As usual I’m 10 minutes late for the most recent fad. So, it took me awhile to realize that my love of music and my obsession with sex could combine in a hot sticky mess and spawn a podcast. It is with the trepidation and excitement of an awkward middle schooler slow dancing for the first time that I present you with Bedroom Radio – Episode One.
Featured Song: Betty Davis – “Gettin’ Kicked Off, Havin’ Fun” from
Public Service Announcement:
Download Bedroom Radio #1 (128k)
EDIT: The boobies have been edited for a good cause! I have submitted some pictures (not this one) to the . So, if you want to see them, make a donation to help support breast cancer research!
Let me begin by saying that my car looks nothing like the one in the photo. Although, it is about that size and probably only a few years older (seriously, check out when Chevy stopped making the Celebrity).
When I went to bed last night I just had one car sex story to tell. Then my dreams provided fodder for another one. I’ll tell them in chronological order, though.
I never owned a car until this summer when I got a job that made it impossible not to have one. So, I ended up with a 20-year-old car that had 40,000 miles on it. My car is basically a tank that runs on a 4-cylinder. It provides a good scapegoat if I ever get pulled for speeding as it tops out around 80 mph and that is going downhill with a tail wind. The interesting feature of this car, though, is a bench seat across the front and the fact that it is cavernous inside. I realized the potential sexual fruitfulness of this set-up right off the bat but had never acted on it until this Sunday.
My boyfriend and I had gone to see a movie and were driving back to his house. He had been absent-mindedly playing with my hair and caressing my neck during the car ride. Something about the tenderness of it made me insanely turned on so I resolved in my mind to finally make use of the roominess of my vehicle. I pulled into an empty parking lot and turned off the lights and engine. I just left the music playing. I then (less than gracefully) removed my purse and other belongings that had been sitting between us on the bench seat. He had a somewhat perplexed look on his face but I think he figured things out pretty quickly when I slid over next to him on the seat. We started making out which was exciting but I realized that if I was going to get a real thrill out of this, it had to go farther.
That was when I decided to straddle his hips while we kissed. I was finally starting to get the feel for what I had missed out on during high school. This maneuver certainly pushed his buttons as well since I could feel his growing erection pressing against me. He was sliding his hands up my shirt and grabbing my ass under my skirt while we kissed. Every time a car passed, I would freeze and instinctively duck a bit so that my head was resting on his shoulder. It was both terrifying and sexy. In between kisses and hickeys he was whispering in my ear about what a bad girl I was and how he was going to have to spank me when we got home.
The feel of his cock pushing into me through his jeans was getting to be a bit more than I could stand. So, I got out of his lap and took to unfastening his jeans. When that unbearably time-consuming task was finally accomplished I got right to work. The usual protocol would be that I would continue kissing him while I stroked his shaft and teased him for awhile. In this case, though, I wasted no time. I got on my hands and knees across the bench seat and took his whole length in my mouth immediately. I have always relished the sound that he makes when I first put my mouth on him and this time was no exception. As I worked on his cock, he reached behind me and pulled my skirt up over my ass and began spanking me. I was praying that he would slip his fingers into my panties but he never got the chance. Afer a few minutes of head he became convinced that he saw a person walking by and that we really should leave. Truthfully, I was pretty ready to get home and do things properly so I had no trouble obliging. But, I did squeeze his cock through his jeans for the rest of the drive home.
I still need to retrieve all of the spilled items from my purse that fell under the seat.
But thats not all, I promised you two car sex stories and you will get them. The second is a dream I woke up remembering this morning. It is only notable in the sense that I *rarely* have sex dreams. They have been appearing slightly more often lately but they are still few and far between. They also tend to be about people I know in real life. Imagine my surprise when I dreamed of giving a blowjob to another blogger that I spent some time exchanging passive-aggresive emails with yesterday! The most interesting thing about this dream is that I have no idea what this individual looks like so my mind just created an image to stand in. I might be strange, but my ideal sex partner in fantasies is rarely someone with an aesthetically perfect body. They make me nervous on principle. So, in my imagination this individual is slightly chubby, with a benevolent face, and nice hands. In other words, exactly who I would like to fuck around with.
