Lesbian Porn vs. Straight Porn

I love porn. Love it. Shall I say it again? I've always loved porn and have been an avid fan since, oh, about 10 years old? Little pervy, I know. Deal with it. But as I grew older and became more keenly aware of my specific likes and dislikes in bed, I became more and more disillusioned with most of the porn out there. You know what I'm talking about, surely: Plastic tits, totally manscaped guy with too-perfect a body and very, very predictable sex. More on that in a few moments.

When I realized my specific kinks were true fetishes, I realized that the average vanilla couple doesn't partake in these things and I started to look for D/s oriented porn that would highlight my fetishes. It was interesting to see all the bondage, blah, blah, but that's just as predictable as ordinary straight sex and never got these knickers wet. Eventually I gave up looking for porn with my type of sex because it's just not out there, and that's really an odd thing when you consider how standard my fetishes really ought to be! I mean, you can find vids of people dressed like ponies shagging people dressed like giant toddlers -- why the fuck can't you find porn in manner of my own kinks?

So I diversified. I started to explore other types of porn. I looked at everything, although I have to admit I found a few genres a bit unusual. At the time, most of the lesbian porn you could find online was strap-on sex, and it was pretty much exactly the same wham-bam shite you'd find in straight porn, except both fucker and fuckee had big plastic tits. This was not appealing either. And then one day I found a site with REAL lesbians who clearly knew what to do with tits and clits. From that moment forward I was hooked. I don't really care if the girls are real lesbians or not as long as they look like they want to be doing what they're doing and as long as they do it well. Which brings me back to that point I was getting to in the first paragraph:

Straight porn almost never looks good. Or sexy. Or satisfying. You get this guy with a nice body who sucks one tit for about 30 seconds; pinches the other nipple a few times; licks clit for about 60 seconds; shoves his fingers in there before the girl even has time to get wet and then starts shagging her. Granted, the men have good rhythm and lovely cocks but that is really where the impressiveness ends. They just look like their only mission is busting a nut and helping male viewers do the same.

I don't want to get into that whole "who's better at muffdiving" thing because straight men get so insecure when people suggest that lesbians would have more of a clue (although I don't see how anything else is possible -- and I certainly don't have a problem with the idea that gay men are probably better at blowjobs) but if I had to guess just from viewing porn, I'd have to say women are light years better than men at getting a woman off. And I don't just mean cunnilingus -- most men just don't know what to do with a pair of tits. Which is odd, when you consider how much time they spend staring at them. Don't get me wrong. I'd rather have sex with a man than a woman. But I think men could probably improve their sex skills by leaps and bounds by watching real lesbian porn because there is nothing to learn from straight porn other than how to shag a woman the wrong way. I mean that sincerely and it goes both ways, as I also recommend women watch some gay porn to improve their blowjob techniques.

xx Isabella

First Boyfriends and Horrific Suicides

Suicide isn't something I've had a lot of direct experience with (not a complaint) and I can only think of one person I knew even indirectly who'd done such a thing. So I was really, really shocked to learn that my first boyfriend -- the person I lost my virginity to -- killed himself in a horrifically shocking fashion. Not that all suicide or general occurrences of death aren't terrible; but this one seemed a bit unbelievable. Before I get into that, though, I want to say a few words about Mike.

I was about 17 when we met, and I'd just been released from lockup. (Search the blog if you really want to know.) I can't recall how I wound up at Maria's house, because I didn't even know her at the time, but after I was there a group of girls from a Catholic school showed up and everyone decided to head over to a birthday party. It was March and freezing cold and snowy and I was wearing moccasins (real ones, no soles) but for some reason I decided to tag along with this group of complete strangers -- very odd when you consider that I rarely hang with females, let alone an entire herd of them. Anyway. When we got to this party, which was being held in the basement of the birthday boy's house, I was introduced to an entirely new group of people I'd never met before. Mike being one of them, as it was his house and his birthday.

We hit it off immediately, despite him being a very peaceful, sweet Pisces who probably wouldn't have been capable of swatting a fly. And I mean that literally. He wasn't my type then and he certainly wouldn't be my type today, but he was fucking gorgeous and I was a silly teenage girl. We spent that entire night acting like, well, teenagers, and we started dating immediately. This annoyed one of the girls who'd brought me as, apparently, she was his ex GF and they'd had plans to get back together that night. (Sorry, Janine, you should have told me before we got there!) Mike and I dated for about a year, which was quite a long time for me. We spent every single day together, his big Irish / Italian Catholic family adored me and they were all fabulous. In fact, when he and I broke up I actually delayed the breakup because I really liked being around his family. But we did break up and he started dating Jamie, this preppie chick who instantly morphed into a faux hippie chick. But let me not digress.

