New Year, New Pics, New Website!

What else is new? Hmmm. I still love being that naughty, Ivy League MILF... especially when I'm on my knees in front of a favorite boy, showing off my education!

Would you like a peek at my new home on the web? Check it out and let me know what you think!

www.discovertabu.com

If it gets you in the mood for a little guiltless pleasure... you know what to do.


purring,

Tabu

What's a little Dirty Laundry between Friends? (or, now THAT was a Party!)

Just around Thanksgiving, the questions started to trickle in.

"You guys having a New Year's Eve party again this year?"

"Hey, hope you're doin' the New Year's thing again!"

"Don't forget to invite us!"

So bowing to the not-too-subtle urging of the sweet sixteen (the final number who crammed our play-space with perfumed bodies and cork-popping camaraderie), we anointed the linens, doused the lights, and stacked the playlist with come-hither tunes.

It was Noah's Ark with a spin. Everyone arrived neatly paired, but no-one stayed that way for long. In fact, we might have created some very interesting genetic variations, had someone thought to unravel the double helix of legs and twisted panties.

But priorities being what they were, your hostess (AKA the Vixen Tabu) simply poured fuel on the fire by circulating with bottles of bubbly and disentangling her stilettos when the going got tight.

Midnight came and went with kisses, then more kisses, then the rising heartbeat of newly-minted new year's resolutions... which all seemed to center on the very practical idea of spreading the love.

By now the ottoman was shoved off to the side and the carpet was hidden under a living tapestry of rhythmic movement. The king-size sheet spread under the melee shifted as knees and ankles took on a complex dance. Wet spots- gasp!- spread under trembling fingers, losing their grasp on the champagne flute or other intoxicating geysers....and when the evening turned to dawn, then to noon, even the hardiest of revelers were fighting sleep.

Off to their own beds the partyers trundled, and the sagging SO completed his hostly duty by tossing the sheets, towels and assorted damp playthings into the wash.

It was the next day when I had to giggle. Lifting the clean, damp linens from the washer, I caught a flutter of blue escape into the air; then another. As I bent over to stuff the heavy sheets into the dryer, I licked a finger and caught a fluttering square.

It was the cleanest, most pristine Durex wrapper this vixen has ever seen.

Now when you consider sexiness next to godliness, then sometimes cleanliness must take second place. But I think my laundry proved Woody Allen's famous contention: that sex isn't dirty unless you're doing it right.

Happy New Year.

Holiday treats for two-- me and you!

Fredericks of Hollywood has me dreaming of a red, black and high-heel Christmas this year... so if you have the impulse to treat yourself to the vision of your little vixen in a sexy something...

a gift card to Frederick's would be a wonderful treat to find in my holiday stocking!

http://www.fredericks.com/giftCard2.asp?catalog_name=Holiday2002

Here's to sweet holiday dreams!

OK, you'll squeeze some ecology out of me now

How can you get your O's and save the world-- simultaneously?

Well, you can't. (Unless you're Wonder Pussy. Hmmmm.. maybe that's my next Halloween idea!)

But now, you can help save the environment after you've wrung the last bit of sweaty pleasure from your favorite vibrator or butt plug.

Toy retailer Dreamscapes has just announced the country's first-ever sex toy recycling program.

"Just clean it first," the CEO David Kowalsky asks. Then mail it to Dreamscapes, who dismantles the said pleasure machine and reuses the parts for wholesome new products such as tires or playground mulch.

And with a nod toward "think globally, play locally" Dreamscapes will reward recyclers with a $10 coupon for future purchases.

Donating my butt plug to the greater human good. Now there's a cause I can get behind!

Good vibrations! (Or, what every girl needs....)

I'll admit that every once in a while, a little vibration can do a body good.

And some girls I know (don't worry, darlings, I won't name names!) would give up their birthrights for a brand-new D battery and a Daniel Craig movie.

But things have gone too far when the beauty industry gets in on the act.

Just in time for Christmas, Lancome introduces Oscillation, the mascara with a vibrating wand (7000 oscillations a minute! as the ad breathlessly proclaims.)

For a mere $34, every girl on the block can give her eyelashes the ultimate thrill... something that clumsy Rabbit, Bullet or John Holmes replica meat-wand can never do.

So as a connoisseur of flirtatious eyelash-batting (how very old-school of me) AND an appreciative consumer of battery-operated boyfriends (in lieu of the real McCoy) I just might have to wheedle some kind stranger to drop an Oscillation in my Christmas stocking.

Will you be able to tell just who is vibrating her lashes to ultimate perfection... and who is settling for Maybelline?

Only by her satisfied sigh.

ilation

Blood on his hands

After oozing wetness during "Casino Royale," the first reinvention of James Bond in 2006, your little vixen has been silently panting in anticipation of the latest appearance of Daniel Craig.

In the rather grim sequel, "Quantum of Solace," I managed to concentrate on the most appealing facets... the rough boy in fantastic motion, agile as a ninja, and the too few moments of pure will, where the Brit puts his famously icy eyes to breathtaking effect.