The events of the dream slightly mirrored the events of my actual car escapades except amped up in the implausible ways that dreams often are. For instance, my roomy car became impossibly large, allowing for positions that would require something more along the lines of a flatbead truck in reality. Additionally, I was completely naked and the events were unfolding in broad daylight right in front of my house (which is on a relatively busy street and in front of a stop sign). As is often the case with dreams I only remember flashes of this one. Looking up at him as I teased the tip of his cock with my tongue, listening to him murmur encouraging words between gasps, feeling his hand caress my ass.
Fuzzy memory or not, I still woke up completely turned on. . .
My boyfriend recently told me that I am allowed to make out with whoever I want. I took this news with a great deal of excitement and an eye towards the future. I would parlay my newly found sexual confidence into a very sophisticated and urban form of make-out sluttery. I would lock lips with anyone that I thought was attractive and enjoy the sheer simplicity of just kissing. This would all expand my horizons greatly and take me on my path to becoming an ethical slut.
My boyfriend said this to me almost two months ago.
I haven’t kissed anyone.
Now, this isn’t for a lack of desire. I have had my smooch radar honed on several desirable kissees. I’m doing all the right things, too. Like spending time in the presence of the people I want to kiss and brushing my teeth. Somehow this doesn’t seem to be enough. I think I am missing a piece of the puzzle.
In reality, I know exactly what the problem is. Everyone I know, knows I have a boyfriend. And everyone I know is basically anyone worth kissing in this ridiculously small city. I really can’t wait for someone else to kiss me, it isn’t going to happen. Unfortunately, I have a ridiculously high fear of rejection.
So, fair reader, how do you get up the nerve to lock lips? Please don’t say alcohol. . .
rarely stops thinking of good ideas. Here is another one that he had. Nominate your best entry this week by emailing him and check out the links below for some great posts.
There is no better time to be a library student and obsessed with sex. . . (lumpesse.com)
Random Fetish Attack (talkingdirty.blogspot.com)
(Bloggers, participate by emailing your best recent post to . The bloggasm is posted to SugarBank on Saturday, included bloggers commit to posting the bloggasm links within seven days.)
Sam over at is asking some very thoughtful questions today about . I started to reply in a comment and thought I might as well flesh things out more. Now the big difference between Sam and I in asking this question is that he is a businessman (therefore oriented towards finding a solution and of course revenue) whereas I am a grad student (and therefore consider this as a purely academic question, in fact I have written a paper or two on blogging.) Sam asks:
In a world where paysites are losing ground to blogs, how will people react to the rise of blogs that look beyond advertising as a source of revenue? A change in price from zero is effectively infinite, and guaranteed to be objected to. How much is a blog feed worth? $20 a month? $20 a year? Nothing at all?
The number of people reading your RSS feed is going to become a more important measure of your online audience than the number of people who see your website, but without a universal micropayment system are ads the only way to make money?
Micropayments are becoming a big question in the music industry as well (at least at the independent level.) I have label friends that have dabbled with micropayments for mp3 downloads with very little success. The primary problem seems to be streamlining the payment process to make it universal and easy.
Of course there is also still the inherent bias against charging for content that is perceived as ephemeral. In reality an online subscription to, say, Newsweek, would be much more useful than hardcopy (because of search, archives, and a million other useful features). Still, people are printing magazines and pressing CDs.
I have said for awhile that I think the future of independent music is short-run CD-R release, not download sales. As for blog content sales? It doesn’t seem impossible (especially if it is adult content) but might be an uphill battle. Salon.com didn’t really fare too well when it went paid, they seem to be the classic example of this problem.
