quizzical pussy

Last year I did a whole list of sexual resolutions. In a textbook QP move, I pretty much forgot about them as soon as I typed them. I did, however, accidentally adhere to a few of them. Let’s check them out one by one, because there’s no possible way that could be demoralizing for me!

1. Flirt with strangers: This one still sounds like fun, and I still don’t do it, except sometimes by accident. I barely even make eye contact with people on my bad days. So FAIL.
2. Initiate sex with my boyfriend: Not. Really. I think I did that all of once, then we got interrupted in the middle of fucking and I felt like a loser. FAIL.
3. Admit when I’m attracted to someone: I’m getting much better at this, though I’m still not at the point where I admit to that person. DEMIWIN.
4. Fulfill three new sexual fantasies: I’ve had a fuck-ton of fucking fun this year. I had a lot of great sex. I discovered that Laramy is awesome at spanking. I got to have a foursome and a FMF threesome (both featuring the earth-shatteringly hot Rowan and Viola Sharqtipus, with my sexy Laramy in the former), but I’d have liked to have been more proactive and adventurous in general. Still, WIN. And you would totally agree if you saw the pretties I got to play with.
5. Perform in a drag show: I did this. I need to remember to tell you about it. It was amazing. WIN. So much win.
6. Try out new sex toys! With an emphasis on sharing toys with others. While naked: I tried a few new toys. I still suck at bringing them into partner play. DEMIWIN? I guess?
7. Feel okay wearing the sexy stuff in front of partners: FAIL. Just fail. I’ve realized, though, that Laramy couldn’t care less if I wear sexy underwear (he seems to think that lingerie is a superfluous middleman between clothed and naked), though he does appreciate when I wear clothes that prove I have boobies.

So, considering that I didn’t really maintain the eye of the tiger on these, at all, not a super bad showing.

Upon rereading these, I realized that most of 2010′s resolutions dealt with insecurities, which is pretty fair. So this year I’m going to keep it very, very simple and just work on confidence. In 2011 I’m going to start thinking I’m awesome or die faking it.

Damn, this is going to be hard.

Do you have any New Year’s Resolutions that involve orgasms in some way, shape or form? Or even if they don’t, I’m always curious. You can even tell me anonymously if you like.

Happy New Year! I hope this year is far better than the last for each and every one of you.

Share/Save

A Fuquerton family acquaintance recently gushed to Laramy’s mum about what a very very good person he must be to be with a handicapped girl.*

Behold the lowly cripple: a creature who can only experience human love through the selflessness of others! See her hobble pathetically around, tragically seeking connection, all for naught, until a benevolent man finds it in his heart to condescend to touch her. The saint! The philanthropist! He must be a really, really good person.

Make no mistake, Laramy really is an amazingly good person. He’s sweet and generous and affectionate (to those on his good side). Watching him with his pets would melt you. It’s indisputable that I’m lucky to have him in my life, but anyone would be. Not just cripples.

It’s not surprising, though. Truth is, there are times when I think and sound a lot like that batty broad. I wonder what an able-bodied person is doing with me. I feel guilty that I’m spending yet another hour in bed, flaking on another commitment. How kind of him to keep me around even though I’m not functioning at his level, when we all know he could do so much better.

But isn’t there even the slightest possibility that it’s not all about health, despite what armchair evolutionary psychologists would have us believe? Isn’t it possible that someone might be with me because of my internal encyclopedia of useless knowledge? Because he likes the silly pictures I draw? Because my eyes look like sunflowers? Because I’m a huge dork, or because I once played Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Hell, because I carry the coolest cane ever, when I need it. Plus, I get the absolute best parking spaces.

I don’t know. I’m just throwing things against the wall here. But I have to be open to the idea that maybe I have actual, non good-deeds-deductible selling points. There are a lot of details about me, and the fact that I probably won’t be trying out for a roller derby team any time soon is just one of them. It really doesn’t need to be the most important one all the time.

(image source)

*This, to my knowledge, isn’t the opinion of any of the Fuquertons: just one batty broad they happen to know, and don’t particularly like.

Share/Save

ConTuesday confessions hot off the internet! There will be boobs and pudding, but that’s not all…

For my age, I would say, most people believe I already had at least one relationship. It is, somehow, accepted by society that I should. Fact is, though, that I haven’t. I never went further than a french kiss. More that is not much of a confession. The thing is, if I were to buy a sex toy, I would have no idea what to do with it. I never even touched myself, let one felt the urge to.

