Sex before tying the knot? KNOT B4 SEX!!

Oh, good. You showed back up. Thank God! After the depths into darkness and bitter whining of my last post, I was, kinda, afraid that you might not. Speakin of knots…

I’ve had another female stayin with me the past two weeks or so. Her name is Millie, and she’s a quite a looker. Just ask my roommate, and best buddy, Spaz.

The truth is, I can hardly remember what his little face, even, looks like anymore, because he spends, almost, all of his time, now, with it shoved as far up her chachi as it’ll go. Not that I’m jealous or anything. I mean, he has been getting a lot more action than I have lately, so… I suppose, it’s possible.

When Spaz and I first became a couple a little over a year ago, one of the very, first things I noticed about him was his, rather, large testicles. I wasn’t admiring them or anything. Just wondering what that might mean for the crappy furniture and trampled rugs that made up, most, of the tiny apartment I was living in at the time.

Of course, over time, I’ve developed sympathy for the poor fella’s plight. Here I am, fucking anytime I want. Sucking cock and, even, eating a bit of pussy, myself, every now and then. WHAT TORTURE! (I can only imagine. Lol.)

I’ve, obviously, been, quite, vocal on these particular views of mine, because, about a month ago, one of my neighbors asked when I was gonna be interested in making a little Spaz puppy? Suddenly, the light went on.

I hadn’t, actually, thought about him having offspring, really, but I had thought about the mortality of my special pet with the amazing personality, and, of course, was also feeling quite a bit of guilt over his inability to run off as easily. Back then, when he could, just, tag any stray piece of azz he ran into. About an hour, or so, after these disappearing acts, he would, usually, return dirty, funky as hell, and happy as shit.

Am I ready for a puppy? Not sure yet. I thought I already HAD a puppy. Well, a 7 year old chiahuahua who believes he’s a puppy. That’s a fact. But, a real puppy?? Ehhhh…

However, what a perfect opportunity to give him what my vain attempts at trying to be a good mother had stolen from him; HIS SEXUAL FREEDOM. Like any, other, good mama, I, just, wanna see my baby boy happy. Hey. Cock has brought me much, joy, time and time, again.

“Spaz. I figure, it’s about your turn, lil’ buddy.”

Now, I’m sure my neighbor, probably, had other intentions. Actually, now that I think of it, the, very, day after we had that conversation, she picked up my pup for a playdate with a min-pin (Miniature Doberman Pincher) that was in heat, nearby. Unfortunately, that must not have gone very well, because he wasn’t invited back, again. (Hmph. Snob.)

A few days later, while my gloved hands spread brilliant rose-red hair dye down that, same, neighbor’s greying tresses, I, suddenly, took note of my Spaz face deep in the, visiting, Millie’s chachi. At first, I, just, stood there, steadily dripping dye, like blood, down my arm, like the living flow of a river into the basin formed in the crook of my elbow and, down, onto the carpet.

Look. Spaz constantly tried to run away when I first adopted him from my neglectful friend, but, over the past year (and then some), we’ve grown very close. He may try to get away sometimes, still to this day, but there he was, clear as day, eating dog pussy like I’d been starving him our ENTIRE relationship.

No shame. Certainly, no care. Just, an animal acting out their most basic of all instincts. But… ON MY COUCH?? “Spazzzzzzz! Damn, bae.”

Never having been the owner of an animal before (okay, a beta fish, once, which I KILLED!), my neighbor had to clue me in. Millie was in heat, and Spaz was WELL aware. Of course, I would have figured it out too, eventually. The poor, pretty thing left a permanent red stamp behind on everything in my house that she sat that sexy azz of her’s on that entire evening.

Eww. Right? Lol. Grossed out, yet? Don’t worry. It gets worse.

In the two weeks that she has been staying with us, Ms. Millie has become a part of our family. Although, I admit, from the blood stains that required her to have a ‘special’ blanket, all to herself, to the fact that the cute, little face that used to snuggle next to mine in the early morning (as much, as a sign of affection as a ‘call of the wild’), was now parked, chin deep in bitch snatch, 24/7.

All that changed the moment they first knotted. Well… Actually, more accurately, a few moments after they first knotted, as I have, absolutely, no idea how much fun came before that point. I do know that when Millie, trying to shake free of my wittle puppy’s DEEP embrace, suddenly, found she was unable, and the realization that the two had become one (cat\dog), no matter how temporary, she let out a piercing cry that alerted me to her predicament, immediately.

I didn’t need to look very long. It was evident what had occurred (not that I’ve, ever, seen anything like that never, ever, ever, never, no, not never, before… ahem). Jesus! I could only think of one thing to do!

I ran over and took her into my arms, comfortingly, cooing the whole while so this new, fiesty female wouldn’t chew the damn head off of my dog. Or, worse, claw his buggy, lil’ eyes out with the sharpened talons of a 2 year old female with, just, a bit, of pitbull mixed in for good measure. Oh. Did I mention she was part pitbull?? So, you understand the urgency.

Lemme give you a mental picture. Spaz, my 7 year old pet, is a fuckin chiahuahua. Yeah. And Ms. Millie… IS NOT A CHIAHUAHUA. So, there’s that. Oh… AND, the fact that she’s about 5 times LARGER than he is and outweighs him by, at the least (the VERY least), 12 pounds.

Damn, right, I held them apart! She would have killed my baby! She, definitely, would have to go home, if that were to happen! There’s no replacement for my Spaz,-boy.

Do you hear what I’m sayin?? Spaz is a fuckin stud, people. Not, simply, because his old, grey bearded, azz was capable of enticing a beautiful, agressive, fit, young pup into sex, but… SPAZ IS A GODDAMN STEED, FRIENDS!!

Not only is she big, beautiful, AND agressive, but she is, also, a fuckin cock tease. No! Wait. This lil’ slut was the hottest thing going on my block this past month. (What??)

For reals. Strange dogs would just, appear, out of nowhere, everytime we were outside, and this little… Flirrrrt, would begin to pee EVERYWHERE. She’d wait for, just, ANYONE to stick their nose down to (WTF? Why, Spaz??) smell and lick at the fresh scent, only to attack while their attention had lapsed and fallen to their, own, swollen cocks. Suddenly, she’d rush up on them, then dash away, quickly, tail all high and fluffy.

OMG! What a total whore! Right?? But, I,kinda, felt bad for the girl. I don’t know, but I felt like somehow, somewhere, possibly way down deep… I could, actually, relate to her, and sensed her frustration.

I know. Simply crazy! Butt, then, again… I mean, she is gonna be my baby’s baby mama, and all, so…

One day, I took both the pooches out to potty and, once again, there’s the most stupid dog God ever created hanging out by my gate waiting on Millie. I don’t mean that I consider his breed to be ignorant in any way. I couldn’t have, even, begun to guess what he was made up of. Not, even, if I tried.

Well… Since you asked. He looks like a cross between an American Bulldog and a Poodle. Ugly as hell with a silly (uh, my name is 3) look posted to his head, which I never saw him use any other way than, just, cocked sideways like Forest Gump on his chunky shoulders. Right hand to the sky, friends. Except for mentioning his frizzy hair was all the color of some grandma’s blue-silver hair (wig?).

That’s not why I refer to him as inept or imbecilic. Oh. I have GOOD reason to judge so harshly such an unfortunate creature. Still. He’s no less an idiot. Plain and simple.

You see, I felt bad for Ms. Millie. Spaz had already tagged her that morning, and, by afternoon, his age had, really, begun to show, just, enough in his quickly getting winded and not being able to finish.

Maybe it’s been my, own, bad influence on him. Perhaps, all the time he spent atop the dirty clothes in my closet waitin it out while I ‘worked’ for the trip outside that, always, was, sure to follow, but he, really, seemed, equally, as happy, just, to watch. (Such a perv.)

I laid back, allowing Millie to flip her bushy tail in this poor, dumb dog’s lopsided, but, still, grinning face, without rushing her, along, inside the house. Then, she’d bounce away, quick as a bunny, urging him to chase.

She would stop, suddenly, and stare off, as if distracted by something afar. All the while, whipping that furry fan attached to her azz, high and away, tempting him to take a taste of her easily, accessable fruit.

He did, too. Many times. I, must, have stood out there about a half hour watching this seductive game. She was unabashed, although, doing her best to appear demure and untouched, in the very, same, breath. A primal dance of naked inhibitions in the great, wide, open of all outdoors, with no care about voyeristic eyes a’watchin on. How… Beautiful.

But, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. Right there in front of my house, I was struck with temporary insanity and began to vent my frustration loud and proud, for all to hear.

“Sorry, Ms. Millie. Fuck that dousche, lil mama. Any man that has THAT MUCH pussy thrown on him and doesn’t even try to stick it in… Girrrllllll. That man is STUPID. LEAVE THAT STUPID BITCH ALONE, BABY, BEFORE YOUR PUPPIES CUM OUT ALL AFROED AND FUGLY. Poodle-haired, dumb mother-f… Cum on, baby girl.”

Let Spaz be a lesson to y’all. Oh, you know how the sayin goes… “You’re never too old…”

No! No. Not that one. I remember…

“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the fight in the dog.”

(Mark Twain)

💋 Laney


Raw & Uncut Honesty

I think that the hardest part about writing in this particular way is the honesty involved. Truthfully, I’m just not very good at lying, anyway. I, certainly, don’t make it a habit.

