Podcast appearances and mentions of billie joel

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E News: The Oscars were last night, Actors and sex scenes, and Billie Joel fell... Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Lapsed catholic woman finds need to confess. By MarthaMcKinley - Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. I'm driving back to see my priest, from the college parish.  Yeah, this catholic girl needs deliverance from some major guilt. No, let's see; how many years has it been? It hit me yesterday, as Robbie & I were driving home. Oh, Gawd! Oh Gawd!Why shouldn't I worry? This probably changes things. No. It definitely changes things! Every thing. I had sex with Bart, a married man. Get it, you rash brain. I'm a married woman who just had sex with another woman's husband. And not simply another woman, but one of my friends. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't. There we were. Robbie was driving. I glanced over at Robbie, driving us home, tapping on the steering wheel and belting out the words to Billie Joel's Only the Good Die Young coming over the radio. “You Catholic girls start much too late.” Did Billy Joel know, too? The irony of it all. I was one of them: a graduate eight years ago of St. Margaret's Academy, an all girls' high school run by the Sisters of Notre Dame. In my four years there, I had had negligible experience with boys-just a handful of dances in the gym at the neighboring Catholic boys' school. I never had a boyfriend. I was never even confident enough in myself to flirt, for I never found the girl looking back at me in the mirror to be anything but plain. In college, no one had even asked me out until my junior year when Robbie did. I was so flummoxed, so flattered, so sure it must be a charity act that I spent the next two years at Macalester in perpetual gratitude, satisfying his every need. And right after graduation, with a BFA in painting, Miss flat chested and shy, but virgin no more Mary Johnson married Mister handsome, self-assured, going places Robbie Dwyer. “I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints…” he sang, glancing over at me, suggestively. Did he do it, too? Did he have sex with Robyn in the hot tub after Bart and I got out? It was entirely possible. In the four years since we were married, he had confessed to at least a half dozen women who turned him on. The Swedish lab tech at work with the impossibly long lashes. The buxom Australian hostess at the Sunshine Factory, our friday night watering hole. The neighbor from Kenya with the wide hips and muscular buttocks bulging out her short shorts as she dragged the sprinkler across the lawn. The Vietnamese manicurist, where I got my nails done, with the alluring-demurring smile on her face. My God, he had a fantasy girl from almost every continent. At least he was ecumenical. But had he ever acted on any of these urges…other than acting them out in our bedroom? For whatever reason, his fantasies turned me on. They were so absurd, and far from making me suspicious, when he brought them up in bed at night, I wanted to play along. I became the big-bosomed Aussie who smothered him with her tits, or the wide assed African who yanked on his hose. We would start assuming these roles in all seriousness, but soon be laughing so hard that Robbie would get massive, I would become sopping wet, and we'd fuck fast and furious until we came in great gasps. Then we would kiss and hug, saying all those wonderful words of love to each other, before falling asleep entwined. You know, it's amazing when you find yourself. All my scholarly life I had struggled with reading, writing essays, taking multiple-choice tests. But one thing I loved to do-and was good at-was rendering landscapes in pastel: layering wheat fields with raw sienna, coating barns and silos in brilliant cad red and alizarin crimson, foliating giant cottonwoods with varying shades of sap green, and stretching cobalt shadows across lawns and patios, bending them up walls of grand white farmhouses. I guess, in retrospect, it was how I sublimated my sexuality as a teenager. Years later, post art school-and after having given up on Catholicism-I discovered the co-existence of the creative impulse and drive for sexual gratification. It was then that my artistic successes began. People seemed to respond passionately to my new work. Collectors bought four, five, or six of my pieces. Each new series-the Dakotas, the Mississippi-won me acclaim at venues in Minneapolis, Santa Fe, Denver, and Chicago. I almost couldn't make enough for all the enthusiastic gallery owners. The result was gaining a measure of confidence, not only in art, but in love, which I had formerly never known, and which seemed so natural for others, like Robbie, Bart, and Robyn. Oh my God, I forgot about Robyn, the red-haired nurse-midwife whose house we were just leaving. Robbie fantasized the most about that little spitfire-at least, she's the one who seemed to augment his cock the greatest. I remember his last “Robyn dream,” a mere week ago: he and she were wrestling at the pond's edge after they emerged from a skinny dip on a sultry afternoon. They had started slinging playful insults at one another, until one literally slung a handful of mud, at which point the real fun began. Soon they were coated with a burnt sienna glaze and needing to go back into the water to wash each other off. It made sense, that fanciful notion of his. Water was their thing. Robyn got covered in amniotic fluid when her patient's “water” broke, and Robbie worked as a field biologist with lake flora and fauna. Two science types, always with liquid things to talk about. We had left them in their element, soaking in the hot tub, when Bart and I got out to look at one of his new pastel paintings-our element. Robbie drummed on the steering wheel. “You know that only the good die young…Tell you baby…Only the good die young…” I was feeling really clammy now. What if he and Robyn did fuck in the hot tub? Would that be better-for me? After all, if he did it, why couldn't I? Or… did it spell the end of our marriage? Were we going to become one of those pairs of swinging couples whose relationship divided along fault lines? Little things that once seemed endearing qualities-my need to have everything in its place at home-would become an annoyance to him and an excuse for fleeing to Robyn. Or his insistence in correcting my retelling of a mutual experience-that I formerly had allowed with amusement-would become the hurt driving me to Bart and the consolation of his touch. Jesus, what have I done? What have we done? We? Maybe we didn't do anything. Maybe only I did? And Robbie's trust in me will be shattered forever. I reached over to touch his head, to pull my fingers through his dark, dark umber hair, with waves as luscious as my grassy prairies at sunset. He looked over and smiled, his gaze penetrating my eyes briefly before it returned to the road. “I love when you do that, Georgia,” he teased, using the name of the artist, Georgia O'Keeffe, whom I had been the most influenced by in college. He hadn't fucked Robyn after all. Great. Now I'm the fucker. “I love doing that,” I replied. “You know how much I crave your textures!” Did I sound like the same me? Could he tell anything from the dampness of my fingers? “We'll be home in ten minutes,” he proclaimed. "Can't wait to be in bed with you.“ Suddenly feeling queasy, I replied, “Are you wide awake? I'm so tired, I think I'm going to close my eyes for a bit.” “I'm fine. Another good song!" And he was off, singing in perfect pitch, "But you gotta keep your head up, oh-oh, and you can let your hair down, eh-eh…” Maybe he's too exuberant? I bet he did do it? Do it. Do it. Did I really do it? Did we? Bart and I? Do it? Oh, Father Duffy, it's times like these when I miss those confession sessions… …Bart and I had dried off in front of his fireplace. The bromine from the hot tub was so strong we had taken turns rinsing off in the shower. With towels wrapped around us, we ascended the stairs to his studio and his magnificent nudes. If I relished the feel of textures through my fingers, my eyes delighted in the virtual touch of the skin tones in his paintings: strokes of raw sienna melding into caput mortuum, Indian red into purple violet and Thalo blue. His pastels had been blended with infinite patience, layer upon layer of pigment to create arm, chest, torso, groin, giving the effect of a radiance emanating from within. For someone not in possession of the endowment, he painted the most sensuous breasts-with thick areolas and erect nipples-seemingly emerging from the paper, begging to be sucked. I touched his arm to point out, on a nearby easel, the pair of lovers he was finishing, a man standing behind a woman, their hands holding five passion fruits against her chest. Excitedly, I inquired as to how he got her skin to glow with such warmth of golden ochre and crimson. He nestled my elbow in his palm as he eased me toward the painting and explained his artistic process. It was fun having another artist to talk with, to puzzle out problems of color and value, to compare favorite painters and art philosophies. In college, I had been so head over heals involved with Robbie, that I did my course work, rushed back to the dorm to be with him, and didn't give myself the time to make friends, let alone hang out with established teacher-artists in the art department. My BFA degree had landed me a graphic arts job with Minnesota Life, a glossy recreation magazine, and I spent over a year doing computer artwork, but again, no real artist contacts-and no art opportunities. When my school loans were nearly repaid, and Robbie was making enough for both of us to live on, I went back to painting with pastels. Within two years, I was showing in the Twin Cities; then, six months later, in three other major metropolitan areas. That experience brought me into contact with other artisans, most of them women, all of us doing different subjects. We exhibited together on occasion, got together for group-show receptions, but I never really developed an artistic kinship with any painter-until I met Bart. He leaned into me as we conversed, and I maintained our inertia by pressing back. He took my left hand in his, and slipped his right arm around my back, supporting me as we talked about his lovers' faces; the aura of contemplation; the mysteries of connection, communion, and commitment. I told him how much I liked the piece, and he hugged me with appreciation. And that's when we should have stopped. I could have inquired about the adjacent painting, the woman with the large guava facing the viewer and the man turning away with his smaller one. But I didn't. His hug felt so good. As did the wine, our soak in the hot tub, my newly-found confidence. We rotated toward each other. He brought his lips to mine, and, rather than turn to accept his kiss on my cheek, I met him full on with my own. As our embrace progressed, intoxicatingly, I encircled his lanky waist and felt our towels drop away. With his manliness expanding against my belly and his hand raising tingles up my spine, I devoured his lower lip, squeaking a little in excitement when I felt his tongue enter my mouth. With both hands he lifted up my tiny breasts, his fingers running over my nipples, as ripe as his painted ones, then pulled each with gentle traction, making them ache all the more. I moved off his mouth, and began kissing his chest, lightly brushing the russet hairs with my lips in an ever-expanding oval. Initially passing over his nipples, I returned to suck each to hardness and heard him groan as I bit down on them tenderly. His finger pads moved down my spine to buttocks, backs of thigh, up to hipbones, and, twisting his hands around, his finger nails grazed across to my pussy tuft and up my abdomen to my back again, in a repeating hypnotic loop of arousal. When my tongue repaid his kindness, creating a saliva trail down his midline, my cheek butted into his erection. I turned deftly toward the large head, now deeply violet and glowing as hot as his figures' skin tones. Clumsily, we maneuvered our entangled selves to his model stand, and found our way to sitting upon the shag carpet remnant atop the platform, my mouth locked around him, my juices oozing into the rug. His hand found my slot, and as I drew my teeth up and over his rim, I felt his fingers close around my clit, pinching it rhythmically to our breathing. My shrieks of pleasure were stifled by taking more of his cock deeper in my throat, and, as I rocked onto his hand, he began thrusting into my mouth. “I'm gonna come,” he whispered, urgently. Having climaxed once already, and about to scream again, I was fully prepared to grant him his pleasure. Within seconds a hot bolus shot into my mouth, and this time I gurgled with delight as his flood of warmth quieted my cries. One hand circled my head, his fingers pushing through my perspiring hair. The other, perfumed by my cunt-flower, was rubbed against cheek, neck, and shoulder, all the while he praised my beauty in muffled tones. I regained my resting breathing tempo, but all I could mumble was, “Wonderful, wonderful,” as his cock slowly deflated in my mouth. “You guys up there?” Robbie had hollered from the bottom of the stairs. “Just gazing at some nudes,” Bart had called back, so nonchalantly, I thought that perhaps I had been dreaming all the while. But of course I wasn't. Bart and I had hurriedly wrapped our towels around us. He went ahead of me down the stairs, as I ducked into their bathroom to do a bidet-cleansing of my mouth, then joined everyone below to get dressed and prepare for our departure. “We're home,” announced Robbie. “Let's get right to bed. I love it when you're brominated.” I awoke from one nightmare to go back into what I feared was another. What Robbie pronounced was true. Being brominated meant that by soaking in the hot tub, I was disinfected everywhere, and his tongue could explore my private place with relatively impunity. Any other time, his suggestion would have made me forgo my nightly mouth care, but this evening, I delayed our entry into bed by flossing and brushing-with lots of toothpaste. That would cover up any telltale tastes, but I didn't know if the delay would allow my brain to become re-engaged in love making. Robbie and I have been very honest with each other. Well, I felt I have been completely honest, and I trusted full revelations would have been forthcoming from him. So as we pulled the sheets over our nakednesses, I wondered if I should bare all? “Do I tell him,” I asked myself? Did I want him to tell me-if there was anything to tell? What I knew more than anything was that I needed to have Robbie inside me right now. I had made a terrible mistake, but I needed to be loved by him for who I was-his imperfect wife. The one he comes home to. The one he treasures. The one to him, for all her faults, is the most important woman in the whole world. That's the way I felt about him, after all. My decision was made by default. He began to kiss me on my mouth, his hands roaming over my breasts, his warmth surrounding me, making me forget all about the tryst of two hours prior. I felt wholly consumed by this man, desired in a way I hadn't felt before. He was possessed it seemed, and he ravaged me with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, gnawing on my neck muscles, biting my nipples, tonguing deeply into my belly button as his fingers poked into my buttocks, scraped down my outer thighs and stroked back up the fronts. His rigidity pressed against me, but I wasn't about to let this end too quickly. I kissed him back. Roughly. Biting his lip, his chin, then along jaw bone to ear lobe. He writhed with the discomfort, but moaned in pleasure, calling out, “Mary Johnson, I love you, love you.” In a trice he was upon me, kissing me with abandon. I carved my nails down his backside, and his tempo accelerated. “Fuck me, Robbie! Fuck me hard!!” I urged. As I gripped his flanks, he pounded me, rocking our bed, the headboard cracking like a sledgehammer against the wall. In a voice an octave higher, I began to whine, inhaling sharply to fill my chest, about to explode into an earsplitting orgasm, when Robbie stopped. Pulled out. Rolled me over. “What the…?” “I need you completely tonight, M.J. All of you.” And he separated my ass cheeks and began nibbling that tender flesh around my anus, which drove me into the pre-ecstasy shudders. I knew what was coming next: his tongue would dive deeply into me, and I would light up our room with carmine, magenta, and cerulean lightning bolts, before flooding the bedsheets with a cloudburst from my womb. And he did. And so did I. I screamed and screamed. When I was sated and the bed soaked, he turned me over and had his way with me, and I came for a fifth or sixth time-but who's counting when your man is shouting into your ear and filling your vaginal cup with the most exquisite of liqueurs. As we lay aside each other in the warm puddle of us, both sweating from the physical effort, he professed just how much he cared for me. I knew exactly what he meant: I couldn't imagine loving another being more. Well, yes I could. With his hand moving over my hair, and warm exhalations against my cheek, he offered, “M.J., I got something to tell you.” Sighing in relief, I answered, “And I got something to tell you, too.” Which leads me to say; Bless me father; for I have sinned. By MarthaMcKinley for Literotica

