Where has she gone???

It’s official… I am ladylikepervert.com! I have the best subscribers out there and I would hate to lose a single one of you! Please subscribe to my new site and stay in the loop with my shamelessly pervy posts!

I’ve moved!!!!

It’s official… I am ladylikepervert.com! I have the best subscribers out there and I would hate to lose a single one of you! Please subscribe to my new site and stay in the loop with my shamelessly pervy posts!

Nurse her

I’m home right now, on this dreary rainy Monday morning. Mr. Pervert has the flu, he never gets sick but he is horribly ill right now. The only other time that I’ve seen him this bad was during our honeymoon in the Bahama’s and he ate bad lobster on our booze cruise. Poor guy.

But it isn’t he that I am nursing.

I had arrived at work this morning, clicked on my computer, and was sorting through my in-tray when Hubby called and pleaded that our youngest daughter had started throwing up in several areas of the house, that he was too weak to move and when he tried he broke out in cold sweats and shakes. I needed to come home, clean up the ‘car sick’ as my baby calls it and tend to my very sick family.

Once home, I rush to my precious baby’s side, brush away the ringlets that are sticking to her sweaty face and wipe her mouth after she’s done vomiting on to the living room floor. Next I go to Hubby and kiss his clammy forehead, and tell him I will fix up the bedroom for him so he can tear himself away from The Wiggle’s and Imagination Movers. I make the bed, open the window to freshen the air, fluff his pillow and he’s barely settled before he’s sawing logs.

It got me thinking…

When my husband is sick I love to baby him, I love to nurse him, I love to be his soft place to fall. However, when I am sick, his nurture skills are meek. He will busy himself with the dishwasher, the laundry, caring for the children, meal making and house cleaning – but what I require most in times of illness is physical comforts. I need to cuddle, to snuggle, to be held. I understand that the instinctive mothering skills that impel me to rub his back and kiss his face, are the same force that spawn his need to ‘provide’ for me.

I’ve never been one to let my husband take care of me. I was raised watching my mentally ill dysfunctional mother be ‘cared for’ by an abusive step-father, who would be the first guy to clean and scrub the house, but then yell at my mother incessantly about how lazy and non-contributing she was. Even after two c-sections, major surgery, and my husband’s insistence that I take it easy, I’ve been able to – no one will ever call me lazy.

But I want it. I want to be scooped up and wrapped in his arms. I want to let myself feel useless and non-contributing and be ok with that. I want to produce absolutely no value in a day yet still be loved whole-heartedly. 

I had surgery this summer, major surgery, big enough that I was home for a month and at some points unable to care for myself. Hubby  took me to the washroom when I need to, bathed me, fed me and was there every 4 hours with the post-surgery medications and pain pills. Letting myself feel vulnerable to his care, and my subsequent insecurities was a pivotal period for me. It added a dynamic to our relationship.

Sometimes the ‘sexy’ doesn’t just come from the sex and the blow jobs. The first time use of our sex toys, the first time we try a different and unusual sex act or practice – there is a high level of vulnerability. It’s the same vulnerability that I felt when I ‘let him’ care for me. In both cases, I am outside my comfort zone but trusting in him to be considerate of me.

While I wish that he’d spend the day in bed with me and cuddle me until the cows come home, he is performing his providing duties like a red-blooded man instinctively does.

But remember, my male friends, a lot of the time sexiness has nothing to do with sex. Caring for her will increase your intimacy and the more intimate she feels, the better the sex.

 

 

Ben Wa Wednesday

Can I just say that in a duel my ‘gina would totally kick your ‘gina’s ass?! She’s buff, she’s strong and she can shoot a marble straight across the room (undetermined but totally plausible).

 
No doubt, this will be one of those posts that I later shake my head at and think “Woman, what were you thinking!?” Until then, I will shamelessly detail what I am referring to as Ben Wa Wednesday! (Because Ben Wa Thursday didn’t have the same ring to it)

 
The other day, the UPS man who frequently delivers boxes and packages to my house (normally full of golf paraphernalia for my husband) arrived on my porch with a nondescript cardboard box from www.pinkcherry.com... let’s call him Reindeer. In the box were several items from my partner Nancy at Pink Cherry… let’s call her Elf. Santa’s little helper had emailed me a few days prior and told me that my wishlist had been received at the North Pole and that despite appearing on his Naughty list several times, Santa thought I was foxy and was going to grant me my items regardless.

