Kizz & Tell is a combination of item #17 on my Life List (Develop an erotic fiction web site) and a continuation of the G-spot column I used to write at The Women's Colony. From fantasies to frank discussion I'm just trying to re-create a really great conversation with your friends. I hope you'll join in!

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Who's That Girl?

I have a window in my bathroom. If you're from most places this isn't a huge deal. If you live in New York it's like I just said my cat shits diamonds. My window is small but so is my bathroom so it works out great. It's by the tub and has a sill where I can keep shampoo and stuff. I love showering in the sunlight but don't get much of a chance to do it.

The last few days I've hit the sweet spot and showered in warm rays of sunshine. It turns out the angle of the sun makes for a reflection I've never seen before. At the foot of the tub I can see my upper body clear as if the tiles were mirrors. Almost that clear but not quite because in the reflection I look like I have the most enormous rack!

I've always liked my breasts but they couldn't be classified as enormous in any context so it's cool to see myself as this character out of a bad Skinemax feature. I'm all soapy and wet and normal showering protocol starts to look way more racy than it really is.

It's no surprise to me that seeing oneself out of context can make you feel sexy even though seeing yourself with fresh eyes isn't always so great. A few years ago I went on a weight loss program not because I felt especially fat but because I saw some photos and I didn't recognize myself. I wasn't hugely overweight but I didn't feel like me so I decided to try and change it. This shower experience was similar in that it took me a moment to realize it was really me I was seeing but, in contrast, it was completely delightful. I believe that I've gone about my day with a little pep in my step, a little swagger in my wagger, if you will, because of it.

When was the last time you saw yourself differently and it felt great?

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Pick A Little Talk A Little

I don't know how many of you know the origins of this site but I think now's a good time for a quick refresher. When Mrs. G founded a community blog called the Women's Colony she, rightly, thought that a sex blogger would be a good piece of the puzzle. She already had a team of fantastic writers so she (I assume, I wasn't there but this is the impression I got) asked around to see who wanted to grab that apple off the tree and everyone politely declined. We'd met in person and we were blog friends so she asked me if I would do it. I don't know if she knew before that offer that it's something I'd been interested in for a long time.

So I joined the Colony Crew and loved writing the G Spot column even on the days when I hated it. Mrs. G was right, it was a really popular section. It was not, however, a column that always got a ton of comments. People were reading but they were keeping mum. They seemed shy to talk about sex in general as well as online. We made some decisions about encouraging anonymity for comments if it made people feel more comfortable and the discussions opened up a lot. I'm sorry that, when the site closed, those comments were lost because I learned a lot. Some lessons were easier to accept than others, sure, but I was grateful to learn them anyway. After getting to know and trust me as a moderator and with the ability to post anonymously our readers were extremely brave and giving which led me to keep the conversations going here, albeit sporadically, after the Women's Colony was no more.

Today blogging Titan, Sweetney, opened up a conversation about moms and sex. In part she wonders if any moms are having sex because they aren't really talking about it. She was surprised to find that the majority of commenters are emailing her their answers. I'm not surprised but I'm glad that her readers trust her enough to talk to her about it even if they want to stay anonymous to the larger internet. I encourage you to check out the post if you haven't already. Let's talk!

Friday, October 21, 2011

Not At All Like Bungee Jumping

You know what's inspirational? Fisting!

Today is Fisting Day and I can't let it pass without a post. I don't know if it's National Fisting Day or International, maybe Universal. I'll take it whoever is endorsing it.

OK, full disclosure, I don't know a lot about this. That's why I'm so thrilled, though. It's a topic about which I am very intrigued. I would never bungee jump but I imagine the combination of excitement and fear about fisting is how people feel when they want to bungee jump. Let's hope that someday I have as much fun as the people in those amusement park commercials seem to.

Back to the topic of having a Fisting Day. What's great is that it brings out great information and resources. Let me share what I've found.

First is aagblog with a list of all the fisting posts she's done.

Secondly aagblog also links to Jiz Lee's fisting contribution (which confirms that it's actually International Fisting Day [unofficially]).

