Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Rescue Squad: A vignette about conscience

Here she comes.  Youthful, busty, unchanging.  Probably not looking a day older than the hundred plus years ago when she was a milk maid in Oberammergau, squeezing tits into a bucket on her daddys beat down little farm, before everything went sideways for her and she entered into that shadow world of the night hunter.  We love each other in our way.  She is my shadow self. I am her conscience.  We will argue, make each other mad, even speechless, she may tease me and more than once has touched her killing teeth to my neck the way a beloved cat might bite your hand to back you off, hard but not that hard.  But of all the people in the world, I am in the least danger from her.  We have saved each other.  

Nixie has brought a couple of comrades from her blood family with her.  These men have swagger as though they’re the posse of a rock star.  These chosen few who managed to do what the Van Helsings of this world could never do.  Take her off the street.  Take her off the kill.  Almost not quite domesticating my Nixie with their willing blood, delicately traded for hers.

“ ‘allo Scheißkopf.”

“Hey Nix.  How’s tricks?”

The guys nod and settle in.  They look slightly stoned like blissful Deadheads.  She must have given them the little taste just before they got here.  She told me, they can smell each other and when they’ve been on the Little Taste, the smell of her skin makes their dicks hard.

One of them goes to the open bar and brings back our bottles.  Paulaner Salvator for me and Nix.  The woman has taste, though she never swallows.

“I almost want to say, Nix, you look like you’re gaining a little weight, although I wouldn’t know how.  I guess you’re eating well these days.”

One of the guys looks at me sort of threatening.

“Karl,” says Nix, “This person, you hear me call ‘Scheißkopf’here, is my friend.  He likes to write.  He knows my story.  We have saved each other.  You must be his friend too.  Karl.”

This guy Karl seems like a loose cannon.  I dunno.  “Where’s everybody else?”

“At home, at work,” she says, “what people do.  How is Thanksgiving?”

“Small meal for a small family.  It would nice to eat at the church with all my friends, but my wife wants a turkey dinner even if its just us.”

“Good man.”

“Yeah, I wish.”

“Hah,“ she says.  She takes a swig of Salvator, swishes it around, holds it, spits it on the sidewalk.  “You’re a good man.  Good enough.”

“Getting old.  Don’t like to see myself in mirrors.  You never get old.  Why do people think nosferatus don’t like mirrors?”

“It’s just the movies,” she says.  She’s looking at my tarot cards.  She reaches for the High Priestess card.  “These are what I don’t like.  I hate these.  Didn’t you know that?”

“I know what happens when you tell your fortune with them.  I’ve seen it.”

“Do you know?” she says to the men.  “Have you ever seen a nosferatu have their fortune told?”  She looks at me.  “May I?”   

I push all the cards to her.   She stacks them and shuffles them like a pro even though the cards are fairly large.  She cuts, reverses, shuffles again.  “Watch, boys,” she says.  She lays out a row of four cards face down.  She turns them over, one by one.  The High Priestess.  The Tower.  The Devil.  The Moon, reversed.  She sweeps them up, shuffles several times.  Lays them out, one by one.  The Tower.  The Devil.  The Moon, reversed.  “If I did this all night long, it would always be the same cards.  This is how it is to live outside of time.” She looks scared.  “I hate these cards.  The crucifix doesn’t scare me, mirrors don’t scare me.  These cards scare me.  Because they speak the truth”

At the next table a girl sits, a skinny little goth girl all in black, with green hair and nose piercings.  She's thumbing away at her phone, waiting for someone.  We’re all looking at her.  In a minute, another guy shows up.

They speak in low voices but we can hear.

“You’re from facebook?”

“Yeah,” says the guy.  “Romeo”

“Hi Romeo.  Juliet.  I still haven’t decided how,” says the girl.  “But I want to do it together with you.”

“I want it to be with you too.  I couldn’t do it by myself.  I couldn’t go through with it, but with you I could.  We need a place.”

“At home, my parents bed.”

“That would really fuck their shit up.”

“Especially my step dad.  Perv bastard.”

“Or we could jump off a bridge.”