 
In the traditional Christmas story about a little girl who catches Santa by her tree, Santa gives Sally a wink before wishing her a Merry Christmas and shooting up the chimney and out of sight. I kid you not, UPS man gave me the same wink before wishing me a good day and darted down my driveway.

 
Like a little girl, I squealed as I carried the box into my home, shaking it close to my ear attempting to identify the contents inside. Those contents included several items from my wishlist, one of which were a set of genuine bona-fide Ben Wa balls.

 
When I wrote to Santa this year, I intentionally asked for toys that were outside of my comfort zone and were experimental in nature. I will review and blog each of those items, the first of which are the Ben Wa balls.
Ben Wa Balls have been around since about 500 A.D, initially used by Geisha in the orient. I chose the traditional basic version which are essentially two small marble-sized steel balls.The feeling of the balls floating freely in the vagina and constantly massaging the vaginal walls are said to cause intense sexual arousal. To keep them in, you have to flex your PC muscles constantly which is great for rebuilding relaxed tissues.

 
Ok… back to me.

 
Last night my galpals and I were out for sushi and discussing the next day’s pending adventure.

 
“I’m going to attempt to carry those bad boys around all day!” I boast. “I’m just not sure how I am going to pee with them in!”
Beth tries to rationalize and concludes, “The muscles you will be flexing are the same ones you will need to push out your pee!” Hm…dilemma.

 
“I know! If those things pop out while I’m peeing, I am not sticking my hand in the toilet at work to retrieve them! Flush! Bye bye Ben Wa balls!” I’m waving.

 
Laughing before the words have left her mouth, the wise and resourceful Kristen advises, “You should just pee through a strainer.”
Ha ha ha… Kristen!

 
So this morning I wake up, and while the rest of my family sleeps, I jump in the shower and slough away all of my sleep with a raspberry-almond smelly soap set. Still naked, but towelled off, I tip toe over to the closet and retrieve my project for the day. Hubby has snuck out of bed, so I call down the stairs to him, “Can you google how high I should stick them?”

 
(Henceforth I hang my head in embarrassment, but I will soldier on and be candid. Faint of heart, please turn back now)
Naked, I lay back on my bed, Hubby perched at the best seat in the house.”Here goes nothing!” I say.

 
I place one of the balls barely inside my vagina, so that it is still peaking out, then give it a gentle push. Whish, it disappears.

 
Wide eyed and astonished, I exclaim to Mr. Perv, “Did you see that?? My pussy was like a vortex! It just whooshed and sucked it up!!” I’m convinced this is about the coolest I have ever seen and judging from the look on Hubby’s face, it’s cooler than that.

 
I place the next one. Gentle push, but it just sits there. Hm. “I can still see it…” Hubby commentates. This time I have to push it in and up with my finger.

 
“Wowww....” He says softly.

 
I get up and move around and report that it feels kind of like a tampon but colder. I get dressed and several times I feel those little buggers sliding out. Oh no you don’t, and I stuff them back up there.

 
“You gotta squeeze to keep them in!” Mr. Penis says to Mrs.Vagina. No shit! I know that and I’m trying! Only every time I squeeze I end up pushing them out! I had two kids via c-section, I’m 34 years old and wear junior, sometimes regular Tampax Pearls, basically I am strong as an Ox down there and if I sneeze I’m about to shoot someone’s eye out!

“I’m trying! I can’t get them up high enough, my finger’s not long enough.” Screw it. I grab the first thing in my reach, and since I was mid-makeup application, it happened to be my mascara. I give him an I-can’t believe-I-am-about-to-do-this look, prop one leg up on the counter and slide my mascara into my girlie parts, successfully placing the balls nice and high and snug as a bug.

 

 

Clenched and contracted, I start my day. I find the parking spot at work that is closest to the door and scuttle to my office, walking through the halls like a woman with a pickle stuck up her ass.