In my quest to teach my children the fundamentals of life so that they may get ahead and lead, only, the happiest of adult lives, I have imparted much advice regarding this issue.

Sure. Children lie, but teaching them the difference in the repercussions of such, in my opinion, makes the difference. They can, then, make their own decisions, and I don’t have to feel so guilty about them.

So, with this same sentiment in mind, I would like to share with you what happened on my recent birthday. Mind you, this is very difficult for me, but I do believe that honesty, although, often, the hardest of pills to swallow, is, indeed, the best medicine for what ails ya.

A good friend of mine offered to take me somewhere nice for my birthday. A sunny lunch, a delicious dinner, even, a small trip were all suggestions made by him. After much thought, I decided this the best possible time to begin my tour. Now, where to begin was definitely up for debate.

Okay. So, not really. I, pretty much, always knew that because of the overwhelming response from one particular area, I would begin in Destin, Fort Walton, or Panama City, Florida.

He offered to transport me there and rent a room for me for my very first night, then I would secure it for the rest of my stay. Sounded like the sweetest present I’d ever received for my birthday.

I ended up switching from one city to another, then to another right before leaving due to lack of interest. No one pre-booked in advance for the event, but I kept morale high. Indeed, if even a quarter of the people who had asked me to visit this area showed up, I would be busy enough to stay for quite a while.

Well, obviously, I wouldn’t be writing this had that happened. I can honestly say, though, the trouble began long before then.

I knew something was up as soon as we reached Destin. First off, my room had two queen-size beds in it. I’m not sure why he rented a room in that way, but, more so, I’m not sure why I allowed him to.

Needless to say, it wasn’t the only problem with the room, itself. There also was the absence of a tub. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but to a provider who enjoys Greek on a regular basis and has legs almost as long as the entire rest of her body, a tub is a must in ANY room.

But, truly… You should have seen my face when the front desk clerk told us where my room was located. As she put it, “Just behind the office.”

Thankfully, there was a laundry room between my room and the wall that hotel staff rented rooms in front of, but I was, certainly, the very first room in my hallway. Meaning, EVERY OTHER ROOM would have to pass directly in front of MY door to reach their own.

Mind you, I have been told that I am NOT at all quiet when I orgasm. (As if I’m, EVER, quiet.) Sorry. I just don’t give much of a fuck when I’m in O-Mode. However, I’m, pretty, sure that the other 15 rooms in my hallway did.

It was already evident that I wasn’t going to get much business in this town. My phone had been, pretty much, stagnant the entire drive there. By this time, I was confused. Greatly confused.

Just why had so many people asked me to visit their neck of the woods when they had no intention of seeing me at all? That is beyond me, even, now. At that time, I couldn’t comprehend it, so I just went about trying to enjoy my stay. Destin would not have been my ideal birthday location, so anxiety over not spending this date with my children began to creep in.

For my birthday meal, we visited a local Mexican restaurant. It was set up more like an Applebee’s, packed to the brim with people on a busy Friday night. What began as a wonderful birthday meal ended up a total fiasco.

To describe my waitress’s rude attitude towards me and her ignorance of proper customer service etiquette would just be a holier-than-thou statement from someone who waitressed for over 8 years of her life, so I’ll keep it to myself. (See how I did that?) I will say that she was probably the rudest person I’ve ever met in a restaurant, and I’ve known many insane back of the house workers, and one, plate of cheese sticks, throwing manager.

I was so upset that I just left the restaurant before finishing my meal. The manager had offered several different ways of making everything better. On my birthday, my date chose half taken off the meal he consumed all of, rather than a dessert in which to celebrate such an occasion. In fact, he didn’t, even, ask them to place my remaining food in a box to take home. My irritation grew.

The next day, I decided it best if I just wrote in my blog, my personal journal, of sorts. Unfortunately, my date refused to leave me any privacy. Every single time I walked out to the pool to smoke, he came with. I didn’t feel comfortable enough to call anyone or reach out to anyone I was close to while under such scrutiny.

Because I know him so well, I don’t think that he did any of this with ill will towards me or my celebration. I think he had only the best intentions in mind. However, it just seemed to be one stacked block falling upon another, until a mess of tumbling boulders were all I could feel.

I brought music to the pool and sat in the sun with my face raised into the full warmth of some much needed Vitamin D. I was struggling greatly. I couldn’t breathe as the pressure from everything, seemingly, going wrong, in and around me, became more than I could bare.

Most of you have never realized this about me, but I choose music depending on my mood. When I’m down, singing lifts me up. In fact, when I’m upset, I sing the loudest. I don’t know why, but it certainly changes the atmosphere in which breathing, for me, has become difficult.

Not so, on this day. At first, I played comedy rather than, actual, songs, thinking that he would enjoy that much, more than my chosen music. As he stared off into the sky, quite, obviously, bored out of his mind, my mood, indeed, did change.

The music began. At first, I shuffled a playlist I use every, single day to lift my spirits, but as I watched him shift uncomfortably under the umbrella, shying away from the Sun’s intense rays of heat, so, too, changed the music.

Notably, I must add. When I hear music playing, I always get a sense of the person playing it. I know that I’m an oddball, but I’ve gleaned quite a bit of information about people when trying to decipher the meaning behind the music they enjoy listening to with others.

Lots of tunes are just fun. They usually have a good beat or, maybe a decent rhythm that seems to elicit activity from the listener, without even trying. Some music is melodic or harmonic and enduces emotion and sensation and warmth. I love both.

Of course, there’s OTHER music. A few years ago, someone turned me on to a band called Die Antwoord. Their music is a melding of popular samplings, “next level beats and some gangsta (rap) skillz”. Additionally, I must add, they are definitely NOT everyone’s cup of tea.

Die Antwoord holds a special place in my heart, though. As I was adjusting to getting out of the hotel life and living a clean and sober one, they assisted me every step of the way preaching self-esteem and belief in each other with every nonsensical verse. It’s a type of camaraderie and self promotion I am so very unused to.

They got me through some difficult times by putting a smile on my face and a beat back in my heart when it had been trampled into silence. Some of their songs sound rather angry, pointing fingers to false icons so exhalted in American pop music, perhaps, just a bit hypocritical on their part, but it, usually, didn’t take very much of them before I felt able to face any challenge.

I expected him to hear me through my music. I know exactly what you’re thinking. Lol. I recall him saying something to the effect of him doing his best to block it out.

It’s not his fault, really. On previous occasions when we have gotten together, I felt awkwardly. Communication is often difficult with us, and we don’t always see eye-to-eye. However, that’s never stopped me from making friendships with such people before…

I guess, I already know. I know that he’s reading this now, and it’s time that I, finally, tell him so.


Sweetie, when I scheduled our initial date and then missed that appointment, I was overcum with great guilt. I had some personal issues that were going on at the time, that had nothing to do with you. When we did speak again, you did your very best to make me feel even worse. Not that I blame you.

I will say, though, it did have quite a lot to do with why I scheduled another date and, then ate the entire cost of that 24-hour date to show you that I meant no harm, and my rudeness was, certainly, never intentional. That was my very, first mistake. Athough, not my last.

Here I sit, claiming to be so honest, yet, there are times that I don’t speak up at all. These times are, obviously, the most important. I should have told you from the very beginning how you make me feel, and then I should have mentioned it again when, at the end of YOUR free birthday date, you still didn’t leave me a tip, as we had discussed.

Everyone knows how I feel about tips. They’re not necessary, at least not every time. They are, however, necessary if you want to show a female that you enjoy her company. A donation is just the minimum she will take for her time. A tip is a way of showing gratitude by someone who enjoys that she made that time special just for him.


I realize now this is something best said in private. I’m just not sure I’m quite capable, yet. My bad. Back to the birthday blowout.

As we’re sitting by the pool, him ignoring my music as best he can, my music reflecting my mood as best it can, and the sun shining, regardlessly, it all became clear. Every date we’d been on, up until this very moment, he was never really honest with me. His concern wasn’t for my special day. This man wanted some pussy.

Of course. Now, usually, this would be obvious to me. If only he hadn’t disguised it in the form of a birthday gift. Then, rather than making clear his intentions to me, he passive-aggressively just decided not to move until he garnered what he’d actually cum for.

I don’t drink often, but as realization set in, I said the most astounding thing anyone in the last few years has heard from me. “I need to get drunk.” And, I did.

His mood had not helped my situation, and, suddenly, I just wanted him gone. It was obvious that was not going to happen without some kind of fondling and a little lip play.

His suggestion, the liquor store across the street. Indeed, there was a Winn-Dixie liquor right in front of my eyes, just beyond the construction going on beside the pool. I was floored, to say the least, but unable to utter the truth of this. We went to the store and purchased a bottle of mudslides, because, of course, he intended to join in.

I began chugging the sticky stuff down with my back to the gently, lapping water’s edge of the hotel pool. Dehydration set in quickly, and I blindly wandered around trying to find a soda machine to purchase something colder and much, more wet.

I was out of ambition and hope, and I just wanted it all to end. When I felt I’d consumed enough rich, chocolatey syrup, we retreated inside to my (our?) room.

We laid around and watched part of a movie, and then I gave him some MasterHead. I knew he wanted more, but I was so distraught that he hadn’t just been straight with me in the beginning. Why did he allow the trip to continue on in such an awkward course, that I couldn’t muster up enough moisture to allow that to happen comfortably.

