Sex, life, and videotape

I watch the brunette, her tongue sliding up the hard, vein-y cock. Her hair bounces up down with the motion of her bobbing head, moving quickly, then suddenly slowing, taking him deep, then sucking as her lips drag upwards, popping over the mushroom-shaped head. She does this several times. I hear the in-suck of his breath, then a low groan.

The view is from his angle, what he sees. The part in her dark hair, her boobs, bouncing out of a leopard print bra. She shifts her legs, lowers her back and I see the curve of her ass lift behind her, the matching thong perfectly splitting her cheeks-- firm and round and shapely. Suddenly she looks up at him, smiling deviously, deliciously, happily. He says something; I'm not sure what, but she smiles, full teeth, full lips, and like a goof rests her nose on the tip of his penis. He tells her he's "getting this on video," on his iPhone.

She laughs out loud now -- throaty, and a wonderful -- and responds by taking him all the way into her throat, as deep as she can.

As deep as I can. It's me on the little screen and Vince's gorgeous, lovely cock in my mouth.

We've never done this. Not ever. Well, yeah, I've given him blow jobs and once he took a picture of it but never run a camera. I mean really, I've never seen myself, or my Vincent, like this before, and it's fucking hot.

Now, I'm not necessarily sultry. I don't look like the chicks on porn making freaky-pouty faces, odd mewling noises, and teeth bared snorts. Vince describes me as "cute." I laugh. I smile. I giggle. A lot. I didn't really know that about myself. And as I continue watching, I realize, I don't look stupid, silly, fat, or ugly. In fact, I look damn sexy, especially when I look straight up at him, into his eyes, and all I can see there is wanton, wonderful, enjoyment.

I continue to watch the screen where our actions of a few moments before are recorded. I can see my lips curled over my teeth, to protect his gentle skin but I'm not being so easy with the rest of the package. My hand has his balls in a tight grip that I use to raise him deeper into my throat then pull back him back down. I can't see it but I know my knuckles are pressing hard between his balls and his ass as I pull up with my hand and push down with my mouth. My other hand is under him, pressing up, tantalizingly close to an area I'd just love to play with a little more.... like he does with mine.

I have rediscovered the blow job, and oh my fucking god, is it awesome.

His hand enters the screen and just as his fingers intertwine in my hair, the shot ends. He's put the fucking camera down so he can concentrate on what's going on. He grabs hard too, and lifts his hips to slide his dick even deeper, deep enough I almost gag, but not quite. When it gets too much, I press on his stomach with my other hand and he lets go of my head and wraps his hand around his cock to stroke himself to completion.

I wait, my gaze going back and forth between his face, his pumping hand, and his swollen member, waiting for him to pant out "now, suck it now." And I do. And he bucks and grinds into my mouth as he comes and I keep sucking and licking and squeezing the tip of his cock while he cums and moans and calls out for god.

My, my, my, how things have changed!

I'd never considered myself great with the blow job and there was probably a six year period where Vincent may have received three or four half-hearted ones. Two years ago the idea of a camera would have sent me running from the room. Now it's my freakin' idea. Hell, a year ago, I still would have squicked at the idea of him cumming in my mouth now it's an integral part of the plan. I stay on task dammit, until his fuckin' eyes roll back.

My friends, I have seen the light and I don't know why.

I think part of it is thanks to Sadie and Figleaf and Goose and Emmy and Hubman and Veronica, and all the other bloggers who write about the joy of enjoying sex. A greater part of it is changing my views of sex and love in general. Another part is the delightful on-line play I have with a few choice friends who rev my engines and fill my head with fun fantasies and awesome ideas.

But, and I think this is pretty huge, is the greater communication between Vince and me. To tell you the truth, the entire time we were "in the desert" he never complained, never once told me that my inability and unwillingness to have sex or give him a blow job hurt him or that he missed out on intimacy or even just the fucking fucking. I never knew how good orgasms felt to him. I guess I "knew" but I didn't know from him. It was only very recently in fact, that he told me how it felt when I sucked him off has he came, that it's "a nerve shattering, body wracking, mind blowing" sensation. I swear to god, I didn't know that.

And now that I do, I want to give him those sensations more. I want him to feel good. Very good.

I have a few readers (men who aren't having sex with their wives and some women who are struggling with lack of libido) to whom I'd love to say "I don't' know the specifics of your situation, but it DID turn around for us. It can turn around for you." My sex drive came back ... with a vengeance ... and man oh man I can't imagine going backwards.