Are blogs making it harder to sell intellectual property? I’m not really sure about that, I know that some of the big MP3 blogs have resorted to what is basically payola in order to generate revenue. This is an option for a blog offering other sorts of recommendations or consulting service. Of course, most people would find that to be distasteful and untrustworthy. Will people directly pay for content served up in a blog format? I might be the wrong person to ask as I tend to pay for online products and content that I find compelling but others are still very biased against the delivery method. While blogging is so old in terms of net years it is still a relatively new phenomenon in the scheme of things. I think there are things about the technology (RSS, interactivity, etc) that might make it easier to sell intellectual property (especially any sort of subscription) online.
Of course all the payment I need from Lumpesse is the joy of spouting off my unfounded opinions and inflicting them on others. I could reach the same ends at a bar but this method diminishes the hangover.
I was hesitant to write about Lolita during my Banned Book Week celebration because it certainly isn’t a novel that I need to draw anyone’s attention to. Nonetheless, I have chosen to reflect on this icon for two reasons. First, we are celebrating the 50th anniversary of its publication this year (click here for the history of its banning in Europe). Second, I have very fond memories of the first time that I read it.
When I was twelve years old I fancied myself quite the sophisticate and would often seek out books that I had heard were scandalous on my frequent trips to the public library. Certain ones, like Lady Chatterly’s Lover, failed to make an impression on me at such a young age. I was too young and not a skilled enough reader to appreciate many of them. But one book stands out in my mind from this era because I did read it all the way through and felt very naughty for doing it.
I recall the day that I found Lolita on the shelves and surreptitiously took it to a remote corner in the back of the stacks. I began to peruse it, the whole time terrified that I would be caught. I’m not sure what I thought would happen to me if I read this book but I remember feeling like I was doing something very dangerous, liberated, and sexy. It is a rare novel that can carry a similar weight for me these days but I still seek out that exhilaration.
Somehow I summoned up the courage to sandwich Lolita amongst a stack of other books and check it out. My heart was racing as the circulation clerk fumbled with each volume. But, shockingly, I wasn’t chastised or turned in – just sent off with the reminder that they were all due in three weeks.
I read Lolita in a few evenings, I couldn’t put it down. She was just like me and the stuff of my deepest fantasy and adoration. I would argue now that there is no purer or more perfect time to read Lolita than when you are a twelve-year-old girl. To read it at this age is to miss out on the prurient voyeurism that Nabokov projects on his reader. A girl reads Lolita through Lo’s eyes, not Humbert’s. From this perspective, Humbert is dreadfully sexy and intriguing.
While I’m sure that most of you have read Lolita, I wonder how many have Nabokov’s other works. It is often erroneously stated in literary circles that Lolita is his only work worth reading. If someone has told you this I suggest you stop being friends with them immediately and spend any time you might have spent listening to them blather about literature on the reading of Pnin. Is it as sexy as Lolita? No. But it is heart-breaking and funny and remarkable.
. . . than Banned Books Week. So, I decided to let my worlds collide and feature a banned book every day this week. (You know, for the rest of them since I was slack on Monday). Of course, these won’t be just any banned books, but those that were targeted for being obscene. I hope some of you will decide to read a sexy banned book this week and maybe even get aroused. . . in the name of freedom. I’ll start with the banned book that I chose to enlighten myself with this week.
Miller has been renowned for years for being a disgusting pervert and a brilliant author. Lauded as one of the finest in the 20th century, some don’t realize that his book Tropic of Cancer was banned in the US for 27 years for being obscene. First published in Paris in 1934, the ban was not lifted until 1961.
Written as an autobiographical look at his own life as an expatriate in Paris in the 1930s, the book reveals the underbelly of Miller’s life, what he sees as infintite decay. Tropic of Cancer is obsessed with female sexuality and features many encounters with women which Miller tends to describe with a certain lush desperation. Miller’s writing still speaks best for itself though:
Mona at the window waving goodbye. White heavy face, hair streaming wild. And now it is a heavy bedroom, breathing regularly through the gills, sap still oozing from between her legs, a warm feline odor and her hair in my mouth. My eyes are closed. We breath warmly into each other’s mouth. Close together, America three thousand miles away. I never want to see it again. To have her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth – I count that something of a miracle. Nothing can happen now till morning. . .