She looks at us, we pretend not to hear.  Nixie pretends to be absorbed in her beer.  She spits it on the sidewalk and the guy makes a face.

“Bridges are scarey,” says the guy.  “and they have to be really high.  Water doesn’t compress, you hit it at high speed its like concrete.  But it doesn’t always kill you.  You have to be high up to off yourself right.”

“Savannah river bridge is high up.”

“I don’t think it’s enough.  Pills?” he says.

“I can’t get the right pills.  Maybe a gun.  That’s what guns are for.”

“I can’t afford a big gun.”

“I can get a .22 from this guy,” she says.

“Don’t use a .22,” says Karl.  The kids look at him.

“Fuck off,” says the girl.

“No, he’s right,” says Nixie’s other guy.  “A .22 won’t cut it, the payload is too small.   May as well stick an ice pick up your nose and lobotomize yourself.  You’re not serious unless you get a 9 mil at least.”

“Nine mil,” says Nixie appreciatively.

“A .22 payload just bounces around in your skull chewing your shit all up and doesn’t waste you.  Wasting your time is all.”

 “A shotgun,” I say, “that’s the right way if you’re serious.  That’s what you want.  That’s how Ernest Hemingway did himself.  Fucking elephant gun or something.”

The guys wag their fingers at me approvingly.  We’re all bros now.  “Shotgun,” they chorus.  

 “Shotguns a stopper,” says Karl. “Sweet fuckin’ A there, bubba.”  

“A .22, fuck that shit,” says the other guy.  “Get real with that shit or don’t even suit up for it.  Spend your life in a wheel chair drooling on your dick.”

Nixie has this sad, pensive look.  I know what she’s thinking.  Back in the day, she’d have been glad to give these two kids what they think they want.  “It is my business to know such a one,” she’d once told a suicidal priest.  Now they’re right here, practically sticking their throats out and she just watches.  She’s wrong about the cards.  She can change over time.

“I knew a guy used a deer rifle.  Very clean.  If you can catch the back of the palate just right, almost no blood.  Almost.”

“Wow,” says Nix.

These two kids are looking sick now.  No.  They’re going to be okay.  I hear the guy who tags himself Romeo get up.  “Forget it,” he says to the girl.  He disappears into the urban night.

The girl stares at her phone.  She stares at all of us.  “You are some sick fucks,” she says.

“Oh, are you offended?  We’re sorry.”  Nixie smiles and raises her bottle.  For an instant I see them under her upper lip, long, sharp as stilettos, inhuman.  A kind of nosferatu boner from these kids and their death wish.  This talk must be like pornography for her kind. I don’t think the girl saw the teeth, she just gets up and goes.

“A good night’s work,” says Karl.  The other guy turns to me and lifts his chin. I see the circle shaped scar about as wide as a pencil.

“So that’s how you know so much about .22s?” I say.

“Lost a couple teeth, that’s all,” he says.  “I was a just real dick head at it.”

Nixie pushes my cards back to me, all but one.  “They’re good men, my men.  They don’t want it to happen to anyone else.”

“Did you know those kids would be here?”

She gives me that look, like a wolf considering a rabbit and holds up The High Priestess card.  “You don’t know all about me, Scheißkopf  You just think you do.”

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

My conscience is clear

We went shopping earlier today. Black Friday has reached us here in the UK so the city centres and malls are full of people sniffing out bargains. Needless to say, the car parks are pretty full too. We arrived at the shiny new mall near where we live and cruised around in search of somewhere to park. Zilch, so we did a second circuit and spotted one solitary space up one of the aisles. Problem was, to reach it would have involved going against the arrows painted on the tarmac. So, we did another circuit and approached from the right end this time, just in time to see a white van settling into our space. He’d spotted the space, and driven straight in the wrong way.

“Has he no conscience?” my husband wondered aloud.

Not sure about a conscience, but what that guy did have was a parking space.

So, here are some random thoughts of mine on the subject of conscience.

Over the years I’ve arrived at the conclusion that for most of us conscience is a somewhat fluid concept. Some things matter, to some people. Others, less so. I suppose I’m more of a pragmatist than my husband. If I’d been driving I doubt I would have even noticed the arrows on the ground. That space would have been mine. I guess though that’s why I’m the one with speeding points on my driving license and parking tickets stuck to the front of the fridge (I save them, like trophies). Those rules are more like guidelines, right?