After Vincent caught his breath it was my turn, I'm running the camera now and he's running his tongue and our toys. We've actually named them so I have Oscar in my pussy, Lil'Pete in my ass and Vincent suckling my lady bits. And yes, I've got pictures and no, you can't see them! But we did. And it was great! And after he rolled my eyes back in my head and I came so hard I almost pulled his hair out. But we weren't done. Oh no. We next found ourselves at the end of the bed, me bent over and him behind for all out pounding. OMG I love that! We ended the festivities with Vincent cumming for the second time in an hour.

This is our new normal and it is still unfolding, still evolving, still growing.

Part of me feels like a seventeen year old boy. I mean, I'm good to go! Ready and oh-so-willing any day, any time. It doesn't even take a stiff breeze. And Vincent ... well, let's just say he's not only keeping up, but starting to lead off on occasion. We're both continuing to open up a little more, to each other, to life, to experience. Who knows where we'll end up? But we're both pretty sure we're going to enjoy where the ride takes us; we're sure as hell enjoying the ride now.

Sunday rambling

Vincent is making his way home from his gig and I spent the morning indulging in a few favorite pastimes -- one of which is going for a bike ride. The following is a few thoughts that crossed my mind:

1. The tree on the right is an orange tree; their blossoms smell like heaven. It is an almost overpowering scent that doesn't just fill a few feet around them but instead you can smell them hundreds of yards away. If there are enough trees, the aroma carries for miles. It's a rich, heady sweetness that can overpower anything in its way -- exhaust fumes, pollution, anything. In season, this smell wraps around everything; of course it only lasts for a couple of weeks. When I was growing up, hundreds of thousands of acres of orange groves made pretty much the entire center and lower-center of the state come alive like this every year. The freezes of the early 80s and again in the mid-90s have all but destroyed the industry this far north and the developers of the late-90s pretty much destroyed the rest of the groves. But they're still a few of the trees here and there, and I look forward to this time every year.
2. Our community has a bike trail that cuts through the center of our town and continues into the counties west, north, and east of us. I feel like I'm among "my people" when I'm on the trail. The hard-core bikers have hard, cut muscles in their legs and butts. Awesome. The runners are in heaven right now because of the weather even though they still look miserable. (I know, I know, runners. You're not "miserable" but "in the endorphin zone." Whatever. You still look miserable. And when it's 98 degrees and 98% humidity in July and August, you can't convince me you aren't miserable.) The in line skaters are beautiful with the graceful sway of their bodies and legs, sweeping from side to side. The earnest walkers make their way up and down the trail. Young people with kids, older retired folks with bikes that cost more than my first car. Gangs of people "training," groups of people "socializing." It's just freakin' awesome.
3. There's a nature preserve also along the trail with a back entrance. Today, I locked up my bike on the rack and hiked a mile or so on the trails as well. I saw one other couple through the trees but for the most part I was completely alone. For a while I toddled along with The Indigo Girls and John Prine on my iPod then eventually shut it off just to hear the "nothing" around me. I texted Vince with a photo. I am, in my heart, a nature girl.
4. After my solo bike ride I decided to have a solo breakfast at our local french restaurant -- french coffee, an omlette with "fromage et fin herbs," and fruit. I sat in the outdoor cafe section that over looked the trail going through the center of town. That's where I observed once again the huge difference between the folks on the trail and the ones on the sidewalk. Not everyone on the trail was a hard-body (I'm certainly not) but everyone on the trail looked like they gave a damn. Many of the sidewalk strollers moved with that overweight or broken down and painful-looking shuffle of people who've given up; as if they've prematurely embraced decrepitude. These folks weren't old, but they were all, to a man and a woman, damaged.
5. While I was eating the chef came out of the back, strode purposefully across the street to the local fresh vegetable shop. He walked back out carrying fresh green onions, tomatoes, and several clumps of the "fin herbs" previously mentioned. He's french, so he looked a bit pissy about it, but his food is always fresh!
6. I didn't feel especially sexy this morning but I felt great never-the-less. It's almost a neutral feeling I get when I'm "independent Ivey"; a contented quality that fills me when I'm engaging my body, exploring my environment, entertaining my own thoughts, and observing the world without filters, clutter, or distraction. No one with me whose wants or opinions need to be taken in to account. No one around with whom to discuss, debate, or defend my thoughts or ideas. No one's schedule but my own, no direction except what I choose. It's an awesome and peaceful feeling.

