Sex Games & Diaries. Yum.

And we’re back. Miss me? Got clean towels?

Let’s go!

First, a sensual wash to the ears, by Rae & Christian, “Not Just Anybody”. Let it play as you read. Iz very nice:

Sex Games

Annabelle’s “Willy Wordsmith” Game from Women in Strange Places: Stories – In the entry “Willy Wordsmith”, Annabelle goes out on a date with a guy named William and they have a very … nice time. This is a fun game William makes up for them to play. Also as a side-note, all of Annabelle’s entries are rooted in sexual truth — I mixed in some of my own experiences with those of my friends and a few strangers — the things you find out about people when you’re writing a book is fucking priceless. Onto the game:

I’m back and it’s late and I’m tingly. I met with William. It was actually quite like a date. We went to the movies to see a documentary about vaudeville and literary burlesque. He told me he was a word fetishist. I didn’t really get what he meant. I like him quite a bit. He’s a few years older than me, wears glasses. In great shape. He has intense eyes that I could just stare at all day. We went back to his apartment to play after the movie. He told me he was going to teach me his favorite game. We got naked and got into bed, got real close, facing each other. I had one hand on his cock, he had one hand between my legs with his fingers barely brushing against my clit. He smelled delicious. Some men’s colognes are witchcraft. He said the object of the game was flattery to the point of orgasm. He’d say a word that he thought described me and if I liked that or thought it was sexy I played with his cock. The opposite went for him. If I said something about him that he liked and thought it was sexy he’d finger me. I’ve never worked so hard to come up with good unconventional words before J We did all this between long kissing sessions. I hope I see him again soon.

iPod Sex Stories – The article is far too cheesily written and but the idea is an interesting one. Download some erotic podcasts into your partner’s iPod, and then tell them that when they are on their way home from work, to listen to the special thing you put on there. If you’re home when your partner’s on the way back home, call them and ask which story they’re listening to. Then say you’re listening to the same one and you’re playing with yourself. They’ll be dying to get home. My twist to it: have them listen to it on the way to work. Keep them happily distracted all day long and can’t wait to get home and bang. To make it even better, record an mp3 and put it after the story with a location at which they should meet you and have sex in an interesting (familiar or unfamiliar place). 

Papers & Lube – Now these sound fun! My fave on this list of 5 are “Forfeit” and “What Is It?”. In “Forfeit”, you: “Bring treats into the bedroom that have small, easy-to-write-with nozzles, like frosting, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream. Write a naughty word on your partner’s body. If they guess the word correctly, they get a small taste of the treat. If they guess wrong, they pay a forfeit by swapping places with you.” In “What Is It?” (which also has potential for some funny fuckin’ outcomes): “Your partner lies down blindfolded. You lubricate different parts of your body — fingers, chin, tip of the nose, nipple, and so on. You then touch your partner in various places. They have to guess which body part it is. If they guess correctly, you perform a sex act with that body part that only pleases them.”

Whips, Chips, Chains and Dips: BDSM Games – For those of you interested in (safely) tipping the powerscales in the bedroom, here’s some stuff onmore  imaginative play. You get a list of tools and ideas and you can have at it with making something up, and you also get some sample games and things to try if you’re drawing a blank. In BDSM communication is more than tantamount. Be very very open with each other and respect one another, even if your scene may involve disrespect or humiliation. There’s some resources on safety and understanding at this other part of the site. BDSM can be tons of fun when done properly, and brings in some very interesting psychological elements. (Yes, I’ve done it before.)  You’ll definitely learn more about yourself and your partner, believe me.

Got sex games? Sex experiences you want to share? Keep it private and let me know what you’re thinking and what you’re doing! Woo! Email me via the pre-made account, Password is distance. My address is I’ll post lines of whatever I get throughout the week. Yeehaw.

The Diary

Everyone’s had at least one diary in their lifetime. To some people it’s a life-long friend, to others it’s just something to rant to emptily, and get some feelings or thoughts out. My first diary was pink and had a lock on it and smelled like vinyl and the inside smelled like starchy bleached paper (one day I’ll tell you about my thing with smelling books lol). I used to always turn and twist the lock because I loved the sound of it. The whole thing was very 90’s. Since then, though, I never kept another paper diary, because of the motherfucking God-blessed internet. Between the oldschool (and good) days of Open Diary to my current obsession and usage of LiveJournal, the internet has turned the once sacred, private relationship with the diary into a means for communication and sharing, instead of keeping and hiding. To some this is a good things, to others, not so much. I’m kind of on the fence about it. 

