The Sex Life & Times of Ellie Maybe

My hormones were raging at the dawn of the internet

Watching porn on a PC my mom couldn't control yet

Cybersex wasn't great, but it did pass the time

And put all kinds of thoughts in my pubescent mind

I was the queen of the dorks with no friends in school

But in my role-playing game I was sexy and cool

Dungeons and Dragons be damned, this shit was text-based

I was an elf with a rack and blonde hair and a mace

Met a mage in the game with wisdom (plus five)

In my twelve years on this earth I'd never felt so alive!

We courted in bracketed actions in chat

Until the day he showed up in a cowboy hat

Ugly as sin in real life, it turned out

(Remember, this is before scanners were around)

But teenagers did as teenagers do

He stuck it in and I sat it through

I disposed of the rubber beneath my bed

To be discovered weeks later by our Basset Hound, Fred

Some years down the line begging change up on Clark

I met this short little fuck whose skin was so dark

That boy was a jerk, though at first he seemed sweet

Put his dick in my ass; couldn't sit for a week

With that having failed, I started anew

With a few more bruises and a new trick or two

Then came the time where I turned seventeen

Got my first fake ID and I hit up the scene

I met this dear soul: a deejay, a hottie

He fucked me real well and then vanished without me

My heart broke apart in post-pubescent pieces

Yet the hormones filled each crevisse, all the cracks and the creases

I moved on like a champ and made lots of new friends

With whom I spent one night and never saw again

Despite all my conquests, I was so fucking broke

Getting laid, getting drunk, my goals were a joke

I went home with anything that might buy me a drink

Or leave their blow unattended by the bathroom sink

Spreading my legs was a skill, not a chore

It's pretty apparent I was an exceptional whore

So one day I came down off my high and my pedestal

I swallowed my pride and a cocktail with Advil

I checked out the paper, found an ad that seemed promising

"Classy ladies only," it must have been calling me

Classy I'm not but easy I can be

I'll be damned if I can't make a buck off my pussy

So I got me a job and I worked for a bit

Sucking dick, getting fucked, by old fat sacks of shit

As one might imagine, the novelty wore through

Though I had the cash to pay for things like rent and coke and food

It was taxing in the end and I finally had to jet

For an even worse reason than previously expressed

See, I'd found a boyfriend who disapproved of my job

Though years later I'd find him surfing classy ladies dot com

He was weak and a weirdo, what a terrible lay

But he treated me like crap, so he was there to stay

He ignored me and left me to abort his fetus

I suppose my womb was fair game as a prostitute reject

He wouldn't take my calls or see me in public

So of course, I fell harder, a glutton for punishment

It took nearly three years before that trickled off

My heart, sure it hurt, but his dick had gone soft

He was a passionate phony and a shell of a man

So I got back my confidence with his best friend

In the meantime I'd gone to get tattooed

By a guy so fucked up that he prayed in the nude

He was abusive, aggressive, but would you believe it

It turned out that that was just what I needed

He pulled my hair, slapped my face, threw me out at 4 A.M.

So I slashed his tires, fucked his wife and now we're good friends

As one might expect, I moved on pretty quick

To a movie director with a fat little dick

I mean this thing looked like a frog - so short and so wide

And the son of a bitch wouldn't put it inside

I got two months in before I just gave up

I like getting licked but I'd rather get fucked

This started a pattern of fooling around

With a handful of men who just wouldn't get down

One of whom I found oh-so-sexy

A little bit chubby, a little bit messy

Mysterious and strange and sweaty and sweet

This one for sure was coming home with me

But no, he's an idiot, he doesn't take hints

He'd rather talk music and weather and gin

I asked him one night to stay out for a drink

And what did that silly little man think -

A drink is a drink and he's already drunk

You goddamn fool, I just want to get fucked

Well, I got what I wanted, it just took a few weeks

The best sex of my life and plenty for me!

I suppose I've calmed down now, after all why bother

To run with the tramps who all play one another

When the dick that I need is right by my side

And this one is hanging on for the ride

Over the years, I've had some trials and tribulations

I've caused breakups and barfights and ejaculations

And sure, there are a dozen or five I've left out

But the value is in how it all came about

As a whore and a drunk I've made myself quite a name

Banned from clubs, banned from men, banned from some baseball games

It hasn't been easy being the community slut

Nor digging myself out of that little rut

But in the end, it is true, my regrets, they are small

'Tis better to have fucked a lot than to never have fucked at all

by: Ellie Maybe

Meow

Hi. I'm Jill, and I'm here to talk about eating pussy.