Drink/drive laws though… now those might as well be etched on stone tablets as far as I’m concerned. Those rules matter. I don’t think I could bring myself to down a couple of glasses of prosecco then get behind the wheel, and if by some weird circumstance it happened I’d be wracked with guilt afterwards. But enough to turn myself in and possibly lose my license? Nope. Don’t think so.

Fluid, see?

There are lots of things that set me off on a mini-guilt trip. Forgetting to take poo-bags when I go out for a walk with my dogs is a case in point. Of course, I mean to take the bags. I have piles of them stashed in my kitchen drawer and in most of my coat pockets. I do my best, honest. But sometimes I screw up and on those occasions if one of my little Westies crouches down to do the necessary I’ll be casting furtive glances around, hoping no one sees and lining up my excuses (not that anything would assuage the vengeful approbation of the dog poo police). But do I go back afterwards to clean up? Not a chance.

The dog poo police are one thing, but what about when no one would know? I was brought up with the Protestant work ethic firmly ingrained in my psyche. I’m convinced I should work hard, something terrible will happen if I don’t, and I don’t expect anything for nothing.  These days my idea of working hard is writing, and I treat it like a job. Because it is. But I work for myself, I keep my own hours, set my own targets and standards. If I take a day off, no one would have anything to say about it.

No one except me.

So, I work every day, all day, including weekends and a lot of evenings. I tell myself it’s because I want to, but in reality I feel guilty if I don’t write. I feel I’m letting someone down, though I couldn’t rightly say who that might be. I promise myself to do better tomorrow and I usually do. My conscience demands it.

And here I am, completing another OGG post, and on the correct Tuesday at that.

My conscience truly is clear.

Monday, November 20, 2017

What would Sigmund say? #spanking #psychoanalysis #flashfiction

Sigmund Freud
By Lisabet Sarai

What would Sigmund say if he could see you now, Nathan—stretched across my lap with a bare bum and a hard-on?”

Ow! Hilda...”

Dr. Schultz, you mean.”

Right, right...Damn! That hurts!”

Stop squirming and answer my question.”

Um—probably something Oedipal—ouch!—something about wanting to crawl back into my mother’s womb...”

I’m twenty years your junior. Though you certainly do like to suck on my tits.”

Gorgeous—ow!—gorgeous tits, Dr. Schultz. Take your blouse off and I’ll play with them while you spank me.”

My diagnosis? I’d say you had an overactive Id, Nathan. Only stern punishment can keep your ravenous lusts in check.”

And you, Hilda, with your crops, floggers and dildos, have penis envy—OW! Your fingernails are like knives.”

I’ll carve my initials into your ass, my infantile little analyst. You won’t be able to sit for a week.”

Oh no, don’t... Marilyn will see the marks!”

Doesn’t your conscience bother you? Deceiving your unsuspecting wife?”

Ow! Yes! No! Not really...Oh, Hilda, Dr. Schultz, please. May I come?”

Naughty, naughty boy. You’re a mess of unconscious urges and repressed fantasies.”

Argh! God, I can’t stand anymore...”

It’s fortunate you have me to play the role of your SuperEgo.”

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Hey, Presto!

I don't have a whole lot to say about underwear. While I think lingerie is nice and all, I get much more of a buzz from seeing a woman in workout gear, for example.

But underwear does, of course, perform a vital function. Though it can be painful, fiddly and just plain annoying, there's nothing quite like underwear for avoiding some aggravating and frustrating incidents.

I'm talking, of course, about Amazon's Adult Filter. That's right, people without underwear on covers have been proven, time and again, to cause your book to be suppressed, or even banned.

So what, pray tell, is an author to do, when the perfect shot for their cover happens to have a woman with no top on? Doesn't matter that there are hands covering those earthquake-and-tornado-inducing buds of erectile tissue mounted upon said fleshy globes. Doesn't matter, even, if her back is to us. If she ain't wearin' a bra, then in the Adult dungeon she goes. (Wait...that sounds kinda hot...)

