Mar 312012

By Lady Cheeky                                                                                  
(Originally published 6/10)

Taking my right hand saturated in my pussy juice, I firmly hold your taut shaft
My left hand plays with your gorgeous balls.
I love how your cock tastes.
I’m stroking your shaft and massaging your balls between my fingers
every now and then I dip my head down to quickly lick up your pre cum
so as not to waste a drop of your divine elixir
my middle finger on my left hand grazes your anus, teasing it
seeing your body flinch and twist with my touch excites me
so I continue, as I stroke your glistening, hard dick faster
Intermittently, I add the extra compliment of my mouth
soft and warm on your crown, enveloping your manhood
accepting it
using my hand in motion to extend the pleasure of my mouth
wet and smooth
my tongue washes over your tip on it’s way down my throat
Your cock can feel every taste bud, every ripple on my tongue
my left hand, after first wetting my fingers with my own cum, is on your taint now
and then working them in your ass, pressing against your prostate…
writhing and jerking … you know it feels too good
you can barely stand it
Moaning and moaning and moaning for me
I look up at you, now sucking on your cock harder
squeezing your shaft tighter
to approximate the tightness of my pussy
I moan as I take you in my mouth
your precum sliding out of your slit
my lips slurping it up
drinking it in as I thrust you in and out
teasing your cock with my tongue
sometimes running your tip across my smooth front teeth for a surprise of texture
wiggling my finger in your ass
you are moaning louder now
I am moaning loader now
because you fill me
and it tastes so good
you taste so good
I love your cock in my mouth more than anything
your dick is stunning and I want to devour it
my actions speak for themselves as I keep thrusting you deeply
back into my throat
moving my head side to side so you get all the sensations my mouth can provide
pursing my lips over my teeth
lapping at you as you enter
and sucking on you as you exit
getting firmer with my tension when your cock exits my mouth
so that your rim is “flicked” by my tight lips and then
thrusting you quickly back in
my mouth feels better than my tight pussy
this sensation is like no other for you
made better knowing that I’m thoroughly enjoying it
I’m sucking you off so feverishly
that you cannot believe this sensation possible
my left palm rubbing your balls
my left finger massaging and entering your anus
I can feel you want to cum
I can feel you about to explode
I want you to cum hard
sucking on your cock moving it in and out
side to side
hitting the inside of my cheeks
taking you all the way in my mouth
until my lips touch the top of your balls
and then shaking my head
humming for you so you feel the vibration
I want you to cum for me
I want you to shoot your load in my mouth
so I can feel it slide down my throat
Mmmm and when you cum
Shivering and shaking
I am drinking you
slurping your product down my throat
Tasting your full masculine flavor
Proudly lapping up your seed

Finally, moving to your thighs to
kiss away the remnants
not to waste
was that a good orgasm?
You dick is the stuff of dreams

Mar 282012


(Originally published by The Daily Beast on Mar 27, 2012 4:45 AM EDT )

Why has feminism become a dirty word? Erica Jong defends the feminist and sexual revolution against criticism from the next generation of women who just don’t get it.

When the movie The Way We Were (directed by Sidney Pollack and starring those wonders, Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford) came out in 1973, my then (now late) father-in-law, Howard Fast, hero of the House Un-American Activities Committee, who went to jail for being a commie though he left the party over the Stalin show trials—like everyone else—said, memorably: “That was the way we weren’t.” I felt the same way reading Hanna Rosin’s piece “The Sexual Freedom and Women’s Success” in The Wall Street Journal.

Tim Robberts / Getty Images

Of course I was delighted to be called a sex-goddess and bracketed with Dr. Ruth Westheimer, whom I adore, but when Rosin said the ’70s were all about the sexual revolution and that the sexual revolution was one of the props of women’s current success, I felt a chill run down my spine. “Dear Hanna—you just don’t get it,” I wanted to say. “If only you’d lived through some of the things I have—being trashed as the happy hooker of literature, being overlooked for professorships, prizes, and front-page reviews because it was assumed I was—’tis  pity—a whore, you might see things differently. And then, if having lived through that, the pundits now said you were rather tame, you might wonder whether women could ever be seen for what we are: sexual and intellectual, sweet and bitter, smart and sexy. But I am grateful to be a sex goddess all the same.”

Sex is important, naturally. When people stop being interested in sex, I’ll stop writing about it. Still, the late ’60’s and ’70s were about civil rights (we still don’t have them ,as the death of Trayvon Martin shows), violence against women (a continuing tragedy), and the hatred and lack of empathy for the poor (as Dr. Martin Luther King reminded us). We sought fairness for the disempowered, the down-trodden, the people who had been down so long it looked like up to them. This, alas, included middle-class women—when we still had a middle class. The fact that the so-called mainstream press reduced our valid struggles to sex, drugs, rock and roll, and bra burning (which, btw, never actually occurred) was their attempt to further disempower us. And they surely prevailed. The backlash has been bigger and more successful than any cultural revolution ever was.