So I'm a girl, and I like to have my pussy licked. I understand some women don't, but that's not my problem. My problem is that pussy licking is a delicate thing. Firstly, it's a skill that not many individuals take the time to master. And ironically, as a direct result of this, if done wrong it can be a very awkward and somewhat unpleasant experience.

Kinda like baking a souffle. If you don't get the exact measurements right and bake it at the exactly correct temperature and beat in the exact amount of air, it won't poof. And all you’re left with is a flat, dry muffin. Yes, cunnillingus is JUST like that.

And then you're left laying there only a couple options: Do I try to tell him what to do, being gentle enough with your words and your tone so as not to bruise his ego, yet direct enough with your message to get the job done? Do I fake it? Ugh, I HATE faking it and use that only as an absolute last resort. Either way, the scenario usually doesn't end how you'd like it to.

Now I know what you're thinking, guys. And yes, you’re right, there IS such a thing as a bad blowjob. But come on. Admit it. The secret to giving a good BJ is pretty much step one, step two, repeat. Consistency, the right amount of pressure, lots of wet, and you're good to go. Easy.
But vaginas are just SO much more complicated. They all can look so different from each other, there are all these folds and different clit sizes and lip sizes and frankly it takes awhile to figure your way around one specific pussy.

So I happened to be going through this period of really bad luck with oral sex-givers. There was The Variety Pack Guy, who would do like twenty different things with his tongue. Right when it was starting to feel good, he'd switch to the Tongue Jack Hammer or Circles! or the Flopping Fish Tail and I'd lose my concentration. Because as we all know, guys have to concentrate to not cum, while girls have to concentrate to cum. All that variety was distracting and frankly annoying. Then there were a couple of those guys who will take their fingers and spread your lips as far apart as possible and hold it open the whole time with both hands and just use the very tip of his tongue on your clit.

Like you're at a doctor's appointment and the technicians have opened you up to get a good look at what's under the hood. Let me tell you, nothing makes a girl feel sexier than that.

Like he's a guest host on Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmerman, and my pussy is some kind of pig intestine salad from Tanzania or something. You wanna try it, but you're also kinda disgusted. I don’t want to look down at you and think, “Oh God, he’s eating my pussy so… trepidatiously!” Look, if you're gonna do it like that then do us both a favor and just get up here and fuck me already, will you?

So it was during period that I went through this major Girl Sex Fantasy Phase. The only kind of porn that interested me was girl-on-girl, I had these intense sexual dreams about women, and whenever I was having Alone Time, the only thing that could get me off was imaging a girl going down on me. I mean, having a girl go down on you just has to be among the best sex that could exist, right? She's got the goods. She knows what works and what doesn't.

So at the time, I was a grad student at ISU living in Bloomington/Normal, IL. For those of you who don't know B/N, let me sum up. It sucks. There's nothing to do there other than drink in overcrowded undergrad bars or go dance to, I don't know, Eminem's “My Name Is” with like eight million single older horny State Farm employees. It's bad.

So a few of my fellow classmates, including my very good friend Jeff, were going to go out for a "wild" night on the "town." This girl from one of our classes invited us to her apartment first for a few drinks. We got there and were introduced to her roommate, Serine. Serine was from Armenia, a PhD English student, about five one with short, short black hair, and she. Was. Smokin'. Think Alyssa Milano circa the later seasons of Who's The Boss. We say hi, have a beer, then suddenly became very aware of my surroundings. Her desk area was completely covered with photos of naked women. I look back at her, and she looking at me in a way that no woman has every looked at me before. It says, I want to eat you alive. And to my surprise, I don't break her gaze or turn on my heels to see where Jeff went. Instead I hold it, and smile back.

So we all go to the hottest spot in Bloomington, IL. Flat Jack's. We have some drinks and we hit the dance floor, and it's packed and we're dancing. And this Armenian girl is really close to me. REALLY close. So then I get paranoid because a) I was a grad assistant who taught a Sociology 101 class and I was worries that one of my students would see me and, I don't know, what? Report me to the Grad Assistant Police? and b) though I had been attracted to girls forever, I had never actually done anything like this before out of fear of people thinking that I was doing it just go get guys. Because you know guys, that's why we do it, right? For you. And your needs. No no, please. Let me fulfill your fantasy. That's why I'm here.