I’ll never forget this. One of the very last things he said to me was “I was hoping we would get a chance to play.” I was consumed with an urgent need to ask him, “What the fuck did I just do with your dick?”

Of course, that would have been rude, but this statement was, just about, more than I could bare. I was glad when he, finally, did leave, but I was left with great remorse over everything that happened. Most of it, because I’d allowed it to.

As much as I like to think I am maturing and becoming more wise with age, I repeatedly continue to make some of the same mistakes over and over again. It’s very disheartening.

My main fault with this particular relationship was not telling him from the very beginning how his statements made me feel. Truthfully, if I’d been honest, completely honest, on our very first visit together, we never would have made it to this point. That was the truth.

To make matters worse, as soon as I was left to my own devices… Those devices stopped working. What I’m trying to say is my phone went belly up not long after he drove out of the parking lot to head back home. It would cum on, lighting up and gaining all bars, but the touchscreen refused to work.

Not only were the many pictures I had just taken in the full length mirror of my room missing, I had just placed a BP ad in the hopes of turning my birthday around. Fear and uncertainty, now, took completely over all rational thinking. Thankfully, I had thought to bring my laptop, giving me the ability to make my very first date since arriving in the touristy town of Destin, Florida, where I had intentionally chosen to celebrate my birthday.

He was so very sensual and an amazing cuddler. Something I didn’t even realize I was desiring more than anything else at that moment. He listened to me, but, mostly, he just held me. That was all, and that was it, and it was more than I could have, even, asked for in my present state.

A few hours later and onto my second, and final, date of the trip. He was young and devilishly handsome and allowed me to play a beautiful tune on his handsome flute. My brain was temporarily washed free of all it’s excess bullshit, allowing me a few moments to bask in the sweet, sucking sounds made by my mouth as I enjoyed him. Such a charming man, and, more of what I was, greatly, in need of.

I’d managed to take the battery out of my phone and get it working for just a few moments right before my evening date had arrived, but after he’d left, it only resembled a communication device. I was completely unable to text and retrieving any of my known contacts, even making a simple phone call, were, now, completely impossible on that hunk of scrap metal. (Or whatever their made of!)

After much, hysterical searching of my laptop, I was, finally, able to locate a few of my older contacts. Thankfully, I quickly found a friend of mine I’ve known for quite a few years. In fact, to be honest, he’d planned on cummin up during my trip.

After many years as, just, “friends”, we’d finally cum to a place of true communication. I’ve always enjoyed his company, in the bed and ANYWHERE else, we just so happened to find ourselves. Actually, I, kinda, assumed we were both considering giving this thang a real shot. Of course, that is, certainly, in no way true, now.

When I’d originally mentioned my plans to stay in Destin for my birthday weekend and how nervous I was about being alone for three days or more in a strange city, where I, truly, didn’t know anyone, he mentioned the flexibility of his job as a driver for Lyft. He informed that he had the ability to work from any city of his choosing at any time.

What a brilliant idea! I suggested the possibility of him working in the daytime right here where I’d chosen to stay, transporting tourists to and from their beach destinations, while I was frolicking under the hotel sheets with a stiff member or two. You know… just fulfilling a few birthday wishes. (Wink. Wink.) When his work day was complete, he could, then, join me in the evenings for whatever type of escapades we preferred to celebrate my old age.

Despite popular belief, I am PHYSICALLY only able to see about two fellas a day, AT THE MOST. Look. Orgasming happens, quite, frequently for me these days (Thank you, Jesus!), and I’m, certainly, not complaining, but it definitely takes a lot out of me. I’m always left quite dehydrated from all the squirting and a bit weak from, just, the intensity of so many wonderful sensations coursing through my body all at the same time.

My point being, I wasn’t gonna be working all day and night, while in this beach town. There was plenty of free time with which we could get naked and “feel” each other out better. However, the chaos of everything fracturing around me had left me tongue tyed and, completely endiscive. To make matters even worse, my trembling fingers just couldn’t quite capture, even, the jyst of this confusion properly in my typed message to him. Thankfully, we’ve known each other so long now, he, totally, gets when I am down and in need of some affection.

At least, that was what I assumed. (I know. I know.) I suppose I should probably mention that on my birthday, as we drove down to the hotel, I received a text from him informing me of his hopeful plans to visit with me Sunday evening, completely circumventing our previously arranged agenda. I didn’t, even, comment at the time, because of my initial confusion at the change and the akwardness of the entire one and a half hour drive from my home to Destin, Florida.

Saturday, I was faced with the corpse of a phone that held, almost, everything I needed to be successful on this trip. Shit. I would have been fine with just a lil R & R. But, who can relax and unwind when they are faced with such a dilemma and are left with just an overwhelming since of dread and fear of what could possibly go wrong next. Oh, cum on. Isn’t it obvious? I was on a roll!

Honestly, I just needed a friend. Someone who would try to understand, or, just, listen as I rant and rave or weep or sigh. I just wanted to be with someone who cared just a bit for me. Of course, by that time, it was absolutely impossible for me relay this thought clearly, and, before I knew it, I no longer had a ride willing to transport me back home following day after checkout. Ho. Hum.

To his credit, he did ask me what he should do? Should he cum get me? Take me home? WHAT DID I WANT??

I couldn’t provide those answers for him. Nothing I had set out to do had been anywhere near successful, so, I had, absolutely, no clue what to tell him. I was terrified of making any further decisions on my part or for anyone else. Like a true woman, I just expected him to KNOW.

After the many years we’d spent building this friendship, I truly did think he knew me well enough to know or, even, guess what I was in need of. Look. I met him while still high as shit on drugs. He knows me better than most of my friends, but, somehow, his new employment had stolen, not only his attention, but his compassion for the person he’d claimed to care so deeply for.

I know it is insane for me to assume that ANYONE could descipher my mispelled, emotion filled, mumbo jumbo of a message. In spite of me being upset and so uncertain about how to change those circumstances that overwhelmed me so greatly, I was fully aware of what I needed, but I just didn’t have the courage to ask him for it.

I know. I’m a pussy. Right? I know. Truly, I get it. But, at that time, it didn’t seem so simple.

Can you not see how difficult it is to always be honest?? I claim it, only, because I do my very best to always try to live my life that way. Unfortunately, the fear of hurting someone’s feelings and the fear of getting hurt myself keeps me falling short of that goal. I’ve never stopped trying, though.

I, truly, believe that eliminating dishonesty from one’s life reduces feelings of guilt and remorse, and, even, shame. It, certainly, has for me.

In the midst of all this anguish and pure chaos and total resentment for my actions and my inability to change any of it, suddenly chimed a message from my Eccie inbox. It was a good “friend” I hadn’t seen in awhile, just touching base, to see when I’d be returning to Pensacola.

I relayed my current situation pitifully, not leaving out any of the mitigating details that had produced my, now, frenzied emotional state. I could just see him chuckling away. “That crazy azz Laney’s at it again!”

Instead, he immediately offered me the companionship I’d been so desperately craving, and, of course, a safe and secure ride home to the puppy I knew was behind, most of the pain. I MISSED MY FUCKIN DOG, PEOPLE. He’s my very best friend. How could I have ever convinced myself that I could survive, even a day, without his love and constant affection??

When I sent him the instructions necessary to locate my pitiful azz and realization set in that it was, all, almost, over, I, finally, fell face first into the pillow and let the tears flow freely. I was gonna be okay now. Everything was gonna be alright very soon,

Unfortunately, he, also, would experience the ill effects of this terrible vacation. You see, he drove, at least, 45 minutes, possibly, even an hour to cum rescue me, without even requesting compensation for his chivalry. Only to find I had cried myself right to sleep. I didn’t even hear him knocking on my door, therefore, I never opened it.

I woke up an hour or so after to find the many messages he’d sent in confusion, and, likely, frustration.

“He was on the way.”

“He was at my door.”

“He was knocking and contacted the front desk.”

“He was concerned, but was going to go back home.”

You will never understand the level of regret and complete humiliation I experienced at those words. He had offered to help me, out of the kindness of his heart, and in turn, was met with nothing but drama and bullshit.

That was never my intention, and he, certainly, didn’t deserve that shit! What had I done?? I weaped sorrowfully for the confusion and indignation, I knew he, must, now, be experiencing.

Thankfully, my laptop chimed, once again. Like a true friend, he had picked up on my distress and confusion and fear, sensing I was, certainly, in great need. Instead of heading back home, as his final message had implied, he had hit the Whataburger, just a stone’s throw from my hotel, and grabbed a breakfast sandwich for each of us, then took a snooze, right there in his car, hoping I would emerge from my slumber soon.

How could I thank him?? I cannot honestly relay the amount of respect and genuine appreciation I felt for this man. This TRUE GENTLEMAN… His kindness and sincerity nearly broke my heart. Seeing him made it all real.

He pulled me into a big bear hug until I had quit trembling, then, he allowed me to snuggle into the warmth of his body, and cuddled with me until the daylight came. I know he didn’t intend for me to offer any of myself in such a state, but this man was more man than just about ANY man I’ve ever met.

When I awoke that morning in the strength and safety of his strong arms, I, finally, realized the truth of it all. What I’d actually been yearning for… A sense of concern, a need to help me feel secure, and a sincere care and compassion for the utter devestation of what was supposed to be a, most, memorable day for me. The strength of his kindness overwhelmed me and flooded my heart.

