Chancy Chatter

At Last!

2005-09-19T11:35:00.000-05:00

The new blog is finally open for business! It isn't quite perfect yet but it'll have to do for now. It's called Betty Crocker Syndrome in homage to my habit of baking and cooking when I am depressed, angry, frustrated or otherwise near insanity.

Look around, it's much prettier than this green shell and has some fun features as well. One thing you won't find yet is a blogroll. Part of my fatigue with blogging was the nearly unavoidable social clique-iness that seems to surround it. I needed a break from that. I think that eventually there will be links but for now your comments will serve as a list of those I consider allies in the blog world. I've been down long enough to have weeded out the fair weather readers, so to speak.

So. Why are you still here??? Go read, leave me a comment, make the new place feel like home!

Stalling for time...

2005-09-12T22:28:00.000-05:00

For those of you who have gently complained that the new blog thing is taking too long I would like to direct your attention to my latest post at Infinite Monkeys. I would be getting more done at the new blog but it just so happens that I am now EMPLOYED. That's right. I am actually getting paid to sit at my computer typing in my pajamas. Which is exactly what I do most of the day anyway. Not to mention, I am now a local celebrity as the post at infinite Monkeys will explain.

I swear, on my old faithful green template that I'll post a link to the new and improved place soon!

Update

2005-09-06T20:49:00.000-05:00

Well decisions have been made and secret plans developed. Templates are being hacked and creativity is running amuck. I will be moving. I don't want anyone getting their panties in a twist. I'm not leaving or abandoning anyone or anything. I will still be the flirty, deviant, melodramatic, blogger I have always been. I'll just have a new address and new attitude. Think of it as the well rounded version of me. A fantastic casserole of who I am, a wife, a mother, writer, unwilling convert to the rural south, maker of fine baked goods and sexy, sexy bitch*. I am really excited about the new place. It should be up within a week or so and although I am dying to tell everyone all about it, that would ruin the surprise. Rest assured the 4 of you (or maybe 5) that are still checking in on me will be rewarded with the new and improved URL very soon!

*This sentence highly influenced by Jodi-isms

The only thing that stays the same is change.

2005-09-01T11:12:00.000-05:00

I apologize for my absence.

September is the birthmonth of my blog. I am not sure of the exact date because my original blog had to be "moved" and although I took most of my archives with me, my first week or so was lost. It's safe to say I started mid September of 2004. Guess what I am getting my blog for it's birthday? A new home. A new outfit. A fresh start.

For a few months now I have been feeling disgruntled and bored in this green space. My inspirations have changed and evolved. The subjects that once seemed so liberating now seem confining instead. I want to build a broader horizon for myself. If there is one thing I can not tolerate it is being boxed in, whether real or perceived, it is a feeling I loathe. Probably the new space will house the same old rambling you've come to expect from me but I'll feel better about it. I tend to be nomadic by nature, an urge that has been seriously suppressed in my real life. The people I love need stability and it's my responsibility to provide it. But here, where short attention spans are the rule, there is no reason why I can't go in whatever direction beckons me. If I see something shiny floating in the distance I can chase it until something else distracts me.

I am not sure exactly how I'm going to accomplish this yet. I am looking into everything from revamping at this URL to starting over at a new place completely. It seems like it might take some time. In the meantime I'll be posting at Infinite Monkeys from time to time. When I decide and get things set up I will most likely just post the link here. That way those of you who want to keep reading can.

Change - Melissa Etheridge

"...And so it goes
This too shall pass away
It cuts so strange
The only thing that stays the same
Is change
The only thing
That stays the same
Is change

I'm not so sure where I have been
I don't know just where I'm going
Hard as I hold it in my hand
I can stop the wind from blowing..."

Hey, could you hand me that sledge hammer?

2005-08-28T07:15:00.000-05:00

"Dismantle Me"

I fancy you
But I've been destitute
And all I know dissolved
I could never reundo you
I will always say it's so
I will always speak the truth
Descend into a noose
Could never reundo you

I want to bury you
I want to bury you

Vultures circle around
Feathers float, wings flap, beaks pound
And though my hearts exposed
I could never reundo you
I will always bleed the truth
I will always speak
And know I was sent to cut you loose
I will never reundo you

I want to bury you
I want to bury you
I want to bury you
I want to bury you

Dismantle me
Dismantle me
Dismantle me
Dismantle me

It's warm and humid on Swanston Street
And the air is filled with electricity
And the sky is deeper than a dream
And the sky is deeper than a

Dismantle Me
Dismantle Me
Dismantle Me

And the sky is deeper than a dream
And the sky is deeper than a dream

- The Distillers

The early bird gets the worm.

2005-08-26T15:39:00.000-05:00

Those of you lucky enough to enjoy the unusually wild comments in yesterday's and today's post will have to remember them fondly as opposed to reading them over and over again. Alas, the comments got to be so hot that they spontaneously combusted and took the posts with them.

P.S. Thanks Jodi for cheering me up when I was feeling worn down. You always make me smile!

Notice anything different?

2005-08-24T09:53:00.000-05:00

Being completely oblivious to detail, or as I prefer to say, totally focused on what is actually important, I somehow over looked the expanding blogger navbar at the top of this blog. What? You don't see the navbar at the top of my blog? That's because I just finished adjusting my template to "hide" it. Why would I rid my site of such a simple and benign tool? Because of a little button called flag. Lewis, at his new collective rant space, Infinite Monkeys, pointed it out.

In case you are short on time and can't follow the links, I'll tell you how this works. People who read your blog and find it objectionable can click the flag button to alert the good folks at blogger. A site receiving a number of "flags" will be reviewed and dropped from bloggers listings. They are quick to insist that this is in no way censorship because they won't shut your blog down, they just won't list it. Unless that is, you say something really offensive, "Hate Speech" as they call it, then they will post a warning that will be shown before your web page.

The question, of course, is who makes the final judgment call? What guidelines are in place for this plan to monitor our writing? Exactly who or what do I have to hate or not hate for my words to be deemed "Hate Speech." What if I want to go on a tirade about how I hate pedophiles? Is that ok? Afterall, some would argue that pedophiles are people too and assuming they aren't on parole or locked up they have the same rights I do. What if I tell a racist joke? What if I use terms like spick, honky, towel head or porch monkey? Would that sort of trash talk be so dangerous that a warning would be needed? Call it what you want, but the whole plan is one big slippery slope to controlling what we post and how our material is presented.

At best this tool is just flat out unnecessary. It's so very very simple people, if you stumble upon a blog that offends you, click the little X in the top right hand corner of the page. It will go away and you can avoid all future contact by not clicking the link that got you there in the first place. If you stumble upon something you fear is illegal, report it to the authorities. They can traverse the proper legal channels and get the info they need to shut down and punish the alleged criminals. If you have kids and are worried that they'll find my sexually explicit stories then password protect your computer. They shouldn't be blog hopping in the first damn place! Get one of the many monitoring programs available and keep track of where they go and who they talk to online. What, you aren't computer literate enough to find and use such things? Then go take some classes at your local vo-tech school.

Hiding the navbar is an easy solution to this and it involves just pasting a little sniplet of code into your template. You can find directions here. Or e-mail me and I'll walk you through it.

Selfish Moment

2005-08-23T10:49:00.000-05:00

My husband stumbled across a job opening at a software company about an hour south of here. He's enjoyed his current position but lately there are a lot of changes going on at the college where he teaches. Those changes have made for some tense days and it was on one of these tense days that he sent his resume to the aforementioned software company. Much to his surprise they are very interested and have already interviewed him by phone. If they offer him the job they will likely offer him a salary of about $20,000 more dollars a year than what he makes at the college. The only downside will be the commute, an hour both ways. While that may not sound terrible you'd have to know my husband's hatred for long days and long drives to understand. Plus, our little one would likely loose her spot at the college's preschool and she really likes it there.

I have always bent over backwards to support his decisions when it comes to his career. When he chose to take his current job which meant a huge cut in pay so he could live in the country and be happier I supported it despite my serious concerns. Now, I understand that taking this lead programmer job would put him right back in the unpleasant situation he was in before he started teaching. (Long days stuck in a vault on a military base coding super secret crap for a government contract.) Still, part of me, the selfish part that needs new shoes and wants new furniture, satellite TV and a whole bunch of other things that cost money, is screaming for him to TAKE THE JOB. So I just keep biting my tongue and telling myself that he'll make the best choice for all of us but I'm not so sure.

Adventures at the DMV, The story of my trip to Atlanta

2005-08-22T09:30:00.000-05:00

Despite the crazed day leading up to my departure and getting out of the house just a wee bit later than planned, I made it to Atlanta without incident. My sister and I went out and ate huge plates of nachos before visiting the "urban" Target. We picked up some beer and went back to her apartment to watch back to back episodes of HBO's Cathouse. (Which by the way is funny and fascinating.) It was just good to sit and relax and talk. She and I certainly don't have everything in common but it's uncanny how alike we are as people even if our lives have taken very different paths.

Saturday started off on the wrong foot with me burning my sisters poppy seed bagel to a black, smoky, crisp. It wasn't just any bagel you see, it was the bagel we went down 15 stories for in a semi-operational elevator, unshowered and in our pajamas. (My blueberry bagel was delicious by the way.) What can I say? I didn't hear the toaster oven ding! She took it well though and we headed out to do a little apartment hunting for her since her current building smells like a nursing home and offers very little other than the free bagels and pastries on Saturday morning.

It was at the first apartment complex that we discovered the next bummer of the day. I had somehow forgotten my drivers license. This meant I couldn't actually go look at the apartments we were checking out (The leasing agent has to have a copy of your drivers license before taking you off to look at the apartment so that if you rape or murder them their is proof of who committed the crime.) I quickly realized that I wouldn't be able to do anything without it... Shop using my credit or debit card, get into clubs, buy drinks. So it was decided that we'd find a DMV and get a new one. After several frustrating attempts at actually contacting the DMV by phone, and in case you are wondering you CAN'T contact the DMV in Atlanta by phone, my sister called a friend who pointed us in the right direction.

The DMV was hot and smelly. Body odor of many different unpleasant flavors wafted every where. The drink machines were out of order and the plastic seats were oddly shaped causing a sort of suction on your backside. Maybe this is to keep people in their seats until they are called. The staff were as pleasant as Nazi concentration camp guards. To make matters worse there was some sort of mix up which caused me to be lost in the system for about two hours. When we finally got out of there we were starving and thirsty, not to mention sweaty and gross. I think my sister wanted to strangle me and send me home but she has an incredible sort of calm and patience so we soldiered on to the mall to look for something nice for me to wear out.

Retail therapy really does work. She went home with two new pairs of sexy shoes and I carried back a slinky, black low-cut shirt. It was in fact so low cut that I had to buy a new, especially skimpy, black bra to wear under it. After beers and showers we were back on track. We both looked gorgeous when we left the house that night and for me that was probably the best part of the trip... Dressing up and going out on the town with a sort of confidence in myself that I haven't had in months. You see, you may have noticed a decline in sexy posts or just a general malaise in my writing over the last few months. Certain events have left me feeling bruised, made me question my charm, my ability, my appeal. But Saturday night I didn't feel like an overworked, underappreciated house wife or a forgotten lover. I felt beautiful and clever even if I was a bit out of my usual element.

I must have of blended in well enough because I got lots of compliments. My favorite was when one of the darling gay boys we were out with came up and said, "I know we've just met but I have to tell you I LOVE your tits!" Witty banter and laughs followed and I couldn't blame him for noticing because my tits were amazing in that shirt. Later in the evening he was shocked to learn that I was married, had a kid and even more shocked to hear that I lived on a farm. "You clean up good!" he said "How do you do it? You must read a lot of fashion magazines." I felt incredibly proud of having pulled off the transformation from backwoods drudgery to cute and fashionable. I was also incredibly grateful to my sister for taking me out and helping me find the right clothes, not to mention spending 3 hours in the DMV just so I could enjoy the night. Sis, you rock.

On the ride home I thought about a lot of things. A break from you're everyday will do that to you. Those revelations will have to wait. Right now I have several friends to catch up with and a house that went mostly neglected over the weekend.

Super Woman

2005-08-19T10:14:00.000-05:00

By 7:30 am yesterday all my carefully laid plans for my weekend getaway were falling apart. A death in the family meant my in laws would not be available to pick my daughter up from school today or help my husband with meals and bedtime routines. Plus it meant that I was suddenly needed to prepare food and make calls for the bereaved during the time I had planned to prepare for my trip. Now, please understand, I wasn't close to the man who passed, but I am close to people who were close to him, thus demanding my attention.

A lesser woman would have canceled the trip but my sister is so excited about me coming and I NEED this vacation. So in a matter of 12 hours I, obtained a babysitter to look after our little one during Saturday's funeral and arranged for her to stay later than usual at school today. I gave my in-law's church community the sad news. I went shopping and stocked the house with food and surprises for my husband and child. Then I cooked a pot of Greek Lemon Chicken Soup, baked a Tiramisu Toffee cake, made a deli tray and some dip and delivered it all to the grieving family after picking my daughter up from school. I gassed up the car for my trip and got everyone fed, although it was mostly left overs and snacks. I did two loads of laundry, a mountain of dishes, took out the trash and made time for a short snuggle on the couch with my hubby before bed.

Damn I'm good.

Atlanta awaits!

The Fallacy of Seduction (sexual content)

2005-08-18T08:02:00.000-05:00

Believe it or not, despite all my feminine charms, I am no good at playing hard to get or being coy. Furthermore, I am probably capable of seducing my way into all sorts of situations but I find that tactic always leaves me hollow. The fact is, if I like you, I'm going to let you know and if I want you, you'll know that too. If I love you, I'll love you forever, even if at some point one or both of us has to walk away and I will not pretend otherwise. It's not so much honesty I am talking about here, more an inability to repress or disguise my most basic emotions. Besides, people aren't prizes to be won and if you play games you rarely end up with what you wanted in the first place.

When my first husband left me for a girl he'd met at a military awards banquet in Washington D.C. I was sure that I could draw him back to me. After a few weeks of letting angers cool I would walk into is office late at night as he used an Air Force phone line to carry on his long distance love affair. Without saying a word I'd sit down in a big chair across from his desk, hike up my skirt and let him peek at the smoothly shaved, pink lips between my legs. Smiles were exchanged. Instantly he'd loose interest in whatever his new love had to say. I'd throw my leg over the arm of the chair and bite my lower lip as I silently fingered my pussy, demonstrating how perfectly wet and ready I was. I'd look right into his eyes and see that familiar flame. That lust that I knew how to manipulate better than anyone else. Afterall, I was the first, I had nurtured that lust. He and I had learned that game together.

I can not describe the intense pleasure I felt at stealing him away from her at that moment. The moment he hurriedly said goodbye and hung up the phone was orgasmic. This scene was repeated many times in the months I remained in Mississippi. Sometimes, I would crawl over to him on my knees and suck his impossibly hard cock while he tried not to moan into the phone. Most of the time we'd end up back in his room, fucking over and over again. I remember pinning him to the bed, and lowering myself over him until the throbbing head of his dick was barely touching my swollen cunt. He'd beg to be inside me and it felt so damn good to watch him squirm and want and need what I had to give him. But no matter how satisfying these moments were it always ended the same. When we were done I would look around the room and see her pictures on his shelves and if I slept there he would inevitably get up in the night and call her while I was supposedly fast asleep. He did leave her eventually, he even came back to me for a few months. But in the end he divorced me for yet another woman who was carrying his child. She had the one thing I could not give him.

You can win battles with seduction but you can't win a war. You can get someone's attention by being coy. You might even garner a chase if you play hard to get but if someone really loves you, the deep part of you, you won't need any gimmicks to catch or keep them.

Fortune Cookie Counseling

2005-08-17T09:08:00.000-05:00

Last Friday was a weird day for me. For one thing Friday Date Nights always make me feel like I am performing a tired monologue for the drooling and senile on a stark stage at a nursing home. Bored and pointless at it's worse, awkward but tolerable at it's best, Friday night is not always the highlight of my week. Add to this tension the ongoing conversations between my husband and I about the future of our relationship and you should be able to understand why the evening felt a lot like the Twilight Zone.

We managed to get out of the house for dinner late which limited our restaurant choices beyond the already limited choice available within an hours drive. We ended up at the local Chinese place. I usually find fortune cookies bland tasting and the fortunes predictable but you just can't avoid them at a cheap Chinese buffet. When my husband broke open his cookie he was surprised to find two fortunes inside. As he read them a look of surprised recognition fluttered across his brow.

The first said: Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.
The second said: It is easier to resist at the beginning than at the end.

"You've got to read these!" He said with a grin. He obviously felt they were pertinent to our situation, although how, he couldn't say.

So I opened my fortune cookie and it read: Others appreciate you more than you think.

I certainly hope so.

Slackers!

2005-08-16T07:57:00.000-05:00

Well it's not quite 9am and the high-speed satellite internet installers have already called to say they'll be at least an hour late. Fucking slackers. You know that 9am is their first appointment. All this means is that Billy Bob and Bubba both got up late with hang-overs and had to spend the first hour and a half of their day at the Waffle House drinking black coffee and eating scattered, covered, and smothered hashbrowns.

Of course I've been up since 6am getting husband and kid ready for work and school before cleaning my house like it's being inspected by Martha Stewart herself. I wouldn't want the internet people to know what slobs we really are. (Like they care!) Still, I can hear my mother saying how important it is to clean the house up first thing in the morning because you never know who is coming by and you don't ever want to be caught with a filthy house. Strangely, my mother would always completely abandon this theory when it didn't suit her. In particular I remember when my father would leave for TDY the house would go uncleaned for days. We'd eat TV dinners and run out of clean towels and my Mom would lay on the couch in vegetative state until the day before my father's return. When he was do back she'd spend an entire day in a state of cleaning panic and the house would be returned to it's normal state just in time.

I suppose now I'll twiddle my thumbs for the rest of the morning waiting for these people to get here. Let's all hope that we have a clear enough view of the southern sky. I'll be beyond pissed if they finally get here only to inform me the system won't work in our location.

The Week of Wild and Wonderful Things

2005-08-15T08:03:00.000-05:00

Today: Lunch with sunShine! After more cancellations than I thought I could bear I WILL be driving up to have lunch with my bestfriend. Nothing short of a flaming car crash on the interstate could keep me form it.

Tuesday: The installers come to set up our highspeed satellite internet. This is both wild and wonderful when you consider the improved porn downloading capabilities.

Wednesday: Take the car to have tires put on. Ok this is neither wild nor wonderful but it's something I've got to do just the same.

Thursday: No plans yet but I'm sure I'll find something

Friday: Leaving for the weekend. Going to Atlanta, without child or husband in tow, to stay with my sister. She is planning all sorts of wild and fantastic surprises for me. And we are going to SHOP! Oh god I can't wait to see a store other than Walmart.

So. As you can see I have a full schedule. I'll try to post despite all this excitement. For those of you used to chats, comments and e-mails I'll try to keep up in that department as well.

Now if you'll excuse me I am running late!

Calm in a Storm

2005-08-12T06:57:00.000-05:00

Last night, just as I was settling in for bed, the rain outside picked up and it began to storm wildly. Although I like storms, they tend to make me a bit nervous. As a child I was terrified of storms and would lay in the hallway in front of my parents room crying and rocking whenever one woke me up. So as I lay in bed with the lightening flashing around the gaps in our curtains and listening to thunder like so many dropped bowling balls on a hard wood floor I searched my memory for comforting thoughts.