Babeland reviews posted a fisting link round up.

Dylan Ryan contributed a photo that's somehow both hot and kind of funny.

If you've got anything you've found please let us know in the comments.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Finding Your Own Technique

Eden Fantasys had a booth in the Expo Hall at Blogher this year. They were displaying some high end toys and giving gift bags with two different kinds of lower end vibrators. The branded bags were proudly displayed all weekend long and I have overheard countless conversations about how women will be getting their goodies home. Some want them in checked baggage with minimal scrutiny. Some are shipping them home with other swag that won't fit in their luggage. Yesterday I found myself alone in a big conference center bathroom and next to the sink where I washed my hands was a small swag backpack. Curious if it was empty and abandoned or if I should turn it in to lost and found I peeked in the open zipper to see one item, the giveaway vibe. Oh no! I decided to leave it there. I figured either someone was too embarrassed to have it or pass it on and had chosen a lost treasure approach to recycling or they'd want it back but might be too shy to describe it at lost and found.

What would you have done?

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

But Before I Go...

I'm headed off to Blogher in a few hours but I was reminded of a couple of things this morning. First, I owe a friend a vibe recommendation post. So overdue. I will get on that, so to speak, as soon as possible. Second, I will be in the very same city as the original, awesome Good Vibrations storefront. So going. So. Absolutely. Going. Stay tuned.

In the mean time, would you help me tide my friend over by letting her know what your favorite sex toy is, please? I now live in fear that her current vibe, which is on its last...well, legs, will give up the ghost before I've chimed in about what she should get next.

I'll kick us off. I haven't tried this one but I would really, really, like to. I saw it over at Epiphora's blog when she was putting together a round up of green sex toys. It's the Ina Rabbit Vibrator by Lelo. I guess it's not for everyone but it sure looks like it might be for me!

Ok, now you go.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Fiction: 7 Flight Plunge

7 Flight Plunge
Rated: PG-13


Lost. No warning at all. Totally lost.

I’d met him at another party. Maybe it was a concert. Friend’s birthday? We couldn’t recall. We’d only spoken briefly at this party. There was a lull between when I arrived and when everyone else I knew did. As I passed the kitchen I recognized a familiar face and grasped that social straw.

I’m terrible at parties. No, not terrible, I am average at parties. I say vague things and tell minimally interesting stories and every once in a while manage to get off one brilliant joke so people don’t just turn away from me.

That’s happened before. Occasionally people do just stop listening to me, pivot 45 degrees in another direction and leave me hanging. I was so relieved when my friends showed I probably did that to him.

After the songs were sung and the candles blown out and the toasts made everyone’s brains toasty I snuck out. I was too tired for stairs. So I punched the button for the elevator and made myself busy with my phone.

“Been waiting long?” he asked. I hadn't even heard him behind me.

I looked up, less startled because I was more drunk, and he was right there, barely a person’s width away from me. My head swung around and suddenly I was looking right into his eyes. I’m too shy to do that normally.

They were green. A jade green that seemed polished and cool but alive. He wasn’t shy. He was looking directly at me, not turning away. I can’t speak for his mouth but his eyes were smiling.

As usually happens in these situations I was speechless. I got a little unexpected vertigo and fell forward a bit into the eyes. I hadn’t noticed them before. I’m not an eyes person normally. I tend toward hands, sometimes lips or chins. Always something you can see when your head is bowed a little. This time, though, I got caught in the eyes and was suddenly lost. They seemed to want me right where they had me. He was going to pivot in the other direction any second and I’d lose them. I stood up on my tiptoes, braced myself with a hand on his shoulder and kissed him.

He kindly stepped in toward me so I wouldn’t tip over. I felt his hand on my waist, just at the hip, and it didn’t just rest there he held it the way you tighten your hand around something you don’t want to drop. I finished kissing and leaned back ever so slightly then he closed the gap and returned the favor.

Before I wanted it to be over a bell dinged and the elevator doors opened. We each spun a bit to face the arriving carriage. I licked my lips, wondering if I looked kissed but unable to stop grinning. I was a little embarrassed but his hand hadn’t left my hip.

