Dame Suzy: Sex, Vanity & Wisdom / Sexo, Vanidad y Lucidez

After a sweaty night at a hostel north of Melbourne, I check in to a chic hotel in the center of the city, a mere eleven minutes from the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu gym where I’ll go to class tonight. The academy has classes every day, but it doesn’t hurt that the head instructor is strikingly handsome.

I walk in a minute late in my short gym shorts and supplex tank top with cleavage cut-out. Before I can be embarrassed that class has already started, the handsome man curtly tells me to put on a gi, and when I start to pull the pants over my own, he tells me there’s a dressing room – oops. I distinctly remember men ripping their shirts off in Sydney after class. Not a bad memory that. But I comply – now I’ve had time to be embarrassed – and emerge swathed in stiff white thermal-patterned cloth.

The instructor is equal parts entertainer and teacher, and in a short time I am impressed with his off-color, witty personality and improvisational style. At first I am paired with a guy that he has happily demo-beaten up, and later I am paired with the fierce and pretty Diana, who shows me quickly who would win if we ever actually were at odds – owww. To clarify moves, the instructor has me straddle him, and he me. Hum dee dum – ahem. Breathe… He has a square jaw, high cheekbones, heavy arched eyebrows, a deliciously hairy chest, and pretty eyes. When he rolls out of a hold, he lands gracefully with one long leg outstretched. I let myself enjoy his strength. When he’s on top of me, I can’t move my hips at all. Jut like being locked into a seatbelt turns me on, I don’t mind it. Happy day.

The end of class arrives quickly though it’s been 89 minutes, and *sigh* I suppose this is the last I will see of these nice people and of him…HIM. Mrowrrr.

As I dawdle after class, I am pleasantly surprised that he asks if I’d like to join him for a burger and beer. Um, yeahh. He says he needs a quick shower, and shortly afterwards he trots out from the back of the gym, tattoos and pecs glistening, a mere towel around his waist. How long am I allowed to stare? I try not to. My eyes are joyous, and the rest of me is toasty warm. A student couple stays till he flips off the lights and I think it’s just a hang-out with students kind of thing. But they take off on their own.

Just the two of us, he regales me with stories of his dangerous, decadent, and fascinating life, and I soak them all in. I’ve never met a storyteller like this. Championship titles, wild sex interspersed with funny situations, and permanent memory loss. He’s been a bouncer at brothels and strip clubs, and danced in his skivvies in a chorus line with Thai ladyboys. He’s animated and has the cutest boyish smile. The burger bar is about to close so he suggests we go to another bar. I’d love to. Turns out there’s a comedy show about to re-start so we pop in. Mostly great stuff, some decent. It feels natural and easy to be with him. He feels the same. We are also like school kids, nervous and excited.

He asks about me but after such lavish stories, I go blank and recall just snippets of my life. I wish desperately that we would kiss. The moment finally arrives and the kiss is lovely, gentle, and firm, all in one. Hello.

I know that he’s been up since 2 a.m. the previous night, so it’s unlikely that any nighttime playtime will be anything to remember. But I don’t care. My move from hostel to hotel that afternoon has been timely, and we go up to my room.

He confesses that from the moment I walked into the gym, he wanted to slip inside of me. His curtness in telling me to put on a gi was to cover me up so he didn’t ”get all pervy” on me.  I share my own confessions. As I write this, electricity shoots from my pulsating vulva and I clench my thighs together to quell the sensation. When he tied the belt around my waist in class, he wanted to wrap his arms around me. Melt.

He disrobes and slips into bed as I take a shower. Open, horizontal, colored-glass panels offer a peep show of my shower from the bed.  He takes advantage. He likes what he sees.

After I towel off, I slip my naked body next to his. Sweet bliss. Berlin’s Take My Breath Away begins on Pandora as I write this part of the story. Just imagine that as a soundtrack to our kissing and touching each other. I caress his chest hair, move my fingertips over his shoulders, his face, his back, his soft eyebrows. He puts his arm underneath me and it’s comfortable. He’s very vocal in his praise of my body, how he hasn’t been attracted to someone in years like he is now. Well, fuck if that doesn’t make me wetter. I’m not nearly as vocal as I am enveloped in unbridled sensations and emotions.

It is clear that I am with a man who uses creativity in every part of his life. His years of creative lovemaking and fighting show as he deftly moves me into positions but takes his sweet time, not racing against a clock like others might.

When my back is to him, he feels so good but I want to see him, his beautiful broad-shouldered body thrusting into mine, but I have to content myself with some vibrating moments of pleasure before I can see him again.