As pathetic as I must have seemed to him in that moment… As desperate and needy and, downright, homely, I, surely, must have appeared… As embarrasing as it all, really was… He treated me no differently. The overwhelming urge to show him my immense appreciation, total respect and sincerest gratitude had me inching beneath the warm sheets and pouring out my affection all over his manhood. He did not object.

This “friend”, this man, someone I’d totally taken for granted before had just saved me when I was completely unable to save myself. He was my hero. I saw no path out of my chaotic situation, and, instead of making fun, he stepped up. I was humbled by the sincerity and genuine good nature that had led him here to rescue me with a cute grin that made me smile in return. Now, this was a TRUE GENTLEMAN.

The ride home seemed vastly different from the ride I’d taken only three days earlier. Suddenly the scenic drive was so much more peaceful and beautiful, something I had completely missed before. We talked about random things, slowly pulling away from the negativity that had enveloped me over the past weekend.

You know, you don’t have to always know just exactly what to say in such a situation. A true gentleman knows he doesn’t have to say anything at all. He listens. Even, when in complete silence. This “friend” had just become a close confidant in a very special way. Not because he helped, but, more so, just because HE TRIED.

Unfortunately, my arrival home was slightly dulled with the knowledge that Spaz had accompanied my neighbors, his weekend babysitters, on a camping trip and wouldn’t be returning until Wednesday. That was two whole days away. It would be just a bit longer before I could, finally, have my wee, wittle, bundle of puppy fur nestled under my chin, lovin me, as usual.

Wednesday finally arrived, and there he was. I, truly, would never have believed I could have grown so close to a furry fella, but I do so love that damn dog. My baby was finally home, with me. Where he belonged.

I’m not perfect, friends. If you’ve read any of this blog, then you’ve been made well aware of this by now. I am, however, completely human. Without the ability to drive, an unknown place can become a nightmare. Sadly, it was the only part of my intended tour that was not for my own benefit, but at the urgent requests of others. I, certainly, know better now. I cum first. Otherwise, chaos ensues.

If there’s a lesson to be learned, it is most certainly that I need to continue trying to be honest… IN ALL THINGS. Being truthful has garnered me much negative attention, but has, certainly, improved my life greatly. Truthfulness weeds out those people that spin tales to confuse, use, and abuse you. Unfortunately, I have yet to succeed in learning how to be kind and honest, simultaneously. That is my new goal.

So, there it is. The ugly, sordid truth about my trip to Destin for the worst birthday of my life. It certainly doesn’t paint me in a very pretty light, but it’s the truth. The whole truth. Honesty -raw and uncut. Oh… And rare.

Thank you for listening once, again, friends. That alone tells me more about your true character than anthing else.


Santa Clause – Nailing Hookers

You know, I’m no different than any of you. When I see a new review drop on Eccie, or anywhere else, for that matter… I’m ALL OVER IT. I, just, love to see girls get good reviews!

Lots of sites allow the full review to be read by anyone. Unfortunately, that is not the policy at Eccie. You must be a premium member to read reviews in their entirety, dirty deads and all.

As a provider, you can NEVER, EVER, read the ROS (rest of story) on there. Only the most, basic details are available to us. Even our very, own reviews are visible, only, up until the body description. If you’re female (well, most females), the rest is, just, a mystery.

Still, I get a bit excited. Of course, not every review is good, but, we, actually, have some wonderful providers on Eccie, so, thankfully, most are, usually, pretty positive.

I wasn’t with them very long when I began pickin up on differences between me and, most, of the other escorts I advertised alongside. In fact, too many differences to, really, count.

However, one of the most common things that seemed to cum out in the body description of, just, about, all the reviews, no matter, the female it was written about was…

This is great! You’re hangin on my every word, because, even, you are aware the many differences that exist amongst the females who choose this environment as their workplace.

Now, I’m, certainly, one of the older girls (btw: my B-Day is later this month, friends), so, differences are to be expected. (Notice, I said “older” rather than “more mature”. Yup. I’m kinda still workin on the ‘maturing’ part.)

I hate to have strung you along, oh, so, deliciously, but it’s, most likely, nothing like you’re picturing so, vividly, right now, anyway. Hey. I’m guessing.

What, always, stuck out, most, to me were descriptions that would go on and on AND ON about how pretty their provider’s hair was and how long, manicured, and brightly polished their fingernails were. Oh! And, how they were made up for a night on the town, sexy dress and heels, and, how all of that made it, just, that much, more exciting for them.

Stop right there… please. Number #1… Hair and nails and dressed to go out?? Well, Jesus! What the fuck for??

Sure. I go out to dinner with guys all the time. In fact, I don’t even charge them for the dinner date, as long as they pick up the tab. (Don’t worry. Lobster isn’t, really, my thang, fellas.) It’s a wonderful way of getting to know someone in an amazing atmosphere with fuckin KILLER FOOD. A win-win, in my opinion.

I’m not positive, but, I don’t, believe, another provider, in our area, provides that service for free. Although, I’m, sure, dinners happen. So, really? Just, what is it they’re getting all decked out for??

Truthfully. What they would wear didn’t, really, bother me, so, much. The fact that I wear negligees and lingerie and cute, lil, dress-up outfits doesn’t mean that what they’re doing is any different than what I’m doing.

You see… You dress the part. I like feelin classy and confident, sexy and sinful. Maybe they dress to play a different part. (Wife cums to mind.)

My bad. That was, completely, uncalled for. I am, merely, speculating. Does make you wonder, though. Doesn’t it??

Look. I dress skimpily, because I don’t plan on being dressed very, fuckin, long. I use my outfits to entice a man into taking those, very, same, outfits, right on, off me.

Dressin to go out on the town, just, never, even, occurred to me, because I’m much, more concerned with stayin in. Hence, my see-through, date attire.

To each their own. The common phrase, “dress to impress” cums to mind. Perhaps, that’s what my fellow escorts are, actually, doing.

I just wear whatever makes me feel good. I guess exposing myself does that for ME. Who knew??

Like, I mentioned, though. Their garments bother me not. It’s those beauty shop nails that I’m referring to. Those long, pointy, things that require a stop at a shop, at least, twice a month to maintain, properly. Simply astonishing to me.

Darlin, I’m not goin to a nail salon, even, a couple of times a year, nevertheless, every, other week. Any nails I’ll, ever, have will be done at home… My home. By myself. You can count on that.

Ladies? Seriously, though. How do you work at all when your fingers, more closely, resemble claws?? It’s a fair question, I think, because I’m very confused.

I, kinda, get the feelin that my confusion may have confused some of you. Well, do let me elaborate, because, dear friends o’ mine, we’ve, just, reached the juicy nectar at the core of this, here, paticular fruit.

Okay. So, I’ve known a, particular, gentleman, close to, 7 or 8 years, now. Correction. Just, because I consider him a friend does not make him, any less, of a client. But, you know how I feel about clients being my friends, so…

I think, I’ll call him Santa Claus, being that he cums adorned with a face full of snow white hair and an, oh, so, round belly. He might not be, all that, jolly, but… Hey. Even, St. Nick likes to get down, every, now and then.

Needless to say, his tastes have changed, greatly, over the years. He’s, always, been an, amazing, diner at my ‘ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET’. And, OFTEN, I might add.

When I first met him, he told me that, as a teenager, two lesbians taught him his, now, perfected, tongue tricks. A talent, so amazing, as to overcome his, complete, resemblence to the man I blame, to this very, day, for my Christmas in ’86, when I, hysterically, unwrapped the largest of computer boxes. Only, to find that it’s contents were, no more, than, that, of an, average, everyday, perfectly, ordinary, hairdryer. Thanks, again, Santa!

Truth is, I’ve, actually, heard similiar stories from, at least, half a dozen other gents, over the years. So, unless there was a gang of carpetmunchers spanning 3 or 4 decades that recruited “far too hot to be dikes” to prey in pairs on pupescent young men before their TIME… Where was I?

Oh, yes! There was, no doubt, that Sir Kringle possessed major skillz, and I’d, never, had any issues helping him to showcase that talent (by volunteering my snatch for his own amusement). Although, he, always, made sure to tend to MY NEEDS before his own. Personally, I think, he, truly, enjoyed that part best.

My way of returning the favor was a little more difficult. You see, Santa works hard all year long… I’m guessing. Far, far, too long to, ever, worry about trimming his nether region. He claims it’s because Misses Claus would, immediately, notice the diference, but, I have a strong feeling that she hasn’t traveled South in a very, very, long time.

Still. Santa DOES love his BJ’s. In fact, for years, it was his, only, requirement to get off. Oh… And, breakfast at my hairless snatch. Of course. (He, truly, loved that shit!)

Of course… Blowjobs are wonderful, and mine are, quite, assuredly, the very, best. But, over 7 or 8 years… Eh. I suggested upping the ante.

Cum on. After years of sexual exploration, it’s, almost, a given that you’ll, ANYONE, eventually, will delve into some unknown territory, and, should be expected. I’ve, never, thought bum exploration on men was a negative experience.

At least not for me. Hell. Y’all know my motto. “If it feels good, do it.”