No one was in there.

He guided me into the elevator in quite a gentlemanly way. We turned, as you do, to face front. The doors closed.

At lightning speed we were kissing again. I stabbed my fingers into his loose, curly hair and that hand of his moved off my hip. It came front and I felt a nipple pinched between fingertips. The sweet sting of it made me rise all the way up on my toes. I was vaguely aware of trying to straddle one of his legs. Any second clothes were going to come off. How long did it take to go down 7 flights anyway?


The apartment door opened and someone else exited the party. “Been waiting long?” she asked as she rummaged in her stylish purse. She wasn’t looking in anyone’s eyes.

“I’ve only been here a minute and…” he gestured to me.

“Just a couple of minutes, not long at all.” I stammered.

We all turned to face the elevator doors, thinking our own thoughts.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Hello Stranger

***The following is a reprint from the Kizz & Tell's origins as a column known as The G-spot at The Women's Colony. There was a rousing discussion there when it was first published on March 9, 2010. Hope we'll get a little more of that today. Thanks for reading. ***

The G-spot is coming a little early this week (heh) in order to be part of the theme issue. The photo challenge will appear Friday. There isn't a lot of physically raw information here but emotionally some of it may be triggering. Proceed with that in mind.

Tom Wilkinson in Normal
There's this great movie from 2003, Normal. Tom Wilkinson plays Roy Applewood, a mild mannered midwestern guy and Jessica Lange is his wife of many years. They have teenaged kids and a nice, comfortable suburban life. Until, of course, Applewood admits to himself and eventually to his family, friends and neighbors that there's something he hasn't yet dared tell. He's a woman and he needs to change his body to match his identity.

I've been thinking about Normal because I've been thinking about how little we know each other. It's especially prevalent on the internet because blogging has evolved into something that often celebrates brutal honesty while providing numerous opportunities to conceal truth. I recently read Heather Armstrong's book, It Sucked & Then I Cried. It took me a long while to get to it because I understood it would cover the period of Dooce's life that I had first read online. I suspected she'd add some new information but that mostly it would be familiar. She did and it was. There were two glaring omissions, from my biased point of view, two stories that, from my angle, were absolutely critical to understanding who Heather is. Right off the bat that's crazy because it presumes that I have any idea who she is just from reading her web site for a number of years. I've never met her, what makes me think I know her? Who am I to say that the bathtub poop story or the bra cabbage story are any more or less indicative of her true self than anything else. But, I read it, she told me who she is. Didn't she?

 Felicity Huffman in Transamerica

I blog now. I tell people who I am. Sometimes I'm pretty honest about it. On the other hand there are things that I leave out. In the same way that there are plenty of things I leave out when I talk to people or write them letters or post on Facebook or fill out a job application. Sure, posting that picture of me from when I was 25 with a migraine and a shitty perm and the glasses that ate Kentucky can seem like an act of soul baring but I'm 41 now. I have a life and a job and a dead dog on my bookshelf, that picture costs me nothing emotionally and people like it so out it goes as some twisted kind of currency. But it doesn't mean that everyone who reads me knows me. How could they? I still haven't told anyone what it was like lying on the floor next to my beloved pooch the day I arranged to put her out of her misery. Not by blog or in person or a letter or by smoke signal. And how could anyone know me if they don't know that?

Maybe the people who know me in real life and read my blog know most of me, though, enough of me, whatever that is. Misti, Chili, Chrome & Auntie have my cell number and can text me in the middle of the night if they need me. They live in different places so we don't see each other all the time but we're friends on terra firma so they must have some advantage. Except how many times do I write something and get an e-mail or a text from a good friend, "What's going on?!?!?" "Is that about so and so doing such and such?" "I didn't know you were doing that."

Kizz in Montreal 199?