Most people do seem to expect everyone to share a desire to date and fuck and masturbate. But they’re ignoring and marginalizing a ton of people when they do. I think it’s important for even sex maniacs to remember this.

My boyfriend is amazing for me in bed, and amazing as a person in general, to the extent that I’m pretty sure he’s the person I want to spend the rest of my life with – but I can never quite let myself go completely with him when we’re sexin’. Not because I’m repressed, or afraid he’ll mock me, but because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s a bigger guy and one of the reasons I’m so attracted to him physically is that I’m almost exclusively turned on by lads and lasses one would describe as overweight; he’s aware of this, but I’m always kind of nervous that I’ll accidentally slip up and tell him that his big stomach or soft chest is so hot when I’m distracted by lust. He’s really sensitive about his weight, and it’s such a fine line to tread, trying to tell someone you find them gorgeous partly because of a trait they despise about themselves. I wish he could see himself the way I see him; maybe it would stop him from thinking I’m prettier than him, stop him from feeling ugly whenever he has to get shirtless in front of anyone else… and stop him from wanting to get thin.

Weight is such a sensitive subject, but at the same time how can we possibly expand the idea of which body types are widely considered sexy if we don’t talk about it, if we don’t in fact revel in it? This may seem like advice, but it’s not. I’m just agreeing that you’re in a frustrating position loving an aspect of your boyfriend’s looks and self that he isn’t comfortable with.

There’s a small stain on the carpet of my old room in my parents’ house. My mom knows it’s from when I threw up during a visit a year or so ago. What she doesn’t know is that the vomit was about 50% chocolate pudding and 50% semen. I’ve since learned to be a little more cautious when deep-throating a guy, and to put down a towel first.

That was either like one spoonful of pudding or a fuck ton of semen, according to my calculations. Towels are really such a good idea for a variety of sexual acts. Also hitchhiking.

I just realized that I’m pretty much willing to show my boobs to anyone who asks, at least in theory. I think it’s because I respect them for being straight up and asking for what they want. As long as they don’t try to touch, it seems like a totally reasonable request.

Also, because boobs are awesome.

Boobs are awesome. I don’t really consider it a reasonable request when people I’m not close to/interested in ask to see my boobs, but I’m probably not as generous a person as you are. You also probably have better boobs, I’m guessing. Anyway, thank you for your contribution to society!

Now, dear reader, show me your secrets and tell me your tales.

Share/Save

I want to talk to you for just a minute. This is serious time. I’m not even going to be dorky or silly on my blog today. At all. That’s because this shit is important. Are you ready? Are you sure? Show me your ready face. Good.

Stop hating your body.*

Today, now, right this second, and for realsies. Just stop hating it. Because most of the time your body is not the problem. The problem is you’re mental.

I’m running into way too many gorgeous people lately who seem to genuinely think they’re unattractive. To the point where it’s clear that their self-perception and actual looks aren’t on the most basic of speaking terms. If they, the resplendent, cannot muster up a modicum of customary smugness over how fucking pretty they are, how am I supposed to achieve basic self-acceptance? Please, you privileged, you ugly-impaired, you kings of New England, can you please stop making this about you and realize it’s about me?

I read an article several years back about some study that showed series of pictures to a bunch of men in Great Britain to determine the perfect B.M.I. for ultimate attractiveness in a woman. It’s 20.65.

Even today I still remember that number to the hundredth decimal place because upon reading it I immediately went to one of those online B.M.I. calculators, entered my height, and determined exactly what I should weigh to be scientifically hot.

And lo, I weighed more than that. And I was slightly more convinced than ever that I was irredeemably ugly. I definitely already felt that way before, but I was firmer than ever in my conviction.

But to be honest, if I were exactly– to the ounce– at that utterly arbitrary-but-for-a-random-internet-article goal, I’d probably have still hated my body. I would likely hate it now. I will probably always hate it to some extent. I also realize how completely fucked up that is. Which is why I’m telling you not to. I’m also telling me not to, incidentally.

