Category Archives: intimate moments

We’re talkin’ panties. No boys allowed…

unless you are a cross dresser, transvestite or drag queen.  Although, I would imagine the latter two would already know these tricks.  For some reason, drag queens know more about undergarments than the average biological woman does.

In that case, this article is for you, Frump a Dump.  We’re talking bras and panties here.  Sit back, take notes and then, go evaluate your lingerie drawer.  There will be a quiz at the end of this lecture, Bitches…so absorb!

Those of you who read regularly or know me “in real life” know I am a pretty fashionable chick.  I love fashion. I live for fashion.  I eat, breathe and sleep fashion. The only thing I don’t do is fuck fashion.  I save that kind of love for the Hotband exclusively.  Though, I do make sure to be fashionable WHILE fucking, if that accounts for any thing.  Bra and panties must not necessarily match…but they must be attractive.  Alluring.  Eye candy.

I am a big advocate that sexy starts from the inside out and that goes for clothes too.  If you start with a base of sexy lingerie, your “feel good” will shine through.  It’s always a sexy start to a great outfit.  When you throw on your basic frump a dump white sports bra and a pair of your big ol’ granny panties, you are starting with a canvas that just screams “I am going to feel shitty for the rest of the day.” If you start with a sweet lacy bra and a cute tanga panty or a flirty pair of boy short panties, you are going to have a sexy secret with you all day long.  Plus, you never know when your partner is going to grab hold of you for a “nooner” or a “quickie”.

Do you really wanna be caught out there in a pair of your oldest “Hanes Her Way”, with the tiny hole that lets two or three pubes escape?  The ones with the saggy, worn out elastic around the crotch?  Or, worse still…the ones that you wear during “that time of the month” that have the dark, shadowy remnants of all the times your pad didn’t do its job appropriately?

Don’t look at me like that. You know what I am talking about.  We all have a pair of those.

You should be ashamed of yourself.  Truly.

Once I had my hysterectomy, I threw out every single pair of underwear that qualified as “dust rags”.  Dumped them all.  Any thing that I purchased that came in a five pack?  Gone.  I figured, I am never going to destroy another pair of underwear ever again, ergo, I am going to invest in some of the prettiest panties I have ever owned.  I have tangas, boy shorts, T backs, bikini’s, high waist, french cut…some lacy, some in cotton, some patterned, some solid…but the one thing they all have in common?

They are all sexy.  All of them.  There will never be a time that I will be caught with my “pants down” (pun blatantly obvious) in the underwear department.  Same thing with the bras.  Girls, dump the bras that have twisted wires, an underwire poking through, the one that you pinned together because it’s your favorite.  Get rid of them.  All you need are two basic white bras, four basic nude bras and about four basic black bras.  Those are your staples.  After that, the rest of your bras should look like a circus threw up in your lingerie drawer.  Colors!  Lots and lots of colors!  Sure, with sheer blouses, these don’t work…but how often do you wear sheer blouses?  That’s where your basic colors come in.

And while we are on the subject of basics…here’s a tip for you, Sugar Tits.  White bras should only be worn under white blouses.  That’s it.  End of story.  Any other sheer blouses you own should have a NUDE bra underneath it.  You can even do a nude bra under a white blouse.  Same thing goes for your panties, doll faces.  Do not wear white panties under white pants.  It shows right through and draws a whole lot of attention to spots you don’t want attention drawn to.  Keep it nude.  Nude bras work under everything.  Don’t try to match your bras to your blouses.  For example…if you are wearing a sheer yellow blouse, don’t think you should wear a yellow bra beneath it.  It looks “udderly” ridiculous.  NUDE bras, girls.  Also, please…be mindful of your nipples.  If you have prominent nipples, do not wear a see through bra under your sheer blouses.  In the dim lighting of your bedroom as you dress in the morning, you won’t necessarily be seeing what all your co-workers will be seeing under the fluorescent lighting of your office.

The nude rule under sheer does not apply to black sheer blouses.  One would think this is common sense, but alas, it is not.  Black sheer needs a black bra.  Let me explain why.  We are living in a digital age, girls.  People are snapping photos all the time.  There is a horrible phenomenon called “headlights” and it is no longer the catchphrase for a pair of hardened nipples.  When a camera flash flashes…suddenly, whatever you are wearing beneath the sheer is going to become blatantly apparent.  Worse than your titties showing through your blouse is your bra being too light for the blouse you are wearing.  It makes these two “round disks” of light where your breasts should be.  This will end up on your friends and co-workers Facebook pages with all sorts of ridicule ranging from “nice high beams” to “look into the liiiiiight, Carolann…walk into the light!”