Which brings us back to Normal. How well can we ever know anyone, even someone with whom we've made babies (or at least practiced really, really hard)? For me, the most intricate part of this movie's writing is parsing Lange's character because she knew her husband, she loved him and they'd been together a long time. She wasn't going to have any more surprises, they were on the path to happily ever after and then she finds out that, the way her husband and best friend perceives it, she's never known his core being. It's not her fault. How could she have known if he'd carefully constructed a life that protected him from such a potentially dangerous revelation? And yet he'd led her to believe that she knew him. He'd encouraged her to open up and be her most vulnerable self with him with expectation of reciprocation and...he didn't.

Can we ever really know anyone?

We hear that question a lot. It comes up in relation to sexuality, to politics and, of course, to religion. Knowing that we still pair ourselves up, make friends, help neighbors, comment on blogs, love each other and lay bare our souls for other people to poke around in. Life is full of surprises and not all of them are good. I am continually surprised by people, especially on the internet. A commenter on my lark of a post regarding a sexual Olympics said she didn't understand it at all. Thank goodness for her, because, as silly as I know it was, I thought it was almost boring in its straightforwardness and yet it was so far out of her mindset she couldn't even fathom it. How would two people like us ever meet up in person? But here we are. She read it all the way through and took the time to comment about it too. It's miraculous, this deeply flawed medium.  I derive great joy from reading the stories of lives that writers give me (and you and everyone else) and it's all non-fiction, it's all the truth...whatever that is. Isn't it?

How does this relate to the G-spot? In a lot of ways. Let's think a little bit about all the ways we could be surprised by a partner: The biggies include but are not limited to infidelity, infidelity with a side of STD, coming out as GLBTQ, announcing transsexuality, falling out of love, quitting a job. On a smaller level what if you were approached by your partner about a desire to explore bondage or swinging or a fetish of any kind (mother-baby play, furries, feet, lingerie, anything), or mutual masturbation or a new position or public sex acts?

My dog, Emily

Have you ever been confronted with something like this? Have you ever felt, for a moment, that you really didn't know the cherished person in front of you? How did you handle it? My challenges have been few in this regard and I've been fortunate that they've been very much in tune with the way I think. I took a chance one day and asked a boy about a pair of handcuffs. He didn't balk, he didn't re-evaluate his vision of me, he grabbed his debit card and found the nearest place to buy handcuffs. When I unbuttoned his jeans a few months later and discovered a cute pair of ladies' cotton undies it turned out to be more delight than shock. I wonder if he still wears those sometimes. What if he'd added a wig and heels? What if he'd wanted to try breath play, which scares me? What if he wanted to try long term celibacy, which also kind of scares me?

Misti's foot, one of my highest viewed photos on Flickr

For the record I don't remember how Normal ends. I know it's difficult for Mrs. Applewood but I think she defends and supports her husband with everything she has. I could be wrong, though, I might just have blocked the disappointing part out.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

When Anticipation Goes Too Far

Way, waaaaaaay too far, eh?

I missed you! Sorry that I jumped ship for a bit. Let me lead by saying this is what I'm going to do in today's post, 1. ask a little question and 2. announce the ding dang winner of the Comstock Films giveaway! Finally.

1. I don't usually talk about writing here because that's not what this space is generally about. It's relevant right now, though, because clearly I had a hard time keeping up with writing here. Then I put off writing until I could do it "right." And here we are.

I'm having the same issue with doing nice sensual and sexual things for myself. There's no use listing all the reasons because they're wildly familiar. Say the first reason that comes into your head. Yup, it's on my list. I can almost guarantee it. For both writing and sex it's important to keep in practice. And I mean that in the yogic sense of the word, not the piano one.

So, the other day I had to get up about 40 minutes before the alarm to do one 3 minute task. Kind of not enough time to go back to sleep. Too much time to waste doing nothing. Too early to get up and go to the park with the dog. But you know? It was kind of the perfect amount of time for a personal treat, if you know what I mean, and a rest. So I did. Felt much better when it was time to start my day, too.

So the question is, of course, what have you done for yourself lately? And I don't mean did you change the oil in your car. Please elaborate in the comments. Italicized euphemisms not required.