But I digress.

Ok, so long story short, we're all over each other, and it's both super hot and kinda scary at the same time... kinda like when your high school gym teacher has cornered you in the utility closet and he's all "If you want to make the team you're gonna have to show me some initiative," and you feel both totally sexually harassed and afraid but also super turned on, and you know it's wrong but you really do want to make the team, and anyway he's kinda cute for a guy in his late 40's, so you just sort of go along with it, you know? No? Oh.

Anyway, so we're dancing and I have to pee. So I say, "I have to pee." And she says, "I'll come with you." So we get to the bathroom and there's a line of girls waiting, so Serine and I just stand there quietly, looking at each other from the corners of our eyes. Finally a stall opens up and it's my turn. So I go in, and she suddenly pushes her way in behind me.

"Oh, I'll just come in too," she says.

"Uhhh," I say, "Ok, but I have to pee."

"That's ok," she says. So, I sit down and start to pee. At that moment, Serine grabs my face and shoves her whole entire tongue down my throat. And. It. Is. AWESOME. We're making out like death row inmates and all the time I'm totally peeing. To this day, that's the closest to water sports that I've ever come. I stop kissing her only to wipe and pull up my pants and then we're back at it, slamming each other back and forth against the stall walls. The loud chatter of the line of waiting girls outside goes from 10 to dead silence in about five seconds as they realize what's going on.

"Let's get out of here," she says, coming up for air and all I can do is nod, take her hand, and walk out of the stall, past the line of gaping undergrads. One of which I did recognize as one of my Sociology 101 student. Whoops.

We go to her place. We're in her room. We're tearing off our shirts and sucking tongues, hands everywhere. She has amazing tits. I suddenly mentally turn into a sixteen year old boy. "Oh my god, boobs," I think. "I'm totally touching boobs right now. For real. Oh my god. This is so cool."
We're down to our panties and fall onto the bed. She's kissing down my body, my lips, my neck, my breasts, my stomach and I feel her hand tug on my panties. And then I remember.

Ok, backing up a bit. At this time, I also happened to be "seeing" this guy (read: fucking) who was like an undergrad, but he was in his 30s, all non-traditional student, total pill-popping, super dirty hippie Deadhead. Usually not my type, but hey. Central Illinois. Anyway, I'd let him come over and get stoned and go on and on and on about Durkheim and Max Weber and the sociological theory and blah blah blah, and finally he'd get around to fucking me. So at one point post coital, he looked at me and said "Why do you wax that?"

What? I asked.

"Your flower. The good Lord put petals on it for a reason. Let it groooow."

Well that was just about the dumbest thing anyone has ever said to me in or out of bed, but A) like I said, pickin's were slim and B) anything that promotes my laziness is ok by me. Don't shave you say? You don't have to ask me twice! So. I did not touch that shit for months. I was rockin' more 'fro than a late 70's Blacksploitation flick.

So right as Serine is about to pull down my panties to expose my "flower," I remembered that my garden more closely resembled the deepest of overgrown Amazonia than that of a tulip. I cringed, but there was no going back now. She pulled them down and I heard her gasp.

Gasp! she said and looked up at me.

"I have been waiting for a pussy like this!"

"What?" I asked.

"All you American girls are always so bare," she said in her thick accent. "Like little girl! I don't understand that. You are WOMAN. I love hair! I love this pussy!"

"Oh," I said. "Well. Good. Yayyy for me!"

She started kissing my stomach, moving down my legs, on to my inner thighs.

Oh my god, I thought. This is it. My most current number one fantasy is about to come true! A super fucking hot Eastern European girl has got me completely naked on her bed and is about go down on me! This is going to be awesome!! I laid back, shut my eyes, and awaited what was sure to be the kind of ecstasy that only a woman can bring to another.

She started.

What is she doing? I thought. Ok, ok, she's just warming up. No worries.

Why is she...? Why is she over there? What does she think that does? Because the answer is nothing. This is... Oh, wait. Ohhhh yeah. Right there! Good good. Just do that. Good.
Wait!! Why did she stop! Arrghghgh! This isn't the Red Lobster Combonation Platter, just pick ONE thing and stick to it!

This isn't working, I thought. My big theory of a woman knowing exactly what to do, down the drain. She was really bad. Now what do I do? I thought. Do I fake it? God I hate that, but ugh, this would probably classify as an emergency situation.

