Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts (2)

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Out of the box

When a story is inspired by or written for a particular person, it is my habit, when I feel it to be ready for publication, to send a private copy to that person as a gift. He or she is allowed to hold on to it for private enjoyment for a while. It seems only right.

Four Bars turned out to be in reasonably decent shape, so the editing process was not as lengthy as I anticipated. That story is now out of its box and in the hands of she to whom it is dedicated.

While she enjoys her exclusive position, I am experimenting with ways I might make the story available to the next tier of customers, my loyal blog readers, before it gets released into the general maelström of asstr. My first attempt to set up something automated didn’t work — perhaps the first instance ever in which gmail failed to offer a feature I want. I will keep working at this.

Of course, it might be a bad idea at that. I might find out there are only six of you here :o)

Stay tuned.

— Frenulum

To-do

Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts is the most-read post here. I should definitely get to Part 2. Thanks for your patience. Thanks especially to the girl who first wrote and asked for help and persuaded me to write something!

In the mean time: “Good Girls Give Sloppy Head.” Coming to a bumper sticker near you :o)

— Frenulum

Mentor

The young man, standing, asked, “How will I know, how can I tell, that I am owning her… as I should? Responsibly. Doing it well — perfectly for her?”

The old man, seated, spoke at length: about gauging her pride, her delight, her joy. About learning to tell what was in her open mind. About focused consideration; care for her body; care for her spirit. About making her so safe that she could look at the edges that fascinated her. About seeing to her comfort, her discipline, her excitement, her need, her flowering, and her exaltation. About adoration, devotion, respect, and love.

The young woman, kneeling at the young man’s feet, naked but for her collar, looked up at him and saw the passion and determination and resolve in his face. Her heart beat fast and full, and she was wet, and she knew she was home.

— Frenulum

Do the math

I was looking this evening at a photo blog I like. The fellow who maintains it posts some really fine images. A few couples, rarely anything very graphic; mostly artistic nudes or fancy dresses or lingerie (his taste in a fine pair of panties definitely fits with my own).

The women are stunning. I mean: if you passed one on the street you would stop dead and turn and watch, careless of being noticed, abandoning the social convention of not gaping slack-jawed in public, lest you miss one second.

Granted: I know nothing of their inner beauty, nothing of their worth as people. I can only know anything about the packaging.

But just do the math with me. This one blog adds, oh, 50 images a day — individual photos, not sets, so that’s 50 women. I have on my list of interesting photo blogs some 90 sites (I can usually make it to one or two a day). Round up and discard overlap (there is a little) and that comes to 5,000 photos a day of women one never sees in real life.

And the percentage of the net that I touch has to be minuscule. A tiny fraction of a percent?

And we are just talking about the realm of fine-art nudes, principally black-and-white.

Every time I try to work the numbers I come to the conclusion that the planet must be nearly overrun with eye-popping models, with elegant faces and warm inviting suggestive expressions and curvy bodies and very appealing taste in dress (or undress).

It seems inescapable.

Then I look around my workplace, and it’s like getting the sideline bucket of ice water over the head.

Where are they all?

— Frenulum

The boots that will not die

Fashion trends come and go. The industry depends on this: that people will discard serviceable garments and buy replacements because the style has changed. That that look is so last year.

Fine, no problem.

But please, someone give me hope. When will the unnecessary weather-is-fine ridiculous masculine ugly obscuring clunky awkward tall leather boots just go away?

The style lives on like the undead; nobody can find the garlic or cross or stake or silver bullet.

I just saw it again this afternoon. With a heat index of 98°F, a pretty girl with apparently nice legs and a short skirt, clomping around in leather up to her knees. “Miss? You seem to have lost your horse!” Or your phalanx of storm-troopers or your three feet of snow, or whatever.

Everything else changes. I have been told that the boot fad has died a deservedly horrible death in other parts of the country. Why not here? Why not now?

— Frenulum

Thanks for reading

Thank you to all of you who have visited here more often in August than in July, more in July than in June, and more in June than in May. I am grateful for your interest and attention and hope you feel your time spent has been worthwhile.

— Frenulum

Finished (well…)

I have finished Four Bars.

Those of you who are fans enough to see this will know how far from finished — ready to publish — that is. What I mean is that I am satisfied that the whole story is in place, and that it says what I want it to say. Now remains the long and self-critical task of fretting over every word a few dozen times.

I thought you might like to know something of how this story came about, as its history differs from others.

Originally, Four Bars was a little sliver of flash fiction. I have the original still: 150 words, 13 sentences, 5 paragraphs. As is my custom, I selected one of my trusted reviewers and sent the story to her, asking for her opinion of it.

The response came back in an unprecedented format: her report of the two orgasms it had induced, or perhaps it would be fairer to say assisted with.

In a subsequent conversation, she encouraged me to develop the story more fully. Its present form is the result. The kernel of the flash fiction is there unchanged.

Anyway, it should be out soon, for some indefinite value of “soon.” Thank you in advance for your patience.

— Frenulum

That sucks

When did suck acquire a pejorative sense?