2. Giveaway!

For the record here's what I did:

1. Wrote each entrant's name down the number of times they had earned to be included.
2. Went to's list randomizer and had the list mixed up officially randomly.
3. Moved over to's number generator to have it select a number. It was 2.
4. Go back to the randomized list to see who was in the 2nd slot.
5. Alert MistiRidiculous, aka Zelda, aka MKAEP, to check her mailbox in the next couple of days for a copy of Matt & Khym: Better Than Ever because SHE WON!

Thank you all for entering and I will do this again and in a more timely fashion so I hope you'll win next time. Every one of you!

Monday, March 28, 2011

Insert Sheen Joke Here

*Cross posted at 117 Hudson*

I was going to write some really sad shit here, y'all. Feeling sad, sharing sad, I am made of generosity. Then I typed the first sentence of this entry into the url bar instead of "" and decided my brain was not meant for writing of the deep today. So let's have a contest.

Remember Tony Comstock? You better. He's opened a new business venture of sailing trips off the coast of Long Island on his pretty little boat. Then he had another stellar idea (I bet Peggy helped) that they would raise money to fund a stipend for a Comstock SubGenius Grant. The grant will get you a week in September of life on the lovely boat and the stipend to ease your way to spending that time getting some honest work done on what you love. Your only obligation that week will be to have dinner with the Comstock Clan on Wednesday September 14. Nice work if you can get it.

I want it. 

So I'll apply and all will be well whether I receive the grant or not.

However, the stipend-raising hit a snag today when Kickstarter kicked the grant off their system. Details aren't important but Tony has a new plan, of course. For the next 24 hours (until noon Eastern on Tuesday March 29) half of the profits from all Comstock films sold will go into the stipend fund.

Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to buy a copy of Matt & Khym (review coming, no seriously, I promise) today during the stipend-raising period. I'm going to give it away to one of you on Saturday. This is what you can do to increase your chances of winning.

 - Leave a comment here: 1 entry
 - Leave a comment at Kizz & Tell: 1 entry
 - Tweet a link to your favorite Kizz & Tell post (leave a comment here with the link): 1 entry
- Buy a Comstock Film after the stipend raising period has ended (comment here to tell me, honor system): 3 entries
- Buy a Comstock Film during the stipend raising period (comment here to tell me, honor system): 5 entries
- Blog about Comstock Films (comment here or at Kizz & Tell with a link): 10 entries

Contest ends at midnight on Friday April 1st (no fooling!). I'll select a winner on Saturday and announce it here.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Soar Like A Frog

Chocolate based recipes, love stories and jewelry ads have been assailing me for a week. For the most part I don't care. I love chocolate, I'm a sucker for a love story (I'm voluntarily watching the Robert Downey, Jr. episodes of Ally McBeal and they are smoking) and I can easily tune out the jewelry stuff since they're not hawking things that are my style. Everyone has their saturation point, though. I'm not here to hate on the day, no holiday rooted in chocolate can be all bad, but I would like to provide some balance.

Once upon a time in a cool apartment in New York City's Chinatown I sat on a grungy futon to receive a gift of love. It came in an intricately carved wooden box, the kind sold on a big sheet on the sidewalk alongside statues of giraffes and elephants and skinny women with big boobs. "It" consisted of a number of animals origami-folded out of bright colored paper. Along with the fauna was a story. The boy lifted each carefully creased creature out of the box and paired it with a line of a little poem. The poem was all about how wonderful a person I was and how I, I don't know, elevated his humanity or something. Off the top of my head the only line I remember was about making him soar and the only item I remember was a frog that actually hopped when you flicked it just right. I also remember that it was deeply sweet and kind and heartfelt if just slightly corny. At the bottom of the box were, I think, 2 subway tokens so we could go somewhere specific in the city, I don't recall where.

Go ahead, you can give your big aaawwwwww now, I'll wait.