Random rambling. Vincent is home now after an obnoxiously long trek home. The temperature is perfect and I've opened all the windows to let the soft spring breeze perfume the house with orange blossoms. I'm going to let Vincent rest while I go and get a pedicure. Then later, I'm going to cook him a fantastic supper. After that, if he's up for it, I think I'll give him a good night blow job and then snuggle him off to sleep.

Over-thinking it

Ah, finally a little solitude! As I may have mentioned before, Vince and I live and work together from home but for the last eight days, we have not been away from each other's physical proximity by more than maybe 15 feet at any given time. Let me tell ya somethin', the kinky-folk that brag about their 24/7 dom/sub life can suck it. (A joke, my kinky-type readers! Joke!!) But seriously folks, the constant little shifts from me to he to she to we that make up our existence can, on some days, be a pretty intense dance -- sometimes a jig, sometimes a tango, sometimes a waltz. But on most days, just a joyous dance. :)

Lots and lots has been going on in my noodle and I just thought I'd share a little.

So, here's a bit about our visit to the off-site swingers club last Saturday. First, it wasn't exactly "a club" but instead a regular bar in an OK part of town that recently started hosting a swinger event for Lifestyler's on Saturday nights. It was about a 45 - 50 minute drive from where we were staying but considering the offerings in our hometown, that didn't seem too far for us.

We found out about the place through our swinger website and posted that we were planning to attend. One of the host couples emailed us back to say they were looking forward to meeting us and to ask for them when we got there. That was very nice. I'm a gregarious girl and I still have trouble just walking up to people in a bar and saying "hi."

Anyway, we decided to try something a little different: this night, Vince called all the shots. From where we stood to who we talked to, whatever. First, in most swinger relationships, its the opposite, the WIFE calls all the shots. But in our case, Vince is the more reserved so rather than have him standing there being uncomfortable with whatever choices I was making, I suggested I just hang back and go with whatever he wanted. The other reason is because I can be, ahem, a bit pushy, some would say a control freak, other might more charitably say ... well ... there is no charitable way I can think of to control the thoughts, words, and actions of another person who doesn't want to be controlled. Let me tell ya, pushiness and control can get fuckin' old fuckin' quick; from both our standpoints.

To agree on the dynamic we used the example of how we act when we ride our motorcycle. I'm fully capable of driving the thing (licensed and all!) but I enjoy just riding on the back, he makes all the decisions, calls all the shots, and I trust that I'll enjoy wherever he decides to go.

And it worked, for the most part.

The evening itself was okay. When we first got there (after I jumped the gun and asked for the hosts before Vince was ready, as he reminded me of our deal) we checked out the bar. It was nice overall; there were a good number of couples at the main bar, in the back was a dance floor, complete with stripper pole and a DJ, and a nice fenced-in outdoor area. Unfortunately for us, the dance area was also the smoking section and that pretty much kept us out of there. In addition, the evening was cold and I was wearing a sexy ensemble, so the porch wasn't a great option either.

Vince chose a spot at the end of the bar where we could see folks coming in the door and check out the people at the bar. And check we did. And there was no one that we were interested in physically. Ages and sizes aren't a huge deal for us but we've discovered a few things that are: we like women that look "soft" not "hard." Vince likes big eyes, full lips, and natural looking hair of any shade. We both prefer women that had a "feminine" shape, a little round and curvy, not "hard body" fit or broad-shouldered build. Those folks can be very nice people, but they don't turn either one our heads and make us go "hmmmmm." We also have a thing about class or taste. We like to have as much fun as the next couple (we think) but there's something about vulgarity that just turns both of us off. A person can be hot as hell, but if they can't manage a sexy look or sexy conversation without acting like they were born in a barn then they also, aren't for us.

You may notice I didn't say much about the men and that's something we have to work on. Since Vince was in the lead, there was no discussion of men for me at all. His position, and in some sense I agree, is that since there were no women of interest, the men didn't matter. But it bugs me. I've made it very clear I'm bi-curious (probably bi-definitely-curious) but I am certainly straight, so I just think that as a matter of equity he should take my interests into greater consideration however, since we were leaving all of the decision making up to him, it didn't ever come up until the car ride back to our hotel.

We did chat with the hosts and a few other couples. The hosts were nice and one of the guys was quite funny. But the bar setting wasn't the best for Vince; it's hard to hear, he gets distracted by the music, and he's not a small talk kinda guy. Maybe we're just not shallow enough for the bar crowd? Maybe it's not our setting? See, the thing is, we've never been "bar" people. Vince plays gigs in them, but neither of us hang out in them and really never have.