Lapsed catholic woman finds need to confess. By MarthaMcKinley - Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. I'm driving back to see my priest, from the college parish.  Yeah, this catholic girl needs deliverance from some major guilt. No, let's see; how many years has it been? It hit me yesterday, as Robbie & I were driving home. Oh, Gawd! Oh Gawd!Why shouldn't I worry? This probably changes things. No. It definitely changes things! Every thing. I had sex with Bart, a married man. Get it, you rash brain. I'm a married woman who just had sex with another woman's husband. And not simply another woman, but one of my friends. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't. There we were. Robbie was driving. I glanced over at Robbie, driving us home, tapping on the steering wheel and belting out the words to Billie Joel's Only the Good Die Young coming over the radio. “You Catholic girls start much too late.” Did Billy Joel know, too? The irony of it all. I was one of them: a graduate eight years ago of St. Margaret's Academy, an all girls' high school run by the Sisters of Notre Dame. In my four years there, I had had negligible experience with boys-just a handful of dances in the gym at the neighboring Catholic boys' school. I never had a boyfriend. I was never even confident enough in myself to flirt, for I never found the girl looking back at me in the mirror to be anything but plain. In college, no one had even asked me out until my junior year when Robbie did. I was so flummoxed, so flattered, so sure it must be a charity act that I spent the next two years at Macalester in perpetual gratitude, satisfying his every need. And right after graduation, with a BFA in painting, Miss flat chested and shy, but virgin no more Mary Johnson married Mister handsome, self-assured, going places Robbie Dwyer. “I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints…” he sang, glancing over at me, suggestively. Did he do it, too? Did he have sex with Robyn in the hot tub after Bart and I got out? It was entirely possible. In the four years since we were married, he had confessed to at least a half dozen women who turned him on. The Swedish lab tech at work with the impossibly long lashes. The buxom Australian hostess at the Sunshine Factory, our friday night watering hole. The neighbor from Kenya with the wide hips and muscular buttocks bulging out her short shorts as she dragged the sprinkler across the lawn. The Vietnamese manicurist, where I got my nails done, with the alluring-demurring smile on her face. My God, he had a fantasy girl from almost every continent. At least he was ecumenical. But had he ever acted on any of these urges…other than acting them out in our bedroom? For whatever reason, his fantasies turned me on. They were so absurd, and far from making me suspicious, when he brought them up in bed at night, I wanted to play along. I became the big-bosomed Aussie who smothered him with her tits, or the wide assed African who yanked on his hose. We would start assuming these roles in all seriousness, but soon be laughing so hard that Robbie would get massive, I would become sopping wet, and we'd fuck fast and furious until we came in great gasps. Then we would kiss and hug, saying all those wonderful words of love to each other, before falling asleep entwined. You know, it's amazing when you find yourself. All my scholarly life I had struggled with reading, writing essays, taking multiple-choice tests. But one thing I loved to do-and was good at-was rendering landscapes in pastel: layering wheat fields with raw sienna, coating barns and silos in brilliant cad red and alizarin crimson, foliating giant cottonwoods with varying shades of sap green, and stretching cobalt shadows across lawns and patios, bending them up walls of grand white farmhouses. I guess, in retrospect, it was how I sublimated my sexuality as a teenager. Years later, post art school-and after having given up on Catholicism-I discovered the co-existence of the creative impulse and drive for sexual gratification. It was then that my artistic successes began. People seemed to respond passionately to my new work. Collectors bought four, five, or six of my pieces. Each new series-the Dakotas, the Mississippi-won me acclaim at venues in Minneapolis, Santa Fe, Denver, and Chicago. I almost couldn't make enough for all the enthusiastic gallery owners. The result was gaining a measure of confidence, not only in art, but in love, which I had formerly never known, and which seemed so natural for others, like Robbie, Bart, and Robyn. Oh my God, I forgot about Robyn, the red-haired nurse-midwife whose house we were just leaving. Robbie fantasized the most about that little spitfire-at least, she's the one who seemed to augment his cock the greatest. I remember his last “Robyn dream,” a mere week ago: he and she were wrestling at the pond's edge after they emerged from a skinny dip on a sultry afternoon. They had started slinging playful insults at one another, until one literally slung a handful of mud, at which point the real fun began. Soon they were coated with a burnt sienna glaze and needing to go back into the water to wash each other off. It made sense, that fanciful notion of his. Water was their thing. Robyn got covered in amniotic fluid when her patient's “water” broke, and Robbie worked as a field biologist with lake flora and fauna. Two science types, always with liquid things to talk about. We had left them in their element, soaking in the hot tub, when Bart and I got out to look at one of his new pastel paintings-our element. Robbie drummed on the steering wheel. “You know that only the good die young…Tell you baby…Only the good die young…” I was feeling really clammy now. What if he and Robyn did fuck in the hot tub? Would that be better-for me? After all, if he did it, why couldn't I? Or… did it spell the end of our marriage? Were we going to become one of those pairs of swinging couples whose relationship divided along fault lines? Little things that once seemed endearing qualities-my need to have everything in its place at home-would become an annoyance to him and an excuse for fleeing to Robyn. Or his insistence in correcting my retelling of a mutual experience-that I formerly had allowed with amusement-would become the hurt driving me to Bart and the consolation of his touch. Jesus, what have I done? What have we done? We? Maybe we didn't do anything. Maybe only I did? And Robbie's trust in me will be shattered forever. I reached over to touch his head, to pull my fingers through his dark, dark umber hair, with waves as luscious as my grassy prairies at sunset. He looked over and smiled, his gaze penetrating my eyes briefly before it returned to the road. “I love when you do that, Georgia,” he teased, using the name of the artist, Georgia O'Keeffe, whom I had been the most influenced by in college. He hadn't fucked Robyn after all. Great. Now I'm the fucker. “I love doing that,” I replied. “You know how much I crave your textures!” Did I sound like the same me? Could he tell anything from the dampness of my fingers? “We'll be home in ten minutes,” he proclaimed. "Can't wait to be in bed with you.“ Suddenly feeling queasy, I replied, “Are you wide awake? I'm so tired, I think I'm going to close my eyes for a bit.” “I'm fine. Another good song!" And he was off, singing in perfect pitch, "But you gotta keep your head up, oh-oh, and you can let your hair down, eh-eh…” Maybe he's too exuberant? I bet he did do it? Do it. Do it. Did I really do it? Did we? Bart and I? Do it? Oh, Father Duffy, it's times like these when I miss those confession sessions… …Bart and I had dried off in front of his fireplace. The bromine from the hot tub was so strong we had taken turns rinsing off in the shower. With towels wrapped around us, we ascended the stairs to his studio and his magnificent nudes. If I relished the feel of textures through my fingers, my eyes delighted in the virtual touch of the skin tones in his paintings: strokes of raw sienna melding into caput mortuum, Indian red into purple violet and Thalo blue. His pastels had been blended with infinite patience, layer upon layer of pigment to create arm, chest, torso, groin, giving the effect of a radiance emanating from within. For someone not in possession of the endowment, he painted the most sensuous breasts-with thick areolas and erect nipples-seemingly emerging from the paper, begging to be sucked. I touched his arm to point out, on a nearby easel, the pair of lovers he was finishing, a man standing behind a woman, their hands holding five passion fruits against her chest. Excitedly, I inquired as to how he got her skin to glow with such warmth of golden ochre and crimson. He nestled my elbow in his palm as he eased me toward the painting and explained his artistic process. It was fun having another artist to talk with, to puzzle out problems of color and value, to compare favorite painters and art philosophies. In college, I had been so head over heals involved with Robbie, that I did my course work, rushed back to the dorm to be with him, and didn't give myself the time to make friends, let alone hang out with established teacher-artists in the art department. My BFA degree had landed me a graphic arts job with Minnesota Life, a glossy recreation magazine, and I spent over a year doing computer artwork, but again, no real artist contacts-and no art opportunities. When my school loans were nearly repaid, and Robbie was making enough for both of us to live on, I went back to painting with pastels. Within two years, I was showing in the Twin Cities; then, six months later, in three other major metropolitan areas. That experience brought me into contact with other artisans, most of them women, all of us doing different subjects. We exhibited together on occasion, got together for group-show receptions, but I never really developed an artistic kinship with any painter-until I met Bart. He leaned into me as we conversed, and I maintained our inertia by pressing back. He took my left hand in his, and slipped his right arm around my back, supporting me as we talked about his lovers' faces; the aura of contemplation; the mysteries of connection, communion, and commitment. I told him how much I liked the piece, and he hugged me with appreciation. And that's when we should have stopped. I could have inquired about the adjacent painting, the woman with the large guava facing the viewer and the man turning away with his smaller one. But I didn't. His hug felt so good. As did the wine, our soak in the hot tub, my newly-found confidence. We rotated toward each other. He brought his lips to mine, and, rather than turn to accept his kiss on my cheek, I met him full on with my own. As our embrace progressed, intoxicatingly, I encircled his lanky waist and felt our towels drop away. With his manliness expanding against my belly and his hand raising tingles up my spine, I devoured his lower lip, squeaking a little in excitement when I felt his tongue enter my mouth. With both hands he lifted up my tiny breasts, his fingers running over my nipples, as ripe as his painted ones, then pulled each with gentle traction, making them ache all the more. I moved off his mouth, and began kissing his chest, lightly brushing the russet hairs with my lips in an ever-expanding oval. Initially passing over his nipples, I returned to suck each to hardness and heard him groan as I bit down on them tenderly. His finger pads moved down my spine to buttocks, backs of thigh, up to hipbones, and, twisting his hands around, his finger nails grazed across to my pussy tuft and up my abdomen to my back again, in a repeating hypnotic loop of arousal. When my tongue repaid his kindness, creating a saliva trail down his midline, my cheek butted into his erection. I turned deftly toward the large head, now deeply violet and glowing as hot as his figures' skin tones. Clumsily, we maneuvered our entangled selves to his model stand, and found our way to sitting upon the shag carpet remnant atop the platform, my mouth locked around him, my juices oozing into the rug. His hand found my slot, and as I drew my teeth up and over his rim, I felt his fingers close around my clit, pinching it rhythmically to our breathing. My shrieks of pleasure were stifled by taking more of his cock deeper in my throat, and, as I rocked onto his hand, he began thrusting into my mouth. “I'm gonna come,” he whispered, urgently. Having climaxed once already, and about to scream again, I was fully prepared to grant him his pleasure. Within seconds a hot bolus shot into my mouth, and this time I gurgled with delight as his flood of warmth quieted my cries. One hand circled my head, his fingers pushing through my perspiring hair. The other, perfumed by my cunt-flower, was rubbed against cheek, neck, and shoulder, all the while he praised my beauty in muffled tones. I regained my resting breathing tempo, but all I could mumble was, “Wonderful, wonderful,” as his cock slowly deflated in my mouth. “You guys up there?” Robbie had hollered from the bottom of the stairs. “Just gazing at some nudes,” Bart had called back, so nonchalantly, I thought that perhaps I had been dreaming all the while. But of course I wasn't. Bart and I had hurriedly wrapped our towels around us. He went ahead of me down the stairs, as I ducked into their bathroom to do a bidet-cleansing of my mouth, then joined everyone below to get dressed and prepare for our departure. “We're home,” announced Robbie. “Let's get right to bed. I love it when you're brominated.” I awoke from one nightmare to go back into what I feared was another. What Robbie pronounced was true. Being brominated meant that by soaking in the hot tub, I was disinfected everywhere, and his tongue could explore my private place with relatively impunity. Any other time, his suggestion would have made me forgo my nightly mouth care, but this evening, I delayed our entry into bed by flossing and brushing-with lots of toothpaste. That would cover up any telltale tastes, but I didn't know if the delay would allow my brain to become re-engaged in love making. Robbie and I have been very honest with each other. Well, I felt I have been completely honest, and I trusted full revelations would have been forthcoming from him. So as we pulled the sheets over our nakednesses, I wondered if I should bare all? “Do I tell him,” I asked myself? Did I want him to tell me-if there was anything to tell? What I knew more than anything was that I needed to have Robbie inside me right now. I had made a terrible mistake, but I needed to be loved by him for who I was-his imperfect wife. The one he comes home to. The one he treasures. The one to him, for all her faults, is the most important woman in the whole world. That's the way I felt about him, after all. My decision was made by default. He began to kiss me on my mouth, his hands roaming over my breasts, his warmth surrounding me, making me forget all about the tryst of two hours prior. I felt wholly consumed by this man, desired in a way I hadn't felt before. He was possessed it seemed, and he ravaged me with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, gnawing on my neck muscles, biting my nipples, tonguing deeply into my belly button as his fingers poked into my buttocks, scraped down my outer thighs and stroked back up the fronts. His rigidity pressed against me, but I wasn't about to let this end too quickly. I kissed him back. Roughly. Biting his lip, his chin, then along jaw bone to ear lobe. He writhed with the discomfort, but moaned in pleasure, calling out, “Mary Johnson, I love you, love you.” In a trice he was upon me, kissing me with abandon. I carved my nails down his backside, and his tempo accelerated. “Fuck me, Robbie! Fuck me hard!!” I urged. As I gripped his flanks, he pounded me, rocking our bed, the headboard cracking like a sledgehammer against the wall. In a voice an octave higher, I began to whine, inhaling sharply to fill my chest, about to explode into an earsplitting orgasm, when Robbie stopped. Pulled out. Rolled me over. “What the…?” “I need you completely tonight, M.J. All of you.” And he separated my ass cheeks and began nibbling that tender flesh around my anus, which drove me into the pre-ecstasy shudders. I knew what was coming next: his tongue would dive deeply into me, and I would light up our room with carmine, magenta, and cerulean lightning bolts, before flooding the bedsheets with a cloudburst from my womb. And he did. And so did I. I screamed and screamed. When I was sated and the bed soaked, he turned me over and had his way with me, and I came for a fifth or sixth time-but who's counting when your man is shouting into your ear and filling your vaginal cup with the most exquisite of liqueurs. As we lay aside each other in the warm puddle of us, both sweating from the physical effort, he professed just how much he cared for me. I knew exactly what he meant: I couldn't imagine loving another being more. Well, yes I could. With his hand moving over my hair, and warm exhalations against my cheek, he offered, “M.J., I got something to tell you.” Sighing in relief, I answered, “And I got something to tell you, too.” Which leads me to say; Bless me father; for I have sinned. By MarthaMcKinley for Literotica