After a few months of being single I realized how ridiculous our relationship had been. And I don't mean these things in a cruel way, but they are true: We were totally incompatible on nearly every level. He was too sweet, too easily manipulated, too high, too drunk, too intellectually challenged (VoTech and special classes for slower kids), and too damned disinterested in his own future. Although, 6 months into our relationship he was talking about marriage and kids! I wasn't even 18 yet! That, and his life ambition was working for his brother-in-law as a carpenter and someday building his own log cabin. I'm not knocking that per se but it wasn't something I found appealing. But, then, you have to keep in mind that at that time I had my singing career fully planned out and anyone who couldn't see equally far ahead was, IMO, daft.

Mike and I didn't see each other much after we broke up. He wanted to get back together a few times but by then I'd even outgrown my hippie phase (a phase that had lasted about 5 years) and had new friends who were way too old for me and I couldn't be arsed. We were amicable enough, but I rather regretted losing my virginity to him (unmemorable would be a good word for it) so every time I saw him I thought of how bad the sex had been. I started Googling him about 5 years ago for some odd reason; I guess to see what he was up to. I was curious to know if he'd stopped the drugs or gone to college or gotten married or had kids, etc. I could never find any info on him, so I figured he was still pretty much doing whatever he used to do. I tried Googling him again probably once a year after that but still couldn't find anything. And then a few days ago I was suddenly overcome with the urge to Google him and this time I found something unusual.

There had been a fundraising concert for a memorial scholarship in his name. Obviously, memorials are for those people no longer living and I was really taken aback; he was one year older than me. My first thought was that he'd overdosed on something. He wasn't a hardcore user when I was dating him, but these things often evolve. So I Googled a bit more and eventually found his name on a suicide memorial website. Now I was just stunned. Suicide? That just didn't sound like the virtual ray of sunshine I'd dated. I couldn't find an obituary or other news to elaborate on the suicide, so I contacted an old schoolmate through Facebook. And what she told me just utterly shocked me.

Apparently, a few years ago, Mike went to his girlfriend's place of work (a restaurant which is literally about 2 minutes' walk from my old house) and shot himself outside of the restaurant. Now, it doesn't take a shrink to know how utterly fucked up that is. I feel really bad for his girlfriend (it's rumored that she had just broken up with him, but I don't know that for certain) and I think Mike was a bit of a dick for doing that to her. It's one thing to kill yourself; it's another to deliberately make someone witness it and probably relive it for the rest of their lives. Clearly, he was making some sort of point. I've no idea if she'd done anything to incite that sort of anger (punishment, even) but I can't imagine anything being quite that bad.

I feel badly for Mike that he was in such a state of hopelessness that he was willing to kill himself and in such a state of anger / hurt that he felt subjecting her (and everyone else at the restaurant) to his suicide was an ok thing to do. I don't think the Mike I knew would have done that. But if there is anything I've learned over time, it's that people are rarely who you thought / think them to be. I hope he's alright now, wherever he is; I do have specific beliefs about the afterlife and I'm sure that he is.

xx Isabella

September's Blog Makeover Winner!

Sorry I forgot to post this!! The winner of the Blogbunnie blog makeover for September's contest is Rowan! Congratulations to her and thanks to everyone who entered!

xx Isabella

Sex, Screaming and the Importance of Names

This will sound shallow and all kinds of terrible so let me offer some sort of advanced apology -- and let me follow it up by saying I still mean everything I'm about to say. What am I on about here? Names, mostly; and the importance of such names when one is screaming during the throes of lust. (If you're not a screamer but prefer to moan instead, that's fine -- just switch the words round in your mind as you read.) You see, I'm a vocal bitch. And having developed rather a powerful singing voice over the last decade or so, I can belt, baby. Add to that an uncontrollable urge to scream and moan whilst being (properly) fucked and you've got the makings of a good porn flick, minus the cheesy acting and fake tits.

Unless you've got an unscreamable name.

Wot's an unscreamable name, you ask? A name which just doesn't feel sexy whilst being screamed, obviously. Here, I'll give you a few examples: Lester, Bob, Dilbert and Willis are fairly unscreamable in my book. What makes them unscreamable names? If you have to ask, it's probably not worth the time it would take it explain it, so I won't bother. Some guys have names which wouldn't sound good being screamed about in bed, but which could be modified into an acceptable moniker. Jim, for example, could be turned into Jimmie. But some names just can't be changed and you've got to either come up with a nickname, or not cum at all (if you're like me and need to scream in bed).

I realize it sounds terrible but it's not like one wakes up one morning and says, "I choose this fetish today." I can't help it if, when I first meet a man, I imagine whether or not his name is screamable -- and politely turn him down if it isn't. I mean, why bother teasing him at all if you already know sex isn't going to work out? (Yes, yes, there are other factors when it comes to sex but if this basic need isn't met, the others couldn't be either.) Even if you're not the type of screamer I happen to be, surely there are names you couldn't imagine yourself calling out in bed? Hubert? Bertha? Agnes? Jasper? Although, to be fair, if I discover someone with massive wet knicker factor, such as Clive Owen, I'm capable of reprogramming and putting Clive in the screamable name section. But the knickers have got to be seriously wet.