At the end of the night Vince decided he "didn't have a bad time." And that's not enough. We both want to have a good time -- an exciting, fun, and adventurous time. We (and I think he more than me) needs to be excited about the people we're with, especially the woman and he is, if not picky, very selective.

Personally, (and I could be really wrong about this) I think if I was only interested in three-somes with women or girl-girl action we'd have already jumped in by now. But there is something about "the men" that bothers Vince. He swears that it's not jealousy, that he trusts that I love him and that I'm not looking to replace him. When we last discussed it he said that he felt that "the man hadn't earned the right to be there" or to be with me. "What's this guy bringing to the table?" is how he phrases it.

I'm not really cool with that.

It appears that his position is "if I want to fuck the guy's wife bad enough then the you can do whatever you want with him." But I know my husband and that type of callous disregard for me just doesn't sound like him. So I keep thinking there's something else there that I'm not getting or he's not saying.

See, I actually WANT to see him have sex with another woman. I WANT to watch his face when she's doing something wonderful to him and with him, I WANT him to have the experience of two (or more!) women working to give him fantastic sensations and powerful orgasms. I want to be able to do things with him that it's not physically possible for me to do alone. I WANT the satisfaction of knowing that at the end of every day I am his wife and I happily and eagerly do whatever I can to give him whatever HE wants.

And I want him to feel the same way about me, but in spite of what he says, I just don't get the feeling that he does.

Maybe it's as simple as he just can't get his mind around the thought of me giving or receiving any type of pleasure (sexual or otherwise) with another man; and that certainly wouldn't be unusual compared to the vast number of men in world. Maybe in his mind I am literally "his" to call the shots, to run the show, even though he does not want to be the person that prevents me from experiencing anything this life has to offer.

And maybe I'm just over-thinking this thing. Maybe we just haven't met an attractive enough woman who also has a good enough guy.

Sorta HNT

So we've finally returned to our humble abode and back to the land of predictable internet service and adequate bandwidth. Whew! What a week!!

As you can see, we didn't actually get an HNT pulled together so I thought I'd show you something that is pretty secret -- Vincent. So keeping with tradition, first, a few Vincent facts:

1. Vince is an amazing musician (guitar is his main instrument), an outstanding amatueur/sorta pro photographer, and an all around good egg.
2. He is a pretty -- oh hell, who am I kidding? -- VERY private person. This is about as much nekkid as I ever think we'll see on Ivey Lane.
3. He is pretty oblivious when it comes to his attractiveness with the ladies. He's usually so into whatever he's doing, he doesn't always notice when a woman digs him. "She was hitting on me? Really?" Of course she was.

(Vince adds "I'm not that stupid. I do know when I'm getting attention. But I am always surprised by it."

Oh, and this shot was taken on a beach in north Florida, south of St. Augustine. The rocks you see are coquina outcroppings.

Happy Half-Nekkid-Thursday everyone.

Ivey

Raise up a child in a way that is right....

[Warning -- I wrote this at 3:00 am. I can't sleep. Don't ask why. But a self-pitying wallow follows. Read at your own risk.]


For those of you church-y types, especially if you have any familiarity at all with the Southern Baptist tradition, you know exactly what the title of this post refers to --

Proverbs 22:6 "Raise up a child in a way that is right, and when he is old, he shall not depart from it."

Ivey's corollary is "Raise up a child any fucking way you want and when they are old they won't depart from it; the couldn't if they tried."

See, I was raised to be the following: obedient (above all), subservient, and accommodating.

I was taught to never "talk back," never question, never doubt or challenge authority; never, ever, put my needs and certainly not my desires, over anyone else's, not fucking ever. I learned and learned well that what I think is wrong, that I cannot function properly without correction and that punishment does not need to be understood but rather withstood. I know that love is conditional and that it can be, and will be, withheld when I displease those that I am required to love and to obey. I learned, and learned well, that I do not, I do not ever, embarrass people with my words, my actions, or my thoughts. Not. Fucking. Ever.

Yes, indeed folks. I was raised up right. And those lessons were driven home with belts, brushes, paddles, slaps, humiliation, and ridicule. And I got the fucking message before I turned five. By the time I was ten, I stopped trying to figure out what I'd done wrong but instead was learning to avoid anything that might earn a correction. Unfortunately, I also learned that I wasn't very bright, because I failed at that a lot.

A short list:

• An eye-roll would earn a slap along with "Roll your eyes at me, I'll roll your head back, young lady."
• Disrespect in any form, but especially in public, would earn having my underpants jerked down, turned over a knee, and spanked with a hand or paddle. "Don't you EVER sass me!"
• Disobedience, swearing, or lying was a belt-worthy offense; when little, over the knee worked, in the teen years, I would lay across the bed, as instructed, in undies only. "I don't want to do this but you WILL learn not to [fill in the blank here]."

