boobs a lot

Earlier this week I posted a paean to natural breasts, which was generally well received (notwithstanding a pair of surgical alteration advocates who somehow tried to turn my personal preference into a statement about society's ill will towards all women who don't look like a fashion model) - that is except for the part where I forgot to mention mouse traps (if you have to ask you haven't been reading comments) . . .

Now, everywhere I look, I see breasts!!!  I don't know if I was catching on to some kind of trend with my subconscious, or if there's just something in the air, but it seems that everywhere I look since then, I see boobs!  It turns out, they are everywhere!

First I was written by my dear friend Cherub, who thanked me for the post, saying it was a nice consolation for the constant looks her own chest seems to attract.  Since I don't have a cast of characters kind of post describing my current (or past) relationship status with the individuals I mention here, I'll just briefly mention that Cherub was a friend, play partner, and girlfriend to Blissful Torment and myself in a tempestuous relationship that lasted the better part of a decade.

With that said, I believe I can (at some small risk) editorialize about Cherub's personal endowments, and say that the glances and stares that she endures are well deserved.  Obviously, I thought she was attractive when we were lovers, and it's my opinion that she's cuter still today.  And, describing her chest, I'd choose to use that now classic Sienfeldian quote . . . "They're real, and they're spectacular."

Cherub knows it too.  Once when breaking up (I did say our relationship was tempestuous didn't I?), sitting on a secluded stairwell with a vast view over the Mississippi River and Davenport, she pulled her shirt down revealing a fancy brassiere cradling her bountiful breasts, and said to me, point blank, "I'll bet you are going to miss these."

I remember looking at her cleavage, glancing up into her eyes, then looking again at the breasts.  I replied by saying a simple, "Yeah" - and then turned back towards the river.  What the fuck else could I say?  It's not like I was could lie . . .

Moving on with my story, after responding to Cherub's note, I opened up Facebook, where I was greeted by an NPR story devoted to . . . Yes, you guessed it, Boobies!

The link on Facebook led me to an article named - Just What's Inside Those Breasts? - a troubling story on how breasts and breast milk reveal the depths of a woman's lifetime exposure to a number of man-made chemicals that are toxic, carcinogenic, and/or endocrine disruptive.  Please go read the article or (better still) listen to the associated 41 minute interview with Florence Williams, author of Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History.

Sadly, one of the nasties found concentrated in breasts and breast milk is the old villain, phthalates.  I've written about the dangers of pthalates in sex toys, as have many other sex bloggers.  When Ms Williams discusses her inability to reduce her body's load of phthalates despite adapting a vegan diet and a whole host of other lifestyle changes, I can't help myself from wondering if she's aware of, and avoiding, potential phthalate exposure from adult toys . . .

Finally, when opening up tumblr just moments ago, I found the large Boobies are Beautiful illustration that initiates this post.

Yes indeed, I'm not the only one with breasts on my mind . . .

stalker (deux)

Returning to my frightening tale of spectres and returns from the grave . . .

The story of Serafina's and my wedding, our non-honeymoon (caregiver responsibilities precluded our going away together even for a single night) and other related activities deserve their own postings, which I'll get to as time and inspiration allow.  Simply said, it was a beautiful and wonderful day, perhaps the best day of my life, if only because it cemented my relationship with Serafina.  It allowed us to get on with the pesky process of immigration, and it made legal what had been in our hearts from almost the first . . .

The important thing to tell you, my dear reader, for the development of this particular tale, is that exactly one week to the day after we were married, I got a fateful message on Facebook . . .

The note wasn't from a familiar name, at least it didn't seem to be so at first glance.  I nearly deleted the message without thought.  Then, just as I was about to trash it, I recognized the name.  It was a note from none other than my first girlfriend from back in the 1970's, the one that I'd been told was dead . . .

Balloon Head was alive!

The message I got from my former girlfriend included the first in a string of what would become a rather odd pattern of happenings and coincidences that followed my first girlfriend around like a literal shadow.  She told the story of how, on the day Serafina and I were wed, while driving along the Mississippi River with her nephew, she had noticed a sign on the side of the road with my last name.