It is important to pay attention to your skin tone when dressing.  And while I am not normally one to endorse products I have not personally used, THIS website, called “My Skins”, offers you the opportunity to either download (not recommended) their color chart or order one by snail mail.  The reason I don’t suggest downloading the skin color chart is because if your computer does not have the right ink or the correct color settings, you are going to get skewed colors.  This chart will help you find the right color undergarment that best matches your skin tone.  If you choose to buy from this site, I will say, they ARE reasonably priced undergarments.  Their panties run to about a 44 inch hip (the XL is too small for me, but might fit some of you chicks with less endowed asses than mine).  Their bras run to a 38D…again, too small for me, but perfect for all of you who can shop Victoria’s Secret.  (You know what her secret is?  She has nothing in my size, that’s her secret.  Bitch.)  But, even if you don’t shop there…you can still use the color chart (free) to be able to match it to undergarments where you do shop.  I personally wear “Cappucino”…which is perfect for my olive skin tone.  Your skin color may vary. 

However, I have truly digressed.

The staples are the staples.  Every girl should have a base undergarment wardrobe that consists of neutrals that always work under the spring and summer lighter colors.  Where the colors come in are under things like tank tops, summer dresses with spaghetti or narrow straps or loose, flowing tunic tops.  There is nothing tackier than your bra straps hanging out from under any of the aforementioned things.  However, the way to go from tasteless to tactful is by using color.  If you are wearing a tank top with narrow straps and you are not a member of the itty bitty titty committee and can’t get away with a tiny bra, no bra or a strapless bra…you want to put on a bra with color in it!  Fun colors!  Wearing an orange tank?  Throw on a yellow bra so that if the shoulder slides away, you are looking at a pretty pop of color, not a dingy white bra strap.  If you make it look like you MEANT to make that sexy little fashion faux pas, it will be interpreted that way.

And, as everyone knows, perception IS reality.

PS:  The “pop of color” undergarment rule applies to casual wear. If you are wearing a chic little black dress or a formal white dress, keep your black undergarments with the LBD and a nude/white undergarment with the white dressy wear.  Do I need to explain this?  From the looks of what I see out there in the world, apparently, I do.

Wearing a black tank top?  Sure, you can grab your basic black bra.  But, if it slides to one side, everyone now sees that your tank doesn’t fit and you are not fooling any one with the black bra on.  Instead, have a hot pink bra on!  Pop of color!  Fun! Flirty!  A hint of color is sexy.  Trying to conceal a tank that is too big on you or doesn’t fit you correctly with a bra of the same color looks exactly that way.  If you have a tank that isn’t fitting you correctly, the correct remedy is…BUY THE RIGHT SIZE, Dumbass.  But, if you insist on wearing an ill fitting ANY thing…let me let you in on a little secret.

Camisoles.  And no, we ain’t talkin’ about your granmama’s camisole.  Not some lacy, slinky thing from the 40’s.  We’re talking a basic, cotton, thin strapped camisole.  Yes, it means layering your bra, your cami and then your tank…but at least you look appropriately dressed and not like you are trying to fit into something that you bought when you were 20 pounds lighter. Use them.  Have them in every color of the rainbow.  They cost barely more than $10 at Old Navy in all size from size 0 all the way up to a size 28. No excuses, girls.  Get them.  Use them.  Please.

The point is, if you start with a sexy base, you will feel good in what you wear all day long.  There is a lot of truth to the adage that beauty comes from the inside.  That applies to your clothing as well.  If you have a sweet little secret under your clothes, you will have a sly smile on your face all day long.  You will have this gorgeous air of confidence and radiance that will make you look tremendously better the whole day through.  When you feel better about what you are wearing, you will walk with an air of confidence that is immediately apparent to others.

You’ll know you’re doing it right if men ask you for your phone number and bitches talk about you behind your back.  And for those of you who are already happily paired off…if your significant other decides to treat you to a little “afternoon delight”, you will already have the right gear for hittin’ the rear, ya know what I’m sayin’? Hm?

Remember, the right ‘tude will put you in the right mood.

And, remember what you’re mama always told you…you want to have on clean underwear if you are ever in an accident…or want to snag yourself a hot paramedic.  Either one works for me.

Stay sexy, bitches.

CP.