 

 

It’s roughly 9:00am and I’m wondering when the horny sensations are going to kick in. If it’s possible to be tired from squeezing your vag, then yes I am. Or maybe I’m just annoyed. Regardless, I’m standing in the photocopy room conversing with two of my colleagues when I get an Uh-oh moment. I stop my sentence mid-flow and glaze over. Colleague A looks at Colleague B with a what-is-she-doing face, and I slowly start to shimmy from the room leaving them speechless. I wore pants intentionally today but have visions of a marble scooting out my pant leg and across the copy room floor.

 
Alone in the washroom, I retrieve the first ball no problem, but have to fish the other one out with my finger. I’m laughing at myself in the bathroom and praying no one can hear me.

 
Ball-free, I’m feeling like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Back to work, busy busy bee.

 
Hmmm... I shift my hips around in my chair and am aware of very pleasant sensations emulating from my nether regions. Half an hour later, I’m still feeling pleasantly stimulated and actually a little moist down there. Well I’ll be damned…

 
Here is my conclusion: These Ben Wa bastards were a bit of a pain in my ass. I was constantly distracted from my daily tasks in fear I would unclench and have them pop right out of me. However, once those buggers were removed, very cool things started happening. The clenching and squeezing obviously sent extra blood flow to my pelvis for several hours. By lunch time, I am attempting to focus on various professional tasks, but my senses are more than a little erotically heightened. I decide to eat lunch alone in my office with the door closed… I’m way too horny to be released into the wild.

Costco negotiations

Last night on the way to Costco, Hubby and I are discussing my most recent post, Fear of the Unveiling (click here to read that). As a subscriber to my blog, and my husband, I am in constant communication with him with regards to its contents and his comfort level. That being said, I also place relatively firm boundaries on his ‘permissions’ after he has read a post.

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times, fear of judgement or scrutiny will inhibit my ability to speak truly candidly, and isn’t that exactly what you want to hear from me? Months ago, one of my very first posts was a letter to my husband (click here to read that). I acknowledge that there will be things that he truly doesn’t want to hear, but there are perks to being the spouse of Lady-like Pervert. (Perks such as non-descript boxes arriving on our doorstep from our friends at PinkCherry.com busting with free swag and products for us to test and review.)

Writing these posts is cathartic to me. More that one of my peers from the blogosphere has proclaimed to me “Blogging is cheaper, and better, than therapy”. Touché! I dig into my past, my fears, my closet and I write as if no one is reading. The odd time, after reading a post, Mr. Pervert has asked me, “Who was the limp dick? Who’d never came from oral? What friend had the affair?” I don’t like that. So I say:

“When you read my blog, you are a subscriber. You are a reader. You are not my husband. If I thought that my husband was reading my blog, I wouldn’t be able to detail the men I will fuck when we divorce or things of the like. My readers are not privy to investigate my posts, so, respectively, neither are you.”

“Hm. I get it. I guess I’m just curious…” He replies and I do understand where he is coming from.

“I know… it’s just… what if I start to write about the best sex I’ve ever had and I fear your inquisition?” I say kindly.

(Figurative sound of brakes screeching.)

“I’m the best sex you have ever had.” He’s a mixture of matter of fact and annoyance.

“What if you’re not? What if I want to blog about someone better?” I say convincingly.

“Then you’ve led me on to think that I was!” And without finishing the last word he adds, “Who was better?!” He he he… I’ve hit a nerve.

“No one, but if there was, I want to be able to say so and be honest!” I’m telling the truth.

“Hm. Well, how’d you feel if you heard, in detail, about the best sex of my life that wasn’t you?”

With complete conviction I reply, “Not offended in the least.”

He doesn’t believe me.

“I didn’t invent sex, Mr. Perv. Therefore I am not arrogant enough to believe that I am the best at it. What – because we have been having sex for fifteen years, by default I am your best?” That logic is lost on me.

“No, I guess when you put it that way…” He acknowledges. But then adds, “But ps. You genuinely are the best sex I have ever had.” Silly man, I already know that. Pfft. “The first time you went down on me, I swear the heavens opened up, I’d never felt anything like that.”

Now we are at Costco. Our daughters, I should have mentioned in case it wasn’t obvious, are at dance class and Mr. and Mrs. Pervert are cruising the aisle sans enfants!

“Do you have any regrets about settling down with me so young?” He asks, I can tell he’s scared and he speaks softly.

“Oh God no!”

