I have much to thank Violet Blue for, as she is truly a gifted sex blogger. I admire her for her style, and it is because of Violet that I discovered Cafe Glow. Thank you, Violet, for being my sex blogging muse extraordinaire.

This video of Tatiana in Ravishing is one that captured my attention as I perused the many videos made by Cafe Glow. It reminds me of the sexiness that I was surrounded by when I was a nude dancer. One of the pleasures of being a nude dancer was watching other women onstage. This video, somehow, captures that feeling for me.

>>> Tatiana in Ravishing [vignette] from CafeGlow on Vimeo <<<

Cafe Glow is artistic and exotic. I love the composition of colors and music that compliments each woman’s sensuous movement. They have Grey films, Bleu films, and Red films. Each color describes the content and temperature of the mood.

I also loved the Qream video (Kortney Kane) and Cafe Glow’s hot and erotic Tumblr blog. Here is the link for that creamy beauty in the QREAM video that’s sure to make you want to lick up some cream or make you cream, either way.

I love the visual of a woman drenched in cream… something so marvelously delicious about it.

And there’s the film noir style… Brenna in Don’t Explain…

Brenna in Don’t Explain by CafeGlow.com

(music by Billy Holiday)

Erotic … Kimama

Kimama [preview] from CafeGlow on Vimeo.

A preview of Kimama by CafeGlow.com/glow

&

Sensual… Deseo

Deseo by CafeGlow [trailer] from CafeGlow on Vimeo.

Deseo by CafeGlow

I’m drawn to her sensuality. Like a dreamy angel, her skin is opalescent, glowing with the kind of light that comes from translucent clouds filtering the sun, candles within a lantern. There is something within her that burns bright. The facade, external beauty, yet within, her mind, her soul, burns a heavenly blaze that roils in the dark sky. Sovereign Syre: ‘a different kind of sex doll’ is a tag phrase mentioned on her blog : Sans Jupe: Diary of an Erotic Model.

Her gaze into the camera, similar to Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring, invites the admirer. Yet, what stands out most of all is her mind. She’s quite an intelligent brain, and I would like to share a post from her blog, titled Marilyn:

Marilyn

There was a time when dirt and hormones covered me in a sticky film, so thick I could scrape a trail down my arm, and see my adolescence compacted into a single black arc under my fingernail. When I was thirteen the heat of my cheek withered the grass and I could press my ear into the darkness and hear the world turning on the axis of my atoms. June bugs hissed in the humid folds of my dark blond hair, dragonflies rolled their tongues along the brackish crevices of my knees. The back door creaked and framed my father like a dark knight, the sun beating his retreating silhouette into the pits of my eyes with trailing bullets of color. The wind blew the leaves together in muted applause when I rose up and pushed the bodice of my dress taught over my swollen breasts, knotted with the fibrous lumps of puberty. The neighborhood boys walked past the back gate and rolled their damp eyes over the curve of my back. The pucker of her hard lips pressed my back flat into my bed, the short bursts of their breath spread my thighs in rhythmic worship. There was a time when I spilled out of my dress like an overripe fruit tree, onto the slick pages of magazines and left behind a legacy of sticky fumbling in gas station bathrooms. Words came out of my mouth light as spun sugar, dissolving on the pillows of starry eyed orphans. I came down like an incubus on dark haired soft bellied little girls, coaxing fingers down their throats, and teaching them to turn away from their mothers ashamed. I spent so many years crouched in dark hotel rooms chasing flashes of armor across mens faces that I forgot how the slope of my own nose looked. I woke up thirty years old afraid to look in the mirror distorting me now like a body of water, bloated and blanched and floating. Lines ran down my face the echoes of hidden frowns, tears cast into the corner where no one could look. Age walled me up like an anchoress, counting pills like days, from memory, slowly hardening loneliness. The years bring me grubby fingered minions afraid the world will forget,nailing my picture to the weeping willow overhead, lips spread, arms open. Girls tucked neatly into white cotton panties wet their tender lips with crimson lipstick, and suckled on the pink marble nipple of my grave, until their affection eroded it into the coarse teat of a bitch. In the white silence, the tuning fork of death strikes the earth and shakes loose the pollen. I can hear the morning dew quiver of the web, the roping steps of the spider on the leaf. What you can’t hear. What you can’t know.