So, we began with a lil prostate stimulation. (Hey. Don’t knock it till you try it.) Now, lickin his cute, lil bum was not something I, EVER, participated in, being that it, too, was covered in the longest and densest bush of solid, white fro I’ve, EVER, witnessed. But, just, playing with, in, and around his azz was never an issue.

For the very, first two or three years of our extra-curricular play, I was, quite, gentle with him. I would wet my finger, or fingers, and, just, encircle his anus, delicately. All the while, deliverin the dick lickin, I’m so, very, well known for.

And, for a long time, that was enough. But, like most things done habitualy, it became ordinary and mundane. Perhaps, even, a bit, for both of us.

Eventually, I began to introduce him to my pinkie and other digits. Slowly, progressing into small toys. I have a few that I’ve used, before, to reach my G spot, and they, seemed, quite, perfect for beginners, hell bent, on hind region exploration.

Anyway. He seemed to enjoy them. THOROUGHLY (I might add).

The one, good, thing about having a regular friend for so many years is that you can, truly, be yourself when they are around. Many times throughout our friendship, he’s called on me with very, lil notice, knowing I’d be, completely, honest about what I, already, had going on for that day.

Listen. Maybe it had, finally, begun to gnaw at me that, maybe, I WASN’T tryin, quite, hard enough to please the fellas who drove, so, far, to cum see me. I, certainly, did NOT intend on dressing UP in any way.

When I heard from my Santa Claus, this, one, particular, day, I was deep in concentration. Although, by that time, almost, finished, I’d spent the majority of the day, already, sculpting and polishing my, very, own acrylic nails. I must admit, they turned out pretty good.

Not, only, were they beautifully painted, now, they were, just, a bit, longer. Of course, not those stealthy, sharp, pointy things you, usually, see on the classier female escorts.

Nope. I settled for a much, more, sporty length. I found, very, quickly that any other size was, just, not conducive to house cleaning or dishwashing or typing. To keep from screamin everytime I jammed them on somethin, or other, I made, damn sure, they were a short, yet, classy, and respectable length.

By the time Santa reached my house, they were beautiful and sexy as hell. I showed them off to him, immediately, displaying them all splayed out in front of me at once, nestled against my chin in a thoughtful position, even, at my tits (because doesn’t everything look SO MUCH BETTER when in front of a pair of naked breasts?).

Immediately, he was going down on me, his tongue, quickly, melting away all nervous tension and stress with every flick of that lone, wet, appendage. Quite easily, he delivered to me the most delicious orgasms, causing my body to flail about and loud cries of pleasure to fill my entire home.

A few minutes later, I began to focus on showing him the most pleasure possible with my mouth and a toy of his own choosing. Mind you, it wouldn’t have been my particular, choice that day. Oh, we had used it before, but, it must be noted, that I was beginning to notice that the nails could be a big deterence in the fun.

Of course, he liked the little, purple, vibrating thang, and would have no other, this day. So, I began the intense licking and sucking that is my specialty, using the purple vibrator to stimulate him from within.

Santa has this trait that used to get me into the most embarrasing situations before I moved into my new home. You see, when he cums, Ole Saint Nick, always, screams my name as loud as possible.

The many years that I called a hotel my home, after he would visit me, I would, often, hear my neighbors calling out to me jovially just the same way, proving they were very aware that I’d been busy that morning. It was, only, slightly embarrassing (but, only, because I wasn’t fuckin any of those azzholes).

This time was no different. As he came, he let out the most vocal yell, my true name, screamed loud to the Gods, themselves. At that very same moment, his prostate bit down, hard, on the vibrator, then, quickly, snatched it from my glossy, tipped, fingers. I mean, completely, out of my hand, and pulled it further up inside until it was, totally, obscured from my site.

I just sat there astonished. Nothing like that has, ever, happened before. The toy I had, just, been using to stimulate his prostate had been ripped from my, very, fingers and taken up into his body beyond my site. I was, immediately, gripped by fear.

Of course, I attempted to retrieve it myself. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get to it without the possibility of skimming his sensitive and thin anal walls with my new, sporty length, nails. The actions, of which, I knew could hurt him greatly.

He was overcome by the intensity of his orgasm, but, eventually, noticed my face. I must have looked terrified and just overwhelmed.

He asked me to remove it, and I tried to explain. I couldn’t see it, so, I knew that it wasn’t a good idea for me to go plundering his asshole with my tipped fingernails.

He didn’t understand. I tried to explain, again. “I need YOU to get it out. I could scratch you very, easily, and it could get infected because of the area that is in.” You must be very careful, there, and I didn’t think it was a good idea. I needed him to retrieve it himself.

Listen. Maybe you’re freakin out right now. Know this. It was just beyond my fingertips. Merely, centimeters from my grasp.

It was locked in, so, tightly that I would have had to delve in, not knowing where I was, and, just, pull. I didn’t think it was safe for him, so, I asked him, again, “please, remove it yourself”.

Little did I know, he’d never, even, been in there. Period. That shocked me.

You mean, you allow others to navigate that region of your body, and you don’t, even, know what it looks like mapped out, yourself? Did he never feel the need to touch himself in that way?

The issue here was that it needed to cum out. He began hyperventilating and getting upset, so I joined him. Of course, we were on different wavelengths.

He was trippin, because he has, quite, a bit, of family and a very, important job, and could, only, envision an ER with everyone he knew finding out what had just happened between us.

I, however, was more concerned about his well-being. He was already a complete mess and, absolutely, unable to touch anywhere near his own azz. He wouldn’t, even, try to listen to any of my suggestions, at all.

My suggestion was to eat some of the leftover vanilla ice cream in my fridge and watch a little Law and Order. You see, things aren’t meant to go in your azz. They are meant to cum out. Therefore, relaxation, in my opinion, would do, just, the trick.

I melted down, hysterically, beggin him to return, as he walked away… Vibrating the entire way to his car. I’m sure, most, of you find that funny. It was, in no way, amusing to me, and, certainly, not to him.

About 20 minutes later, I raised my head from between my hands, where I, still, sat crying, to answer a phone call from him. He explained, he had been riding down the road to his home and passed a Whataburger. As he noticed the two for one special on their billboard, the lil, devilish, purple, monstrosity slipped out and into his underwear.

Of course, I was happy for him, but the damage was done. I felt guilty and ashamed. I looked at my hands and the beautifully, polished nails that made them so, much, more, feminine and dainty… And dangerous. I, immediately, took them off, never, intending to see them, again.

So, how do they do it?? I couldn’t. And, now, I know, for a fact, nails aren’t very, beneficial when it cums to playin. In fact, their an, absolute, nuisance.

All I’m saying is, if you like your butt played with, perhaps, ladies sportin these beautiful appendages should NOT be your first choice. And, my question is, how have you had those, particular, needs met by, such, women before??

Okay. Maybe, it’s just me. Clawing around inside of a man’s asshole is dangerous business for him. Truthfully, it’s dangerous for ANYONE!

The skin in your azzhole is thin and very tender and, extremely, susceptible to diseases of all types. If you have long nails, this is an area you should not traverse.

Hey. But, that’s just me. And, y’all know me. I don’t fake shit.

Word of advice… If you’re looking to fuck yourself, hookers with nails are the way to go. But, if you’re looking for something kinky, where the girl can, actually, participate…

Hunt for the Elusive Female Orgasm

I’ve, often, wondered if I, truly, qualify as a sex addict. The truth is, it really depends on where you look for the definition. It seems no one, quite, agrees on the precise parameters of that particular disease.

Of course, Wikipedia is always closest to my right hand, so, like many, many others, it’s always my first go-to when I’m in search of useless information. Most sources give a description, somewhere, along the lines of, an obsessive sexual disorder that grows steadily over any period of time where it is faithfully nurtured.

Although, each new definition I read differed from the ones before, they all contained main key points that I know all, too, well. Yes, friends. I, too, am infected with the deadly, fuck disease of sex addiction. I know. Right? Who could have ever guessed that??

Oh, but, hold up. I guess it’s, also, important to state that so are, most of, you. At least, by that extremely loose definition Wiki gave. Shit! So, would every other man on this planet!

Porn, masturbation, EVEN staring at the titties on the cheerleaders at your nephew’s Friday Night football game could be considered strong implications of you being a pervert by their methods of intuition. Thankfully, though, you’ll find you’re in good company. EVERYONE YOU KNOW IS, PROBABLY, ALREADY A MEMBER.

You see? Deep down, we’re all, really, just a bunch of fuckin perverts. Hey. Admitting that you have a problem is taking that very, first step to getting help. God knows, and few would disagree… I could, definitely, use some of THAT, every now and then. Some help!

Seriously, though. According to the online experts, engaging in ANY sexual activity that has, even, the POSSIBILITY of negative consequences is, truly, the surest sign of a full blown sex addiction. Oh, brother. There goes all of my favorite friends. Straight to rehab, junkies!

Oh, yeah. I can picture that. An inpatient rehab that only deals with sex addicts. Now, that would, definitely, be one, wild-azz place! Can you imagine??

Sure you can. You’ll be there. I’ll be there. Pretty much, just, about, everyone you’ve ever known would be laid out, up and down the linoleum hallways of that institution if that was, seriously, the only criteria required for admittance to such a distinguished, and well landscaped, group of quitters.

