Erotica's blog: "Eroticisms"

Drunk Dialing. It can be fun. Or it can be embarrassing. Or it can result in a restraining order.

Ambien Texting. You have read my stories. It should be avoided. Well, at least I think so. Those on the receiving end of my pics of pink parts seem to enjoy it.

But there is a new danger. It is called Sex Texting. Sex Texting happens when 2 people are getting hot and sweaty and decide to put the camera on their cell phones to good use. You know, catch a little action on film. Maybe send it to a friend.

There are a few problems with this. I mean, aside from angle, flash and focus.

First of all, it interrupts the rhythm.

Second...it makes you think about the best pose, and not concentrate on counting to 6.

Third - Yep, you guessed it. When you are distracted by the whole banging thing, you can't be sure who you are sending your pictures to.

So, there you are. Thinking you are getting freaky. Sending a picture or two (or 5) to a friend, to turn them on. Letting them in on the action. But what happens when you mis-dial? Or when you hit the wrong speed dial number?

I can tell you what happens. Either your mother writes you out of the will, or you get messages back that say "I give it a 10 for content, but a 9 for focus and lighting"

My advice? One would think I would tell you NOT to Sex Text. But no. My advice is to clean out your address book of all easily offended people, (please note, I am NOT easily offended!) and text away.

Keep in mind my pretties, only you can prevent Bad Sex Texting.

So have a great evening, grab those camera phones, and remember, Sex Text Responsibly!

In this day and age, most of us have them. Cell phones with text messaging and cameras.

I love mine. The camera is great at concerts. Although those on the receiving end of my hundreds of blurry, over exposed stage photos probably disagree. The text feature is nice when I am away from the computer. A totally cool invention right?

Not all the time. At least not for me.

A few months ago, I was having this terrible run of insomnia. A lot of stress and an over active brain was making it tough to sleep. So I went to the doctor and she gave me a prescription for Ambien. I bet a lot of you are now thinking, "Uh oh". Most of you have probably seen all the news stories about the side effects of Ambien. The most common side effect is middle of the night, binge eating. To those who have read my blogs, and to those who know me, if that is the most common reaction, it won't happen to me. Nope, if you go to the bottom of the warning label, where the print is the smallest, you will see a section that says "Slim to none" Yep, there is the list of crap that will happen to me. When the doctor told me when I was 17 that the chances of me having kids were slim to none, I immediately started thinking of baby names. And if you think I am exaggerating, let me introduce you to my three kids...

Back to the Ambien. The first night, I get home, have dinner, and sleep like the dead. It was great.

Until the next morning. I get an email at work from my favorite person, Dork, thanking me for the emails last night. Huh? Not me, I was alseep and the computer wasn't even on. No, the ones from your cell phone, those were hot. Umm...whaa? Maybe I should check the sent messages folder on my cell phone. Oh. My. I have managed to mortify myself. To sum it up, I believe that I described, in detail (misspelled detail), my favorite body parts of his, and why they were my favorites.

However, I would live to mortify myself another day. Because I had yet to completely embarass myself with the camera feature on my cell phone. Since I had already sent Dear Penthouse Forum over the cell phone, why not send the pictures too? Suffice to say, Dork now has more pictures of my hoo-hoo and ta-ta's than my gynecologist does.

By then, one would think I had learned my lesson. Almost. First I had to have a rather psychotic phone call with my ex, Buck. I don't remember any of it. The next morning, I woke up to find Toadboy and Goosebutt, hiding in their rooms, neither one admitting who had hidden my cell phone. Goosebutt was kind enough to inform me that I had managed to fit most of George Carlin's 7 Dirty Words in every sentence that I yelled at Buck.

At least I don't drunk dial. I Ambien dial. Which is classier, I think. It requires a prescription.

Lesson learned. Cell phone was put out of easy reach. Only took half of an Ambien. Evenings were quieter. Dork didn't fear the phone ringing at odd hours of the night.