 Sovereign wrote this piece when she was 18. She says: “My English professor suggested I write a poem about what I thought it meant to be beautiful.  We started talking about Marilyn Monroe.  Like most poems that you end up liking, I wrote in about ten minutes.  It’s early and full of all the mistakes that come with doing something for the first time, but I’m fond of it, because it was the first thing I published.”

In the photographs featured from a recent photo shoot with Holly Randall, she is depicted as an urban angel with wings. Yes, she is lovely. Smoldering. Sensual gaze, reminiscent of Sophia Loren. But what I would like to see more of is her writing.  She and her beau have their website Darling House.

I discovered Hegre Art awhile ago. Petter Hegre is a talented photographer, and his artful work shows his appreciation of the nude. Truly an artiste.

He creates luscious, artistic images and videos of beautiful, intriguing women.

www.Hegre-Art.com is the personal works of award winning photographer Petter Hegre. Hegre-Art.com is the highest ranked fine art nude photography site in the world. Created to bring superior quality nude photography to the internet, Hegre-Art.com showcases films and photos of the most beautiful naked girls found anywhere on-line.

Previous Avedon assistant and voted Photographer of the Year at the Erotic Oscars in London, Petter Hegre is acknowledged as a new force and major influence on contemporary nude photography. Petter Hegre has published 5 books of nudes and exhibited internationally.

Please explore Hegre Art… I love the massage section in particular.

Titles like: Erotic Hotel Massage, The Art of Penis Pleasing, and Massage Under The Spanish Sun lure you into another realm…

“Sex is a big question mark. It is something people will talk about forever.” ~Catherine Deneuve

Starlet du Jour :: She Bares All In Shocking Confessions

I was naked in bed, when the phone rang. It was the evening of my twenty-first birthday. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I lived with my girlfriend, and we were having a (secret) bi-sexual affair. No one in our little strip club knew. Jen wanted it to remain between us, because most of the girls had a crush on her. She didn’t want them to know, or all the girls that lusted after Jennifer would then vie for her attention. Perhaps.

“Hello?” I answered sleepily.

“Jennifer?” the man’s voice said.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Hey, is Jennifer there?”

“No, she’s not home yet.” I replied briskly. “Who may I say is calling?”

“Oh, this is Charlie Sheen.”

“And I’m the Queen of England,” I remark flatly. “Now, really, who is this?”

“It’s… Charlie Sheen.”

The phone muffles and I hear voices in the background. I’m naked, and it’s getting late.

I had completely forgotten about Jen’s little fling with [insert celebrity name here]. Now I realize, in that moment, yes, it was Charlie Sheen on the phone. I was rude, and began to feel regretful for being so saucy. But, in my defense, it was the night of my twenty-first birthday and I was comfortably naked in bed. I worked in the nude, and I slept in the nude. I was twenty-one.

Charlie invited me over to the [celebrity not mentioned] house, up in the hills of Los Feliz on the spur of the moment. I reluctantly accepted, threw on my best white cotton dress, and dashed out the door. I knew the area well, as I had grown up there, and this hilly neighborhood in particular was where my piano teacher lived.

There he was, Charlie Sheen, just as he stated. He stood outside, one-thirty in the morning, on the balcony of the 1930’s Spanish-style home. He watched me saunter into the living room that adjoined the balcony.

“My,” he purred smoothly, caressing my every curve with his eyes. “You remind me of a young Catherine Deneuve.” I felt Charlie’s gaze pour over me like Bailey’s Irish Cream on ice. Creamy and full of sugar. Cloying. Then I felt like a steak in the Pixar eyes of Alex the Lion, hungry on the island of Madagascar. He moved in, closer.

But I didn’t go for smooth talk. I was a stripper, after all. I just smiled my demure self away from Charlie, slowly. It was a nice compliment, as I do love Catherine Deneuve, but I wasn’t falling for it. There were other friends over at the house that night, and so…

I did have a one-night fling with a celebrity that evening. But I won’t mention their name. (Psst… it wasn’t Charlie).