And I was considering just that, when she suddenly stopped and looked up at me.

"Mmm," she cooed. "I'm like your little kitty cat. Meow."

She went back down and started licking me again, purring like a cat.

“Meow.”

Did she just meow into my pussy? I thought.

Yes, she did. Yes, she was. With every lick, she ended with a meow.

Lick, Meow. Lick, Meeeoooow.

Well that did it for me! Five more meows and my buzzer blew.

Ohhhhhhhh my god!!

Cats. Who knew?

I learned a very important lesson that day. You should never assume that someone is going to be good or bad at something soley based on their gender or appearance. It's wrong to stereotype. The other thing I learned is that Armenians are really hairy.

-by Jill Neumann

What’s Left Behind After Sex

Since coming to Chicago in August I have been leaving a trail of my possessions at different guys’ places. And it’s not to leave my mark or anything I just genuinely forget my shit everywhere. When I weigh the option of seeing them again with what it is I have to retrieve, I figure I can live without. I started to notice a correlation between the things that are left and the sex. Some sex isn’t memorable or special at all, like two out of my billion bobby pins. But sometimes sex means something and I’ve left more valuable things that are close to my heart.

It’s not just possessions that are left behind after sex; my self-respect will fall under his bed and I’ll never see it again. Or my hope to find a real man gets twisted in a ball at the bottom of his sheets and lost there next to a lone sock. Guys have left things at my place too and I haven’t deemed them important enough to return. So thanks for the Tupperware!

In my first week in Chicago I slept with a French tourist who I happened upon at the annual Rubber Ducky Race. He had this sexy scar on his eyebrow from ultimate fighting and his accent was too good to resist. At the end of the race he caught a rubber ducky that was thrown up to the crowd and gave it to me. We took it home right away so it could shower off the disgusting river water. His ducky was not so silly looking or flimsy as the rubber duckies bobbing in the Chicago River. He had the most enormous beautiful cock. After returning back to France he left the rubber ducky and also a map of Chicago which I found quite useful since I had just moved and hadn’t acquired one yet. I used this map to show the city around to an ex-boyfriend who came to visit soon after.

My ex quickly got bumped up from sleeping on the floor to sleeping in my queen bed. He had DE, delayed ejaculation, probably the only medical condition I will not donate money or run a race in the pursuit of a cure. He made me cum multiple times before he did.
So I slept with an ex and all I got was his Lincoln Park t-shirt that he forgot to pack. I wear it alone to bed sometimes and when I masturbate in it, I’m reminded that my vibrator batteries wear out a lot faster than he would have. (And those damn batteries are impossible to find- a conclusion that I came to since I couldn’t find them at Isam’s Food and Liquor across the street.)

Then there was John. John was in a rehab for rich kids up in Evanston. He was black with striking green eyes that got me hooked. We’d fuck in his room that was like a five star hotel suite. I tried to quit him several times but kept relapsing. I’d find myself stopping in after errands or anytime before his midnight curfew. A nice thing about seeing someone who isn’t allowed to leave without supervision is you can pretty much count on them always being near their bedroom. One day I swung by to have sex after purchasing a drying rack and promptly forgot it there. That week I finally got on the patch and kicked my John habit, never to see that drying rack again. It’s all terribly ironic because John never made me that wet in the first place.

I met someone new which always helps in the quitting process. It’s like trading cookies for cigarettes, diabetes for lung cancer. It’s not exactly good for you, but it’s a step up. However my plan for casual sex was foiled when I actually started to like this new guy. He had a good sense of humor and I loved the way he loved dogs. We spent a few weeks hanging out not touching at all, not even an accidental arm graze. One evening we were watching movies after I had a root canal operation and I couldn’t have felt less sexy. I couldn’t feel my entire face. Miraculously I ended up in his bed. I wish I could have felt his lips on mine because I bet it was damn good. When we had sex, (just an hour before the November Sunday Night Sex Show), I wanted the sex between us to be amazing because to me, he was the most amazing man I’d met in Chicago. He borrowed a book of mine, The Prophet that my grandmother gave me for graduation. I’m really close to my grandmother but wow she’d be shocked if she knew the things I wanted to do to him. When I wrote her letters I didn’t exactly go into detail on how much I loved it when he came in my mouth. Khalil Gibran, however, I don’t believe would be appalled in the slightest, based on his illustrations. I could feel him lose interest in me and so I did the sophisticated adult thing and got drunk at a friends house and dictated an email that she wrote to him saying I could never see him again. I wished I had waited to get my grandmother’s book back but there is never really the right time to act irrationally about someone you like. I pictured The Prophet collecting dust on his bookshelf with my grandmother’s handwriting inside and my heart being used as a bookmark. He did write back: “Thanks for the fun times!” Like I’m fucking Sea World or some amusement park. We’re glad you enjoyed your stay.

