Angel Boy and the Purity Ball

Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby
Just call me angel of the morning angel
Then slowly turn away from me
~Angel of the Morning, Olivia Newton John


We are all impatiently waiting to fuck. Whether it’s getting the fuck out of here, or getting the fuck in there, there is almost no time to waste. I told Angel Boy he was too young and I didn’t believe in fairy tales. He asked me if I harbored resentment toward my mother, came on my bed sheets, and was out the door.

Every time I see Angel Boy, he handles me like I am hot metal, cautiously, like he is trying to avoid injury. He knows I am a hunter, I carry a sharp spear. But still, he stands next to the fire/flame and cums almost instantly before he even touches me.

Part of the reason Angel Boy cums so quickly is because he has been seriously deprived of the sex he wants and deserves. His ex-girlfriend viewed sex as an annoying chore. Angel is not an alpha who scores with a babe every Saturday night, so I recognize his need for release. In fact, I empathize whole-heartedly with his lack of lusty fucking. Yet, he holds back each time we are together and I cannot understand. I work diligently to draw out the fuck. I am like Vulcan with my hammer and blow torch laboriously shifting and shaping the fuck. I am desire’s faithful servant, chipping away at his stone.

Still, he never fully consciously releases, it’s like a wet dream, with my tits and ass playing the role of young starlet. If he is at all engaged in my personhood, it almost certainly is only an idea/ideal, which after years of developing alter egos and secret double-lives, I suppose it’s logical the only Sally he sees is a cartoon character. Yet, there are foreign territories to transverse, like my pussy. He has not yet heard the diving bell, so I wait.

Angel Boy is not a pussy-eating type of man. He is albino fresh, white as white can be, and his body is perfumed with the same steady scent each time. His crisp starched clothes and clear blue eyes indicate he would’ve been an excellent boy scout. If Angel eats pussy at all, it’s probably done out of drunk half-unconscious obligation. I know I am no special exception, but still, I don’t stop waiting.

Angel said he would fuck me in two weeks, after the purity ball. I can’t decide if he waits to fuck because he is a brainwashed Catholic who believes women are dirty, or he has a demanding work schedule. Either way, my Virgo does not fuck. I wonder if the robot was assembled incorrectly. If there is a malfunction, it happened during production (childhood) at the factory.

In this cryptic mess of gobbledy- goop, I wait for Angel to dole out some clarity. I want a clean fuck, a break from the past and a super-cosmic orgasm. But, Angel is just a boy, and his offer is subject to limitations. I understand. I do not hold his immaturity against him; he could be any man on any day.

Angel traces the lines around my face at night, and I am close to him. He doesn’t realize there is a microscope in the corner and I am closest to myself when I reach for it. I crack the code and look for signals in the dark with my magnifying glass and little note pad.

Girls, when you look at your attachments and see yourself you know you are almost home. When your sex life no longer resembles the Slaughter of the Innocents, you have almost made your way back to yourself safely. You are moving beyond the polarizing situations, male versus female, good versus evil, and innocence versus guilt. If you can see your truth, you hold the mirror, not him.

Look at the men standing next to you, girls, and consider yourself informed.

Straight from the shark’s mouth,

this is Sally Sunshine signing off.

Lesbians Who Fuck Men

“Cause nothing stands between us here
And I won't be denied” ~ Possession, Sarah McLachlan


Dear Sally Sunshine,

You are crazy.

Ok readers, I will refrain from addressing myself in the process of addressing you. It just adds extra layers to the crazy. I will, however, admit my lizard brain has been on a long sojourn, i.e. the creative force has not been with me. You’ll have to excuse me, removing the moldy structure at the crux of my existence was more difficult than anticipated.

After having my sexuality snacked on like a bag of Doritos, today, humbly I walk toward you with only one candle left burning- an empty vessel, formless but on the verge of a discovery. Lovers who’ve basked in my sexual duality (bisexuality) beware. I am wandering into the oblivion. I’m all up in your face and fucking up the game.

When I came out to my family and friends in 2002, I came out as a lesbian. I had a serious girlfriend, I was active in the LGBT community, I had been to Gay Pride and the Gay Church, I took communion with other queers, and I had gay books, movies, and crushes. I was eager to move from my hometown to step further, publicly, into my sexual identity without the threat of being “outed” professionally. I could not foresee myself being deeply in love with a man in the future.

There were some men who I slept with in the spirit of charity. I remember driving to meet Mercy Fuck Mark who was nursing some raw wounds surrounding a brutal break-up with his lady love. I took up a Venus mantle and touched him (read: screwed him) with tenderness in an attempt to release him from his tortured thoughts. My good deeds did not go unnoticed. A cute little blonde thing flirted her way right into my arms the night before I left Mercy Fuck Mark in the fetal position sucking his thumb.

If there were men, then, I did have the unfortunate habit of falling for their lady friends. Maybe it was the hug that lasted a little too long or a flushed-faced conversation that pushed me over the edge. This is not to say I haven’t enjoyed certain men and their cocks and/or companionship at different intervals in my life. Over the last few years, I have mainly been involved with men, but that wasn’t a conscious choice I made. There just simply weren’t any women in my area code that I had more than a passing interest in.

Overtime, I took to calling myself a bisexual- it seemed like the most ambiguous label given the cold stark reality of who I was fucking (both men and women). This theory of defining one’s sexual identity by gender preference at a given moment is misleading. The truth of our sexual identity is far more complex than who we go to bed with.

Within our erotic identities, we also contain emotional identities and transpersonal/political identities. There are infinite possibilities. Coincidentally, during the time of my feminist “coming of age”, my sexual desire for the same-sex intensified. Now, this is not a defense of “political” lesbians (i.e. women who only have relationships (sexual or otherwise) with other women as a form of protest against the patriarchy), but, it is an acknowledgement of the subtle nuances between the personal and the political. It might be fair to say, my politics (women’s rights) was working in tandem with my desire. Yes, one could exist without the other, but they blended quite well in the same vein. Lest we forget, still, beyond all the intellectualization, I wanted to eat pussy.

Since there are plenty of lesbians who are not feminists and have no interest in “woymn’s lib” and there are plenty of straight girls who are feminists, political lesbianism has been dubbed a thing of the past. Yet, the label still has societal relevance. When a lesbian is told by parents she must be a lesbian because she was molested by some family pervert (even if this is not true) or she has a huge load of resentment toward men in general they are invoking the old “the personal is political” view as an explanation for their daughter’s same-sex attraction. This is offensive for a number of reasons. The parents are basically not acknowledging their child’s identity. They are inferring that the child’s an eternal victim, unable to sort out their own desires or identity. This is an effective way to devalue a child’s sense of self, unless, of course, she is willing to call bullshit and has the language available to express it.

In a sense, all labels are ludicrous attempts to contain the very complex structure of personality. Because, all identities have a certain finality associated with them, we become prisoners of the stamp. The term “bisexuality” represents a valiant effort define the indefinable- a free-flowing sexuality with a willingness to experience deep feelings of love and desire for either gender.

Sally Sunshine, alone on your own little journey, who do you love? That is the question of the hour. Or, more precisely, who will you fuck?

In the words of Lisa Loeb*, “Do you fuck girls anymore? Do you fall gracefully into bed with the same sex? I don’t know and I don’t care.”

Well, maybe, that wasn’t her exact phraseology, but, world, listen up, I’m still a lesbian.

Your faithful hermit/servant,

SallyS



*Lyrics: Do You Sleep? : Lisa Loeb

Charity is a Slut

Do you think whoring comes naturally, or is it a learned behavior one cultivates over years of arduous practice? For instance, if a friend experiments with her own Threshold of Sluttiness, and has a random tryst without any expectations for future contact or relationship, would she be able to disconnect without any emotional attachment? Or, would her experiment be foiled by feelings of shame, regret, and guilt?

Many of women within my circle have marveled at Sally's ability to, as they would say, "Fuck like a man." (On a side note: what is fucking like a man? Plenty of men need an emotional attachment to fuck.) For the most part, friends are amused but remain skeptical. They are not convinced they could offer up their sexuality, or vagina, in such a laissez-faire manner. Most are protective of their sweet nectar, and, at the very least, require a verbal connection or promise of a future commitment to really seal the deal. Thus, when other women evaluate Ms. Sunshine's penchant for screwing strangers, their basic judgment involves either admiration from a distance or repulsion from a distance.