Any names you find unscreamable?

xx Isabella

Pierced Wedding Rings?

I was looking for something totally filthy and perverse when I came across this. My initial reaction was to flinch. My second was to screw my face up and wonder how much that fucker hurt. My third reaction was to wonder what you do if you get divorced -- do you pop that out and stick something else in its place? Or let it scar up and serve as a reminder that love is painful and only meant to be experienced by those who enjoy a good skewering?

Would you?

xx Isabella

Figuring Out Your Purpose In Life

This is going to be slightly deeper than my usual drivel. Apologies in advance. So. Back when I was a kid -- 8 years old, to be more precise -- I knew what I was going to be when I grew up. And I knew I was going to be fabulous at it. And I knew I was going to get my foot in any door I wanted to walk through. And by the time I was 21, I'd done just that. And as soon as I'd done that, I started to feel miserable, because I didn't have anywhere else to go from there. You see, in my particular genre of music, there's no MTV star, no Hall of Fame unless you're black and 100 years old. I'm not sure these things would have appealed to me even if they were available, but they weren't and I got bored very quickly.

Having met, performed with and become friends with everyone I'd idolized as a child really took the magic away for me. Performing for Presidents and other dignitaries did the exactly the same thing. I'm someone who likes to live in a dreamworld; someone who likes to aspire to greater things that aren't within reach -- so when I get to whichever pinnacle I've set for myself and I see that everyone else up there is just as common as everyone still down in the valley behind me, it's kind of disheartening. What's there to strive for after that? And how fucking dull to have nothing else worth striving for.

When I started to write books it was new and exciting. I'd never written much of anything before because I hated to write because I was so retentive about details. But now I like being that way and I think it makes for a better story in terms of my novels. But even the new writing path got old quickly, because my first book was written in just a few months and published soon after. I didn't have to work for anything. I was back to wanting something more exciting, and, frankly, sex is so fucking easy to write that it gets really, really boring after the first novel or two. So I started a new band, got back into the swing of things, performed for a new President, was back on the radio... and again I was bored to tears. And that's when I realized WHY I was bored to tears. With singing, anyway.

I spent a long time getting my voice exactly the way I wanted it. I spent even more time making sure I didn't sound like anyone else. When I performed and the house stood up for me, it was nice but the feeling never lasted beyond the last song. And I realized that I was singing for the wrong reasons. I always have done, if I'm honest. Being a little white girl singing blues is hard in terms of getting respect from people and I'd spent my whole life proving over and over again that I had serious soul and that my life gave me the right to sing blues like any black singer might do. I wasn't singing to make other people happy, I was singing just to prove that I could do something everyone had always told me I couldn't. Mind, I do love to sing and I do get some joy out of it, but when I sing, I sing for me - and if you happen to be there, and if you happen to like it, so be it. But that's as far as it goes. I am not an entertainer; I'm just a singer.

So now that we've covered all the miserable shit, let me get to the point. About a year and a half ago I started to write a romantic comedy. It doesn't have any sex in it. It doesn't have any kidnapping nor real BDSM elements in it. Not really. Most of my books have had a big focus on dialogue, but this one really has a major focus on it. It's witty, it's clever.... and it's actually written to entertain. Other people, I mean, not just me.

This book is so complicated and complex that it really makes my first books look like twaddle. There are about 10 characters who are written about indepth (as opposed to the 4 or 5 in my previous books) and at the moment the book is 500 pages. It will be a bit longer when I finish, which I plan to do in the next few weeks. The agency I am working with for this book is quite major and this book is being primed for mass market, instead of the BDSM community I have always written for. But I have realized that even if I didn't have an agency and prospective major book contract on the table waiting for me, I would actually be happy just to give this book away if people who read it enjoyed doing so. I want people to read this book and laugh. I want them to smile. I want it to inspire them. I want the book and characters to mean something to them.

This is relatively new for me, as I've never given a toss about audience reception -- and I don't think that's a bad thing, either, cos many artists would give up on their art if they let criticism get to them. But my point is that I am writing this for the audience as much as I'm writing it for me. And I love the challenge of this type of book; and I'm not happy unless my work is challenging.

I think I'm going to retire from music this month. I've been feeling this way for a long time and my heart just isn't in it anymore. I'm not the same person I was when I starting gigging. I don't need to sing for an emotional release anymore; I'm not the angry kid I was 20 years ago. Instead of being a miserable blues singer living in her art, I want to write romantic comedies that are clever and not insulting to the average intellect the way so many current releases are. And that, my friends, is what life purpose is. Finding something you love which also brings joy to others.

Have you found yours yet?

xx Isabella

September's Blogbunnie Blog Makeover Contest!