But it all comes down to trust and personal space, as many things do. There are plenty of things all of us want to keep completely and totally private, and others that we’ll gladly reveal, but only to a select few. There’s an interesting angle of encroachment upon personal space and time, what with almost every program now constantly asking you to update your status and state what you’re thinking or doing. It’s fun and all, but some people are ADDICTED to constantly staying in touch and connected. It certainly has it’s merit and value, but honestly, have some you space and you time, and LOTS of it, not a few minutes here and there. 

Some interesting links on why people keep diaries:

* BBC News: Dear Diary, Why Do I Have You? talks about celebrity diaries vs. “normal” people diaries.

* BiblioAddict: Diaries and the People Who Keep Them has some cool notions on the basis of the ego, and the need for recording thoughts and time. This is making me a little existential! I like. 

Real Life Diary

More story form from another loyal reader 🙂 I’m excited for people to send me the real nitty-gritty trash hehe. Enjoy!

His hands cup my face and my arms encircle him as we lead each other to the bed.

Delicate but hungry fingers pull me on top of him, and my jeans slide off one sigh at a time. My hair falls over his face, hungry mouth once again tracing the patters of unnamed constellations across his body. His pelvic bones grinds mercilessly against the oozing warmth my own body can’t hold back, because it wants so much to meet his own.

I slide his black slim jeans off, and to my hungry delight he does not believe in jeans and underwear either. Kisses stream down his body from the corners of his eyes, across his cheek, over beautiful nipples, grazing his ribcage, cross his jutting pelvis bone. Up mirroring each kiss given, back up to frenzied lips. I can feel his teeth moving against the inside of my mouth with furious want. The slightest scrape against overwhelmed blood vessels and we both taste the metallic drip of my life. Yes, I am willing to offer, even this.

I rise up, head titling backwards, mouth partially open, and you will wait no longer. There is no room for long anticipated release, only the overwhelming feeling of being whole. Satisfaction comes in waves of heat permeating the room with the scent of loved mingled with want.

Our eyes never closed again, until we both fell into a deep slumber. I wanted to learn every inch of his body, so our eyes locked and neither of us ever waivered. I began to see the explosions of colors as his pores beat down with sweat. Every push was met by an equally strong gravitational pull, begging to surrender and go deeper.

He moved on top and I screamed, loud and triumphantly as he entered me again. Every muscle is our body was working relentlessly to bring us closer. His soaked hair buried right above my heart, leaving the hungry imprints in shades of brilliant blue. We kissed with mounting want, sweat, saliva and both our blood racing to feed us a love eternal.


Welcome to Nine Weeks of Strange’s 3rd story, “Swim”, a story about a recovering alcoholic and the dark secrets she learns about her brother upon his death. This is the most popular story in the book so far, per reader reactions and so on, and it is my favorite of the collection as well.

This week’s posts will explore death, dying, near-death experiences, addiction, immortality and much more. 

The following is an “in-person” vid introduction and excerpt of the story. A text excerpt can be found under the vid. 

If you love it already, buy the book! Tell your friends. Pass it along. 


Excerpt from “Swim”, (c) Celeste Ramos, 2009 – Women in Strange Places: Stories

            Ice water fell from the sky at around four o’clock. I told George to meet me at the bar that was next to my hotel. It was an after-work bar where people came to wish they’d never been employed. I took a booth in the back and watched it rain for an hour.

            When four met five I had a glass of heady ale in front of me. As I chugged it I looked up and saw George walk in through the neon and sticker door.

            “Good to see you again,” George said. He kissed me on the cheek and sat down. His car keys sounded like broken wind chimes when they hit the table.

            “Hi George.”

            “How are you?”

            I hated when people asked me that. I shrugged it off and looked around me, to say, what’s it look like?

            “Are you having anything?”

            “No, I don’t drink.”

            It was so hard for me to make conversation with a stranger. I used to be so good at it when I was still working in sales.