The sign itself has it's own entertaining aside, as it had been decorated by my blushing bride.  There were several balloons attached, so yes, I must admit to you, my dear reader, that one (coincidentally) even had a "balloon head" replete with it's own artistically drawn smiley face.  All courtesy of a Sharpie pen and a bride with nervous energy.

The funny thing is, the sign announcing our wedding, was itself an afterthought; something we'd thrown together to help a couple of directionally challenged friends, hoping they'd actually find our festivities.  Without thinking, we'd also managed to include our own balloon head in the wedding.

Recognizing my name, motivated by fond remembrances of youthful times together, the lady called Balloon Head couldn't help but try to look me up.  She'd hunted for me online, found my Facebook presence (among others) and sent me the message I was currently reading.

To say that I'd made myself easy to find was an understatement.  I'd been considering a run for political office, so my website was located at the hopeful politico's classic web address - my name plus a dot-com.  I probably don't need to tell you that my site was complete with photos of myself at work and play, it's own detailed biographical page, and a number of political and patriotic writings.  There were even listings of public events and parades I planned to attend.

I only realized in retrospect that in striving to make myself the model of a trustworthy, transparent and totally available public servant, I was also creating a gigantic billboard styled advertisement for a potential stalker.  You can't draw a better road map to a person's life than the web presence of a politico in today's age of social networking.  I was seeking exposure, and believe me, I got it . . .

To say that I was surprised to her from Ms Balloon Head would be more than a little understatement, I was floored. As you might remember, for more than 30 years I'd believed her to be dead.  Somebody somewhere had some 'splainin' to do!

we are the world (to some)

bound breasts from Sex and Submission

A good friend of mine who just had a baby arrive a few days ago was talking with me about watching his newborn dream the other day.  His one great conclusion?  That his son must be dreaming about breasts!

My friend's observation surprised me a little, as he's not sexist and he's rarely heard discussing anything even remotely sexual.  But his logic was seemingly inescapable, he simply reasoned that breasts were a week old baby's entire world.  At an older age it's likely that a newborn would have other dreams, their world having enlarged to include brightly colored mobile objects dancing above their cribs and a world of other sights and sensations.  But, at a week of age or less, boobies are all they've got!

I suppose there's little wonder that some of us never outgrow our fixation with breasts, they are marvelous and beautiful objects worthy of desire and obsession.  With all of that said, it's my opinion that far too many cosmetic surgeries are done to enhance and/or alter women's breasts.

My favorite breasts on the planet are my slave/wife's, making me one hell of a lucky guy.  Her breasts aren't what a surgeon would consider perfect, but that's probably true of most every other woman out there too, plastic surgeons like to create their own versions of beauty, rather than accepting nature's.

To me (I'm not a surgeon by the way,) my Serafina's chest is not only beautiful, her breasts are perfect.  My slave/wife has had 4 children, and she's been on the planet for five full decades, so I'm sure a plastic surgeon would find things to improve.  I however, do not.

With all of that said, this post wasn't meant to be a paean to my slave's breasts, instead it is to express my personal preference for unaltered anatomy.  If you absolutely want or need cosmetic surgery on your breasts, I won't hold it against you socially or personally, but I won't hold you against me sexually.  It's just not my thing.

I endeavor to always be sex positive, that's also something I strongly encourage in Serafina.  I don't care to become onto an individual who is judgmental of other's kink or play style.  I endeavor to be an "anything goes between consenting adults" kind of fellow, accepting of other's kink even if it's not my own.

But, that doesn't mean I don't have personal preferences.

And, personally, I don't care for the telltale signs of a plastic surgeon's work.  It doesn't turn me on to see perfectly shaped breasts with a scars around the areola, rather, it has the opposite effect.

As we were splitting up, my ex had a boob reduction, and I’ll never forget her whipping them out from under the pressure bandages to show me.  I guess she thought that smaller breasts would win me back, or perhaps she was trying to taunt me with what I wasn't going to have if she left.  The thing is, she showed me while there were still bloody stitches surrounding her nipples.  I don’t believe she intended that to be the way I remember her breasts, but that image is now burned into my memory.