In this episode we discuss "We Didn't Start the Fire", a song that Billy Joel himself is not a fan of. Do we agree with him? Take a listen to find out.

We hear a patient's perspective on healthcare from Jean Grover on this episode of the Perspectives on Healthcare Podcast with Rob Oliver. This interview is the 60th in the patient's perspective interview Marathon series. Jean is from Rochester New York. As a person with a disability, she brings a unique background as a survivor of thalidomide. Her insights into healthcare are spot on. As you listen to this interview, keep in mind that Rob Oliver had been interviewing people for over 16 straight hours without a break. This shows up when he tries to talk about Billie Joel's album “We Didn't Start the Fire” and accidentally calls it “We Didn't Fart the Stire.” Be sure you are subscribed to the podcast so that you receive the insights of the varied guests and can appreciate Rob's sense of humor. Here are 3 things that stood out as Jean Grover shared a patient's perspective on healthcare: Within the healthcare environment there needs to be accessibility. Equipment, such as adjustable exam tables, help ensure equal access to quality care for people with varied limitations. Quality healthcare comes from practitioners to listen attentively, do their homework, and consider each patient's unique circumstances. Medical professionals can improve the quality of healthcare by becoming better listeners and enhancing their people skills. Rob Oliver is “Your Keynote Speaker”, addressing quality healthcare, resilience and excellence in adversity. To book Rob Oliver as a speaker at your next event visit: http://www.yourkeynotespeaker.com Be sure to subscribe to the podcast on your favorite platform: http://www.perspectivesonhealthcare.com/subscribe Follow Rob Oliver and Perspectives on Healthcare on social media: Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/yourkeynoter LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/company/yourkeynoter LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/in/imroboliver Disclaimer: All opinions expressed by guests on the Perspectives on Healthcare Podcast are solely the opinion of the guest. They are not to be misconstrued as medical diagnoses or medical advice. Please consult with a licensed medical professional before attempting any of the treatments suggested.

