The number one enemy of sex

Want the know what the number one enemy to having a great sex life is? This is going to sound simple, I know, but it’s a truth that everyone needs to hear. I made this unbelievable discovery a couple of years ago and it changed my life. It can change yours too, if you’ll just pay attention. It’s easy, quick, and can turn everything around in your bedroom. What is it, you ask?

White cotton underwear.

Before you start laughing, or tell me I’m an idiot, or think to yourself, This woman’s mental, or try to refute or belittle or argue, just let me make my case and I think you’ll see what I mean.

Three years ago, I wore a size 22. Today, I wear a six. Okay, sometimes an eight when there’s been pasta around, or it’s the holidays, or I just fell face-first into a carton of praline ice cream. But usually, I wear a six.

Anyway, it was hard work, very hard work. While I was going through this transformation, things were very hard. They were hard for me, trying to change my lifestyle, trying to stay on track, and they were also very hard on my bank account. You see, when you go through that many different sizes in eight months, you have to buy A LOT of clothes. Tons. So many, in fact, that I was packing pants off to consignment that had only been worn once or twice before they were too big for me. I went through a lot of stuff that year, and know what the worst was?

Underwear. I went through FIVE SIZES OF UNDERWEAR. Not kidding. I’d no sooner get a pack of panties broken in than they were too big and I had to start again. I kept Hanes in business. Oddly, too, my bra size changed, and in a weird way: I got smaller around, but the cups got bigger. Don’t ask; I have no idea. But that’s what happened. So I was buying, buying, buying.

What was I buying? Hanes cotton panties in the eight-pack. The same Vanity Fair bras that I’d always bought, just a little lace and nothing more. And one day I had a blinding flash of insight.

Why wasn’t I buying sexy underclothes? Why was I still hanging onto those cotton nightmares I’d worn when I didn’t feel well, was depressed, didn’t feel sexy, didn’t want sex or need sex or even think about sex? I was certainly feeling better about myself. Dropping the pounds and working out several times a week had alleviated the depression and made me look pretty damn good, but underneath it all, literally, I was still dressing like my grandma. So I decided to do something about it.

Yes, I know you already know, but the clerks at Victoria’s Secret now take notice when I walk in. I opened the drawer with my bras in it while my daughter was here and her eyes bugged out. Yes, that drawer is full. Yes, I know it looks like a box of 64 Crayolas. Yes, they’re fancy. (And before you say it, they DO make beautiful underclothes for big, beautiful girls. I’ve seen 3X panties and some very, very sexy teddies and such. Look for it; it’s out there.)

But, you know what? When I wear fancy underthings, I feel fancy too. Very fancy. And very, very sexy. I had no idea that would happen, but when I turn and look in the mirror and find myself there in something that’s pretty and shapely and fun, I feel better about myself.

Need I tell you what it does for my partner? Let’s just say the girls at VS see him almost as much as they see me. He likes it; he likes it a lot. And I love the reaction I get from him when I put on something new and exciting and he gets a gander at it. Yeah. After all these years, who knew a simple triangle of acetate nylon was so important to the libido?

And he’s not the only one. So let me just say this . . .

Guys, those baggy boxers? No. Just no. Take any cover model on any romance novel and put him in a pair of those baggy boxers. See what happens. You want readers to buy the books, not recoil in horror. I know some of those guys could wear ruffled rhumba panties and still look hot, but the baggy boxers aren’t on the agenda.

So when my honey decided he wanted to go sexy, he went to Kmart (of all places) and got some bikini briefs. That made me laugh. Does he look silly in them? Kinda. But also kinda hot. Even at the very least, he ditched the baggy boxers and got boxer briefs. Now those are hot. They show off everything – and I do mean everything – and still fit nicely and are comfortable. I especially like the black ones. And they’re not expensive. Even tighty whities are better than those baggy boxers.

Of course, I could get him some Andrew Christian underwear. If you haven’t seen those, well, you owe it to yourself to look them up. I thought about it, and then I thought better of it. I’m all for sexy.