We now awaken to see rampant GOP hatred of women, the retooling (so to speak) of the contraception wars, the celebration of Mad Men and the sad ’60s housewife, the disempowered Pan Am stewardess, the corseted Playboy Club Bunny (how cute was female slavery!), and S&M.

In case you hadn’t noticed, Shades of Grey is an American rewrite of L’Histoire d’O. Worse written, of course, never acknowledging its source, and pretty dull stuff except for the naughty bits. Compared with my first novel—which was about sex, identity, love, self-knowledge, looking back at the Holocaust, and the world’s unquenchable meanness—to name just a few things, Shades is for dummies.

But I digress. Hanna Rosin cannot even imagine the era of my youth, let alone give it is due. Yes, I know we all find it hard to imagine our parents’ eras. Thank the Goddess Mary McCarthy wrote The Group so I could understand the psychosexual habits of my mother’s generation—the class of ’33. Thank the nonexistent gods of Karl Marx that Arthur Miller wrote The Crucible so I could imagine the blacklist. Thank the Lares and Penates that Howard Fast wrote Spartacus for similar reasons. We are all Spartacus—still.

Hanna Rosin is a writer and mother who thinks she’s a feminist but who sadly doesn’t get it. My generation was not only maligned in book reviews and attacked in graduate school but we lived to see our adored and adorable daughters wonder why feminism had become a dirty word. Now they wonder less, I think.

As a young and even middle-aged writer, I used to attend pro-choice rallies with GOP women. No more. Will my daughter’s generation now believe that feminism, like democracy, has to be fought for over and over again? We cannot be complacent about birth control, abortion, the vote, or our daughters’ and granddaughters’ future. Just when things look rosiest for women, a new Rick Santorum will be waiting in the wings. And his wife recruited to put a new spin on his misogyny. Just when colleges graduate more women than men, and women are beginning to be paid a little more than a pittance, the press and publishers trot out female quislings to announce that the woman “problem” has been solved. Rubbish.

Women are not the richer sex. Women are not equal in society. We still have wombs and breasts and need health care different from men so we can still be manipulated. This is a struggle of a thousand years, two thousand years, five thousand years. And our worst enemies are those who say it isn’t. Men are not the problem. Sexism is. And some of the most effective sexists are women.

My generation was not only maligned in book reviews and attacked in graduate school but we lived to see our adored and adorable daughters wonder why feminism had become a
dirty word.

So Hanna Rosin, I mean you no harm. I believe that the new feminism is mentoring, and I will be happy to help you if you come calling. But please remember that feminism, like democracy, like fairness, like gourmet cooking and high fashion, is not the natural state of primates. We must assert them again and again—until all the apes are free, well fed, well dressed, and empowered.

It’s not love that does us in, nor is it men. It’s usually other women and their fantasy that some of us can have it all. Finishing the hat is never easy. And wearing it with flair is even harder. Some day we may get there. But that great-come-and-get-it day-is still shimmering in the mists of the gloaming. I have a dream we’ll get there eventually. But it’s a jinx to celebrate too soon.

Erica Jong has published 22 books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. Her latest is Sugar in my Bowl. She is working on two books currently—a novel and a dogoir. She still writes poetry when the muse alights. Her books usually appear all over the world.

Mar 272012

Nice Pair
Keeping Your Naughtiness In-House
You and Christina Hendricks have a lot in common.

Okay, just one thing: you’ve got… photos of a sensitive nature out there.

You don’t know how they got there, but they did.

Anyway, that reminds us: you should probably look into something a little more private.

Say hello to Pair, a discreet new social networking app for couples, available now.

Okay, so the official company line here is that this is simply a sweet little app for two—you and the one you’re with. You can share photos and videos. You can make adorable little sketches and share those. You can chat and share your location. You can even have your phones vibrate when you’re touching your screens at the same time (there may be some creative potential there).

But not you. See, you’re going to turn this thing into a private, phone-based world of less-than-clothed pictures, suggestive sketches (to show your artistic side) and maybe a choice limerick or two. All you’ve got to do is give the app your name and email and a password. Then record a quick video invitation to someone who might be interested in such things. Thanks to the miracle of passwords, that person will be the only one who can see everything you share.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Article from:

Mar 272012

A Woman's Right To Great Sex.

Mar 272012

A Woman's Right To Great Sex.