We hear a patient's perspective on healthcare from Jean Grover on this episode of the Perspectives on Healthcare Podcast with Rob Oliver. This interview is the 60th in the patient's perspective interview Marathon series. Jean is from Rochester New York. As a person with a disability, she brings a unique background as a survivor of thalidomide. Her insights into healthcare are spot on. As you listen to this interview, keep in mind that Rob Oliver had been interviewing people for over 16 straight hours without a break. This shows up when he tries to talk about Billie Joel's album “We Didn't Start the Fire” and accidentally calls it “We Didn't Fart the Stire.” Be sure you are subscribed to the podcast so that you receive the insights of the varied guests and can appreciate Rob's sense of humor. Here are 3 things that stood out as Jean Grover shared a patient's perspective on healthcare: Within the healthcare environment there needs to be accessibility. Equipment, such as adjustable exam tables, help ensure equal access to quality care for people with varied limitations. Quality healthcare comes from practitioners to listen attentively, do their homework, and consider each patient's unique circumstances. Medical professionals can improve the quality of healthcare by becoming better listeners and enhancing their people skills. Rob Oliver is “Your Keynote Speaker”, addressing quality healthcare, resilience and excellence in adversity. To book Rob Oliver as a speaker at your next event visit: http://www.yourkeynotespeaker.com Be sure to subscribe to the podcast on your favorite platform: http://www.perspectivesonhealthcare.com/subscribe Follow Rob Oliver and Perspectives on Healthcare on social media: Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/yourkeynoter LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/company/yourkeynoter LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/in/imroboliver Disclaimer: All opinions expressed by guests on the Perspectives on Healthcare Podcast are solely the opinion of the guest. They are not to be misconstrued as medical diagnoses or medical advice. Please consult with a licensed medical professional before attempting any of the treatments suggested.

Seccion de Jorge CastellanosCanciónTurn the Lights Back On.- Billie Joel

- Une rue David Bowie inaugurée à Paris - Stevie Nicks, Sting et Billie Joel ensemble sur scène

Les nouveautés du jour : - Lewis Capaldi "Strangers" - Liam Gallagher & John Squire "Just Another Rainbow" Le journal de la musique : - Une rue David Bowie inaugurée à Paris - L'hologramme d'Elvis Presley arrive à Londres - Stevie Nicks, Sting et Billie Joel ensemble sur scène Les albums les plus attendus de 2024 Les classiques du jour : - Linkin Park "What I've Done" - Blondie - "One Way Or Another" Le live du jour : Paul McCartney "Band On The Run (Live)" ("Tripping The Live Fantastic") A suivre : The Lemon Twigs "My Golden Years"

De ROBERT FISHER, ANDY WARHOL, FELLINI y ANGEL NIETO a JUAN XXIII, MAFALDA, TWIGGY o el lanzamiento de BARBIE De QUEEN, MAROON 5 y POLICE a BOYZ II MEN, PROCOL HARUM, los TEEN TOPS, FOUR SEASONS y la ORQUESTA ARAGON De DONNA SUMMER a BOBBY GENTRY, OLGA GUILLOT  y LULU De DAVID BOWIE y BILLIE JOEL a BOBBY VINTON, CHAYANE y JUAN GABRIEL De “LOS DUKES DEL PELIGRO” al “INVESTIGADOR SUBMARINO” --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/genteenambiente/support

In this episode of the Innersleeve music podcast, Joe and Cassius are joined by Samantha Fish and Jesse Dayton! We discuss their new collaboration album ‘Death Wish Blues' out May 19th, how they met and what exactly is Country Blues.Additionally, we discuss Sum 41 announcing their farewell, and how Billie Joel gives back to his fans and we react to your comments from theSoundMojo Community.Connect with Samantha & Jessehttps://www.samanthafish.com/https://www.jessedayton.com/Connect with SoundMojo:

This time on Vinyl Tap we'll listen to another important instrument in pop music.  As you know, Randy Bachman has a real passion for guitar… driving rhythm and hot solos are what he calls rock and roll. But often bands will include piano, organ, or keyboards to beef up their songs. On this podcast we'll hear some of the best in a lineup that includes Bruce Hornsby, The Guess Who, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Beatles, The Band, Little Richard, Elton John, Billie Joel and many more. This ain't your Grandma's parlour… the piano rocks this time on The Tap!