Rules for Isabella Snow's September blog makeover contest! Entering is easy! Just copy and paste this (entire) blurb to your blog (make sure the links still work!) and then email Isabella a link to your blog post. The contest deadline is at midnight GMT September 30. One winner will be selected the following day by a drawing of names; the name will be posted here and the winner will be emailed, as well. A new, totally original blog will be completed within two weeks of winning. One entry per blog. *Blogger.com customization only*, see the Blogbunnie Blog Design portfolio for layout options.

Good luck!
xx Isabella

Psychic Synchronicities

I don't use my blog for this kind of chat, but I believe in all sorts of things, including several facets of what most would categorize as psychic phenomena. What I'm about to discuss is commonly referred to as synchronicity, but these are a type of synchronous occurrence that I can't suss the relevance of. Yet they're too bizarre to be mere coincidences -- and they've all happened within the same time frame: I experience a specific thought and within 30 minutes I see or hear the main element of that thought somewhere else. I'll give you a few examples (and I may keep adding to the list):

1. A week ago I was watching an episode of The Wire. Carver and Hulc were talking about which man they'd be willing to have sex with into order to get to have sex with their ideal woman. I paused the conversation to go get something from my kitchen. From nowhere the name Weezie came into my head, as did the theme song to The Jeffersons. When I got back to watching the show, a few scenes later they were back on that talk and Carver said, "Man that wouldn't even get you Weezie Jefferson!"

2. I was cleaning my kitchen a week or two ago and for some odd reason I thought about that guy who was selling his teakettle on eBay and forgot to put clothes on before taking the picture. I haven't heard of, or thought about, that guy for eons. When I was done cleaning I took at look at twitter and someone had posted a link in their tweet. I never click on links unless I know where they are going, but this time I clicked. It was that exact eBay photo of that guy.

3. Someone else on twitter recently tweeted about having just seen the Ghostbusters film for the first time. When I went to bed, the novel I've been reading actually made a reference to the film. And then the next day I saw another comment on another blog (which I'd never read before and can't remember how I found it) talked about the film too.

4. On my way home from shopping tonight I started thinking about the people who were so early signing up for Gmail that they managed to get their own names. For example, Bob@gmail.com. I was going to tweet about that and I was going to use the names Bitch@gmail.com and Wanker@gmail.com. But when I looked at twitter, I was stunned to see that someone had just tweeted about Bitch and Wanker teacups.

5. I wanted to buy an audio download from Amazon.com and when I tried to purchase it redirected me to Audible.com, which I'd never heard of and didn't want to sign up for (and didn't). The next day, Audible.com started following me on Twitter.

I've got more of these. And I've got other strange things I experience on a regular basis, but those make more sense. Normally synchronicities are useful in some way. Like, say, you don't normally eat Chinese but feel compelled to visit Wok n Go at precisely the time the man of your dreams is also arriving. Those things serve a purpose. Mine appear to just be strange.

What about you? What synchronicities (odd or otherwise) have you experienced?

xx Isabella

Who the Fuck am I Kidding?

Many of you have contacted me to ask for my update on the Scandinavian Diplomat date and I suppose it's time to get round to it. I'll be honest and confess that I've been delaying the post because putting this down in words would be yet another A-ha moment, and I find that marginally annoying.

Let's start with the date itself, shall we? SD picked me up a bit earlier than I'd been expecting him. Normally, I get very irritated by that sort of thing (because I tend to run very late) but I was ready so it wasn't a tremendous issue. He was looking gorgeous in black tie and he was driving a lovely German stick -- have I ever mentioned my fetish for watching men shift gears whilst accelerating quickly?

As I sat beside him fishing through my bag (and it was a bag; a messenger bag, LOL -- I cannot be arsed to carry a purse round with me) he started to relay all of these little tips about how one should act around his ambassador. Irked, I immediately dug through my numerous accent mutations until I managed to locate good old home-grown Bklyn girl, and promptly told him to suck me. (Ok, maybe not in so many words...) And what did he do?

He laughed. This really did tick me off, because it wasn't an ordinary laugh but rather that "Now, now, little girl" laugh that so many men do when in the presence of a smallish female. I would be lying if I didn't also confess that this arrogance is somewhat of a turn-on, but in the heat of the moment I would never show such weakness and I slammed the cocksucker. After a good ripping, I pointed out that when we first met I was the entertainment for a roomful of ambassadors, consulars and the M.F'ng president of this country, FFS, and I could fucking manage a little dinner with a few Scandi embassy people!

He laughed again and put his hand on my thigh as he drove and I realized something dreadful -- I felt nothing at all when he touched me. This was odd, given how turned on I get by (some measure of) male arrogance. And then it hit me: His Accent. I realize many of you are Americans and few of you would have encountered large numbers of Scandinavians so I will just make the point -- he sounded 100% American, as do many Scandinavians. Ordinarily, I've no complaint about this, particularly when touring Scandinavian countries, as it makes gigging a good deal easier than it would be if they didn't speak English so perfectly. But, well, we all know the American accent is the fastest way to dry my knickers out. And I guess I just was too enthralled by his physical appearance to notice this before.