And, in it's own way, that's a good reminder of something I've learned about the human condition.  It's difficult (if not impossible) to choose how other's will perceive us, it's not practical to believe we can choose how other's will remember us.  And, in the end, it's not how we look that will be remembered most, it's how we act.

Looks are really important for first impressions only, and that's not reason enough to submit one's self to the surgeon's knife.  A soft mouth and a talented tongue will peak my interest far more than a pair of bee stung lips.

I openly admit those are my personal preferences, not everyone will agree that natural beauty is more attractive than the kind of physical "perfection" that can be attained through surgery, and that's ok.  Heck, it's a good thing!  I mean somebody's got to love women like my ex . . . just not me~!

Thank You! (and a close call)

I'd like to thank everyone who commented with well wishes in response to my recent post about not feeling the best.  I'd like to think that your well wishes, kind regards, and healing thoughts and prayers have made a difference, as I am feeling much better today, and can say with certainty that I am on the mend.  Thank you!

Anyone who's suffered from asthma knows that lungs don't just get better overnight, especially when they've been hit by bronchitis.  While it's true that there's still more than a little residual inflammation, I'm breathing much more freely, and I'm no longer running a fever.  With just a little time, and some help from my friend Advair, I'll be back to normal.

I'm usually very good at managing my own health.  In theory, I have Emphysema in one lobe of my lungs, but my own Doctor of 15+ years even tends to forget that fact.  It's a legacy of smoking cigarettes, but that's far in my past, I've not had a drag or a puff of tobacco smoke since 2000.  I'll probably never be a distance runner again, but normal life is absolutely unaffected, and my sexual stamina is better than ever (I think that's normal for guys in their 40's in that we might not be able to fuck 6 times a night, but we more than make up for it in staying power.)

In theory I also have Fibromyalgia, as well as degenerative disc disease in my lower back.  My darling slave/wife Serafina also suffers from those same health issues, that's a part of how we met and why we are a good match for each other.  But once again, we don't let those conditions have much effect on our lives, and their effect on our sexual desires and play are almost totally negligible.  Upon occasion, Serafina will comment about how she couldn't sustain a particular bondage pose because she's getting older, and I always respond with a laugh, and the reminder that a lot of 20 year old women can't do those extreme poses anyway.

And, in the end, it's not that important to me that Serafina be able to bend herself into the shape of a pretzel, specific poses and particular ties aren't what attracted me to bondage and BDSM anyway.  I love so many different aspects of BDSM, there are so many different things about playing with dominance and submission that excite, I'd like to think it's pretty hard to disappoint me.

I saw that Serafina also commented on a close call I had while driving earlier this week.  I encountered some kind of speed jockey who was driving in a manner that caught me by total surprise.  I was entering an interstate highway via a poorly designed old on ramp where exiting traffic and entering traffic have a short lane they share as each merges in opposite directions.

As I came around my cloverleaf, I noticed there was heavy traffic, so I prepared for quick acceleration, as there's not much space on those kind of raps to get up to highway speed.  As I came to the actual intersection, both lanes of the interstate were full, a gray Chevy in the closest lane, and a white Mustang zipping by the in far lane of the highway, apparently in the act of passing the Chevy.

The gray car signaled and exited the interstate in front of me, slowing down rapidly, I had to tap my brakes to avoid the Chevy, but then in order to merge quickly to my left, I was forced to accelerate hard, pressed forward by fast moving traffic coming from behind.  It's like this almost every day as I begin my drive home.

Just as I finished my merge, with perhaps no more than a few car lengths remaining, a white streak flashed in front of my bumper.  I'm still not sure how the car cleared my bumper, I had to get out and look for a paint mark when I got home, to make sure there wasn't some kind of incidental contact, it was really that close.  There was no time to react, my right foot was fully down on the accelerator, and by the time I'd switched to the brake, everything was already just a scene flashing in front of my eyes.