And guilt or innocence was immaterial. Judgement was swift and punishment was sure.

Furthermore, this was a "village" kinda vibe. It wasn't just my own parents that didn't spare the rod to avoid the proverbial "child spoiling," relatives, neighbors, the church, hell, the school community, got to get their licks in too.

An interesting side note, at least to me, is that I had one teacher in middle school who was especially paddle-happy. One day I observed that I was always wearing a dress every time I did something that required me to go out in the hall, put my hands against the wall, spread my feet, and take my "whuppin." Weird. But I quit wearing dresses and that seemed to solve the problem, at least in Ag. Class.

In the church (and reinforced at home) I learned that not only was I responsible for my behavior but apparently for the behavior -- and even the thoughts! -- of every boy and grown man around. Once, we were coming back from a Youth Trip ("Jesus! '82" at Seaworld) late at night. I'd fallen asleep in the back of the church van. Suddenly, we pulled off the side of the road, waking everyone up, where I was informed that I had to go ride on the children's bus because I was "inspiring lust in the hearts of young men." This not per the young men, but according to the chaperone driving the van who should've been keeping his eyes of the fucking road and not on the sleeping 15 year old in the back row. By herself.

I made it to college and my 20s, virginity firmly in place, and discovered that I had, in fact, been raised up right. I never questioned the authority of my professors, even when they told me that I would never realize my dreams and utterly lacked talent. I never talked back or questioned the "brilliant" and "learned" minds that were there, but I anticipated what I needed to get the grade well enough and gave it to them, with little thought on my part and less understanding.

And when opportunities did come my way, a chance to study abroad or be cast in a very challenging role (that included.... shhhh.... nudity) I turned those disgusting opportunities down, and right fuckin' quick too, let me tell you. I didn't need to "think" about anything, weigh pros and cons, challenge myself. Hell no! I already KNEW the right path, because my parents and God and the pastors and the relatives made sure I did. And when the professional chance of a lifetime (for a serious young actress, at least) presented itself to me, I let that pass too. I mean, Mama and Daddy and Granny and Granddaddy and Ganny and Gramps and all my aunts and cousins and the preacher and well, shit, you get the idea. They would NEVER be okay with that. And you don't cross Mama and Daddy. Not if you know what's good for you.

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away! But Mama and Daddy are the hands of God."

I have no children and I never will.

And because I had no experience or understanding with "boys," other than the fact that good girls didn't put out, when my body's desires finally overcame my morals I fucked up in more ways than one -- from a disastrous and very regrettable "first time" to the first in a long line of bad choices.

I rationalized that it's okay though, if, ya know, they love you. And they did love me, right? I mean, I loved them. All of them. From the compulsive liar to the drug-abusing racist asshole. From the ones I don't remember to the ones I've tried and failed to forget. I loved them. I had to. And they just HAD to love me. A lot of them didn't though. And seriously, why would they? I was a dirty, sex-having whore.

Because sex equals love, right? Because if it doesn't, then I was fucking lied to. See, I was told that sex is only okay if both the man and woman love each other and if they aren't married then they are going to be soon. Right? Oh, and it's dirty. And it's from the devil. And it's all Eve's fault anyway. And that's why it hurts to have babies. Because God made it so when he drove Adam and Even from the Garden of Eden. Because God was fucking pissed at stupid Eve. And that's why she's not as good as a man. Because she's stupid, and gullible, and weak, and well, dirty. Unless a man loves her, and that makes her okay. But not any smarter.

And as I entered my thirties and now my forties I am realizing, deeply and completely, just how "right" I was raised and how I want to, but don't seem to be able to, depart from it.

I have obligations to my family, and I owe them, because they made me who I am -- right? -- and eventually I will bankrupt myself and my husband to take care of them. Under their constant criticism, correction, and derision. I know that.

And when the day comes, and it will because it has before, when my brother needs me because he is even more fucked up than I, I will take care of him, too.

What other people want or need will always, always, always be placed above what I want or need. Always.

And now that I no longer believe in God -- or my parents for that matter -- I have to tell you I'm a little disappointed that my sacrifice won't even earn me a place in heaven. I'm kinda pissed off that failing to please others and not doing whatever it is that they didn't want me to do isn't going to give me at least some cosmic fucking payoff. Of course, I shouldn't be surprised. My vigilant dedication to not upsetting people has failed to make them happy, and it's sure as shit failed to make me happy.