Here’s the weird thing: the women (also the men) I’m attracted to have B.M.I.s all over the map. If I think you’re sexy as a person, then your curvy softness, or sculpted musculature, or sparse silhouette, or bountiful roundness, your whatever is an intrinsic part of that. The quirks, the realism, the tender truths make me weak with lust because they’re so damn pretty.

But me? I can’t possibly expect anyone to like me unless I’m flawless. It feels highly insulting to others, making them look at me while I’m so imperfect!

I’m realizing, however, that pretty much all of us (except PUAs, who seem to be more the exact opposite of this) have absurdly high standards for what we’re supposed to look like, and a healthy appreciation for diversity and natural beauty in others.

So what I guess I’m saying is, you’re probably a lot sexier than you think you are. And especially if your body is healthy**, and strong, and generally does what you ask it to, you should really start loving it. Hard. Because it’s amazing. And it’s probably also really, honestly beautiful.

(image source)

* Oh no, I do realize I’m not the boss of you. I really do. Please don’t be mad.
** I’m excruciatingly aware that there’s this whole other level of complexity when you’re not healthy and your body seems like a total dick sometimes. But still, your wracked-with-pain body is very likely more lovely than you’re giving it credit for.

Share/Save

Once in a great while I get anonymous confessions that aren’t strictly about sex. And hey, secrets is secrets. I’m into it. But sometimes, I get anonymous confessions about a human mechanical bull. I thought I’d put them in ascending order of lasciviousness today.

I have something growing on my asshole. I think it’s a hemorrhoid, but I’m not sure. WTF. I don’t want to go to the doctor, because every time I go he berates me for being fat.

You seriously need a new doctor. Whether a patient might be healthier at a lower weight or not, a doctor has no right to be abusive about it, especially to the exclusion of giving actual medical care. I wonder if this link would be of interest. I had a hunch there might be a site out there that lists doctors who behave respectfully to people with “overweight” and above B.M.I.s, and there is! Please understand that by posting this link I’m not trying to call you fat, despite the list’s name. I hope, of course, that this clears up on its own, but having a doctor who doesn’t berate you every time you seek medical treatment seems like something worth finding.

For, sheesh, probably five years now, I’ve used RSS feeds to keep up on smutty thises and thats, the convenience of which only increased my readership. The beauty of bloglines.com is that it’s a perfectly worksafe URL, so if I needed a little (or medium, or large) spike during bank hours, it was there to unassumingly reroute hotness my way. But now Bloglines is closing, and the announcement coincides with nearly a month of me ignoring all my RSS smut. I’ve got to decide if I’m going to transfer all these subscriptions or not … and I’m surprising myself by kind of thinking “not.” A lot of sex blogs burn out, and perhaps this sex blog reader has burned out as well.

Oh God, it’s me. I’ve turned you off, haven’t I? My blog’s repulsive! I’M DISGUSTING. DON’T LOOK AT ME!

Oh well. My mom thinks I’m pretty.

Anyway, don’t you just hate it when you find out about a useful or cool thing just as it’s precisely at the precipice of not existing? That’s how I feel about this whole bloglines thing. Great idea. Perhaps too good for this world…

When my wife and I started dating, I had very little sexual experience to say the least. I usually prefer to not think about her prior experience – it makes me feel horribly left out. With rare exception for over a decade, we’ve mostly been a two-person hot pot of sexual energy together. The rare exception being some isolated hormonal problems associated with different types of birth control, but that’s a tangent for another confession. I thought that we were a pretty typical, healthy, young, married couple in our sexual activities. But, we found ourselves in a very forward bible study group associated with the church we were attending. This was an eye-opening experience. When the conversation came to frequency of intimacy, other couples confessed that they only ‘had it’ once or twice, if even that often. I nodded knowingly, thinking about the stresses of schedule and how it can be difficult to get it on more than that many times a day. Then through conversation, I discovered that they were talking about a weekly or monthly schedule! We only have one child, but most of the other couples had multiple children. I assumed that this indicated their levels of frequency – which it might. They may have simply not used birth control. At any rate, the men seemed to think that it wasn’t happening quite enough and the women didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves when it was going on. This brought up questions: 1 – What in the world were they doing wrong that they weren’t enjoying themselves more? 2 – Are my wife and I absolute sexual freaks? and/or 3 – was the church group an unprecedented collection of sexual losers? One girl in the group voiced her intention to have sex with her husband every day for a week and got hoots and hollers from the rest of the group. My wife and I gave each other THE GLANCE. It was the “Oh, WTF” glance. We don’t go to that church anymore, and we don’t really associate with anyone that we knew from there. It’s been years, actually. Since then, I think that I’ve figured out some of the answers to my old questions. 1 – I don’t think that they were actually focused on satisfying their partners in any form, physical or otherwise, and that grossly affected things in the bedroom. 2 – I am indeed a serious sexual deviant. My wife keeps up with me most of the time, but I’m a little more adventurous than she is. We still have a lot of fun together. 3 – I do think that we had found a weird group that unanimously leaned unusually far into the opposite direction of our proclivities across the bell curve. All too often, it’s easy to focus on the negative. Focusing on the positive makes me horny.