I tried to get wet for him. Really, I did. This was supposed to be my first truly pointless fuck (well, assuming he'd have gone for it; it's not like we had a written contract) and I was moving toward greater lack of appreciation of intimacy itself with a primary focus on sex for the sake of sex -- and I fucked it all up by letting that voice affect me. Not to worry; I was a polite date. I sat through a huge meal, traditional music and lots of blustery Scandi's who probably should have drank a good deal less; but at the end of the night I took a cab home.

Mind, I didn't completely put him off, I just told him I had to get up early and that I didn't fuck on the first date. (I probably said it more politely than that, but who can remember after that much champagne?) He was a bit upset that I didn't let him drive me, but I used the excuse that he'd been drinking at some point. He asked to see me this Friday and I told him I have a gig -- which is actually untrue (shame on me) but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

Anyway, the second A-ha moment: I think I've realized what it is about the posh English accent that soaks my panties; and it actually makes sense. To me, anyway. Are you ready? It's the implied intelligence. I know it is. Silly that it should take me half a decade to suss it out, but hey, we can't all be sly motherfuckers. Yes, boys and girls, I do get wet in the presence of great intelligence. And while there are many brilliant American men bumbling about, they all sound... well... average. Y'all remember the neurophysicist I dated? The Cambridge *and* Oxford tosser? Yes. I'm trying to forget him as well -- but he did have a lovely accent. And, for a time, I had lovely wet knickers.

Not to worry, I've every intention of sticking to my new No-More-Boyfriends plan; I just think perhaps I'm going to have to integrate my posh fetish into it somehow. No fucking idea how I'm to manage that in a non-English speaking country, though. Who wants to send me a posh Englishman? I promise to send him back as soon I've had my way with him.

xx Isabella

July's Blogunnie Blog Makeover Contest Winner!

Hello luvvlies! I just wanted to quickly post the winner for the July Blogbunnie Blog Makeover Contest. The winner is Aurore from Dangerous Liaisons! Congrats! And thank you to everyone who entered!

xx Isabella

The Scandinavian Diplomat

Alreet, luvvlies. Let me just catch you up a bit if you've not read the last few posts: I have realized/decided that I do not want to be in a relationship with anyone. Some of this has to do with the types of men I've dated, but most of it stems from having realized certain facets of my personality which simply aren't conducive to having a proper relationship with another person.

At the same time, this realization automatically negated certain ideals which no longer make sense in the face of such an epiphany. Therefore, since I no longer seek the perfect man (who doesn't exist, btw -- don't say I never gave you good advice!) I'm now out to seek the perfect sexual experience.

There are rules, of course.

1. No married, separated or otherwise attached men.
2. No one who doesn't absolutely turn me on; wet knicker syndrome is essential for this.
3. No one under the age of 35. No one too much older than 40.
4. No one who isn't totally confident, self-reliant and capable of leading -- anything less means bad sex.
5. No one who insists on being a couple. I am not dating anymore, I am just looking for entertainment.

And now onto the Scandinavian diplomat.

SD is a 39 year old, 6'3, dark blond embassy official for a Scandinavian country. I don't want to list too many details, since he asked me not to. This is someone I have known in passing for awhile now. I met him, and a host of other foreign diplomats, when performing for this country's president about a year and a half ago. Like everyone else, he was dressed in black tie, and Jesus did he look good. Unfortunately, so did his French fiance. We chatted, flirted, and said hello the two or three times we happened to see each other over the next year.

Well. I was hanging round in a pool hall by myself (just practicing shots -- am v good at shooting pool if you don't already know this) as it relaxes me quite a bit, and who should walk up behind me but SD and a mate of his. They were just finishing up on their own table and his mate wound up leaving while SD and I were talking. During the course of conversation, I asked how his fiance was doing, and he said he hadn't a clue, as she'd eloped with her Canadian ski instructor.

SD then asked if I wanted a game, and he offered to give me some pointers. I had to really force myself not to giggle at the offer, because only a real pro would be able to do such a thing, but then I realized this would be a good starting point in terms of, what did I call it? Ah, yes: entertainment. So I told him to rack, and I proceeded to run the table. Poor man never got a chance to shoot. I was feeling a bit sorry him, until the start of the next game, when he managed to run half the table on me. I was impressed, and while this may seem very stupid; if you can keep up with me at pool, wet knicker syndrome ain't all that far away. I do not enjoy being able to do anything better than a man, so when I can, it's always a turnoff -- but in this case, I was getting rather turned on. Unfortunately, I needed to leave after a few games and I didn't have time to get as flirty as I would have liked.

This will be corrected in the very near future, as he's invited me to an embassy dinner next week. The only issue I have is that he's a bit more affectionate than I'd like at this point. For my purposes, I'm more in the market for sex and less in the market for handholding and cuddling -- that's something you do with a boyfriend, which we've already established as being something I don't want. He's got the dominant gene in there, you can see it in his eyes; sex with him would be fabulous. The question is, how many times can you have sex with man before it becomes something more than sex? I need to know that number, cos I'm not interested in surpassing it. I get the feeling he's not looking for the same thing I'm looking for, which makes me feel like maybe I ought to be direct about this. At the same time, he's a man, and all sex is pretty much good sex to men, so I don't reckon it matters too much.