Oh, I’m not denying anything. I, most assuredly, spend far too much of my time engaging in a litany of sexual activities that are often obsessive and, no doubtedly, always lead to more and more of the same. So, perhaps I AM addicted to sex. Finally. Acceptance.

By far, stalking the local BP page is the most obsessive thing I can think of that I so, thoroughly, enjoy. I eyeball our local Pensacola listings, and others nearby, several times, just about, every, single day. Perhaps, not ALWAYS BP, itself, but, certainly, a site with the same exact information, plus some.

What?? Cum on. BP is a never-ending, human buffet spinning slowly, (almost rotisserie-style), and loaded wall-to-wall with local female flesh, pretty much, 24 hours a day. So, maybe not everyone strolls that meat market as frequently as I do, but… Don’t lie. I’m, pretty sure, I saw you pushing a cart there earlier this week.

Certainly, one of the main compulsions that incessantly work to drive me back to those photos and that site is the need to check for any new pictures from any of the girls that I’m already familiar with. Of course, I’ve met a few of them, but, I suppose, it must be the addiction. Once you’ve witnessed them baring their 2,000 parts daily to the entire community, you, just, kind of feel like you, really, know them.

Of course, it’s the fresh faces that bring us all back time and time again. Seeing a new girl causes a physical reaction that is a little hard to explain because it, usually, is accompanied by temporary, memory loss. Even, at times, a small amount of drool will form, right there. Along the crease made by your upper and lower lips. (Aha. Thought that I’d miss that. Did ya??)

Oh yes, there’s absolutely no doubt. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that anyone who found themselves drawn to that site in just the right amount of time to witness the unveiling of a new girls photos, absolutely, experiences a couple of those physical reactions I just named. Perhaps, even more. Yes. I, too, have been weak.

Can’t you feel it? Your heart begins to skip a little faster, pumping blood more swiftly to each extremity. Not, always, soon enough, evidenced by the slight perspiration forming in the basin made by the palms of your hands. It completely explains why your mouth is so damn dry, suddenly. Bet you feel the need to lick those parched lips, absent-mindedly. (LOL. This is so much fun.)

Regardless of how you may, actually, feel about what you’re viewing, your body is interested and on alert. That is never mistakable. Y’all know if that was Satan, we’d all be going to hell right now. But, it’s not. It’s, just, a silly,  sex addiction. So, perhaps if they were, truly, new and very hot… You would find yourself hiding behind your desk, imp+-atiently, waiting for that moment to pass. If you’re the men I know, all too well, you.

Jesus. Talk about the worst journey you’ve ever made. Can you, even, imagine what those 12 STEPS would look like? Ugh. I’m positive no such trip could ever be confused with a good time.

Okay. Is it, just, me, or does anyone else, sometimes, find themselves searching for imperfections? Do you look, and then, look even deeper on the hunt for flaws of any kind? I don’t mean, checking out how many idiots are standing in the mirror, in full view, snapping pics of these ladies.

I guess, what I’m trying to say is… Do you find yourselves in a never-ending search for women whose bodies are not,quite, perfect? Perhaps, a lil something extra around the hips. Even a lil bit o bed head or some poorly thought out, but, quite vivid, haircolor, on an, otherwise, practically, faultless, female specimen makes a girl seem so much more approachable to me.

Now, the women themselves?? How would I know? I don’t actually go out on dates with them. Y’all do. So, of course, in my world (the one I, just, created to help you understand), there is no, such, thing as perfection. Flaws are so, commonplace, they are hardly given a second thought. A happy, healthy female filled with genuine sexual enthusiasm glows with beauty as brightly within as without.

I guess there could be a lot of reasons that I do that. Personally, I think it’s me making a split decision that, just, the slightest of imperfections seem to lend credence to any girls claim of providing legitimate services, and give me hope that she’s genuine and, actually, WANTS to have a good time. She easily fits the GFE stereotype. Yes. Much more personable with, just, a few flaws, in my opinion.

It is, likely, that every, single, person, reading right now, has already surmised that THIS method is, probably, the worst, possible, way of discerning real escorts from scams. Logically, I realize that.

However, my brain has not always served the needs of my vagina very well. Nope. I have learned to allow my body to think for itself, and that, definitely, includes going with my gut. (It, certainly, has proven to know far, far more than I, ever, could.)

Now, is that just my own insecurities talking? Am I unfair by not giving more credit towards personality and sincerity to make up for their “12 on a Scale of 10” physique? I realize how much time, effort, and pain (from incisions to “Insanity”, must be sacrificed for such a thing, and I have mad respect.

The fact that I could have a hard time relating to someone so IDEAL of form, may be the issue. I get uncomfortable. Tongue twisted. Don’t know what to say. 

Whatever! Everyone knows COMMUNICATING with others IS NOT my problem. Shutting up, oftentimes, is! Talking to people, has, just, never been an issue for me. Fat, skinny, tall, short, yellow or brown. Whether they look like me or look, absolutely, nothing like me, at all. Bet you didn’t know that about me.

I like people. Correction. I like, most, people. I, certainly, like talking to people. In fact, it is, likely, the source for the majority of knowledge I, now, store in this sexy noodle of mine. Most, likely, derived from a conversation with someone rather than from some shit I learned in school 20 years ago.

Arrrrgggghhh. Okay. Maybe, more, like, twenty-some-odd years ago. Damn, I’m gettin old.

Senility aside, I’ve learned so much in the last few years, just, from communicating with people I meet. My thirst for that knowledge, certainly, make this career more appealing to me. And, far, more enjoyable than orgasms could ever do alone. (What? I’m still a fuckin chick. Lol.).

Recently, I was caught, completely, off-guard, by an attack on those orgasms, I love so much. Mind you, my attackers, neither of them, have, ever contributed to any of them. In fact, I’ve never met either fella, at all. So, that’s, highly, improbable. Not impossible. But, DEFINITELY, improbable.

I, firmly, believe that it was boredom that sent them to persecute my cute, lil, butt-sex meme. The truth is… It was fucking hilarious. But, while I was still laughing my azz off, here cums negative shit. Whoopty-doo. Like that’s a new thing for me.

Don’t worry. I’ve had enough shit thrown at me before to know when to duck. Okay. That day, I forgot to duck. Like I said, completely, off-guard.

Can you believe that he had the nerve to say that the female orgasm was created by the fem Nazis in the sixties?? The fucking nerve. Right? Well, you know me…

I gave him one hell of a big Lol, and extended my regrets upon learning of his, obviously, absent, first-hand knowledge of a REAL female orgasm. Help. I should have, just, stayed in bed.

I was no match for anyone that, particular, day. First and foremost, I think I was ridiculously butt-hurt over them not even snickering at my damn, joke. Y’all, it was fucking hilarious. I swear it!

But, maybe, I questioned myself a bit. Ever since I’ve been able to experience orgasms, OF ANY KIND, women have shied away from joining me in a conversation about such.

The truth is, throughout my entire life, I can, only, recall a handful of women I’ve ever been able to speak freely, OR EASILY, with about orgasms in general, and 0% of them were workin escorts. Certainly, not without it, swiftly, leading into the, most, uncomfortable shift in topics.

I’m, also, pretty sure, I’ve never met any woman who claims to orgasm as much as I do. Oh, but, then… There was Susan. She gave no warning. Not before we jumped, naked, under her sheets, together. Certainly, at no time during our short tryst.

Honestly, she didn’t have to. Less than 30 minutes between her legs, and I was forced to retreat out of that room, my fingers, severely, pruned. My ears, I can, almost, swear, temporarily, deaf. And, my face, wet… With far too many shades of Sue. Now, THAT WOMAN could orgasm.

Not only am I feeling all the physical sensations produced by orgasming, quite frequently, but my body excretes real cum, friends. Imagine that?? It’s, well, something, maybe, more reminiscent of a common water sprinkler. ONLY, much, more obscene. It is, definitely, NOT everyone’s cup of tea.

In fact, initially, I found myself quite humiliated by encounters that would lead to this sexual phenomenon. That didn’t last very long. Fuck! I love cummin! Don’t you? Why wouldn’t anyone and everyone?? But, I’m the one with crazy ideas??

If you think it’s rare to hear a woman talk about orgasms, it’s even rarer to hear any woman discuss squirting. In fact, I can’t recall a woman, ever, admitting they share this abnormality with me. Except on film, of course. Nope, that info seems to always be gleaned from a man. They always seem so, much, more proud of the accomplishment. Although, it is, truly, not there’s. Can’t deny it does incite the, most, genuine of expression of joy from everyone involved, quite naturally.

As an escort on review sites, there’s not a whole lot of privacy. That squeaky, lil tidbit of mine was leaked, it seemed, almost, from the onset. How could I hide it? If a man is willing to share his time cummin by allowing me to cum, as well… Party on. Right? No one has EVER complained. (Although, not watching the clock, for me, is, merely, my largest expression of appreciation. Thought y’all had figured that one out, for sure.)

I won’t lie, though. He brought up something I’ve wondered myself, at times. Hey. I’m still a woman. I’m capable of faking it, just, as well as any other. I’ve just been blessed enough to never need to.

So I went on a search. It wasn’t very in-depth, that’s for sure. I traveled as far as Google and YouTube would take me. I looked into the infamous, mythological, showstopper, itself… The elusive, female orgasm.

Guess what? I’m not so, fuckin, special. Actually, quite a few women out there can orgasm as much AND as frequently as I can. It’s, really, not, all that, uncommon. I guess fake orgasms are just easier… (For who??)