I remembered my Papa. Many times in my adult life when I have been really upset or afraid my thoughts have turned to my Mother's Father. He died when I was fourteen and I have always felt that he was watching over me. My Papa was very very big man. He had a giant round belly that stuck out in front of him and dark Grecian features, a thick head of black curly hair, a broad nose, olive skin and dark brown eyes. In his youth he was devastatingly handsome. He was a sailor and retired from the navy before I was born.

Time has stolen so many memories of him but one thing I'll never forget is his voice. He had this deep, rich, resonating voice. A voice that could make you tremble if it was reprimanding or make you shiver when he sang. He laughed the way you'd like Santa Clause to laugh, loudly, from deep in his belly, a sound like his singing voice that carried all over the house. When we visited I'd always go to bed reluctantly, not wanting to miss out on the real fun. After all the children were in bed the adults, my Papa and Granny, my mom, dad, aunt and whoever else was visiting would listen to country music, smoke cigarette after cigarette and play cards while sipping beer or malt liquor. What went on out there in the big dining room, drifted through the swinging doors of the little kitchen and into a room with a big bed where kids were piled three and four deep.

Above all the voices, my Papa's was the biggest. I hated being sent to bed with the little kids and excluded from the late night festivities. Still, his voice would wrap around me and make me feel happy and safe despite my restlessness. He loved to sing and he loved country and gospel music. As corny or depressing as I admit that country music can be I'll never be able to cut it from my wide variety of musical interests. It just sounds like home to me, like the safest place I've ever been. There is a song played often on country music stations, a gospel sounding song called Long Black Train. This is the kind of song my Papa loved. The voice of the singer even reminds me of him. Without fail, on the rare occasion that I tune into a country music station this song is played and if I concentrate I can hear my Papa singing along.

Our family was ripped and tattered when he died and what seams held us together have unraveled a great deal. He was the classic patriarch. I miss him but I know he is near when I need him. Singing me to sleep, laughing with me at all the clumsy fumbles I've made, even protecting me, especially from my own demons.

The Cantaloupe Will Wait

2005-08-11T09:45:00.000-05:00

Today is a Barenaked Ladies day. This is my official suck it up and stop whining in a dark corner music. I will not sit at my computer all day waiting for something to happen. I will not hide in my darkened bedroom all day listening alternately to Sarah McLachlan and George Strait while pondering the worth of my existence. I will not wander around the house nervously cleaning and prepping for dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow. That damned cantaloupe will wait until later to be peeled, cut into bite sized cubes and chilled and the laundry doesn't HAVE to be folded as soon as it's dry.

I am getting out of the house. I am going to enjoy the sun despite the heat. I am saying fuck you to anyone and everything that is pissing me off or wearing me out or leaving me wanting.

Sweet as Honey

2005-08-10T09:30:00.000-05:00

I am a firm believer in aromatherapy. Candles and tart warmers can be found strategically placed throughout my house and when I feel the mood needs lifting or changing I choose the perfect scent for the moment. (I am particularly fond of the Yankee Candle Co. products.) I bathe at least twice a day and my collection of soap, body wash, bubble bath and lotion is embarrassing if not astounding. I usually wash and lotion myself down in something lemony or citrus scented in the morning because it makes me feel energized and clean. At night I usually go for something comforting, like sweet almond scented soap and jasmine-vanilla lotion. I used to be well versed in which scents were arousing but since it has been years since my husband even noticed how I smelled I have given up on smelling nice for anyone but myself.

So with this in mind you can imagine how enraptured I was to find a new line of high quality honey scented bath and body products at a popular store. Lately this store has been bringing in these high end, natural product lines that I am extremely fond of but this honey scented stuff is the best yet. It smells exactly like honey. Not just some sweet chemical imitation of honey but the real thing, like it just dripped right out of a bee's ass. (Or whatever part of the bee honey comes from.) I was in fact so impressed that I filled my arms with as many honey filled bottles as I dared and took them to the check out without looking at the price. The bill was huge. When my husband gets the credit card statement he'll likely kick me out of the house with nothing but the clothes on my back and my honey scented bath stuff.

I even got honey scented lip balm. I have never smelled so lickable in all my life. The only problem is that while my husband has not so much as mentioned the new smell it is apparently an aphrodisiac for me. I am crazed everytime I put this stuff on. Not just for sex but to be touched in general. Since my husband has been sick and is apparently still recovering he hasn't touched me weeks. He caught me in the kitchen last night eating a handful of chocolate chips. (A no no since we are both trying to eat an extremely healthy balanced diet for a change.) When he inquired about it I broke down and admitted that I was self medicating, that I felt deprived of physical attention and that the chocolate chips were giving me a lovely all over body massage with each bite. He said, with a very sweet and sincere look in his big brown eyes, that he hoped to make up for it soon. Why he couldn't just shut up and hug me is a mystery.

Last night after my bath and honey rub down I lay awake on my side of the bed literally trembling with need. I hugged myself, I rubbed my own arms, I touched my own breasts and found my nipples standing erect, hard, demanding attention. Everytime I breathed in the smell of my own skin drenched in this heavenly scent I felt warm and flushed. There should be a warning label on that stuff. Despite how needy the smell has made me I can't stop using it. Right now my face smells of honey and my lips taste just ever so slightly of honey. I am a danger to myself. I'm going to end up in Walmart, standing too close to the other shoppers, hoping they'll notice the fragrance. I am going to end up rubbing myself against that gorgeous dad who I always see at my daughter's preschool. I bet he'd appreciate a woman who smelled and tasted like honey.

Does the madness ever end?

2005-08-08T12:13:00.000-05:00

I apologize if last weeks strange end confused or upset anyone. Everything is OK and this blog isn't going anywhere. I simply was having a very rough time and feeling a little crazed.

The weekend turned out to be as bizarre as last week. It began with me having a very calm and clearly thought out discussion with my husband about what I will and will not tolerate in the future of our relationship. He took it very seriously and responded thoughtfully and without anger. As of right now things are peaceful. Only time will tell if they are to remain that way. One thing is for certain, if things spiral out of control again I will be forced to take evasive action.

The highlight of the weekend was my husband, who has been sick and on antibiotics, turning nearly purple and passing out at my parents house. He hit his head on a window and his shoulder on a window sill when he fell. He was unconscious long enough for my sisters and I to realize he wasn't getting back up, that it wasn't some sort of joke, and to begin screaming at the top of our lungs, first his name and then for my parents who had already gone to bed. When we hauled him up by his shoulders (he was face down) he came to and looked at me in total confusion. He refused to go to the emergency room and since I a can not pick him up and carry him there I ended up awake all night listening to him breath and praying that he wasn't going to have an aneurysm and die. He has become more lethargic and fevery since then and he is going to his regular doctor today to get checked out.

Also over the weekend, the sniffles that I have been so determined to ignore got much worse. I'll be going to the doctor with my husband today for my own symptoms. Of course my little one Couldn't be left out. Her asthma continues to give her problems despite the meds she's been given, so today her doctor gave us a nebulizer. We'll have to give her daily breathing treatments. I am beginning to feel like we are a quarantined family suffering from typhoid or some other plague like malady. Quite frankly it's getting ridiculous.

I may not post as much this week. There is just too much on my shoulders but things will return to normal eventually. (I am trying to convince myself as well as you guys.)

Closed for Repairs

2005-08-05T09:35:00.000-05:00

I realize things are missing and changed. It'll probably all be back to normal next week. Excuse the mess!

Battle Scars

2005-08-04T08:38:00.000-05:00

All couples fight. Some couples fight viscously. Some people don't know how to argue without mud slinging and brass knuckles. My husband is one of the later. Somehow, regardless of what the fight is about or whose anger got it started I always ended up being called out as sleazy, selfish, untrustworthy, even lazy. Yes. I know these accusations aren't true. When my husband is backed into a corner he tends to lash out instead of negotiating blame or apologizing. Still, after hearing his verbal weaponry in argument after argument for five years, his tactics wear on the soft places in me.

After a big fight I feel skinned, all raw nerves and exposed flesh. When the shouting has stopped and some form of treaty has been accepted I feel gutted, hollow. The experience leaves me confused and I can't remember what I thought I was right about in the first place. I always have an animal instinct to curl up in a cave somewhere and hide while my wounds heal.

Naughty Night Nurse (No sexual content despite tantalizing title.)

2005-08-02T07:33:00.000-05:00

Thankfully my daughter slept a full ten hours last night without coughing punctuated by puking. Sleep may not be the proper term here, she actually slipped into a codeine laced prescription cold medicine induced coma for ten hours. It was very good of her pediatrician to call that in to the pharmacy yesterday. In fact, I think I love him. I'm going to marry him and sleep through every single night until death do us part thanks to his access to controlled substances.

Despite this glorious gift of a full nights sleep granted to my little one, I did not get a full nights sleep. No, because my dear husband is sick as well now and writhed around all night coughing and moaning, delirious with fever. As much as I enjoy being Night Nurse Christine (cute phrasing stolen from Jodi during a brief IM chat) it's turned out to be less fun than it sounds. My uniform is a pair of not so clean, threadbare blue pajama pants and a worn out tank top that has the word "dangerous" printed across the top in green. The only thing dangerous about me right now is my drowsiness. This is definitely not a good day to operate heavy machinery. Did I mention that I am suffering from the same miserable symptoms as my husband? We won't call it sick. Mom's don't get sick. We don't have time for that sort of thing.

In the book Devine Secrets of The Ya Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells there is a part where the mother is up in the middle of the night with all of her children who have some sort of virus. They are all crying for Mommy and throwing up and have the runs and she literally slips in a puddle of poo while trying to assist them in the bathroom. After making sure they are all cleaned and tucked back into their beds she puts her coat on over her nightgown. She gets in the car and drives to a motel where she showers and sleeps for about 24 hours before calling to tell anyone where she is. She eventually goes home. I have a strong urge to do something similar.

This morning while I took my shower I leaned against the cool wall in a daze and listened to the song in my head. Today is a Counting Crows day I think. My favorite Counting Crows song, the one that was playing in my brain while I showered, is High Life from the CD "This Dessert Life."
...Hey baby do you ask yourself
sometimes what you need to be forgiven
Everything that you ever done wrong
is the reason that I'm driven
straight to you...

I love that part. Adam Duritz knows me so well.

Trying to keep my joy in check...

2005-08-01T10:17:00.000-05:00

I just made the appointment for satellite internet set up! We have been suffering with nothing but dial up since we moved out here to nowhereville. Cable and DSL aren't available here and we hesitated to sign a 2 or 3 year contract and pay over $500.00 in set up fees for the only satellite services we could find. Then a few weeks ago we heard of a new company servicing this area. One with a shorter contract, better technology and lower set up costs. So, as long as the installer shows up on August 16th and our view of the southern sky is clear enough we will finally be able to download, upload and surf with ease again. Not to mention people will be actually be able to call us for a change instead of hearing a constant busy signal.

Butchered

2005-08-01T08:54:00.000-05:00

I take my hair very seriously. Not that I am afraid to color it or cut it or make it do all sorts of unnatural tricks. I have had it cropped off so short that use of electric clippers were employed by the stylist. I have had it colored and highlighted and double and triple processed it to achieve colors that god never intended for man or beast to sport. I have always been the first to tell people who were shocked at these bold adventures in hair: "It's just hair, it grows back."

Still, I like to be the one who decides when my hair gets lopped off or what color it turns. The stylist is there to do my bidding and should carry out my wishes with precision. The last hair person I had was fantastic. J was a spunky blonde lady from California who always wore glittery eye shadow and would happily special order hair color for me with names like Purple Rage and Violent Violet. She kept a card with every detail about my hair, texture, length, varying styles and colors we'd tried, even what shampoo and conditioner I used. She never gave me a haircut I didn't like.

Unfortunately, since our move, the hour and a half drive to get my hair done began to grate at my nerves. So at the urging of my husband and other family members I tried a local stylist. The shop she worked at should have been enough in and of itself to scare me off. It's name and furnishings seem to have been stolen from some 1950's beauty parlor. However, I am trying not to judge the dusty out dated covers of these small town books before I've peeked inside. The first haircut I received was very good. I had let my hair grow out considerably, wanting something softer and more feminine than I'd been wearing. I showed her a picture that was something like what I wanted and explained I was letting it grow a bit. A shampoo and fifteen minutes later I had a cute cut that gave my fine hair movement and volume and framed my face. Great.

But you see the problem with finding a good hair stylist is not that most of them can't give you a good hair cut. The problem is most of them can't do it consistently. I showed up Saturday for a four week trim and brow waxing. I explained I just needed the bangs trimmed and the ends shaped up so the style would behave. Apparently, I should have said that I didn't want a shorter length than the one she originally cut my hair to. She literally took off an inch and a half. That's a lot of hair for someone already wearing a short cut. Now, all that fun, flirty length I had painfully grown out is gone. Not that the cut isn't OK. It's fine. It's just not what I wanted. Furthermore this length isn't right for the style so it looks too choppy at the bottom. Nothing the right styling products won't disguise but certainly not what I wanted.

I suppose now, after it grows back, I'll have to tuck my tail between my legs and make that hour and a half drive to see J. She will of course know that I have cheated on her with some floosy of a beautician. Oh the shame of it all!

Drowning in the Green Heat

2005-07-29T06:42:00.000-05:00

I have come to the conclusion that red isn't the color we should associate with heat. No. Green is the color that makes the world hot.

The heat index in this little agricultural microcosm was 109 degrees Fahrenheit yesterday. Although it's hard to believe, yesterday was not one of the hottest days we've had in July. The breeze here, when there is one, is moist and hot. I am convinced that it's all the growing things that make this particular map dot so unbearably warm. In this part of the south almost every acre is covered in something green and growing. For a hundred miles all around me corn fields are just beginning to wither at the bottom but remain a yellowing shade of emerald. Cotton fields are just blooming pink and yellow against a nearly black green. Peanut fields look knitted in place, their jungle green rows sit tight against the ground. Where man has planted nothing, grass covers the ground and kudzu covers everything else. On the horizon in every direction, the scallop of green trees, (pines, pecans, oaks and cypress) wall in the throbbing buzz of insects and the stifling heat. In the afternoon when you stare off into the green distance the view is liquid. It ripples like a reflection on water.

Even though I grew up moving every couple of years, I only remember living in the desserts of Nevada and Colorado or in the humidity below the Mason Dixon line. So a friend of mine once described winter in the north for me. He told me of the different kinds of snow, the way the cold stings you, even the smell of the air: sterile, like the freezer. He sent me pictures of a half frozen river. It was like a fairy tale to me. That sort of cold is almost beyond my imagination. So I can't help but wonder if those of you who have never been to this part of the south can imagine this kind of heat. Can you imagine air so hot and wet that it feels like you are being swallowed when you step outside? There is no such thing as never letting them see you sweat around here. When you step outside your body is instantly damp, your clothes cling to your shape, as if we are really living underwater in a hot bath. Sometimes the air is so heavy with steamy moisture, you feel like you might drown.

E.R.

2005-07-28T06:44:00.000-05:00

Lovely place to spend the night. Especially with your child who's having trouble breathing. Not very restful though.

What to do about insomnia (sexual content)

2005-07-27T06:36:00.000-05:00

In the soft glow of a bedside lamp he looked her over as she slept. Mary lay on her stomach, right arm around her pillow, right leg pulled up at a ninety degree angle. On the side of her foot he noted three or four tiny red welts with white centers. Ant bites, Christopher remembered. She hated shoes in the summer time. Her skin was creamy and pale, studded with freckles across her back and turning golden at her shoulders and right below her backside where her bathing suit stopped. Her hair, wet from the shower, was tangled about her face, too damp to hint at its normally shining gingerbread brown hue. Her ample curves rose and fell quietly with her deep sleep breathing.

He hated to disturb her. She was so peaceful. Besides it had been quite a night already. He should be asleep himself, worn out. Mary had proved to be quite a challenge, meeting his every thrust, besting his wildest fantasies over and over again. Still, after waking up to investigate some small noise and get a much needed sip of water he was mesmerized by her form. Unable to go back to sleep he found himself aroused once again, his cock wide awake despite the small hour, demanding that he wake the lovely woman beside him as well.

Moving her hair aside he kissed her gently on the neck and then the shoulder. She sighed in her sleep, a dreamy, happy sound. Christopher kissed each freckle on her back and when he made his way to the dip just above her ass she began to squirm without fully waking. He ran his hand down between her legs. Her position made it easy to reach under her and caress the smooth lips of her sex and the silky skin covering her clit, which always protruded slightly from her labia, waiting to be touched. Mary moaned a little now and wiggled on his hand, already he could feel her becoming slick and a little throb of delight went through him. Very gently, he pushed one finger and then two inside of her while rubbing his other hand along the curve of her waist. The muscles inside her slippery opening contracted eagerly. His erection got became painfully hard, remembering how those same muscles had gripped him earlier. He couldn't wait to do it again.

Although she was not quite awake yet, he could tell that her body was. Moving between her legs, using his knees to gently open them further, he placed the head of his engorged member at the incredibly wet opening of her pussy. He held her hips and guided himself in, submerging his dick in the tight heat. With a little gasp Mary was fully awake and said his name with a surprised giggle. Drowsy and pleased to already be fucking again she moved against him, arching her back. She reached beneath her self, stroking her clit, the tips of her fingers brushing along his cock as it moved in and out of her. He had started out gently but could no longer control his lust. Christopher plunged into her hard, pulling her back into him by her waist. She cried out her approval, and began to babble a nearly incoherent string of dirty phrases before she announced that she was coming. Pleased with himself and no longer able to hold back he came too, holding himself deep inside her as her cunt rippled and squeezed around him.

Panting and turning to face him, Mary smiled wickedly.

"Planning on going back to sleep?"

"I doubt you'd let me." Christopher replied with a devilish grin.

They could sleep late, after the sun came up, they decided. They'd sleep right through the continetal breakfast and ask the front desk for a late a check out.

My Ten Feather Pillow and The Power of the Moon

2005-07-26T07:38:00.000-05:00

I have this old feather pillow that I have slept on since childhood. My mother used to call it my "ten feather pillow" because it was so old and flattened that it looked like it only had about ten feathers left in it. Go ahead and tell me that a more than twenty year old feather pillow is not only unsanitary but also an allergy attack waiting to happen. I don't care. I need this pillow to sleep.

It has, over the years, needed many repairs. Up until now I've sown it up by hand when it got a little rip or the seam came undone. Well, the fabric has become so deteriorated that I can't sew it anymore. It just sort of disintegrates as you try to thread the needle through it. I slept on it for a few weeks with it's feathers leaking out everywhere. Every morning I had to pull feathers out of my hair and brush them off the sheets. I finally realized a couple of days ago that I had to give it up. Now I am sleeping miserably on nice new foam pillow that is hot on both sides and doesn't mold to my head right, causing me to wake up with sweaty, aching neck every hour on the hour.