I just grabbed the nearest paper dictionary, Random House College 1972, not my favorite of the dozen dictionaries in the house but it will do for now, and under suck there is not the least notion of: my job sucks, our shortstop sucks, that movie really sucked.

But it is undeniably common now, that sense of disgust and failure. How did it arise?

Think about sucking. A baby at the nipple, exchanging nurture and nourishment, love and grateful satiation. Purely pleasurable. (Yeah, I get the teething thing, but grant me the generalities, ok?, it’s late.) An eager lady kneeling at her partner’s feet, mouth busy, active, engaged, eager, agile, trained or in training, thrilling herself with how much she delights him, thrilling him with how — spurt spurt spurt spurt — oh, my, that was good.

Where does the anger come from? The disdain? The… dismissal?

If a fellow comes back from a date, and a roommate asks: how did it go? Is the answer: “She sucked” a boast or a complaint?

This is not facetious, I really want to know what happened here. Anyone? Where did the word lose its beauty?

— Frenulum

Thanks, Plum

The day had some emotionally taxing moments, some for me and some for my belovèd, which means all of it jointly, so in the quiet of the late night I settled into the well-yclept Stressless Recliner and fired up some re-re-re-re-read P. G. Wodehouse on the Kindle.

It does not of course take long for Sir Pelham to find the playful, ironic, romantic, silly strands of his readers’ minds. A turn of phrase here or there, and we are grinning or ROFLing or LOLing or just shaking our heads in sympathy right along at the oft predictable but oh-so-brilliantly-phrased insanity.

Such talent can only inspire as it is so many miles out of reach.

— Frenulum

Beautiful

The setting looks delicious and I-want-to-be-there-on-vacation. The model is graceful and elegant and formal: a lady through-and-through. The gown is gorgeous; the implication of its form is erotic.

Can any reader please tell me:

• What this garment is called, if it has a name of its own?
• A vendor, bricks or pixels, that might carry such a thing?
• The source for a sewing pattern?

I would be thankful for any lead.
— Frenulum

Secondary effects

An incandescent light bulb is a pretty darn good heater. It consumes electricity and emanates heat and does a decent job of it. It is not quite perfectly efficient, however: some of the energy used, albeit a small fraction, is wasted as photons. [*]

Interestingly, it is the secondary effect of waste light that is used to market, package, and promote the use of the bulbs. [**]

I contend that window-mounted, floor-standing, and portable fans are similarly promoted according to secondary effects. As an afterthought, they induce air currents. But their primary function, if you ask me, is to pump tremendous amounts of white noise into the environment, at precisely those few remaining frequencies where a middle-aged man’s hearing still has, or had, a fighting chance. In other words, they are deafness engines.

There are eight currently operating in my house. Not counting the compressors in the refrigerator and dehumidifier.

It would take a supercomputer and room full of fluid-dynamics PhD’s to figure out the net effect of all of them with respect to currents and cooling.

In the mean time: What? What?

— Frenulum

[*] By the way: when the idiotic nanny-state no-incandescent federal laws take hold, I will actually start to use more energy, because my hazmat CFL lights won’t produce the heat I rely on, and I will have to crank the furnace higher. Make sense to you? No, me either.

Didn’t mean to rant here, but really.

[**] Unless you buy an Easy-Bake oven, that is.

Free country

Just ran across this. Still, and elsewhere, relevant.

After all, the great characteristic of this country is that it is a free country, and by a free country I mean a country where people are allowed, so long as they do not hurt their neighbours, to do as they like. I do not mean a country where six men may make five men do exactly as they like. That is not my notion of freedom.

—Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 1883, then Leader of the Opposition, later Prime Minister of Britain

A mystery solved

I read pretty widely, but if I just want a relaxing diversion my go-to genres are mysteries and police procedurals.

I have been puzzling over a mystery related to this blog for a few weeks. Let me give you the clues and see if you can solve it.

Now, to do this, I need to put a word in your mind without writing it down, for if I did that, it would skew any experiment you might want to try. So: many people, particularly light-skinned ones, most famously redheads, have small dots of pigment on their skin. In describing such a person one might say that he or she has... a word for a sprinkling of pigmented dots. And you might refer to one such dot as a… ok, remember that word.

The web service hosting this blog gives me tons of statistics about how people arrive here and where they come from (still trying to figure out my popularity in Egypt). If they follow a link from my story site, that gets counted. If they do a search and follow up a result, I get told what phrase they searched for.

And the most popular search term is…

that word porn

That startled me, since I don’t think of that word porn as an apt description of what I post here. But even stranger: use the site search option to search for that word, and there are no matches.

It doesn’t seem to make any sense at all. A mystery. To make matters even more perplexing: I tried a google search for the phrase, and my patience wore out on result page 25 — no link to here.

Well, just a minute ago, I figured it out — and it does make sense, ultimately.

Any detection fan out there want to try your hand at the case? I will publish the answer in a day or two.

— Frenulum

A reader?

I like to imagine people enjoying my stories.

— Frenulum