Because she needs to know…

Because she has rescued my weakened psyche more times than I can count.
Because she has reached out to me when everyone else has turned their backs.
Because she knows my heart better from 2500 miles away than some people who are right next to me.
Because she understands me, even when I don’t.
Because she makes me throw my head back and laugh.
Because she keeps secrets.
Because she is painfully and brutally honest with me, even when I beg for a lie.
Because she protects me.
Because she gives me advice, unsolicited or not, and I can take it…or not.  And it doesn’t matter.
Because I can give her advice, unsolicited or not, and she can take it…or not.  And it doesn’t matter.
Because she is one of the handful of people I can rely on.
Because she doesn’t let me fall off the deep end without standing close by with a life preserver.
Because I can talk to her any time of day or night and know that I am a welcomed presence.
Because, despite having green eyes, she never looks at me with jealousy.
Because she knows the difference between jealousy and envy…and lets me be envious of her thin bod.
Because she is the only blond I simply cannot make fun of.
Because I like her 95% of the time and the other 5% I forgive her.
Because she likes me 5% of the time and the other 95% she is laughing at me.
Because she knows that orange pants automatically make you a loser.
Because she needs to know that she gets thought of at least once a day by me.
Because I think she is a level of controlled awesome and Canadian coolness that I could never achieve.
Because she needs to know I admire her and always have.
Because she needs to know that the sun has shone a bit warmer since her presence in my life.
Because she needs to know that she’s one of my favorite people in the world.
Because she needs to know…that she is a friend in every sense of the word.
Because she needs to know that I’m not ready to let her go any where.
Because we have a date in 2016.
Because she needs to know…she is loved.

And she always will be.

I love you, J.  Holding your hand across the miles.  Right there with you.  Never letting go.

Ever. 

Focus 52: "Love, Baby"

“Stay there. Just like that. I have my camera under the pillow.”

“What?”

“Sh.  Don’t move.  Don’t smile. Just stay…like that.”

*click*

Yes, People. I went “there”.  I always wanted a photo of us literally seconds after the the “big finish”.  I love the glazed over look on his face.  I love how soft his eyes are.  I love that I can’t help from biting my bottom lip like a schoolgirl with a big secret.  What you can’t feel in this photo is the warmth between our two bodies.  What you cannot see in this photo is how our legs are intertwined under our big down comforter.  How his right foot is playing with the bottom of my left foot, tickling me.  How the tips of his fingers are swirling soft, concentric circles just above the top of my ass, in that small indentation we women have in our lower backs.  What you cannot hear are the banging of two over taxed hearts and the huff and puff of the aftermath of the aerobic exercise we just completed.  Neither of us are particularly active people…except in this arena.  It is here that we can run the mile, vault the horse, stick the landing and end with a perfect dismount that even the harshest of Russian judges would have to give a “10” to.

This picture is not about two people who just had sex, bumped uglies, did the nasty, made the four armed machine, etc.  This photo is this weeks title:  Love, Baby.  After 11 long years together, this man still captivates me.  Every line, every dent, every nook and cranny.  His scent intoxicates me.  His eyes draw me in like magnets.  His breath on my face is like warm apple pie.  His hands feel like butterflies, flickering all up and down this expansive mountain of flesh that makes up my ample body.

And me?  What you are seeing there is a rare moment…only vaguely seen by previous lovers, but never quite the way my husband sees it.  It is vulnerability.  It is the taming of the shrew.  It is the moment that I become not just his wife or lover, but rather, his mistress.  His virgin.  His whore.  His Goddess.  His first time.  My first time. And what will be, for both of us, our last time…until the next time.

Each experience of making love to my husband is more intense than the last.  Orgasms be damned, for it is SO no longer about that.  It is about what I bring to the game, on bended knee if you will, for him.  He is not a selfish lover, by any means…but never in my entire sexually active life have I yearned to be more of the pleasurer than the pleasured.  Together we are a force to be reckoned with.  While we are working with the broken down bodies of what a man in his late thirties and a woman in her mid forties can offer, when it is time for game on, we are two eighteen year olds bringing 38 years worth of combined experience to the table. We are passionate, feverish, combining sweetness with the tart and tangy and softness with the heavy handed and hardened.  He is the yin to my yang and every move is done in perfect sympatico.

This picture.  It captures “love, baby” because feasibly, you will never meet another couple more in love than he and I.  Other couples aspire higher when they are around us.  I joke to my husband and say “we’re contagious, babe!”  They become better couples in our presence because they yearn to have what we do.  We’ve both heard it before.  “Oh, I wish our marriage was like yours.  You guys always look like you are having so much fun together.”  And, truth be told? We ARE having that much fun together.  We laugh during sex.  We laugh during nervous times.  We laugh in the midst of crisis…one of us usually cracking an inappropriate joke to lighten the mood.

