Good morning, my friends. Well? Do you miss me, yet? Are you in need of your lil’ Lixx FIX, again??
Awwww. I missed ya’ll, too. I had the most hellish Mother’s Day this past weekend. Absolutely terrible, I tell ya. Worst EVER. So, I definitely DON’T wanna talk about that right now. So, moving on….
Actually, my life has been going very well lately. Certainly, a whole hell of a lot better since I’ve begun taking an herbal supplement for my depression. Get this… I haven’t been getting sick as often. Truthfully, I haven’t been sick, even once, since switching from doctor prescribed medication to herbal supplements.
I want to live and enjoy everything that life has to offer, just like everybody else on this spinning rock. I am, now, convinced that you DO NOT have to take pills given to you by some quack of a doc, to live a healthy existence. Besides, who the fuck can afford medical insurance these days, anyway?? (THEY’LL KILL US ALL, YET! No time to waste! ORGASMS FOR EVERYONE!)
Not having insurance blows, to be sure, but I’m certainly not alone. Honestly, I’m kinda better off for it. To remain well and in good health, I’ve had to make some major changes to my life. All of them, nothing but positive moves, on my part.
Well, of course, I now have to watch what I eat. Hold up. I DO NOT count calories. Fuck that. (You mean, you couldn’t tell?)
No. I’ve done that shit. Did it for the first twenty years of my life with, absolutely, NO payout. I NEVER lost an ounce when I counted calories. (Could possibly have had something to do with the insane amount of alcohol consumed by my friends and I, in the decade most commonly referred to as “the 90’s”. Nahhhh.)
Just as important, exercise. Gotta thank a few fellas for help with that one. In addition to the acrobatics done in my queens size bed, I dance when I’m cleaning, I just swing my bluetooth headset around my neck and start twerking to the eclectic blend of songs I’ve compiled, each, chosen specifically for it’s ability to make me move or sing. Most, do both.
Darlin, you should see me kick up a rhythm to a real, down south, country song. (Wait. No. No, you shouldn’t.) I’m just having a good time, getting shit done, and taking care of my aerobic activity, all-in-one booty shakin motion. A win, win, in my opinion.
I know. I really should be outside more. I’m working on that. It’s hard to just GO OUTSIDE. I’d definitely prefer to be rolling around naked in the loose sheets on my bed to being outside… (What kinda stuff do you do out there, anyway? Oh, yeah) Over getting a tan in the afternoon sun. (Of course, I could really use the tan.) Inside, it’s so cool and comfortable. AND, I have popsicles in the fridge, too. Going outside means bugs. Primarily, mosquitoes.
I hate fucking mosquitoes. My blood is so rich with sugary goodness (my best guess) that they can’t help but eat the fuck out of me. Shit! I will be standing RIGHT NEXT to someone, and, soon, I’m the only one, looking like a crackhead in my fucking front yard; itching and scratching and sporting a lovely pink polka dot pattern of welts on my pale skin. (Told ya, I NEED A TAN!)
But, I’m not bitching. (Am I bitching?) My home is surrounded by trees and bushes and plants. Indeed, it’s, actually, quite difficult to see from just the street. That’s, actually, one of my favorite things about this house.
When I first called Dick (the landlord) to find out about the rental he was advertising in the Thrifty Nickel, one of the largest selling points for me, was that it had a yard with a fence around it. His description of the place helped to manifest this, rather vivid, vision of Spaz in a big ‘ole yard, just, having the time of his life. I could see him in the grass, bouncing up and down, just like a bunny. I mean, just like a fuckin bunny. It’s the cutest fuckin thing.
Who was I kidding? There isn’t a fence created than can keep a little chihuahua in, if that’s not where they wanna be. I mean, Spaz loves the piss outta me (what a fuckin phrase), but if I take my eyes off him for, even, five seconds (okay, maybe 10 or 15), he’s dust.
It’s obvious, there must be some foxy, female canine somewhere nearby, because everytime he gets outside, his nose immediately goes straight up in the air, and, without even a second thought, he heads off in the exact same direction. EVERY FUCKIN TIME! Damn, that bitch must be hot!
It’s his balls. Of course, IT’S HIS BALLS! He’s no different than EVERY other male I know. It’s not his fault. It’s not your fault. IT’S THEM FUCKIN BALLS! (Just tell your ‘ole lady that the next time she thinks your up to something. “But, baby. It’s my balls! Don’t ya see?” Make sure she gets up real close to look.)
But, how could you possibly know this, Masterhead?? Simple. I ask a ton of questions on my search to understand the human race, just that much, better. Shit. Any understanding is better than the nunya amount of knowledge of people and their motives BEFORE these past few years.