Apparently, the idiot in the white Mustang was trying to blow past the gray Chevy on his way into the off-ramp.  All I know for sure is that as soon as he cleared my bumper, the Mustang began sliding sideways, and then sliding almost backwards as it's rear end skidded across the pavement in an oversteer styled response from the driver's desperate maneuvering.

I thought for a moment that the Mustang was going to roll.  Then, I thought the Chevy was going to be unable to avoid the Mustang flashing by sideways across the ramp.  In the end, great tragedy was avoided, as the only car that appeared to be worse for wear from the incident was the Mustang, sitting in the grassy cloverleaf.  In my rear view mirror, I eventually saw him restart his car and head back onto pavement.

Photo by Serafina Samadhi- I74 Bridge over the Mississippi River

 

It all happened so fast, there wasn't even time for my heart to start racing.

feeling blech!

Please excuse the sparceness of recent postings . . .

We worked hard on home improvements over the weekend, starting the room remodel necessary to feature our Dore Alley bed in a proper setting to do it justice . . .

Unfortunately, I worked hard enough to make myself sick . . .

Because I have pretty severe asthma, I've always been prone to catching bronchitis, and today's no different.  My biggest allergy problems stem from house dust and mold, just the kind of things that tearing up old carpet will stir up and put into the air . . .

I felt progressively worse each day over the weekend, and worse still yesterday.  Simple asthma attacks, wen ignored, almost always progress to some kind of infection.  I'm running a fever and my lungs were bad enough yesterday that I required a nebulizer treatement . . .

With a deadline for the arrival of our new bed hanging over our heads, I can say with absolute certainty that this couldn't have come on at a worse time . . .

Please send well wishes and healing energy, and know that once I'm feeling just a bit better that I'll be back to complete the stories I have in progress as well as delivering yet another installment in my ongoing series about gags . . .

Michael

stalker . . .

Come close my dear reader, gather around the campfire, as I tell the haunting story of a spectre who returned from the dead to crash my wedding . . .

I'm not screwing around here either, this is no mere invented horror story, I'm deadly serious.  With Serafina as my witness, I proclaim that the events I'm about to recount did truly occur in the State of Illinois and Township of M*****, on the 23rd day in the month of July, the 2010th Year of Our Lord.

My tale actually begins much earlier, all the way back in 1978, at a small private school, where a pair of social outcasts befriended each other, eventually becoming intimate.  She'd tell you that I was her first lover, and I'd have to admit that she was my first love.  We dated for two years, attending Homecoming and Prom as a couple while underclassmen.

Standing almost equal to my 6' height, she was a tall girl, with a particularly strong oval shape to her face.  She was called "Balloon Head", a name that made me wince every time I heard it used.  I was just a poor boy at a rich kid's paradise, attending by the grace of an academic scholarship.  One of my classmates occasionally drove his Father's brand new 1979 Porsche to school, I drove my deceased Grandfather's 1966 Plymouth Fury, and was grateful for having transportation.

At the time, I didn't consider us to be sexually adventurous, and compared to what I hear and read about kids today, we'd be perhaps a bit behind the curve, perhaps not.  I know that at the age of 16 I thought about sex most every waking moment, not to mention dreaming about it at night, so it seemed rather normal to me when we'd try to always find a way to sneak off from a crowd to fool around.

I don't intend to be too graphic about our young lust, technically it's borderline kiddie porn, we were both just 16 at the time we started having sex.  But, I have to admit, the venues we found for lovemaking were unique.  I suppose it could be argued that my start with "Spiritual Sex" occurred with Balloon Head, as I did accept oral ministrations from her while inside the chapel of a Church.  Without being too sacrilegious, I'll admit that was the only part of attending Luther League I honestly enjoyed.

Being an honors student helped me evade too much of any teacher's ire when we managed to disappear on the occasional Friday afternoon, when the school had non traditional scheduling and classes.  Being "responsible" by using condoms I'd stolen from a local pharmacy was my way of showing that I cared.  Being intimate meant that she told me her "secrets" - that she suffered from leukemia, and that she was adopted.