I haven’t gone to church regularly since I was 18 (it was sort of a household requirement). Maybe that’s why I don’t remember all the sex talk. Of course, not being married I probably still wouldn’t be invited to be appalled by the sad, depressing sex lives of my fellow parishioners. They also probably wouldn’t like my girl-fucking. I’m so oppressed.

I saw a documentary once where pre-scandal Ted Haggard claimed that Evangelical Christians have the most, best sex of anyone in the world, and then he went around polling a few of his male congregants to ask them how often their wives came. Every time, apparently.

I’ve recently come to the realization that just about every time I have sex with someone, besides my husband, it’s like a rodeo. I’ve found very few partners that can make it the full 8 seconds. In one respect it’s quite flattering. I’ve been told I’m quite good and that my girly parts are remarkably taut, yet pleasingly squishy. But, at the same time, come on now. Just when it starts to feel good and I get into it I start hearing that familiar shortened breathing and grunting and think “really? already?”. It may be flattering the first few times but it gets frustrating real quick.

You got, like, the worst super power ever, lady.

You, reader, will notice that I neglected to put a really, horribly scandalous confession at the end here. That’s because you’re supposed to send one in! I thought you knew already.

Share/Save

I’d love to be confident enough and secure enough with myself to be naked in front of a camera, and not burst into tears, and not feel horrible about the resulting photos.

Body acceptance is hard for anyone, I think. We all have things that we hate about our bodies, things that we feel severely limit our worth as sexual objects and maybe even as people. If you don’t feel this way, maybe I’m just projecting my own self-loathing onto you and assuming I’m more normal than I really am. That’s entirely possible. But I hear the way people tend to talk about their bodies, sometimes with a nervous half-laugh, maintaining a facade of plausible deniability in case some one figures out that they occasionally, maybe often, all of them, feel like trolls. Because NO ONE MUST KNOW.

We’re told that confidence is sexy. And it’s true. Some of the most romantically and sexually successful people I’ve ever met didn’t necessarily look better than the people around them; they just believed they were hot stuff, and everyone sort of went along for the ride. Cleopatra would be the classic(al) example of this phenomenon: she wasn’t ugly, but she was never considered visually beautiful. Yet her voice was enchanting, she was past mistress in spectacle and fantasy, and she carried herself like, well, a queen. And today we’re all pretty sure she was exquisite (see: Sophia Loren, Vivien Leigh, Claudette Colbert, Elizabeth Taylor, possibly Angelina Jolie). That is confidence doing its job well.

But still, it’s hard to be confident just because confidence pays off. You can’t manufacture confidence out of whole cloth and wishful thinking. You have to nurture it over time until it gets to be a habit. And until then, what? I guess we fake it. I think that most of us fake it most of the time.

A while back, I was talking with some friends and this one guy came up. Everyone agreed that he was shady by virtue of consistently trying to weasel his way into the life of any insecure female he could find. I’d never really met the guy, but had seen him around at cons. I had to agree, though, that it was a creepy M.O. “Don’t worry, though,” my friend Penelope said. “You’re way too confident for him to bother with. He’d never even pay you any attention.”* Too confident! HA! The masquerade continues…

I didn’t contradict her because I want to be too confident to be the victim of some shady guy who preys on self-loathing and vulnerability. In my heart of hearts I believe that I’m not, but I try to maintain that image when I can.