I mean, I've not done it all. I "didn't do" the long list of don'ts.

I'm forty-fucking-three. If family history can be trusted and nothing else goes awry, then I'll probably live to be ninety and that's not a given, is it? I would really like, no REALLY LIKE, to do some of the don'ts and even some of the do's.

But I don't think I can.

That's not how I was raised.

Moonlight Serenade

So Vincent and I are working from the road for a few days. This project requires -- I mean just requires! -- us to spend 7 nights at the beach. During the day, we're pretty much driving up and down the beach road, writing, taking pictures, and conducting an interview or two, and at night we explore the local restaurants and haunts.

Last night, after a hard days work, we headed over to a little hidden gem of a dining establishment that our client suggested. It's a backwoods Florida coastal kinda place that serves up Alligator Tail, Frog Legs, Catfish, Oysters, etc. etc. They also serve this tasty libation called a "Swamp Thang"; I'm not sure what all's in it except Bacardi and lots of other stuff and our fantastic server, Jimmy, who was just as cute as could be, took a shine to us and told the bartender to make 'em "friendly." It was indeed the color of swamp water and served in a mason jar. I had three. (Vince had a couple of beers, as is his custom.)

Dinner was great but that's not the story. After we ate we came back to our resort where we have what amounts to private beach access. It's still a little cool at night but we decided to take a walk down, just to listen to the waves and watch the stars.

Man, oh, man! It was DARK. And low tide so the waves were crashing rhythmically in the distance. This stretch of Florida coast has no high rise hotels, no light polluting city lights, and mostly private homes on the beach. In other words, it was totally deserted. So it was just me and him. Just us. All alone. On our own private peace of paradise, arms wrapped around each other, gazing into the heavens.

I was so happy I just had to give him a blow job right there on the beach. And I did. (Grin!) And it was marvelous. (Vincent grins!)

It was also a first. I gotta tell ya, I completely envy the camping-in-the woods nature-types sometime (not all the time, but sometimes) mostly because they get to fuck in nature. That just sounds pretty cool to me.

But back to the beach, we hadn't thought to bring a towel or blanket with us and the thought of sand in my ladybits wasn't appealing so we zipped up and hustled back to our room for some right proper nookie! And Vincent got to come again. Twice in one hour! Not too shabby for a 40-something year old man, eh? And I, of course, got as many big O's as I could stand, as is my custom. (More grinning here!)

There's a swinger club in a town not too far from here and if we can swing it (get it? swing it?) we're going to head over there this evening.

Since we are working from the road, Internet access is spotty and time is limited. I won't be posting or commenting much but will be reading your stuff.

Catch ya later, Alligator!

Ivey

HNT -- Thinking of him....

And another Happy HNT is upon us! The time has sprung forward, Spring is around the corner, and my thoughts turn, as always, to him.

But first, a few Ivey facts:

• Over the past few months I've delighted in a number of cyber-crushes and on-line flirtations and you guys always put a smile on my face! (You know who you are, and THANKS! :) )But my number one pass-time, my favorite mental preoccupation, is Vincent.


• We are literally a 24/7 couple. We work together from home, travel together for business, and entertain together as a couple. And we are extremely happy and content with our arrangement.


• Occaisionally, he has a gig and is away from me, so I have the evening home alone. I usually slide into the tub with a good book, or maybe curl up on the couch and peruse my favorite blogs, sometimes I may flirt with a disembodied friend or two, but every night when I'm climbing in bed he's the one I think about before drifting off into a contented slumber.

Everything I dream about is in addition to -- never instead of -- him.

Enjoy!

Check out the other half-nekkid loveliness over at O's place!

And on another note, I'd like to give a special shout out this Thursday to the delightful Babe Lincoln and her hubby. They are rejoining the HNT wackiness and I hear a "rock and roll" theme is on the docket. Congrats, you two!!

I am Ivey Lane

I had a pretty good time last week; specifically, Vincent and I got a away for a few days to a little resort-y kinda town with a few friends -- definitely a vanilla! -- but a little out of the ordinary this time. One night, we went to a dance club and, oh my god, was it fantastic. I haven't danced like that since before I was married! Hell, since before we started going out. Well, shit, I haven't danced like that for almost 18 years.

And it was wonderful.

Of course, the achy knees took over at about mid-night, a clear reminder that age catches up to us all but in my case, it's kinda worse than that....

You see, and I don't mean to alarm anyone, but I have a thing about my mortality; I know it's comin' and I know it's gonna suck.