What do y'all think? Should I tell him what I don't want?

xx Isabella

Sex: Moaning vs Screaming

Have you ever heard this stupid question often asked among men? "Is she a moaner or a screamer?" Why is it supposed to be either/or? Personally, I can't imagine any woman not moaning at some stage of sex; foreplay, in particular. Screaming does seem to be far less common and, while I do scream during (good) sex, it's usually only during orgasm and only when the orgasm is just too damned powerful to keep quiet.

But why is it either/or? If a woman is just moaning during an orgasm, this suggests to me that the orgasm ain't all that special. If she's quiet during foreplay, this suggests to me that foreplay sucks. Seriously, who doesn't both moan and scream? Surely all of you have done both in the same sex session at least once -- if not always? Come on, tell us.

Do you scream, moan or both?

xx Isabella

The Big A-ha Moment

Have you ever had a spectacularly gargantuan A-ha moment? Somewhat like an epiphany of sorts? I had one recently, and it was fascinating (to me, at least) on so many levels. Obviously, this won't be nearly as interesting to you as it was to me, but I've nothing else to blog about at the moment, so allow me to bore you with this.

I do not want to be in a relationship with anyone.

Being a writer of erotic romance novels (and btw, for those who have been asking, the current MS is almost done -- but it's not erotic romance, it's more a romantic dramedy) I'd always thought these fantasies which have played out in my brain since childhood were the result of a strong inner desire to be involved with the type of men described in my books. Apparently, that's not true, and I discovered this during a recent bit of meditating (you people do meditate, right? It ain't just for New Agers -- it's the best life compass you can use). It turns out that the reason I love the chase so much is because I don't really enjoy the catch. Sure, I could say the catch bores me to an extent (as it does with anyone) but that's not the real issue.

The simple truth is that I like not being in a relationship. That's not to say regular sex isn't to be missed, but a girl can get laid whenever she wants and there are plenty of toys to offset these things. I do not want the things people in relationships have. I don't want children. I don't want to share a big house with a boyfriend or husband, because I like things the way I like them and I don't want to adapt to someone else's lifestyle. I don't want to have arguments over stupid shit. I don't want to worry about someone if they drag in hours later than they'd said they would. I don't want to cook for two people. I don't want to clean for two people. I don't want to give up the middle of the bed. I don't want to be inconvenienced when someone else wakes up in the morning and wakes me in the process. I don't want to explain me, my life or myself to someone who can't possibly relate to me or my life.

I don't want to be sidetracked from my goals, I don't want to make extra time for someone else, I don't want to gain weight because someone insists on taking me to dinner even though I'm not hungry. I don't want to wake up with a headache because someone insisted I have a glass of wine. I don't want to pretend that sex was good when it wasn't. I don't want to deal with headgames, whether they're in the form of the male ego or male insecurity. I don't want to explain myself when asked a stupid question. I don't want to have to be nice all the time. I don't want to meet someone else's family and pretend I think they're swell. And I don't even want to do these things from a distance. Meaning, not only don't I want to do these things with a live-in boyfriend; I don't want to do them with someone who lives down the street or in a neighboring city. I don't want another person living in my personal space, which, if you'd care to know, extends to the next country over.

All of that said, I like sex as much (if not much more) than the next person, and I'm not quite sure how to resolve this, as I prefer not sleeping with people I've just met due to my aversion to sexually transmitted diseases (do not forget that I have a degree in infectious diseases and am more concerned with these things than the average Joe) and the sad fact is that several dates tend to give some people the impression you're their girlfriend and I don't want that, either. What would be absolutely fantastic, would be a lovely posh Englishman penpal, who could just pop over here to service me a few times a week. Obviously, he'd need to be quite wealthy to afford this, particularly since he'd need to stay in a hotel (I meant it when I said I'm not keen on people in my personal space) but I promise the sex would be worth it. (For him, anyway.)

I can't believe that all this time I thought I wanted a relationship with Mr. Perfect -- when all I really want is what I already have (but with notable career advancement and a substantial raise in income). No fucking wonder I always get crazy the moment I get involved with anyone. No wonder I start to panic and want to stop seeing the guy immediately; it's because my subconscious knows it's not something I really want. None of this is to say that I don't like men. I love some of them quite a bit. Those in my books, for example, I find absolutely perfect. But, truth be told, I'm not sure even they are perfect enough to change my life for. Oh, I get quite a lot out of writing them. But I doubt that I'd want to live with, or marry, one of them. Not that I won't continue writing them, as I do very much enjoy it. But I think I prefer them as fantasy, rather than reality.