Last night at 2:45 am I was awake, tossing and turning. I looked out the gap in the curtain at my window and pondered the shadows made by the moon and starlight. The night was never so bright in the city limits. No street lights could bathe the world in that sort of milky glow. I had a strange urge to strip off my clothes and go for a walk outside. I actually got up and walked to the front door before my husband called from our bedroom and wanted to know why I was up. Nosy man. I went back to bed but couldn't stop looking outside. There is something so erotic about the summer night. I strained my ears to hear the rain frogs singing. I wanted to be on a blanket down by the pond. Naked and slick with sweat, writhing beneath my lover and looking up at the smiling moon.

It was probably past 4am when I got back to sleep. I am drowsy today and frustrated. I feel a surge of sexual energy coursing through me, the kind of thing no simple morning masturbatory session is going to cure. Maybe it's time to dust off those pagan ritual books I accumulated when I was a young thing living on the coast of Mississippi. I could build a secret altar in the near by woods, sneak out each night and use all this sensual power to bend the universe to my will. The first thing I'd try to conjure up is a perfect ten feather pillow.

Gray hairs and fine lines are a small price to pay.

2005-07-25T07:56:00.000-05:00

Last Friday night my husband and I drove forty five minutes to the nearest town with a theater for Date Night. I won't ramble through my feelings of mild contempt or general lack of enthusiasm for this practice, if you've been reading you already know about it. We ate dinner at a casual little place. You order and pay at the counter and then one of the sweaty but pleasant waitresses brings out your plates and refills your drinks.

There is often a lot of silence between my husband and I during these planned evenings. He's not much of a talker and I get sick of hearing my own voice, answering my own questions and trying to flirt. So usually I do a great deal of people watching while we are out. Friday nights in this particular town belong to teenagers. It's the only place in a hundred mile radius with a mall and theater so kids from four counties ride over in jacked up pick-up trucks or are dropped off by their parents to wander around forming territorial tribes and exercising their painfully new social skills.

In the restaurant I was seated directly in front of one of these groups. There were four young girls wearing too much make up, and showing off newly sprouted cleavage or recently pierced belly buttons. With them, sat a couple of wild haired teenage boys in ball caps and low slung jeans. All of them wore the rich tan and sunburned pink skin of summer. The boys swaggered, full of testosterone and bravado, big loose grins on their faces. They possessively hung their arms around the two girls who had the privilege of being their dates. The girlfriends had a look of momentary relief on their faces. (Tonight they were the chosen ones, made worthy by male attention.) They smiled demurely at the boys. They looked down at the other two girls with gentle superiority. The girls without dates surveyed the room with false confidence, their thinly veiled self hatred visible in their sad and slightly terrified eyes. They whispered too each other conspiratorially, pretending to be uninterested in the food they had ordered.

Before the movie, in the theater bathroom, these same girls rushed out as I went in. They were all giggles and gossip, their ridiculously bright lipstick and eyeshadows reapplied. I looked in the mirror at my own face. It was fresh and clean, what little make up I was wearing barely visible, and framed by my hair which was glossy and rich like polished wood. I am so glad to be thirty instead of thirteen, awkwardly trying to wield my new found sexuality like a heavy sword.

Busy, sort of.

2005-07-22T07:47:00.000-05:00

I know. I didn't post yesterday. I was busy, sort of. I'm busy today too, sort off. I'll be back Monday. Probably.

On some days a silly extended metaphor is the best you can do.*

2005-07-19T08:42:00.000-05:00

Living in a marriage that doesn't quite fit, like a slightly irregular pair of jeans purchased at a factory outlet, can rub you the wrong way. But after you've worn it for awhile and you've decided that the cost of buying the real thing, the ones with the perfectly symmetrical legs and smooth seams, is just too high , you learn to make do. In fact, you sort of grow accustomed to the way they pinch and twist. On most days you hardly even notice and you assure yourself that no one else does either. If you're like me you avoid the mirror all together, lest you be reminded.

Then one afternoon, you're gliding along in your bargain basement, seemed like a good idea at the time, jeans and you glance in a particular direction and see yourself reflected. These pants aren't all that flattering and they sure as hell aren't comfortable. If only marriage were returnable with receipt. If I was a certain kind of person I'd just toss it aside and write a hot check for what I really wanted. I'm not that kind of person. Honestly, the garment I'm wearing looks pretty good on the rack. I'm sure it would fit some other woman perfectly. I'm lucky to have clothes at all.

*I'm holding out on you guys. I've written a lot of good stuff lately. Even good sex stuff. I just don't want to share it. I'm keeping it in my care, petting and training it. You guys are stuck with the crumbs I have left each day. Forgive me.

Scary Survey

2005-07-18T08:20:00.000-05:00

Even if you don't normally comment I'd really love to hear your ideas on this topic. These questions are rather general and could encompass a number of experiences and beliefs so please answer with an open mind. I realize this is a little out of the ordinary for me but then you should know by now that I hate being ordinary so just answer the damn questions. :-)

Do you believe in ghosts or other paranormal activity?

Have you ever had an encounter with a ghost, spirit, or unexplained force?

Have you ever dabbled in the occult? (Played with a ouija board, read tarot cards or had yours read, performed a pagan ritual ect.)

Do you have or know anyone who has had precognitive dreams or visions?

True Love

2005-07-15T08:12:00.000-05:00

I don't usually write about my daughter and I've already done it once this week. I try to keep this place out of the Mommy Blog category. However, this story has a universal theme to it and I can't stop thinking about it, so I'm telling it anyway.

My little girl, who is three, is in love. Preschool has introduced her to her first crush. Her beloved is a scabby kneed, freckle faced, lightly sunburned blonde, named Rosy. She's madly in love with another little girl. No one has told her yet that love is gender specific. I hope no on ever does. Love should be first and foremost about the attraction of souls not the ability to reproduce sexually.

I guess other people would say that Rosy is just her first best friend. I see how much more serious this is. She can't stop saying Rosy's name. When she's really excited her R's slip into W's and Rosy, becomes Wosy. She chants it boisterously, jumping up and down without the need for verbs or clauses. The one word, Rosy, is an entire sentence, a paragraph, a ten page term paper on adoration. Other times, she says it quietly, embarrassedly, as if it slipped out by accident. I look at her little ginger bread face and dreamy black eyes and think, I know baby, I know just how you feel. She has renamed all her barbie dolls Rosy. She recounts every single thing Rosy did at school on the car ride home. Rosy played outside with her, Rosy ate lunch with her, Rosy got hurt and needed a band-aid. (The last part she told me with a trembling lower lip and watery eyes. How awful that her love had suffered!)

When I picked my little one up from class yesterday, Rosy ran up to me boldly and announced with much pride, "I'm Rosy!" With much overblown adult politeness I replied, "How nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you!" Nearly hidden behind my leg, my daughter peeked out her checks flushed and eyes glazed. I looked down at her and smiled with secret understanding. She looked up at me and then back at Rosy with awestruck joy.

"Wosy." She nearly whispered and I could see her heart skip a beat.

If I could just stop thinking maybe I could sleep.

2005-07-14T11:31:00.000-05:00

Please submit a third person biography of 200-400 words.

Fuck.

Is this the same as being asked in a job interview "Tell us what you feel you have to offer our company?"

What could I possibly say that would make me sound interesting or worthy?

Christine is a fat housewife with a penchant for melodrama and a life long love-hate relationship with words. She is held captive by two sets of huge, black, almond shaped eyes, in one of the poorest counties in Georgia. Although she has had poems published in The Fall Line Review, a literary magazine of the college she attended but did not obtain a degree from, it was a slow year for submissions and the editors were just happy to have something to fill two more pages.

Damn. Nowhere near 200 words.

Hiding Out

2005-07-13T14:08:00.000-05:00

I spent most of the day in a library or greasy spoon diner like place, hiding from my in-laws. I told them I had a doctor's appointment a few towns over, which I did, but I told them it was an all day sort of affair when it really wasn't. Why would I be afraid to drive past my in-laws house to my own home? Two words: Peas, Corn.

Yesterday I spent 12 hours, picking, shucking or shelling, blanching and freezing peas and corn. At the end of the night there were 152 pint freezer bags full of black eyed peas and butter beans in the cavernous deep freeze. Don't ask me about the corn, we did that in the morning and the heat of the afternoon, spent in my mother-in-laws un-air-conditioned kitchen, erased a good portion of my memory. This morning I woke up with a sore back, and bruised, steam burned fingers. Of course, I wouldn't dare tell my in-laws how battered I am today. That would expose me as the lazy, soft, city girl I really am. If you're wondering why we can't buy frozen peas and corn at the store like normal people, I'll tell you like my father-in-law told me, complete with one shocked, raised eyebrow: "That stuff ain't fit ta eat!"

So I ran away today. I read at the library, I wrote at the diner and I cast flirty glances at the tanned and muscular blue collar boys on their lunch hour. I'm alone a lot lately now that my little one is in preschool six hours a day. I kind of enjoy it but I didn't always like being alone. I can remember being an incredibly insecure and anti-social young teenager, terrified to make eye contact with others. I was alone then because I was the weaker of the barely pubescent species around me. I was dangling at the bottom of the food chain, just trying to lay low, lest I be eaten alive by my peers.

Then in highschool I found a sweetheart. I married him. For years, when I was in that relationship, I wore him like a shield. I never went anywhere without him. I knew that no matter what else he thought of me, he thought I was beautiful. He was gregarious and charming. The life of the party. He was the kind of confident that people didn't question. So when he placed his hand on the small of my back and introduced me as Christine, his wife, while looking at me lustfully, whomever I was meeting believed I was beautiful too. Later in our relationship, when he said to his friends, "My wife is the greatest fuck you'll ever have," they not only believed him but were interested in a sample. On my part, I just wanted a little taste of what it was like to tease all the boys. The idea of being the center of that much attention was so intoxicating that I gave little thought to the deeper implications.

When that marriage ended the worst part for me was learning to face myself in the mirror without his opinion to shade my own. I hated being alone. The first time I went to the movies by myself I bawled my eyes out in the theater despite the fact that the film was not a tear jerker. I was ashamed to be out in public with no one to tell the crowd who I was and what they should think of me. It took a long time to figure out what I thought of myself and then learn to impose that opinion on the world. Next to the carrying and caring for my daughter there is nothing I am more proud of. I know myself, I mostly like myself, warts and all, and if you don't like me chances are I really don't give a fuck. There aren't many people in the world who've really mastered that.

Funny thing is, if I saw my ex husband today, I know exactly what he'd say and do. He'd look at me the way a junkie would eye his drug of choice. He would insist that he still loves me. But I'm not sure he ever really loved me. Love and addiction are two different things. I wonder if under his gaze I would begin to feel like the needle and syringe. Would I start to disintegrate into something he could use? Even as strong as I think I am, I have hidden from him for years now. I am afraid of what I might loose if he finds me, not my husband, not my child, but myself.

Freaked out Mom moment

2005-07-12T06:43:00.000-05:00

My little one was diagnosed with asthma and seasonal allergies and put on Singulair and Zyrtec about a month ago. Since that time her behavior and mood has changed dramatically. At first we thought maybe she was just having trouble adjusting to other changes in her life but recently her behavior has become really really strange. Horrible temper tantrums over everything you can imagine, sadness for no apparent reason, destroying books, toys and even furniture, nail biting, saying she's "bad" all the time even when we aren't correcting her for misbehavior and recently she's begun to hurt herself on purpose and whine constantly that she has boo boo's when we can find none.

We have looked over the advertised side effects for her medicine and found nothing to indicate this could be caused by her medicine. After a really bad night with her last night I got online and started googling this morning. Imagine my horror when I come across hundreds of parents testimonials that singulair turned there children into little monsters. So I an making an appointment with her doctor to suggest that we discontinue it.

I feel like banging my head against a brick wall. I am so very concerned about her and it has been heart breaking the last few weeks to watch my happy, sweet, bright child become dark, destructive and even self destructive. I am near panic mode today wondering if the doctor will advise against ending the medication or prescribe her something even worse. Or maybe I'm afraid we'll take her off the med and she'll still be acting this way.

Motherhood is not for the faint of heart.

Four mostly unrelated topics.

2005-07-11T08:56:00.000-05:00

Have I mentioned that I have been reluctantly participating in the gathering and preserving of food for the year? Living on the family farm means hot hours in the corn field or pea patch, shucking, shelling, blanching, freezing, canning. I feel like the genetic hybrid love child of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Martha Stewart. Sweet tomato relish is a good thing.

My insomnia is back with a vengeance. It started about a week ago. Last night was the first night I've had more than a few hours of sleep since then. I feel worn out. Sometimes I think there is no rhyme or reason for these sleep disturbed spells. Sometimes they seem to forshadow stressful events. Or maybe sleep deprivation makes me a little crazy and craziness turns into stressful events. I'm too tired to think about it.

I am one of those people who talk to think. Or in some cases, write to think. I can never make sense of anything until I've blurted it out or jotted it down and consider all the possible reasons and ramifications as well as what might be unfolding in a few parallel universes. The problem with this is that I often ended up spouting a lot of nonsense, bullshit even, before I get to the bottom of things. This can be confusing and hard on those who are subjected to my ramblings. I have tried to learn to hold my tongue or pen or key board. However, more often than not that only leads to an extreme outburst somewhere down the road.

I had a tremendously long and unpleasant weekend. I was actually glad to see Monday ease in and last week drop away. I just hope this week will be better.

4 AM

2005-07-09T02:59:00.000-05:00

Can't sleep.

You ever get to the end of a day, or week or month and look back on all the things you said or did and wish you could change them? It's even worse when you are not sure what you should have changed, only that you should have done something different. Spoke softer maybe? Said sweet things instead of selfish ones or just kept your mouth shut. Maybe you wish you'd spent more quality time with your loved ones or not let so many chances for fun pass you by.

Seducing Brandy (sexual content)

2005-07-08T08:19:00.000-05:00

In retrospect I don't know why I did it. Well I know why. It was something about her true red hair, not strawberry blonde, not auburn but that prefect coppery red that no stylist could create. I couldn't take my eyes off that hair, swinging around her shoulders, piled on top of her head, or pulled straight back away from her freckled face and grey eyes. She was beautiful in an unusual way and I like unusual girls. Her small but sturdy frame, the rounded little pot belly she was always tugging her t-shirt down to cover, her cotton-candy pink pout, all of these things made me a little crazy. For several weeks I watched her at a distance.

I didn't really know her but this is a small town. I'd see her at the grocery store or washing her car at the Splash-N-Dash. I knew she was part of the McDaniel clan, a huge family that farmed in the southern part of the county. Eaves dropping on her conversation at the local diner one morning, I learned her name. Brandy. I loved the name. I took out my journal while I finished off my eggs and scribbled it over and over. I could just hear myself whispering her name in her ear as I touched her. Brandy, Brandy, you feel so good, baby... Still, I couldn't find an excuse to introduce myself, let alone explain my interest, until one blisteringly hot afternoon in July.

I had been wandering around town trying to find inspiration for my latest short story, (Some sappy romance kind of thing, set in the 50's that involved a young widow and a reckless cowboy who was just passin' through.) when I saw a guy in pressed indigo blue jeans and work boots leave The Crossroad's Bar and Grill and storm angrily across the street toward a new, extended cab pick up that was double parked. To my surprise, Brandy was following him, her face wet with tears, a look of heart sick disbelief on her flushed face.

"Michael!" She called out. "Michael wait... PLEASE!"

The desperation in her voice was painful to hear. Michael got into his truck, his tires spinning as he sped off. Brandy stood limply in the street, her pale skin bright red, looking as though she might pass out. Suddenly, it occurred to me that this was my chance. I nearly ran to her.

"Honey, you'd better get out of the street and sit down." I told her as I touched her shoulder. She was wearing a sky blue tank top with these delicate lace spaghetti straps. Her skin was warm and moist. As I guided her to the curb in a very big sister like way, all I could think of was how salty her shoulder or the nape of her neck would taste. I don't know how long we sat on the curb and to be honest I don't remember what she told me. Even blubbering about her now ex-boyfriend she looked like a candy apple to me, I just wanted to take a bite of her.

That's when I first got the idea that I could use her loss to my advantage. It wasn't hard to come up with, really. Some one had seduced me like that not to long ago. Some handsome, well spoken, stranger who found me sad, lonely and easily led. Yep. He talked me right out of my pants first, and then my heart (or was it the other way around) and as soon as he had won me completely he moved onto the next victim. She was some skinny bitch with longer, bouncier hair and an even sadder story than mine. Another beautiful and broken creature he could fix. The fucker. In her vulnerability, Brandy looked even sexier to me. It was kind of sick really. I wanted her but I also wanted to be the one with the power to make her cry.

I offered to drive her home and bought her a cold vanilla coke. On the way to her house I pulled off onto a dirt road and into the woods a little ways. (Just so she could calm down before she faced her Mama and told her the engagement was off.) Brandy talked about how Michael had become enamored with some floosy from Hahira. Brandy felt like she was a plain kind of girl and couldn't compete with a long legged stripper called Jewel, who was pierced in all the right places.

"Brandy." I said softly, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I barely know you and I can tell you that you are more precious than any stripper from Hahira."

Brandy let out a hiccuped sob or two and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

"You are so beautiful, your creamy skin, that fiery hair. He's a fool."

She managed a weak smile and looked up at me, batting her eyelashes softly. It was a flirty, admiring gesture. She didn't even know it but she had given me the green light. I was going to have her, eventually. It took a few weeks. I called her regularly to see how she was doing. When she'd seem down or bored I'd invent some outing I could invite her to.

"Aww! You shouldn't be sitting at home! I'm driving up to Macon to shop. Wanna come?"

She'd always accept. I'd make a point to compliment every bit of personality she revealed. I complimented her looks too, her outfits, her smile but the real trick, I knew, was to compliment her little quirks. Like the nervous way she'd bite her thumb nail when she was thinking. "It's so cute when you do that." I'd say and she'd blush and grin. She was getting comfortable. I made her laugh. I touched her. A lot. Nothing out of line. Just the back of her hand while we talked, a nice long hug before she went home. It was maddening for me sometimes. I'd be holding her, playing the good friend, and she'd smell like white flowers and a sort of sweet muskiness that was her own personal scent. I wanted to kiss her on the mouth, not the cheek, I wanted to put my tongue against hers, but I had to wait. So I just kept my attention on pleasing her. Acting like her every whim amused me to no end.

It finally happened one Friday night or early Saturday morning when we'd gone out to the local bars. She'd been dancing with every guy in sight but looking directly at me through every grind and wiggle. I'd bought her several drinks while slowly nursing my own. At 2am the bars closed down and we drove around the backroads for awhile. I told her she was sexy dancing with all those guys. The conversation became a listing of turn ons for her and then me. I confessed that I'd always wanted to make out with another girl. This wasn't exactly a lie, because I did want to make out with other girls. It was just a little sin of omission. I forgot to mention that I had made out with other girls.

Parked off the road in a secluded spot, giggling at first, then breathing heavily we began to kiss. Brandy was tipsy, and trying to seem experimental but her mouth was betraying her need. She sucked in my bottom lip and toyed with my tongue. I let my hands slip under her shirt and found her small but full breasts tipped with hard nipples like pebbles. This mouthing and groping went on forever. She didn't touch me much, just let her hands softly grip my back or arms as we kissed and I fondled her luscious little tits. My body was so hot and needy, just the brush of her hand was making me feel like I would come soon but she was holding back, afraid to take it to far.