Lapsed catholic woman finds need to confess.By MarthaMcKinley - Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.I'm driving back to see my priest, from the college parish.  Yeah, this catholic girl needs deliverance from some major guilt. No, let's see; how many years has it been? It hit me yesterday, as Robbie & I were driving home. Oh, Gawd! Oh Gawd!Why shouldn't I worry? This probably changes things. No. It definitely changes things! Every thing. I had sex with Bart, a married man. Get it, you rash brain. I'm a married woman who just had sex with another woman's husband. And not simply another woman, but one of my friends. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't.There we were. Robbie was driving. I glanced over at Robbie, driving us home, tapping on the steering wheel and belting out the words to Billie Joel's Only the Good Die Young coming over the radio. “You Catholic girls start much too late.” Did Billy Joel know, too?The irony of it all. I was one of them: a graduate eight years ago of St. Margaret's Academy, an all girls' high school run by the Sisters of Notre Dame. In my four years there, I had had negligible experience with boys-just a handful of dances in the gym at the neighboring Catholic boys' school. I never had a boyfriend. I was never even confident enough in myself to flirt, for I never found the girl looking back at me in the mirror to be anything but plain.In college, no one had even asked me out until my junior year when Robbie did. I was so flummoxed, so flattered, so sure it must be a charity act that I spent the next two years at Macalester in perpetual gratitude, satisfying his every need. And right after graduation, with a BFA in painting, Miss flat chested and shy, but virgin no more Mary Johnson married Mister handsome, self-assured, going places Robbie Dwyer.“I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints…” he sang, glancing over at me, suggestively.Did he do it, too? Did he have sex with Robyn in the hot tub after Bart and I got out? It was entirely possible. In the four years since we were married, he had confessed to at least a half dozen women who turned him on. The Swedish lab tech at work with the impossibly long lashes. The buxom Australian hostess at the Sunshine Factory, our friday night watering hole. The neighbor from Kenya with the wide hips and muscular buttocks bulging out her short shorts as she dragged the sprinkler across the lawn. The Vietnamese manicurist, where I got my nails done, with the alluring-demurring smile on her face. My God, he had a fantasy girl from almost every continent. At least he was ecumenical.But had he ever acted on any of these urges…other than acting them out in our bedroom? For whatever reason, his fantasies turned me on. They were so absurd, and far from making me suspicious, when he brought them up in bed at night, I wanted to play along. I became the big-bosomed Aussie who smothered him with her tits, or the wide assed African who yanked on his hose. We would start assuming these roles in all seriousness, but soon be laughing so hard that Robbie would get massive, I would become sopping wet, and we'd fuck fast and furious until we came in great gasps. Then we would kiss and hug, saying all those wonderful words of love to each other, before falling asleep entwined.You know, it's amazing when you find yourself. All my scholarly life I had struggled with reading, writing essays, taking multiple-choice tests. But one thing I loved to do-and was good at-was rendering landscapes in pastel: layering wheat fields with raw sienna, coating barns and silos in brilliant cad red and alizarin crimson, foliating giant cottonwoods with varying shades of sap green, and stretching cobalt shadows across lawns and patios, bending them up walls of grand white farmhouses.I guess, in retrospect, it was how I sublimated my sexuality as a teenager. Years later, post art school-and after having given up on Catholicism-I discovered the co-existence of the creative impulse and drive for sexual gratification. It was then that my artistic successes began. People seemed to respond passionately to my new work. Collectors bought four, five, or six of my pieces. Each new series-the Dakotas, the Mississippi-won me acclaim at venues in Minneapolis, Santa Fe, Denver, and Chicago. I almost couldn't make enough for all the enthusiastic gallery owners. The result was gaining a measure of confidence, not only in art, but in love, which I had formerly never known, and which seemed so natural for others, like Robbie, Bart, and Robyn.Oh my God, I forgot about Robyn, the red-haired nurse-midwife whose house we were just leaving. Robbie fantasized the most about that little spitfire-at least, she's the one who seemed to augment his cock the greatest. I remember his last “Robyn dream,” a mere week ago: he and she were wrestling at the pond's edge after they emerged from a skinny dip on a sultry afternoon. They had started slinging playful insults at one another, until one literally slung a handful of mud, at which point the real fun began. Soon they were coated with a burnt sienna glaze and needing to go back into the water to wash each other off.It made sense, that fanciful notion of his. Water was their thing. Robyn got covered in amniotic fluid when her patient's “water” broke, and Robbie worked as a field biologist with lake flora and fauna. Two science types, always with liquid things to talk about. We had left them in their element, soaking in the hot tub, when Bart and I got out to look at one of his new pastel paintings-our element.Robbie drummed on the steering wheel. “You know that only the good die young…Tell you baby…Only the good die young…”I was feeling really clammy now. What if he and Robyn did fuck in the hot tub? Would that be better-for me? After all, if he did it, why couldn't I? Or… did it spell the end of our marriage? Were we going to become one of those pairs of swinging couples whose relationship divided along fault lines? Little things that once seemed endearing qualities-my need to have everything in its place at home-would become an annoyance to him and an excuse for fleeing to Robyn. Or his insistence in correcting my retelling of a mutual experience-that I formerly had allowed with amusement-would become the hurt driving me to Bart and the consolation of his touch.Jesus, what have I done? What have we done? We? Maybe we didn't do anything. Maybe only I did? And Robbie's trust in me will be shattered forever.I reached over to touch his head, to pull my fingers through his dark, dark umber hair, with waves as luscious as my grassy prairies at sunset. He looked over and smiled, his gaze penetrating my eyes briefly before it returned to the road. “I love when you do that, Georgia,” he teased, using the name of the artist, Georgia O'Keeffe, whom I had been the most influenced by in college.He hadn't fucked Robyn after all. Great. Now I'm the fucker.“I love doing that,” I replied. “You know how much I crave your textures!”Did I sound like the same me? Could he tell anything from the dampness of my fingers?“We'll be home in ten minutes,” he proclaimed. "Can't wait to be in bed with you.“Suddenly feeling queasy, I replied, “Are you wide awake? I'm so tired, I think I'm going to close my eyes for a bit.”“I'm fine. Another good song!“ And he was off, singing in perfect pitch, "But you gotta keep your head up, oh-oh, and you can let your hair down, eh-eh…”Maybe he's too exuberant? I bet he did do it?Do it.Do it.Did I really do it?Did we? Bart and I? Do it?Oh, Father Duffy, it's times like these when I miss those confession sessions……Bart and I had dried off in front of his fireplace. The bromine from the hot tub was so strong we had taken turns rinsing off in the shower. With towels wrapped around us, we ascended the stairs to his studio and his magnificent nudes. If I relished the feel of textures through my fingers, my eyes delighted in the virtual touch of the skin tones in his paintings: strokes of raw sienna melding into caput mortuum, Indian red into purple violet and Thalo blue. His pastels had been blended with infinite patience, layer upon layer of pigment to create arm, chest, torso, groin, giving the effect of a radiance emanating from within.For someone not in possession of the endowment, he painted the most sensuous breasts-with thick areolas and erect nipples-seemingly emerging from the paper, begging to be sucked.I touched his arm to point out, on a nearby easel, the pair of lovers he was finishing, a man standing behind a woman, their hands holding five passion fruits against her chest. Excitedly, I inquired as to how he got her skin to glow with such warmth of golden ochre and crimson. He nestled my elbow in his palm as he eased me toward the painting and explained his artistic process.It was fun having another artist to talk with, to puzzle out problems of color and value, to compare favorite painters and art philosophies. In college, I had been so head over heals involved with Robbie, that I did my course work, rushed back to the dorm to be with him, and didn't give myself the time to make friends, let alone hang out with established teacher-artists in the art department. My BFA degree had landed me a graphic arts job with Minnesota Life, a glossy recreation magazine, and I spent over a year doing computer artwork, but again, no real artist contacts-and no art opportunities. When my school loans were nearly repaid, and Robbie was making enough for both of us to live on, I went back to painting with pastels. Within two years, I was showing in the Twin Cities; then, six months later, in three other major metropolitan areas. That experience brought me into contact with other artisans, most of them women, all of us doing different subjects. We exhibited together on occasion, got together for group-show receptions, but I never really developed an artistic kinship with any painter-until I met Bart.He leaned into me as we conversed, and I maintained our inertia by pressing back. He took my left hand in his, and slipped his right arm around my back, supporting me as we talked about his lovers' faces; the aura of contemplation; the mysteries of connection, communion, and commitment.I told him how much I liked the piece, and he hugged me with appreciation. And that's when we should have stopped. I could have inquired about the adjacent painting, the woman with the large guava facing the viewer and the man turning away with his smaller one. But I didn't. His hug felt so good. As did the wine, our soak in the hot tub, my newly-found confidence.We rotated toward each other. He brought his lips to mine, and, rather than turn to accept his kiss on my cheek, I met him full on with my own. As our embrace progressed, intoxicatingly, I encircled his lanky waist and felt our towels drop away. With his manliness expanding against my belly and his hand raising tingles up my spine, I devoured his lower lip, squeaking a little in excitement when I felt his tongue enter my mouth.With both hands he lifted up my tiny breasts, his fingers running over my nipples, as ripe as his painted ones, then pulled each with gentle traction, making them ache all the more. I moved off his mouth, and began kissing his chest, lightly brushing the russet hairs with my lips in an ever-expanding oval. Initially passing over his nipples, I returned to suck each to hardness and heard him groan as I bit down on them tenderly.His finger pads moved down my spine to buttocks, backs of thigh, up to hipbones, and, twisting his hands around, his finger nails grazed across to my pussy tuft and up my abdomen to my back again, in a repeating hypnotic loop of arousal. When my tongue repaid his kindness, creating a saliva trail down his midline, my cheek butted into his erection. I turned deftly toward the large head, now deeply violet and glowing as hot as his figures' skin tones.Clumsily, we maneuvered our entangled selves to his model stand, and found our way to sitting upon the shag carpet remnant atop the platform, my mouth locked around him, my juices oozing into the rug. His hand found my slot, and as I drew my teeth up and over his rim, I felt his fingers close around my clit, pinching it rhythmically to our breathing. My shrieks of pleasure were stifled by taking more of his cock deeper in my throat, and, as I rocked onto his hand, he began thrusting into my mouth.“I'm gonna come,” he whispered, urgently.Having climaxed once already, and about to scream again, I was fully prepared to grant him his pleasure. Within seconds a hot bolus shot into my mouth, and this time I gurgled with delight as his flood of warmth quieted my cries.One hand circled my head, his fingers pushing through my perspiring hair. The other, perfumed by my cunt-flower, was rubbed against cheek, neck, and shoulder, all the while he praised my beauty in muffled tones. I regained my resting breathing tempo, but all I could mumble was, “Wonderful, wonderful,” as his cock slowly deflated in my mouth.“You guys up there?” Robbie had hollered from the bottom of the stairs.“Just gazing at some nudes,” Bart had called back, so nonchalantly, I thought that perhaps I had been dreaming all the while. But of course I wasn't.Bart and I had hurriedly wrapped our towels around us. He went ahead of me down the stairs, as I ducked into their bathroom to do a bidet-cleansing of my mouth, then joined everyone below to get dressed and prepare for our departure.“We're home,” announced Robbie. “Let's get right to bed. I love it when you're brominated.”I awoke from one nightmare to go back into what I feared was another. What Robbie pronounced was true. Being brominated meant that by soaking in the hot tub, I was disinfected everywhere, and his tongue could explore my private place with relatively impunity. Any other time, his suggestion would have made me forgo my nightly mouth care, but this evening, I delayed our entry into bed by flossing and brushing-with lots of toothpaste. That would cover up any telltale tastes, but I didn't know if the delay would allow my brain to become re-engaged in love making.Robbie and I have been very honest with each other. Well, I felt I have been completely honest, and I trusted full revelations would have been forthcoming from him. So as we pulled the sheets over our nakednesses, I wondered if I should bare all?“Do I tell him,” I asked myself? Did I want him to tell me-if there was anything to tell?What I knew more than anything was that I needed to have Robbie inside me right now. I had made a terrible mistake, but I needed to be loved by him for who I was-his imperfect wife. The one he comes home to. The one he treasures. The one to him, for all her faults, is the most important woman in the whole world. That's the way I felt about him, after all.My decision was made by default. He began to kiss me on my mouth, his hands roaming over my breasts, his warmth surrounding me, making me forget all about the tryst of two hours prior. I felt wholly consumed by this man, desired in a way I hadn't felt before. He was possessed it seemed, and he ravaged me with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, gnawing on my neck muscles, biting my nipples, tonguing deeply into my belly button as his fingers poked into my buttocks, scraped down my outer thighs and stroked back up the fronts.His rigidity pressed against me, but I wasn't about to let this end too quickly. I kissed him back. Roughly. Biting his lip, his chin, then along jaw bone to ear lobe.He writhed with the discomfort, but moaned in pleasure, calling out, “Mary Johnson, I love you, love you.”In a trice he was upon me, kissing me with abandon. I carved my nails down his backside, and his tempo accelerated.“Fuck me, Robbie! Fuck me hard!!” I urged.As I gripped his flanks, he pounded me, rocking our bed, the headboard cracking like a sledgehammer against the wall. In a voice an octave higher, I began to whine, inhaling sharply to fill my chest, about to explode into an earsplitting orgasm, when Robbie stopped. Pulled out. Rolled me over.“What the…?”“I need you completely tonight, M.J. All of you.”And he separated my ass cheeks and began nibbling that tender flesh around my anus, which drove me into the pre-ecstasy shudders. I knew what was coming next: his tongue would dive deeply into me, and I would light up our room with carmine, magenta, and cerulean lightning bolts, before flooding the bedsheets with a cloudburst from my womb.And he did. And so did I. I screamed and screamed. When I was sated and the bed soaked, he turned me over and had his way with me, and I came for a fifth or sixth time-but who's counting when your man is shouting into your ear and filling your vaginal cup with the most exquisite of liqueurs.As we lay aside each other in the warm puddle of us, both sweating from the physical effort, he professed just how much he cared for me. I knew exactly what he meant: I couldn't imagine loving another being more.Well, yes I could.With his hand moving over my hair, and warm exhalations against my cheek, he offered, “M.J., I got something to tell you.”Sighing in relief, I answered, “And I got something to tell you, too.”Which leads me to say; Bless me father; for I have sinned.By MarthaMcKinley for Literotica

