Don't call me Madam! (or, Paranoia Abounds!)

Yesterday I saw one of my regular, mild-mannered fetish clients. All was great until after our session, when he rather nervously asked me if Iwould "remove all traces" of him from my email, cellphone, paper calendar and Rosetta Stone, and never contact him again.

I was a bit stunned and when I asked where this sudden directive came from, he cited the "DC Madam," who was arrested recently for running a high-profile,15-girl prostitution ring for a total of 13 years. The madam in question briefly floated the idea of selling her "43 lbs" of detailed client records (!) to the highest bidder. A federal judge quickly derailed the idea.

My nervous client, neither well-known nor likely to be, envisioned himself the unhappy recipient of media glare if I was ever taken away in cuffs.

Let me tell you what I told him (after assuring him that his very existence would be forever eradicated from my consciousness.)

Women who run large-scale prostitution rings with celebrities and elected officials as clients naturally attract attention from law enforcement and the IRS. Millions of dollars of undeclared income... famous names... and a revolving door of indiscreet "employees" create a target worthy of pursuit and prosecution.

On the other hand.... low-key, tax-paying, individual providers operating out of a single discreet location- no fanfare, no employees, no racketeering-- simply aren't worth the government's attention, time or money.

The DC Madam is facing a host of serious charges which range from pandering to tax evasion, money laundering and more. She's in deep shit.

I, however, am no Madam. And if, to my misfortune, a local vice cop slips through my screening someday and takes me downtown, I'll pay my misdemeanor fine and go home. It won't be fun, but it certainly won't be front page news.

With rising gas prices, hurricane season and new episodes of America's Next Top Model on the horizon, we all have much weightier issues to worry about. So let's get on with the show.

Thank God it's Monday! My sex diary.

I've never thought I could have too much fun. After all, this is the girl who practically invented the all-weekend romp.

But today, I'm looking back over a Saturday and Sunday that would give Wilt Chamberlain pause.

Here's the "blow by blow."

Saturday afternoon-- an extremely hot and athletic encounter of the Tabu kind.

Saturday 9-midnight-- a lusty foray into the epicenter of sexual freedom, a swing club in South Florida. Old friends, new conquests, and some intriguing possibilities that lead the BF and me into...

Sunday morning, midnight -6AM... a hotel room full of kinky couples perpetrating absolutely illegal-in-49 states, barely-make-it-out-alive experiments in Sex Ed, Advanced Studies.

Sunday evening, 5-11... when an always-hot Latino friend called and wanted to introduce his horny new GF to the Institute of Higher Yearning, well, who were we to say no?

So. Monday morning arrives in a blur of pleasure, sleep deprivation and utter satisfaction.
I wouldn't have it any other way.

“Cleanup on aisle five!”

Good sex is messy.

Whenever I focus all my attention on a luscious, meaty, quivering cock, I fully intend to drain every single ounce of goodness out of it.

Now whether that ends up creating a creamy glaze over my breasts, or dotting and pooling in delicious eddies on a manly abdomen, or cascading in pulse after pulse down my very greedy throat.... I can hardly choose a favorite.

But I think I look lovely in pearls.

Becoming Tabu - or, How a little girl from Texas found her inner harlot

When I was still in Sunday School, ladies' romance magazines were a forbidden but tantalizing lure into the adult world. Every article promised a mysterious pleasure that was just out of my reach.

"I knew I should resist his advances, but when he touched me..."
"One woman's secret rendezvous with lust..."

I'd grow warm between my legs as I read the barely-veiled accounts of illicit encounters. As I slipped into the world of trembling hands, hard kisses and racing pulses, my own incipient urges demanded their due. Exploring my own sweet girlhood, the pages of Modern Romance formed the backdrop: shuddering, velvet-leaved and imbued with eroticism.

One night my eyes lit on a portrait of a man overwhelmed by passion, literally sweeping an unresisting beauty into his arms. "Tabu," it touted, "the forbidden perfume."

Ah, I thought, what kind of power must that woman be hiding, to create a desire so rebellious, so ardent. My quickened heartbeat memorized the syllables of her allure.... Tabu. Tabu. Tabu.

When it came time to unleash the confident and sexual woman I eventually became, there seemed no other possible choice. My tigress would not be a girl next door or a long-suffering slattern. She would be the darkly welcome addiction-- one who would drive men to make secret visits in the shadows, to work long hours in the service of her demands, and one who would answer their passion with a desire as hungry as their own.

Every day she lives in me as real as my heartbeat. Because becoming Tabu is a transformation that leaves unchanged the essence of my true self... the little girl, enthralled. The woman, unbound.

Naughty Nurse at your service!

OK, boys-- something new just arrived from Wicked Temptations, and you know I just HAVE to try it out.... so all you boys needing some extra-special "physical therapy" from Nurse Tabu-- get on over here, stat!

I'm dying to model my new curve-hugging, cleavage-spilling nurse uniform for you-- along with my red 6-inch heels that make my legs go on forever.

So don't put off that annual check-up! Appointments at my clinic this week on Wed 3-9, Thurs 12-9 and Friday 10-9. Pre-screened patients given priority treatment!

Can't wait to take your pulse! (and get it pounding!)