I pulled away from her and allowed my intense lust to build into an bubbling cauldron of emotion. My eyes, wet and teary I administered the final blow.

"I know I shouldn't say this Brandy," I began. She kissed me again and then looked into my eyes compassionately.

"Say what?"

"I don't want to hurt our friendship." I insisted, pinching her left nipple just a little. A small moan escaped her impossibly pink mouth.

"Nothing could change that." She panted. Her hands were in my hair now, her body pressing even closer to mine.

"I think..."

"Say it, just say it!"

"I love you brandy!" I lied, praying she'd return the sentiment and the panties would finally come off.

"Oh!" She gushed, and reached for my breast.

I put my hands beneath her skirt and wrestled her panties aside touching her unexpectedly slick pussy. She trembled and I realized she'd come soon. With my other hand I pushed up my shirt and bra, exposing myself to her and she looked at me hungrily. I had her. Her sweet mouth went to my nipples and I worked her slick fold with my fingers.

"Do you love me too, Brandy?" I whispered as she neared the peak.

"Yes!" She was nearly in tears, crying out my name "I love you, I love you" She said over and over as her juices spilled into my hand.

It went on for a few months. The problem was I had done my job a little too well. Brandy was talking about moving in. She was reading about commitment ceremonies and the legalities of same sex marriage. All I had wanted was to know how she tasted. I tried to let her down easy. I told her I'd always love her. I think it made her feel better but it didn't ease my conscious.

Idiosyncrasies (idea stolen from Jen)

2005-07-06T07:53:00.000-05:00

Jen posted this fascinating little fact list about herself and I, feeling totally uncreative and yet self absorbed today, thought I'd post something similar. After taking an extended break from regular blogging I feel like I'm slapping a hand or foot that's fallen asleep. I'm all pins and needles, not fully functional just yet.

I am ridiculously picky about shampoo and conditioner. I read the labels. I'll pay $20 a bottle for a shampoo that's main ingredient after water isn't Sodium Laurel Sulfate.

I get sort of drunk and sleepy after sex. I used to think everyone felt this way after a good romp but apparently not.

I only wear Lane Bryant brand panties and bras. (That's a popular line of plus size clothing for you skinny types.) I buy the cotton hipster style panties for everyday wear, I like the boy-cut and cheeky panties in cute patterns or lacey and satiny material for special occasions.

I am addicted to bath products with a sweet almond scent. When I made soap, I bought this fragrance in huge quantities.

I consider myself bi-sexual, although I haven't been with another woman in many years. I am always attracted to women that are a lot like me in looks or personality. I consider this to be an extension of my narcissism. When it comes to my love of women I am ultimately trying to love myself. Or something like that.

I can not stomach most fast food. I do love Sonic, mainly for drinks, corndogs and tatertots. I will eat at Chick-fil-A, Subway or Taco Bell if I have to.

I shower or bathe at least twice a day. I do this mostly to relax. (Although I do wash myself in the process) I get some of my best ideas in the shower or tub. A bath or shower is my official cure for everything, headache, cold/flu, sadness, anger. Anything can be cured by a certain bathing ritual.

I prefer dark denim jeans on myself over the light or faded ones. They are just more flattering.

I don't think anyone has ever loved me unconditionally. Not even my parents. I sometimes wonder if I am the only person in the world who loves (at least some of the time) unconditionally.

I love flip flops even though I know they are sloppy and unsexy.

When it comes to music I care as much if not more about the lyrics than I do the actual tune.

I think words and sounds are my favorite part of sex. Well, at least they are a part of sex I can not do without. I miss dirty talk. I miss the sound of my partner reaching climax. I miss the sound of someone I love saying my name. Aw fuck. I just miss sex in general.

Okay... There you go. A few off the wall things about me.

Fruity

2005-07-05T08:15:00.000-05:00

Is there anything sexier than fruit this time of year? My fridge is full of deliciously cold nectarines, plums, cherries, and the local favorites, cantaloupe and peaches. Is is so miserably hot and humid here (heat index yesterday at 4pm was 108) that appetites are suffering. Nobody wants hot food, nobody wants to be standing over a stove, oven or grill. Cold fruit, sweet iced tea, and ice cream have become the official food pyramid in my house.

When cantaloupe is ripe, it's as musky as it is sweet. The scent and succulent spongy texture of cantaloupe makes me feel aroused. I suppose this is a good thing since lately I have been distracted from my libido by everything from poetry to mild depression.

This morning however, it's nectarines for breakfast. I have decided that nectarines are my favorite right now. They have that suggestive split, like a peach, only they are perfectly smooth. I love the taut skin, stretched over soft flesh. I usually eat them whole, standing on the porch or over the sink, sticky, sugary juice running down my chin. Afterward I lick my fingers clean.

Yum!

I'm still taking a break, really I am...

2005-06-29T08:28:00.000-05:00

If I mentioned that it was about 9:30am and I had forgone the coffee today and gone right to pina colada wine coolers, would you think less of me?

It's an awful gray and rainy day here and the only thing that looks good to me is the soft wear on my cream colored sheets, tangled up in my cinnamon colored comforter. I could really love the constantly growling rumble of thunder and the ping and patter of rain against the house if I were mixed in among those bed covers and the tips of my fingers traced a certain spine from it's skull base to it's final rounded destination.

It's been too long since I've had the pleasure of sharing myself completely with someone else. Not just the sticky touches, not just the trembling rise in physical need but the word by word seduction of two minds.

Something to think on...

2005-06-27T08:31:00.000-05:00

I am still taking a break. No one get excited. I thought this might break up the monotony for those of you who are still here, checking in daily, wondering when I'll be back.

As I may have mentioned, my youngest sister, The Pretty One, who is not quite twenty, is engaged. She is supposed to be married in January to a young man who I hate. It isn't fair that I hate him. Hell, I hardly know him. But I know all about the vast, cavernous distance between the dream of marriage and the reality of marriage. Anyone who insists on dangling my darling, naive, little sister over that gorge goes directly on my shit list regardless of his war hero status or his rippling abs. Huh. War hero: A heavy drinking, childish, brutish, twenty four year old airman, who joined the Air Force because he didn't have anything better to do and was sent (much to his dismay) to the desert to clean sand out of the high tech equipment used by service men with much higher ASVAB* scores than his. Sorry, I'm getting away from my point here.

*ASVAB is the Armed Services Aptitude Test. The test indicates which career fields are best suited to individuals joining the military.

I came across this poem in one of the anthologies I own that really echoes my feelings about her up coming wedding.

Poem Not to Be Read at Your Wedding ~ Beth Ann Fennelly

You ask me for a poem about love
in lieu of a wedding present, trying to save me
money. For three nights I've lain under
glow-in-the-dark stars I've stuck to the ceiling
over my bed. I've listened to the songs
of the galaxy. Well Carmen, I would rather
give you your third set of steak knives
than tell you what I know. Let me find you
some other store-bought present. Don't
make me warn you of stars, how they see us
from that distance as miniature and breakable,
from the bride who tops the wedding cake
to the Mary on Pinto dashboards
holding her ripe heart in her hands.

Time Out

2005-06-21T10:34:00.000-05:00

I need a break from daily blogging. You may have noticed that my posts have been unusually short and the content relatively flimsy.

I am in transition. My personal space, my daily routine, my long and short term goals are all shifting. It's a good thing but a distracting one. Or maybe it's the blog that is distracting. Either way I'm going to back away for a little while. For some reason this Sarah McLachlan song is stuck in my head:

Black and White

unravel me
a distant cord
on the outside is forgotten
a constant need

to get along
and the animal awakens
and all I feel is black and white

the road is long
the memory slides
to the whole of my undoing
put aside
I put away
I push it back to get through each day
and all I feel is black and white
and I'm wound up small and tight
and I don't know who I am

everybody loves you when you're easy
everybody hates when you're a bore
everyone is waiting for your entrance so
don't disappoint them

unravel me
untie this chord
the very centre of our union
is caving in
I can't endure
I am the archive of our failure

and all I feel is black and white
and I'm wound up small and tight
and I don't know who I am

everybody loves you when you're easy
everybody hates when you're a bore
everyone is waiting for your entrance so
don't disappoint them

everybody loves you when you're easy so
don't disappoint them

don't disappoint them ...

It fits in ways I can't explain and some that you can probably guess. Play nice while I'm gone kids.

Thinking you up

2005-06-20T09:02:00.000-05:00

My best friend believes that if you think about someone hard enough and long enough you'll magically draw them to you. She calls it thinking someone up. I admit I've seen it happen. Often when I have a loved one on my mind, they call out of the blue or show up in my e-mail inbox or I later find out that they were, for one reason or another, thinking of me at the same time.

How far can this magic reach I wonder? If I suddenly find myself preoccupied with someone I haven't seen in a long time, did they think me up?

Separation Anxiety

2005-06-17T07:45:00.000-05:00

Today was the second trial run of preschool before my daughter starts the five day a week program on Monday. She has talked about school all week. She has talked about playing in the park and getting to use the computer. She excitedly talked about seeing her teachers again and showing them her new dress and her new boo-boo. (The boo-boo being a crusty scraped up knee, earned when she went leaping down the concrete steps out of her grandparent's house.)

Apparently, all her enthusiasm was more hypothetical than literal. When she woke up this morning we had this conversation:

Little One: I can't go to school on Friday.
Me: It is Friday silly, you go to school today.
Little One: No! I not go to school!
Me: Why not?
Little One: I go to the store with Mommy.
Me: Mommy's not going to the store today. I have work today and you need to go to school.
Little One: No! I will cry.
Me: It's ok if you cry a little but you'll have fun too, right? On the park and playing computer?
Little One: *silent frown*
Me: Don't you want to see your teacher?
Little One: No. I want chocolate milk.
Me: *sigh* Ok. Let's have some chocolate milk and we'll talk about school after.

I had hoped that chocolate milk would sweeten her disposition. It did not. She cried big, slippery tears all the way to school. After much bargaining with her she told me good bye between sobs. At least I didn't cry this time.

As I drove home I kept telling myself that this is good for her. She needs to interact with other kids and I can't provide that for her at home. She needs the stimulation school can offer because she is bored here at home all day. Truth is, I need this. I need to start feeling like I belong to myself for a few hours each day. Still, I felt heavy all the way home. Like my t-shirt was made of stones.

Do jalapenos cause nightmares?

2005-06-16T13:01:00.000-05:00

Last night I dreamed that I received a call from the dean of the college where my husband works. She informed me that he had not been showing up for work and that he was fired. When I confronted him with this information he confessed that he had two other wives, one who had a baby with him. He said he hadn't been at work because he was trying to spend time with all three wives, including me. He just kept laughing while he told me. It was like an incredibly funny practical joke to him. My daughter was standing in the door way crying. She kept saying "I want a brother!"

I woke up to a tickle around my face and found a tiny black beetle crawling into my ear. (Go ahead and squeal, EWWWWW. I did.)

Anyone care to analyze that? Please tell me tiny black beetles aren't messengers of disaster or something.

This is why law abiding citizens don't trust cops.

2005-06-15T06:51:00.000-05:00

Last night when I finally headed home after having a wonderful dinner with sunShine it was nearly 10pm. Thank god for the gallon of iced coffee I picked up at Dunkin Donuts (hazelnut flavored if you must know but only because they were out of toasted almond) because otherwise I would have fallen asleep on the way home. It was after eleven when I pulled off the interstate and hit the very small state road that runs past the family farm.

I had just crossed my county line when it happened. I was driving along minding my own business and suddenly from the opposite side of the road two headlights appeared and then headed straight for me. This car had been sitting on the other side of the road lights off, laying in wait. It swung in behind me and began to ride so close on my bumper that I was afraid it would hit me. I was a woman alone, in the pitch black dark on a very deserted road with some maniac trying to ram my car, I was terrified.

I had been going about sixty miles an hour. The speed limit there is fifty five. I wasn't doing anything wrong and this car, who was now weaving around behind me at very close range was not topped by flashing blue lights so I had no reason to believe it was a cop car. I was very close to home so I sped up, thinking I had to get into my personal drive way before this nut hit me. If I could just get onto our dirt road I could lay on the horn alerting my family and surely the crazy serial rapist or thrill killer would be deterred. Worse come to worse, he'd get shot by my husband or father in law before he could do me much harm.

This terror went on for a solid mile and a half, me steadily gaining speed and the car right on my ass the entire time. I was doing 80 and could see my street sign when the asshole state patrol man decided he'd had enough fun and hit his siren. I was completely frazzled and thought about making him follow me to my drive way before pulling over. However, he was insistent, revving up along side of me and pointing to the side of the road with his dome light on so I could see his big hat and serious face. I pulled over. I was not relieved by the fact that my stalker was a police man. A cop who will harass passing motorists in the middle of the night obviously has a twisted definition of serve and protect.

I was shaking and crying when he shined his huge mag-light in the window asking to see my driver's license. He made mention of the county listed on my plates not being the same as the county on my license. I explained that we had just moved. He told me I was speeding. I timidly told him I wasn't really speeding until HE started chasing me. He snickered and wrote me a warning. I had a sick feeling in my stomach as I turned down our road. I have never been so happy to see the porch lights on at both the family houses as I crossed the cattle gap.

A Crisis of Faith

2005-06-14T07:25:00.000-05:00

Last night I lay in the tub trying to soak away a days worth of dirty dishes, four loads of laundry, and the smell of beef, onions and garlic I absorbed while preparing dinner. I brought a Tom Robbins book into the bathtub with me. A novel I've been meaning to read but hadn't unpacked until last week. Two water stained pages later I found myself asking my pink disposable razor, "where does he get this stuff?" Reading Tom, I am painfully aware that I will never be able to create or control imagery as he does. For that matter, everything I read is full of striking allegories and all the other highschool English vocabulary words to which I should have paid more attention. I am ashamed to admit that for all my fumbling insistence that I know what I'm doing I have to look up such words to verify their meaning.

Lately I am overcome with self-consciousness about what I write. I have decided I am not nearly as good as I think I am. While I know you all have and will lavish me with compliments I must balance your praise with a certain humble cynicism. Anyone who would give my pathetic attempts a good review is likely seeking, or trying to keep my friendship, my allegiance, or trying to fuck me in either the physical or figurative sense. This is the feeling that keeps me from going the next step. This absence of faith drives me away from the very activities that could lend credence to my abilities.

It's like in my second year of college when my favorite English professor demanded that I submit poems for publication. After they were in print along side the work of several other students he began inviting me to gatherings with other writers. Most of them were other students, my peers, my competitors, my sworn enemies. Being at these parties and meetings made me sweat and bite my nails. The other guests always seemed completely at ease, laughing quickly at jokes and puns cleverly devised from literary knowledge and nodding thoughtfully while discussing poets I'd never heard of. I would excuse myself early from these events and drive off in tears feeling so inadequate that I could barely stop myself from crossing into on coming traffic to relieve my anxiety. I stopped going to these functions. When circumstances made it necessary to leave college I let my fragile network of supporters fall apart.

So now, this fear once again manifests itself in one from or another. Everything I create seems incredibly boring to me. Each phrase seems an asinine attempt to make the potential reader believe the wheel is a new invention. Every vice and virtue, tragedy and joy I could describe has already been expressed by a thousand people who are better read and better spoken than I could ever hope to be. I realize that each writer, including me, has his or her own unique and charming voice, a special point of veiw the reader can learn from. Still, you never really hear your own voice. It vibrates in your head and is filtered through the web of your narcissism, distorting it until you don't recognize it read back to you. Knowing this, I find every excuse not to write one more over used plot or cliche character. I look at the graphic sex scene I've described and I'm repulsed by my lack of originality. I delete entire posts before they are published. I rip pages out of my journal and I send entire word documents to the recycling bin.

This may sound like an obvious attempt to solicit petting from the hands of my loyal fans but it's really not about needing praise. It's about owning up to my weaknesses. It's about confessing my total lack of self confidence to the very small crowd I've long tried to impress. See, while you were distracted by the shiny object in my right hand, I hid my lack of talent with my left. In admitting imperfection I give myself room to improve. We are all cowards behind the shield of our loved ones, our achievements, our scathing wit, good looks or whatever illusion we can conjure. I am just stepping out from behind my protective gear for a moment.

What goes up must come down

2005-06-13T07:27:00.000-05:00

Thank you everyone for wishing me well on my birthday!

My birthday party, the first of it's kind in many years, was an overwhelming success. Friends and family came from all over, some of them driving up to five hours to be there. By the end of the day the total guest count was 34. I didn't even think I knew that many people! My in laws put on an amazing country bar-b-que and once we had all stuffed ourselves we split the crowd in two. My friend from Florida who I've known for 15 years, her husband and three kids, two of them three month old twins, sunShine and her husband, my husband's criminal but charming first cousin and my extremely animated yankee neighbor retired to my house. Corona with lime, good conversation and side splitting laughter kept us up way past our bed time. I got gifts and I loved them all. However, the best gifts were seeing both my sisters in the same day, comparing adulthood with the only friend who's known me since I was a virgin, hugging sunShine and rubbing her growing belly, seeing my husband smile, talk and keep everyone laughing with his rarely unleashed sense of humor.

I will be having a nice quiet dinner with sunShine soon because it was impossible to catch up during the excitement of Saturday night. I haven't been able to check my PMB but I have been informed that there are packages and cards there. I'm planning on getting them tomorrow and I can't wait. I did receive poetry and a breath taking black and white photo from my girl crush in Tulsa. Thank you, beautiful!

I wish the weekend had ended with some sort of tender moment between my husband and I but instead we had a weird argument last night. Well I'm not sure if "argument" is the right word. I was in the bath chattering away about the weekend while he brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. He made an angry remark about something I said. I asked him to explain what he meant and he became so angry that he stood over the tub screaming and pointing at me for 15 minutes. I was not just hurt but shocked because I honestly couldn't figure out what in the hell I had said to make him so furious. We went to bed mad and I had a hard time sleeping. He barely spoke to me this morning.

Thirty

2005-06-10T05:41:00.000-05:00

Well, today is the big day. Funny how certain ages seem so old to you until you actually experience them. Thirty feels awfully young this morning. As if this day was not already momentous enough it is also my daughters first ever day at preschool. I am so nervous I feel sick to my stomach. Never in her little life have I left her in the care of anyone besides a grandparent or beloved aunt. If she cries when I leave her I think I'll have a full blown break down in the hall outside her classroom door.

A Dark Mood (sexual content)

2005-06-09T09:53:00.000-05:00

I had fully intended to write some warm, sensual, sappy piece of fiction this morning but quite frankly I am not in the mood. I feel dark today. I'm a little angry, a little frustrated, a little sick and tired of trying to ignore my own needs just because everyone else does. It's not like me really, this almost insane selfishness. It is not only my nature, but my job as a wife and mother to anticipate the needs of others and see to them before my own. It is my personality to be tolerant of the ones I love no matter how their actions or lack of actions hurt me. Well fuck that. Fuck them.

Today isn't a day for romantic trysts or emotional confessions. Today is a good day to suck off a stranger. Find a chat room and look for someone local to meet at a really sleazy motel in the next town over. Maybe someone old enough to be my father. Just some dirty old man who is just looking for a wet hole and someone who will squirm beneath him until the viagra wears off. (I am venting here people, no one take this too seriously.)

