just my life

3rd March
2014
written by Dame Suzy

Yeah, I’m not dead. Sorry to those who have posted comments that have not appeared. I’ve been letting WordPress just automatically update and one of those must have f-ed something up because the few precious and appreciated comments I did have disappeared and new ones that would have normally been auto-approved haven’t been. I’m going to put those up as soon as I can, and grrr, sorry. I know how long you probably took to write those words.

Right after my trip Down Under, I started a business – Delaware C-corp and trademark lawyers and whatnot. Not much fun to be had in the romance department I’m afraid, though perhaps that will change on my upcoming long-awaited trip. In the meantime, I will try to concoct a lovely erotic fictional story for my and your benefit.

5th April
2013
written by Dame Suzy

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.

21st February
2013
written by Dame Suzy

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

14th February
2013
written by Dame Suzy

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*

15th January
2013
written by Dame Suzy

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.

20th September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

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!

12th September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

My man and I were standing at the bar when a mean drunk, a small 20-something chick, pushed him out of the way. I went to rescue my purse that was hanging right under her as she was now in both of our spots and she said to me, “What do you want?” I told her I was getting my purse but she didn’t take the hint. Her friends apologized to us and said that she was really not like this but she had drunk a lot.

My man placed himself in between her and me, because though I am very good at avoiding fights and am a good-natured lass all-around, the thought of being pushed into defending my or my man’s honor does give me a rise. My one fight as an adult gave me such an adrenaline rush! My man smirked but was serious when he told the mean girl’s friends that he was protecting her from me.

My jolly-natured self is giving the mean drunk some less painful options to the behavior that may get her pounded one day, by offering a list of drinks posted by Arthur Kougias on Quora:

 

Read Quote of Arthur Kougias’s answer to Drinking (alcohol): What are some good non-alcoholic drinks to order at a bar? on Quora

8th September
2012
written by Dame Suzy

Why is it nice when your loved one goes on a business trip?

  • You get to have time to yourself.
  • You actually miss him and seeing fifteen pairs of his discarded socks on his side of the bed makes you feel glad to have him in your life. In fact, you leave all of his strewn-around things the whole time he’s gone so it looks like he hasn’t left.
  • Any annoying traits of hers are forgotten – out of sight, out of mind. You just remember the good and how you really need some sex and she knows how to give it good.
  • It’s easy to be sweet with an occasional text message ending in Mwaaa or kisses.
  • She comes home and all is as it should be!
17th February
2012
written by Dame Suzy

One night I meet two young gay friends –22-years-old but could pass for younger. Tim compliments me on my panda purse, and Daniel spends the rest of the night insisting on paying for round after round of drinks.

A couple of weeks later, Daniel asks if I want to go out again, and as I’d also like to go out with my man – I’ll call him Mike – I invite him. I introduce him as “my best friend I sometimes hook up with.” Daniel is polite and friendly from the beginning, but Tim looks like he resents Mike’s being there and ignores him.

Fast forward to later in the evening, and Mike has a group of five or six of these gay boys hanging on his every word. Mike is after all well-traveled, multi-lingual, and can have a swagger when he wants. He also – thanks in large part to me – dresses well and also has – no thanks to me – a noteworthy bubble butt.

When Mike later takes a detour solo to his favorite bar with his favorite bartendress, I get to hear the guys dish on Mike. Tim – the one who seemed to resent Mike – tells me using a lot of mmms how he’d like to do all sorts of things to him. They’re taken by Mike and they’d like to see more of him.

Though Mike likes the attention, he doesn’t feel the need to repeat it. To this day, they have no idea he’s “my man.” And that’s how it should be. He’s not my property, and he can be someone’s fantasy, no problem.

19th January
2012
written by Dame Suzy

My man just introduced me to Quora.

Here’s my Quora page: http://www.quora.com/Suzy-Fiore so you can read more from my twisted mind.

It’s a lovely little site for people to share knowledge, experiences, and in general stimulate the cerebral muscle.

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