Lapsed catholic woman finds need to confess.By MarthaMcKinley - Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.I'm driving back to see my priest, from the college parish.  Yeah, this catholic girl needs deliverance from some major guilt. No, let's see; how many years has it been? It hit me yesterday, as Robbie & I were driving home. Oh, Gawd! Oh Gawd!Why shouldn't I worry? This probably changes things. No. It definitely changes things! Every thing. I had sex with Bart, a married man. Get it, you rash brain. I'm a married woman who just had sex with another woman's husband. And not simply another woman, but one of my friends. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn't.There we were. Robbie was driving. I glanced over at Robbie, driving us home, tapping on the steering wheel and belting out the words to Billie Joel's Only the Good Die Young coming over the radio. “You Catholic girls start much too late.” Did Billy Joel know, too?The irony of it all. I was one of them: a graduate eight years ago of St. Margaret's Academy, an all girls' high school run by the Sisters of Notre Dame. In my four years there, I had had negligible experience with boys-just a handful of dances in the gym at the neighboring Catholic boys' school. I never had a boyfriend. I was never even confident enough in myself to flirt, for I never found the girl looking back at me in the mirror to be anything but plain.In college, no one had even asked me out until my junior year when Robbie did. I was so flummoxed, so flattered, so sure it must be a charity act that I spent the next two years at Macalester in perpetual gratitude, satisfying his every need. And right after graduation, with a BFA in painting, Miss flat chested and shy, but virgin no more Mary Johnson married Mister handsome, self-assured, going places Robbie Dwyer.“I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints…” he sang, glancing over at me, suggestively.Did he do it, too? Did he have sex with Robyn in the hot tub after Bart and I got out? It was entirely possible. In the four years since we were married, he had confessed to at least a half dozen women who turned him on. The Swedish lab tech at work with the impossibly long lashes. The buxom Australian hostess at the Sunshine Factory, our friday night watering hole. The neighbor from Kenya with the wide hips and muscular buttocks bulging out her short shorts as she dragged the sprinkler across the lawn. The Vietnamese manicurist, where I got my nails done, with the alluring-demurring smile on her face. My God, he had a fantasy girl from almost every continent. At least he was ecumenical.But had he ever acted on any of these urges…other than acting them out in our bedroom? For whatever reason, his fantasies turned me on. They were so absurd, and far from making me suspicious, when he brought them up in bed at night, I wanted to play along. I became the big-bosomed Aussie who smothered him with her tits, or the wide assed African who yanked on his hose. We would start assuming these roles in all seriousness, but soon be laughing so hard that Robbie would get massive, I would become sopping wet, and we'd fuck fast and furious until we came in great gasps. Then we would kiss and hug, saying all those wonderful words of love to each other, before falling asleep entwined.You know, it's amazing when you find yourself. All my scholarly life I had struggled with reading, writing essays, taking multiple-choice tests. But one thing I loved to do-and was good at-was rendering landscapes in pastel: layering wheat fields with raw sienna, coating barns and silos in brilliant cad red and alizarin crimson, foliating giant cottonwoods with varying shades of sap green, and stretching cobalt shadows across lawns and patios, bending them up walls of grand white farmhouses.I guess, in retrospect, it was how I sublimated my sexuality as a teenager. Years later, post art school-and after having given up on Catholicism-I discovered the co-existence of the creative impulse and drive for sexual gratification. It was then that my artistic successes began. People seemed to respond passionately to my new work. Collectors bought four, five, or six of my pieces. Each new series-the Dakotas, the Mississippi-won me acclaim at venues in Minneapolis, Santa Fe, Denver, and Chicago. I almost couldn't make enough for all the enthusiastic gallery owners. The result was gaining a measure of confidence, not only in art, but in love, which I had formerly never known, and which seemed so natural for others, like Robbie, Bart, and Robyn.Oh my God, I forgot about Robyn, the red-haired nurse-midwife whose house we were just leaving. Robbie fantasized the most about that little spitfire-at least, she's the one who seemed to augment his cock the greatest. I remember his last “Robyn dream,” a mere week ago: he and she were wrestling at the pond's edge after they emerged from a skinny dip on a sultry afternoon. They had started slinging playful insults at one another, until one literally slung a handful of mud, at which point the real fun began. Soon they were coated with a burnt sienna glaze and needing to go back into the water to wash each other off.It made sense, that fanciful notion of his. Water was their thing. Robyn got covered in amniotic fluid when her patient's “water” broke, and Robbie worked as a field biologist with lake flora and fauna. Two science types, always with liquid things to talk about. We had left them in their element, soaking in the hot tub, when Bart and I got out to look at one of his new pastel paintings-our element.Robbie drummed on the steering wheel. “You know that only the good die young…Tell you baby…Only the good die young…”I was feeling really clammy now. What if he and Robyn did fuck in the hot tub? Would that be better-for me? After all, if he did it, why couldn't I? Or… did it spell the end of our marriage? Were we going to become one of those pairs of swinging couples whose relationship divided along fault lines? Little things that once seemed endearing qualities-my need to have everything in its place at home-would become an annoyance to him and an excuse for fleeing to Robyn. Or his insistence in correcting my retelling of a mutual experience-that I formerly had allowed with amusement-would become the hurt driving me to Bart and the consolation of his touch.Jesus, what have I done? What have we done? We? Maybe we didn't do anything. Maybe only I did? And Robbie's trust in me will be shattered forever.I reached over to touch his head, to pull my fingers through his dark, dark umber hair, with waves as luscious as my grassy prairies at sunset. He looked over and smiled, his gaze penetrating my eyes briefly before it returned to the road. “I love when you do that, Georgia,” he teased, using the name of the artist, Georgia O'Keeffe, whom I had been the most influenced by in college.He hadn't fucked Robyn after all. Great. Now I'm the fucker.“I love doing that,” I replied. “You know how much I crave your textures!”Did I sound like the same me? Could he tell anything from the dampness of my fingers?“We'll be home in ten minutes,” he proclaimed. "Can't wait to be in bed with you.“Suddenly feeling queasy, I replied, “Are you wide awake? I'm so tired, I think I'm going to close my eyes for a bit.”“I'm fine. Another good song!“ And he was off, singing in perfect pitch, "But you gotta keep your head up, oh-oh, and you can let your hair down, eh-eh…”Maybe he's too exuberant? I bet he did do it?Do it.Do it.Did I really do it?Did we? Bart and I? Do it?Oh, Father Duffy, it's times like these when I miss those confession sessions……Bart and I had dried off in front of his fireplace. The bromine from the hot tub was so strong we had taken turns rinsing off in the shower. With towels wrapped around us, we ascended the stairs to his studio and his magnificent nudes. If I relished the feel of textures through my fingers, my eyes delighted in the virtual touch of the skin tones in his paintings: strokes of raw sienna melding into caput mortuum, Indian red into purple violet and Thalo blue. His pastels had been blended with infinite patience, layer upon layer of pigment to create arm, chest, torso, groin, giving the effect of a radiance emanating from within.For someone not in possession of the endowment, he painted the most sensuous breasts-with thick areolas and erect nipples-seemingly emerging from the paper, begging to be sucked.I touched his arm to point out, on a nearby easel, the pair of lovers he was finishing, a man standing behind a woman, their hands holding five passion fruits against her chest. Excitedly, I inquired as to how he got her skin to glow with such warmth of golden ochre and crimson. He nestled my elbow in his palm as he eased me toward the painting and explained his artistic process.It was fun having another artist to talk with, to puzzle out problems of color and value, to compare favorite painters and art philosophies. In college, I had been so head over heals involved with Robbie, that I did my course work, rushed back to the dorm to be with him, and didn't give myself the time to make friends, let alone hang out with established teacher-artists in the art department. My BFA degree had landed me a graphic arts job with Minnesota Life, a glossy recreation magazine, and I spent over a year doing computer artwork, but again, no real artist contacts-and no art opportunities. When my school loans were nearly repaid, and Robbie was making enough for both of us to live on, I went back to painting with pastels. Within two years, I was showing in the Twin Cities; then, six months later, in three other major metropolitan areas. That experience brought me into contact with other artisans, most of them women, all of us doing different subjects. We exhibited together on occasion, got together for group-show receptions, but I never really developed an artistic kinship with any painter-until I met Bart.He leaned into me as we conversed, and I maintained our inertia by pressing back. He took my left hand in his, and slipped his right arm around my back, supporting me as we talked about his lovers' faces; the aura of contemplation; the mysteries of connection, communion, and commitment.I told him how much I liked the piece, and he hugged me with appreciation. And that's when we should have stopped. I could have inquired about the adjacent painting, the woman with the large guava facing the viewer and the man turning away with his smaller one. But I didn't. His hug felt so good. As did the wine, our soak in the hot tub, my newly-found confidence.We rotated toward each other. He brought his lips to mine, and, rather than turn to accept his kiss on my cheek, I met him full on with my own. As our embrace progressed, intoxicatingly, I encircled his lanky waist and felt our towels drop away. With his manliness expanding against my belly and his hand raising tingles up my spine, I devoured his lower lip, squeaking a little in excitement when I felt his tongue enter my mouth.With both hands he lifted up my tiny breasts, his fingers running over my nipples, as ripe as his painted ones, then pulled each with gentle traction, making them ache all the more. I moved off his mouth, and began kissing his chest, lightly brushing the russet hairs with my lips in an ever-expanding oval. Initially passing over his nipples, I returned to suck each to hardness and heard him groan as I bit down on them tenderly.His finger pads moved down my spine to buttocks, backs of thigh, up to hipbones, and, twisting his hands around, his finger nails grazed across to my pussy tuft and up my abdomen to my back again, in a repeating hypnotic loop of arousal. When my tongue repaid his kindness, creating a saliva trail down his midline, my cheek butted into his erection. I turned deftly toward the large head, now deeply violet and glowing as hot as his figures' skin tones.Clumsily, we maneuvered our entangled selves to his model stand, and found our way to sitting upon the shag carpet remnant atop the platform, my mouth locked around him, my juices oozing into the rug. His hand found my slot, and as I drew my teeth up and over his rim, I felt his fingers close around my clit, pinching it rhythmically to our breathing. My shrieks of pleasure were stifled by taking more of his cock deeper in my throat, and, as I rocked onto his hand, he began thrusting into my mouth.“I'm gonna come,” he whispered, urgently.Having climaxed once already, and about to scream again, I was fully prepared to grant him his pleasure. Within seconds a hot bolus shot into my mouth, and this time I gurgled with delight as his flood of warmth quieted my cries.One hand circled my head, his fingers pushing through my perspiring hair. The other, perfumed by my cunt-flower, was rubbed against cheek, neck, and shoulder, all the while he praised my beauty in muffled tones. I regained my resting breathing tempo, but all I could mumble was, “Wonderful, wonderful,” as his cock slowly deflated in my mouth.“You guys up there?” Robbie had hollered from the bottom of the stairs.“Just gazing at some nudes,” Bart had called back, so nonchalantly, I thought that perhaps I had been dreaming all the while. But of course I wasn't.Bart and I had hurriedly wrapped our towels around us. He went ahead of me down the stairs, as I ducked into their bathroom to do a bidet-cleansing of my mouth, then joined everyone below to get dressed and prepare for our departure.“We're home,” announced Robbie. “Let's get right to bed. I love it when you're brominated.”I awoke from one nightmare to go back into what I feared was another. What Robbie pronounced was true. Being brominated meant that by soaking in the hot tub, I was disinfected everywhere, and his tongue could explore my private place with relatively impunity. Any other time, his suggestion would have made me forgo my nightly mouth care, but this evening, I delayed our entry into bed by flossing and brushing-with lots of toothpaste. That would cover up any telltale tastes, but I didn't know if the delay would allow my brain to become re-engaged in love making.Robbie and I have been very honest with each other. Well, I felt I have been completely honest, and I trusted full revelations would have been forthcoming from him. So as we pulled the sheets over our nakednesses, I wondered if I should bare all?“Do I tell him,” I asked myself? Did I want him to tell me-if there was anything to tell?What I knew more than anything was that I needed to have Robbie inside me right now. I had made a terrible mistake, but I needed to be loved by him for who I was-his imperfect wife. The one he comes home to. The one he treasures. The one to him, for all her faults, is the most important woman in the whole world. That's the way I felt about him, after all.My decision was made by default. He began to kiss me on my mouth, his hands roaming over my breasts, his warmth surrounding me, making me forget all about the tryst of two hours prior. I felt wholly consumed by this man, desired in a way I hadn't felt before. He was possessed it seemed, and he ravaged me with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, gnawing on my neck muscles, biting my nipples, tonguing deeply into my belly button as his fingers poked into my buttocks, scraped down my outer thighs and stroked back up the fronts.His rigidity pressed against me, but I wasn't about to let this end too quickly. I kissed him back. Roughly. Biting his lip, his chin, then along jaw bone to ear lobe.He writhed with the discomfort, but moaned in pleasure, calling out, “Mary Johnson, I love you, love you.”In a trice he was upon me, kissing me with abandon. I carved my nails down his backside, and his tempo accelerated.“Fuck me, Robbie! Fuck me hard!!” I urged.As I gripped his flanks, he pounded me, rocking our bed, the headboard cracking like a sledgehammer against the wall. In a voice an octave higher, I began to whine, inhaling sharply to fill my chest, about to explode into an earsplitting orgasm, when Robbie stopped. Pulled out. Rolled me over.“What the…?”“I need you completely tonight, M.J. All of you.”And he separated my ass cheeks and began nibbling that tender flesh around my anus, which drove me into the pre-ecstasy shudders. I knew what was coming next: his tongue would dive deeply into me, and I would light up our room with carmine, magenta, and cerulean lightning bolts, before flooding the bedsheets with a cloudburst from my womb.And he did. And so did I. I screamed and screamed. When I was sated and the bed soaked, he turned me over and had his way with me, and I came for a fifth or sixth time-but who's counting when your man is shouting into your ear and filling your vaginal cup with the most exquisite of liqueurs.As we lay aside each other in the warm puddle of us, both sweating from the physical effort, he professed just how much he cared for me. I knew exactly what he meant: I couldn't imagine loving another being more.Well, yes I could.With his hand moving over my hair, and warm exhalations against my cheek, he offered, “M.J., I got something to tell you.”Sighing in relief, I answered, “And I got something to tell you, too.”Which leads me to say; Bless me father; for I have sinned.By MarthaMcKinley for Literotica