Pulling up in the office drive I was struck by just how worn and dirty the place was. The brick facade was crumbling in several places and there were boards over the scortched windows at one end of the U shaped Easy Rest Motel. The neon sign flickered and hummed like a bug zapper informing insects that it still had vacancy for a few more electrocuted exoskeletons below it. I entered through the glass door that held a sign informing patrons that the desk clerk did not keep large bills in the register nor did he have access to the safe. You have to wonder if the caliber of criminals that would hold up a cheap motel would really heed such a warning.

"I am meeting someone here. He left a key for me." I said, suddenly realizing how nervous I was and pulling the long coat I was wearing around me. The clerk eyed me knowingly, looking me up and down. What kind of girl wears a knee length rain coat on a warm, clear evening in June? The kind that isn't wearing much underneath it.

"Name?" He asked bluntly. I had the overwhelming urge to bite my nails. I didn't know whether the clerk meant my name or his but I didn't really know his name. I doubted he had checked in as sugardaddy_55. The clerk stared at me demandingly. "Name?" He repeated, saying it slowly for emphasis, as if I might not be familiar with the English language.

"My name is Christine." I said with a dry mouth. I should have given sugardaddy_55 a fictitious name. Of course I wasn't exactly thinking clearly or I wouldn't be here in the first place. The clerk slid a key at me from across the counter with a smirk. The big green plastic tag had a big gold 10 on it.

The room was cold and dark. The only light was the setting sun filtered through the heavy, grimy drapes that were pulled across the big window. I leaned against the door, breathing heavy in anticipation of the reckless and unsavory behavior I was about to indulge in. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to me. I could see his wild and graying hair and his pale, pudgy flesh. He was nude. He was smoking. I nasty habit I never liked and I coughed as the cigarette haze surrounded me.

"Are you wearing what I asked?" Was the greeting he gave me, not even turning to look at me.

"Of course." I replied. We had already discussed the way this would go and I had agreed to be compliant. I opened the rain coat, it's plastic protection had held in my nervous heat and I was sweating slightly beneath it. The minute the cold breath of the air conditioner touched my skin I was covered in goosebumps. My nipples protruded lewdly from the pink fabric of my short cotton nighty. It was trimmed in white ruffles and ribbon, purchased earlier in the day from the discount department store he had suggested.

"Come here and show me." Said the gruff voice from across the room. He did not turn his head until I was nearly at his side. He looked at me then, his sharp, ice blue eyes appraising me lustily and licked his lips. "Perrrfect." He purred and reached out pulling me to him.

My nerves were frazzled by this bizarre game I was playing. Every thing in me screamed that this was a very very bad idea. Except for the devil in my right ear who was cooing about how good a strange cock would feel inside me. That slippery voice that said I was going to enjoy every minute of this old geezer shoving his ash tray flavored tongue in my mouth. My pussy, agreed with an throbbing pulse and drooling lips. The man was groping my breasts through the soft nighty. With a hungry sounding moan he began to kiss my neck and the exposed flesh above the sweetheart neckline of my gown. I sank into the sensation. My eyes shut tight, letting my body respond as it would and letting that impish voice drown out the moral and sensible warnings in my head.

The pink, girlish shortie gown stayed on. My new found friend discovered with his roaming hands that I had not worn panties. Although this had also been at his requested he acted shocked.

"What a slutty girl you are!" He exclaimed pushing me down across the bed roughly.

"I think you need to learn a lesson." He rambled on as he pushed the ruffles of my night gown up around my hips exposing my bottom. I knew he was going to spank me and I whimpered as I hid my face in the stained, royal blue and yellow flowers of the bedspread.

The first smack stung. The next was a little heavier. He continued, the crack of his palm against my reddened flesh a cadence. The stinging seemed nearly unbearable but each swat made me wetter, made me squirm and rub my swollen clit against the squeaky queen sized bed. His voice rose and fell, telling me how bad I was, how dirty I was. I felt tears leaking from my eyes. My pussy's wetness was now puddling on the synthetic material of the bed covering. By the time he stopped I knew my backside was fire engine red, I could feel the outline of his hand print in a dozen different places across my ass. Now he reached beneath me feeling the slippery proof of my excitement. I humped his hand. Desperate for a taste of relief, the need for which drove me here in the first place.

Sitting behind me on the bed he pulled me up to sit against him. I spread my legs as his hand found my clit again. He looked over my heaving breasts, moving the pink gown so he could watch his fingers slip in and out of my needy cunt. He murmered to me "You love this don't you?" and "God your pussy is so tight and hot, I can't wait to put my cock in it." My own murmered replies became less and less coherent as I reached climax. Finally I felt the intense grip of orgasm and the sleazy, dark motel room melted away, taking with it all my aggravations and anxieties. Riding the wave of pleasure I forgot all about unrequited affections, absent lovers, and the seething sexual frustration that seemed to permeate my life.

Excuse me for a minute while I throw a tantrum

2005-06-08T10:34:00.000-05:00

Some pointers for my husband who will never bother to read this anyway unless he is provoked by some paranoid delusion:

1. If I ask you to help me put some aloe vera gel on my extremely sunburned back a gentle touch is mandatory. I realize you didn't want to help with it in the first place but have a little sympathy, will you? My arms don't bend that way and my skin is on fire. Do you want me to ask someone else to rub my bare skin down with something slippery? I didn't think so.

2. Furthermore some touching of any sort outside of the mandatory hug and peck would be nice. I know you had to touch me that way for an entire 4 days on our vacation but you've had plenty of time to recover.

3. Would it fucking kill you to pay me a compliment? I don't mean saying "You look fine" when prompted by a question about my hair or clothes. Think about it for a minute. I am sure you can find SOMETHING attractive about me that you are willing to vocalize.

4. Get a clue. I can name five people who appreciate me more than my own husband does. That is sad.

In the dark, I like to read his mind...

2005-06-07T07:43:00.000-05:00

There was no reason for me to have trouble sleeping last night. I was genuinely tired when I crawled into bed around 10pm. Yet, I did not want to turn out the light. I find being alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts dangerous. So I left the bedside lamp on and wrapped myself in the distraction of a book. I read, my eyes stinging and worn out until my husband, who had not been paying any attention to me at all since we came to bed, suddenly stopped snoring and demanded I turn out the cursed light or go somewhere else to read. Realizing that it was now nearly midnight and that my daughter would be up demanding chocolate milk in less than seven hours, I put the book down and switched off the light.

Each time sleep would slip around my mind certain sounds and images would rudely enter my early dreams, uninvited. I finally talked myself out of these dreams, as I've done many times before and fell into a black, quiet slumber for a few hours.

At just past 3am I woke up in a sweaty tangle. My pillows were hot. I threw off the covers and laid there waiting for the bedroom fan to cool my damp skin. Oddly enough, there seemed to be no movement in the humid air so I got up and shuffled through the dimly lit house to check the thermostat. 72 degrees as always. I decided I must be having some sort of hormonally driven hot flash and went back to bed. Laying there, my pajama bottoms suddenly felt too tight so I stripped them off and tossed them to the end of the bed. I tossed and turned for another half an hour before deciding that my t-shirt was itchy. So I shed that too and laid there finally cool and comfortable, nude except for a pair of faded, black, low-rise panties.

Unfortunately, my newly attained freedom from clothing did not help me sleep. It seemed that every inch of my bare skin had become an awakened erogenous zone. Everything from the sheets to the stripe of starlight that snuck past the curtains to illuminate the milky white curve of my breasts seemed arousing. I turned over on my stomach and hid my head in the pillow wondering if my husband would hear if I screamed my irritation into it. Instead, I quietly found another form of release and drifted off to sleep. The dreams I had worked so hard to rid myself of earlier came back like thieves who were apparently just casing the joint before. I woke up angry with myself for letting them in.

The Memory of Things Lost

2005-06-06T10:05:00.000-05:00

It was not quite summer, just before my 16th birthday when a skinny, sandy haired, pimple faced, neighborhood boy began calling and inviting me to walk here or there with him. I knew him because he got on the school bus at my stop. A fact that should have seemed suspicious since Dan lived on the other side of the air base, several bus stops away from my corner. He had also passed me a series of notes over the seats of that bus. The notes made ridiculous claims about him wanting to be smothered by my big beautiful breasts, which were unusually large for a girl my age. The notes also swore that he was in love with every voluptuous inch of me. In my insecure and virginal ignorance I believed every single one of the letters to be a cruel joke. I had been taunted this way before. For example, in the 8th grade a popular boy in my class told me he wanted to take me to the Valentine's dance. When I accepted that invitation with breathless excitement he yelled out "NOT!" sending his friends into a fit of laughter and applause. There were several incidents like that in my early teens and by fifteen I had learned a sort of bitter pessimism that protected me from such horrors.

Still, when Dan asked me to hang out with him that warm night I was bored and feeling desperate. I had just been dumped by another boy, a really ugly and unpopular senior that had tried to end my virginity in the murky, swamp-like woods just a month or so earlier. I had been so uncomfortable, so unattracted to him, that his attempts were futile. His pencil thin but youthfully hard member had battered away at the delicate, unlubricated door of my womanhood but did not gain entry. The school year was ending. I had been shamed by my involvement with the older guy and I was nearly friendless. A walk with Dan was better than an evening spent weeping by the radio in my room.

That walk led to a second one and then a third. After that there were constant calls and more notes passed until the last day of school. Being too young to drive we walked all over the base on dates, going to the movies, getting ice cream at the BX and swimming in the community pool. His attention was different, better, than anything else I had experienced. Seven days after my sixteenth birthday he invited me to his house to eat dinner and watch a movie. As I walked up to his house that steamy summer afternoon I noticed that his family car was not in the drive. My heart thumped in my chest and I wondered if he had stood me up. Had he forgotten about inviting me? Or maybe he lied and the past month had been one big practical joke.

With a shaking hand I rang the door bell and was relieved when he opened the door right away. He stood there with his sun bleached hair and dark tan, grinning like he'd just heard a scandalous secret. He invited me in and the house was oddly quiet. I inquired about his parents and twin brother and sister, who usually greeted me noisily. He winked and told me they were gone for the weekend. Even as young and inexperienced as I was I knew what he must be thinking and my face felt as hot as the Georgia sun despite standing in the air-conditioned hall. I wasn't so sure I wanted to go through with what the situation implied and my mind swirled with uncertainty. Seeing my trepidation he leaned and kissed me gently. The alarms going off in my head grew quiet and then disappeared. He led me into the kitchen where he had managed to prepare spaghetti for the two of us. The food was not memorable but the creamy peach colored rose he gave me afterward was, being the first flower anyone had ever given me.

I found myself standing in the kitchen doorway, caught up in an endless kiss. It was never the sloppy wet invasion of normal teenage kisses with Dan. He was a natural. His tongue darted playfully against mine. The electric tease of his teeth and lips sent new sensations coursing to the tips of my nipples which stood proudly erect from my delicately pink, button front blouse. When his arms slipped casually around my waist and his hands found there warm way to the back pockets of my khaki shorts I felt a quiver between my legs and a warm wetness growing there. It seemed to go on forever and the more aroused I became, the weaker my knees felt. I had been touching myself for years but no one else had ever brought my body to attention that way. My head spinning, my knees giving way I knew I had to get off my feet.

"Can we sit down? My feet are tired." I whispered into his ear between kisses. My feet weren't exactly tired but I didn't know how to tell him I was so excited I felt like I might faint.

Without a word he led me to his bedroom and although my mind threw out a thousand objections my body followed obediently behind it's new desire. The mattress was old and soft, the sheets cool and clean. Everything seemed to happen in a slow blur. My blouse fell away as if by magic and I my hands tugged the t-shirt off his body without me thinking about the consequence. His erection was obvious, straining against his shorts, a dark wet spot forming. Our mouths were everywhere. His lips touched my bare breasts, sucked in my nipples which had become painfully hard. I found myself whimpering and moaning, sounds I was not accustomed to nor could I control.

When I realized our pants and underwear had been tossed aside and his hips were pressed against my thighs I should have been afraid. I should have remembered the awkward and painful night in the woods beneath someone else. This, however, was completely different. The weak light of sunset poured through his bedroom window and he continued to rub his body along mine. Panting and kissing he didn't try and force my legs open or talk me into going further. I simply felt hungry in away I never had before and opened my legs without being asked.

What I remember most about that moment of entry was the heat and feeling full, stretched. It didn't hurt, not in the mythical proportions other girls whispered about, although I would be very sore later. The friction of our bodies together, the groaning sounds of our pleasure and the very new and intense feeling of being penetrated was overwhelming. If I had an orgasm I do not remember it but I remember his. I stared in awe of his tensing body, an almost agonized expression on his face melting into a blissful gratitude as he looked down into my crying green eyes.

Afterward I sobbed in his arms, sure he'd dump me before the summer ended and my reputation, which was already sketchy, would be ruined for good. He did his very best to reassure me and told me he loved me, a promise I couldn't really believe at the time. I'm not sure I ever really believed it, even after he slipped the cheap gold band on my finger the day I turned eighteen. Our life together was a rollercoaster of surreal highs and crushing lows. If we had not divorced at the tender age of 23 we would be celebrating our 12th wedding anniversary on my birthday. Will he even remember? Does June turn his mind to sticky Georgia summers and the brine scented Mississippi coast? Will he catch himself wistfully trying to recall the face of the girl he called Pretty Baby for more than 8 years?

I hope so. I hope that he is endlessly haunted by every smile, caress, and salty tear he shared with me.

One last lame post before the weekend

2005-06-03T08:29:00.000-05:00

I read a book when I was young teenager about two kids that were trapped inside their home during a catastrophic flood. The flood waters picked the house up and carried it along the river for several days. I can not remember the name of the book but I am pretty sure if the torrential rain we've been having the last 3 days does not subside I will find myself in the same situation. This lovely modular home I'm living in is going to make one hell of a party barge.

It is 9:23 am. I should be at the bank. I should be running errands. Instead, I am in my pajamas, unshowered, cranky and if you must know, crampy. I comforted myself with a bowl of cream-of-wheat for breakfast. Apparently, I am the only non-hispanic person in the south who eats cream-of-wheat. I was raised on the stuff. My mom used to melt chocolate chips into it as a special treat. Here, everyone eats grits. I find grits, well, gritty. Not to mention, my in-laws like their grits with cheese or bacon and often serve them at dinner, especially with fish, which seems terribly bizarre to me. In the one local grocery store, which is relatively devoid of variety and short on selection I actually had trouble finding cream-of-wheat. I eventually discovered it in the ethnic foods section under the name Farina.

In boring you with my thoughts on breakfast cereal I realize that my posts this week have been really lame. I have several excuses, including exhaustion, health issues, and the fact that I am totally absorbed in a book I'm reading, Handling Sin by Michael Malone. I promise this will be the last mind numbing post this week and maybe next week will be better.

Wishlist

2005-06-03T07:03:00.000-05:00

Here's my Amazon wishlist for those of you interested.

Half-Ass Posting (my heart's just not in it today)

2005-06-02T12:37:00.000-05:00

Those of you who only hang around here waiting for me to post something naughty are once again out of luck. Normally, I'd tell you to go read yesterday's post at Heads or Tales. However, Thomas is woefully behind schedule lately. Apparently he's tied up at work. Well, not literally. If he was I'm sure he'd chronicle the experience typing with his nose or more likely tongue if he had to.

I am weary and tired to my bones today. I haven't had a good nights sleep in a week between vacation, waking early to drive off in all directions, running errands and staying up late doing this or that for one person or another. I am beat. If I could have three wishes right now I wouldn't choose anything terribly grand. I'd want a full body massage complete with a happy ending, a beer (Killian's Irish Red) and a nap. In that order.

In case any of you have forgotten there are now only 8 shopping days left until my birthday. Don't know where to send your gift? E-mail me, I've got one of those private mailbox thingies. Of course any of you willing to mail me gifts probably already have my home address. Anyway... Just thought I'd mention. It has been suggested by family members that a pig roast should be held here in honor of my birthday. They intend to invite all the crazy locals along with my handful of friends and family. We'll see... I am not so sure I like the idea.

Gynecological Rant

2005-06-01T14:03:00.000-05:00

For those of you who are squeamish about women's health issues or generally bothered by subjects that fall into the TMI category (of course, if the later applies to you probably shouldn't be reading this blog at all) now might be a good time to go read your other favorite blogs. I spent the last 3 hours or so being prodded and penetrated by my new gynecologist and I am feeling rather cranky about the whole affair.

I am a good shepard of my health and faithfully endure my annual exam much like I endure the gritty torture of my twice yearly cleanings at the dentist. However, like the rest of us, I generally avoid doctors, especially the OBGYN type. For those of you not in the loop, that's a doctor who practices obstetrics and gynecology, or as my husband, who is better educated than the majority of the people I know, says.. "a wimmin doctor." Still, when something hurts, or goes numb, bleeds when it shouldn't or doesn't bleed when it should I am forced to drag myself before the white coats and submit to a litany of questions, accusations and humiliating procedures.

I have had bad luck with OBGYNs. The only good one I ever had was the one who oversaw my fertility treatments and delivered my daughter. He retired after contracting Hepatitis C about 6 months after I gave birth. Since then I have seen a handful of physicians who all gave credence to the concept of "practicing" medicine since none of them seemed to have a clue what they were doing despite their confident facades. This particular round of doctors tried me on three types of birth control pills, none of which are actually being used for contraception but to treat some other malady and all of which have caused me more harm than cure. If you're wondering why an otherwise healthy woman would need to see a gynecologist so frequently I'll assure you that it's not because of my scandalous past or present behavior nor is it a kinky fetish I like to indulge. I have an endocrine condition that causes my ovaries to malfunction. It has a name, it's complicated, it's prevented me from ever having more than one child and regularly causes me pain and aggravation.

So after enduring this last unsuccessful experiment in medication for six months I find myself suffering from a number of unpleasant side effects and decide it's time to once again find a physician who'd like to practice on me. Seeing as how we've moved I had to find a new doctor which, as it turns out, is probably a good thing. I sat in the office explaining to the good doctor and her lovely, nodding, smiling, appropriately compassionate assistant what was going on. She asked which contraceptive pills the previous OBGYN's had prescribed and as I answered she popped a hand on her hip and began to shake her head scoldingly. Letting out a long sigh she scribbled away at my chart. Apparently the contraceptives prescribed to me as a means to control my ovarian problems are the wrong sort of contraceptives for the job. In fact, they are contrary to the job and may possibly have made my condition worse. My unspoken response to this news was, fucking fabulous! Why am I not surprised?

Instantly I found myself physically examined and sent down the hall for an ultrasound. A vaginal ultrasound. For those of you who lack vaginas or simply have never heard of this procedure it's pretty simple. The same sort of tool used for a traditional ultrasound is molded into a nice wand shape and inserted into the vagina to get a grey and black, blurry image of your insides. The wand looks like any long skinny dildo. They even roll a condom over it before they stick it in. The part I love is when your laying there, feet in stir-ups, ass hanging off the table and they say to you "Now just relax..." as they molest you with this thing. I had to fight my urge to say to the radiologist, a girl who couldn't have been more than 19, "Honey, that's what they all say!" I really think they ought to invest in a pair of vibrating, latex bunny ears for this thing. If your going to shove something inside of me I at least want a little forplay, would some clitoral stimulation be too much to ask?