Since, we have a tendency to surround ourselves with people who support our life philosophies rather than challenge them; there aren’t many who will express outright disgust, if they love you. As a result, I’ve found admiration from a distance is far more prevalent than other reactions amongst friends.

In fact, in some cases, curious female friends have experimented with their sexuality by sloughing off tradition and fucking a stranger or two. In one situation, immediately after fucking Mr. Nameless, my friend called to report the details. Her voice was higher than normal and she sounded positively thrilled. Originally, I encouraged her, delighted by her big leap in the direction of freedom.

Unfortunately, later on when she ran into Mr. Nameless in public, her bubble burst. He avoided her until the energy grew increasingly awkward. And she, while appearing to maintain a brave front, was dismayed by his lack of interest and the festering uncomfortable silence between them.

Instantly, I recognized her remorse and felt responsible. Did I mislead my young friend? What if I touted my slut pride and deeply felt whore convictions with far too much zeal and inadvertently made whoring seem effortless and common place?

After a few shots of Captain Morgan and careful contemplation, I resigned to the fact that my friend was not on the fast track in my Master Whore Course. She was merely a dear sweet companion along for the ride on our journey toward our respective futures. Finally, I decided to gently speak to her about whoring with a wider perspective in mind. Alone in her car, I explained that although I loved being a whore and all it entails, it can be dangerous emotionally, physically, and psychically.

For instance, there is a possibility one might become ensnared in weird emotional space during the seduction process. Others may find themselves at the mercy of the whore, in love with what she represents, but unable to seize her power or claim ownership over it. Usually, the seduced becomes infatuated with the idea of "saving" the whore, in a deliberate effort to retool her psyche. The seduced may use a multitude of methods to manipulate the whore for their benefit in ways that pale in comparison to just a plain old fuck. As a whore, one’s "leg spread open" energy, is often interpreted as "open" in all other categories, inviting a whole slew of riffraff with their own agendas. Basically, whores must have top-notch boundaries, like a shield made of steel.

Whoring is also physically dangerous. What about diseases? What about abuse? Those are all valid concerns. Even if safe sex is practiced with vigor, one still leaves themselves open to a variety of "what ifs". The AIDS crisis in the 1980’s cemented this new paranoia in our minds. Notice, I do not advocate sleeping with each and every person one’s genitals happen to graze. If one is squeamish, there are other ways to be with one another erotically, for example, masturbation. Masturbating with others is a great way to avoid the messy implications of fucking in a post-AIDS society while getting your rocks off at the same time.

Lastly, psychically whores must raise the shield, not only collectively, but interpersonally. Because sluts are embracing a traditionally negative label, they must be ready to withstand and flourish under the hateful stare of conservatives, religion, and in general, society.

My ability to detach and give myself in deep surrender to the collective was not harvested over night. The lessons I learned fucking random strangers as a young Lolita have come to fruition, and now I navigate the rocky slut terrain with expertise. But it was not always this way. Sally Sunshine has had her moments of weakness on her knees alone on the floor with a bottle of bourbon and a mascara-smudged face. Yet, still I come back to the thrill. The thrill of another’s hands running down my body, hot with the freshness of exploring another crevice. I still yearn for the seduction, the powerful art of attraction and the wet drip between my legs.

Yours in genuine pursuit of pleasure,

kiss kiss,

S.S.

The Legend of Sleepy Whore Hollow

It no secret, Sally Sunshine has been severely impoverished in the casual sex department lately. Friends are, understandably, confused. Miffed in the extreme, Sally’s girls are wondering, is Sally the same slut we knew months ago? Did our wayward diva completely fall of the Fucking Map? Or has she been slowly withering away in the midst of a Sahara desert dry spell?

Well, rest assured, dear ones, I've not. However, I have found, being "out of the closet" (i.e. identified) as a woman with a loose moral compass has not helped score any new ass. Old ass, conversely, has been very adamant in expressing their desire for second helpings. Ex-boyfriends/girlfriends, prior fuck buddies, and one-night oopsies have besieged Sally with requests for more, which is, naturally, flattering. At the same time, it's very difficult to conquer new territory while the same smelly old diaper of the past is wafting in the wind.

Still, there has been a few mounting prospects. Captain T of the United States Air Force and Mr. M&M, who is twenty some years older than yours truly, are currently in hot pursuit. Yet, I find myself oddly engrossed in the past. Killer K calls and I immediately drop the new one for the old one. The old one fits like a comfortable leather shoe, supportive and predictable. I know if KK drops by, the next morning bruises will form because my poor perineum will be slammed with incredible force. Sure, I'll have trouble walking the next day and possibly a little rectal bleeding, but hell, at least I know where we stand and there is no need to play the "pretend I'm a virgin game".

The problem is, over the last year or so, I've developed zero tolerance for the traditional mating tap dance. Instead, I am prone to hitting others hard & fast with my truth. For example, last weekend, a friend introduced me as, "Sally Sunshine, sex writer", while fascinated blubbering fool collected his thoughts. After composing himself, we continued on to "talk shop" as I launched into a rousing theatrical performance called "Cocks of the Zodiac." Thrilling as it was, Mr. B.F. was not impressed.

Or, in the words of a sweet-pie Libra boy I know, after I spit a mouthful of ice at an unruly buffoon, "You're kind of tough, aren't you?"

Perhaps.

Perhaps I have become, over the years, a hardened she-monster ravaging slut bitch seven-headed Medusa. I have been told the way I pin the hair on the top of my head resembles horns and my eyes spew forth a destructive wish. Put succinctly, rage coats my aura and produces the unmistakable scent of "not one to fuck with."

Just call me Hillary Clinton.

Or not.

I can't stand her attitude. Although she carries herself with an air of absolute authority, if you look down far enough in her moldy Scorpio hole, she sees herself as a victim who's entitled. And, because of her suffering, she is entitled to the throne and the steam roller she uses to flatten opposition. This warrior stance, although a necessary evil in battle, is not entirely conducive to maintaining relationships in the civilized world.

Even so, admittedly, I am a big fan of breaking out the beast. Let's get primitive and plunge a sharpened claw into some virgin skin, now. It is at this point, I strongly identify with the plight of the caveman, or, just your average beastly upright man. Unsurprisingly, women and young female children/adolescents are strictly socialized and monitored to weed out any traces of a base animal behavior. We are taught to feel shame about our basic bodily functions, and, during puberty, our sexual proclivities. Young women are forced to enter the world of social niceties, manicures, and Pampered Chef Parties. Young men, on the other hand, at least get to wrestle around in mud for a few more years before they become "respectable" citizens.

Thus, when Sally Sunshine, mud-dwelling monster, is confronted with fake perfumed hypocritical shit- in female OR male form, it's nearly impossible to wipe the sneer from my contorted Medusa face. The fact is, although it's becoming increasingly difficult to find men who are open to truth and a deep willingness to explore, I haven't given up faith. I know there are some brave souls out there who get it. And, I know there are some standing at the cliff who are ready to jump off and get it.

In the meantime, please hurry. My bed is oh-so very lonely.

Yours in total whoriffic commitment,

Sally Sun

New Age Fucking

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Bisexual Barnyard Classics

“Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles
proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.”
-The Colossus, Sylvia Plath

From sea to shining sea, mis-education and misrepresentation regarding bisexuality permeates across the land. The ignorance encountered daily could leave one’s heading spinning for weeks. From trite expressions of support from men- those drooling fools! - to predictable attention-seeking kisses from straight girls, bisexuality is routinely misunderstood.

However, because of its infiltration in popular culture, bisexuals no longer shock, amaze, or even perplex the most conservative person anymore. Many examples of canned pop culture bisexuality exist in modern day media presentations. So, when “A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila”, premiered this fall I was interested to see how society, at large, would react. Tila, a bisexual wild child, started the show with sixteen men and women, who were seeking a “shot at love.”


Tila gives granny a lap dance, Episode 8.

Tila, a sexy Scorpio vixen, charms her way into each person’s heart, but must eliminate a contestant each week until only one remains, the one who win’s her heart. Ironically, there aren’t any other “bisexuals” on the show. It’s lesbians against the straight boys and Tila’s the bi prize.

But, as we know from Alfred Kinsey’s published research, the majority of people are not strictly hetero or homo. Kinsey’s point is demonstrated on the second episode when lesbian Rebecca has “naughty relations” with straight boy Steven. Rebecca is sent packing and Steven remains after Tila finds out, which, my friends, is also very interesting.