“I want my MTV” decían los Dire Straits en 1985 y es que en aquel momento TODOS querían ser emitidos por la famosa cadena de televisión. En los 80s si tus videos no eran reproducidos en la MTV no eras nadie, aunque vendieras millones de discos. Y hubo una larga lista de artistas, tanto de los US como del Reino Unido, que deben gran parte de su fama durante la década de los 80s a la MTV. Comencemos con la “invasión Británica”, durante los primero años la MTV necesitaba desesperadamente Video Clips para emitir, como en el mercado Americano no había tanta producción de Videos, decidieron mirar al otro lado del Atlántico. Y es que para aquel entonces el Reino Unido se encontraba en plena ebullición de géneros, movimientos, etc. Desde el Synth-Pop hasta el Heavy Metal, todos estaban comenzando a producir video clips de sus singles. De pronto la programación de la MTV se vio invadida por todos estos artistas británicos, Duran Duran, The Police, Culture Club, Deff Leppard, Iron Maiden, The Pretenders, Billy Idol, The Human League, y un largo etcétera. De los cuales varios podréis escuchar en este Podcast. En el caso de artistas americanos, primero hay que hablar de Michael Jackson, hasta el lanzamiento de Thriller la cadena no emitía videos de artistas afroamericanos, hoy en día suena absurdo, pero así funcionaba la televisión de Estados Unidos a principios de los 80s. Ante la presión de los espectadores, a través de cartas y llamadas, comenzaron a emitir videos de Jackson y el éxito fue inmediato. Lo mismo ocurrió con los Run DMC, muy rara vez se podía ver un video clip de un artista de Rap hasta que en 1986 la colaboración con Aerosmith en su versión de “Walk This Way”, toda una generación descubrió el Rap y ayudó a relanzar la carrera de Aerosmith. Como ocurrió con ZZ Top, de pronto sus discos vendían millones, eso sí sustituyendo su sonido cercano al Blues y al Hard Rock por uno más Pop y “electrónico”. Cindy Lauper logró el éxito inmediato con el primer single de su álbum debut, cuyo video rotaba varias veces al día en la cadena. Lo mismo ocurrió con George Michael y su primer álbum en solitario, parte de las ventas son gracias a la MTV. Madonna y Whitney Houston comenzaron su fama gracias a la emisora. El gran come back de Tina Turner no habría sido lo mismo sin la cadena americana. Billie Joel también disfruto de años de ventas millonarias gracias a sus videos. Todos querían sonar en la MTV en aquellos años, con el cambio de década y la llegada del Grunge hubo un cambio generacional importante, fueron adaptándose a los nuevos gustos de la audiencia, introdujeron poco a poco los Realities y todos recordamos a “Beavis & Butt-head”, un dibujo animado sobre dos adolescentes imbéciles que cautivaron a toda una generación. En el siglo XXI la cadena perdió el rumbo convirtiéndose en una emisora de Realities para adolescentes, llegando a nuestros días donde ya nadie recuerda sus años de gloria y fama. En este Podcast podréis escuchar una parte de los miles de artistas que pasaron por la MTV. TRACKLIST: 01 - The Police - Wrapped Around Your Finger 02 - Tina Turner - Let's Stay Together 03 - George Michael - I Want Your Sex (Parts I & II) 04 - INXS - Need You Tonight 05 - Michael Jackson - Billie Jean 06 - Madonna - Like A Virgin 07 - Whitney Houston - How Will I Know 08 - Prince - When Doves Cry (7" Single Edit) 09 - Paul Simon - You Can Call Me Al 10 - Billy Joel - Uptown Girl 11 - Cyndi Lauper - Girls Just Want To Have Fun 12 - Duran Duran - Rio (US Remix) 13 - Culture Club - Karma Chameleon 14 - The Pretenders - Back On The Chain Gang 15 - ZZ Top - Legs 16 - Billy Idol With Generation X - Dancing With Myself 17 - Run-DMC & Aerosmith - Walk This Way

“I want my MTV” decían los Dire Straits en 1985 y es que en aquel momento TODOS querían ser emitidos por la famosa cadena de televisión. En los 80s si tus videos no eran reproducidos en la MTV no eras nadie, aunque vendieras millones de discos. Y hubo una larga lista de artistas, tanto de los US como del Reino Unido, que deben gran parte de su fama durante la década de los 80s a la MTV. Comencemos con la “invasión Británica”, durante los primero años la MTV necesitaba desesperadamente Video Clips para emitir, como en el mercado Americano no había tanta producción de Videos, decidieron mirar al otro lado del Atlántico. Y es que para aquel entonces el Reino Unido se encontraba en plena ebullición de géneros, movimientos, etc. Desde el Synth-Pop hasta el Heavy Metal, todos estaban comenzando a producir video clips de sus singles. De pronto la programación de la MTV se vio invadida por todos estos artistas británicos, Duran Duran, The Police, Culture Club, Deff Leppard, Iron Maiden, The Pretenders, Billy Idol, The Human League, y un largo etcétera. De los cuales varios podréis escuchar en este Podcast. En el caso de artistas americanos, primero hay que hablar de Michael Jackson, hasta el lanzamiento de Thriller la cadena no emitía videos de artistas afroamericanos, hoy en día suena absurdo, pero así funcionaba la televisión de Estados Unidos a principios de los 80s. Ante la presión de los espectadores, a través de cartas y llamadas, comenzaron a emitir videos de Jackson y el éxito fue inmediato. Lo mismo ocurrió con los Run DMC, muy rara vez se podía ver un video clip de un artista de Rap hasta que en 1986 la colaboración con Aerosmith en su versión de “Walk This Way”, toda una generación descubrió el Rap y ayudó a relanzar la carrera de Aerosmith. Como ocurrió con ZZ Top, de pronto sus discos vendían millones, eso sí sustituyendo su sonido cercano al Blues y al Hard Rock por uno más Pop y “electrónico”. Cindy Lauper logró el éxito inmediato con el primer single de su álbum debut, cuyo video rotaba varias veces al día en la cadena. Lo mismo ocurrió con George Michael y su primer álbum en solitario, parte de las ventas son gracias a la MTV. Madonna y Whitney Houston comenzaron su fama gracias a la emisora. El gran come back de Tina Turner no habría sido lo mismo sin la cadena americana. Billie Joel también disfruto de años de ventas millonarias gracias a sus videos. Todos querían sonar en la MTV en aquellos años, con el cambio de década y la llegada del Grunge hubo un cambio generacional importante, fueron adaptándose a los nuevos gustos de la audiencia, introdujeron poco a poco los Realities y todos recordamos a “Beavis & Butt-head”, un dibujo animado sobre dos adolescentes imbéciles que cautivaron a toda una generación. En el siglo XXI la cadena perdió el rumbo convirtiéndose en una emisora de Realities para adolescentes, llegando a nuestros días donde ya nadie recuerda sus años de gloria y fama. En este Podcast podréis escuchar una parte de los miles de artistas que pasaron por la MTV. TRACKLIST: 01 - The Police - Wrapped Around Your Finger 02 - Tina Turner - Let's Stay Together 03 - George Michael - I Want Your Sex (Parts I & II) 04 - INXS - Need You Tonight 05 - Michael Jackson - Billie Jean 06 - Madonna - Like A Virgin 07 - Whitney Houston - How Will I Know 08 - Prince - When Doves Cry (7" Single Edit) 09 - Paul Simon - You Can Call Me Al 10 - Billy Joel - Uptown Girl 11 - Cyndi Lauper - Girls Just Want To Have Fun 12 - Duran Duran - Rio (US Remix) 13 - Culture Club - Karma Chameleon 14 - The Pretenders - Back On The Chain Gang 15 - ZZ Top - Legs 16 - Billy Idol With Generation X - Dancing With Myself 17 - Run-DMC & Aerosmith - Walk This Way