But when it comes to most of the men I know, sometimes you can just go too far.

My Reads: Chain of Title by Robyn Roze

I was going through my Kindle app on my iPad, wondering what to read, and I found Chain of Title there waiting for me. A post for it had drifted past my eyes just an hour or so before on Facebook, and I felt like it was a sign. I'm definitetly happy I yielded to that sign, because I got several hours of entertaining reading from what turned out to be a great book.

I was sucked into Shayna Montgomery Edwards Chastain's world almost immediately. She's a woman who's worked hard to look good in her prime, and it's a good thing, too, because her ex-husband, Frank, threw her over for a girl about their daughter's age. In their bed. And she walked in on it. Her first trip to the attorney's office culminates in a solo trip to a little Italian restaurant in the same district, and there she meets the owner, Sean Parker.

The attraction is instantaneous, but there's no acting on it, and through the course of the long, drawn-out divorce (as divorces between rich people often are), they spend time getting to know each other as she frequents the restaurant, but they never act on the feelings growing between them. Why? Because Sean has no intention of getting involved with someone who runs back to her ex when things get rocky. Can't blame a guy for that.

But the day she comes into Gaetano's to celebrate the finalization of her divorce, things heat up instantly, and I do mean instantly. It's obvious that Sean's just been biding his time, but no more. He makes his intentions perfectly clear, and Shayna rises to the occasion. Their time together is wild and hot, and they both fall hard and fast.

Frank doesn't give up easily. A powerful and wealthy man, he threatens Sean, first privately and then publicly, and Sean Parker isn't one to back down. Threats are made and favors are called in, and Shayna finds out three important things: Sean is much more than meets the eye; he's capable of doing things, good and bad, that she never thought he would or could do; and that, just like some of the most important people in her life, she's once again been left behind.

But her brother, Scott, has other ideas for her, and when he introduces her to the owner of a vineyard in Italy, her world changes again. And that's as much of a spoiler as you're going to ever get from me.

Chain of Title is one of the most colorful reads I've picked up in a long time. Robyn has the ability to take you into a scene and hold you there, giving you wonderful, intimate details that leave you feeling the touch of silk under your skin, tasting the sparkling citrus water, and inhaling the scent of star jasmine. The sex scenes are roasty-toasty and I could feel the emotion rolling off the players. A few times I thought Shayna was being overly harsh, but looking at the big picture, I don't think she could've been any other way and survived it all.

The one thing that we never hear about is Sean's past relationships, and I'd love to hear about those. Just curiosity on my part, I guess, but everyone has a history.

The absolute best part? We're left with something that I would't call a cliffhanger; rather, I'd call it a promise of things to come. I'd really like to know what they are. I don't know when the next book in this series is coming out, but you can bet I'll be reading it. So get yourself a copy of Chain of Title and join me in waiting to see what happens next.

Open letter to the guys

(Disclaimer: If there are errors in this post or something looks crazy, I apologize. I don't know what's going on, but I can't seem to keep blogger up long enough to accomplish anything. So my apologies.)

This week or last, I forget which, another author with whom I'm friends on the BOF posted something for the guys. It was his take on what they should do when she's in "the mood." No, he didn't mean the good kind of mood - he was talking about the PMS, smoking and churning, vagina-with-teeth (as he called it) mood. He outlined all of the dainty, pretty, loving things a guy can do for his lady when that time of the hormones comes around.

My comment was that if the guys waited until she was courting the hounds of hell with her dagger-like stares, it was too late. They should be doing those dainty, pretty, loving things all the time.

But there's another factor to consider. In a previous post, I talked about why women don't want to have sex. I felt it necessary to revisit that with an open letter to the guys. Have your favorite guy read this, even if it's your teenage son. Because some day, my dear, he'll have a significant other, and relationships between mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law are difficult enough without yours thinking you've raised a Neanderthal (no slights to Neanderthals intended, but it is what it is). So here goes.