Rebecca is viewed as a traitor while sheepish Steven is forgiven. The reasoning being, what guy wouldn’t try to bang the hot lesbian chick lying next to him? Hell, if she’s offering! The hot lesbian, on the other hand, has declared her sexuality, signed it in stone, so, fraternizing with the male species is forbidden. I suffered a similar fate when, out and proud, I announced to my girlfriend of two years that I would be fucking men again. Then, my girlfriend and the lesbian community shouted, in traitorous rage, “Off with her head!” and shunned poor Sally.

Conversely, our culture also emphasizes the glamour, sexiness, and popularity of bisexuality, as long as a careful eye on male approval is maintained. For example, compare the two sets of song lyrics below. The first set belongs to big time playa and rapper, T-Pain.

“My girl gotta girlfriend
I just found out but its aight
Long as i can be wit her too
My girl gotta girlfriend
It really is not a problem
Cuz imma make it do what it do
Cuz havin 2 chicks is better than no chicks
I'd rather just join in
Keep my girl and keep the other one too”

The first time my friend had me listen to this song at the gym, I almost threw up on the treadmill beneath me. T-Pain is free to join in anytime with Sally and another woman as long as I get first crack at his ass. In contrast, compare the lovely lyrical stylings of bisexual singer-songwriter, Ani DiFranco.

“He looks me up and down
like he knows what time it is
like he's got my number
like he thinks it's his
he says,
call me, Miss DiFranco,
if there's anything I can do
I say,
It's Mr. DiFranco to you.”

Obviously, there are conflicting views in our society regarding bisexuality. Men would like to politely remind us that there are rules, constraints, and dicks to consider. Girls, do not forget about the dicks!

Rule #1- Only women are allowed to show excessive affection toward their girl friends. Men, on the other hand, must remain stoic in their interactions with other men.

Rule #2- Men control the vast Empire of Female Ass. If a man wants a threesome with his girlfriend, another woman will be solicited, pending his approval.

Rule #3- Women must include men in all their sexual exploits with other women.

Rule #4- Cock is still the main star. Men are allowed to watch, intervene, and fuck either partner at will.

It’s under these predetermined societal conditions women must discover and nurture their sexuality. And we wonder why the inhabitants of our society are sick. We may also wonder why female sexuality must cater to male satisfaction. Sadly, in a system where men hold most of the resources, power, and the power of approval, women will always be poor. As women, we must consciously work to break free from this desperate need for male approval.

Frustrating “fake bi girls”, then, are just another natural sickness of the current system. These “fake bi girls” vie for male attention by pretending to fuck other women, but only in public, when men are watching. This is a very disappointing development because, in the past, bi/lesbian women could truly be counted on to eat pussy- with gusto. Now, Sally must field random advances from seemingly straight women. These naughty little teases, who have no interest in bringing it down South, make out with Sally in front of curious on-lookers, but disappear when the lights go down. I have no problem with bi-curious women, if you are, indeed, bi-curious. Unfortunately, some these women get a high from piggy-backing off of Sally’s sexual energy. Physically, my body loves each and every one of those playful attention-seeking straight girls, but, my mind is telling me, Sally, be careful.

Nobody wants to deal with a salty blue balls Sally.

Happy Friday, y’all. Peace and Love to my bisexual freaks. ~ Sal.

Ego Games & the Affect on Sex

“if we were our bodies
if we were our futures
if we were our defenses
if we were our culture
if we were our leaders
if we were our denials
I’d be joining you”

-Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie, Alanis Morissette

The other day, as my lover pounded my ass, he informed me that I, Sally Sunshine, have fallen victim to one of the Seven Deadly’s. Excessive Pride. In his opinion, my sinful narcissism was interfering with my listening skills and respect for him as an individual. Flabbergasted, I pulled back and demanded an explanation. He gently removed himself from my hind quarters, and attempted to shave off some of my inflated ego.

According to him, I have an unfortunate habit proclaiming my slut status loudly in mixed company. The guy, predictably, corrects me in public and frowns disapprovingly every time I utter a profane word. Evidently, Sally’s “I’ll do what I want, when I want” attitude has offended him in epic portions. When confronted about my total lack of disregard for social convention, I dismissed it and continued on with my behavior. He used this example to demonstrate how my “excessive pride” was hindering our interactions and any hope for future liaisons.

Now, even if my new lover’s head is inserted in his ass, being prone to belly button examination, I decided to investigate my relationship to ego and pride. Is my ego over compensating for another inadequacy? Am I using my proud stance on sluttiness as purely an ego tool or am I a honest to God slut?

My eagerness to question myself was compounded after a strange experience with a different lover early last week. I found this other lover at the local tavern during Thanksgiving break. A spirited-ballsy Leo, this dude began his formal “how do you do” by throwing a belt around my neck, tightening it up, and pulling me close for a big sloppy kiss. Now, Sally isn’t often overtaken with such brazen force, so, understandably, I was surprised. And sold. I departed with him to an undisclosed location about twenty minutes later.

Upon arrival, I discovered my feelings for my spirited Leo had shifted. He immediately started bragging about how much money his family had, and then, his own materialistic success coupled with his aptitude for nailing bitches. I stifled a yawn, hoping he would at least shut up so I could enjoy the belt without any distractions.

He had stated his intentions to dominate earlier, but I knew I wouldn’t hand over control that easily. When we finally made it to the bedroom, the psychological dynamic was competitive and ego-ridden. Both of us were trying to “one up” the other, in order to be recognized as the most fancy free freak of the pair. Like two lions perched on our thrones, neither one of us were budging to crawl down. Oddly enough, in reality, neither one of us were dominating, our egos, or false selves were instead.

Frustrated, I marched my half-naked ass out of the bedroom to collect my things. Here was my chance to have the sex I really wanted with a perfect stranger and I was throwing it away because of an abundance of ego energy. My spirited Leo, a bit deflated, pleaded with me not to go. Then, he asked an outrageous question. Was my sluttiness just an act, or was I the real deal?

Readers, imagine my disgust. I was offended. Me, not slutty? Sir, I beg your pardon! I quickly responded with my favorite whore-riffic fantasy and relayed all the gory details. Suddenly, my Leo was “filled with the spirit”, and was ready for action. He kindly responded with a sexy secret of his own, and finally, my pussy was wet too. After we discarded any fake pretenses, we ravished each other like lions, barely aware of the throne we jumped down from, but nonetheless, thankful for the renewed burst of psychic energy.

I left my exhausted Leo at 5:30 am, sleeping soundly in his jungle-themed bedroom, to lick his wounds. I also had wounds of my own to consider. Undeniably, I am a first rate slut, but I’ve used my promiscuity as a shield. This shield has been hoisted up against my heart for a long time and it’s served its purpose. However, as I begin to unravel the many layers of my “false self”, I’ve realized ego and pride have no place in the bedroom. And, since what happens in the bedroom is a metaphor for life, ego and pride, when taken to the extreme, will destroy any shot at happiness in life.

False pride, along with fake interactions, and bullshit posturing belongs in the trash can with all the other garbage. I know it’s easier said than done, but, I’m hauling my over-flowing trash bag to the dumpster tonight.

Will you?

Sally Sunshine

Mergers & Acquisitions: The High Price

As I’m pounding out miles on the treadmill at 5:45 am, I often reminisce about how delicious sex is when it’s the kind I want. Yet, when I compare the scrumptious fucks to the many worthless fucks I’ve had, my strides get longer, harder, and meaner. As I clench my teeth, visions of wet bodies snapping on and off of each other carry my legs through the air. And, I ask myslef, is the sex I actually want to have an unattainable dream, or is it just different than before?

Years ago, Mr. Meathead and I would spend hours fucking in dirty post-gym clothes. We’d work ourselves into a frenzy, grab at each other with malice, and anger fuck into complete oblivion. Typical and acceptable expressions of affection between us included throwing each other into walls and slamming an open throat down on a perched cock or protruding pussy. Delicate, we most certainly were not, and, at the time, our stamina-filled sessions were satisfying.