He insists on using his fingers to cause my vagina to do something it’s only done a handful of times with my man and my last lover — squirt liberally. At first it’s small amounts and then it’s squirting over us both, reaching my face. Whoa, surprising. He says most if not all women are capable of this feat. Live and learn.

He’s absolutely darling. The words “I love you” stop in my throat, and though he doesn’t admit it or perhaps he doesn’t remember, the words do escape his. And when I admit my thoughts, he says, “but is it the orgasms talking?” And honestly, I don’t differentiate the two situations, because it is when I am pleasured and opened up emotionally like a flower that I experience these feelings of love. I love him, take it or leave it.

The next day we plan our little trip along Great Ocean Road. He returns home to get his car and load it up. I wonder if he could be one of those flakes that offer the moon, but he isn’t. When he texts me, “Do you ride bikes?” I answer, “Not really.” To which he replies, “Good. I’ll bring you one.” To which I reply, “Don’t make me spank you.”

When I get into his car, I notice that the windows are open though it’s 90 degrees outside. Hmm. This does not bode well. He tells me the A/C has been broken for four years. Yikes! I feel a sudden pang of fear that this will end badly and I’ll end up stranding myself somewhere on a beach just as night falls. But the fear makes way to unyielding curiosity, and I just want to be with him as long as I can, so I suck it up.

He seldom wears a shirt, thank the gods. And he is amused and pleased when in the car in the middle of traffic, I change into my bikini top. He pretends that he hasn’t seen that before. But I know that things you’ve seen before can also feel new again, and some things never get old.

It is he that complains about the heat, the sun mercilessly pounding him, but for the most part, the most unfortunate part of it is having to alternate between having windows open and closed so that we can hear each other. He tells me how free he feels with me, that he can talk about anything, that he doesn’t have to hide any part of himself. Apparently, most women can’ t handle how colorful his life has been. Getting caught screwing his friend’s girlfriend in a club bathroom, being the other man with permission from a woman’s husband and then living with them for convenience… I am enthralled. And many of his stories end in a punchline, so I laugh a lot, too.

But in the end, he has been lonely for four years, and his previous girlfriend of three years hated kissing and would only have sex when she was drunk. WTF! Why would anyone have to be drunk to make love to this gorgeous, sensitive, and skilled lover? Jesus. But he does seem to gravitate toward birds with broken wings, so I can only conclude that he simply has bad taste in women, present company excluded of course.

When he takes my hand in his, I’m filled with warmth and happiness. We are instant girlfriend and boyfriend fashioned from a mix of luck and fate.

He dives into waves as I stand waist-deep in the water trying not to freeze. We’re surrounded by hundreds of revelers enjoying the long weekend. Australian leisure in its pure, simple glory. And as boyfriends do, he splashes me and I protest, then I dip in to my neck to get the shock of cold over with.

I am swimming in an ocean of fantasy. I had intended to write a fictional erotic mixed martial arts story, and instead I live one I could never have imagined.

It is becoming difficult to write this now as my eyes get wet and I long to be with him. The sooner I finish the story, the sooner I can post and then relegate it to memory. *Sigh* But the story hasn’t ended yet, as we continue to feed this romance with brief but frequent messages of affirmation and in his case, requests for photos of me, progressively more provocative. As I always do, I repeat to myself, “Enjoy it while it lasts, no matter how brief.” And as I always do, I hope it lasts forever.

Dr. Kermit Gosnell, along with the assistance of eight workers in different cities, performed hundreds of murders of  babies, in the guise of abortion.This is the most shocking part of this story to me, that not one person was a participant but a whole group of monsters masquerading as people. But there are several vile facts of this case. The doctor kept feet of his victims in specimen containers on a shelf, and equally disturbing is the fact that the only place I can find this gruesome information is on pro-life blogs and news sites. I wasn’t sure if it was a myth or not until I saw the photo on this blog. Who the f* are media organizations protecting by hiding this information? Hm, could it be women? Because there is a belief that women should have a choice in deciding to terminate their pregnancies with no other regard and without full disclosure?

I firmly believe in the right to choice with full disclosure, but I do NOT believe in the right to a blind abortion, meaning you don’t see the results of what is being done, and you aren’t even required to see a sonogram of the life growing inside you. I remember what it was like seeing my baby girl swirling around inside me. It was amazing and unexpected even though I had always wanted her! And of course being required to see this life would sway many potential mothers’ minds into declining to abort. But why is that considered such a horrible thing and an affront to pro-choice advocates? Why is that aspect damaging to a woman’s rights? I don’t get it! Patients are even shown pictures of tumors that surgeons are planning to cut out of our bodies. There is something fundamentally wrong about a society thinking that the ease with which one can obtain an abortion is more important than anything else.