Well, in answer to the first part of the previous paragraph, what an author has to do, generally, is ask their cover artist to sneak some underwear on 'er., as if by magic. Hence the title of this blog.

But in the absence of a Brassierus Appearus spell, I've always found Photoshop gives me all I need to clothe the nekkid. And I thought I'd share some of my examples with ya. A couple of these are rather old—dating back to the first days of the 2012 Pornocalypse, when the tits hit the fan.

Example One
Girls Only: Pool Party by Selena Kitt

Possibly the most aggravating part of this cover being Adult filtered was the fact that so many other covers out there at the time had hand-bras, and those covers were NOT filtered. The only difference Selena and I could find was that those other bras were made by male hands. So there was the distinct smack of double standards in the air, as well as (arguably) a soupçon of homophobia.
In order to get around the issue, I slipped a cheeky bikini top on our braless brunette. It was a tad tricky getting it between the palms and the pillows, but I was very proud of the result.

Example Two
Sybian Club by Selena Kitt

It was a fun construct to get all the various pieces in place with this cover. The initial, rude, version of this cover actually had the main model's underwear in purple, as it is on the chastened version. I kist wanted to show it this way because it was another adjustment I made to ze undies...which is, after all, what this blog is all about! But it was the seated model who was the reason for the kerfuffle at the Adult Filter section of the Zon. Side note, but it was fiddly trying to find images which would hint at a sybian without actually showing a sybian in use. This was a neat enough work-around, I thought. Until the bare-assed-ness brought us down. Still, hey presto! and I pulled some black panties onto seated girl.

Example Three
A Baby for my Billionaire Stepbrother 4 by Cassandra Zara

I believe this li'l baby is unpublished now, but it's another case of sideboob being front-and-centre. Essentially the same solution as for the Pool Party cover. Find a bra and put it on, all the day you'll get good Zon.

Example Four
Someone Different by Gina Kincade

This is the most recent example of ninja tricks fixing commando models. Not only did I get a nice black bra on the ley-dee, I also got a good tatt on the dude!

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Underwear and Opinions

by Annabeth Leong

For something most people don’t see, underwear sure as hell seems to be about making a statement.

I found bras mortifying from an early age because they meant so many things. One of the first times I wore a bra, my dad mentioned that he had washed it, and I was so embarrassed I didn’t wear try wearing one again for several years.

When I was young, getting a bra meant growing up and becoming a woman. I didn’t want that. Becoming a woman meant, based on my observation, a sort of slavery that I wanted no part of. It meant being shouted at to fix some man a plate, whether he was your father, your brother, your husband, or your son. I watched my breasts grow and felt my stomach churn. I wanted to avoid this fate.

So my breasts swung free for years, as if by refusing to binding them, I could refuse to bind myself into the role of being a woman and all the terrible things it seemed to mean.

People were incredibly concerned about this detail of my appearance. My (lack of) bra was a true or false question on a trivia quiz some boys put together at my college. Women at a church group had an actual phone tree to figure out who should talk to me about how I needed to wear a bra. Men pulled their trucks over on the street to scream “titties!” at me. Women pulled me aside on the street to warn me that my breasts would sag when I was old.

My former sister in law brought over a catalog one time to show me. Maybe I didn’t like ordinary bras, but would these do? Her husband, it turned out, had admitted to eyeing up my breasts, and she wanted to fix it. Surely it made me uncomfortable to know that, didn’t it? Surely I’d want to make myself decent.

I sometimes tried to wear a bra because I wanted nothing more than to make people shut up about my breasts. But every time I tried, the squirming feeling would start in my stomach. It felt too horrible. I felt constricted all day by the contraption. I wanted to chew it away the way a wolf wants to chew its way out of a trap.

People assumed that I wasn’t wearing a bra because I was a slut or a feminist or a lesbian or all of the above. In reality, I wasn’t wearing a bra because I couldn’t bear it. I can submit to being bound in a sex scene, with a safe word, but all other forms of binding make me struggle and fight. As a child, I had eye surgery, and they had to strap my hands down afterward because of my singleminded determination to tear away the bandages. When I go to a music festival and they snap one of those wristbands around me, I worry at it all night, and tear it off with my teeth the moment I leave the venue.