Mar 212012

by Paula Tiberius

The kiss escalated quickly and he found himself exploring the inside of that robe. She was wearing this silky, frilly purple piece of heaven. How hadn’t he noticed it poking out from the plush terry cloth? He ran his hands over her thighs and felt her body tense and heard her breathing grow rapid against his ear. He knew they were headed for another night of bliss.

April was the best lover James had ever experienced. And it had nothing to do with technique or body parts. They just felt so right together. She made him crazy with soft kisses on his neck, his chest, his belly. By the time she reached his thighs he was already out of his mind and she sat up to look at him, a giggle escaping her lips. He loved the way she made him feel, so connected to her. Without letting her eyes leave his, she climbed on top of him and gently lowered herself down. Pure silken ecstasy enveloped him. He wondered where all this new energy had come from since she was supposed to be completely exhausted, but he wasn’t complaining.

He reached up and stroked her breasts and rib cage underneath the silky material. She gently thrust her hips back and forth, driving him closer and closer to the brink. He grabbed her buttocks and held them still for a moment. She seemed surprised.

“Slow down, Cowgirl. I’m in no rush.”

A lingering, sexy smile broke out on her face as she pulled her negligee off completely. What a body. She leaned over and let her breasts graze his chest. He slid his hands into her hair and pulled her face to his for a long, tender kiss. Their tongues danced together to the rhythm of their bodies and again he felt like he might lose control too soon. He wanted to bring her over the edge first. He gently thrust his hips higher and higher and finally felt her body tense. Pretty soon she was unable to keep kissing his mouth and just gripped his hair with both fists, her breath ragged. She started calling out his name. This was his absolute favorite part.

“James! James! It’s so intense!” Heh heh. As far as he was concerned, his own pleasure was nothing compared to the satisfaction of pleasing April.

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April Connors figured her love life was on hold indefinitely now that she was about to have a baby while temporarily staying at her grandmother’s house (what a turn-on!). Meeting infamous country singer Jimmy Wick may have made her giant belly flip, but she was filing him under a big “as if.” No man in his right mind would fall for a gal this pregnant, and besides, she needed to focus on herself and the baby. James Warwick (a.k.a. Jimmy Wick) was not in his right mind. His ex-wife was petitioning for full custody of the only thing that made him happy besides playing music, his four-year-old princess, Summer, and the thought of losing her had him crazier than an outhouse rat. His saving grace was his new ‘friend’ April who he was falling head over heels for. The only problem was, April had just been knocked up, dumped and stranded by the last guy she was with and was in no mood to go down that road again. She was hellbent on getting her life back on track just as James was watching his fall apart, leaving them both caught off guard by the unstoppable romance that would sweep them off their feet.

Mar 162012

184744_10151463757417039_1110819902_n*the sun will rise tomorrow as usual, but it will glow more brightly because you love me.

when I feel its warmth – it is your breath, not the sun, that surrounds envelopes my shoulders.

the tan it leaves is you’re claiming of me.

when this sun sets and the moon takes it’s place … our moon,

it will shine with more brilliance than ever before because I love you.

when it’s light leads your way to me, it is I that will claim you when you arrive at my door.

when we join at the changing of theses celestial bodies, from day to night and night to day, we will make

the brisk dawn and

the sultry twilight.

and in those misty hours

we will finally and forever

claim each other.

i love you

– Lady Cheeky, 2011

*(It’s awful and precious I know, but I wrote it in one sitting and I meant it … what are ya gonna do?)

Mar 152012


Mar 122012

I’m writing an article about women, sex and body image. My opinion is that there are men out there with a variety of different tastes in the physical appearance of their dates/girlfriends/wives/sex partners. Men: What do you like physically in a woman that might surprise me or that might not fit the image of what women think today’s man is looking for? Women: What kind of positive experiences have you had regarding men/dating and your body type or body image?

I would love to hear what you have to say!

Message me here or email me:

Thanks in advance!

xoxo Lady Cheeky

Mar 092012

By Lady Cheeky          (Originally written 8/10/10)

Sitting in the lobby of the trendy and overly decorated hotel waiting for him.  It had been two months since I had any contact with him … almost three months since we made love.

But things just changed. They had taken a turn in my favor. And for any lovelorn woman who has ever fantasized of her lost lover impetuously jumping on a plane bringing nothing with him but his I.D. to win his girl back, this was a dream come true.

But why then, was I not jumping out of my skin, tears in my eyes waiting at the window with a pie and his slippers?  Instead, I was in a leather armchair, in a poorly styled “hip” hotel listening to house music just a little too loud for comfort.

I was nervous. I wasn’t when he said he was taking the next flight out. I wasn’t when I booked the room. I wasn’t when I walked to the elevator to get to the lobby. But now, now my skin was vibrating, my heart pounding and my hands shaking  – tracing figure eight’s on my iPhone screen with my finger, rehearsing disjointed platforms of ultimatums and scorned woman rhetoric that felt unnatural, but kept my mind occupied.