In Dr. Gosnell and clan’s case, abortion organizations knew this murder was going on for years and did nothing about it! That’s insane to me! I can only imagine they were protecting the whole right to blind abortion. Well, stop it already! Talk about barbarian practices! Turning a blind eye to such horrors is beyond infuriating.

These abortions took place one block from a medical center, less than one mile where I lived as a college student. This deeply saddens me.

Extracting the fetus alive and cutting its spine or slitting its throat without remorse is horrific. One of the pro-life sites pointed out that killing the baby inside the mother, then chopping it up to make it easier to remove is also horrific. And although I am pained by such imagery, I know that I do not want to take away a woman’s right to a full-disclosure abortion. As long as she knows that is what is happening and can live with that fact, I have to allow her that right. Life is tough, raising a baby on your own is tough, giving your baby up for adoption is tough, living with the guilt of abortion is also tough. How many people forget that Norma L. McCorvey, aka Jane Roe, for which Roe v. Wade is named, denied an abortion which led to the suit, later became a pro-life advocate?  Pro-choice proponents would say that’s irrelevant, but it’s not! I’m not saying that it means abortion is evil and that her being pro-life means abortion should be illegal. I disagree. I am simply saying that it’s information that one should consider when talking about the case Roe v. Wade. As part of my full disclosure, I will say that according to Wikipedia, she kept her first child who was raised in part by her mother, gave the second baby up for adoption, and in fact gave the baby the case was about also up for adoption. She also denied she was a lesbian though lived as one, in order to enter the Roman Catholic church. Not exactly a poster mother by any stretch, but nonetheless, her path in life? Worth looking at when studying the abortion question, because it points out how emotional this topic can be.

My man pointed out that developing countries are already feeling the pains from low birth rates because of an aging population and not enough young working people to bolster the economy. And meanwhile, we are ending the (for some, potential) lives of 1.2 million a year in this country alone. He has a controversial suggestion, but one that shouldn’t be considered such given the wide berth abortion is given today. He suggests that abortion clinics must have an adoption program and that the consultation needs to include not only termination options but adoption ones as well. It’s not about forcing a woman one way or the other. It’s about not funneling a woman who often feels alone and helpless into one choice, which is not a choice at all, is it?

This is a subject I am passionate about if you couldn’t tell. I don’t want to force anyone’s hand, but I do want them to be conscious of the results of their decisions in probably the most important matter there is.

Having photos taken of me for various brochures, websites and the like, I simply did not bother asking for copies of them. In fact, I have never seen a copy of a photo taken of me for commercial work, ever. A friend of my mother’s saw me in a Dell brochure but did not think to save it. That was my closest shot to getting one. When you’re on set, people are busy and you’re just the talent.

At my last print gig, I decided to change this unfortunate reality. I asked the producer, the client, and finally got a Yes from the photographer, who told me to email the producer in a few months. I did so, and she sent me a note in which she wrote, “The client ‘owns’ all the pictures. It often happens that the work a model does is never seen…Yes, it was great fun to take the pictures. I can’t guarantee any pics for a portfolio-part of the job.”

It was as if the shoot was done for fun, and I have no right to ever see the work produced from my efforts. Sure, the photographer gets to use a few for his portfolio. Fashion models get copies because they know their photo will appear in the February issue of Elle. Why can’t commercial models simply be given a copy, once in a while, without fuss? Because we are the chopped liver of the industry.

by Dame Suzy, aka Chopped Liver

Why aren’t there good amazon.com or Yelp-like ratings for lawyers? Answer: any site like that would be hit with so many lawsuits it would make anybody’s head spin.

Good luck playing the eeny meeny miney mo game with lawyers. *Sigh*

I should not be upset. But I had purchased a “healthy” Cincinnati chili and heated up at home. There was a blob of what looked like low-cal (as in oddly smooth-textured) ricotta, which I mixed up with the rest. Then I nosed my nose closer. What’s that smell? Goat cheese? They wouldn’t do that to a heart-attack classic, would they? Yes, they indeed would. I powered through the rest of the dish, grumbling that for a small blob of “healthy” chili atop 5-cent spaghetti for $9 a pop was like wallet rape and wondering if pinching my nose would help mute the flavor like our elementary school teacher told us it would – he lied, and rinsed off the remaining bits sacrilegiously clinging to the plate. Then I started writing this post and NOW I realize I have to floss and brush my teeth without further ado as bleck – the malodor doth cling to my gums, foul beast…

Post toothbrushing update: All better, grumble grumble.

Advice: If you can’t make it healthy AND taste good, don’t bother.