But I dream of the day when I can feel pretty and strong and worthwhile and sexy. When I can look at myself in the mirror and think “Hey, not bad” without the reflexive response of “Actually…” I want to like myself naked. I want to like myself in general. And I’d like to one day, many years from now, look at some nude pics of myself from back now and think, “Man, I was hot.” Frivolous, yes, but fundamental.

(image source)

*Yes, it occurred to me she might have just told me that because I’m too ugly for him to bother with and she wanted to paint that in the best light possible, but I have rejected that possibility on the grounds that there are limits to how ugly I’m prepared to feel.

Share/Save

The Royal Kumari of Kathmandu always strikes me as a tragedy. Not a walking tragedy, mind, because of course she is not strictly allowed to walk.

The Royal Kumari is a little girl in Nepal who has passed a long list of physical, behavioral, and astrological criteria, and a series of complicated tests, to be declared the physical manifestation of the badass goddess Durga. She has among her attributes (according to Wikipedia):

• a neck like a conch shell
• a body like a banyan tree
• eyelashes like a cow
• thighs like a deer
• chest like a lion
• voice soft and clear as a duck’s

…whatever that means!

After she’s been selected, the Royal Kumari leaves her old life behind. She moves to a palace and becomes a living deity. Each movement and expression is analyzed; she’s treated with awe and deference; her feet can never touch the ground. She also wears a really complexion-killing amount of makeup on her forehead every day.

Then, one day she gets her first period, and it all stops. She’s no longer a goddess. She’s just some kid the goddess used to inhabit but doesn’t anymore and never will again. They start looking for a new, untainted Kumari immediately, and she’d better have a neck like a conch shell, dammit.

The scorned, newly adolescent, erstwhile Kumari will get a pension from the government for the rest of her life, probably move on, get married (despite a tradition that it’s unlucky to marry a former Kumari), do whatever it is you do with your life in Nepal. It’s not a bad gig, really.

But how jarring, how devastating is it to be a goddess one day and a mortal girl the next? How cast-off must she feel? How embarrassed and enraged that her body betrayed her by succumbing to menarche?

I wonder if it feels like the first time you realize someone is falling out of love with you, but in her case that someone is a deity, a religion, and an entire country.

(image source)

Share/Save

If Receiving Cunnilingus were my girlfriend, our Facebook relationship status would be “it’s complicated”. While some women don’t care for it at all, and some literally can’t get off outside of a tongue placed just so, I’m somewhere roughly completely outside those extremes. Oral sex gets me off fast, and well, and feels amazing. I love it, really. But on the other hand, I always try to dissuade my partner from giving it to me.

At this point it’s probably occurring to you, and rightly so, that I’m not the altogether most healthy, normal person you’ve ever come across.

What is it about oral sex that turns me even more neurotic than usual? I think it’s the focus. While one of the things I love about giving oral sex is being able to focus on someone else, I feel guilty once the tables are turned. I feel like it’s really unfair for me to accept that level of attention.

I’m aware that this isn’t exactly rational.

Early on with a new person, it’s usually much easier for me. There’s a lot of lust flying around, and everyone wants to put their mouths everywhere. But after a while things tend to settle down a bit, and I start feeling like it’s getting to be a chore, going down on me. Like my naked vulva is sitting there expectantly and prompting an aggrieved “Gawd, this again”.

Not that there’s anything preternaturally trying about giving me oral sex, that I’m aware of. I come within seconds, I give enthusiastic and appreciative feedback, I reciprocate, and I don’t think I taste weird. Sometimes I squirt, but definitely not always! My problem is really conceptual more than practical.

The thing is, I’m not hard to satisfy in bed. My orgasms come fast and boisterous, and although it takes some effort and skill to blow my mind, it can usually be done without a lot of fuss. In no way do I need oral stimulation. So it seems almost too greedy in my case to ask a partner to pay attention to me in any way that’s so one-sided. That’s where the guilt comes in.

Sure, sometimes I want it. Sometimes I even crave it. It feels really good, and the exact orgasms I get from it don’t occur elsewhere. But in my experience, once you start seeming reluctant to receive oral sex, you kind of get fewer and fewer offers for it. And that situation is both comfortable and depressing. Because in my weird, twisted little world that somehow makes perfect sense, asking for oral sex would be even more unforgivable than actually getting it!

I’m absolutely insane.