Dear sweetheart,

There are some things I really think I need to talk to you about, but since you can't tear yourself away from the monster truck pull, I thought I'd just write them down and share them. You're always wondering why pretty much anytime you say "go" in the bedroom I say "no," so I want to share some of my concerns with you.

First, those feet. I will gladly buy you a foot file, callous remover, set of giant-sized toenail clippers, but please, do something with those things. I really expect you to perch on the edge of the dresser, drum your fingers together, and mutter something about "my precious" every time I see them. Your toenails are clacking on the floor when you walk, and it's looking like I need some Kevlar legging to wear to bed to keep my legs from being slashed to a bloody mess. So, I beg you, since I'd like to keep my lunch down, bend down and take a look-see at what you might be able to work out down there.

And speaking of "down there," your hoo-hah is starting to look like a button on a fur coat. We have scissors, clippers, razors, all of that stuff. Could you maybe see if you could tame the wild west down south, please? You keep asking me what it would take to get me to wrap my lips around that bad boy, but it would be like sucking on a shetland sweater. You wouldn't want to do that, so why would I?

Since we're talking about taking a look-see, if you can't see the forest for the pork-rind or butter-flavored-popcorn-fueled trees or reach your feet to take care of the claws there, consider cutting back on the hot wings, ice cream, and nachos, and taking a little trip to the gym four or five nights a week. It's really hard to get excited about the prospect of having sex with Jabba the Hutt. And before you say something that's going to ensure your celibacy for all eternity, let me remind you that my body has born you beautiful children and it'll NEVER be what it was before. But I do try to take care of myself, for my own health and your visual pleasure, and it would be nice if you'd do the same.

Also, know that fragrance is important to women. We wear perfume. We buy body wash because we like the way it smells. We light scented candles all over the house. Here are some fragrances we DO NOT like:

Dirty socks;

Stinky gym clothes;

Mud;

Gasoline, oil, and/or diesel fuel;

Smoke (and the garbage-burning kind is the absolute worst);

Cheap aftershave (especially some of those body sprays the kids use - yuck);

Last but not least, body odors - lack of deodorant, lack of soap, lack of engagement of the exhaust fan in the bathroom, and then there are the airborne ones you gift me with after you've had two bowls of chili with beans and three beers. Because, baby, no one's lovemaking experience has EVER been enhanced by a fart. Not one single time. And yes, I have done that accidentally a time or two, but NEVER on purpose, and I've CERTAINLY never bragged about it, neither then nor later.

If you'd like to really alienate me, be sure to tell me how much I remind you of your mother. That'll go a long way to making me feel loved and special. It's bad enough that I have to treat you like a child because you act like one, but knowing that you think of me as a mom is just, well, gross, and also not very sexy. At all.

Make sure we never have an evening to ourselves. If it's not with the kids, it's with your buddies or your parents or at the parts store. Then come home and ask for a quickie before you have to roll over and catch some shut-eye for work the next day. Because nothing says love like coming in second, or third, or fourth, or even lower, with you. One date a week at somewhere other than Buffalo Wild Wings won't kill you.

Give me a vacuum cleaner, pots and pans, or tools for my birthday, Christmas, and our anniversary. That's absolutely what I wanted. Never mind the perfume I like, that sweater I've been looking at in the window downtown (of course, you didn't notice), the designer-knockoff bag I saw at the bargain store, or even a calendar with cute kittens and puppies on it. Nothing says love like a crescent wrench. Oh, and consistently forget those important dates anyway. It seems they mean nothing to you, so they mean nothing to me, right? That's sure to warm me up (but not necessarily in a good way).

Last but not least, make rude comments about me, and make them sound like jokes. There's nothing like hurt feelings to get a girl in the mood. Your, "Oh, honey, I was just joking!" works every time, like telling the jury to disregard the witness's last statement. Then when we're alone, give me a chewing out for embarrassing YOU in front of our family/friends/grocery clerk/stranger on an airplane because, after all, I didn't have to get all offended - it WAS just a joke.

