Talking About You

Giggling

I had a fun afternoon yesterday with a cross-dressing, dildo-sucking slut of a caller. Just before I got online with him, I was talking to a new potential local lover, and I said, "I have to go now. I get to see a pretty sissy boy dressed up and sucking a giant dildo!" and his response was, "Wow. I think I'd like to watch that!"

I didn't think much of it, because duh, of course he would - it's super fun! But near the end of the call, I mentioned the exchange to my caller (who... seriously... can shove a thick long cock down his throat, even it's anchored to his desk and he's wearing a collar -- it's a choke-inducing combination at that angle for any but the most talented). He got incredibly excited that I'd been talking about him.

Of course I talk about him. I talk in generalities about anyone who hasn't asked me not to (I never ever include names or anything I may know that's identifying, of course).

My social circle loves to ask, "Any fun calls lately?" to hear about the latest advances in fembot technology from The Robot Boys (my nickname for the ASFR callers), new humiliation scenarios from my super-pathetic Mattress-Humping Storyteller (pathetic is his word of choice), or how many times I heard my favorite ballbuster smack himself and groan before he came.

But sometimes, the mention is spontaneous. While discussing a mutual friend's dissolving marriage, the conversation turned to biological imperatives, and I brought up how many callers request impregnation fantasies (many), and how many callers can get driven right over the edge if I beg them to knock me up (you know who you are). It makes sense, right? I mean, the whole point of sex is procreation from an evolutionary standpoint, so it stands to reason that men who find it sizzlingly sexy to think of impregnating a woman would manage to make babies and pass on that urge.

Or this afternoon, when I was finding myself more snide about something than I was happy with myself for being, I said to my husband, "Or, as a caller said last night, 'But then, I like putting rubber masks on women before I fuck them, so, seriously, who am I to judge?'" Exactly.

My conversations are like my blog - I have no idea who I'll talk/write about or when. It all comes to me organically. I don't think I write a blog as much as I channel it. And I never plan to talk about calls, but sometimes, you just come up.

(except for you, that guy who hates to be mentioned (who, by the way, I haven't heard from in far too long...) -- don't worry, I never ever mention you)

Lingerie Bar

Lingerie Bar in The Red Room

My sister came in to help me unpack the last two days. It was amazing to hang out with her relationally, of course, but she's also a whirlwind organizer. Not only did we get the kitchen and guest room completely settled, but she created the Lingerie Bar.

I knew I wanted the Fuckatorium 3.0 (aka The Red Room) to only contain sexy Galiana things. Necessities, therefore, include: a couch (I learned the hard way a couch is comfier than a bed for lounging with a computer for hours), laptop (for blog posts, email, Twitter, and catching up on others' sexy blogs, like Kink In Exile who mentioned me this weekend - awww thanks Alisa!), sex toys (they're in here, but not yet unpacked), and, of course, lingerie. No sexy space is complete without lingerie, right?

A few awesome folks got me housewarming Amazon gift cards, which I used to buy, among other things, an adjustable garment rack, intending it for Fuckatorium lingerie. When it turned out we needed the garment rack for my non-lingerie clothes (I overflowed the tiny century-old closet), my sister immediately saw the possibilities in the shower rod we had replaced (I love curved shower curtain rods - they make the shower feel so much roomier). Why not hang the shower rod from the angled ceiling to act as a clothes rack?

A couple of hooks, a bit of bondage rope, and voilà, the Lingerie Bar was born! I love it sooooo much.

As I hung everything on the awesome new fuzzy-grippy hangers my sister generously provided me, I relished the memories that drifted up: photo shoots, play times with lovers old and new, evenings on cam, evenings shooting videos, the delight of opening gifts, and the look on my husband's face when we were first dating and I knocked at his door wearing *that*. Delicious.

Why yes, that is a shoe rack next to the Lingerie Bar! And yes, those are new strappy silver heels I expect to wear soon, since they match the new silver headband... Not that I've been hoping the Fuckatorium can pass for a robot lab or anything. Pffff. Don't be ridiculous.

Speaking of ludicrous, that splash of plaid is definitely not a skirt headed for a barely-legal babysitter fantasy video anytime soon. That would ridiculous - I'm 41 years old, I could never pull that off, not even in braids if I were sucking on a lollipop.

The same goes for that red cheerleader skirt and pompoms if I were wearing pigtails... Absurd. I mean, nobody would ever fantasize about their middle-aged wife surprising them with a flashback role play, I'm certain of it.

And that satin nightshirt I've had since college, who would want to see a video of me demonstrating how I masturbate myself to sleep while wearing that?

It's not even worth considering putting a lacy bra and panties, a garter belt, and stockings under that feather-lined vintage-inspired robe to discuss my preferences and techniques when I'm wearing a strap-on.

I'm hoping to shoot more video in this new space... it seems I have a decent start on inspiration, doesn't it?

Settling In

I realized today that I've been doing something extraordinary for the past ten days: settling in.

I think my time in Houston never felt permanent enough to feel like I had settled into any kind of pattern. I remember a stretch of four days where I felt a calm sense that I knew what to expect, and I didn't have any looming, unknown, massive tasks. Four days out of seven months is not a fantastic record.

But we plan to be here in the great plains of central Illinois for at least a couple of years (where the sunsets have, I must admit, been far more spectacular than I remembered... I think it's a ploy to lull me into a sense of welcome. It's working.). Hopefully, we'll be in this same quirky, slanty, cozy house with the nice neighbors and the gorgeous trees.