To understand the fullness of the moment, however, you have to realize that watching him present this gift was an out of body experience for me. I couldn't absorb the sweetness of it because I had stepped out of my skin and was standing beside myself well nigh screaming in my own ear, "Oh no he isn't. Is he? Please tell me he's not. He can't! What are you going to do if he does? We cannot do this. There is just no good way about it. Make it stop. Right now you, you make it stop right now or else....or else...." and then the subway tokens came out. I was, well not sure, but strongly afraid that he was going to propose to me. Small metal object coming out after the paper critters read as "RING! RING! ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!!" instead of, "Cool, free train ride." I didn't want to marry him. We led a life so woven together with all of our friends and families and pets and jobs at that point that leaving didn't seem feasible but staying? To agree to stay in that place, emotionally if not physically, would require powers of self-deception even I did not possess.

I can only imagine how my reception looked to him. I sat, silent and stiff, as he poured out these words and presented these items straight from his heart then, when I saw that they weren't rings, I must have sagged in relief. How would that have read? I know he was nervous, that was part of what scared me so, and it turns out he had good reason to be.

I still have the box and the origami. Just passing by it in a bunch of keepsakes gives me awkward pit-of-the-stomachness. Throwing it away seems disrespectful, though, so I bury it a little lower in the detritus of a life I used to live and wait until next time.

Now you go. Let's not limit ourselves to Valentine's Day. What's the most awkward romantic moment you can remember?

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Once Is Enough?


R for language, sexual content, emotion


It would have been so easy. Normally hearing her laugh, making her feel better wouldn't have been a problem. We are friends, after all, and she is hurting.

Her timing, our timing, however, is atrocious.

She is in the throes of a huge breakup. The guy she'd stumbled across right after we met know, it doesn't even matter why or how. They’re breaking up and she isn't happy about it and a friend would help, wouldn't he? She doesn't want a joke or a night at the movies. I know her well enough to read the signs.

I know it would have been so easy last night to turn my head when she hugged me goodbye. I could have kissed her right up against the back of the front door. It would have felt delicious to press my whole body against her, feel her breasts, even through that oddly fuzzy little coat she wore. She would have smiled, with her eyes closed, and hummed a little, way back in her throat.

Or I could have simply moved in a little closer as she stood at the sink last Sunday afternoon and I reached into a cupboard above her to grab a glass. I could have brushed the backs of my fingers over her cheek, run my palm down her side, pressed my thumb against the center seam of her jeans until she leaned back against me. She’d have hummed then, too.

I admit it, I’m a little obsessed with the humming. On New Year’s Eve a few years ago at midnight she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me soundly on the cheek. Then she turned to him and and leaned in, very slowly, for a kiss. When their lips met she did that little humming thing. It made him smile. It made my chest tight. Then it made me think about her humming around my cock.

I’m a nice guy but I’m not dead. I think about that stuff.

I think about it a lot. I think about the taste of satay sauce on her lips when we order in from her favorite Thai place. I think about the slippery seawater tang of her other lips. I think about how her hair would smell after we’d had sex, right before she fell asleep. And, yeah, I think about holding both her arms above her head and thrusting into her cunt with abandon.

I know her pretty well. I honestly think she’d like that.

She’s going through this break up, though. It wouldn’t be right to press her at this point, no matter how much she thinks it would relieve suffering.

Or maybe it would. Sometimes a little sexy naked time is exactly what’s called for when your heart is breaking. So perhaps, just perhaps, my reluctance has nothing to do with protecting her and her fragile emotional shell. I’m not saying it for certain but it’s possible, quite possible, that I’m protecting myself.

As much as I picture her naked and writhing across my yard sale super bargain sheets humming her desire into my collar bone I picture her plunking down across the coffee table from me with her laptop. Not the sad, defeated way she does now (though I fear that might come later, once she’s gotten to know me like she knows him) but happily, there because she belongs there, there because she wants to be there. With me.

Tonight the moping recovery girl will surely “just swing by” for an hour or so of companionable silence and TV with a beer and chips chaser. When she leans her head against my shoulder, sighs from the depths of her lungs and smooths her hand over mine I could kiss her fingers, suck one in my mouth maybe, lay her back on my lumpy second hand sofa and lick a smile out of her. With a little concentration and luck I bet I could even get her to giggle. But I’m damnably self-aware enough to know I wouldn’t want to do that just the once.

I know her, sure, but it turns out I don’t know her well enough to know if, for her, once would be enough.