“I just wonder if you ever regret not screwing all those guys that are on your post-divorce hit list.”

“Do I have fantasies about older-guy sex or seducing the pool boy? Yes, I do. But not at the expense of not having you!” I’m always honest with him.

I go on to clarify that while I have no regrets about meeting him at 19 years of age, loving him and starting a life with him, I do demur that I never in my life had the chance to seduce a man.

“It’s because you were so fucking hot… men chased you because you’re a bombshell!” He reasons.

I’m sheepish at his conclusion, but confident enough to know he speaks the truth. Any guy I’d ever dated, hooked up with, knocked boots with – they hunted me. One of the blessings of femininity that I believe is such an advantage to being a woman is the power of seduction… an attribute that I never got to use.

We have to get the girls now and I’m more upset that Costco didn’t have the fresh pine Christmas wreaths that I love for my front door than I am about never getting to hunt a boy.

In the car on the drive to get my daughters, I ponder:  There is thick irony in the concept that often, but certainly not for all, the time in a woman’s life that she has the greatest sex skills, the knowledge on how to use her sexuality, and the ability to bring a man to his begging knees, is often when she has physically left her prime. Sure I was a bombshell, but I was also a novice. I was eager but inexperienced. And now, with a cunning sexuality, I am the woman I described in yesterday’s post, Fear of the Unveiling. Ironic. 

Perhaps it is for that very reason that women in their thirties feel a sense of ‘coming in to their own’. I’m 34yo, and I’m starting to feel it. Call me cougar and I will smack you silly, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that deep in my sexuality, I can hear a faint growl.

Grrrr…..

Fear of the Unveiling

Coles notes: I’m 34 years old, I have two small children, I’ve been married for 85 11 years, and I pour my perverted womanly curves into a size 12 jeans.

I wasn’t always a size 12. (Cue violins…)

Like the rest of you, I had a banging hot body before I housed the germination of the two tiny angels I now call Peanut and Bubbles, and fed them from my milky breasts. With each pregnancy, and the arrival of another 10-pound baby, more stress and havoc was placed on my less and less smokin’ body. As well, less and less time has been spent running, crunching or squatting the weight off.

I’m in envy of naturally thin women, women who eat no more or less than I do, who sweat no more or less than I do, but are thinner, toner versions of the physique that I am.

Fortunately for me, my husband adores my body and he is very, very vocal about it. God flippin’ bless that man.

I’m at the age where I have friends and neighbours that are starting to split up. Most of the people involved in these separations either have one child or none. I think about the women who have had a child, and what it must feel like for them to be thrown back into the dating pool.

Undoubtedly, dating mothers, or fathers for that matter, face a number of emotional and child protecting hurdles. If something were to happen to Hubby and I, reluctance doesn’t describe how cautious I would be bringing a man into my daughter’s lives. But just for the sake of this conversation, I remove my children’s involvement from this equation. I’m just a woman, who has given birth, in the dating game.

Of all the woman I know that have been married and then single, the one I am closest to talked candidly about the highs and lows of sleeping with new and different men.

“How crazy is that that your sexing all over another man?!” I cut right to the chase. Married women spend several years understanding that we will never have sex with another man besides our husbands.

“I know! Sometimes it can be so good, but holy shit, it can be bad!” She places equal emphasis on the each adverb. “There’s those guys who were obvious well-trained and freakin’ amazing in bed, and then there are some guys that have forgotten what the term ‘foreplay’ means! The first time I had sex with Sam, I’m gearing up for some making out and I’ll touch yours if you touch mine… two minutes into it, he’s slid between my legs and I’m like Oh! I guess we’re doing that now?!”

“Ugh! I’d feel totally robbed!” I sympathize for her loss. “There is a build up that happens before that point!”

Sadly nodding, she says “Yup… it was a bit anti-climatic.”

I thought about her situation and the idea that while at one time she wore a big white dress and a ring on her finger, we now sit and discuss the new guys that she’s slept with.

I think of me in that circumstance.

Let’s just say that Mr. and Mrs. Pervert decide to split ways.

When I think of another man, laying me down and feasting his eyes on my naked body, I get scared… really really scared. The last time that happened to me I was 19yo and in the best shape of my life. I’ve had two kids, I’m 25-pounds heavier, I have stretch marks on my belly and boobs, I have a very large scar on my abdomen, my breasts deflated after the milk left and they hang much lower than they did, etc, etc. Yes… I get scared.