Having undergone the fully body cavity search I was allowed to dress and given numerous follow up appointments for blood work (more prodding) and future examinations (more molestation) and a prescription for yet another type of contraceptive pill, the right one this time according to the doctor. As I was paying my co-pay at the window it occurred to me that this doctor is practicing just like the rest of them, so who knows what fresh hell awaits me after I ingest these latest pills. I drove home with a giant headache and the annoying sensation of sticky, medical grade lubricant squishing out of me.

I am not happy.

Return to Routine

2005-05-31T06:52:00.000-05:00

I'm home.

It was a relief to lay across the cool sheets and firm comfort of my own bed last night as these thoughts were recorded in my little leather bound journal. Now it's time to update the blogworld I suppose. Those of you who have been reading along probably want to know, how was my anniversary vacation? It was relaxing and cozy. I will not type out the details. That would lead to me picking apart the days, judging each moment, weighing and measuring before totaling up the value of the whole thing in my head. We had a good time. End of story.

Sometimes we are so quick to overlook old, familiar love. Overtime, love like that fades into the background. It becomes the gently textured covering that your eye never really focuses on. It's quiet hum is tuned out so that we can keep up with all the other information our senses are bombarded with daily. The constancy, the reliability of this sort of emotion is it's downfall. We take it for granted because it allows it's self to be ignored. Yet, if someone stripped our world bare of it's presence we'd awake to an environment that is so stark, so devoid of color or pattern that we'd have to strain our eyes to see anything at all.

Old, comfortable, dependable love. It's like the very air we breath, completely unthought of unless it is perfumed, poisoned, or taken away completely.

The Big Day

2005-05-26T08:18:00.000-05:00

Five years ago today my husband and I were married. We had moved in together the month before but he wanted to keep the tradition of the groom not seeing the bride before the ceremony. So when we went to sleep the night before he wore a blindfold. He wore it until I was out of the house to get my hair, make up and so forth done. That morning as we slowly woke up and shook off our mild hang overs from the rehearsal supper's festivities we made love, with him still safely behind his blindfold. I remember it being remarkable, fun and sweet, a little kinky but mostly warm and intimate. The next time I saw him he was standing under an oak tree in the sweltering heat, waiting for me to walk down the aisle. We were crazy to get married outside this time of year but it was beautiful just the same.

Today has already started out better than I would have expected. Now I'll just run a few errands, pack a few bags, get one more nights sleep and we'll be off to celebrate. I hope the next few days continue to be so bright and happy and that the nights we spend alone will be hot and satisfying.

Drving Me Crazy (sexual content)

2005-05-25T08:09:00.000-05:00

The heat and humidity were a team of cruel oppressors yesterday. I spent all day in the car driving between three different counties, running errands. Each time I stepped out of the air conditioned cocoon of my vehicle I found myself damp with perspiration from head to toe. Returning to the car, the cool air blasting from the vents onto my moist skin would raise goose bumps. Driving makes me daydreamy and despite my determination to keep myself firmly rooted in reality, fantasy kept slipping in.

It began as a faint memory, a phrase someone breathlessly murmured in my ear once. It quickly galloped out of control.

The thing about having a lover who exists mostly in your head is that they can fulfill every freaky, sick and sinful desire you have and at the same time fulfill all your silly, sappy, romantic fantasies as well. He could easily tie me up and march a crowd of horny, well hung men into our bedroom and allow them all to fuck my various holes until I was a sloppy, sore, used up mess. Of course, then he'd run a bath of warm water and bath me with caresses before softly satisfying me and tucking me into bed. It's a completely ridiculous idea, I wouldn't actually allow such a thing. Not to mention, anyone who could be so raunchy, who could use me that way, would probably not be tender and genuinely loving. Real people can't play such games without someone getting hurt (trust me I know from experience) but Fantasy Man can.

Fantasy Man might seduce one of my best friends and then hide me in a closet to watch the action. I'd know it was wrong, I'd be angry about the betrayal but watching him in action would make me slick with desire. I'd end up in bed with them, licking another woman's wetness from my darling lover's hard shaft. He'd want me more of course. The ending would find her on the couch and me safely wrapped in the arms of my man, him whispering his undying love and unquenchable desire for me as I fell asleep. All totally possible in the realm of my wild imagination.

So as I sat in my car, driving down a deserted country road, I found him sitting there beside me. He was leaning into me kissing my neck and rubbing my thigh as I drove. If I glanced at his lap I knew I would see his fly open, his impossibly hard cock out and begging to be touched.

"Knock it off!" I said with a giggle as he raised my blouse above my breasts and squeezed one of my nipples through the silky material of my bra. "I'm trying to drive, you are going to get us both killed." I insisted that he stop. Still, my skin was flushed and alive so he knew I liked it despite my protest and continued his pleasant assault.

"Pull over." That was his answer to my concerns about the safety of this game. But it was a bright sunny day on a public road where some farmer would soon be along in a tall tractor to see whatever compromising position Fantasy Man planned to get me in. Besides, there were groceries in the back. If we didn't get home soon the milk would spoil in the heat. He grabbed my right hand from the wheel and placed it on his erection. Fuck. It was hot and pulsing. I stroked it, nearly mesmerized by the physical manifestation of his desire. The sound of his sigh as I gently squeezed him made me want to close my eyes but I had to keep watching the road.

The intersection seemed to come up out of no where. I was jerked back into reality to stop for the red light. I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath. Not only was I clammy from the relentless steamy southern weather but I was hot from the inside out. The warmth between my legs was unbearable. I could feel the slippery juice running down the folds of my pussy and down the crack of my ass. I was trembling. Dammit. I don't have time for this today. The light turned green and I made it home without pulling off into some field to satisfy my urges with my own hand.

I could have easily attacked my husband when he came in last night. However, he was tired and headachey and let me know right away that he was not interested. I had to spend the rest of the evening trying not to look at him or brush against him. I was afraid I'd end up rubbing myself all over him, begging and pleading like a cat in heat. Patience Christine, I keep telling myself, the weekend will be here soon.

All my armour falling down...

2005-05-23T08:00:00.000-05:00

He goes along just as a water lily
Gentle on the surface of his thoughts his body floats
Unweighed down by passion or intensity
Yet unaware of the depth upon which he coasts
And he finds a home in me
For what misfortune sows, he knows my touch will reap

And all my armour falling down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as I'm singing him to sleep
All my armour falling down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as I'm singing him to sleep

Pale September ~ Fiona Apple

Last night at twilight I stood on my front steps and watched the sky as I contemplated the upcoming week. The days are already ridiculously long here. Daylight was still hanging around at 9pm. On a night like last night when the moon is full, darkness never seems to descend upon us. It's like the moon is closer and brighter out here, a miniature sun. Frogs and crickets sang and the air smelled like heaven. A sweet, moist breeze carried the perfume of green grass and pine with a powerful top note of honeysuckle. Underneath the fragrant air you can smell the earth, the sharp iron scented red clay as well as the fertile soil supporting newly sprouted peanuts and ankle high corn. Even the slightly fishy pond and the musky manure smell of cows seem pleasant because they belong here. It's amazing really, this place that has managed to remain untouched by concrete and strip malls. It is a perfect little silver of America where the rhythm of nature can still be observed.

This used to be our escape from the pressures of life. I admit I have been charmed by this place since the first spring I visited. It is easy to understand why my husband is so much happier here. The suburbs and cities must have seemed stifling and artificial to him after spending his first 20 years here. Still, I was afraid of moving out here. This was a life altering decision. Without going into all the explanations, I'll just tell you that agreeing to come here was a commitment to stay here. For a military brat who never believed in staying in one place too long, who was used to the sound of speeding planes and sonic booms, who grew up in uniform neighborhoods with identical neat lawns, this lifestyle is a dramatic change. Despite all my complaining about the distance to good shopping, rough dirt roads and my inability to relate to the bible thumping, simple minded locals, I have come to love this farm. We've been living here less than six months and I can not imagine calling any other place home.

Thursday is my wedding anniversary. We will have been married five years. This last year has been a tough one. In fact, it wasn't long ago that I didn't even think we'd make it to the five year mark, but we did. Saturday was an exhausting day spent catering the wedding from hell. Saturday night was a tense evening of caring for our sick little girl. I was surprised to find my husband awake and waiting to make love to me at almost midnight, instead of snoring on his side of the bed. That would never have happened six months ago. I have been reluctant to trust in the slow but steady reawakening of our relationship. There seemed to be so many emotional wounds on both sides that I didn't fully believe we could heal. I was and maybe I still am, holding a grudge. Over the last couple of years, rejection drove me to build a wall with bricks of doubt, hurt and anger. I mortared them up with bitter words and tears. I should dismantle it now. His subtle and sometimes wordless form of communication can not be heard on the other side of such a structure. Unfortunately it was far easier to put it up than take it down.

We are leaving Friday morning for a mini vacation by ourselves. Three nights in a fun and quirky place a few hours north of here. It is our tradition to go away for our anniversary. Even when our baby was only six weeks old we insisted on some time to ourselves. It was only 12 hours in a hotel 20 minutes from where she slept at her Grandparents house, but it helped us reconnect. I am trying to be open, positive and excited about this weekends plans. After a year like this we need our special time together more than ever. I am walking an emotional tightrope, trying to expect everything and nothing at the same time. I probably won't post much this week. I have a lot of things to do in preparation for our trip. Including, getting my head in the right place and poking holes in that ominous wall I have created in my mind.

All Hell Breaks Lose in The Deep South

2005-05-20T12:43:00.000-05:00

What is it about writing two part posts that causes everything in my life to go nuts, rendering me short on time, patience and creativity?

I somehow got roped into helping my Mother in law cater a wedding. I'm up to my eyeballs in mini pastry shells and various other finger foods. As if the wedding were not enough of a distraction from my usual blogging habits my daughter is sick again, another exciting hive inducing allergic reaction. In getting this new problem treated we've discovered that she also has asthma.

Fucking fantastic. Like I've got time for major childhood illnesses right now. *sigh* My poor, poor little one. I feel so awful for her.

Point being... I'm too busy to post. Well except for this little post. Which no one will read anyway becuase no one reads my blog on Fridays and Saturdays...

Why am I still typing!?

Blue Moon

2005-05-19T07:41:00.000-05:00

Before anyone e-mails me with questions, this is fiction and names of characters corresponding with people in my real life have been changed. I unfortunately do not have time to finish this story this morning but I thought I'd throw the first part out anyway.

One look at me and he knew I was in a sour mood, again. I'd been like this all week, dark, pensive, convinced of the futility of everything and content with nothing.

"Why don't we drop Gabby at my Mom and Dad's and go grab a bite to eat?" He said with a sigh and a tolerant smile.

I looked up at him with a pout and shrugged my shoulders. I was not ready to give up my pessimism for chips and salsa at the local Mexican place.

"I'll even take you to that new bar and grill downtown, the one that's all dark and smoky and loud with country music. I'll endure it just for you, if it will cheer you up." Darren insisted. Giving me a small wink.

Ugh. I hate it when he's in a good mood for no reason, I thought. It makes me suspicious. Still, a beer and some tunes to match my mood sounded good. I agreed with the minimum amount of reluctance required to continue my brooding. Sometimes my husband knows me better than I give him credit for.

As we walked into the bar I had to stifle an urge to smile. I'd been trying to get him to take me here for weeks. It seemed to be the new local hot spot, for sure. The bar was busy and so were the booths and small tables where couples huddled to whisper flirtatious secrets and friendly groups whooped and hollered. A few rough looking guys at the back smacked their table as wild stories and dirty jokes were told between bites of burgers, fries and hotwings. As we were led to a booth by a bleach blonde waitress with a syrupy southern drawl, George Strait could be heard pouring out of the juke box. I thought I saw my hubby actually wince, as if George's smooth voice was stabbing him in the ear. As we were seated I looked at him across the booth and his pained expression caused me to forget myself and break into an enormous grin.

"Yep, I knew I'd hate this place." He announced as he looked around.

"Thank you for bringing me anyway." I told him and leaned forward to kiss his forehead which he was now rubbing with both hands as if to ward off the headache he anticipated by the end of the evening.

The sugary blonde waitress, who's name turned out to be Randi (with an "I" she explained) brought our beers and burgers right away and my mood was quickly improving. I liked the scenery. The lighting was dim, road signs and painted saw blades hung on the walls, along with a few old photos. The stuff was authentic, not the cheesy reproduction junk you see at Ruby Tuesday's and Applebees. The floors were dirty and the air was only semi-breathable as it was full of cigarette smoke, hamburger grease, and the scent of fifty or so South Georgia rednecks having a good time on a sultry summer night. I noticed that Darren's attention had been drawn away from his burger and I followed his line of vision to a particular bar stool. The stool held a woman our age or a little younger with a tussled mess of bottle red hair and overdone make-up. Her khaki skirt was a bit too snug revealing the lines of her bikini panties and the bumps and dimples of her healthy backside. My husband's attention was so captured that he did not notice me noticing his stare.

"Know her?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

Darren shook his head as if trying to bring himself out of a daydream. "Yeah, yeah I do. I think we went to college together." He admitted. I could tell he added the think part in an effort to down play his obvious interest.

I grinned smugly at him. For all his attempts to be the perfectly loyal type, totally above even the thought of infidelity, I could see in his eyes that he was either remembering or imagining what her ass looked like without the clingy khaki skirt. The girl had turned and was now looking our way with a posture of recognition.

"Why don't you invite her over and introduce me." I said, the devil in my eyes. He looked as nervous as a whore in church but he knew I wouldn't take no for an answer. He raised his hand and gave the slightest wave as if he had hopes of her not noticing the gesture. She saw him of course, she was looking right at us, for godsakes! She waved back enthusiastically and headed for our table. An evil giggle escaped my throat as I watched Darren slink down in his seat. I was quickly forgetting what I had been so depressed about. I was totally wrapped up in my delight at seeing my darling husband squirm.

To Be Continued...

Part of the Problem

2005-05-18T06:59:00.000-05:00

For a week or so I have been keeping some pretty heavy hearted thoughts to myself. Believe it or not there are some things that I can't unload here or anywhere for that matter. Even yesterday while I played in my kitchen, a girl with a shiny new toy, there were unspoken troubles swirling in my gut and pounding in my head. I just kept baking. I ended up obligating myself to way more than 6 dozen cookies. It was for a good cause so how could I be lazy or stingy? So I baked and thought until my head throbbed and I could hardly hold my eyes open.

When I finally left the kitchen, leaving dirty dishes in the sink and crumbs everywhere, I felt worn down. I felt weak. Sometimes a secret hurt can eat you up inside until you are nearly hollow. My husband and I crawled into bed and I looked over at him. His broad shoulders and bulky form beneath the covers looked strong and warm and I needed strength and love. Normally he would give me a light peck on the cheek or mouth before turning over to sleep. We have a king sized bed and he is insistent that we stay on our own sides of it. Before he could get to his side of the bed I blurted out a question.

"Will you cuddle with me for a little while tonight?"

He looked surprised and then concerned and reached out for me without complaint.

"Is something wrong?" He asked. My request was unusual. I generally avoid asking for affection for fear of rejection.

"No, I just have a headache and I need to be near you."

So he held me and we talked a little but I can not remember about what. Mundane things mostly. I held his face in my hands and kissed his big eyes. My love for him is deep and sometimes cutting. Our needs and wants are so very different and I wonder if we will ever really be able to satisfy one another. He has been making these little efforts. These little attempts to meet me half way, to try and give me some of the passion, the expression I long for.

Yet I wonder, how long can he keep that up and can I convince myself that halfway is far enough? Even worse, am I really trying to meet him half way? Am I giving him the easy smiles and simple affection he prefers? Am I trying to suppress my sexual appetite and tone down the fantasy level so that he is not intimidated? Should I even have to? If we don't make these small compromises, if neither of us can change will we be able to continue? What choice do we have?

I thanked him for his sweetness and we said I love you. I turned out the lamp before he could see my tears. Guilt is a heavy burden and my shoulders are so tired.

My Secret Fetish

2005-05-17T06:28:00.000-05:00

Last night around 7pm a big brown step side van marked UPS ambled it's way up the dirt road and dropped off my Mother's Day gift. Yes, I know Mother's Day was over a week ago. The reason for delay is another story all together. When I realized my gift had arrived my stomach was fluttery and my heart pounded as I lugged the heavy box inside. When I finally got the box open and laid my hands on the textured metal head a shiver ran over my body. I was amused to discover that my nipples had become hard. I never thought I could be so turned on by an inanimate object.

My 325 watt, Kitchen Aid Artisan Stand Mixer in Imperial Black with 5 quart stainless steel bowl and pouring shield attachment is everything I thought it would be. Beautiful, powerful, able to kneed dough or whip meringue easily and expediently... It is glorious.

I was up late rearranging the kitchen, moving lesser appliances out of the way, and scrubbing counter tops spotless so that my mixer could have a place of honor in my kitchen. The feed store diet is on hold for a day or two while the mixer and I get to know each other better. Today we are making 6 dozen cookies for a bake sale to benefit The American Cancer Society. Then, if he's up for round two, and I'm sure he will be, we are going to make French bread. It will be my first time but the mixer knows how to work a dough hook, so I am not afraid.

$250.00 well spent, I believe. Now if only I could afford one of those front loading washing machines and matching dryer. They're even making them in fashion colors now. I want my set in burnt orange!

Nightmares

2005-05-16T09:08:00.000-05:00

I have always been a vivid dreamer. I dream in color. I frequently have recurring or continuing dreams. Certain themes in my dreams that have followed me all my life. I have dreamed of fire and explosions since I was a child. Likewise I have often dreamed that I am operating some sort of vehicle (car, boat, train, whatever) that is out of control. That particular theme started way before I was old enough to actually drive.

I go through cycles with dreaming. I can go months and barely remember my sleeping thoughts and then suddenly my nights are full of memorable visions. I also go through unpleasant cycles where my dreams are scary or simply so bold and ceaseless that they disturb my sleep. I seem to be coming into one of these disturbing dream cycles. For the past few days my dreams have become increasingly intense. I have been trying to wake and write them down but I am having trouble forcing myself into consciousness. Night before last I dreamed an amazing plot line for a novel. It was utterly perfect! However, before I could get awake and get my pen and journal the vast majority of the details had slipped away.

Last night it was nightmares. I dreamed my father was a serial killer. He was hiding his victim's bodies all over his house. Blood soaked through the floors and walls. Bits of blood, bone and hair seemed to be stuck in every nook and cranny. Then I dreamed something sad and horrible about my husband although the details are too foggy to piece together. Early this morning I dreamed of having to decipher complex codes and riddles in order to save the lives of friends and relatives. Everytime I got one wrong or couldn't answer, someone else I loved was decapitated. Gruesome stuff.

Thanks to this nighttime freak show in my brain I feel like I haven't slept in days. I wish I knew a way to turn it off for a night and get some rest. Any suggestions?

Trolls, the pesky vermin of the blog world

2005-05-15T15:17:00.000-05:00

It's terribly annoying to spend even a few minutes of my nice weekend deleting really obnoxious comments and banning IP addresses. Trolls are like mosquitoes. Try as you might, you can never exterminate or avoid them all together. You swat the little bastards if you can but mostly you just treat the bites after the fact.

every once in a while though I feel like responding to one of these creatures.

No, I am not always thinking of sex. However, I am not ashamed that I think of it often, write and talk about it or enjoy having it.