Sex, like working out or playing sports, can be experienced as a strictly physical act. But, a simple physical act isn’t always good enough. Now, I cherish a good old fashion anger fuck as much as the next girl. But, let’s not neglect the fact, sometimes we need the stable presence of a kindred spirit- toes touching, naked bodies trembling next to each other, hearts pounding out of our chest- to create some orgasmic surrender with. Most people, unfortunately, only associate soul merging sex with a monogamous relationship. After years of cultivating a loving supportive partnership, one is finally ready for true intimacy. Or, in the absence of a secure foundation, strings are attached. When and if the soul merging occurs, the thought of losing the other after it is too overwhelming, so people get clingy. At this point, most of us, in some shape or form, “Get Owned.”

Ownership, then, is the struggle to possess the “other” when our pussy is not stuffed with their cock, or their cock is not nestled in our pussy. (Lesbian & Gay folk- stick with me.) For the ladies, after your guy cums, his cock still inside of you, have you ever wished it could stay forever? Same goes for the guys, have you ever wanted to find a long-term parking spot between her legs and rest? I’ve had the urge. In fact, I’ve told ex-lovers, “Don’t move, I want you to stay here forever”, while I basked in the glow of the merge.

Ownership, unfortunately, exacts a high price on soul expanding orgasmic fun, which is what stops a lot of us from pulling out the little black book on those lonely nights. (Hello Sleepless in Seattle!) Plus, to complicate matters further, soul mergers don’t happen on a superficial level.

I can call Bob over to stick it in, which, in the business world, is tantamount to an acquisition. He acquires my pussy, but afterwards my pussy, as a separate entity, is discarded and forgotten. A merger, in contrast, has a completely different energy attached to it. In the event of a merger, two separate entities join forces to experience each other deeply and form a more versatile stronger entity.

Personally, I find myself teetering back and forth between acquiring and merging. Simple ho-hum fucks are lovely when we’re not in the mood to think or feel- when we're in a “doing” mode. Mergers, on the other hand, introduce the world of art, creativity, and psychic connections into our sexual landscape. And, even though it pains me to admit it, there are times when I crave a soul connection. Today I can say (although tomorrow it could change!) with sincerity, I would welcome it.

I feel uneasy admitting it- like I am implying I desire a relationship. This, however, is not the case, at least not in a traditional sense. I want a soul-on-soul sex merger without any claims of ownership or control. I want the same person who fucks me lovingly to also watch strangers fuck me brutally. And, I want to move beyond the trite definitions of love we’ve all been forced to swallow into a more satisfying experience for all.

Let’s work on manifesting the dream this week. The sex we really want is just around the corner.

Yours truly, Sally.

Whore Manifesto

We wish you a whorey Christmas ..
…..and a fuck-filled New Year!

Read the story below found on yahoo.com yesterday as one of their "featured" articles:

SYDNEY (AFP) - "Santas in Australia's largest city have been told not to use Father Christmas's traditional "ho ho ho" greeting because it may be offensive to women, it was reported Thursday.
Sydney's Santa Clauses have instead been instructed to say "ha ha ha" instead, the Daily Telegraph reported.
One disgruntled Santa told the newspaper a recruitment firm warned him not to use "ho ho ho" because it could frighten children and was too close to "ho", a US slang term for prostitute.
"Gimme a break," said Julie Gale, who runs the campaign against sexualising children called Kids Free 2B Kids.
"We are talking about little kids who do not understand that "ho, ho, ho" has any other connotation and nor should they," she told the Telegraph.
"Leave Santa alone."
A local spokesman for the US-based Westaff recruitment firm said it was "misleading" to say the company had banned Santa's traditional greeting and it was being left up to the discretion of the individual Santa himself."

This article reeks of sanctimonious shit.

Can you smell it?

Poor women, we wouldn't want to subject your delicate ears to such a distasteful word. Oh, the horror! Whores everywhere! What will we do? And how will we protect the defenseless little children from this assault of slutty nouns?

Forget about the kids for a minute, and let's just consider that this article was written for adults by an adult. And, the actual reason for stopping these naughty Santa's from saying "ho" was done in the spirit of "not offending" us sensitive women folk.

First of all, ladies and gents, since I have no experience in the paid sex-work category, I am speaking from a strictly free pussy stance. I'm not, however, discounting the work paid sex-workers do. They certainly have filled a necessary niche in the market place. Someone pays, they fuck, they suck...whatever. I'm the last one to judge. Get your dollar dollar bills, girls. Again, to clarify, I am not speaking to those who are trafficked/sold into prostitution either , or those who want to leave the sex industry- this a different topic altogether.)

Now that we've cleared that up, this Free Whore has two words for all the whore-haters.

Slut Pride.

When Margret Cho first coined the term during her stand up act, I was floored. She said, "At first I wondered.. am I gay, am I straight? And, then I realized, no, I'm just slutty. Where's my parade?"

I laughed so hard I cried when I heard it. Indeed, Margret, slut pride.

Even so, upon slut admission, many naïve women and "concerned" men will pull the “don't you have any self-respect--- don't you love yourself?" card. What the naysayer's don't realize is I do love myself. In fact, I love myself too much to fall for the lie.

The Big Lie.

The Big Lie forces women to pick a side. Virgins versus Whores. Good girls versus Bad Girls. I believe Tori Amos also used the term "the split of the two Mary's" (i.e. Mary Magdalene versus Mother Mary). The nature of the split is ancient and deep.

The split exists in society and within each individual woman’s psyche. This system was designed to reduce women’s power as a whole by dividing us into separate camps. Women, in essence, must heal this polarization and rescue and recover both images of the mother and the whore from the collective. I have been working diligently at this during my adult life. Part of my teenage years were spent as a secondary mother to my little sisters, and the other part as a carefree slut. Can anyone imagine Sally in a maternal role? It’s difficult, I know, but that hypocritical Moon in Cancer at the top of my chart says otherwise. I’m capable of embodying both roles simultaneously, and I am very blessed in that regard. Are you?

If you aren’t, it could be because you’ve given too much attention to one side of the spectrum. Now, I admit, I’m a little heavy on the whore side. I love whores. A whore won’t judge you and she’d give you the shirt off of her back (both literally and metaphorically). Courtney Love, a whore, mother, and Sun in Cancer, is a perfect example. I’d be honored to hang with Courtney, minus the heroin, of course.

So, what does society gain from the spilt?

Women are supposed to put another's satisfaction and comfort above their own. Women are also trained to be the primary care givers, the nurturing presence. This was no accident, my friends. The system placed women in a position of servitude with little reward and told us we should be thankful for it. And, they sold us Cinderella stories in a neat forever-after package to seal the deal. Those who will not conform to the "Mother Mary" role risk being labeled a big Mary Magdalene Whore. Then, violators are punished accordingly. Since whores always "deserve it" and get almost no protection or acceptance from society or the legal system, they are forced to go it alone.

It is in this space, in holding the very unpopular position as an underdog with women and men alike, whores must gain self-love, acceptance, and strength, in spite of the cruel judgments of others. Whores (paid or unpaid) are human beings. We love, we cry, we carry on like the rest of you, but we are able to be sluts and embrace it because we love ourselves enough. We intuitively understand other women need our love and acceptance too, and, it is through our example that others are able to get free.

And, that, my dears, is one of the most important lesson's in life...love will set you free.

Sprinkling love everywhere,

Ho, Ho, Ho

~Sal.

Equality & Male Desire

Pigs and Science
by Mike Dubisch

Some men stand at the edge, look out over the horizon,
silently wish for more, but never go for it. By the
time they get to be adults the spirit of adventure and
curiosity from their youth has been eroded. These men
have repressed and trapped themselves in a life that’s
void of desire- a hole which could possibly take at
least two more lifetimes to work their way out of.

As a woman who’s stood at the end of the edge and
jumped, I find myself in the role of an initiator.
Men come to me because they need the animal within
them released. And, they need to replace shame and
guilt with a new model of acceptance.

In my richest fantasy, my lover and I would be like
sculptors, carving each other out of the stone,
working tirelessly and losing ourselves in the detail.
Standing naked together in the light, we’d examine our
bodies and take pleasure in each and every curve.

My Scorpio, however, got very uncomfortable when I
caressed his body the other night in this manner. When
my mouth lingered at his hips and I cupped his ass in
my hands, he sensed he was being seduced by his equal.
He knows it, and I know it. I touched him, not with
anger in hyper masculine form or in the softness of
the eternal feminine, but with the delicacy of an
equal, one human to another, appreciating and honoring
his body.

Although most would be hard pressed to admit it, men
need this healing touch, badly. To date, many men
have fallen down in front of the Temple of Sally to
touch my body like I was a Goddess- and it feels
fucking amazing. Why wouldn’t men need this too?