Don't be alarmed. I'm not sick or anything, just hyper-aware of the process.

"Well, Ivey, everyone 'knows' they're going to die. You're just being morbid."

No, they really don't. They don't watch, day after day, month after month, year after year, strong people decay -- mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally -- before their very eyes. They don't do, with their own hands, the things that dying people need, like wipe shit from asses, and change adult diapers, and spoon-feed hand mashed peas into drooling mouths. They don't lift and carry from rocker to bed the same woman who used to both wipe and spank their behind. They don't fall to their knees so they can hold the penis of the bravest and baddest man that ever lived in a plastic jar so he won't piss on the carpet. Again. Then lie beside them, in a darkened and dingy room that smells of both Clorox and urine, as they are drawing their last breaths and hold their hands -- one on a hot July night, the other the following Spring -- as they leave this world for... what? The next? Oblivion? Heaven or hell?

No, everyone doesn't know they are going to die. But I know. And I know sooner or later, my last day on this earth is coming. It would be a gross understatement to say that knowledge caused the birth of Ivey Lane.

I'd been coming to the realization that something was "wrong" for quite some time. Not all at once, but with a sense of urgency that was palpable and intense. And on one of the many, many days or nights that I spent with my loved ones, I realized something horrible -- I've lived my life trying to please people who couldn't be pleased and missing out on the wide world of experiences that could be mine if only I'd hadn't been afraid -- of judgement, of condemnation, of disappointing people, of disappointing God. And here's the kicker, if I didn't change, I was going to die the same way that the two old folks in the house were dying, alone, afraid, incontinent, inarticulate shadows of their former selves; and in my case, without the benefit of heirs or children to ease the transition, however modestly.

"Oh, Ivey, it's just a mid-life crisis. You'll get over it."

Yeah, ya see, that's the thing. I don't want to get over it. I think most people do get over it by getting the tattoo they always wanted (check), buying the motorcycle or sports car (check and soon to be checked) and having an affair (okay, no affair but surely the swinging desire counts for that) AND THEN realizing that deep down, they either hadn't really changed or that they were still more afraid of dying than of not living.

But I really, honestly and truly, changed. And I have traded my fear of death for a fear of a life not fully lived. I want to experience everything I can, without fear, rejecting judgement. I want to know what I'm capable of; I want to know how much of life I can take in, how many people I can meet, how many places I can go, how many things I can do.

I want to know. That's all.

I want to know what it feels like to have sex with a woman. I want to know what it feels like to have sex with two men. I want to know what it's like to experience that kind of chemistry with another person or group of people then to indulge in the connection that presents itself. I want to experience pleasure for pleasure's sake whether that be good food, good sex, or good times.

And I know, in my heart of hearts, that I am fully capable of living life to the fullest. I know that I can enjoy moments and people and sensations. I know, for example, that if I decide to go to a strip club I can have a ball. I know that if I had the opportunity to have sex with another man or woman that I will enjoy it for what it is and not try to turn it into something that it isn't, for good or ill. I'm aware, that there are possibilities and limits in the world. And still, I am unafraid and unashamed.

And I'm not limiting myself to the sexual realm either though I feel this is a strong phase because of where I am in my life now combined with what I lost, through ignorance and fear, in my youth. I want to push the limits of my athleticism, to see what I can keep my body doing. I want to expand my mind and my understanding of people and ideas. And I must say, except for the sexual adventures, I'm doing a damn good job.

But some folks can't or won't do those things.

And that is how you "get over," or avoid entirely, a mid-life crisis. You accept the notion that life's experiences are, for whatever reason, not for you. Perhaps you cannot or will not explore beyond your defined comfort zone. Perhaps you are not willing enough to let go of your own judgments of yourself or others enough to connect with people who may not be like you. Perhaps you are unable or unwilling to jeopardize what you have for what you want.

I've mastered the first two. I am fearless -- "intrepid" is the word Vincent prefers -- and I've redefined my judgements in ways that have opened my heart to some fascinating and wonderful people. But that last one, may, in fact, be the one that moves me off Ivey Lane. I know there is one thing, one person, that I cannot give up. I would literally die for them. I hope to die with them, hand-in-hand, side-by-side in whatever old folks home we finally reside in, interacting with each other and with whoever is willing to wipe our asses and spoon feed us our mashed peas. If it ever comes down to what makes him happy or what makes me happy, the answer is already made -- it will be him.

It may seem self-defeating, but I cannot make him miserable, even if the source of his misery is my happiness, and still be happy myself. And if I lose him, the one experience I want more than all others, to share my life with him, will be sacrificed.