Feeling the sting of rejection I ignored better reason and agreed to a New Years Eve date with a guy named Nick I met at a party. He was incredibly intelligent and I do like a guy with something going on upstairs but it’s also nice if he has a well-built staircase. This guy’s staircase was not made out of chiseled marble. Nick’s staircase was more of the kind you’d find leading up to the old servants quarters in Paris: narrow and made of wood that you think will break at any step. So instead of mounting a gorgeous staircase leading me into 2009, I slipped on lime juice and fell down a flight of stairs (the kind of stairs I’d want to fuck- hard and tall). It hurt like hell and I seriously injured my ass. I spent the rest of the night in his bed with a bag of frozen peas on my butt since he didn’t have an icepack. I could hardly move without shooting pain up my spine. Despite my throbbing ass, I guided his hand down to finger me and it felt unbelievable. Completely forgetting my broken butt, I let myself succumb to the pleasure of his finger and tongue on my clit. The next morning I limped away, leaving my contact case on his bathroom sink.

I was surprised by how it wasn’t easy to replace him or the contact case right away. Where the fuck can a girl find a CVS and a good fuck in Rogers Park? Wine glasses worked as a temporary replacement for both: filled with wine during the day and contact solution by night.

To date I haven’t had sex since the Bush administration which has been good for the inventory of my stuff but I’d trade a set of headphones or panties for an orgasm right about now. I’m not too concerned- I’ll be leaving something somewhere with someone in no time.

And one of these days I’ll go out and get a new drying rack,
but they should know that they’re never getting me back.

-by Maime

Going Out With A Bang

I don’t remember exactly when I met Tom; I knew him through some friends in the neighborhood and it seemed like I’d known of him forever. Suddenly, my senior year of high school, we were hanging out all the time. And he was just my type. Very tall, into metal, crude and immature. Perfect for me at 17. So naturally I told my friend I liked him, and she told him, and eventually he asked me out the spring of my senior year.

Things were simple then. At that time “asking me out” meant I was his girlfriend, immediately. We went to our senior proms together and then embarked upon a lazy summer, time to waste before I went off to college and he… well, what he would do remained to be seen. Soon we were in the midst of a string of lazy days and nights of stirring up trouble because there was nothing better to do. Miniature golf or bowling or finding somewhere to get drunk or stoned. Sitting on my porch smoking cigarettes and making out after he got off work.

Ah, summer romance. Blissful, carefree, incomparable. But we had one major problem. We had nowhere to have sex. His parents were always home, my parents were always home. For some reason they all seemed determined to keep track of our whereabouts and closed bedroom doors weren’t allowed. And so he lost his virginity a few blocks away from my house in the backseat of his Buick Riviera while Slayer played on the radio.

The sex was not good, but we had little time to practice and improve. All but one of our trysts took place in a car. And even when we could find time to squeeze in some car sex, we had our issues – namely, he took quite awhile to finish, which is not ideal when you are basically having sex in public. All in all, we managed to christen four cars that summer.

Sex outdoors on summer nights might seem vaguely romantic, but we weren’t in a convertible or the bed of a truck gazing up at the stars while a light breeze ruffled our hair. When you looked up while lying on your back, you saw the gray car ceiling and the overhead light. Neither of us was particularly petite and thus there was always bumping into consoles, achy legs falling asleep from their odd placement and strange balancing acts, and bruises from seatbelt buckles. Honestly, it made me occasionally long for the boring comfort of a bed.

If my first relationship had taught me that sex could convince me I was in love when, in reality, those feelings were questionable, this one taught me that I could fall in love despite a lackluster physical relationship. Of course, it’s difficult to separate my feelings for Tom from the fact that it was a perfectly set up summer romance. Our relationship had an expiration date; right before we began dating, I’d been accepted to NYU. I’m a romantic, but I’m not a fool – there was no way I was giving up college in New York City for a guy.