(image source)

Share/Save

This ConTuesday has several sorts of anonymous confessions to sample: transgressive, triumphant, murky, and really kind of gut-wrenching.

While I was married to my first wife, I had an affair with her sister, that lasted about a year. In all honesty, I should have stayed with the sister, life would have been much better. One night, I butt-fucked my SIL, and then went upstairs, and woke up my wife, and had her give me a blow job. What made it even more weird was that my SIL stood in the hallway and masturbated while she watched us.

I recently discovered that if I apply really strong pressure to my clitoris as I’m orgasming, the climax keeps going for an extra thirty seconds or so. I wish it was socially acceptable to share these sorts of little personal triumphs with the world at large, but it’s not, so I’ll share it with you.

You know how something will randomly pop into your head and you’ll think “I have to remember to look this up on the internet later”, but you don’t have a smart phone and you every time– without fail– forget to look it up when you’re actually on a computer? Well, in a similar vein, I keep meaning to try this!

Boy, you are very cute and you have a tophat, which is always a plus. However, you violate the xkcd rule, so despite your flirting I doubt we shall ever have a relationship. …Maybe making out. But that is definitely the limit here.

If I wear top hat will you make out with me? I’m just curious here.

I confessed here before my boyfriend barely touches me. He’s doing such a great job convincing me he doesn’t find me attractive, that I’m starting to find him less attractive… I go to get my nethers waxed and think sadly how I’ll keep paying for this because at least twice a month, I know someone will touch me below the waist.

If I wear a top hat will you let me give you a big hug? Because this confession really makes me want to.

Send in your anonymous confessions using this convenient form! Make haste!

Share/Save

On ConTuesday last week I posted an anonymous internet confession about a person whose boyfriend’s sex drive has begun to lag behind hers*. I didn’t have enough energy to address this confession on Tuesday, when it appeared (at that point my energy was firmly at cut, paste, and collapse levels), but now I’m feeling slightly perkier and I can write what I wanted to at the time. It’s not advice, really. I guess it’s more akin to relating.

I’m afraid sometimes that I’m literally insatiable. If I’m attracted to you, I pretty much never don’t want to fuck you. I can have half my body caught in a giant bear trap, and if I can still part my legs it’s on like Donkey Kong. And hey, I finally found a use for this stuff!

But I’m aware that most people don’t work like that. Someone can be attracted to me and like fucking me and not want to fuck me right this second. My awareness of this phenomenon is mostly academic, though, because I still haven’t gotten past the part where I feel like it means something whenever someone doesn’t want to have sex with me (e.g. I’m a troll and not worth touching). I know that’s (usually) not it; it usually has nothing to do with me. I hope. But it’s hard not to take rejection personally.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think I’ve ever had a relationship with someone who quite matched my ridiculous sex drive. It comes close, sure. There was even a period there while I was seeing Edwin where I had no sex drive at all due to a health condition, but before and after that my sex drive outstripped his, though probably not by much. But sometimes it’s a huge problem, a deal-breaking problem. Not because I want to dump you if you can’t service me seventeen times a day, but because I genuinely start thinking you want to dump me if we’re not having regular sex.

Sometimes sex drives seem hopelessly unbalanced, though. Sometimes you just never seem to have any sex. I’ve been in this situation a time or two, and I can’t deal with it. I cannot be in an exclusive relationship that provides no orgasms. It’s not even a conscious weighing of pros and cons; it’s a bare and grimy fact. I can’t sustain it. I feel completely uninteresting and unloved. And if  I’m not getting sex from the person I’m with, I’d damn well better be welcome to pursue it further afield.

Guys seem excited, intrigued, when they begin to discover my sex drive. There’s so much promise there:  never having to feel like a supplicant to get laid, being able to count rather than gamble on having sex, not worrying if she’s into it or not, trying new things because the basic needs are finally there, satisfied. It can be a bright, shiny lure, a woman’s nymphomania. But I wonder if it doesn’t become tiresome for them after a while. Even if I never say a word, does it seem like just sitting there, my body, a pleasure-greedy monster, is somehow demanding things? It might get to be a source of stress after a while, and that’s not exactly the sex amusement park I’m pitching in the beginning. It’s more like, well, working at an amusement park.

*I’m assuming this person is a woman because of the “other women” reference in the confession, but I apologize if I’m incorrect.

(image source)

Share/Save