It took Style Network to alert me to a new service being offered in New York, Los Angeles, and Miami. They’re debuting a show called Built which features attractive, built handymen doing work in your home. I had thought of this a few years ago after being fortunate enough to have a handsome plumber do some work for me. Who wouldn’t $$ pay extra for that? How much entertainment and eye candy do you think the average woman sees in a week? Not much.

I’m so glad to see my ideas come to fruition. Another idea that came about after I put a condom on my toe; I had just ordered a hundred condoms for a business school class presentation and was playing with a few. When I held the latex tight, I felt much less than when the latex was free to move around. Only a year or so later, which means it had been someone else’s idea long before mine – I saw the condom in the store – it was tighter at the base and looser and less restrictive at the top.

I DO wonder, of course, how often Hott and Handy handymen get propositioned by customers for some extra TLC. *Sigh* Probably not as often as I’d like to pretend for fantasy purposes.

Since I don’t live in any of those cities, I’ll have to just live with my fantasies, but they’ll be aided and abetted by the visual stimulation of that new show. The (albeit lame and uninformative) website for the company is here at HottandHandy.com.

I read this article about the Springtown school district in Texas allowing male adults (as opposed to same-sex paddling which was never disputed) to paddle girls, which was disturbing enough, but then the article ended saying that corporal punishment was allowed in three-quarters of Texas school districts. A little behind the times, are we, Texas? My kids are lucky they’re enrolled in less medieval schools, but I cringe to think of people jerking off to YouTube videos of these paddlings. Not to mention that an overzealous paddler could break someone’s tailbone, and that there are way easier ways to punish girls – take away their phone, you’ll break them without having to break any body parts.

Expendables 2 created in me a renewed interest in all things old-school action. The biggest disappointment of the movie was that I did not get to see many of Jean Claude Van Damme‘s powerful yet graceful moves. I re-rented his movie Kickboxer, for which he choreographed and directed all the fight scenes, and was again wowed by the beauty of his skills, not to mention the superbness of his physique. Many of his other films feature too much ammunition, and in fact the scenes in Expendables 2 I enjoyed the most were the martial arts scenes. I mean, hello, you’ve got Van Damme, Jet Li, Jason Statham, and Chuck Norris! I then looked up Van Damme’s bio and found that he had married the gorgeous Gladys Portugues, former female bodybuilding champion, who approaching the age of 55, is still stunning. He actually married her twice, from 1987-1992, and after another marriage, again from 1999 till now! They have three gorgeous/handsome kids and still smile and kid around on the red carpet. Hugs to you and your family from me and mine!

For a quite enlightening article about Jean Claude, read this Guardian UK article.

Last night’s open-mic was the first time I’d performed a stand-up comedy routine in public. My first time ever had been in class a mere 10 days before.

It was a blast. There were about sixteen others including two classmates and a few working comedians trying out new material, and we were each given five minutes. After the MC, who was excellent, the first guy was a dud – five minutes of him strumming nothing up and down his guitar, I kid you not. The other performances varied in quality but the good stuff made the mediocre worth staying. Some bits were excellent.

When I went up, I made the very-true excuse of having to pee really badly as to why my set was so short – at under three minutes, and then I went into a bit that started like this,

“I have this giant bruise on my knee. I wish I could say I was wasted or drugged out of my mind, or had really powerful sex – the kind where there is no such thing as pain – but I honestly have no clue…”

To finish my set, the MC, who had overheard me saying I acted, asked me something atune to this,

“So it seems like you enjoy having bodice-ripping sex, so it would be nice if you could combine the two into an adult film career.”

To which I replied:

“I could, but I only look good from most angles. Because I’ve had a few kids, me upside-down, trust me, nobody wants to see that…”

I’ll save the favorite parts of my routine for a future video which I will post here!

This weekend, I compete in a small local competition – sink or swim I saw, so wish me luck!

I happened upon talk of this while looking for sex towels or cloths. The idea of the glands sounded familiar but the name certainly had escaped my memory. According to Wikipedia, Skene’s glands could secrete during ejaculation and be related to the G-spot orgasm in addition to providing additional lubrication. Handy glands they are, and apparently they are not present in all women. Ah, the mysteries of the human anatomy.

Incidentally, sex towels – kind of – exist! Or rather, sex blankets. Satin on one side, crinkly plastic in the middle and velveteen on the other – just look up Fascinator Throe – they command from $60-100 a pop.

I would prefer there to be sex cloths available that are about 24″x 24″, easily washable, stain-resistant, and cuddly-soft. I may just have to make that happen. It’s not a normal size to find in a luxurious material. Yeah, you can get those disposable hospital blue/white papers in about that size but a clinical sex/bed-wetting experience is not what I’m going for.