The weirdest thing about it, in my opinion, is that I look sexier with a bra on. That’s what lifts my breasts, makes them bulge out of the top of my shirt. People’s associations with this garment make no sense to me, and I’m truly amazed by how many people over the years have made it their business to discuss with me what’s underneath my shirt.

Underwear is a different beast, perhaps less political, but still quite thorny. I don’t like to shave my crotch, and that makes it hard to find underwear that doesn’t look weird on me. You would be amazed, or perhaps you wouldn’t, to know how many lovers I’ve had who have fought with me about this, who felt they had some right to force me to shave there. I’ve had lovers who wanted me to wear certain underwear that I was not going to wear.

It took a long time for me to figure out that I feel good and strong and sexy, all at the same time, when I wear boxers, so that’s what I wear now. I know it’s hot to some people and not to others, but I don’t care, and it feels political and important to say so.

Tonight, I’m thinking also of the man who took my underwear away after we had sex and wanted me to go home without it. It’s a common move in erotic novels, but it squicks me out whenever I read it because it makes me think of that man, and he was a jerk. I like BDSM because I like pain, but as I’ve said before, I hate being controlled. It feeds a side of me that I don’t like to feed. I am a healthier person when I can tell a person, these are the boxers that I’m wearing because I like them, and you can fuck right off if you think you can order me to wear a certain thing.

And so if you strip me down to my underwear these days, you’ll see that I’ve finally learned to make choices for my damn self, despite a lifetime of being beleaguered by other people’s opinions about this intimate attire.

(Friends, I’ve been having problems leaving comments on the site recently--maybe something to do with the device I’m using? Anyway, I’m sorry to have been quiet, but I’ve been reading your posts. Hopefully, I’ll figure out how to fix that issue soon.)

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Munsingwear Dude (#Munsingwear # goingcommando #cotton briefs)

By Daddy X

From Flash Daddy.

If you think like I do, and if you’re a guy, you probably want to take good care of your balls. Like to have them swing free in the breeze, unencumbered by harsh restraint. For much of my life I went quick-draw.

On the other hand, it’s pretty nice to feel soft fabrics caressing your junk too. Silk, satin, Pima cotton—all have their devotees. Of course silk and satin have the advantage of added sensitivity when it rubs over the end of your dick. Ooo that glans!

So even though I did wear tightey-whitey briefs all through elementary school, my testicles, later, in their rush toward maturity, took on dimensions that were outsized for my mass. My dick and ball sack got bigger, more malleable. Especially in hot weather, all that steamy flesh would no longer fit in tight skivvies.   

Boxers tangled things down there with all the expected  knots and complexities of a South American three-balled bola, used for downing llamas and wild pigs on the pampas. Not to mention boxer shorts don’t perform well under tight jeans like all us cool guys wore. Decided to quit wearing underwear altogether. Commando-chango turned out to be the only way to go. Worked out well in crowds.

But that sometimes caused problems. Like when I’d dance a hard grind in khakis with some hot chick, hand pressed on her butt to draw her closer (my knee advancing a tad ahead of the beat) and leak viscous bodily fluids down my leg, staining myself to embarrassment.

Chick would say something like, “Can’t you just dance?”  Sometimes they slapped me.

And that would put a damper on another potential relationship. A guy could get a reputation, or even a nickname for chrissakes (Juicey) and never have a girl say ‘yes’ again. To a dance even.

So after a life experiencing all that freedom, when I was approaching seventy years old, my balls stretched out my sack so it became quite painful, what with the live and active benwahs hanging there by whatever tendons or internal drapery cords for sixty-nine fucking years without external superstructure. Doctor prescribed the dreaded cotton briefs to keep myself contained and supported. No slack, no swing.

No, no, no. Not cotton briefs!

Remember those tight bastards? The ones that screw your scrotum up in your ass crack? Those sadistic Haines, Jockeys and Fruit-of-the-fucking-Looms? With those overlapping front vertical flaps where you twist your dick through a couple of hairpin racetrack turns just to take a leak?