Yes I do think about God. I just don't blog about him or her or them. (Well, not usually... I suppose I might have blogged about my religious beliefs once or twice but I am not going to spend the time looking through the archives to confirm that.)

What am I teaching my daughter? Well, lets see. I am married and I've honored my wedding vows despite great turmoil in my relationship. So I have taught her about keeping a promise, about the importance of family, and about not giving up when things get tough.

I love myself despite my flaws. I continuously try to better myself. I am an example to my daughter of a strong woman and a self confident person. I have taught her to celebrate her accomplishments and her individuality.

She helps me cook. She helps me clean. She helps me shop. She helps her father and I in the garden. I have taught her the art of homemaking.

I have taught her to love books and reading because I know this builds a strong foundation for her to continue learning throughout her life. Teaching her about language ensures she will be able to communicate her needs and express herself to others.

I moved her to the country so that she can learn about farm life. She sees and interacts with cows, chickens, pigs and the local wildlife, daily. She plows corn and peanut fields with her Grand Daddy. She knows more about where food really comes from than 95% of American children.

She is three and she can read. She can count and add. Her art work is comparable to that of children 2 years older than her. She can operate a computer with ease. She can dribble a soccer ball and shoot a basket ball. She has been able to swim unassisted since last summer. She is full of joy and laughter. All of that she has learned from her Mommy (ME) and Daddy, with the help of two sets of intelligent and loving grandparents and two gorgeous, brilliant, Aunties.

Now I'll admit that we might have goofed a little in the potty training department. She uses the potty and wears underwear but has constant accidents. (If any of my parent readers out there have any advice we could use it!) I am also guilty of having sheltered her a bit too much. She has spent very little time around kids her own age and is probably a bit behind socially, which is why she's starting preschool this summer.

An unpleasant, buzzing, anonymous little gnat making nasty insinuations about my child's quality of life in a comment is certainly not going to shake my confidence as a woman, a writer or a mother.

TGIF

2005-05-13T06:51:00.000-05:00

One thing I learned from that last post is that my readers have strong ideas and feelings, just like me and I really appreciate that. To give an update, my husband and I had a nice calm reasonable chat last night about all my options, including those outside of getting a degree. He was much more open to my ideas than he had been in the morning. In part, I'm sure, because he had time to think of what an ass he can be sometimes. However, I think I also presented my case a little more clearly, complete with some long term goals. Looking for the bigger picture yesterday really helped me put things into perspective. Describing the big picture for him helped put some of his fears to rest.

Now that this weeks melodrama has been soothed into a nice gentle simmer I am off to have a great day just for me! I am driving an hour and half to get my hair cut, brows waxed, and possibly get a pedicure. Then I am going to have lunch with sunShine! After that I am going to Target, a real treat for those of us living in the backwoods, and treat myself to a Sonic Vanilla Coke on the way home.

Tomorrow we are taking my little one to the zoo for the first time. I am sure it will be hot and stinky. She will undoubtedly be tired and need to be carried half way through the park. I'm also reasonably sure that her shaky potty training will end in at least one set of wet pants. Then as the grand finale we can spend $10 a plate for fast food named after exotic animals. I can't wait!

School Daze

2005-05-12T06:38:00.000-05:00

Before I met my husband I had been in college just over a year. I was taking a full course load and working full time to support myself. At that point I had already been married once, bankrupt, heartbroken, and I'd waited a long time to do something right for a change. My GPA was 4.0.

Once I met my husband I found that working 50 hours a week and taking a full course load while planning a wedding was exhausting. I cut a class out of my schedule and got my first B. After we were married we fought constantly about school. I begged to be allowed to quit work or cut back to a part time job so I could get in more classes and keep my GPA up. He insisted we could not afford that. He also complained that I was never at home, didn't do any house work, and didn't pay enough attention to him when I was home since I was usually doing homework or housework. Then he began to complain about the student loans that were piling up. I got no help from my parents. My income was always just above the cut off line for federal aid. I was just getting to the point where I was eligible for academic scholarships but they had not come through yet. My education was a constant source of tension between us.

Then came my daughter. She certainly wasn't unplanned but she was unexpected. I saw a doctor about the reproductive problems I knew I had. He informed me that if I wanted any hope of having a child we had to try soon. Basically every month that ticked by my ovaries were becoming more and more useless. So fertility treatments began. Six months later, around the time my doctor told me he didn't think the treatments were working and we should consider adoption or egg donation, I got pregnant. My husband felt we needed the income from my job while I was pregnant. I felt I could not keep up the schedule of work and school while also carrying our baby. I finished out the summer semester and put school on hold. My GPA at that time was 3.75. I worked until complications from my pregnancy forced me to stay home, around the 8th month.

We both agreed that I would be a stay at home mom, at least in the early years. I thought I could go back to school in the evenings once my daughter was weaned. However, when the time came my husband found excuse after excuse to insist that I did not return to college. Money, time, the needs of our family, we have fought over it so many times that all the reasons run together.

Now my baby is 3. She is finally entering preschool this summer and I have every intention of finishing my education. Not because I have lofty goals for a career or because I care that people see me as an uneducated housewife but because for once in my life I want to finish what I started. I want to go back to college because I love learning and because I am good at it. So you can imagine my irritation this morning when my husband, in his authoritative, man of the house voice, forbid me to get any more student loans or commute an hour and a half, two days a week to the college where I started my degree. He also doesn't know where we will find the extra money to pay for tuition and books. The only near by schools are technical colleges, like the one where he teaches and an agricultural college about a half an hour from here. He knows I do not want a technical degree nor do I have any interest in agriculture.

I refused to get into an argument with him today. I sent him to work and told him I'd rethink my options. I've been sitting here thinking it over for an hour or so. Here's what I have decided:

Fuck him. I am going to do this and I'll do it in whatever way is best for me.

* Have you ever read back over one of your journal entries or in this case a blog entry and thought, wow, that was a little harsh.

I think what I am most annoyed by is my husband's long time refusal to see my education, or anything else that is just for me, as a priority. That is why I am so angry. He has a habit of disregarding my wants and needs . But then again, have I really treated it like a priority? I CHOSE to get married while I was in school. I CHOSE to have a family instead of school. For four years when I carefully picked out my battles this one never made the cut. Reading the comments on this were helpful as well, especially Bec's comment. She's right. My only real goal is to finish because not finishing makes me feel like a failure. I do enjoy learning and I do find making the grade easy but maybe there are better ways for me to exercise my brain and show of my talents. Apparently, this needs more than an hour or two of rethinking.

Don't stand, don't stand, don't stand so close to me...

2005-05-11T07:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon my husband came home complaining that one of his female students seems to have a crush on him. She actually mentioneded in class that she has dreams about him. You'd think this would be somewhat flattering despite the obvious concerns that might arise. I also pointed out that this was bound to happen. It's normal for girls to have crushes on teachers and my husband is certainly not a bad looking man. He was still disturbed by it. I am sure he's worried her attentions could cause some sort of scandal.

Being the terribly wicked girl that I am, I immediately began to fantasize. I have seen the girl in his class before. (She's more like a woman, actually... Well over 20.) She's a full figured gal with very long dark hair. I had a vision of her bent over one of the long tables in his class room while my hubby, her favorite instructor, pounded into her from behind. There is a two-way mirror from his office into the classroom. I could watch him fuck her from his office. I could strip off my panties, hike up my skirt, throw my legs over the arms of his desk chair and fondle myself while they went at it. Yeah, I'd be jealous and angry but those emotions would only stir up my darker sexual desires. (In fantasy anyway, I certainly would not like this to happen in real life.)

I should have kept that little scenario to myself. My husband is sickened or intimidated by such fantasies. However, I was in rare form yesterday and our daughter had gone off to play with her grandparents so I straddled his lap and told him my thoughts. He was not appreciative. I suggested we could roleplay. I'd love to be the lusty student and him the teacher, abusing his authority over me. He wasn't interested in that sort of thing either so I gave up and left him alone. I could have reached down and stroked his soft cock into compliance. I've learned over the years that his body is often willing even when he is not. Still, aroused as I was, I didn't feel like pushing Mr. Reluctant into service.

I didn't sleep well last night. I was uncomfortable. I was frustrated. I think this may have spilled over into the morning because I have a headache and I feel unusually cranky. I need a spanking and a good hard fucking. In that order. I need a partner who is willing to play along once in awhile.

I need a partner with IMAGINATION... Or maybe I need to control my own wayward imagination. *sigh* Sometimes I am so annoyed with myself.

Destructive Phase

2005-05-10T07:10:00.000-05:00

I am going through some sort of destructive phase. For the past month everything I touch breaks or gets damaged. I somehow busted my lap top screen last month and my husband finally replaced it yesterday. I have broken two of my good plates, several glasses, and two very expensive stoneware casserole dishes.

Yesterday I somehow broke the phone jack in our kitchen. I have no idea how I could have done this. All I did was unhook the phone and then plug it back in. My husband says I was too rough with it. Maybe I don't know my own strength? I also got a huge blister trying to break up the soil in the yard and plant flowers. That isn't exactly breaking something but it was certainly damaging something. My poor hand!

I think I have become clumsy because I am so easily distracted lately. I can't seem to settle down and concentrate. I have been working on a couple of longer writing projects and they are getting nowhere. I can not write a plot line and stick to it. I can not decide on certain character details. I am starting to wonder if I am capable of writing more than a few slapped together paragraphs that are loosely connected by vivid descriptions of sex. Of course, this sort of self doubt is also destructive.

Hurting the ones you love (Sexual Content)

2005-05-08T18:31:00.000-05:00

Inside a cozy bungalow tucked into the mountains bordering one state and another a pair of lovers snuggled naked under a blanket in front of a roaring fire. Their first few hours there had been exhilarating and surreal. This meeting was the culmination of months of longing and waiting, weighing consequences and nursing justifications. Leaning into the man she could finally call her lover, April was glad that they had chosen the secluded little house as opposed to a hotel. It seemed less scandalous somehow, less dirty. While the things they'd been suggesting and contemplating for months were scandalous and dirty in countless ways, their connection seemed right. It was soulful, sacred almost and the sterile, over used, spaces of a hotel wouldn't have done them justice. Besides, their love making and outright fucking would have disturbed half the guests lodging at the Hampton Inn.

They had talked and laughed for sometime, comfortably bare on the soft old couch but now they had grown quiet and pensive. The guilt, an inevitable side effect of their weakness, was seeping into the perfect pleasure of togetherness. Without realizing it, April began to cry. Silent tears breached her lower lids and slipped away under her chin. She sniffled suddenly, distracting Christopher from his own tortured thoughts.

"What's wrong?" He asked, as if he didn't know, holding her chin and turning her face to his.

April shook her head in denial. If she started talking about it she'd say too much. She'd ruin the night and if she was going to risk it all for this clandestine affair she was going to enjoy it.

With tears glistening in his own eyes, concern and sympathy as well as his own troubled conscious showing in the lines of his brow, he promised, "It will get easier." It was a lie and they both knew it. April vaguely remembered him telling that falsehood once before at the beginning of all this, before they ever imagined disregarding vows or surreptitious meetings.

Christopher leaned in and kissed her, softly at first but she kissed back hard, her teeth finding his lower lip. In one smooth motion she was straddling him. Despite being tired and sore from their last coupling a new fever had come over them. He was hard already, his erection between them pressing into her soft warm belly as she kissed his neck. He gripped her back as her little kisses became nibbles and nearly painful bites. He reached for her breasts, following her intense lead, pulling on her nipple with more force than he normally would use. April yelped with a mixture of surprise and pain. He rubbed the now tender nipple and wondered if hed been too rough.

April looked at him with an agonized expression and put her hand on his. In a trembling, rasped whisper she said, "Again, please."

He obliged her. This time her yelp was more of a pleasured cry. He had never known her to be into pain of any sort but as she raised herself onto his throbbing cock he found her slippery, swollen, and obviously aroused. She impaled herself on his rod. She began to move with exaggerated humps and he could feel the head of his dick slamming into the end wall of her feminine anatomy. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, the pinching pain mixing with the intensity of her hard fucking. Her knees seemed to be gripping his hips like a vise. He gritted his teeth against the crushing squeeze of her strong legs. It might not usually be their thing but in this instance the hurt felt good. It seemed an appropriate punishment for their misdeeds. It was the sexual expression of their long suffered agony. It was sensual reverence to the ache of holding back and trying to avoid this very act.

His teeth found her nipples and left them red and raw. He smacked her ass, leaving a stinging hand print on her backside and she arched in approval. All the while, she kept riding him harder and harder until he thought she might break him like a cheaply made toy. He dug his hands into her hips to give her wild motions some stability and pushed her down even harder. Their whimpers and moans became screams as they collided with one another over and over again, fucking violently toward mutual climax. When April could take no more she leaned and bit his shoulder as she drowned in wave after wave of orgasm. The searing heat of her teeth in his flesh and the collapsing, wet velvet walls of her spasming cunt brought Christopher to the brink as well.

When the quivering subsided April sat back on his lap and they compared wounds. The semi-circle of teeth imprinted in his shoulder and the red-violet welts decorating her hips and buttocks would be hard to hide. In some way these small brands were evidence that they had belonged to each other, if only for a night. These marks were not exactly the scarlet A that Hawthorne had described but they served their purpose just the same. At the end of the weekend when they returned to their separate lives, they would not easily forget.

Name Calling (and a few other things)

2005-05-06T07:34:00.000-05:00

I am figety today. The sun is shining and it's already 70 something degrees outside and I can not make my mind sit still and give up a good story. I wanted to write something erotic today but I am not in the mood for fiction nor I am I in the mood for historical tales. I have something in mind but it is my little secret, a shiny treasure I just don't feel like sharing. So I guess you guys will get another day of random, what in the hell is she blabbering about, rambling.

Have I ever mentioned that I am in love with the sound of my own name on my lover's lips? I am not just talking about sex here, although hearing my name moaned out in the throws of passion does have special appeal. I mean anytime really, when the object of my sweet affection utters, calls, or even mentions my name. In fact, hearing my name mentioned in conjunction with a string of compliments is enough to make my face red and my panties wet.

I imagine him saying my name when he's alone. I see him relaxed in his favorite chair or reclining on the bed, stroking his cock and saying my name as loud as he dares when he tenses at the final moment. I imagine him ordering me around, Come here, Christine... Show me your pussy, Christine... And a thousand other scenarios some of which involve other men and women, light bondage and bizarre costumes. I even imagine him saying it when he's driving to work, maybe his mind wanders during the mindless commute and he thinks, Christine...

I should admit that I do this myself. I roll his name around in my mouth all day like I am savoring a rich and sweet hard candy.

See what I mean about the rambling? It's a gorgeous day here. If it gets really warm I'm going to go out in the shortest shorts I own and a flimsy tank top and get some sun on my pale skin. If you're thinking of giving me the skin cancer/sun block lecture, spare me. I am well aware of the damage sun can do to your skin but I think a little bit of sun not only browns the skin but warms the soul. No sunless tanning creams do not create a realistic tan and I promise I'll use a little spf 8 or something to prevent a burn.

Never an ordinary girl

2005-05-05T08:38:00.000-05:00

I suppose I should stop calling myself a girl. I'll be thirty in a month*, surely the little girl in me is all grown up. Maybe I'm like my mother, terrified of growing old, so I refer to myself as a girl instead of a woman. It is a rebellion of sorts, a demand to be seen as alive, vibrant, beautiful. When I look in the mirror I still see the girl in me despite my inevitable slide away from being twenty something, despite my status as Mom and wife. Maybe it's that I was born in early summer. Gemini's are mercurial, perpetual teenagers, always wanting to be in the summer of our lives.

This girl is growing her hair out. Not long, because I have learned over the years that my stick straight, baby fine locks just look better lopped off short. But I got bored of my short cropped style, always sticky, stiff or waxy to hold it in a state of messy glory. I've been feeling a little softer, I've been thinking of someone running their hands through my hair, or gripping my hair by the handful and giving it a tug as they impale me. So my hair is now tussled around my face, soft and silky. My wispy uneven bangs are getting long and I find myself playing with them, brushing them off my forehead. I opted to stop dying it purple because the process was drying my hair out. It is a softer shade now, a sort of black and burgundy, still a little wild but not quite as shocking. I tried letting it go back to its natural color but the gray was contrary to my insistence that I am, indeed, still a girl. If it sounds like I am obsessed with my hair that's because I am. I am constantly changing and rearranging it, coloring and cutting it. It's just one more creative outlet to me.

I am a girl who refuses to let go of certain things. It's not having your cake and eating it too. It's more like returning to the bakery day after day to drool after the perfect cakes that you know you don't need. The expensive ones that you can't really afford and the extra sweet ones that you know would give you a tummy ache. Still, you want them anyway and you imagine yourself eating them off of fancy plates or paper towels with a fork or with your bare hands... This isn't making much sense but I am in a weird mood today.

Weird. Not quite ordinary.

I've never wanted to be an ordinary girl but I am. I fall for the same romantic cliches, the plots you've read in a thousand romance novels. I secretly like the same breath taking, tear jerking, chick flick nonsense that every girl loves.

* There are 36 shopping days left before my birthday!

I'm a bad bad girl

2005-05-04T14:36:00.000-05:00

Despite having had surprisingly good sex with my sweet husband last night I am ravenous! I am almost ashamed at the number of times I have satisfied myself today... almost. I'd write more but I need to catch up on all the housework I ignored while I was pleasuring myself.

Blog-A-Thon Questions

2005-05-04T07:11:00.000-05:00

For those of you answering questions, here they are. I know, I know, I didn't write separate questions for each of you. I'm LAZY, people. So answer on your own blog and recruit your readers to play the next round. Let me know when you've answered via e-mail or in comments. I can't wait to see what each of you has to reveal!

1. A good friend of yours reveals that he or she has written and published a novel. You read the book and realize that one of the main characters is obviously YOU. Some of your less desirable traits are exaggerated and the context in which you are written isn't completely flattering. How do you feel? How do you react?

2. If time travel were possible and you were going to live in a time period before our own which time period would it be and why. What would your occupation be in that time? How do you imagine your family life?

3. Name a song that has significant meaning to you and tell us why it is so special.

4. Choose one product that you use, like and even swear by and sell it to us!

5. What is your favorite season and why?

Ok, now get to work answering!

The Thomas Inquisition

2005-05-02T13:22:00.000-05:00

When Thomas asks his fans to do something they rarely refuse. I am no exception.

1) You also have a very strong family bond. If you could BE one of your sisters for 24 hours, who would it be and why?

I would be my youngest sister. She is not quite 20. Earlier today when I saw this question I thought I would want to be her so that I could be beautiful, thin, young and worshiped by men everywhere for a day. However, she revealed a secret to me this afternoon that changed my reasoning. I want to be her for 24 hours so I could unmake a mistake she has made. Silly, silly girl. There is nothing romantic or happy about being a child bride. Why does it hurt so much to watch the ones you love repeat the mistakes you made at their age?

2) If you could have any one item from any store in the world given to you free of charge, what would you like?

Just one item? Is it cheating if I choose a gift certificate for about a million dollars to a favorite store? Yep that would be cheating. Grrr... I hate this question.