I’m gonna break it to ya easy, fellas. You’re never gonna understand women. It’s just not possible. WOMEN don’t even understand WOMEN. We’re just fucked up. Confusing, amazing, passionate, and insane. (Yup. I ain’t even gonna touch that.)
But, men… Ya’ll kick azz! Look. I’m no azz-kisser. I mean it. Ya’ll just aren’t anywhere near as confusing as women, and I’m convinced it’s because of them damn balls.
Really, men only have, like, 5 basic needs that need to be met for them to experience true satisfaction and joy in their lives. This is true of ALL men. Hear me out. How often am I wrong when it cums to men?? Not too fucking much.
GOOD FOOD. GOOD FAMILY/FRIENDS. GOOD HOBBY/CAREER. GOOD REST. GOOD SEX. Am I wrong? That’s what I thought. See? Simple. I truly would prefer a life where so few criteria determined my happiness. (Makes ya wonder why so many men are grumpy.)
I’m telling ya’ll… IT’S THEM FUCKIN BALLS. They make it practically impossible for a man to get even a few moments of peace, before images of women, and sex, and, just anything, even remotely, associated with sex, flood the brain completely, and begin to take control of all body functions.
Oh, I certainly can’t blame you. In fact, it’s the most likely reason I relate so very well to you. Quite often, when in the midst of a conversation with a guy, despite the topic, I find myself zoning out. My eyes will slowly drift downward, in the obvious direction of his crotch, as if attracted by the unseen force of a very large magnet from within his pants.
I’ve often wondered if anyone has ever actually caught me, mid-leer, and watched me, as I lusted after the mound hidden beneath the fabric of, said, trousers. Just like a man, it’s not intended. Truthfully, it’s all done, pretty much, subconsciously.
That’s a lie. It’s not. Men. Women. It doesn’t matter your sex. Staring at someone’s genitals is definitely a choice. But, like, the easiest choice ever! It’s not like I wanna fuck EVERY penis I’ve ogled through a pair of jeans (Eh…) No. Definitely NOT.
Look, if you’re cummin over for a playdate, I’m sure you’ve never noticed me staring your dick down. How could you? You were too damn busy staring at my tits. LOL. Oh, come on! Call me a liar!
BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! You can’t help it. My titties are big. They’re not just big, they’re fuckin huge! However, they’re certainly not perky. Thankfully, though, I’ve been blessed, not just with big ‘ole titties, but with a pair of the longest nipples you have probably ever seen. I’m talking about porno nips, friends. I’m talking about, thick, long, dark red nipples that could, quite easily, poke someone’s eye out.
I love to drop them bad boys, one at a time, directly into a fella’s mouth from above. The weight of them, alone, hinder his ability to have them as he wished, greatly. Despite how he may prefer to handle my breasts, once I’m sitting astride his chest, he has very little choice in the matter.
And, I, just love taking my long azz nipples and using them to tease him by shaking them gently back and forth across his lips and cheeks, often jerking them back hastily from his hungry, wanton tongue. It is a position that holds so much power.
No one seems to have noticed how much I enjoy pressing them, both, together, his face sandwiched in between, until my gentleman friend is very near suffocation by the sheer magnitude of their size. Not that I want to kill anyone. I just don’t want him to have a choice. I want him to HAVE TO suck my pornographic nipples, because I MADE HIM. Certainly, not because HE wants them. (Trust me, it’s much more fun my way.)
Seriously! You guys are crazy! I can’t believe ya’ll actually get off on those grotesque baby feeders. Oh… But they are so deliciously naughty looking. I agree. I, also, love to look at them, and admire their length with the most perverse pleasure. They just make me feel dirty. I, do so, love to feel dirty. No wonder guys love them.
You know, I have been having some of the greatest sex, here, lately. No. For real. I’m just having such wonderfully, passionate, intense physical interactions, these past few weeks. I mean, I’m getting off harder than a busted water main, just about, on the daily. How much can one woman truly take??
The thing is, I, really, haven’t even felt the need to touch myself. I mean, of course, I TOUCH MYSELF. But, it’s, most often, with someone else in the room. When I’m alone, there’s just no need anymore. I’m pretty much satisfied at this point. (I know. Jealous. Right?)
I’ve been getting off so much, lately, that I think I might just be in the midst of one of my best years ever. Well, as far as orgasms are concerned. Actually, orgasms have done more for my depression than all herbal supplements and doctor prescribed medication, combined. Orgasms ABSOLUTELY make the best antidepressant. (See? Who even needs health insurance??)
Okay. Actually, orgasms AND weed make the best antidepressant. And they DEFINITELY work. Together. They work better together. Oh. I’m sure they, also, work wonderfully alone. Of course… I wouldn’t, actually, know that firsthand, myself.