I’m not unique in the way of strippers and Charlie Sheen, however, I will say, elegantly, that I just had to lure you in with hyperbole. Because I (stripper so-called) was naked in bed, talking to Charlie Sheen. (Well, alright, on the phone, about twenty years ago).

But I did not have a fling with Charlie.

I prefer other sorts of men who say little and feed me grapes.

After lovemaking, they caress me with poetic words of adoration, and then take me to a diner for pancakes. If they are going to be syrupy around me, it might as well be while eating real syrup.

Food and sex are connected. Hunger for love, desire, ravenous. The taste of his mouth, the taste of her sex, mouths and tongues, hands for gathering, breasts like (melons, apples, avocados, oranges) and lips like (sugar) moist like (fruit) and her sweet (vagina, pussy, sex, cunt) as juicy as a (plum, peach). Fruits can be feminine ex: Her sex ripe like a guava, wet with juice. Taste. It was so delicious to suck him as his (cock, penis, shaft, bamboo stalk, sex) was like tasting a (banana), and his (semen, cum) tasted like (cream, syrup, hollandaise sauce, crème chantilly, buttery fondue, vanilla custard). I am getting carried away and silly now using hollandaise sauce and fondue. Vanilla custard, however…

I can’t imagine Charlie Sheen knows how to cook. We should round the poor boy up, throw him on an Iron Chef show, and see him wallow in his own sauce. Perhaps dominatrix head chefs dressed in thigh high leather boots and incredibly sexy basques with lace, while orchestrating cooking competitions, should properly punish Lotharios like Charlie. The losers would then be farmed off to the Church of Scientology, never to cook again. What would a show like that be called? Leather Chef? Stiletto Chef?

Perhaps dominatrix head chefs dressed in thigh high leather boots and incredibly sexy basques with lace, while orchestrating cooking competitions, should properly punish Lotharios like Charlie. The losers would then be farmed off to the Church of Scientology, never to cook again. What would a show like that be called? Leather Chef? Stiletto Chef?

As in cooking, so in sex: You wouldn’t rush a butter sauce over a high flame, would you?

Some might slapdash together a meal, so there goes the fast food approach. But, that isn’t erotic, is it? I’m not saying it has to be fancy. It just has to have fresh ingredients. Thoughtful preparation. A sensualist can derive pleasure from a simple fruit on a warm summer day. The way it’s presented is paramount, a gift for the senses.

I once was enjoying an Italian dinner in Los Angeles with a girlfriend of mine. She was very sensual, but it was something she did not display. She was an antiques dealer and personally collected Utrillo prints. She loved to cook. Her sensuality was in her manner, the way she enjoyed food. I will always remember her nonchalant way of making a creamy and sublime asparagus soup. Curvy and witty, she was full of fresh enthusiasm.

After dinner at the Italian restaurant, we ordered dessert. It wasn’t a crème brulee, but vanilla custard, topped with a thin layer of chocolate fondant, poured artfully on top. It glistened with chocolate and vanilla decadence. The waiter brought the large bowl of custard, simple in a white ceramic bowl, to our table. He set it down between my friend and I, and placed two silver spoons, one in front of each of us.

My friend casually sank her spoon into the custard.

The rich chocolate layer scooped away by her spoon, revealed a creamy whiteness, flecked with vanilla bean.

The custard-laden spoon, mid-sentence, entered her mouth. Then her eyes fluttered up into her head as she savored the custard, sighing and moaning. She involuntarily flung the spoon over her shoulder, and all that we heard was her moan of delight and the clatter of the spoon hitting the tiled floor behind us. The orgasm of her mouth was sudden; she had no warning to her pleasure.

The vanilla custard with chocolate fondant was a simple bowl of extreme orgasm.

(Ah, those were the days before Yelp).

Years later, this experience, the vanilla custard, fresh in my mind, a sensory memory I will savor. *The clatter of a spoon on the floor…*