They’re definitely not as much fun! Well, in my personal opinion. I mean, you do you, and, if you don’t want to do to you… Don’t do you. It’s, likely, that’s why others don’t want to do you, either. Now, if you want a REAL experience you can, actually, FEEL…

I am, actually, a very empathetic person. I, honestly, believe it is why I am so good at being an escort. Probably has, quite, a bit, to do with my obsession with documentaries, also. Oh, for me, they go hand in hand.

Documentaries are true accounts that, quite, often, pull at one’s heartstrings. Because they are the real-life experiences of those on this planet, not so, dissimilar from myself, I can tap into their, most, sensitive emotions I’ve witnessed, easily. By hearing their stories, I can, just about, feel their joy and their pain and their fear, almost, as if it is my own or someone’s I am, fairly, close to. I believe that I am, probably, far, more addicted to that sensation, that tsunami of feeling, than I’ve ever, truly, been to sex, itself.

My, never tiring, need to hunt for those docs, just, powerful enough to stir me, inside and out, simply affirms my belief that empathy is actually my true hidden addiction. That, same, sensitivity, that keen sentiment, winds, all, within each and every date I choose to meet. Undoubtedly, touching someone intimately with an unseen, empathetic hand is the most sensual thing I’ve, ever, experienced to date. Turns me, the fuck, on.

Look. I’m not trying to convince you. If you prefer it another way… Please. Orgasms for everyone.

But if you allow pride to cum between you and a power, so great, it can cause a mob of angry women to burst forth into jubilant song… Ahem.

Boy. That’s some powerful shit.

Dear Mason the Dixon

Your comment shocks me. It shocks me that you think that an act so intimate as sex should cum with NO feelings, whatsoever.

Everyone I fuck is given the opportunity of becoming my friend. Indeed, anyone I meet is, also. I have many different types of friends. Some closer than others.

I feel very sorry for you and the life that you now lead. A life that does not include the love and respect of others… FRIENDS.

You think that because I’m a whore I don’t deserve friendship. That is outrageous to me. But it says so much about YOU.

Almost two weeks, after my surgery, I had quite a scare. It would have been my fourth kidney failure. I went immediately to the emergency room in Alabama to the hospital that performed my surgeries two years ago.

To my friends, Mason the Dixon, YOU ARE NOT INCLUDED, I have some good news. For the past two years I have been sweating the determination I was given December 2015.

At that time, I was given the diagnosis of Erdheim Chester Disease. Look it up. It scared the fuck out of me.

I’ve been concerned about my kidney function ever since. At the time that I left the hospital it was 13% function in one kidney and 83% in the other. In essence, my kidneys aren’t doing so fucking good.

The emergency room visit answered so many questions for me. They immediately rushed me back and checked my kidneys.

Greatest news ever, they aren’t that much worse than when I left the hospital, two years ago. In essence, I ain’t dying yet! And the likelihood that the prognosis given to me of two to three years, then death, most likely, was wrong.

Of course, I’ve changed my habits quite a bit, also. I’m proud to say that, I believe, I have improved my health by a great deal with nutritious eatin, lots of sleep, and exercise. In fact, I’m living better, now, than I ever have, in my life, at any other age.

Unfortunately, they did tell me that I’m missing a disc between the L2 and L3 vertebrae in my back. That means that the majority of the pain that I thought was radiating from my kidneys was actually my disc obliterating itself to pieces.

And I have gallstones. But who gives a fuck about that right now.?? I’M GOING TO LIVE! I’m going to live to see my babies have babies! Mason the Dumbass, you can’t take this joy away from me.



suck meter
After just having surgery, the lack of support has been amazing to me. Thanks, friends. I have received your hint and have, finally, turned my phone off. Guess I’ll get back to you when my services are available.

BTW: Thanks again…friends.

Sweet, Sweet, Sugar DATY

Well, well, well. Hello, there, and a happy, belated Halloween to all of you. Hope your treats were sweet and your tricks… Oh, so, sticky.

What an evening! What a day! It’s, absolutely, the only holiday I know of, when anyone and everyone has the ability and opportunity to do all sorts of CRAZY, AZZ SHIT, have a shitload of fun, all the while, free from guilt, judgement or shame. HALLOWEEN ROCKS, PEEPS!!

We can role-play any person we’ve ever known of, past or present, real or imagined. All, without, even, a single person finding it necessary to question the motives behind our final dress decision.

We could walk into a party sportin, just, a long, black, tail and these skinny, little whiskers drawn with a black Sharpie, thrice, along each cheek (meow), and, absolutely, NOTHING, FUCKIN, ELSE, and, still, be in the running for sexiest costume, rather than the sluttiest.

I almost forgot! You can frighten the shit out of WHOEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT on Halloween! Anybody at all! Just for fun! A chuckle to be shared amongst you and your buddies repeatedly throughout the years. Recited time and time, again, at parties, weddings, and reunions to lots of uproarious fun.

No doubt, on any OTHER day of the year, I’m sure such a thing could, still, be able to illicit a few half-hearted snickers, here and there. You know, just a few non-holiday laughes, that are, all too quickly, forgotten once the laughter has died down.

Shit! Just imagine that face. The distinct features, spontaneously, becoming panicked, and, suddenly, contorting in fear. Hold up. Now, draw a little face paint on him. Maybe, picture him wearing a cap or cape of monstrous size.

See him, now? Yup. Goofy lookin, huh? Lol. Only on Halloween, my dear friends. Only on THAT ONE SPECIAL DAY could such a similiar situation produce such an extremely different response.

Only All Hallow’s Eve, this fella you had, only moments before, made the “butt” of your spooky inspired joke, would, probably, just fall right in along with the rest of you lil scoundrels, laughing, far louder and much, more, hysterically. Even, just a bit, too insanely at such a ridiculous prank. Yea. That kinda shit is definitely a guy thang, for sure.

Then, finally… FINALLY! After dressin, walkin, and beggin, close to an hour and a half, it all, finally, culminates in… Well, just, the most euphoric high. I’m talkin, the most epic proportions of energy and enthusiasm, delivered to me, directly, by the tiniest of hands.

Oh, cum on! I’m talkin bout candy! OF COURSE, I’m talkin bout candy. Bout that sugar! I’m talkin bout sucrose, dextrose, and high-fructose corn syrup… Molded expertly into some of the strangest shapes and sizes imaginable, and ranging in a multitude of colors. It’s like a beacon to children of all ages. Even, mine. Damnit. Even, me.

This Halloween I planned on doing a little visiting. After walking with my daughter, her five siblings, and my bestie (her other mother) for, somewhere around an hour and a half in my lowest of heels and my “Little Red Riding Hoe” costume (minus the hoe)… Shit! I was beat!

Suddenly, there cums a great stampede through the screen door. Lil feet are hastening, skipping, suddenly, flat-out, RACING hurriedly in my direction. Each small person, absolutely, intent on being the very, first to offer me a grab inside their own goodie bag!

Then, gleaming back at the runners up with the most intense pride, as I shower down my lovin and huggin, and squeezing all over them, for all to witness. Shit. It’s what I love most about Halloween!

Those youngins love me. They do! Halloween, or any other holiday. In the past decade, they were the only reason I still celebrated the working holiday at all.

Damnit. Okay, truth is, by the time the day rolls around for festive, dress-up, fun, each and every one of them (including the wee, wittle, one year old) are all, quite, aware that X-mas is, just, around the corner and sneaking up pretty, fuckin fast.

Of course, Eh. I suppose that could be, in some part, due to my, repetitively, reminding them of that, ever, thinning gap in holidays, just, yet to cum. You damn right! I do this EVERY SINGLE TIME I visit. I told ya. HALLOWEEN KICKS AZZ! It is the beginning of my Christmas fun, if you can believe it. Lol.

What? Y’all don’t do that? Shit! Then y’all are missin one, of, only, two days out of each year, where children (any children) most, closely resemble… The sweetest, most thoughtful, most beautifully behaved lil angels, ever to walk this Earth.

I tell ya! Try it sometime. Talk about sugary sweet! Ooh-ee! That is, until the unfortunate time arrives, once again, for me to return to my own home. (God only knows, how them lil hoodlums act after I’ve left! Lol. I can only imagine. Argh!)

I guess, the short of it is, I’m talkin bout ALL THINGS SWEET! Look, every now and then, even, I get a bit of a sweet tooth. Sure, it doesn’t, really, happen that often, and it, certainly, doesn’t ever last for very long.

Still, I try to keep some candy corn, jolly ranchers, sometimes, even, a few dum-dums hidden somewhere nearby, always, around my home. You know. JUST IN CASE. Okay. Perhaps, that’s not, quite, 100% truthful.

The truth is, sometimes, I find myself hunting all over, finding nothing. Suddenly, I’ve located a single, most likely, stale, breath mint, loose, at the bottom of my purse. With a quick flip, my hand becomes a unweilding claw, scraping steadily within, then, miraculously, pulling the unwrapped candy piece, from the deepest regions inside.

Oh, cum on, people! IT WAS A LUDENS, for God’s sake! Look, Ludens Throat Lozenges are so, fuckin amazin that they remain preserved awaiting a single breath, hot and hard, and a simple swipe of my sleave… VOILA! Good as new! (Dude, those things are CRAZY DELICIOUS! Wish someone gave THEM out at Halloween.)