But once that last beer kicked in, I knew where to start.

            “Who are you and how do you know my brother?”

            He smiled. “George Taylor. I’m thirty-three. I’m from upstate New York. My parents were missionaries. That a good start?”


            “Swimming is my life. I love it. I met Elliot when I was out one day at the lake. He was the only person there, he was sketching. It was at the end of winter, just barely spring, and the water had a nice bite to it.”

            I listened as his voice painted a wonderful picture for me: my darling Elliot sketching the rusted metal trees of winter, calm as could be.

            “Well, I wasn’t familiar with the lake and just jumped into any old spot. There were a ton of rocks there and I banged my head, knocked myself right out. Elliot saved me and we were friends ever since.” He sighed. “After a while, he went on some trip to an Indian reservation in New York, not far from where I grew up actually. When he came back he said he had to buy that house.”

            “He would never, in a million years, want a house,” I said.

            “Well he wanted that one. I came to live with him after me and my wife divorced. He offered me the bottom floor. That’s the way it was for about a year and a half, until he got sick.”

            A year and a half. Why hadn’t Elliot told me?  I tried to imagine him dealing with housework and decorating. He must have done a wonderful job.

            “And he got sick last summer right?” I asked. How could I have forgotten?

            “Yeah, that’s right.” George rubbed his sleepy face. “He hated doctors.”

            “I know.”

            “He kept complaining about his chest hurting until finally I asked my ex-sister in law to check him out. From there on out he just got worse and worse.”

            I downed the rest of the beer as I ran from the image of Elliot in pain.

            George leaned in and asked, “Are you alright?” He asked me in such a way that I felt in the loving company of a priest. I hadn’t felt that way since the last time I had a heart to heart with Elliot.

            “Fine,” I said.

            “Lynn, I know we’ve just met, but the way Elliot spoke about you all the time … I feel like I’m already close to you. Does that make sense?”


            “No, listen.” He leaned in closer this time and took my right hand. “I’ve traveled a lot in my life. I’ve seen and done many things for my age, met many people. There are few things that don’t change, and to me, it’s when someone’s hiding something.”

            I took my hand back from him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “You drink pretty fast, don’t you?” He didn’t ask in a judgmental tone.

I felt as one does in a dream where they’ve shown up to work completely naked. “It’s none of your business, George. I’m fine.”

             “I know I can’t force you to talk to me. That’s fine.” His dark eyes dropped for a moment and then came back to mine. “I’m sorry. I just want us to be friends. If you need someone to listen – ”

            “Thanks, George, but you know what?” Don’t shove him away, don’t do it, I pleaded to myself. “My brother just died. And at every corner I turn there’s all this stuff I learn about him. I’m upset. I’m going to drink.”

            Poor George. I came to find out later that this was a soft spot for him. His ex-wife had been a terrible alcoholic.

            He leaned back against the seat. Silent minutes moved past us. I was fidgety as George was still. He stared at me off and on.

            “Do you want to come see the house?” He asked finally. “It’s nice. Nothing fancy, but it’s nice. Really quiet. Maybe it would be good for you to spend a week or two there, with me. Maybe it would be good for both of us.”

            “And the boxes?” I asked sharply. This caught him off guard, though I realized in my rising stupor that he hadn’t mentioned them.

            “Well … they’ll be there for you too.”

            “What’s in them?”

            He shook his head. “Nothing I’m going to try and explain to you if you’re not sober. Really, if you’re going to drink the whole time you’re in town it might be best to just mail them to you – ”

            “Wait a minute, who the hell do you think you are? Elliot was my brother and he left those things for me. I think I have the right to see them when I damn please!”

            “There’s a lot you don’t know, Lynn. I don’t want to sound so mysterious but it’s just a matter of fact. Please, for the sake of his memory, you need to be there for this. He left you some very special things. Very important things.” George rose and gave me a tender smile. His eyes were a little angry at me. “I have to go. Just tell me when you want to come by. Okay?”

            I wasn’t sure what awaited me. But as near to the bottom as I was, I had to get something right. It was my duty as his sister to go be at the house, and George was right – I had to be present.

            “I’m staying next door,” I said.

            “I know.”

            “Come get me tomorrow afternoon?”

