# I DON’T BELIEVE YOU

Ladies, we need to talk. Any of you ever watch that Netflix series Disjointed? Well I’m about to have my Dabby moment: shut up, you cunts!

Seriously. Cry wolf (or should that be cry cock?), all of you, until any REAL victims’ cries for help will be ignored because you have so poisoned the air around them. You bitches can’t see this, though, because you all seem to be convinced that because you are women this automatically makes any of your claims completely valid.  I have known a lot of women who felt comfortable enough within the company of their “sisters” too freely admit cases of fabricated or exaggerated assault or rape charges. I have also known a number of men who have been victimized by false pregnancy claims, but I don’t see them marching in the streets with phallus hats on their heads and whining about it.

So any swinging dick is evil and you’re all pure as the wind driven snow? We’re all victims of a rape culture, that’s your narrative. Well from where I’m sitting I can see that you are all victims alright. You’ve all been made tools (garden hoes?) for someone else’s agenda.

I’m assuming that there are at least some of you who have endured the ghastly trauma of penetration and given birth to a child. About half of you have given birth to sons specifically. What’s your story going to be when your boy is 17, or 20 or 21 and some little skank comes along and tries to put the screws on? You bitches gonna hang your own blood out to dry? Yeah, you probably would. Either that or you’ll raise them to be some emasculated beta male that will still be living in your basement when he’s 40.

You can wear black, march, raise your fist, stand in solidarity for the “sisterhood”. Go on. Do all of that, but at the end of the day what have you accomplished? Only one thing. You have made complete asses of yourselves. While I’m at it burning bridges, here is some advice for all of you fellas out there. When the walkout happens today have your camera phones ready. Get pictures of everyone of these babes and get their faces up on Facebook or any other platform you use. Warn your brothers: DO NOT, ever, go out with these bitches. In fact, if you can, never even speak to them. You’ll probably end up facing a charge of harassment for your trouble.

Real victims are like real war heroes: they don’t go running their mouths about what happened. Not voluntarily. Oh, and before you try it, don’t go and twist that around into the rationalization for why women wait to or fail to report. You think that you are decrying victimhood. You are not. You are celebrating it, wallowing in it. It’s your crutch, that little aid you employ to prop up your self affirmation. You’ve made victimhood your identity. That is not the hallmark of the strong and independent woman. It is the character failing of pussies. 

So today, while all you bitches are lighting up Paint it Black, I’m gonna take my smoke break and light up She’s a Rainbow.  Git yer ya-yas out, bitches!

 

Love and light, Celeste

 

Football makes me horny

Tomorrow is the first Sunday of the 2018 NFL season. I bring this up not because I give a good damn about the players and their politics, and I don’t bring it up because I am going to boycott. I bring it up because I am going to get laid, well!

I am one of those lucky females who figured out early on just how fun football can be. Oh yeah, when the first husband introduced me to the game I resented it. I was a football widow, with all of the attitude to go with it. I got tired of being the bitch, spending my last day of each weekend being pissed off. So, I decided to join in. While I am very much a woman, I am still a tomboy. My friends growing up were all guys; I was always more comfortable with them. It was a true miracle that I had not been turned on to the sport yet, but being unhappy I decided it was better to join in.

One Sunday I made sub sandwiches, chicken wings and chips with dip. Made sure we had plenty of cold beer and dressed up in one of his jerseys with just a pair of panties under. Then we sat down to watch the game. I stayed engaged in the action, asked questions and refilled empty mugs. Always replacing warm ones with frosted ones, keeping the beer flowing. I paid attention throughout and cheered at the appropriate times. I was getting into this! As halftime neared I was flush and pumped with adrenaline. The Packers were winning!

As the players began leaving the field at halftime my husband looked at me. He was flushed and worked up too. That’s when I discovered what halftime was really for. He took me right there on the couch. Within minutes he tore the jersey off of me and tossed it across the room. He removed his clothes, quickly slid my panties down my thighs and me in one smooth stroke. We fucked on the couch for the entire halftime, the commentators talking incessantly in the background. He was rock hard and his breaths came quickly like he had just sprinted across the football field himself. It was animalistic and passionate. I raised my legs up above his shoulders and just as I came hard he groaned deeply and exploded inside me.