When he licked and teased my nipples, I’d wonder if he could feel the spots where my milk once came out, as he ran his hands down my torso I’d wonder if he felt the divots and puckers of my skin. When he kissed my mouth I would wonder if I kissed the way he was used to, and when orgasm struck, I’d wonder if I moaned the way the rest did.

Another girlfriend of mine, while discussing the same sort of thing, voiced the same apprehensions. She had vaginally delivered both of her kids and wondered if the “relaxed” pelvic muscles would feel as pleasurable for her new sex partner. (That is the one concern I don’t have – my daughters were brought screaming into this world via c-section.) She had the same fears about what he would think of her body as well.

“We reached that pivotal moment where we had been making out for long enough that we both knew it was going to progress to the next level.” She described. “Figuring it was ‘now or never’ I just whipped off my shirt and thought what the hell!” I’m watching her with big eyes and thinking Wow.

I do believe if placed in that situation I would be the first woman ever to discover a way to have hot passionate sex fully clothed.

And once I did? Lord. Have. Mercy.

Past the heartbreak of a failed marriage, and desperate enough to have sex that I no longer cared about the fear involved, I would fuck everything under the sun. One of my dearest friends refers to this period as her “Six months of Slut”.

Every single woman on this planet has a good six months of slut in her.

Hands placed on your chest in mock horror, you say to me Not me!  Really?? I’m not so sure I agree.

At one point in our lives, every woman has or will crave her six months of slut.  I wasn’t a virgin when I met Mr. Pervert, I’d sewn enough oats that I was ready to settle down and be with him for the rest of my life. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t have fantasies or even curiosities. During my period of slut, I would screw a guy that was older than me, I would have my insides blissfully torn apart by a big black man, I would have a one-night-stand (preferably a drunken one), I’d seek out a no-strings-attached-fuck-buddy, I’d seduce some sort of uniform clad delivery man (be it postal or pizza), and finally, I’d convince someone who thought that they didn’t want to sleep with me, that they really truly did.

Only right now, I’m still the lady who is happily married and comfortable enough in Hubby’s presence that I can dance, vacuum and brush my teeth in the buff. I don’t have to worry if I am as thin as his last partner or if he thinks my scar is ugly.

As a newly single woman, I’m sure there is a thrilling rush that accompanies first kisses, the first time he strokes your gentle bits, and the very moment that he slides himself inside of you and you feel what it’s like to be literally connected to each other’s bodies. But no doubt there is fear.

My ‘dating after child bearing’ friends and readers, I salute the courage it takes to dive into that dating pool, I envy the loads and loads of hot juicy sex you are about to have, and I empathize with any fears you might have.

All of us, who wear the marks of a woman who has carried a child, are in small celebration for our battle wounds. My weight is heavier and my hips are wider because I blessed this world with two angels. My boobs harbour stretch marks and sag lower because I fed my babies with them. Knowing what it did to my body, I’d still do it over and over.

But for the sake of just being a ‘woman’, a Vixen, or a slut, should I ever find myself in the bed of another… thank God for candlelight.

Dirty Laundry: Fake it til you make it

Dirty Laundry

Everyone’s got a secret…

Woo hoo!

My first submission for Dirty Laundry! (That will be the last time you see my, first, and dirty in the same sentence)

Recall, I offered up my blog to be a forum for my readers to dish and divulge their inner most secrets – to release their angst. (click here to read that)

He pens a blog that he deems “open and sometimes graphic”. I assured him that open and graphic are my favourite kind…

I’m a 33-year-old man who’s never had an orgasm during sex or even with another person in the same room.  In every relationship I’ve faked it every single time.

He blogs anonymously. I’ve read it.

I have no intention on “shrinking” my DL submissions, many years of expensive therapy (you can thank my fucked up mother for that) does not outfit me for such a task. Normally, I intend to be a silent witness, only letting them spill their beans.

But…

I only wish to give him permission to embrace his sexy. Own it. Feel no shame.

I once met a guy who said he had never came from oral sex before. I saw that as a challenge, a conquest. Really…?? I thought. Just lay back and enjoy…