It would sound as if I were bragging if it weren’t just merely the truth.  

It wasn’t always this way.  We had our share of problems in the very beginning.  His baggage came in form of a carry on piece of luggage with rickety wheels and a broken handle.  Mine came in a Louis Vuitton  8 piece steamer trunk set.  Once we learned how to put our clothes away and put the luggage in storage, our life together truly began and we haven’t looked back since.

“Lemme see the picture,” he says.

I show him.

“Aw, Baby…”, he whispers to me.  “You look like a little kid about to burst into laughter.  Was I that bad?”

“No.  You weren’t ‘bad’, goofball.  You were amazing.  You’re always amazing.”

“WE’RE always amazing,” he corrects me and kisses my forehead.

I put the camera to the side.

“Did you really have the camera under the pillow just for that,” he asks.

“Yep.  I always wanted to see what we looked like two seconds later, when we fall backwards in exhaustion.”

“We look pretty damn good,” he says.

Still biting my lip, I nod in agreement.

It’s late and he’s going to be catching a 4am plane to California for work.  It’s nearly 2am at the time the photo is taken.  I roll onto my side, pulling him with me.  My back is pressed into his chest.  I can feel the soft tendrils of his furry chest tickling my sensitive skin on my back.  His arm is raised above my head…our fingers interlaced.  His other hand rests in the dip of my waist, his fingertips grazing my lower abdomen.  I can feel him breathing into my hair, heavier and heavier.  He murmurs something almost inaudible, but I caught the tale end of “I love you”.  I answer him by pressing my hips a bit harder into his.  His breathing slows and hard, heavy breaths give way to light, exhausted snores.  There is music playing in our bedroom, soft piano music playing low.  The piano sounds soft and low as the oboe that is playing over it sounds vaguely like a woman crying.

Until I realize, I am the woman crying.

You see, my heart will be taking to the sky in less than two hours.  The better half of my soul will be 3000 miles away from me.  There will be no one to have a midnight snack with.  No one to giggle with me at America’s Funniest Home Videos.  No one to eat dinner with.  No one to talk to in the middle of the cold dark night.  No one sharing the warmth of my bed.  I will be alone for a week as I am every month for one week a month and as always, it will break my heart yet again.

I miss him already so my heart knows to instinctively cry.  I sob inwardly so not to wake him of his precious hour of sleep before having to board a plane.  The alarm rings forty-five minutes later.  He slips out from under the blankets.  I feign sleep.  He kisses the top of my head and goes in for his shower.  I hear the water running and it hurts so much.  I reach out and grab my camera, still sitting on the edge of the bed, just under my pillow.  I flip through to the picture I took.  Look at that moment.  I can’t help but smile.  That sweet, sexy innocent moment now forever preserved in time.  I bite my lower lip to suppress what could either amount to a giggle or a choked up sob. 

He is packed and leaving.

“I love you baby,” he says.  “It will be a short week.  And, when I get home…we have our special Valentines Day weekend at the beach.  Just you, me, dinner at The Pearl and a balcony view of the ocean.”

“Can’t wait,” I whisper.

He kisses my lips softly.

“All the love in the world, Angel,” he says.

“Nothing but love, Baby,” I reply.  And with that, he’s gone.

Monday comes.  I wait for the Focus 52 prompt, excited to see what the challenge will be for the week.

“Our prompt this week…,” she writes, “why, it is Love, Baby!!”

Love, Baby?  I laugh.  I laugh so deep and hard that it almost hurts my belly.

I grab the picture and run to my blog.  Sometimes, fact is stranger than fiction and the story just writes itself.  Who would have thought that a picture would accompany it as well.  I “frame” the pic with a Polaroid type effect to make it look like an instant moment in time.  Something captured and clandestine.  Something sneaky and sexy…like the Polaroids you have hidden away in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. 

So there you have it.  The story of the photo.  The story of our loves…and nothing but Love, Baby.

Nothing but love.

Focus 52: "Connect"

So I am mulling over the word “connect” and thinking. Connect. Connections. The way we keep ourselves together with the people we love. The connections we make, even briefly, over a cup of coffee. The shake of a random hand. The connection of a smile. How we all connect in tragedy, like the way we all connected over the shootings in Arizona…

I have a million ideas throbbing around in my skull for what I would like to photograph and write about.

But, always one for new ideas, I turn to the Hotband. “Honey, when I say the word, ‘connect’, what’s the FIRST thing to pop into your head.”