Alternatively, one could yank the front elastic down and pull out Henry, creating a tight band right across the underside of the urethra, making it hard to pee. Then eventually the elastic gets all stretched out. As it will when you pull your dick out through the side by the thigh. ‘Cause then the fabric gets all misshaped, and when you skip down the street your entire package slides down through the stretched part, sticking against your thigh and sweating. Not a pretty feeing. Feels restricting, choking the poor, unassuming scrotum at the base.

The hell with that.

So a friend suggests: “Munsingwear, dude!”

Man, are they the best damn briefs. First, they’re made of the softest of cotton. But best of all-

Munsingwear now has a patented horizontal flap! Just pull down your zipper, reach in and retrieve! Or have a friend do it for you. Right through the fly, affording accessible ingress and egress for the limp, lazy little fellow or anyone interested in making it harder. All so easy for you and your family.

And when you think how long men have been wearing underwear, you’d think they'd have come up with this sooner.

We can all thank the geniuses down at Munsingwear.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Gay Underwear

I wear gay underwear.

I feel stupid saying such a thing, but it seems to be the case.

I reject the “boring” underwear — the black, the navy blue, the white, the gray — and prefer colourful underwear. Well, I have one pair of navy blue boxer briefs that I’m wearing today, but only because it’s laundry day and it’s my last clean pair. Tomorrow I’ll be back to the sunshine yellow or the red and white pinstripes or the purple camouflage.

There used to be one chain store here in the city that sold colourful underwear — and I live in a fairly big city — and it was Superstore, a national grocery chain. They manufacture and sell their Joe Fresh line of clothing, which used to include colourful square-cut boxer briefs that were super comfy. Now, though, they’re all black or dark gray. In other words, they’re boring. I’m no longer interested in their underwear.

There is no longer anywhere to get non-boring underwear for men in this fairly-major Canadian city.

I find it so stifling to wear “normal” colours all day at work. I’ve got my nice gray cords or my slim-fit blue jeans and a variety of t-shirts that run the gamut of colours and are appropriate for work — but all of it is… well… it’s blend-into-the-crowd clothing. It’s hard to get stand-out clothing on a writer’s budget.

Underwear and socks are generally the exception — I can usually find good stuff at a good deal, and it’s where I can go crazy with colours.

I wear socks and underwear that are bright colours and clash with whatever else I’m wearing. And I love it. I do it for the simple fact that I want to wear bright colours. Even if I’m the only one that sees my hot pink briefs or my purple socks, it makes me happy to wear them.

But it’s getting increasingly hard to find these things in person. I think I’m now forced to buy all my underwear online.

And I think it’s because straight men (and I’m generalizing here) think colourful underwear is gay.

There is, of course, the “really gay” underwear, like what Andrew Christian manufactures and sells. These are the ones that have the “anatomical pouch” that makes someone hung like a shrimp look like he’s hung like a horse, and usually have ultra-revealing designs, or maybe even the words “cum slut” printed on the bum.

But I’m talking the “mildly gay” underwear. They fit nice and they’re bright colours. Their websites seem to be clearly targeted at gay men (or perhaps at women buying for their straight male partners). They seem to know that straight men wouldn’t be caught dead looking at an underwear website. Perhaps they assume the straight men are just going to buy Hanes because it’s what’s available at Walmart.

I find it depressing sometimes that colourful underwear — which is identical to other underwear in every way except for the colour of the fabric — is seen as gay. My husband (who, haha, is gay), only wears black or gray underwear. He doesn’t want to wear anything colourful in case he goes to the gym that day.

For me, though, I don’t care what underwear I’m wearing to the gym. I’m comfortable in bright colours, so that will make me comfortable at the gym. I wear my teal briefs to yoga all the time, and when I start up again at the gym, I won’t feel any shame or embarrassment if I wear my blue and white polka dot briefs.

I think straight men, in our sometimes-toxic-masculine culture, are taught that underwear is a utilitarian piece of clothing. Only women and gays wear non-utilitarian underwear, apparently.

Straight underwear is so boring.

I find it stifling.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Dominating the Freshman. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press and a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit