-engined word of all time–and a subject to which a vast majority of people online at this very instant are addicted and/or enslaved by. In other words: coincidence.

But we both agree that this freak has got to be the most sad, desperate person of all time. I tell Lee there’s just NO WAY this guy sent this message completely by random. That would make him TOO sad for words. So I text the guy back. (The possibility that this person could be a lesbian didn’t even cross my mind; no lesbian, I figure later on, could be this desperate. This is probably because lesbians in the mind’s eye of most men are all superhotties that need only our own special lovin’ to convert them back into bi-curious nymphos, but that’s really beside the point.)

I ask the guy if he just started with random cell phone numbers in a random area code and started sending out his “girl’s wanted” texts. He answers: Yep.

So this has GOT to be the most sad attempt to pick up a random sex partner in the history of sad attempts. Lee and I quickly agree that we’ve never ourselves sunk this low. Not that we haven’t ever been desperate, of course. We are, after all, men. But not THIS desperate. At best, this is a poor man’s match doctor.com. At worst, it’s…well, pretty much it IS “at worst”. But what can you really expect to get out of random text messaging? The only thing that can come out of this kind of communication is a dangerous liason with another man in a filthy public bathroom. Because you just kinda KNOW that no real woman is going to get a message from a complete stranger on her cell phone and think: “Maybe THIS is my soul mate calling, at long last.” At least, I hope not.

On the off-chance that you may believe this person to be your soul mate (at long last), please send me an email and I will provide you with his phone number.



BONE DANCE: Sex Your Way To Immortality by Gregory Purvis

Books are HEAVY. I discover this anew each time I move. Suddenly there are ten cartons of reading material that I’d convinced myself I couldn’t live without. Each weighs 50 pounds or more, and the older I get, the heavier they seem to weigh, and the more I reexamine their importance to my life. Chiropracter visits or not, I doubt I will ever learn to live without them. Yes, I know there are alternatives. Namely, digital devices like Amazon.com’s Kindle (or similar handheld iPod-type readers). Or a good old-fashioned library card. As for the electronic devices, it’s pretty simple: trade in your mouldering paperbacks and heavy-duty hardbacks for (literally) light-weight digital versions. I don’t own one of these things for the same reason I didn’t trade in my LP’s and CD’s for an iPod: there’s something missing from digital approximations. Not just the album cover art and liner notes–after all, you can download that stuff, too. But there’s a tangible reality that a mere digital file can never replicate. With books, it’s a love affair that goes deeper than words spelled out in ink on a piece of paper. In the same way that cybersex can’t replace the tangible feel of a woman, I will never be totally satisfied with digital approximations. Still…they ARE heavy, and I’m not talking about fat-bottomed girls making the rockin world go round here. So I’ve had some messy break-up’s over the years. I’ve had to reevaluate which books were important to me. Which books I am likely to revisit again and again, like a satisfying lover…and which one’s are just slutty paperback booty calls I probably won’t lay down with again unless I’m drunk and/or sitting on the toilet and need something a little heavier than an old Electronic Gamer or the morning paper.

     But among the contents of my pared-down library are a few old flings that won’t ever be kicked to the curb. First and foremost among them: Tom Robbins’ imcomparable Jitterbug Perfume. Like your first girlfriend, this novel has a special place in my heart. I’m re-reading it for the tenth (or so) time, and this first-edition sweetheart is starting to show her age. Though any review of this book–brief or lengthy, critical or descriptive–would fall far short of conveying its raw, sensual energy, one way to explain it is to share with you just how powerful the plot, insidious the imagery, and convincing the characterization has been on my life. In short, it is the most influential piece of fiction I’ve ever read, and I owe Robbins a debt I doubt I will ever be able to repay. A little over the top? Perhaps. After all, this is a man whom I last saw judging a cooking contest at a Spam Festival. And Jitterbug Perfume is a novel that features wonky characters like Priscilla The Genius Waitress (who was married to a famous South American accordian player and is searching for The Perfect Taco), Alobar (a 1000-year old chieftain from dark ages Bohemia), Marcel LeFevre (a French perfume executive who likes to wear whale masks), and Pan (the invisible but goat-odored Greek god whose turn-on’s include feta cheese, wineskins, and Nymphette sex). Even so, this book has given me solace during some pretty dark times in my life–and it has (more so than any other book) been responsible for my own love affair with words and writing. In a word, it’s a novel about immortality. Except that it’s also about lots of other things. Like following your bliss.

     Basically, the book follows the adventures of Alobar and Kudra (the Bohemian’s sexy Indian soulmate) as they run from death. And, as sex and death are in many ways inextricably linked (for example, the male orgasm has often been called “the little death”), we are told that plenty of sex is necessary for extending one’s life far beyond the normal human lifespan. The book follows Alobar (whose tribe puts their rulers to death by force-feeding them a poisoned egg at the first signs of aging) as he traipses across Europe to Hellas (Greece), where the rise of Christianity is weakening the smelly phallic power of Pan. Alobar continues east (after some Nymphette romping of his own), meeting Kudra for the first time as a small girl, horrified by the practice of suttee (in which a Hindu widow flings herself on her dead husband’s funeral pyre). Some years later, Alobar is reintroduced to Kudra in a Tibetan lamasery, where she has fled rather than submitting to suttee herself. The two become lovers, and set out to find a mysterious band of immortals known as the Bandaloop Doctors. The novel is a sensual epic, and a feast of words.