As others have already noted, this Bond is a visceral and passionate re-thinking of the tradition. And in this outing, he's driven and almost wordlessly reckless.

When vengeance replaces judgment, not every kill can be clean.

This modern anti-hero has duty in his heart and blood on his hands.

I can't wait to see where he takes us.

Tricks and treats...

Dear Tabu:

Have you ever been caught in an embarrassing situation with a client?

Curious

Dear Curious:

What a coincidence that you would ask me that (ahem!) I was just reminiscing about one of the most ridiculous and memorable evenings I've spent as Tabu.

On a long-awaited overnight with a regular, my client showed up pale and holding his groin gingerly. When I asked what was wrong, he unzipped his pants to reveal a wad of bloody Kleenex in his briefs. He'd nicked himself shaving his balls, and the poor guy just wouldn't stop bleeding.

After the frenzy to find antiseptic, bandages, etc in my incall, we were both flustered and decided to go back to his hotel to get him into fresh underwear.

It wasn't until midnight, after a recuperative dinner and drinks, that we got ready for action... and realized that we had left the condoms and lube back at my incall.... 25 minutes away.

Bloody hell, as they say. But since we both had forgotten the vitals, there was plenty of blame to spread around. And we decided that spreading something else would be much more stress-relieving.

My southern suitor called every store in the neighborhood to find a 24-hour Walgreens... and then cabbed it over there and back to get us supplied.

It just goes to show, some nights you're tricked, some you're treated... and sometimes you miraculously achieve both. One thing's for sure: it beats real life!

North vs South: My bra is not a battleground!

All my friends told me not to do it.

"Your boobs are perfect," they insisted, some of them attempting to prove their point by hefting one or both in their hands.

"See? They're just right!"

Well, as they say, there's nothing perfect in this world... even though for a long time, my 34D's have been damn close. But here's the question. Exactly when did I exhort them to "Go South, Tabu boobs?"

Lately I've been noticing a slight downward migration, as if my nipples missed my pussy and just wanted a closer relationship.

OK- that was it. Time for a tuneup.

September 9th took on the historic porportions of D-Day... or should I say Double D Day? Into the ritzy surgical suite of the Playmates and Maxim model's favorite breast man in upscale Aventura... and out 3 hours later under the tender loving care of my gal-pal Allie.

Skipping the painful details, almost a week later we arrive at Sunday brunch in the Aventura mall-- and a visit to the ooh-la-la confines of a select European lingerie shop. This little nook specializes in big boobs... and the salesgirl eyed my torso appraisingly.

"Hmm," she mused, "You have a small back compared to your volume in front.... I think, yes, let's try this."

Without a peep I let her jostle my now-engorged breasts into what appeared to be a cup size large enough for Queen Latifah. She pushed, I pulled, and when we both straightened up, my boobs were encased in absolute perfection.

"Umm," I hesitated to ask,"Just what size is this?"

"Oh," she relied cheerfully, "You're a 34-F."

Wow. Well, after I forked over what would buy two people a very nice dinner out, I left with my 34-F everyday bra in an extremely elegant shopping bag.

And I can now see that the price of this little enhancement is going to go far beyond the surgeon, the meds or even the new photos I will certainly need to take.

Half of my wardrobe will have to be donated to my normal-sized friends--that is, anyone a D-cup or less. And your visibly-bigger vixen will become a very good customer of the big-boob emporium.

So my new job, apparently, is to have new ta-ta's... and try to get used to the "massive expanse" as my SO calls it, living on the front of my chest.

I guess there are worse fates. And whistlin' Dixie is one of them.

Slam, Bam (Where's the "Thank you, M'am"?)

You all know that I love a good, hard slamming every once in a while. (I mean, sometimes a girl needs to feel a little fire in the belly!)

So when I was awakened Thursday night around 2 by a loud thud that resonated through my condo, I thought maybe the couple next door was getting their groove on. I peered around groggily, and when nothing seemed out of place in my immediate sphere, I drifted back to Sleepyville.

And so my morning unrolled merrily-- coffee, workout, breakfast, and out to the car to head to Ft. Lauderdale.

Uh-oh. What were all the glass shards, plastic and shattered fiberglass behind my car? And why was it jettisoned three feet from where I'd parked it the night before?

Yes, dear ones, you have all guessed it.... my poor baby was a victim of a hit and run, back-end smashing worthy of the Pats' defensive line.

Damn, damn, damn.

Later that night it was still sitting askew when I ran into my irreverent gay neighbor on the street.

"Oh, boy, I saw your car this morning, sweetie," he exclaimed, patting me on the shoulder. "I knew you were going to be so PISSED. I went right back upstairs and told Zach that your car took it up the ass!"

"It sure f--king did," I replied, "But man-- no drinks, no dinner and no lube!"

So now, if you'll excuse me, I'm on my way to Allstate to see just how much they're going to f--k me. I can guarantee you it won't be a screaming O.

O well.

MILFs on the rise in DC... doubles, anyone?

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