In closing, let me just say that I love you - well, I want to love you anyway. You make it so easy for me, too. I'd love to take you to bed - then pull out a garrote and choke you in your sleep. But really, dear, I'm not asking for a lot. I'm just asking that you treat me as one civilized human being would treat another if they expected that person to love them, trust them, and give their body to them on a regular basis to do with as they please. If this is too much, please let me know and I'll make other arrangements.

And believe me, I can.

Love,

Your significant other

And P.S., ladies: If any of the things I mentioned above can be said about YOU, get busy. You've got no excuse. Bitching only works when you actually have something to bitch about.

Don't forget to go checkout my friend Ken's blog. Today's post is a fun one!

My Reads: My Fairy Godfathers by Krystabella

I have no idea how I found this book. I can't remember what I was looking for. I'm thinking maybe I was looking for a book by someone else and I ran across the author's name. Regardless, I found it, bought it, and started reading it. And I got the biggest surprise of my life. It turned out that My Fairy Godfathers was nothing like I thought it would be.

So, first off, let me say that Krystabella's covers aren't my favorites in the world. I find them kind of, I don't know, odd maybe? Or just strange. And diffuse. Just different. But I never judge a book by its cover, or possibly only occasionally, so I decided to read the thing just to see what it was.

As I read, I wasn't particularly impressed by the writing style. It's plenty good enough, and the choice of language was good, but it lacked a bit in the grammar and punctuation area, and it switched tenses too often. I decided I could live with that, though, because none of that detracted from the story itself.

That's where things get interesting. According to Krystabella, this is a true story written about Greg Wyler (not the man's real name), who came out to his wife and left her and his kids for the gay lifestyle. And when he left, he really, really left. It was profound. Oh, he still loved his wife, still stayed in touch, actually continued to live there, but when he decided he was gay, he never went back. Never.

And this is what I love about this book. The descriptions say it's a true story. I know Krystabella writes fiction also, but if this isn't real, it's damn close. It's written in such a style that I felt I was going along for the adventure with Greg, seeing what he was seeing, feeling what he was feeling, doing what he was doing. It was amazing, actually, to hear from a man who had lived the hetero lifestyle and knew it wasn't for him. Totally and utterly amazing. I enjoyed discovering how he fumbled around until he found three men, the Glorious Eagle Brothers, who could properly introduce him to the lifestyle. That's when he discovered he was absolutely, positively a bottom, someone who wanted to receive, not give. He dove into it like an Olympic diver on a high board into a pool and never looked back.

I was very interested in the fact that, once he came out, his wife pushed him to be authentic. She actually went out to a club and had a one night stand to encourage him to take the first step toward a new relationship. He tinkered with being an erotica writer of gay literature, was taught how to dress appropriately, and even at one point experienced puppy play. It was quite a trip for Greg, but he took it all in stride.

I enjoyed this book immensely, and that was a real surprise to me. I think the thing that I appreciated the most about it was the fact that it dealt primarily with a married father of three coming out and becoming the gay man he was always destined to be. In the not-so-distant past, I was a member of a religious sect that believed gay could be "cured." Their efforts to tell gays and lesbians that there was something inherently wrong with them and try to change them was repugnant to me - still is. This book pointed out what I already knew, that people have the right to be who they are, and they can still have productive lives, regardless their sexual orientation. Krystabella still worked to maintain the anonymity of Greg's wife and family, and that was admirable. The second book in this series is a collection of four short stories about gay men leaving their heterosexual lives and embracing their sexuality. I haven't read it yet, but one of these days when I have time (yeah, right), I'm going to.

If you've ever wondered about the gay lifestyle and how a man who sees himself as straight transitions into it, this book will help you in your understanding. If you don't have Kindle Unlimited, it's a whole $1.29, and it's worth every penny and more.

It's happened to everybody, so share with me and make me feel better about myself

You knew I was up to something, right? Well, here we go. You can answer this anonymously, but I want  you guys to tell me, tell us all:

What was your most embarrassing moment during sex?