     I came across the book at the Hitching Post in Mentone, Alabama in 1985. I was 14. The Hitching Post is one of those stores that sells everything from used books to antiques. Mentone is a little mountain-top arts community, and I suspect one of the town’s more bohemian residents most have sold it to the Post’s owner in a pile of unwanted Reader’s Digests, unaware that the novel had gotten mixed in. After all, the book did not look like it had ever been read and was less than a year old at the time. However it came to be there, I regard my purchase of the novel as fate. After all, it’s not every day that one picks up (at random) a book that will change one’s life. At 14, I already knew that I wanted to be a writer. Reading this novel just made me sure of it. Throughout the years, I’ve shared the novel with several people. I’ve TRIED to share it with several more–but some people just won’t listen to good advice. It spoke to me in a language of poetry, in a dialect of vibrant and vivid words that painted bright pictures on the insides of my eyelids when I slip off to sleep. The book held such a special magic for me that I wouldn’t marry my girlfriend Jenny unless she agreed to read it. I wanted desperately for it to mean something to her the way it meant something to me. She DID make an effort to read it…but she never got through the first half of the novel. We’re now divorced. I’m not saying that her inability to “get” the book had anything to do with our marital problems. But…well, she wasn’t much of a reader, anyway. In the end, being married to a writer just wasn’t in the proverbial cards. Later, I shared the novel with Ruth Smith (aka Ruthless), the well-known dominatrix that performs with the X-rated heavy metal band, The Genitorturers. By this time, the novel’s cover was all but falling apart, and she kindly had a librarian repair it. Aside from my ex-wife and a beautiful dominatrix, I’ve shared the novel with several other people. Usually, the one’s who get through the book and take something of its magic with them are artsy people who like to create, in one way or another. Makes sense to me.

     The book lists four distinct methods for achieving immortality, each of them tied to one of the four elements: air, earth, water and fire. Air equates to special “Bandaloop breathing” exercises. This is described as both a physical act (breathing in a circular way, by taking in air through the nose and breathing out through the mouth in measured, deep rhythms), and by visualizing breathing in energy with each breath, and expelling toxins with each exhale. Earth is relative to food: the exercise here is to eat many small meals throughout the day, rather than large amounts at once. Alobar and Kudra are also eaters of beets…and this lowly red vegetable comes up again and again throughout the book. Hey, I told you it was a bit wonky. Water relates to bathing rituals. The idea is to soak in hot water, then get out of the tub for a few minutes to cool before repeating the process. Lowering the temperature of the blood is the key to this: in a hot bath, the blood comes to the surface, where it can be rapidly cooled when the bather steps out of the water. Finally: fire. Fire is sex. The Kama Sutra and a type of Tantric sex practice are mentioned…but the point is to fool your body into thinking it is young and virile (in other words, tricking the system into believing you are still in your sexual prime) by having sex on a (very) regular basis. Thus, the novel is full of sex, but not in a cheap Penthouse: Forum way. Sex is just part of the hedonistic calculus of a long and pleasurable life.  

     Now, I suppose I should admit that I often have a bit of trouble remembering that this novel is a work of fiction. I find myself breathing in that circular Bandaloop way…and I’ve a penchant for long, hot baths. Plus, now that I’m diabetic, eating many small meals throughout the day is encouraged by my doctor. And, of course, there’s the sex. I suppose I’m still searching for my Kudra. Blondes may be more fun…but dark, exotic Indian girls raise my blood pressure (in a good way).

     So is sex one of the pillars of a long, healthy life? Of course! Do you have any IDEA how many hundreds of millions of Viagra prescriptions have been filled, in the U.S. alone?  But the book brings up a point that geriatric research has wrestled with for a long time: quality vs. quantity of life. After all, what good does it do to live a long, long time if you’re miserable? The novel asks few questions, but suggests many answers. Foremost among them is to question the control mechanisms (as beat writer William Burroughs would call them) of religion and the military-industrial (or medical-industrial, perhaps) complex that seek to prepare us (through acceptance of our mortality spiritually, or sacrificing our bodies physically through violence) for the cessation of life. Robbin’s asks, instead, why we don’t deserve (and demand) the same immortality that has, historically, been attributed only to the divine (and, perhaps, to the divine right of our Emperors, Kings, popes and potentates).

     It’s a question that rings true…even in fiction.

     “Jitterbug” will likely piss you off if you’re one of the easily offended…but give it a chance. I think you’ll soon count it as one of the most memorable books you’ve ever read.