Men fear surrendering their masculinity. And, in
truth, I probably haven’t been completely honest about
my intentions either. I told bashful Leo my favorite
sound was his knees hitting the ground. Statements
like these make Sally sound like a real ball crusher
instead of a ball sucker. There is also an element of
trust involved, which, I assume will be a difficult
bridge for my Scorpio and I to cross. His jealously
is activated each time I even mention another man or
woman, so, emptying out the contents of his psyche in
front me really isn’t an option...yet.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure I have what it takes
to nurture the type of relationship his surrender
would demand. Scorpio boy and I, if given
enough time, trust, and confidence in one another
could definitely move mountains with our lust, but as
it stands now, there is no foundation. The only
comfortable energy between us is quick, hard, and
completely physical. No talking, no touching, only
fucking. Tell me, when will there be drinking?

~Sally S.

Rectal Ruminations

Today, someone alerted me that the tail light on my car is out. So, in this strange and often synchronous universe, I’ve also begun to suspect something is wrong with my ass. It’s been a little itchy and well, to put it plainly, bloody. That’s right, folks, Sally’s got a bad case of rectal bleeding. Now, I should make it clear, it’s not a lot of blood, but it’s enough to cause a re-evaluation of the joys of anal sex.

Sally has been a supporter and willing participant of ass play since day one. However, over the years, I have determined there are simply some men who should not fuck anyone in the ass, ever. Men who aren’t trained in Assology 101 should not run around sticking it where the sun don’t shine. Butt *ahem* But, the problem is, I run into ass novices with starling frequency. And unfortunately, with ass play, it’s often a “learn as you go” experience. Parents don’t sit down with their curious teenagers to discuss ass. It just doesn’t happen. In fact, I don’t remember talking about the “how to” aspect of anal sex once with friends either, which is odd because we talked about everything else.

Thus, when I started experimenting with anal sex with my boyfriend when I was twenty, I was still pretty ignorant. We both wanted to go that route, but were unsure of how to proceed with it. We never used lube, sex toys, and god forbid the day we’d be forced to say the word “anal” to each other. Yet, there were days when his hard cock pushed up against my ass for hours teasing it slightly and grazing it ever so lightly. My boyfriend, a naughty Libra/Scorpio cusp-er, was too nice to admit it, but I knew he wanted to fuck me there. Hell, even I had grown tired of the grazing game. I knew it was time. But sadly, we parted ways without fully experiencing the intensity of our longing.

My most memorable experience with anal sex happened only a few years ago. Ron* was a sexy farmer with a body from hell and the face of a god. Still, to this day, when I see him my pussy buzzes with yummy. Farmer Ron also had a healthy scattering of planets in the 8th house and a lovely uncircumcised penis. I was sold. Anal sex it was. So, one fateful evening after a long night of drinking and debauchery, he grabbed my ass and told me to spread ‘em. Having been educated on the virtues of lube during my lesbian days, I reached for the KY and my favorite vibrator immediately.

Fuck me, Farmer boy, please fuck me.

Because of the massive quantity of lube I applied, he slid in effortlessly. Also, the steady vibration on my clit had increased my pleasure tenfold to the point where I had to stop. I didn’t want to cum that soon. After about ten minutes of ass heaven, he switched holes- without so much as a warning. Readers, I was livid. Farmer Ron had just violated the first rule of Ass Fucking Courtesy. Do not, under any circumstance, switch holes without washing the cock in question or applying a new condom. Two days later, I had the worst yeast infection ever and was formulating a plan to terminate his life. Ladies, mark my words, men who do not honor or understand this simple Hole Rule should be avoided at all costs. Farmer Ron lost all future rights to my ass after that night.

My anal experiences after Farmer Ron were, thankfully, quite pleasing until recently. Last week, another naughty Scorpio fucked my ass with no lube. Now, keep in mind, I could’ve stopped him and asked for the lube, so it’s partly my fault. But, I was horny and wanted to feel some pain. I told him to pull back on my hair, wrap it around his fist, and slam my head into the headboard. Scorpio boy eagerly pulled my hair at the root and slammed his cock into me. I was, in that moment, enjoying the inherent forbidden quality of ass fucking while gobbling up the pain in large doses. My pleasure receptors were flashing off the map. Eventually, and much too quickly, in my opinion, he came. His warm liquid stained my back and sheets beneath us as we both moaned in release.

Scorpio boy gave me a good run for my money in the pleasure department, but I was unprepared for the consequences that followed. My ass ached for days afterward, plus, the bleeding. But, it’s a little late to cry over spilled milk (torn assholes), so I will accept my ass bleeding fate like a champ. I did, after all, have anal sex with no lube and even asked him to “fuck my ass harder”, which, in retrospect, was probably not the wisest request.

The reality is, when anal sex is performed correctly, it should not be intensely painful and your ass should not bleed. Anal sex can be very enjoyable, if these basic rules are followed:

Rule 1: No ass fucking without lubrication. Please apply generously.

Rule 2: Toys aren’t required for the job, but extra pleasure is double the fun.

Rule 3: Hole Switching is not permitted unless all hygiene interests are protected.

Evidently, Sally Sunshine failed Assology 101 and could probably use a refresher course, along with a new tail light.

Yours in unified pursuit of healthy ass, Sally S.

**artist: Thinking Nude, State I: by Roy Lichtenstein

Speaking of artists: The lovely talented Eric Francis of Planet Waves had this to say about the recent strike of the Writers Guild of America.

"A note of solidarity: As a member of two writers' unions (the National Union of Journalists of the UK and the National Writers Union of the United States) I would like to express my solidarity with the Writers Guild of America, whose members are on strike. Writers work hard, and most of us have to work longer than it takes to go to medical school followed by law school before we earn a living wage. In particular, the writers want a bigger piece of new media: iPods, the Internet, and whatever is to come. I am all for that. Writers are the people who make you laugh, the people who make you think, and the ones who show you the world beyond your mother's garden."

Eric is a 100% correct. Writers work incredibly hard to produce meaningful inspiring content for their readers with, in most cases, very little appreciation, monetarily or otherwise. Eric is a writer and astrologer who has tirelessly shared his gift with the world over and over again. If you have not subscribed to Planet Waves yet, you are missing out. Do so today.

Love you all, Sally S.

Mistress Power

Mistress Maybe: Clive James

“Is that your wife
your girlfriend
or just your main bitch?”*

Imagine a bunch of frat boys standing around high-fiving each other while they stroke egos. Visualize them recounting one of their random exploits. Then, witness as a witty member of their whore-hating posse declares with a clever smile, “Guys, you can’t turn a ho into a housewife" and the maniacal laughter that follows.

Their intelligent phraseology is meant to insult women of a morally bereft disposition while they wipe their ass clean of any responsibility for the encounter. But what these poor misguided frat boys don’t realize is most whores would rather choke on a fully erect cock than be their one and only, or hell, even just their “main bitch.” Erroneously, they assume every woman wishes to inhabit girlfriend/wife territory.

Well, gee girls, aren’t I a lucky duck? He picked me!

Unfortunately, now I’ve got another job (i.e. the care and feeding of a bottomless pit). Men have been programmed to expect the servant feminine because their mothers either engrained an attitude of entitlement in their psyches, or because of a lack of nourishment in their primary bond. Emotional vampirism runs at full throttle for those men who assign all of their emotional development to their partner. They want to be fed, nurtured, comforted, and consoled- constantly.

It’s not a surprise, then, why one would gladly pawn off this responsibility on another woman. Who wants to (metaphorically) wash socks all day? As appealing as it sounds, some women instinctively understand this is not a position of power. Not only does one lose value sexually, the interest factor is reduced considerably. Nobody wants to bang the maid, although, modern day Cinderella stories would like to convince us (women) otherwise. Realistic sluts, on the other hand, understand the maid/servant is the most unnoticed, under-appreciated, powerless woman in the tribe. So, she would rather slip into the less demanding of the two roles- the mistress.

There are people in the world, like mistresses, who defy tradition. They challenge society’s notions about love, sex, and relating. Mistresses embrace another brand of “being”. However, it wasn’t always so. Mistresses of the past were used as concubines, still dependent on the support of their lover. The unspoken agreement was, “I’ve got my normal life/wife, but she bores me and I’d like to fuck you.” The mistress accepted the offer under the conditions that financial support would be provided, but no emotional support. Unfortunately, the mistress’s survival was still hinged upon the male dollar (power).