I know you have one. If I get ten comments here, I'll share with you guys what mine was, and my face still burns when I think of it lo these many years later. Yep. That bad. So answer up and entertain us all. Who knows? Someone might take pity on you and reply with something even worse. And you'll feel so much better if you get it off your chest, kinda like nipple clamps or . . . I should probably shut up now.

Can't wait to see these!

My Reads: One to Protect by Tia Louise

(Before I launch into this post, yes, there wasn't one last week. I'm fully aware of that. I was on VACATION. And I had no wi-fi service, a thing about which I was most unhappy. Sorry. I'll try not to let that happen again.)

Sometimes you find that series that you want more of. I've found that one. It's Tia Louise's One to Hold series. And guess what?

Tomorrow, the fourth book in the series, One to Love, is being released! 

I'm pretty happy about that. Can you tell?

So, in case you haven't read them all (and I hope you have so, if not, GET BUSY!), today I'm featuring the third book, One to Protect.

The new book is one I'd been hoping for. It's the story of Kenny. Don't know who Kenny is? READ THE BOOKS. No, Kenny is not a guy. Also not a dog. And that's as far as I'm going with that. You can find out tomorrow. In the meantime, let me tell you about it's immediate predecessor, One to Protect.

In One to Hold, we met Derek, Melissa, Patrick, and Elaine. Oh, yeah, and don't forget Sloan, although I'd like to. In One to Keep, we got to hear more from Patrick and get more of the story of his burgeoning relationship with Elaine,, plus we were introduced to Kenny. Then comes One to Protect. We finally, finally, get to hear more from Derek. I'd been waiting for this. Why?

Because I love Derek. If you've read my books, you know who Vic Cabrizzi is, and Derek Alexander is Tia's Vic. And we all know EVERYBODY loves Vic. Derek is big, beautiful, loving, and deadly. He knows how to protect the woman he loves, and that's a tall order, because Melissa's ex, Sloan, doesn't give up easily. Sloan is, after all, the way they met. The book opens as they get more information on exactly what kind of person Sloan is, and he's the worst kind.

I also loved that Star got more of a role in this book. I'm hoping we'll see more of her in subsequent books, but I love the growth we see in her in this particular work. It's refreshing to watch an author take a character who seems useless and turn them into someone you can really sink your teeth into.

There's only one problem: I see trouble down the way for Derek, Patrick, and Star, which automatically translates into trouble for Melissa and Elaine. Fortunately, the biggest problem is gone - permanently. But this book left me a little worried, and I'm hoping books past this one let me off the hook.

I loved everything about this book, but, like I said before, I especially loved Derek. I want to hear more from him in the future, and I'm pretty sure that's going to happen. But I know who the new book is about, and that means I'll have to wait for more Derek and Melissa.

So if you haven't started this series, what are you waiting for? Am I buying the new one tomorrow?

What do you think?

Why women don't want to have sex

I got into an interesting conversation with someone about a little over a week ago. We were talking about men and women and sex and our conversation was quite pointed in some regards. It set me to thinking about a great many things, but there was one thing I kept coming back to.

Why don’t women want to have sex?

Men ask that question all the time. There are even jokes about it: What’s the best birth control you can get? Wedding cake.

Asshats.

But seriously, men do ask this question all the time, or some variation of it. Why doesn’t my wife want to have sex? Why isn’t my wife interested in sex? How do I get my wife to want sex? Why doesn’t my wife want to have sex anymore?

I have some really bad news for you, fellas. Really bad news. Your wife really does want to have sex.

She just doesn’t want to have it with you.

Okay, studly, now pick your jaw up off the floor and listen up. I’m going to tell you the truth, and you won’t like it, but you should probably pay attention. And I know what I’m talking about. So here goes.

First of all, here’s a truth: For men, in the arousal process, there comes a point of no return. It’s that place where, no matter what happens, he’s going to finish. It’s inevitable. There will be release for him, short of him getting run over by a train. Yeah, that’ll probably ruin his happy ending. But otherwise, he’s going to get it.