Our sweaty bodies lay together motionless, until that familiar music started and preparation for the second half kickoff was announced. We untangled ourselves and he dressed quickly and went to get fresh frosty mugs of beer from the kitchen. I retrieved the jersey and pulled it back over my head, but as I went to step back into my panties he said “no, don’t”. I haven’t worn panties to watch a football game ever since.

That was some of the best sex I’d ever had in my life up to that point, I was young. He took me again at the end of the game. Bent me over the arm of the couch and gave it to me good, pulling my hair and slapping my ass. Shortly after our post game ceremonies, after all of the beers, food and fucking, we went to bed. As we curled up together he said “you need to take every Sunday off so we can watch the games together”. So I did.

Sundays became “game days”. I spent eight football seasons that way. We didn’t always fuck at halftime. If the game was boring we would fuck while watching the game. There were even a few times he had some of the guys over and we all fucked. With more than two hard cocks at hand I could fuck through most of the game! Good times. That marriage did end, but to this day even the mention of the NFL season starting makes me squirm. So, I am telling you ladies… I think there is something to this.

Mes get so worked up during the games, especially if a favorite team is playing. Come halftime they need a release for all that energy. When you see the teams heading for the locker room go grab him a cold, frosty mug and deliver it topless. Stand in front of him and slowly brush that cold glass across your nips, getting them good and hard. I promise you’ll get paid back for the two hours he’s ignored you. Play the part ladies! Buddy up with them, make the rest of the experience good and, if not at halftime then when the game is over, rub his crotch, pull out his cock and take it in your mouth. It will be so worth it. This works, win or lose. Either long, comforting sex for a hard loss, or little rougher stuff when celebrating a big win. Just enjoy. Get out the nipple clips and the ball gag and have fun!

And men, if you don’t know this then you should. Sunday could be the best day of the week for you. Your testicular energy gets us going! Hot guys in tight pants tackling each other and our own guy sitting right next to us. Blood coursing through his veins, including us in his life; well my dear gentlemen friends, that makes hot lava flow between our legs. You can even witness this in sports bars. The ladies who have been off drinking by themselves get a certain antsy air about them come halftime. And by the end of the game? Well if you don’t find one and take her home she is liable to be found later scissoring with here besties. Guys – if a woman sits next to you on the couch during an entire game- I promise you that by halftime her panties are wet and by the end of the game she is DTF. If she sits through that whole game with you and you don’t get laid, well it’s your own damn fault.

So I am so pumped for tomorrow! I’ve got a new, tighter fitting jersey that will really hug my bare breasts. I have the fridge well stocked and have had the lady between my legs waxed so my man has something nice to look at when I refill his fresh mug. Just enjoy the game, let all the politics go. Enjoy the sex because it is so damn much fun. I love the NFL season!

 

Love and light, Celeste

 

A freak like me

Some thoughts from Celestial Wilde

 

I love to be outside, I hike and camp. I am not, however, one of “those people”. I’ve never done more than ten miles at one time. I don’t subscribe to any publications that tell me about the best bug spray or which tent to purchase. And while I thoroughly enjoy a camping vacation, I also love four star hotels! So, now that you know I’ll probably never hike the Appalachian Trail, also know that I do four to five miles every day. I can totally imagine an outdoor, farm life. I’ll get there someday. I will.

I want twenty acres, away from everyone else. I’ll put up my own shelter (there are a lot of kits to choose from), filter water, grow veggies and I plan on raising and keeping at five chickens at all times. I’ll use solar and geothermal power for what I can with a generator available when needed. I don’t expect my power requirements to be great. The property must have a pond for swimming, sunbathing and other summer fun. I’ll grow my own weed, live and love outside, naked and free.