            “I’ll call you when I’m on the way over. And, just out of curiosity, do you happen to know what happened to a fish Elliot had in his room?”

            “Yeah. I have it in my room. Why?”

            He looked relieved when he said, “Oh good. I was worried the hospital had tossed the poor thing. I gave it to Elliot.”

            I nodded without concern. It was just a fish.

            “I’ll see you,” George said, and walked away.

            Soon after he was gone I was alone at the bar. I felt like an old party streamer tangled in a tree limb.

            If I could get anything right in my imagination about Elliot owning a house, it would be situated in the middle of nowhere. This meant I couldn’t go to the store, or for too long a walk, and I definitely couldn’t run out for something to eat.

I carried a picture of him in my purse, and I told it that my trip to the store down the street would be the last time.

            I wandered the aisles for a half hour as I stared at the mad array of liquors, beers, wines, vodkas. In the long hall of fridges that housed the beer, I stared at the shiny twelve and twenty-four packs, the frosted, rotund aluminum jumbo cans, and the variations of brown, green and red bottles. It felt like these mosaics of poison were pressed against the glass, like fans of me, all wanting to get inside and ingest me.

            I ended up back at the hotel room drowned in wine. At one point during my silent debauchery I thought I saw Elliot cross from the bathroom door to the closet, just around the corner. I could even smell his old cologne.

“It wasn’t your fault, get off that bottle,” I heard him say.

            No, it wasn’t mine, that’s what Elliot always said. I started drinking a few years after our sister Shirley drowned in a river. I was thirteen and she was eleven. I couldn’t swim fast enough to save her. She was right at my grasp, but it was as if every time her frantic hand was within an inch of mine, the current would yank her away from me hard. I had to fight to catch up to her and not let myself get ripped away, but it was useless. I was exhausted. I could only watch as the river rolled her around in its torrents that sounded like a million windows breaking at once, and then her thrashing frame was gone.

            I was depressed for several years until I discovered drinking. I drank to drown out Shirley’s screams. Then I drank to get through classes and break-ups, movies, and drives home. I drank to get to and out of work.

Now I drank because I couldn’t protect Elliot, my remaining sibling. I drank because everything was my fault.

            I didn’t want George to know this. The humiliation was so deep whenever someone found me out in some parking lot or hanging off a stool at a bar. I was afraid that George wanted to be my friend. I knew that if he met the real me, he’d want to forget I was Elliot’s sister. Elliot, who had done nothing wrong to anyone, and had lived his twenty-eight years in peace.

            On the way to the house, Langford’s drab streets gave way to the land surrounding it. The nothing of trees warped the horizon as the main road wandered through them. I had a dry mouth and a head a mile wide. George had bags under his eyes. After some time I made the decision to talk, even if it was just to hear the sound of my voice.

            I shoved mint gum into my mouth before I spoke. I even gave a little smile.

            “Where are we going?”

“The house is in a bit of a limbo. It’s not quite part of Langford, not quite part of Alter Grove. That’s the next town to the west. Usually I tell people I live in the woods.”

I nodded. “How are you today?”

            “Tired. I didn’t get to swim this morning. I haven’t slept.”

            “How come?”

            He looked over at me periodically, saying, “Too many things on my mind. Elliot, and then comes the problem of what to do with the house. I’m not going to stay there… not for much longer. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore, you know that feeling? Sometimes I worry I’ve done it all. There’s so much in my head. I get so agitated when I don’t swim. I can’t focus.”


            “Mmhm. It’s a necessity for me. I swim four times a day.” He leaned forward onto the steering wheel. It looked like he was trying to stretch his lower back.

            “Where do you swim?”

            “In the lake outside the house.”

            “The house is on a lake?” I looked out the window, trying to imagine it. A house on a lake reminded me of summer and lush trees, barbecues and insect bites. Not ice.

            “Oh yes.”

            “Where’d he get the money?”

            “I fronted it to him. He had his savings too.”

            George made a left turn onto a dirt and gravel road. The house became visible immediately, along with the shore of the lake. It was an enormous stretch of glassy water. The house was modestly sized and colored, buttoned into the hilly land.

            I stared at the lake, thick with cold, as it was jostled by the breeze.