I'm sure some of you will think I'm high, or depressed, or whatever -- I'm not. The Rocket Scientist (who I decided not to go out with because I didn't think it would be fair to him, knowing what I now know) got me thinking about all of this, because he was so keen and such a catch in so many ways (job, income, looks, education, personality, etc). And now that I know it, it changes everything.

I truly cannot believe it took me 33 years to realize that I don't want a man of my own.

xx Isabella

July's Blogbunnie Blog Makeover Contest!

Rules for Isabella Snow's July blog makeover contest! Entering is easy! Just copy and paste this (entire) blurb to your blog (make sure the links still work!) and then email Isabella a link to your blog post. The contest deadline is at midnight GMT July 31. One winner will be selected the following day by a drawing of names; the name will be posted here; and the winner will be emailed, as well. A new, totally original blog will be completed within two weeks of winning. One entry per blog. *Blogger.com customization only*, see the Blogbunnie Blog Design portfolio for layout options.

Good luck!
xx Isabella

The Rocket Scientist

A few things to address before I get to the Rocket Scientist. Firstly, there will be a new Blogbunnie Blog Makeover contest in July. I'll post details in a couple of days. The last winner was Southern Sage.

Secondly, I am absolutely knackered because I got behind in my work due to the Iranian revolution and my efforts to keep track of what was going on. (I am 1/2 Iranian if you don't already know this.) So the last few days I have been trying to get all of my work done and I'm so tired. Am nearly done but still have a bit more to do tomorrow. Sorry haven't been blogging, will be round to y'alls blogs asap.

Thirdly... the Rocket Scientist: So, I found this local dating site and my local language skills are good enough that I could make the profile and read others, etc. I was contacted by this aerospace engineer (hence Rocket Scientist) who is 6'5 and has a very, very nice body. He's a year or two older than me and doesn't have kids.

His English seems pretty good, but I'm still worried about it. Like many Slavs (think Russians) he doesn't use articles, because they don't exist in Slavonic languages, and it makes me wonder how good his English really is. If he were local, I wouldn't be so worried because then I could speak some of his language and he could speak some of mine. But he's from Slovenia and I cannot speak Slovene. He works for a US company here so he probably is fluent enough, considering his job (most people in the aviation industry are pretty good English speakers) but it still makes me nervous.

Anyway.

He's using a name that is clearly not his real name -- Indy. When I asked what his real name was, he said this was his only name. Indy is not a Slavic name, nor is it short for any Slavic name that I'm aware of, and this makes me wary as I feel like he's already hiding something. To make things more odd, his email address started with Belloc: If you've seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy is Harrison Ford and Belloc is his nemesis. So, even if Indy is a nickname, what's up with the email address?

I've been talked into meeting for a drink but he's asked me to suggest somewhere and I've no idea where to go. Not sure I even want to go, which is why I keep taking a whole day to reply to his emails -- and that is actually making him more and more interested, apparently. Sigh.

Thoughts? Advice? Am I being too analytical?

xx Isabella

10 Personal Things About Me

Still adding to my eventual 100 Things About Me list. Here are 10 things of a slightly more personal nature.

1. I spent most of my teenage years incarcerated. 5 of them, to be exact.

2. I have been estranged from my father for about 3 years now, and if I never talk to him again, it will be too soon.

3. I have been estranged from my older sister for almost as long, and if I never talk to her again it will be too soon. It's nothing to do with her being a whore though, just in case y'all get the wrong idea. I'm cool with whores as long as they've got at least once principle.

4. I'm 99.9% sure I could take your money at pool, and on your own terms. Have been doing so since I was 12. Paid much better than a paper route would have.

5. While I am not from Philly, I spent my last year of high school living in an entirely black ghetto in N. Philly. At the time, I was in my hippie phase and wore gauze dresses and mocc boots. Everyone in the neighborhood thought I was crazy and therefore never fucked with me.

6. My father is Persian. My mother is mostly Swiss and Welsh. That makes me the only pasty white girl who doesn't burn in the sun.

7. I am very, very good with a firearm.

8. I am very, very bad with heights.

9. I am a sucker for highly educated Englishmen with posh accents. I wish there were a 12 Step Program for this illness.

10. I am physically repulsed by tenderness. If you want to fuck me, the only way you're going to turn me on is by tossing me down on the bed and having your way with me.

So..... who's got something in common with me?

xx Isabella

Ten Things That Turn Me Off

Before I get to the list, let me mention that I have a blogger template I'll be giving away just as soon as I find someone to give it to -- the mockup is very girlie and would most appeal to a female baker, as there is a woman carrying cupcakes in the graphic. If you'd like to know more, email me for the mockup link. Blogger.com blogs only.

Right; in keeping with my pursuit of eventually having a 100 things About Me list, I've decided to include 10 things which turn me off, as they relate to the opposite sex. Some of these will sound stupid or silly but that's just how it is. I don't mean to be ridiculous, I just know myself that well. So here we are -- please note they are in no particular order. Also note that I'm not addressing the big things like confidence, etc. because those things should go without saying.