Fast forward a few hundred years, and now, women are beginning to recognize the Cinderella story is a big fucking lie. Additionally, there is no need to barter our security for sex anymore, if you’ve got a little ambition and aren’t afraid of some hard work. However, there is a particular Brand of Pathetic out there who falls into the mistress role expecting her fellow will eventually ditch the old model and upgrade. But this, my friends, is a gross misuse of mistress power.

“Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.”

Mistresses who embrace power know they have it when the illusion is sparkly. When the glitter fades they are nothing more than a girlfriend in waiting. And, since “girlfriend in waiting” is almost as desperate as a “bride in waiting”, one needs to guard against the onset of reality.

Mistresses are able to maintain their air of mystery and intrigue precisely because they have no desire for love in the mundane. They allow their lover to escape from the heaviness of their primary bond to a “wonderful land of make believe.” The mistress guides her lover into a new state of fluidity. Lovers lose themselves in a sea of passion and release, while idealistic fantasies about fusion and unconditional love are exchanged without expectations.

Any savvy mistress knows, internally, she has the upper hand. He will return to his regular life craving her body, her scent, and her lips. He will dream of her, unable to capture the beauty of the bond during normal waking hours. But, who will wash the floors? Who will scrub the dishes clean? Who will care for the children? And, most importantly, who will deal with his moods, temper, smelly feet, and long-winded repetitive speeches about nothing? She will!

The mistress is not expected to assist with maintaining a functional reality, and really, why would she want to? Reality is a cruel taskmaster and isn’t compatible with beautiful visions of adoration. As long as the mistress harbors no illusions about the bond, she is able to freely fuck as she chooses.

Fuck me, put your pants back on and kindly leave, sir.

As most of you are aware, Sally is one bitch who enjoys a good power play. Thus, the mistress role fits like glove. Even if the dude has no other woman he’s fucking, living with, or married to, one can still create the dynamics of a naughty mistress-like tryst. It’s not terribly hard to do. Men have Prince Charming fantasies of their own and will eagerly fall off the edge of the Earth with you for a few hours. It’s very important, however, to quickly pull back afterwards. A smart mistress understands human reflexology and uses it to her advantage. Leave him with a wistful feeling, like he almost had it, but it slipped right from his fingers.

Whimper.
Feed.
Release.

It is the pattern we adhere to.

And so it goes.....SS

*Lyrics: Rollout: Ludacris

The Economics of Ass

Businessman in Water: Chuck Carlton

“Her good looks could've sailed a ship
but her will alone could've sunk it
Funny thing about money for sex
you might get rich, but you'll die by it”
~Close Call: Rilo Kiley

Hello my little goblins, Happy Halloween. It’s been a few days since my last confession, and I’ve been very sinful. Losing one’s soul is exhausting work. And, in true Sally Slut form, my favorite holiday did not disappoint. So, even though the light in my eyes is just a flicker and my skin is still on fire, I come bearing gifts. I’m your supplier, your dope dealer, or, should I say... sex dealer. I’ll sell myself to you for practically nothing and ask for very little in return. I’m an economist’s nightmare. I’ll offer you my ass for free. I’m the girl who won’t say no.

In a capitalist society, the law of supply and demand dictates the cost and availability of scarce resources. Men demand the booty, and women supply it. However, most men have the distinct feeling booty is not bountiful. And, if they do have a chance to fuck, they often retreat because of the emotional entrenchment (i.e. drama). Women expect something for their effort, which is why sex with a woman who doesn’t charge is relatively unheard of. Even though the cute little hottie you met at the bar is probably not a paid slut, one should not assume there won’t be a price to pay. There is no free lunch. If you take hottie home and fuck her like a call girl, she will most likely demand remuneration whether it’s emotional (a new relationship!) or actual money (dinner n’ a movie- reverse courtship style.)

It’s very seldom, then, that one finds a whore, whether she’s paid or not, who will fuck you for free. It screws up the system. If you don’t believe me, analyze the failure of Regan’s “voodoo economics” (supply-side economic theory) in the 1980’s. The idea was the wealthy, who received the benefits of the tax cuts, would eventually share their bounty with the less fortunate. The benefits, thus, would “trickle-down” to average folks and we’d all revel in our richness. The crux of the failure revolved around the concept of the “Free Share.” Were the rich (booty plentiful) really going to share with the poor pathetic (men) folk out of the kindness of their hearts?

Those who have lordship over resources (the booty) have the power. Since history and economic hardship has taught women to bargain with their bodies, power is not surrendered easily. And, if it is surrendered, it almost always has a price. Demand may increase when a woman offers her body at a discount until a certain point is reached. High quality shoppers will have moved on a long time ago, and, even the low-end buyers will scratch their heads in confusion when a seller gives away their goods for free. What’s the point? Where’s the value? Is this a liquidation sale?

Essentiality, this is the power struggle men and women find themselves in. Men want the booty to be more available, while women instinctively understand demand drives price standards. Whores who willingly spread themselves out under random strangers for nothing undermine the system. Radical sluts understand the system is fucked up. They know men & women would enjoy each other a lot more if the market crashed. Yes, some stockbrokers may plummet to their death from great heights when the structure collapses, but, a new freedom will surface in its place.

We are constantly told there is a shortage of resources on this planet. We cling tightly to our treasured possessions. Whether it’s our bodies, partners, or standard of living, it’s difficult to let go of the power associated with acquiring. Yet, it’s the ability to relate to ourselves, partners, and the world at large which ultimately suffers if we do not. Sex doesn’t have to be a means to an end or another bargaining tool laid flat when we reveal our hand.

Sex can be offered freely as a healing gift to others in service.

Fuck the markets. This ain’t no exchange. ~SS

Screwing Strangers

Thank you, Drive thru.

“Look at me, I'm skinny
It never stopped me from gettin' busy
I'm a freak
I like the girls with the boom
I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom”
-The Humpty Dance, Digital Underground

Anonymous sex fascinates me. Typically, we at least learn a potential partner’s name and a bit of their history before we jump in the sack. Now, within the context of an orgy when one is participating in a free-for-all fuck, anonymous sex is the norm and histories aren’t required. For instance, my girl friend is heading to Manhattan this weekend for some Halloween fun at a swinger's party. She may engage in some stranger screwing, which, in the sexually liberated atmosphere she’s in, will be perfectly acceptable. Regretfully, free-for-all fuck situations don’t present themselves often unless it’s in a “promoted event” type format. We don’t expect to meet a stranger at Blockbuster and fuck their brains out in the parking lot. Hell, forget the fact that it’s a stranger, and instead consider your significant other. Would you screw your boyfriend/girlfriend in the car during broad daylight at Chucky Cheese?

The fact is a large majority of us wouldn’t. Most of our sex on this planet is done at night, with lights off, under a mound of covers. We know our lovers, we know what they taste like, we know their histories, and even if the lights are dimmed, we can still find them in the darkness. In contrast, with a stranger, there is no familiarity, and no sense of “home.” We park our body on someone for a few hours and move on. Luckily, I’ve been able to experience both sides of the coin during my life time. I’ve had some loving moments buried deep in the sheets, and I’ve fucked strangers on bathroom floors under the florescent light. And, really, both are illuminating experiences.

So, last night, at the mall, when a complete stranger/store owner approached Sally with a few good lines and sales pitch, I was smitten. I didn’t buy his product, but, I did lick his balls in the bathroom under the bright light of retail. I knew very little about stranger boy before I ran off with him. He told me he:

A) had a girlfriend
B) was a Freak Boy
C) thought my daddy was an Israeli

Physically, stranger boy was right on point. Tall, skinny, longish dark hair, and foreign. Yummy. So, while I waited for him to finish closing down shop, I examined my options. I could walk out the door and never talk to him again, offended because he had a girlfriend, even though he was obviously turned on by our energy. Or, I could follow him to the nearest bathroom, and get down on my knees. Sex was out of the question, neither of us had a condom and I was ovulating. So, knee pads it was.

Alone with him the bathroom, he tasted my mouth first, lifted my shirt, and begged for my pussy. He wanted to eat it like its never been done before. He reached over to shut off the light and pulled me down to the floor. I sprung right up, turned the light back on, and let my pants fall to the floor. The guy had an amazing mouth, soft lips and thick tongue, just the way I like it. Before I climaxed and lost interest, I implored him to remove his pants so we could suck on each other simultaneously. He had such a lovely cock, and when he said, “I’m gonna cum in your mouth, you little bitch”, I melted even further into the cement floor.