Then last week, Dork, Goosebutt and I went to the movies to see Cars. Which rocked by the way. Goosebutt and I went home, and due to a 2 day nasty headache, I took a Vicodin and went to bed. Saturday came, I survived Sunday, and went to work Monday morning.

Then came the text message. Who are you? Odd, it came from someone who was already in my address book, Buck's next ex wife. She had been texting me when they split up for a few days, and I never took her out of my address book. I responded that it was me, why was she asking. You sent me a picture. Not I. What do you mean? Yes you did, Friday night, a rather "friendly" picture. Scramble for the sent file. WTF, I can't view sent photos. Quick, click on the photo album. Oh my hell. Oh crap. The evidence, a rather out of focus, over exposed photo of my...well...dammit. How in the hell did I do that? Ah, see, in my address book, her name is right below Dork's. Fat, drug induced fingers be damned! Sorry about that Mrs. Soon To Be Ex Buck...by the way, have you met my gyno? He has seen the same thing, albeit in better lighting and in focus...

I am thinking that by the year 2010, Dork will let me live this down. And by the year 2011, Goosebutt may let me have my cell phone back after dark...

By the way, have I sent you that pic of my counter tops yet...?

OK, everyone has met that person. The one who just shares way too much. I mean, it is OK to share with your spouse, your boyfriend, whoever you happen to be banging at the time. But your co-workers? Draw a fucking line! No, wait, better yet, build a brick wall. It is bad enough that I can pretty much tell you the monthly cycle of all 150 women I work with. Ucky, ucky, ucky.

Now I have been called a frigid bitch by some of my exes. But to those who really know me, I am about as much a prude as Mother Theresa was a Satanist. My point is that none of this comes from me thinking that sex belongs in the bedroom and nowhere else. Not at all! (By the way, if you ever come to my house for dinner, you might not want to eat off the kitchen counter.)

Back to my story. I happen to work with someone who is slightly younger than her spouse. (And when I say "slightly younger", please read "She listens to Stone Temple Pilots; he was there at the creation of Stonehenge.") Nothing wrong with that, right? Not in itself. They have kids. Great, how sweet. Happy marriage? That is great. Over active sex life? Um. Well. OK. Swell. Has everyone seen Big Daddy? You know Adam Sandler, yelling "Old balls!". Yeah, there is the visual. Every excruciating, sick, twisted, perverted, pruny detail.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." It must be. I see Colonel Sanders, she thinks he is Sean Connery. (So much for THAT fucking fantasy!) "To each, their own." Again, yep. Just keep it to your own! Let me set it up for you. Because I know that you think I am over reacting. You are picturing Jessica Simpson, having a nice, active sex life, with, say, Al Pacino. No, picture Deliverance. Only Ned Beatty is the chick here.

So, what does any of this have to do with the subject line you ask? One particular detailed conversation outlined how he thought he was too old and flaccid for her. And she said if he were any harder and bigger, he would hurt her, and since he was asking, she didn't think he needed blueberries.

Blueberries? OK, I admit, that one had me stumped. Viagra? They are little blue pills, right? Wrong! It seems that blueberries, as well as some other dark berries, contain a natural aphrodisiac. Aha! Redneck Viagra!

At least this experience solved one major mystery. The popularity of IHOP. I will never be able to eat another blueberry blintze.

Unless, of course, I am at home and on my kitchen counter.

Just when you thought I was done.I found another one.Have you seen the iPod commercials where the guys and gals are dancing erratically? Ha! You were wrong! They are dancing erotically.

In my ramblings and musings about the numerous bullet toys out there, I missed a vital one. They make one that plugs in to your iPod! (And they thought this generation was only going to suffer from hearing loss!)