1. Bony feet and/or gorilla toes.

I have had a thing about feet for as long as I can recall -- they freak me out. No idea why. Pretty piggies are fine; anything else truly makes me gag. And it's not just that; I don't want to feel your freaky feet brush up against me in bed, either. Bony feet freak me out and so do gorilla toes -- you know, when the middle toes are way, way longer than the big toe? Yech, I hate even writing the words big toe!

2. Metrosexuals.

Where the fuck have all the real men gone? Honestly, I'm more manly than most of the guys I've met in Europe. There were loads of real men in Texas (am not a Texan, btw) and I could kick myself for ignoring them the entire time I lived there. Now that I have only Metro Eurotrash to choose from, I fully appreciate the well that has long since run dry. Occasionally, I meet a masculine Brit; but the Germans and French (etc) are girlie enough to have Barbie dolls named after them.

3. Heavy accents / bad grammar

These don't necessarily go together, obviously. Heavy accents include any accent imaginable, particularly those which make a person sound like an idiot. For example, if you have a strong Bklyn accent, you sound ignorant. Same with a Rocky (Philly) accent, or Cockney accent, etc. I spent a lot of time mainstreaming my own Bklyn accent, and you will not hear it today, apart from when I say things like New York or car (unless I'm really pissed off at you, in which case I will sound like Tony Soprano) and only then because I feel like a redneck otherwise. Grammar is an issue, too: Please don't think I'm going to fall in love with you if you say things like, "She not goin' to speak no proper English for no stupid reason."

4. Fish lips.

I love lips, and most lips will do nicely. But there is one shape which I have noticed over the years that makes me stare -- and not in a good way. There's an arch to the upper lip that just doesn't look human to me. Imagine those wax lips turned upside down. And it's not necessarily obvious either; I once had a crush on someone without realizing they had this fish lip thing going on. And that was the end of my crush. I can't get into fish lips, sorry.

5. Racism.

Looking 100% white as I do, I've grown up hearing loads of arseholes run off at the mouth about how Middle Eastern people and/or Muslims are this or that. And then when they realize I'm half Middle Eastern, I get this line, "Oh... but you're different. You're white. And you're not wearing a sheet." Don't be a cunt.

6. Skinny thighs and narrow hips.

I can't cope with a man having skinnier thighs or narrow hips; makes me feel like I'm shagging a woman. Most men have average-sized thighs, but some men have nice big thighs that make their jeans just a tad snug. Love that. You see it in rodeo cowboys and firemen a lot. Yumm.

7. Waffling.

A man who can't make his mind up on the spot is very, very annoying. And no, I'm not talking about making your mind up about whether or not you want to, say, marry someone -- but if you can't think on your feet and exercise good judgment in the blink of an eye, you are not date worthy!

8. Ear gunk.

Few things will make me vomit more quickly than seeing a man with ear gunk, whether it's inside or outside. Amazing how many men seem to suck at cleaning them properly.

9. Bad table manners.

If you don't know how to eat properly, this is a turn-off. If you don't know how to eat with your fork in the left hand, please learn before you take me out to dinner.

10. White tongue.

If you've brushed your teeth well, you've also brushed your tongue. If you've got a white or yellow tongue, you either don't brush well, or you've had your tongue somewhere it shouldn't have been, and I don't want that thing near me, thank you.


What things turn you off in the opposite sex?

xx Isabella

What's a Reasonable Coochie/Cock Count?

Keeping in theme with the last post, I'd now like to know the max number of sexual partners you'd be able to tolerate in a boyfriend, girlfriend or spouse. We all know women are going to lie to keep from looking like the whores we are, but what about men? I can see how it might be a turn-off to hear that your future wife shagged 45 men before you; but does this bother women, as well?

Frankly, for me, yeah; it does.

A man who has slept with 50 women has zero self-control, as far as I'm concerned; which is never, ever sexy. That, and he's probably a skank, as well. (Can you say STDs?) I've known men who claim to have fucked loads of women like this and it always makes me sick. Are you guys totally ruled by the cock, or what? If yes, you're not man enough. If no, eh, there's bound to be something wrong with you, so piss off anyway.

I've heard men say that if a woman needs both hands to count how many men she's slept with, she's not fit for marriage. I've also heard men say that if you can't count the number of men on both hands, she's not experienced enough for marriage (as in, she'll want to keep exploring and therefore possibly cheat). The latter is an interesting theory, but I think it probably applies more to men than women -- which is likely why I've only heard men discuss it.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying I'd want to date a virgin -- that's just too much work for someone who prefers a man know what he's doing from the start. Personally, IMHO, five, ten, or fifteen sounds like a reasonable coochie count for a 35 year old guy. I'm guessing most men would reduce that number significantly for women, even if they didn't want to admit it.

What numbers seem reasonable to you? Is there a number that would turn you off?

xx Isabella