My place will need to be somewhere that has a long growing season, but I don’t want to have to worry about water. I also don’t want to have to worry about “the man”, Five-OH, you know.  This is my place, away from everyone for a reason. I’m not hurting anyone, please leave me alone. No dense population, just dense woodland. I’ve always enjoyed sex in the woods. I want someplace that has four seasons, but a short, mild winter. I don’t like environments where there is never at least one hard freeze to kill off all the bugs! 

Eventually I’d like to install a few buildings. Cottages, cabins….yurts? I haven’t decided yet. I’m thinking if I have nice places for people to stay I’d invite all of my swinger friends to come out for a visit. Maybe two or three other couples to play with. Dress this thing up right, we could provide all the meals, luxury, private backwoods accommodations for recreation and sex. Oh, that’s kind of redundant, isn’t it?

Everybody needs some place they can get their freak on. My place would be designed so that everyone could “play” anywhere on the property. We could also have different, specific plays areas set up and be happy to facilitate any and all fantasy fulfillment. We provide the space, would love to watch or, even better, happily participate. I big fireside orgy in the woods sounds amazing! With four star meals ( I am a chef by profession), 800 thread count sheets, ample supply of condoms, gels or other “accessories”, a pond to skinny dip in and twenty acres to explore…Well hell! I can charge for this!

There it is folks: my retirement plan. Cum one, cum all. I love to be outside! It is life giving, oxygen, sunshine and freedom. Not just for some, but for everyone. Freedom to be the freak that I am!

 

Love and light, Celeste

 

Hey, hey, my, my. Rock and Roll will never…

by Celestial Wilde

 

Tom Petty. Greg Allman. David Bowie. Can you believe the amazing amount of talent that we have lost recently? I find it very sad that there is no longer any hope of smoking a joint with Tom, or doing shots with Greg, or sharing a wild evening in bed with David and his super hot, smoking sexy wife. Not that these things would actually happen in my life, but now….well none of them are any longer an option. How sad. I fear for who we will lose next. So many artists over the years, influential in my life and the lives of others in so many different ways. Rock music is more than all that. It is so transcendent….setting a mood, telling a story, an emotional outlet and thus a way of life.

I consider myself a rocker chic. Not a leather wearing biker chic type, love them, not a thing wrong with them, but me, I do love it all. Sex, drugs and rock and roll. My dream date ends in Led Zeppelin on the stereo and me hitting a beautiful glass water bong while riding on a stiff cock. Leave anything out of that equation, and the moment changes completely. I remember a Tom Petty concert that I attended with my first husband. It was my birthday and on the way to the concert I told him what I really wanted as my gift that night, some pussy. We found it, took a lovely lady home with us for the evening. What a night! But it wouldn’t been the same kind of night if hadn’t been for that show. Tom was incredible.

I remember the music that was playing the first time that I got high. Now, this wasn’t the first time that I smoked. In my case at least; I didn’t get high the first few times. But the first time that I actually recall feeling that glorious euphoria, and actually relaxing and being in the moment, Black Sabbath’s, “Paranoid” album was on the stereo. We were playing the actual vinyl, people still did that back then. Looking back I can actually say that without that particular piece of music playing the moment would have been a completely different experience. Anyone who has ever listened to that album, and I hope that is most or all of you, knows exactly what I mean.

Music sets a stage and delivers a mind set. I listen to 50 cent and DMX when I am angry. I listen to Sade and Chris Isaak when I’m feeling romantic. If the Rolling Stones, The Doors, Yes, or King Crimson are coming from my speakers then I can guarantee you that I’m stoned. (Oh hell, I’m usually stoned) Neil Young and Bob Dylan bring about feelings of nostalgia, and The Grateful Dead make me feel very young and stupid again.

I work, I write, I get high, keep my house clean, be a mother and cook. All of these things have a soundtrack all their own that plays in my head, when I can I incorporate music into all of them. The album Tommy, by The Who, played in its entirety is the perfect background for long slow sensual massages and slow steamy sex, and The Talking Heads are always good company while making dinner. I myself have no musical talent, I’m not that kind of artist, but I will always consider myself a rocker chic.