[E]Lust #69 *top three!*

Photo courtesy of Sex Is My New Hobby

Welcome to Elust #69

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #70? Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Bully for you
Watching Me
Red in Tooth and Claw

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

He’s Got Her
Subject/Object/My Desire

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Waiting with Snowdrops

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7

days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Erotic Non-Fiction

Nothing Really Matters
Njoying Myself
He’s beautiful
Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 39
His Beauty Shatters Me
Vacation Got Off To A Slow Start
After Party On My Own
My Life Erotic: “The Bad Man”

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Questions We’re Actually Embarrassed to Ask
Ignorance & Misconception – Scary Combination


Laced Up – a Lusty Limerick

Erotic Fiction

Our First Time
The EuphOff
the auction
the conductor
Habla con ella

Writing About Writing

My Filthasaurus

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

On Corsets
Consent: A play in one act
Playing hate: topping in a degradation scene
Corsets and Kink
What I Love About Pinching

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Dancing vs. Sex
Volunteers Needed!
Jewelry N’ Kegels


1000 Fucking Blog Post



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Before you are dismantled

“Before you are dismantled, fixed and broke again you are not yet a lover. Remember on the right night and under the right light any idea can seem like a good one and love…love is mostly ill advised but always brave.” Yrsa Daley-Ward

“And here I thought you were jaded.” He’s teasing, gently. The skin’s been healed a while now, but it’s been cold enough to keep legs covered most days. Not everyone has seen.

“The worst. I eat hearts for breakfast.”

“Seriously. I’ve never heard you say anything about love that didn’t sound like you hate it.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. I do hate it. It’s monstrous. It changes you. One day you’re at sea all filled with the thrill of wind and open water, daring every storm to just try; it’s never seen anything so fierce as you, so strong. And then out of nowhere you’re cast out like a stowaway, like vermin, like nothing. You’re left alone God knows where with no keel and no sails and no anchor. People are talking but what language you don’t know. They broke your compass and your heart and Broca’s area, too. You wonder if you’ll ever learn to fit the shape of yourself again (You will, it’s just a new shape and it has something of a limp).  If you’re even human, anymore. If you’re not just walking jetsam with water in your ears. They didn’t even keep your bones for scrimshaw, after all that. Not even your bones.

I hate it so much. Because I can’t quite stop forgiving. Because I can’t quite say it wasn’t worth it. Because life does, in fact, go on.

I’m using tattoos to reclaim parts of myself, a bit at a time. It was easy to feel weak for having been in love. To treat myself with disdain for it. Ill-advised is putting it mildly, when you’ve carried the wreck of a memory long enough. It is easy to try to shame it away until it is not part of who I am. But it is also brave. And I still can’t quite say it wasn’t worth it, either time.

The text is an excerpt from Artichokes by Yrsa Daley-Ward. Her book, bone, is most definitely worth picking up.

My other tattoos are here:

Don’t touch me, a how-to guide for handling my panic attacks from Beckett


i like my body when it is with your, a reminder that sometimes the body is so quite new a thing.

In Memoriam

This would be a prayer, if I prayed.

Let me be not alone. Let the broken parts be whole.

Let me be rocks and water.

Let me be not alone. As if Job was not still alone in the end. As if grief were a pit you could climb out of. As if learning what you can survive didn’t come with a terrible price, as if it did not wake a terrible pride that will forever stir the dust of old memories with its pacing.

Let the broken parts be whole. As if healing did not leave scars. As if mended parts could ever forget how easily they were broken. As if a day could pass without running fingertips along the fault lines. As if nerves grew back.

As if faith did not sometimes say dear God take my faith away. It is making me go on. I can’t go on.

I could say, “He would have been thirty.” I know better. If it hadn’t been that day it would have been another. The next year, or the year after that. Mental illness can be terminal. We don’t like to say it but it’s true.

I don’t mean to think of him. It takes so little. A shock of red hair, a crooked smile behind a beard, a voice made clear from years of speaking on stage. Sometimes it’s nothing to do with him at all–I read an essay about adding to the boundaries of human knowledge, wonder what he would say about the boundaries of the arts. There’s still the hike of anticipation for conversations that are never going to happen. Thinking “he would love this,” or “he would be so disappointed.” Would, not would have. After long enough you’d think that impulse would stop. I wish it would. I’m terrified it will.

I’m so afraid of losing what little I have left of him. The exact hazel of his eyes, the cadence of his voice. What if I forget the names he chose for daughters he never had? If I lose the slow, serious talks about his church, his faith, his god? The mistakes we didn’t make (I wish we had). The two a.m. shouting matches, the hurt, how easy it was for both of us to forgive.

The one letter I keep coming back to. “You’ve forgiven me more times than God.” Not an apology, not thanks, just that. “You’ve forgiven me more times than God.”

For him, I believed in always. Because of him, I don’t.

But none of it matters and it was so, so long ago. And I haven’t let it go.

Let me be rocks. Let me be water.