Today's episode of The POD kicks off with a full barn as all the boys catch up on the latest and greatest from the shows and movies they've watched. With a rather candid start the boys then jump right into the Pod FOD which is a folder compiled of all things around the internet. Todays FOD includes Walley the emotional support gator, Tom Cruises son catching a world record Grooper, Pom Pam the elephant and much much more. Make sure to subscribe to youtube.come/thepodpmi to watch full episodes and don't forget to send your submissions for the Pod FOD to @ThePodPMI on twitter and instagram. We appreciate you rocking with us and we'll see you Wednesday, Cheers.

Torrey DeVitto joins to boys to chat about Billie Joel, slime, and her upcoming Hallmark movie - "Rip in Time"

(4:50) The Adam Project (17:00) Turning Red (35:05) This Week in Kanye (41:35) Pete Davidson (44:20) Hailey Bieber (45:00) Winning Time (46:20) Dune 2 (47:30) Billie Joel (49:05) The Barbie Movie (50:18) The Penguin (50:45) Dua Lipa (55:15) Marvel (1:00:18) New Trailers (1:02:05) New Releases (1:03:00) Taylor Tries It Follow us on SOCIAL MEDIA! IG/Twitter/Tik Tok @taylorqstone @savanna__roberts @onlythebest108 @twobruhs_onebra LIKE, SUBSCRIBE, COMMENT, and SHARE! Like sports? Listen to Unnecessary Scruffness: The Only Sports Podcast on the Planet EVERY WEEK Hosted by Mack, Taylor and Michael AKA Wolly Thanks for listening! --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/twobruhsonebra/support

Episode 68: We start off with another discussion on NFT's and quickly move on to a movie review of The Eternals. Are looking forward to The Batman? We are and we will tell you why. Can you be friends with your ex? Of course! Unless you are currently dating a jealous person, right? Elton John or Billie Joel, who is the better piano man? Hosted by Lafayette, Carlos, Johnny and Hugh. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/nerdstalking/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/nerdstalking/support

We stayed late to bring you one of our fun radio games. In honor of Jason's return we picked his favorite game to play, $7 Worth of Hoobastank, aka the Setlist Game.  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

In which we discuss car nicknames (again), Carrie's headwear (again), who's going to fall out a window and when, nobody liking Aleksandr, Billie Joel, and more!

As broadcast June 8, 2021 with bonus gas for you podcast roadsters.  We remember this day when Billie Joel finally had it all, as he won a Tony Award for the scoring of Movin' Out, which was a massive success on Broadway.  Oddly enough, his biggest fan here in Korea Prince Paolo joined us once again for our Under The Radar feature, with a great selection of tunes from 53 Thieves, IDER, WOODS, and Anoraak amongst others to give a whirl.  And in the meantime, there were laughs, there were burns, there was a lot going on.  Enjoy!#feelthegravityTracklisting:Part I (00:00)Billy Joel – Movin' Out (Anthony's Song)TOPAZ – Female TroubleOrmiston – Time Fades53 Thieves – waterfrontChiiild – EventuallyKone Mara – The Ordinary PlacePart II (30:39)IDER – BOREDStray Local – FeatherweightNervous CIty Nervous Self - Go onStay Lunar – ImmediatelyPoolfire - Radio ManAnoraak feat Sarah Maison – KarmaPart III (59:25)Cool Heat – LevitateGood Morning TV – EntertainmentWOODS - Waiting Around for a New MeCape Weather – AliceTrunky Juno - Serial Killer VibesDaysormay - EgoPart IV (91:00)Maths Time Joy x Rich - Hoping You'd CallMonograms - For SafetySofi Gev - Horrors in the DarkSweet Nobody - Not A Good JudgeSwiss Portrait - Your MindRascal Miles - Tailor-Made

This week the boys attempt their first remote Pod! Not as fun, but it's on the books. Not so much a week of soccer but still a crazy amount of news. They break Down the European Super League that Crashed as quickly as it made headlines! the Mutiny led by Florentino Perez's Real Madrid, along with the likes of Barcelona, Atletico Madrid, Inter Milan, Ac Milan, Juventus, and then the drop of the hammer of SIX English Premeirleague Teams(Manchester United, City Chelsea, Liverpool, Arsenal, and even Spurs)! We talk about why and how it may have happened and the implications on the wider world of football. In other News Jose Mourinho finally gets axed from the Tottenham Job, Portuguese Goalscorers of the week, and a new Joao Wonder (not for the skill of the field but for his ability to re-share a post on social media with moderate English abilities) We also talk Bifanas, Selling Out, Stealing the God damn Rye, Billie Joel, and the eventuality of the Galactic Super League(Go Team Uranus!). Thanks for listening! Please make sure to rate and review us wherever you get your PODs & subscribe to our youtube page! Twitter: @joao_wonder Instagram: @theportugalcorner Google: theportugalcorner@gmail.com Anchor: https://anchor.fm/joao-wonder Sportify:https://open.spotify.com/show/3JhYDg9UQ5mpMMOkaItpwx Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/ca/podcast/the-portugal-corner/id1553421610?l=en Google: https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy80YzM4YzQ1Yy9wb2RjYXN0L3Jzcw== Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCAkupPtXdgfLHmFfl7zK0mg

Excuse my bad singing lol. We didn't spread the virus parody on the Billie Joel song. Plz don't copyright claim this.

In this ep we talk about crying to songs, the South Park movie, Brendan tells a story about a drunk girl, Pirating movies, Brendan once again has to defend something he loves (Billie Joel) 

This week Rob & Chris learn about Claudius and his great victories in Britain, that he didn't actually lead cause he's to delicate. But not too delicate to marry his cousin, who eventually poisons him so Nero can be ruler of Rome...spoiler alert. Then Nero banished his mom from Rome, cuts off his wife's head and uses it as an engagement ring to marry his friends wife. But he kicked her to death and found a boy replacement instead. But people got really mad when he sang Billie Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" on his roof while Rome was burning down, so they forced him to commit suicide, but he was a pussy and needed his friends help. Then after a short old guy stint with Galba, Rome ends up with Vespasian, but he has to finishing fighting the Jews first. TLDR: Pass The Old Bay

Twyla Tharp is the most celebrated American choreographer working today, but that doesn’t mean she’d hoity-toity, and she talks with Kurt about choreographing to such accessible music at the Beach Boys, Billie Joel and Fran Sinatra. How Yillah Natalie decided to become a belly dancer after seeing the video for U2’s “Mysterious Ways.” A reporter has an illuminating – and awkward – talk with her parents about how they became obsessed with the sexiest of dances, the tango.  A scientist takes up ballet in his forties – and applies scientific principles to get better at it. And Christopher Wheeldon shares how he helped bring “An American in Paris” to the stage.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Twyla Tharp is the most celebrated American choreographer working today, but that doesn’t mean she’d hoity-toity, and she talks with Kurt about choreographing to such accessible music at the Beach Boys, Billie Joel and Fran Sinatra. How Yillah Natalie decided to become a belly dancer after seeing the video for U2’s “Mysterious Ways.” A reporter has an illuminating – and awkward – talk with her parents about how they became obsessed with the sexiest of dances, the tango.  A scientist takes up ballet in his forties – and applies scientific principles to get better at it. And Christopher Wheeldon shares how he helped bring “An American in Paris” to the stage.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Join Priscilla McKinney, Momma Bird at Little Bird Marketing as she talks with Dan Leadbetter about the meaning of generational differences. Popular business culture demands that management change their practices to accommodate specific generations, but Priscilla's entrepreneurial experience has left her to believe she should do no such thing. They discuss The Economist's article "Myths about Millennials" http://www.economist.com/news/business/21660110-businesses-should-beware-dubious-generalisations-about-younger-workers-myths-about which vindicates Priscilla's stance that most of the millennial touchstones are a myth. They discuss funny ironies found in the millennial generation and Billie Joel might have said it best when he sang, "You can't dress trashy 'til you spend lots of money." Original theme music by Chris Stewart. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Great show this week. We are invaded by Whiskey's 14 year old daughter, Boo. We talk about the top 15 worst places to have to poop, we do some impressions, the guys from Jerry Jonestown Massacre podcast sing us a song, so we sing one back, we answer the question of the week, and we play a great song from Dallas Rockers Adakain! We end the show with what's entertaining us and we discover Sexy News Girl Dani's secret crush; after we play a Jimmy Fallon and Billie Joel doo-wap song! Enjoy the show, check us out on facebook, twitter, and instagram. Then give us a call at 972-853-1359.Adakain – https://www.facebook.com/adakainJoin the WhiskeyBoy Radio E-Club - http://eepurl.com/_hrFn and gain access to Exclusive Content, Our Monthly Giveaway, Special Releases and more... and it's FREE!Visit our Shop / Support page to support the show! whiskeyboy.us/shop-support