I had left him and banned him from my life two months ago. I did this to save my soul and my mind. He had made a choice for his life’s path that wasn’t in sync with mine. A choice that was the oil to my water … the two could not stay mixed together without eventually parting. I needed more and he needed something else.

And then, without warning, he told me that was no longer the case. If he jumped on the next plane to see me could he explain?  Shocked, what could I say? If the one thing keeping us apart was now not an issue then I owed it to myself to listen. I was “the love of his life”, he told me … but I had known that he was the love of mine for a while. I knew what discovering that was like and it sounded as though he was on that ship and that ship had left the port. But, I dare not think this way. I should hear him out first. I can’t do this to myself again without proof.

Two months ago I never would have been here regardless of what he had to say. I was beyond my limit of angry, hurt and defeated. I was done understanding and being supportive and getting him between business trips. We never saw each other but once or twice a month and then, only for a couple of days at a time on average. That’s fine for recreational lovers, but not for lovers in love. I loved him. I knew he loved me, he just didn’t know it yet. If he did, he wouldn’t have taken that job in London cutting our time together down to a few days a year. A prestigious, career changing job. An important job. A job that would be his friend, lover and confidante as I would not be there to fulfill that role.

I cried for a month straight. In my bedclothes 24/7 and not leaving the house. Sleeping 12 hours a day and then 3 hours a day. Eating cookies for dinner and wine or Xanax for dessert. Trying to numb myself while not doing too much damage. 30 days and 10 lbs larger I began to surface. I guess my body couldn’t take the intensity and the drama of the situation with Guerre and was ready to move on to my usual intensity and drama that is my life.

I started dating again, but I found my mind wander and my heart followed. Sex was perfunctory with these gentlemen. Bless their hearts they tried, and with the right woman it would have worked … but I was spoiled … no … I was inured to anyone else. My body knew it was the perfect compliment Martin’s and it would have no other. My desire waned … my orgasms became less frequent … my fantasies too painful to be frequent as Guerre would pop up unexpectedly in odd places and take over.

One night in particular, I had retreived my handy “Rabbit” and was bound and determined to make myself come. Low lights, soft music, candles, lingerie a little porn on the TV with the sound off and I was off to see the Wizard. The Rabbit is a miracle of technology. Whirring and oscillating inside me while the ears surround my clit vibrating while they slap it around.

I dreamed of being dressed to the nines in a high box at the Opera (don’t ask, because I hate the opera). I look great in red velvet strapless gown and my hair up and clearly I’ve been working out. A gentleman is seated late in the only other seat in the box … next to me. It’s dark as the first act has begun … I glance over but cannot see his face … but, he is tall (whirrrr, slap-slap, mmmm) at least 6’2” – 6’-3” …

Back to the opera … La Rondine … I figure I’ll stay until “O Mio Babino Caro” and then I’m outta here.

The gentleman next to me is leaning forward arms on the edge of the box seemingly entranced by the performance. “Gay man” I think “Gay, gay, gay. Gay as the day is long. G.A.Y. Gay”. God, I have good Gaydar, I should really be studied. A little proud, I sit up in my chair a bit which startles my neighbor for some reason and he turns to me. All I can see are his blue/green eyes. Is it the lighting, because surely eyes don’t glow like that?  We hold a glance for more than the moment should last … until my purse falls on the floor between us. As we both go to retrieve the bag our cheeks graze … my right … his left. Suddenly we both stop at the same time and are frozen in this position. The current we experience at this innocent, accidental touch is nothing short of otherworldly. It is so meaningfully sharp and distinct it renders us immobile for a moment. Until, again in unison, we begin to look up at each other to get, what I assume, would be confirmation from the other that that current existed. As our heads rise slowly and our eyes meet, a rush … a wave of excitement and desire rage to flush my cheeks. As we both move toward for a kiss his face hits the light and I can see … it’s … it’s … GUERRE! My heart skips a beat, we both smile hungrily … longingly … and as if seeing food for the first time after a long starvation, we join together in a whirlwind of kisses and gropes and grunts and … and …

Whirr, slap-slap! “Mmmmmmooooohhhhhhh!HHHHHH AAAAAHHH!!!!!!! OH YES!”. Orgasm hits while he is sucking my ear. Panting, I regain control and realize it was just a fantasy. No Guerre here with me to share the orgasm after bask with. Just me and two overly made up tarts on the TV licking each other… and the sobbing begins, until I fall asleep with sore eyes, a stuffed nose and a massive headache.

But soon he’ll be here … in the flesh… arms wrapped around me, owning my body. Sinking into his tall, strong frame I will exhale for the first time in months.

                                                   To be continued …

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