He says….”dots?”

Men.  So simple minded. So sweet.  So…so…boring.

Admittedly, I was at a loss this week.  I started thinking about connection in its most simple, base terms.  I thought about puzzle pieces and how they connect.  I started trying to think modern and considered snapping a photograph of the tangled web of wires just below my desk…the ones that keep me connected to all of you, here, on the internet.  I struggled with this concept as I was walking across the bridge at my college taking me from one side of the campus to the other, where I continue on my path of higher learning.

And then it dawns on me.  Connect.  Bridges connect.  This bridge that I cross every day that takes me from the parking lot, where I stood with trepidation…not exactly sure that I was ready to go back to school, across to the buildings where lessons will be taught.  I thought about the bridges I have built and, naturally, the ones I have burned.

Bridges connect.

I stepped off the bridge, down into the grassy area that runs along the beautiful lake at my college, defying the “Keep Off The Grass” sign.  I stood among the palm trees and the lushly landscaped butterfly gardens that decorate the campus.  I edged closer to the water despite the warning signs that let me know an alligator might be lurking nearby, waiting to take a nice healthy chomp out of my leg.  I waited for the sun to creep a bit below the trees and bathe the bridge in its natural, warm glow.

The sun on my face felt good.   The moment felt right and the sun setting reminded me that I only had a mere five minutes to get to my classroom, to begin the learning process once more.  Back in school once again and on my desired path, despite my detour into forbidden territory.

Bridges connect…and this time, it is taking me where I need to be.  This…is home.

Facebook Conversation with the Hotband.

As some of you may or may not know, my husband works in another state in the country four days out of the seven day week. This means that we rely very heavily on social media to stay in touch. Cellphones, computers, web cams and of course, Facebook. We spend a lot of time on there talking to one another and more importantly, staying connected to keep the love alive.

Yeah. Like we ever had a problem with THAT! Heh.

My husband loves to post bizarre pictures on Facebook. This works well, because I love to SAY inappropriate things on his Facebook wall. I do this for a couple of reasons. A) I know the things that I say utterly disgust my sister in law and her friend who are friends with my husband. This is my passive/aggressive way of saying “fuck off, dogfaces”. B) Any woman from my husbands past will VERY rapidly figure out that the Hotband’s wife is, in fact, mentally deranged. There will be no sweet, rekindling of the past love notes sent to my husband so long as they realize I am a danger to myself and others. Especially others.

Try me, bitches.

Anyway, my husband posts a picture of a fucking mountain goat, or maybe it’s a ram. Or a friggin’ ewe. Whatever. But, it’s dangling off an electrical wire in someones backyard. Obviously a photoshop deal (Yes, Blogger….photoshop IS a word. Be gone, red squiggly line!). My husband finds this picture to be a riot and posts it on his page. The following hilarity ensues:

Pee Ess: Names are obviously changed/blocked out for privacy. Most people don’t want you to know they are associated with me. Click on the pic to enlarge.

Tony B. likes this.

Eddie:
how??????????????????

Hotband:
LMFAO, I don’t know but would have loved to witness it

Kathy:
kinda reminds me of the dead squirrel I had hanging from my porch rafters…. two grown men in this house and I had to go scoop it out with a Walmart bag…lol… I’ll post the pic

Hotband:
Ha! Nice

Eddie:
a squirrel weighs what? 1 pound. This thing has to weigh like 40=60 pounds

Hotband:
Could be a photoshop

Kathy:
posted the squirrel and trust me it was real…

CP:
i wish someone would hang me naked from an electrical line. then pinata my ass a few times until i shit candy. that would be fucking sweet.

Eddie:
Hotband, now you’re gonna make me break out my CSI Orlando kit.

Hotband:
Babe WTF? LMFAO

CP:
fuck man. i just laughed so hard my tampon dislodged…*ROFLMAO*

Hotband:
Well, I guess it’s close enough to candy out of your ass

CP:
oh shit. i’m not even wearing a tampon.
wtf was that then?
*dials 911*

Hotband:
Maybe it was that candy after all?

Eddie:
omfg!!!!

CP:
i dunno. should i taste it? what if it’s sticky…and catches on the roof of my mouth? i may choke. i dunno…it’s really pretty suspicious looking. maybe i spontaneously aborted my liver through my vagina.

Hotband:
I say you freeze it and wait for me to get home, I’ll have a look at it first. If it’s edible, we can serve it up when your mom gets here.

CP
omfg. banner day. for once, i am without words.

*bows to the master*

Janet:
omg omg omg omg……