During our bathroom bliss, his phone rang a couple hundred times. His girlfriend was on the line, impatiently wondering when he would return. We dressed quickly, gathered our possessions, and shut the door behind us. He nervously inquired about my intentions and pleaded with me not to reveal his infidelity (which is impossible since I don't know his girlfriend). I promised, smiled sweetly, and turned on my heel. I was almost out of shouting distance, when he yelled, “Hey, you forgot something!” Alarmed, I looked back at him, and he replied, “My name! You forgot my name..it’s....” I laughed, shot him the peace sign and continued on.

I’d probably fuck stranger boy if I saw him again. And who knows, maybe I will see him. I’m not at the mall that often, but I do know where to find the dude, after all. Yet, these kinds of encounters are geared toward never seeing one another again. I’ve had little rushes of lust running up and down my spine all day, and I wouldn’t want to ruin it by placing it within the confines of a routine.

Because, as we all know, it's better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all.

P.S. For those weekend party animals who are enjoying their Halloween festivities this Saturday, make it a good one. I, for one, plan on losing my soul Saturday night. Anonymous random pairings, here I come. See ya on the flip side.

~Little Ms. Slutty Sunshine

Sex, Weight, and Fuckability

Beauty and Porcelain: Drew May

“Boys are cute, but food is cuter.” – Tori A.

Heaviness plagues me. And no, I’m not talking about weight. I’m talking about responsibilities. Last night, I had plenty of work to finish and was not in the mood to play “loving parental figure.” My lover was dead set on a night with Sally even though what I craved was a night in complete silence with incense burning and music playing. Reluctantly, I agreed to see him as long as he shut his mouth and lay next to me respectfully. All the lights were already off when he entered my apartment, loudly, slamming the door.

He ran into my bedroom and leaped on the bed at full speed. Then, he rested his head on my chest like an adoring child, while he wrapped his arms and legs around my body squeezing me tightly. Had I been in a lusty mood I might’ve responded to his overtures with some enthusiasm, but alas, I was not.

Sally, for once, was not “in the mood.”

Now, for a girl with a sexual appetite the size of Texas, this was strange situation, indeed. Yet, a number of factors about this “quasi relationship” are irritating. First of all, the dude, an overly-excitable Sagittarius, has been grating on my last nerve. His incessant talking and pontificating is driving me up the wall. Secondly, stress.

For Sally,

more stress=less sex

It’s not the physical act of sex, which I enjoy immensely, but the unbelievable amount of energy (and money!) it takes to maintain one’s fuckability.

So, what exactly is fuckability?

A tight ass and slammin’ outfit on the right night?

sell it, Sally, sell it!

Apparently, Venus is not only the Goddess of Love & Beauty, but she’s also the goddess of tanning, shopping, pedicures, manicures, and waxing. There’s nothing inherently wrong with pampering, but there’s time, money, and practical matters to consider. If all of our time is allocated to increasing sexiness, what other areas of our lives suffer?

For example, on a typical Saturday, Sally rises around 9:30 or 10:00 and begins her beauty regimen. I’m off to the gym for at least a two hour work out followed by a short tanning session, eyebrow waxing, and lastly, a pedicure. Afterward, I spend considerable amount of time scouring clothing racks for an appropriate outfit. Outfit choice is crucial. One should have an idea of the theme they’re going for. Slapping on an old tee-shirt and a pair of jeans is not an option. Then, it’s back home by 6:30 for a quick costume check. Accessories and undergarments are selected, then, it’s on to shoes. Boots, flats, and heels are examined to determine the best fit. By 7:30, one can embark upon the “getting ready” process.

Shower, lotion, make-up, hair, perfume.. in that order.

By 9:00 pm, twelve hours later, Sally is finally ready to see and be seen.

Certainly, dedicating the entirety of our energy to The Pursuit of Bootie, can be exhausting. Coming from a girl who’s been in hot pursuit since 1992, it doesn’t get any easier as we get older. Our bodies’ fail (hello Viagra!), careers and/or children demand our attention, and the pressure to conform to societal tradition mounts. We need another to share the burden with, or at least to take out the trash.

Is this the reason people get married? Do we eventually tire of the sexy charade?

Relationships do have a way of eroding the sexy right out of us. Ever notice those people who work out and "primp until they can primp no more" when they aren’t in a relationship, and then, after they’ve attracted their mate, they slip into physical neglect mode? And, to add insult to injury, people are never quite as hot as they were when you first met. Intrigue wears off. Secrets are uncovered and mysteries are solved. Now, some would say, this is where “real” relationships are formed- in the boring practical reality of day-to-day activities.

We may long for the inspired enchantment of our early days, and fondly remember when our fuckability was on the rise. But surprisingly, it’s the ebb n’ flow moments in life that’ll get ya, not the heaviness of the daily grind. Each one of us has to carry water, it is expected and we are programmed for it. We may even find another to assist us (husband/wife/long-term partner), which can be a very stabilizing experience. However, change and chaos still surrounds us. Waxing and waning feelings of interest/disinterest are much more challenging than the weight (responsibilities) of everyday living

Sally wants to remind you (and herself!) this week not to crumble under the heaviness, as my one of favorite musician’s would say, “The weight is a gift.”

Let’s live it like it is.

~SS

Slut Guilt

Guilt: Anthony Guerra

“I don't know why
you want to follow me tonight
when the rest of the world
with whom I've crossed and I've quarreled
let's me down so
for a thousand reasons that I know
to share forever the unrest
with all the demons I possess
beneath the silver moon
maybe you were right
but baby I was lonely
I don't want to fight
I'm tired of being sorry” :: Tired of Being Sorry: Ringside

Sally has fucked, left, and destroyed quite a few people in her short life on this planet, which has led to various accusations like:

“You have no heart.”
“You’re dead inside”
“You’re a scandalous whore.”
“You ripped my pretty red heart in two.” (tribute to Sylvia Plath)

and the old stand by:

“You’re a player.”

What these malcontents don’t realize is during my younger years, I was a nice girl, a people pleaser, in fact. Often times, I would lose interest in relationship long before I broke it off. Even when relationship no longer honored self-discovery and growth, I continued on with the person at my expense. Hell, I spent two and half years with one ex-girlfriend when it should’ve been a one-night stand. But, the girl would flip out, threaten suicide, and stalk me to the ends of the earth until I relented. In order to protect her feelings I soldiered on, half-heartedly, to appease her. This relationship is only one example of how I traded the truth for a lie to protect someone’s feelings. I had many more relationships over the years that followed this pattern.

A part of me felt an obligation to help my partners maintain their emotional balance. Oh, you’re unhappy? Here, let me help. So, you hate yourself and feel weak and misunderstood? Come here, then, my little bird with broken wing. Let me stitch you up and put you back together.

The problem is, once you’ve helped someone in this capacity (either sexually or psychologically) the subject (i.e partner) yearns for fusion and wholeness with their guide again and again. In many cases, the subject becomes addicted to, what they perceive to be, their “savior’s” attention or presence in their life. The subject, then, feeds of this strength while taking what they need for themselves. When the “savior” finally attempts to gracefully bow out of their role or let’s the projection expire, the subject is, naturally, enraged. They want more. We don’t especially like it when our faith or image of someone is destroyed. But as Tori Amos sings, “I was never the vision of what you wanted me to be.”

Readers, I realize this scenario makes Sally sound like a real bitch. Who does this chick think she is? God? a Savior? a freakin’ saint?

My father had a severe Jesus complex, so I am particularly sensitive to being viewed as anybody’s savior. It disgusts me. However, Dad was a charismatic preacher, people wanted to believe him. They needed to believe him. When he spoke his “followers” listened in awe, the man was damn inspiring. Growing up hearing him and seeing him certainly affected me and the way my communication with others is received. Further, since ancestral imprints run deep through our family heritage, daughters and sons carry the strengths and weakness of those who have gone before them. In other words, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

It’s also important to realize human beings are hard wired to seek out meaning in their encounters with others and are prone to projections. For every savior out there, you’ll find someone in need of saving and vice versa. Saviors need their followers as much as their followers need their saviors. This is, essentially, a karmic situation and a sticky one at that.