Women, on the other hand, don’t have this safety net. One wrong move, one stupid gesture, one nasty comment, and it’s over for her and the whole process has to start again. Most of the time, she’ll just tell you to not bother and roll over and go to sleep. Why? Because she knows the second time will be as frustrating and uneventful as the first. Shame, too.

Second, here’s another truth: What works for you will not work for her. Let me say this again so that you get it.

WHAT WORKS FOR YOU WILL NOT WORK FOR HER.

What do I mean? I know how you stroke yourselves. I know how you like for us to stroke you. And that kind of stroking will not work on us. Our bodies don’t respond to anything that frantic and harsh. Sometimes they will, but not usually. It’s a rarity. Not only that, but if we’re stroking you and we quit, you get all upset. But for most women (not all, but most), pausing momentarily and giving pleasure somewhere else only makes her more sensitive when you return to the previous activity. Not kidding. It really does work. And unless a woman is adequately aroused, she’s not going to have an orgasm from vaginal sex. Isn’t going to happen.

Third, it’s a damn shame I should have to tell you this, but I must: Just because you enjoyed it doesn’t mean she did. So you got your grand finale, and because it felt good to you, you’re pretty sure it felt good to her too. Not necessarily. Trust me, being your own personal cum dump doesn’t do a damn thing for her. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. It’s just become all about you and not at all about her.

Fourth, here’s one that you not might know: By nature, women’s bodies work in an orderly fashion. Here’s what I mean: If you give a woman an orgasm through manual stimulation, her body is automatically going to want vaginal sex, possibly even beg for it. It’s inevitable. Why, you ask? Because it was nature’s way of making sure that pregnancy took place. It’s all about the chemicals released during sex (don’t make me go into all that detail, please – it’ll suck all the fun out of this post) and the way they change the body as they are synthesized. They’re mostly things like dopamine and serotonin and stuff like that, neurotransmitters, and they’re all-important in the sexual satisfaction process. I know, it’s complicated. It’s chemistry. Isn’t that what it’s supposed to be about anyway?

That was a joke. Chill out. This is not a college chemistry course, and no, there is no opportunity for extra credit.

Fifth, and remember I said this: Grow your ass up. No woman wants to fuck a guy who acts like a twelve year old. Don’t know what I mean? Leave a mess in the kitchen. Drop your dirty clothes in the floor. Drive her car and leave it on empty. Stop at the store and get only the things you want when you know she has a list a mile long. Sit around and watch TV while she works her ass off. Complain about how you don't want to go down on her because you just don't care about it and it doesn't do anything for you.

And whine like a little bitch about how you don’t get enough sex. Oh, yeah, that works every time, right?

Sixth and finally: Did it ever occur to you to ask her what she wants? You know, you might just try that. You might be surprised at what she says. Of course, there is one difficulty here. It’s probably been so long since you’ve asked her or cared what she said if you did ask that, bless her heart, she has no idea what she needs or wants. She probably used to know, but by now she’s completely forgotten. She doesn’t remember what feels good, or what got her aroused, or what she needs to feel “in the mood.” And that brings me to something else entirely.

I see the windup for the pitch. No rotten tomatoes, please, but ladies, I’m going to drag you into the fray. And here’s what I want to say to you.

Talk to him. Tell him what you want and need. Use your mouth for more than bitching. Be specific. Stop him if it doesn’t feel good. Tell him, “A little to the left, honey.” If he’s trying but obviously doesn’t understand, try to explain. You may even have to demonstrate, so get over any shyness. You’re naked, after all. How much harder can it be to talk to him? If he just doesn’t get it but he’s trying, tell him maybe you can practice sometime in the daylight. Buy some books. Go to the adult store together and look at some things you might want to try. In short, communicate. If you don’t, it’s no one’s fault but your own.

But if you do and he just doesn’t seem to care and just goes on his merry way, as I see it, you’ve got two options. You can just grin and bear it.

Or you can go find yourself a man who really does care. Because in case you haven’t figured it out by now, life’s too short to put up with pitiful sex.