Recently, I discovered a whole, new, way to cure my candy-coated craving WITHOUT acquiring, even, a single toothache or cavity! Talk about fantasy fulfillment! Talk about the sweetest ecstasy! OMG!

I’m talkin, far, far, too much like an elegant pastry, flush to the brim with fresh fruit and cream cheese, almond slivers, and drowned in hot, gooey, white chocolate. The first taste, leaves you, immediately and hopelessy addicited. Now, could a dessert such as this just be titled “sugar snack”. God, no! There’s just no comparison.

The dark, rich, full- flavored fella I am, now, referring to could, never, don such a simple tag. No way! This gentleman was quite the delicacy.

Actually, I can think of no better comparison than the thickest of thick, that dense, syruppy goodness of, only, the purest of honey! Oh, so, natural, so very needed, and, an ABSOLUTE NECESSITY in my life. AND, the life of my lil Greedy!

He wasted no time. I mean, it was only moments later. I had opened the door of my home, welcoming this handsome, new stranger inside with a hug, a kiss, and flirty little wink.

Suddenly, I find myself jerking spastically above him, my Greedy’s nether lips were kissed and licked and nibbled. Then, forced wide by his own full set of lips and the curiousity of his thick, wet tongue. Hey, he asked me to sit on his face.

Shit! I was so gone with passion at that very moment that I could have just made that all up. Maybe it was all my idea. I, seriously, have NO CLUE how I ended up there, but, I, certainly, didn’t object.

He placed me above his hungry mouth… So, I fed the fucker. In fact, there were two very distinct moments that I’ll never forget. In both instances, I came so hard that I, practically, forget where the hell I was. One look down, and reality hit me hard, bringing with it, a wee bit of guilt.

I had killed him! I mean, he HAD to be dead. My first orgasm hit super hard, causing both of my hands to flail out, instinctively, as I was thrown from my stride and forced forward, mid-“OOOOOO”, just barely catching myself on the cool glass of the mirror next to my bed.

As my awareness, slowly, returned, suddenly, I became concerned. Well, there I was (a petite lil thing, by no means)… Rockin and resting, then rockin, and resting, momentarily, again. My weight being distributed consistently all over his skull, as I grinded up and down the coarse hair and features of his face, furiously.

Shit! My concern for his welfare melted swiftly and easily enough away, the very moment I felt his long, hot, tongue, delve unabashadly and fearlessly into the depthes of my channel hidden behind my delicate pussy lips. My feverish flesh within erupted like a volcano, more aggressive and blind in it’s search for another deliciously, ecstatic moment of bliss.


If, ever, a contest were to be held in the competition of pussy lovin and lickin, Sir Sugar Daty would have every judge blushing and crying out in vain, just as I did several times on that, our first date. Believe me, this handsome gentleman, ABSOLUTELY, LOVES to eat pussy, and IT, CERTAINLY, SHOWS.

I am humbled, even now, just, remembering those stolen moments perched above his masculine features, only moments before falling, clumsily forward, and catching myself, once again, against the mirror on my wall.

The skill of his silky tongue, had taken me by great surprise. This knowledge hit me hard and quick, causing the, usually, passionate and assured movements of my body to spasm most uncontrollably, startlingly me shitless.

This man was much, more potent that any trick or treat I’d ever received. The simplest flick of his lips, his tongue, even, just, the crinkling up of his nose along the delicate flesh between my legs… Suddenly, I was thrust, headfirst, into a most full and orgasmic stutter, ending in long wailing cries and a few unconscious thrusting of weakening limbs.

I had just overdosed on the sticky, sweet, full-bodied orgasms that responded so willingly to all of his own freakish desires. If I’m to be completely honest, I’d have to say that it’s possible… Wait, actually, it’s probable…

FUCK! The truth is, in about an hour, I’d become helplessly ADDICTED to the thick, rich, goodness of Daty, the man.

That sticky and, oh, so sweet, full body, orgasmic stutter and jerk, produced so quickly and easily with each skilled flick of his slightly rough, curious, and roving tongue, only, reinforced the weakness of my will and proved, loud and clear, that I still have a very addictive personality. Just a taste of his delicous candy, and I was, downright, hooked.

FYI: Someone who carries a name with as much presumption as “Masterhead” or “Sugar Daty”… Well, let’s just say, you’d do much better to just believe it. It takes a whole lotta confidence to wear such a descriptive name. Without the anonimity afforded by a simple mask or, just a bit face paint allowed only that one special day every year, all in the hopes of acquiring the sweetest of treats from strangers.

Besides, you gotta be tough to carry those titles. Trust me. It’s like wearing a challenge every single day of your life. God! I do, so, love a challenge!

Sweet Treats for ALL My Friends! Love y’all! See ya next slut day!

Oh, and thank you, Sugar Daty. The memories of our tryst, certainly, helped to curb the sweet tooth that was plaguing me that day. Unfortunately, it’s kinda common knowledge that my memory isn’t always so good. Just saying. Better not stay away too long. I might forget how amazing that shit really was.

Naaaaahhhhhh!!!! Sit on ya, soon!



Masterhead69 aka Laney Lixx just discovered the greatest beauty trick of the 21st century!!

Better than toothpaste, even.

Remove hair dye with




Followed by…

Lots of soap!

Tell em, I told ya!!

Damn it! Did I just pee on my dog, again??

I know. You’re thinkin, where else could this possibly go? What is this crazy, fuckin, bitch going on about this time? What the fuck did she just say??

Hold on. Lemme, just, stop laughing, first. Unfortunately, it’s, still, all, too true.

As everyone from my little corner of the world knows firsthand, we experienced a hurricane a few nights ago. It was only supposed to be a category 1, but, still, it managed to split one of the trees in my front yard forcefully, and took out a light pole on the opposite side of my fence at about 9:30p.m. that evening.

I recall wakin up, so, fuckin, hot. I have most of the windows in my house nailed shut, so, there was no chance of much of a breeze through my home without the help of the air conditioning. I slumbered onto the porch and out into the road with my small Chihuahua to check out the damage. Just as any good Floridian knows how to do.

The tattered limb lay, just above, the lip of the fence, instead, landing squarely in the center of my street. But, thankfully, just passed my home. Everyone else, however, were almost, completely, blocked off from theirs. Eek!

I called my daughter’s mother, my bestest of girlfriends. Within the hour, she arrived at my house with two of her sons in tow to help me clear out my fridge of all it’s cold inhabitants. We rushed back to their house, so, that she could head out to work.

About a week ago, my ex had a motorcycle accident and injured something in his shoulder, pretty, good. So, he’s been at home all week. I’d have to say, he, probably, wasn’t, completely, awake when I first got there. But, he sure got to movin, pretty, quickly once he realized that I had arrived.

He shuffled kids off to the left and off to the right, trying to get everything just to his satisfaction. Impossible. Within the very, first, ten minutes, my daughter had resigned herself to her room. He had, already, by that time, insulted her, quite, graciously and unfairly several times. After everything settled down, again, he called her back to us. We ended up spending the rest of the day sitting in front of the TV, watching Netflix, and last season’s, American Horror Story, with a few of the kids.

Hey! Don’t judge me! Just kidding! It was my daughter’s idea. She’s so much like her mother.

All in all, it ended up being a, pretty, fabulous day. I enjoyed everyone’s company, as always, and was filled with only love and enthusiasm when I, finally, left their home that evening.

However, upon arriving at my own, I realized my small pet had some new, very, large, black, friends hijacking on his back from my daughter’s, very large, dog, Buddy. Now, he needed to be thoroughly scrubbed clean. And, being that I, also, needed to wash up, we both hit the tub.

Ooh! No. No. No. I sat on the SIDE OF THE TUB, people! Jeesh! You freaks are so NASTY!

I doused us both in warm water from the sprayer, then, began scrubbing away at him with some flea shampoo. He didn’t like this very much. In fact, he doesn’t like bathes, altogether. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a choice. Those little black travelers had to go.

When he was rinsed and clean, and all bugs had cycled down the drain, it was my turn. Never once, did it occur to me that my dog, now, trembling and cold, would feel safest and warmest, just, under the shelter created by my legs, now, jutting out over the edge of the tub. Oh, come on! Should I have??

There I am, singin, loud as hell, to the music blaring from my speakers, warm water is flowing. I’m taking body wash onto a loofah and commenced to creating bubbles all over my prickly flesh. I shaved quickly, then finished up with the delightfully, citric-auromaed, pussy wash. The entire time, bubbles and suds, and, I suppose, dirt and grime, were, just, oozing down my baby’ back. Ooh.

You guessed it. It does get worse. I felt the need. So, then, I peed.

Oh, he must have been, oh,so, happy to feel that warm liquid, because he, suddenly, laid heavily into the back of my calf, jolting me to the realization of what had just occurred. I, ABSOLUTELY, COULD NOT STOP LAUGHING.

But, you wonder, I thought she said, “again”. Didn’t she say, she peed on her dog, AGAIN??

Aigh! You are right! And, I have an answer for you. I guess, I meant that figuratively. Truth is, it slipped out before I even realized I’d said it. So, it must have been meant to be. Or, perhaps…

A little foreshadowing of something to cum?? Doo doo doo doo. Doo doo doo doo. Poor Spaz.