Here’s a special announcement. For those of you who have membership status on the website that I belong to: Please DO NOT read my reviews as if they are a script. You know, a play-by-play. Oh… You don’t know what I mean?? Really?? Well, I’d be more than happy to explain.
Okay. So, last week, someone wrote a very erotic review on me. I mean, I , actually, received a few reviews this past week. They were all good. Really, they must have been great. One, though, in particular, garnered far more attention than the others. How do I know? Aha. You’re gonna love this…
It’s probably gonna sound crazy and awfully slutty of me, to be sure, but here goes. After this one review was posted up live, for all to see, my following three dates… Are you listening? The very next three fellas that came to my home to roll in the flowers of my garden bedroom, had the exact same m.o. Well, at least, when it came to getting me off.
Any man that has ever been with me can attest to one thing. My g spot is not in the usual spot on a woman’s body where you would expect to find one. Nope. Not even close. Well, kinda close. However, being that my pussy truly only fits about a six inch cock comfortably, then… Well, I certainly would not consider two and a half inches off as, ALL THAT FUCKIN CLOSE. But, whatever. I’d hate to offend. (Yeah. Right. Since when?)
I ushered the third gentleman into my bedroom, now, almost three days AFTER the illicit review posted live. Although, he was actually a younger guy (twenty-something), he didn’t seem to be nervous in anyway, at all. That kinda surprised me a bit.
He cums in, all confident, and undressed. In fact, he disrobed so quickly, that I found myself half expecting a brightly colored leotard and matching cape to be hiding underneath. Immediately, and I do mean IMMEDIATELY, he goes straight for my g spot. Dude! WTF!
This man didn’t use spit, flattery, or ANY real knowledge of the female anatomy before jamming a finger, a thumb, perhaps, even, a small child’s arm (let’s just say it wasn’t all that comfortable), and jammed it as deeply into my pussy as it would go. Dude! JUST WHERE IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING??
Evident, immediately, he had absolutely NO clue where mine was located. Like I said… NOT EVEN CLOSE. .
So, of course, I’m ALWAYS willing to lend a hand. Come on. You know how kind I am. I’m always trying to help others. I’m not just going to sit by and watch the poor fella suffer, while I sit back, just eyeballing his struggle. (I, also, didn’t want this young man to puncture the bottom of my uterus.)
Whether it was his intention to poke through my womb or not, that was, most likely, to be the outcome of his insane hunt for that, most elusive, button of female pleasure. That is, if I didn’t put an end to it, IMMEDIATELY.
The thing is, before I even made the complete motion of reaching down to my nether region to take over, he had already moved his hand away, as if he already knew that I was going to do just that.
But how? How could he know?? Well, it seems quite obvious to me. Damn! That sure must have been a fuckin naughty azz review! I LOVE IT!
Look. I mean, YOU LOOK. See who wrote it. I, certainly, don’t have to. I was there. I know exactly what went down. And, he sure wasn’t bullshitting. Unfortunately, they don’t issue maps with the reviews, for the few that would actually need one, or I wouldn’t even mention it at all.
My suggestion is that, perhaps, my reviews should cum with a simple warning: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. What I mean is, YOU shouldn’t try attempting the moves done in THAT REVIEW with ME. Dude! Why the fuck would you?? So, some guy got me off, like, a shitload of times. No biggie. (Pssst…. No biggie. Rather, it’s HUGE.)
If you copy the acts previously used by someone else upon my flesh, I’M GONNA FUCKIN KNOW. Not very original, in my opinion. Cum on, now. Don’t let me down, fellas.
You know, ya’ll spend so much time just imagining yourselves having sex. Yet, truthfully, how often has reality actually mimicked ANYTHING you’ve dreamt up in your head?? NOT NEVER! So, please… You don’t have to be a romeo, a playboy, a sexual dynamo, for us to have a good time. But, be you. I wanna fuck you.
If I wanted to fuck that other guy, I would. (Actually, I did. Twice more since that first time last week.) Hey. I really, really had a good time with him. Not because he’s a good lover. Okay. Not JUST because he’s a good lover.
Because, he’s just him. No frills. No embellishments. No dick pills or toys. Just him. Just him and just me. Just us. Ooooh. And lots and lots of delicious orgasms.
There truly is nothing better than fucking someone that you have a deep connection with. Yeah. I lie. There is ONE THING better than fucking someone that you have such a strong connection with. And, that’s someone that you have a connection with fucking the shit out of you. Now, that, my friends…That is, what I like to call, a GOOD TIME.
Yesterday, I, most certainly, had a good time. And now… Well, now I’m beat. I love riding cock. I love sucking cock. Yesterday, I ground my bare pussy into a man’s face. Yup. It was a good day.