I wish those who’ve felt slighted by Sally could understand the deeper impact of their perceived abandonment. They were learning something beautiful, and I was too. Nothing is ever lost. People get what they need from one another, even if it hurts. Important lessons do come through our pain and disappointment. And those who have crossed paths with Ms. Sunshine have learned about self-reliance. I can pick you up and dust you off, but in the end, each person must develop their own inner resources, their temple of self, or strong core.

So, here ends Sally’s Slut Guilt.

When we start to understand ourselves (i.e. “birthing” ourselves) we recognize radical honesty is the only way to go. This blog is dedicated to the pursuit of radical honesty, and as we all know, revolution is never a dinner party. It’s tough.

Telling a lover,

“Hey, I’m sorry; I just don’t do relationships right now. “
“I’m sorry, I can’t see you anymore.”
“I’m falling in love with you”
“I’ve fallen out of love with you”
“I want to fuck your best friend”
or “I’d like to fuck you again.”

all requires balls (or ovaries!) of steel. It may be embarrassing, the other person may feel like shit, or you may end up losing them, but we must commit ourselves to the highest order in life...truth.

So be it.

Love you all immensely, Sally.

E- Dating: Finding love (or sex!) on the Internet

Is there a shortage of available sexy man candy in close vicinity? Do you struggle to find a decent relationship within a 100 mile radius? Are you so bloody sick of the specimens in your neighbor hood you’re considering a move to Siberia? If so, on-line dating could be viable option. Now, it may seem like Sally is just overflowing with applicants, but readers, I live in a small Midwestern city. Interesting men/women are not the norm here (think football Sunday at the nearest sports bar with beer & hot wings and topics ranging from who scored the last touch down to NASCAR.) In this environment, a girl could feasibly go crazy. In order to avoid the asylum, I’ve dipped a couple of toes in the on-line pool, mostly out of boredom or curiosity. And, I’ll admit, once or twice to indulge in a wildly inappropriate long-distance relationship.

My first on-line dating experience started back in my lesbian days on yahoo.com. When I signed up, I was a lonely heartbroken lesbian searching for quality ass. I had, what I thought was, a relatively intriguing profile. However, I got almost no action from my witty “about me” section. But I didn’t have a picture posted, and in retrospect, I probably just sounded haughty instead of witty. A few women sent me “ice breakers” and commented on my profile, but it wasn’t the girl pile I was expecting.

Eventually, after thoroughly exhausting my lesbian options, I decided to join Match.com, again, with no profile picture. However, this time around the gods smiled favorably upon Sally. It may be worth noting, Match.com does have a “woman seeking woman” alternative, however, there were very few women in my area…slim pickings, as one would say. Slightly defeated, I went hunting for boys instead. Men started appearing in rapid succession out of nowhere. My inbox was flooded with requests, so I started picking ‘em off one by one.

Match. com Guy Number One was a long-haired Pisces Painter with a pierced cock. We exchanged a few flirty emails before he gave me the digits. Anxious for my first Internet hook-up, I called him that same night. We agreed to meet at a well-lit public location. Twenty minutes later, cruising the isles of my local bookstore, I ran into Mr. Pierced Cock in a black trench coat. We talked spiritedly for another hour before I left with him. Upon arriving at his house, I discovered, in true starving artist fashion, the guy lived in a complete dump. But, I was horny and willing to overlook the piles of dirty laundry. The guy continued to call me for weeks afterward, but the memories of dirty laundry and garbage strewn about still haunted me. I never spoke with him again.

Match.com Guy Number Two was lanky young Piscean with a fondness for anal sex. He lived about two and half hours from me, so on New Year’s Eve, after a few weeks of phone calls and emails, I drove to his hometown. I should’ve turned around when I walked into his mother’s house and saw some lanky goofy guy beaming back at me. But, readers, I was already committed. I made the drive, hadn’t I? He took me to a local bar where I met half the members of his family while I gritted my teeth and feigned interest. Finally, we left the bar and returned back to mom’s house. Too drunk to care, I sat down the air mattress quasi-bed and started to undress him. After all, tall skinny boy did have some fuck appeal, in an awkward kind of way. Much to my surprise, the guy had a relatively large member AND used it well. I fell asleep in his arms dreaming about mom. The next morning I left with promises to see him again soon, and with a cock of that magnitude, I meant it.

After exploring my local options on Match.com, I decided to continue my search beyond borders. As my Capricorn/Virgo sister often declares smartly, “I’m writing my thesis on International Cock”, thus, eHarmony seemed perfect for vehicle for a foreign merger. eHarmony “daters” are required to take a personality assessment and then all your matches are delivered straight to your inbox. Daters are unable to cruise profiles or contact those who don’t match their criteria. This, in theory, eliminates those who aren’t compatible.

Additionally, eHarmony maintains they have a “Scientifically Proven Compatibility Matching System.” Now, Sally knows animalistic passion isn’t derived from a “scientific system”, but I’ll tell you what is…. marriages. eHarmony states on their website that “90 eHarmony members get married every single day!” eHarmony, evidently, is Thee Place for desperate 30 somethings to met and slap a ring on a finger. Since marriage is a disgusting social institution with zero appeal, I should’ve realized from the beginning, eharmony was a little too science-y for me.

eHarmony Guy Number One was a boring Libra with too much respect for authority. The guy lived far far away from Sally, which, in the end, was a blessing. The courtship (on eHarmony it is a fucking courtship with “steps” and all!) was, again, rather short. I started emailing him in July and was on a plane to visit him by the end of August. The guy was a decent enough human being and we had excellent phone conversations (think creamy smooth Venus voice) but, physically, he was not my cup of tea. He was hairy with a flabby tummy and small wee-wee to boot! I was disappointed but not completely devastated. I figured we could still have some fun. However, the dude was a like a long trip to dullsville for Sally, plus he couldn’t give decent head to save his life. I wasn’t impressed. I packed my bags and headed for the hills.

At this point, I was a bit disillusioned with on-line dating, but still hungry for more. And true to form, shortly after my Libra Mishap, I met eHarmony Guy Number Two. This guy was an intellectual Aquarian with a freaky side…perfect. However, he’d never been with a white girl and he was, as far as I could tell, still mourning the death of his mother. He invited me several times to come see him, but my days of plane hopping were coming to an end. I could not exchange anymore sexual misadventures for a $400 ticket. My bank account wasn’t havin’ it. I never met Mr. Big Brain in person, but I wasn’t too distraught, I’d had my fill.

Yet, one cannot wrap up any discussion about on-line hook ups without mentioning the proverbial King of On-line Fucks, myspace.com. There seems to be a wide array of folks who get a considerable amount of myspace ass. I, on the other hand, have been disappointed by the lack of friendly fuck invites. Currently, I’ve been taunting a slightly repressed Virgo with naughty thoughts, but nothing has manifiested. We’ll see.

My ex-girlfriend, on the other hand, pimps harder than any other woman I know on myspace. She is constantly fielding fuck invites from women. She also uses another site for on-line lesbian dating at Tangowire.com. I asked her to write a few paragraphs about her on-line lesbian dating experiences and she had this to say…

“The lesbian site I use is Tangowire.com. I don't care for it, and I have honestly gotten more play on Myspace than any dating site I have ever been on. I have new people contacting me daily on myspace, after either looking at my pictures or reading my blog. Most of them have no chance ..not into fat and/or butchy.. as you know. But there’s been about 4 girls I have gone out with, and a few more I am supposed to hang out with sometime soon.

I guess the experience has been just fine. However, I have had a few girls either edit their photos or not show certain parts of their bodies, so when I meet them, I definitely got some things I wasn't expecting. One of the girls was only about half as attractive as her pictures are. Another date stared at me fanatically for almost the entire time and still continues to border-line stalk me. Pathetic, really. I will say this, I'm convinced that this *Midwestern City* is just lacking. Conversely, I have so far put no effort into meeting or responding to anyone who lives very far away (don't see the point). I am very seriously considering moving to a land where attractive lesbians really do exist.”

Tangowire is an interesting site, it isn’t just for lesbians, but there is a “women only” area one can join. One can also hook-up based solely on zodiac signs, which is a fabulous idea. Pisces chat room, here I cum.

Also, with respect to friendly fucks @ Revolution..please don’t hesitate to fuck back…leave a message or send an email about your next plane hop. I hope it’s in my direction.

xoxo, Sal.