So we spent as much time as possible together and tried to ignore the fact that I was leaving on an ever-more-rapidly approaching date. Finally, it was our last night together. We planned a romantic date: a movie and Taco Bell. Afterwards, of course, our final round of car sex.
We had found a spot that was a bit more discreet than down the street from my parents’ house. Not too far from our neighborhood, two cemeteries faced one another. A year or so before, it had been popular among our peers to drive down a road along one of the cemeteries. The place was dotted with glowing red lights, which were rumored to be Satanists or ghosts but were, in reality, candles left at gravesites. We think. The street narrowed here and eventually came to a dead end at old railroad tracks. Behind the tracks was a forest preserve, and while there were a few blocks of houses along the road, it was a ghost town at night. A factory or warehouse of some type could be found on your right just before the tracks and the parking lot was empty at night. I loved this spot. It was thrillingly desolate, equal parts sexy and spooky.

We retired to this parking lot that night. We had my dad’s Blazer, which was a real treat since the backseat folded down and we did not have to negotiate an upright car seat. We put down the seats, climbed into the back and clumsily removed our clothing. There isn’t too much foreplay involved in backseat sex, especially when curfews are involved. We quickly got down to business.

Honestly, I don’t remember the actual sex all that well. What I do remember is that, just after we’d finished, Tom looked up and out the rear window of the car. I noticed the interior had become suddenly brighter just as he said, “The cops are here.”

I had been a good girl my whole life. Well, a good girl who was very, very adept at hiding any bad girl tendencies, with the exception of her cigarettes. Here I was, days away from leaving that behind – moving to another city where I could drink and screw on street corners for all it mattered, as my parents would never know. And the fucking police had caught me.

I froze and looked up at Tom, most likely begging him with that look to please, please take care of this. And I will always be very fond of him, if only because he did, kind of. He somehow managed to get his pants back on – he was still wearing his shirt, as he nearly always did – and told me that he would go talk to them while I got dressed. I tried my best to dress lying down, as I was acutely aware that a police officer was probably watching. I probably took my time. And I joined Tom at the cop’s open window.

It was just one police officer, if memory serves. And he was, of course, completely condescending. Not all of the particulars and details of the conversation have stayed with me. I know that, after learning our ages, he tried to convince us that we had been participating in statutory rape – Tom had turned 18 the week before and I had about a week to go before I was of age. I knew this was bullshit, but we promised not to engage in illegal sex anymore. Then, after running the plates, he asked, “Who is William G----?” And I answered, “My father.” The cop responded in the most patronizing tone possible: “How do you think daddy would feel about knowing what his little girl is doing in his car?”

I was being slut-shamed by a police officer. I mumbled some half-assed response and Tom basically took over, making small talk. He mentioned the pizza place he worked at, a pretty popular one in the neighborhood, and had soon won over the cop, who basically ignored me. I zoned out until the parting remarks. In saying his goodbyes, Tom said, “I would shake your hand, but…” The cop laughed and drove away.

I was both amused and horrified. I had never been made to feel like such a cheap slut, and I can’t express how glad I was that they were able to bond and then share their mutual dissatisfaction with my vagina or whatever the hell had supposedly besmirched Tom’s hands. Part of me was simply pleased he had basically handled the situation and gotten us out of whatever minor yet embarrassing trouble we could have gotten into. Part of me knew he didn’t think I was a slut, but had played the buddy routine with the cop in order to make him go away. But another part of me was disgusted by the whole thing.

In the end, I guess I was disappointed to learn that, even though I was out of high school and on my way to the real world, men would probably still be celebrating their perceived sexual prowess while expressing disdain for mine.

Then again, I was able to leave for school without my parents suspecting I’d been fucking in cars all over town that summer… and I had a pretty decent story to share with my college roommates. Which I did almost immediately. But I’ll never be a big fan of cops.

-by Amanda G.

Sunday Night Sex Show Pictures 3/29/09

http://www.flickr.com/photos/36753688@N05/sets/72157616109016426/

Photography courtesy of the lovely and talented Melissa Fisher

What's Up Sluts!

Finally! I've gotten around to starting an official blog for the show! YAY! I know a lot of people have suggested it for a while now, and considering how bad ass last night was, I thought it was just time.

Here, you will find info about upcoming shows, some of the awesome things that have been read, and ideally a splendid side bar filled with links to the various blogs and websites of our readers and audience members! And other things! YAY.