So now that most of the functional unpacking has been done, as well as enough decorative unpacking to make the place feel like it's ours, I'm finding a pattern emerging:

* Early mornings on weekdays, since the hub has to get up anyway, he feeds the dogs and lets them outside, then puts them back in their crates to let me wake up on my own rhythms. On weekends, the dogs get morning routine from whoever can't sleep through them whining at us anymore, or from whoever needs to get up to go to the bathroom first

* When I wake up, I've continued a thing I started in Houston, which is: snuggle time on the couch with the dogs. I set aside about an hour to wake up slowly, sipping caffeine, making a coherent to-do list for the day, playing iPhone games, and giving the dogs the freedom to choose the activity: I always say yes to tug, fetch, and tummy rubs during snuggle time, and eventually I am rewarded with two dozing lap-warmers. Snuggle time ends when they inevitably bound off the couch to investigate a neighborhood noise and I need to stretch my legs and get my day started.

* My days have been mixed. I've tried to group together times when I had to wait for return phone calls, service or repair people, or freecyclers to pick up our packing boxes, because waiting on things like that means it's impossible to log in for phone sex. When I've had appointments (between 10am and 4pm Central time), I've given the pups rawhides and left them safely on the other side of the baby gate in the dog-proofed downstairs, while I head upstairs to The Red Room (aka the Fuckatorium 3.0) to lose myself in delicious fantasies.

* From 4pm to 8pm has become family time: the dogs need dinner and an outside break, the hub gets home for an hour or less of domestic chores, then we have dinner and unwinding together time, possibly mixed with more snuggle time on the couch, and then I lose him to his very steady girlfriend The Internet, with all her fun things to learn and ridiculous memes to giggle over, or to his primary lover Video Games, with all her things to build and strategize and shoot, and I head back up to The Red Room to log in. Eventually, sleepies overtake me and I stumble downstairs and crawl into the bed he's been keeping warm for me.

It's a lovely rhythm. It feels sustainable and calm. It protects enough time and energy for my primary romantic relationship, provides enough affectionate touch to keep me sane, and yet leaves plenty of time and energy for all my other connections: friends, family, and the gorgeous lush playgrounds where I luxuriate with callers.

And luxuriate I have... I've discovered a distinct advantage a roof-slanted room: when I'm lying on the couch, I can anchor one foot against the wall-ceiling angled above me, which lets me buck my hips up in a really interesting way.

Ooo, and I had an extraordinarily happy re-discovery of my Feeldoe: it was the only "dildo" I could find one day on a call before I unpacked my sex toys, so I used the long end of it to fuck myself while using the short egg-shaped end to press against my clit (that's the side that is inside me when I use it as it was intended, as a strapless strap-on). And holy overload, Batman, the sensations are an amazing mimic of the pressure against my clit during missionary fucking if a lover is grinding his pubic bone into me. Which I love. A lot. It's my new favorite thing to feel when I'm masturbating.

The room seems perfect to hold my sexual energy, the couch and desk chair offer lots of options for comfy positions whether I'm typing or fucking, and the glare-free lighting is easy to spend time in. It seems perfect so far.

Welcome to the next season of my life. I think it's going to be wonderful.

Crooked Little House

Casual in The Red Room

The walls aren't straight. The floors aren't straight. The tub in the bathroom struggles a bit to drain because the floor is almost as tilted as the tub. We sleep downstairs, in part, because we're a tiny bit concerned that one day the top of the house might decide to pay a friendly visit to the bottom of the house.

I'm talking about my new home, as of October 1. It's charming and adorable in that way that century-old homes can be, with a spider-web-filled basement and not quite enough electrical outlets, but fun architectural moldings around the archways downstairs and a cozy wrap-around porch for warm weather neighboring.

The upstairs was clearly an afterthought: attic space enclosed when someone made a bit of cash, all the walls tilt inward along the roof slope, and possibly done before building codes were quite as rigorous as they hopefully would be today.

None of this concerns you, except the part where I hung up rope lights in the new Fuckatorium for diffused lighting, set up my desk, set up the couch, and then saw... wait... why doesn't the rope light line up parallel at the top of the screen? And why is one end of the couch further away than the other end from the rope light?

This investigation led me to discover out that the floor is subtly crooked enough that the picture doesn't line up square unless I prop up one side of my desk. Oh, hi, door wedges, I'm so glad now that I unpacked you already, and that you no longer have to live in the junk drawer.

The Fuckatorium 3.0 is not quite ready for a prime time video just yet. But the picture above was indeed taken tonight in the new space. It is 9 feet wide at the floor, 18 inches wide at the ceiling, 22 feet long, and painted a deep, sexy, brick red. We call it "The Red Room". It is a crazy, insane, bizarre space. Perfect for me, don't you think?

I just showed my husband the tilt in the floor. He helped me figure out the most level place for the couch. Then he said, "Great. I have a wife with rare neurological vertigo, and I picked out a crooked house for her to live in..." and then looked a little sad. So I recited the poem "There Was A Crooked Man" while getting the dogs to dance along to the rhythm of the words. Now it will be stuck in our minds forever when we think of this place, I'm sure.

I have noticed that sometimes I have to figure out if I'm dizzy or if the floor is just funny right in that spot. It's oddly comforting when it's the floor. My brain might eventually just go "awwww fuck it" and stop trying to balance me altogether..

Most importantly, the rope lights + the red walls make me feel all cozy and dreamy and sultry in here. The decorating concept this time around is "bare minimum" - I won't do anything in The Red Room except be Galiana. My non-lingerie clothes, my guest bed, my jewelry, etc is all elsewhere this time around. The Red Room is just for video and pictures and phone calls.

I look forward to you dropping by!