I suppose those things bound me closer to her, I felt somehow gallant for having this tragic love for a sick girl.  I always saw her parents treating her just a little differently than her two sisters, and having a father of my own who'd been adopted, I felt very protective of my young girlfriend.  I felt betrayed when upon confiding her secrets to my parents, that they told me it wasn't true, couldn't be true, and tsk tsk'd me for being so naive and gullible.

When she stopped returning my calls, a friend told me that she'd been pressured to do so by her Mother, a seemingly hateful old crone.  The story was that her Mother knew I was planning on attending Medical School, seeing no immediate future I could offer a sick young lady, she insisted instead on her adopted daughter finding a more suitable and immediately available future mate.

Her loss hit me hard, and I was despondent for a while.  I didn't date again for several months.  Inevitably, I did move on with my life, I was married at age 18 and divorced at 21.  While going through my divorce, a school friend and I were playing basketball together, and out of the blue he brought up the topic of Balloon Head.

My friend asked me if I knew she'd passed away . . .

He explained that my classmates had been informed of her leukemia by a teacher, who knowing my feelings for the girl, choose to tell the class on a day I was absent.  He went on to say that Balloon Head had passed away during the second year of my marriage, and that no one had wanted to tell me about it around my wife.

I was stunned . . . shocked . . . I strongly felt the injustice and impermanence of life, I questioned whether there really could be a merciful God who could allow such a thing to happen to such a precious girl, a girl I felt had suffered injustice and injury with every turn.

Again, I moved on with my life, but I know the loss was felt deeply, it changed me.  For the longest time I swore it was also my destiny to live fast, die young, and leave behind a moderately good looking corpse, for there was no meaning, no justice . . .

I took refuge in backpacking, in the wilderness.  I disappeared one day myself, with nary a word to old friends, off to the Grand Canyon where I trained to become a chef.  From there it was on to become an activist, community organizer, etc.

Flock of geese on our wedding day

Eventually I meet Serafina, and we fast forward to our wedding in 2010.  We were married on an absolutely gorgeous summer day.  I swear that the day was perfect, the deep blue prairie sky overhead, my wife and I being wed along the banks of the mighty Mississippi river.  Just as the ceremony began, a nearby flock of Canadian Geese took off, skimming across the tops of the river's waves, a seeming tribute to my fair bride's Canadian heritage.  You can't script that kind of stuff, it's just something magical that happened.

The only thing that wasn't perfect was the presence of a pair of idiots on jet skis who seemed intent on watching our ceremony from the river, noisily gunning the annoying little craft's motors to fight the strong river
current . . .

(to be continued)

do it yourself

As a married man, as well as the proud Master of my darling slavegirl Serafina, I find that I do not personally have much need to masturbate. But, I'm also very much aware that not everyone is in as fortunate circumstance as I find myself . . .

For individuals with the need or inclination, May has been declared National Masturbation Month.

Enjoy!

Here at Samadhi House, May has also become a different kind of do-it-yourself month, as our schedule for the next 4 weeks is going to revolve around a home improvement project.  

Just last month, my darling slave wife completed the last details of our kitchen refurbishing and remodeling, an ongoing project we started back in January.  It's very nice to be able to finally eat our meals in a beautiful eat-in kitchen!

This month's remodeling project won't be as leisurely an endeavor, as we are tackling the room that's destined to house our Dungeon Bed.  So, there's a strict deadline for completion, as the bed's due to arrive just after Memorial Day.  

The room we're working in is 12' by 18', and it needs everything, from painting to re-flooring.  Our complete budget will go towards materials, so we've got to do it all ourselves.  While that's not an impossible task, it is a daunting one.  I'm usually not one to take on home improvement projects with a deadline looming, but this is the only room that will do the Dore Alley Bed and it's associated sling extenders proper justice.  It simply has to be ready for the bed's arrival.

With all of that in mind, our online presence this upcoming month might be a little sparse.  After all, it's May, and my hands are pretty full . . .