I am flexible and can change; perhaps he is not or does not want to. He is content with who he is; I am no longer content with who I was.

He is who he is. I am who I decide to be.

And for now, I am Ivey Lane.

What's the weather out there?

Look outside. Clear freakin' blue sky. It's 8:00 a.m.; Vincent and I are looking out the french doors into the backyard contemplating a Sunday morning bike ride. We wonder, aloud, what the temperature is out there.

And here it is, the difference between Vincent and Ivey, in a nutshell:

Vincent whips out his trusty iPhone, pulls up the local temps, and assess the data while I get up, open the door, and go outside to see how it feels.

That's it, folks -- Vince and Ivey.

I don't give a rat's ass what the numbers on some device says about the temperature. 58 degrees? What the fuck does that mean to me? Maybe 58 feels good today, maybe it doesn't. Maybe it's a dry 58 or a humid one. I won't know 'til I get out there, man, and once I do, the decision is made completely and totally, no looking back. "Feels great!! Let's ride!!" Or "Hell no! Let's go to breakfast."

Vincent assess data. He knows if he has a good response to "58 degrees" or not, if it falls inside or outside of his acceptable range. There is no need to go check and "see" if it's all right. No need to subject himself to some potential discomfort if he's already decided that's too cold nor waste time verifying it if he's already decided the weather is fine.

No amount of data is going to change my impression of the what my senses tell me so it's useless for Vince to try to change my mind if his data tells him something different.

"Honey, it's only 58, that's not cold."

"Are you kidding me! I'm freezing out here."

At the same time, if I insist he go out there and check for himself he will come back with an affirmation of what he's already determined.

"Baby, com'on! It feels awesome out here!"

"Hey, 58 is cold. I'm not going out there just to be miserable 8 miles from home."

Now if you and your spouse are both analyzers or both experiencers, then it's easier to understand and accept their judgements and reasoning about pretty much everything, especially as it relates to the twists and turns of swinging. You may disagree on the conclusion of the analysis or the outcome of the experience but you at least recognize as valid how the other person reached their decision.

But if you're different types, if you reach your conclusions through vastly different processes, it's a whole new fuckin' ballgame. You have to learn about, recognize, admit exists, commit to, trust in, and be patient with a mental and emotional decision making process that you yourself don't use!

People often talk about how their "communication has improved" thanks to their foray into swinging and my question is always "How, exactly?" Be specific; know what is "improving." You see, my impression is that only committed people who already have a damn good communication system are able to navigate swinging successfully. Oh, and please don't assume I'm saying that committed people with good communication should try the swinging idea. I'm not. I am saying that if you don't have those two things, you definitely shouldn't.)

Our communication (and in my opinion each of us as individuals) has been made better by the various revelations of our journey in very specific ways and this is one of them. I watch his gears turn, I see his assessing mind at work when we're deciding who we want to contact on our swinger site and deciding who is and isn't a good fit as a good thing. He is the one who keeps our train on the track, so to speak. He sees my ability to experience the unfamiliar without a lot of analysis as intrepid and fearless, not reckless or stupid, which opens us both to new adventures and a richer, more meaningful life.

I'm always out front, saying "The weather's great! Let's go!" or conversely "This doesn't feel right." Vincent checks the data, verifies the facts, makes sure we have appropriate clothing for the weather, and plots the course.

Each holding the other's heart safely in our hands.

HNT -- Obese? Really?

Greetings, one and all and happy Half-Nekkid Thursday! I'm finally recovered from my cold, mostly, and have just gotten home from a kick-ass karate class. Tonight, two of my classmates promoted so the rest of us did the testing with them for moral support. Ow. But damn, I'm one bad-ass Southern lady....

That said, today's HNT -- Obese. But first, a few Ivey facts:

1. Yes, according to the standards being used by Hubman's children's school district, yours truly is truly obese. My BMI is (gasp!) 31.
2. I can bike 30 miles without breathing hard, can lift as much weight as many men, and am a Green belt in karate. I eat very well. I sleep very good. I am, according to many, quite lovely.
3. There are two types of people in the world -- those who find my body repulsive and something to be ashamed of and those who find it beautiful and something to be enjoyed. It took me 41 years to finally join the latter group.

And I haven't looked back.

Happy HNT everyone! For more Half-Nekkidness, go visit Osbasso!

Oh, and for those one or two people who don't already know, my fave babe Hubman has a new URL. Go check him out, or update your blogroll, or whatever you need to do. That man it too cool to miss!