"The music-activated vibrating bullet stimulates you in time with your favourite music."Don't laugh. I see this being a major problem for men and women alike. Once I have spent a few hours captivated by the pleasurable beat of rap music (Yes, you have finally discovered the true reason behind the success of Eminem.), how can a man hold a candle to that? I will be smacking my boytoy on the ass, yelling that he is not keeping to the beat.We now have a new way to award Emmys though. To hell with how well the song is written, can it induce the Big O for 3 1/2 minutes straight? Maybe they should add a new category... "And now to introduce the nominees for the Best O Rhythm, we have a man who went down on himself in "Saddam and Gomorrah, the Last 7 Days", please welcome Ron Jeremy..."

However, I have decided that we can branch this new toy off into a training aid for sexually inept men.

You have all seen those light up mats that teach white people how to dance? The feet light up in time to the music, and you just follow along. Now, how about a blow up doll with the same features? Stick your favorite CD in the stereo and follow the lights boys! Left boob, right boob, here a tweak, there a tweak... But don't get them in the wrong order. You have all played that really annoying game, Simon, right? You get those lights out of order and it bleeps obscene noises at you. Nuh uh, not this doll baby. It will give you a shock where you really don't want it. Touch the clit before the light comes on? I don't think so. Let's see how 120 volts makes YOU feel.

Navy pilots require all those hours in a flight simulator before being unleashed on the real thing. I think this should apply to any man who thinks he is ready for sex.

Show me your completion certificate for Light Up Lucy, and I will show you my countertops.

Now, where did I put my iPod...?

The next time you think about asking "What will they think of next?", stop. You may not want to know. But I did. And I found out. So, there are those of us who are quite familiar with a lady's best friend, the bullet. These can be used in an Oh So Satisfying fashion. Either alone or with a buddy. But guess what? There is now a Plug and Play version. Literally. No more costly batteries. There is nothing worse than getting in the mood for some vibration and stimulation, only to reach in to the toy box and find the batteries are dead. Wait, yes, there is! Getting to the big "O" and zip, zilch, nada. WTF? That, my dear friends, is the worst.

Anyway, this baby doesn't need batteries. Just plug that little sucker in to the nearest USB port on your computer, fire it up, and off you go. And go. And go. And OH. Don't want to do the work yourself? Never fear ladies! Don't want your lady to get it done without you? Never fear boys! Doc Johnson makes a rabbit toy that plugs in to your USB port that can be controlled via the internet. Tell me this doesn't bring a whole new meaning to "cyber sex". But how does the computer know when you are almost there? And how does it respond? Does it surge, teasing you? And when you reach orgasmic levels, does your CD-rom pop out for simultaneous peak? And then there is your man. I happen to know one who would just have a blast with this thing. What is supposed to be pure bliss on my part, would be pure torture once he was through with it. He has this love of seeing me in orgasmic throes as many times as possible in a single hot, sweaty, naked session. Let's face it, you thought giving him control of the TV remote was a bad thing?

OK, so those work for those of us with an innie. But what about those with an outie? We wouldn't leave you out of the fun! Topco makes a Cyber Stroker for the gents in the house. It works with interactive sex games. Talk about 4-D. If they came out with a Naughty Nurse Nicci that could run nails up his back, while stroking his...err...ego, he would never turn off the computer. Oh course being the ever worry wart, I have to wonder. What if there is a lightning storm and you get a power surge? That would be a pretty fucked up scene to walk in to as a paramedic. And I am thinking that the power surge had better kill me, because dying of embarrassment would be the next option. I can see myself telling St. Peter when I get to the pearly gates, "Yes, I was killed by a bullet. No, no, it wasn't a drive by. Yes, more of a plug in."

Imagine the poor 80 year old man at the local newspaper who has to write THAT obituary. "Local blogger Erotica died today at age 36. She was the victim of a tragic sex toy incident, fueled by recent thunderstorms. The retailers at blowfish.com have lowered prices to half cost today in mourning. Her fellow bloggers are wearing black USB cables tied around their arms in her memory."