I guess I'd get a potters wheel. I took some classes years ago and loved working with the clay and the wheel. However, there is no where in my area to use a potters wheel. I could find a kiln space at a couple of places but I just can't find a pottery wheel to use or rent anywhere within reasonable driving distance and they are very expensive. Too pricey for me to purchase just so I can play at it. Yeah. A potters wheel.

3) You've been put in charge of a day care, your own daughter joining in their group. One of the children cries and you see your daughter biting her on the elbow, leaving a mark that draws blood, but not obviously a bite. The bitten child is at the age where she's walking, but doesn't really speak. You have reprimanded your daughter, who seems very sorry she did it. Do you pass off the bandaged injury to the child's parents as a "ouchie", or do you tell them the truth and risk getting your daughter, yourself and the center in trouble?

I worked in a childcare center for 3 years when I was a young woman. Generally you aren't required to tell the parents which child bit their child. Biting in childcare centers is terribly common. Children are rarely scrutinized for a first offense. SO, I follow all the procedures set in place by the center including telling the parent the child was bitten without telling them which child did the biting.

4) If you could be anyone for 24 hours, who would you be and why?

The first answer that pops into my head is not bloggable. The bloggable answer is:

I'd be my husband so that I could crawl around in his head and learn to understand him. While I was at it I'd have amazing sex with my gorgeous wife as many times as I possibly could within that 24 hour period.

5) What was your favorite breakfast cereal when you were younger, and do you still eat it today?

It's a dead tie between Pops and Golden Grahams. I haven't had a bowl of either for at least a month (cause they just aren't good for you, too much sugar not enough fiber) but I still love them and treat myself occasionally.

I believe the rules require me to ask some questions of my readers. I'll follow Thomas's lead and ask who wants to play. If you'd like to play along tell me in your comment and I'll come up with questions for each of you in a day or two. You have to post my questions and your answers at your own blog AND recruit others to do the same. Who's in?

Getting over it

2005-05-01T20:43:00.000-05:00

I read my previous post and all I can think is... God I am big cry baby.

I wrote a terribly long e-mail to my husband trying to explain my anguish. He'll most likely skim and delete it without a thought of hitting the reply button. No matter. It prevented me from continuing to hemorrhage my emotions all over this blog or even worse, all over the few dear friends I have in the world. None of whom deserve a depressing and long winded e-mail or phone call from me during their relaxing weekend.

So my love life lacks romance. At least someone loves me, right? A friend of mine told me recently that the average married couple has sex about 7 times a year. Apparently I am a freak of nature because I'd really like to have sex about 7 times a week. LOL

Amputating

2005-04-30T06:40:00.000-05:00

Last night was date night at my house. The first date night in over a month to be exact. For those of you wondering, date night is an idea suggested to us by a marriage counselor last year. It's suppose to be one night a week when my child stays with a babysitter and my husband and I spend "quality time" together. I should point out that since this was suggested it's actually happened only 4 or 5 times. There always seems to be something getting in the way of this supposed weekly event. I was never overly fond of this idea in the first place. I knew scheduling time for us to be alone wasn't going to get to the root of the problem... The serious lack of sex drive on his part. Still, I have been sucked in by the idea of getting out of the house, of being alone with him, of having some sort of sexual contact even if he is only offering out of a sense of obligation.

Apparently he isn't all that fond of date night either. Last night my husband was about as enthusiastic as he is when he's going to the dentists for a bi-annual cleaning. I begged him to take me to a new bar and grill in town that was supposed to have interesting atmosphere and live music. I begged him to take me to a street festival that was going on in the next town over. He wanted to go to Walmart and buy soaker hoses for the garden and thought we might as well eat at the Chinese buffet in town while we were there. I begged to eat anywhere than the Chinese buffet. I suggested that we at least go see a movie, something we haven't done since the last Lord of the Rings film came out. We ended up at Walmart and eating at a family friendly bar-b-que joint afterwards. I tried very hard to just enjoy his company regardless of the atmosphere.

Driving home the air was cool and smelled of honeysuckle and I would have given anything to go on a long night drive with him. Maybe pick up a beer at the nearest convenience store, ride out to some deserted place and look at the stars before making out like teenagers. Needless to say that did not happen. At some point after we got home, my mood fell and I ended up crying and shaking and screaming that all I wanted was one night, one moment when he could treat me like a lover. As usual he was silent, his eyes closed so that he didn't have to look at me.

I wish that is where this post ended. I wish we had gone to bed and gone to sleep and not discussed it further. However, we couldn't sleep and we ended up sitting in the dark having a very quiet, very serious discussion. He told me that he simply does not have a need or desire to be flirtatious. He told me that he feels no lust for me or anyone else. He said he loves me dearly, finds me attractive and enjoys it when we have sex but doesn't really feel a need for it. I spoke tearfully of the past of our early time together when I thought he couldn't get enough of me. He reminded me that he had been comfortably celibate for years before he met me. He reminded me that he expressed great concern about "keeping up with me" sexually before we were married. I was so arrogant before we were married. I thought I was so sexy, so sensual that I could keep his libido lifted to match my own. How foolish of me to think I could manipulate something as hard wired as someone's sexuality.

His words sunk in quickly and I felt like someone had just informed me that I would never be able to speak again. It was like someone reaching in my mouth and cutting out my tongue. Sex is my most favored form of expression. The partner I have vowed to spend my life with has no desire to communicate with me in this way. He could have cut off a hand or foot and taken less away from me. Yet, I feel like I am the weak and shallow one. He is attractive, smart, funny, a good provider, a friend, a wonderful father, he is generally kind and loving. He is loyal to me like no other man has ever been. I am lucky. There are women everywhere who would sell their soul to be with such a man and all I can do is sit here bawling about my poor neglected sensuality.

At some point last night he looked at me with big brown eyes full of tears and said "I am sorry I can not be the lover you need." I had the overwhelming urge, a nearly unbearable compulsion, to go running full force and throw myself through the plate glass windows at the front of our house.

A Bad Addiction (sexual content)

2005-04-28T13:00:00.000-05:00

Jillian walked into the dark and dusty bar with a careful strut and a head full of false confidence. Her heels were too high. She'd never learned to walk in high heeled shoes, she had always assumed her full breasts made her too top heavy for them. Her denim skirt was hiking up as she walked. It was about a size too small but it had seemed the best choice for this outing. The decision to go braless had been an impulsive one that she'd have to live with now. Her breasts, heavy and round bounced with each step, the fabric of her shirt hardly disguising her nipples.

She hadn't been in a bar in awhile and this place seemed a bit rougher than most. In a small community like this the options for entertainment were limited but that hadn't stopped her from venturing out on her last night in town. She was looking for a certain kind of fix and you couldn't get it in a motel room by yourself. The bar seemed deserted but that was to be expected on a Wednesday night. There were two good sized local boys at the bar, a beer in front of each of them. As she approached one nodded and the other, who was missing part of his front tooth winked and said "Howdy!" She smiled briefly and sat down at the bar, several seats away from the men. She ordered a beer but stopped the bar tender before he could reach into the fridge.

"Wait," She told him. "Make that a Jack and Coke, easy on the Coke." The bar tender sort of shrugged and smiled while he reached for a glass.

She needed a little liquid courage to help her relax her shoulders and open her smile, so that one of these stupid redneck boys would give her the medicine she needed. The relief would be all too temporary but sometimes any comfort is better than none. She took a big gulp of the drink when it was handed to her and tried not to make a face. She had never liked whisky. The guy with the broken tooth slithered down the bar to sit next to her.

"Ya know I'd never have figgered you for a whisky drinkin' woman." He informed her in a voice loud enough to be heard across the room. His grin was impossibly wide, showing off a silver crown and other dental anomalies in his mouth.

"Well you can't always judge a book by it's cover." Jillian told him in a much quieter voice. The absence of true southern drawl was like a speech impediment, immediately noticeable in a place like this.

"You ain't from around her, are you girl?" The man with the broken tooth asked, still grinning that grin. It looked as if his face would split.

She hated this small talk. She wished she could just announce to the room that she needed a good hard fucking and see if there were any takers.

"My name's Jill." She said, not answering his question. She told him Jill because Jillian seemed a bit too formal for the sawdust floor and the worn out jeans and work boots. "What's your name?"

If it was possible, his grin widened even further and he stuck out is calloused hand for her to shake."Name's Robert but my friends call me Bubba." As they shook hands Bubba glanced down boldly and while staring at her breasts hanging freely under her blouse said "I'd sure like to be friends with you."

Taking another swallow of her drink Jillian looked him directly in the eyes, an invitation clear in her stare. "Then let's be friends Bubba." She said smiling wickedly. "Is there someplace around here we can get some privacy?"

As they walked out into the dark parking lot toward Bubba's pick up truck. Jillian's heart was pounding. Is this really what I want? She asked herself. She glanced at Bubba, his skin was tanned to a leathery brown. There was a defined ring worn into his back pocket, undoubtedly from a little plastic container of tobacco. A Skoal ring, she had heard it called. She shuddered at the thought of kissing this guy. She could have changed her mind right then, just made a quick excuse to get away and headed for her own car. She could have gone back to her motel room and masturbated herself to sleep but her original reasons for doing this burned in her thoughts. This need she had, this habit of fucking away her troubles was making her life a lonely mess but she just couldn't stop.

Jillian decided to stop thinking so much. She had come here to lose herself in someone else's touch. She had come her to feel a cock slide between her legs without care or consequence. She'd come here to get fucked. Even as she questioned the sanity of her actions her panties were growing damp. The heat between her thighs was almost unbearable, she wanted what she was about to get. The danger, the randomness, the detached attachment of spreading her legs for whoever would play along was intoxicating. Her drink had loosened her, now she wanted to be drunk. Fuck drunk.

"You wanna go back to my place, Darlin'? Get to know each other better?" Bubba asked as they sat in the cab of his oversized truck.

Jillian fought the urge to roll her eyes. Bubba still didn't quite get it but then, Bubba's luck was probably never this good. "I think we could get to know each other quite well, right here." She purred and ran her small, smooth hand up the fabric of his faded jeans to his crotch.

Bubba, catching on quickly, flashed that mile wide grin and said "Well, aww-ight!" Before leaning in for a kiss.

His breath was more beer than Skoal and for that Jillian was glad. She pushed her tongue into his mouth and a little jolt of electricity moved through her as she felt his tongue meeting hers. He wasted no time getting his hands beneath her shirt and groping at her bare breasts. He pushed her shirt up and remarked that she had nice tits. Jillian shoved his face toward them, anxious to put his mouth to use for something other than talking. As he worked one of her nipples between his teeth Jillian could feel the gap made by his broken front tooth. She was somehow both disgusted and turned on by that small detail.

Jillian undid his zipper and his cock, hard and ready practically leapt out of his fly. He was going commando apparently, no boxers or briefs to get in the way. She ran her fingers slowly up the length of his shaft. She noticed that it was average in length but thick and hard as a baseball bat. She squeezed it approvingly and Bubba reached under her skirt prodding between her thighs with big, strong fingers.

"Damn, girl you're ready for me aren't ya?" He said gruffly, finding her panties soaked through.

In response, Jillian began to shimmy around working her tight skirt up around her hips and her panties down around her knees. In the process she looked out across the moonlit parking lot and noticed the other man from the bar leaned up against a near by truck. He was smoking a cigarette and looking directly at Jillian. She was momentarily shocked. It hadn't occurred to her that they might be followed or watched. The idea of it only made her hotter, her pussy slicker and she made a point to look directly at this stranger as she got her panties the rest of the way down her legs.

Bubba had tugged his jeans down a bit so that Jillian would have better access to his tool. She straddled him, thinking about the way her ass would look to the smoking stranger as she climbed on top. Bubba was apparently anxious to get inside. He grabbed her hips forcefully and guided them over his cock. She let him shove her down on his engorged member feeling every inch as it slipped in. As she moved on top of him she turned her head over her shoulder to see if they were still being watched. She was delighted to see that their audience had put out his cigarette and was now stroking himself through his jeans. Turning back to her temporary lover she increased the pace. He found his rhythm beneath her, thrusting up, filling her with his thick cock.

Jillian let go and found her release as soon as she felt the steady pulse of him coming inside her. She really should have made him pull out but she loved that feel, the hot throbbing release happening deep inside her pussy. When she came she felt the world go black around her, she saw stars and was floating for just a moment. She held him inside of her until she'd savored every last moment of pleasure, until she had come down from her high. Then she moved off of him and began searching for her panties with shaking hands. Bubba tried to make conversation but she had lost all interest now. He asked for her number and she stifled a laugh before telling him there was no need.

Walking slowly to her own car, her drunken steps wobbly on high heels she noticed that the man who watched had disappeared. As she drove away she wished she had known the stranger's name.

I think I have the worst headache of my life.

2005-04-27T07:11:00.000-05:00

What I wouldn't give to hide away from the world today. Just lock my front door, disconnect the phone and slip back beneath the bed covers in my darkened room.

Reluctant prose about a cheap dress

2005-04-26T11:12:00.000-05:00

I have been reluctant to post today. My thoughts aren't cohesive. They are like a run away train, moving too fast for the cars to be counted. They jump the track and careen into a depot full of people or crash into other thoughts without so much as hitting the brakes. The disasters created exist only in the world of my head but then you have to start wondering if art imitates life or life imitates art and my sentences get too long so I'd better get back to my original idea.

I was searching through my closet for a favorite soft shirt today and came across a dress I bought off a clearance rack a few weeks ago. I saw it hanging on the rack and it looked like it was made for me. The flirty split sleeves held together with fabric bows would allow hints of my newly tanned shoulders to peek through. The top wraps around the bust line plunging provocatively, exposing cleavage and the shape of a full bosom easily. It's black and has this subtle white pattern of circles and swirls that hint at the roundness of a woman. At the waist a simple red piping draws attention to the curve of the tummy and hips. The skirt, flouncy and scalloped at the hem, hits me right at the knees.

I had no excuse for buying it. It's too revealing to wear when I am dragged to church functions with my in-laws. I suppose I could wear it for "date night" if we were actually having date nights as once promised. Still, I tried it on in the harsh, unflattering light of the dressing room and was shocked at how becoming it was. I couldn't pass it up. It might as well have had my name sewn into the back of it. For now it hangs there, just wanting to be worn. I suppose I will wear it on our vacation next month. Not that my husband will notice. He has explained, apologetically, that certain details are lost on him. I've learned to accept it, mostly.

But oh how I'd love to wear it for someone who would see it's perfection and the beauty it brought out in me. I'd love to walk into a bar or restaurant in this thing and have him notice the many glances in my direction. I'd love to feel him slip a possessive arm around my waist and guide me through the crowd. I can imagine dancing for him in this flimsy little summer dress. Not that I am great dancer but in that dress every sway and gyration would be irresistible. I can almost feel his hand on my bare thigh beneath the thin skirt. I would dare him to go higher until his fingertips brushed my soft, lace trimmed panties. Then later, after being whisked away from the lusty stares and knowing winks I imagine him lifting the tail of my dress as he takes me over his lap. A playful slap on the ass, my punishment for being such a tease. We wouldn't bother to take the dress off. It would be just as alluring bunched up around my waist, out of the way of our frantic hands, mouths and thrusting pelvises.

All this fantasy surrounding one dress! I am almost afraid to really wear it.

Love Hurts

2005-04-25T07:40:00.000-05:00

"...It's a very mysterious thing, that electric thing that happens, and the agony that can follow. The troubadours celebrate the agony of the love, the sickness the doctors can not cure, the wound... The wound is the wound of my passion and the agony of my love for this creature. The only one who can heal me is the one who delivered the blow."

~Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

I am still unpacking box after box of books 3 months after we've moved into our new house. Last night I was looking through one of those books and came upon this quote. I was struck by the truth in it. I have been in love three times in my life and I found each of those situations to be full of unrivaled joy juxtaposed with breath stealing pain that I was more than willing to endure. My husband would be livid if he read this. In his compartmentalized view of life there can only be room for one love and I have just confessed to having at least three. For that reason I will not list these three except for my husband and yes, in case my regular readers have wondered, I have always been in love with my husband. The agony in our relationship is that he does not fully understand the depth of my passion for him nor does he fully return it. Whether he is not capable or simply not so enamored with me is a question that nags me when I find myself alone without distraction.

I have never understood my husbands thinking on the subject of love. He can not see how there can be room for anyone in my heart but him. I find my capacity for love is boundless and encompasses everyone who has touched my life. I will never believe in the concept of one soulmate but instead believe we each have many, many soul mates. People who will travel into and out of our lives as needed and permitted but can never be forgotten or our love for them discarded. I am nearly thirty and as I mentioned there have been 3 major connections in my life thus far. Maybe each belonged to a certain decade or age of mine? In addition to these there have been many little loves, little pieces of my heart still belonging to each of them. People who I have or do care deeply about but who for one reason or another never stole my heart completely.

There was Joey. My first real boyfriend. He was terribly sweet and even let me down gently at the end. We only got to second base but those fumbled touches prepared me for so much that was to come. There was Brad, who was always the buddy, the third wheel, who was ever loyal until I married someone else.

There was Keven, who was entirely too immature and a lousy lover but a dear friend. He gave me a place to stay when I had no where to go and at night when my sobs would echo through his house he would crawl in bed next to me. He would hold me without making demands, without asking questions. He would comfort me without insulting the man who was his friend, who had broken my heart so thoroughly that it still has not fully healed nearly ten years later.

There was Sammy, who was gorgeous like a movie star, with a tender heart, blessed with southern charm and ever the bad boy of young girl's fantasies. We had a powerful chemistry and have fallen in and out of one another's life for ten years. Unfortunately, Sammy couldn't over come his desire to be bad and now writes and calls me from prison. His eyes no longer sparkle and his hair, once all lustrous curls has thinned and grayed. While I love him warmly, I was never in love with him. I always knew that Sammy would find disaster. I only wish there was some way I could have steered him away from it.

There were the girls as well. There was Diana who loved me more than I was able to love her. There was Pam who I either wanted badly or wanted to be like and I never managed either. There are of course others who surround me now but I will not give up their identities. Much like the "Big Three" they should know who they are and if you know me well enough you know them too.

These are the gentle loves, the friendships, the ones that never left me hurting. I remember asking my Mother once when I was little how you knew when you were in love with someone. I can not remember her answer but I know it was wrong. The measure is not about happiness or desire alone, it must be compared to the size of the wound inflicted.

Overlooked

2005-04-23T10:17:00.000-05:00

Last night when my husband came in at 9pm he was full of information about his miserable day. His college is hosting some sort of academic competition and he had been at the school since 8am Friday morning. Still, I noticed as he complained that every other story was something fun he'd done with colleagues and friends that day. He even went out for drinks with his pals. I am happy to see him getting some socialization. He needed it. Despite my approval I felt a bit robbed, sitting at home alone in a dark and silent house on a Friday night with no one to talk to and nothing to do but read. There have been a lot of nights like that lately. The fact that my being alone and tethered to the house could not be helped does little to combat my frustration.

After he'd finished all his stories he asked me about my day but cut me off mid sentence.

"I see all you did today was read." He interrupted, looking down at my nearly finished novel.

I am a fast reader. He knows this. Still, the insinuation was that I had been lazy. That I had accomplished nothing in his absence. His assumption stung. After all, his child had been fed, dressed, entertained, bathed, cuddled, read to, sang to and tucked into bed. His laundry had been done even if it had not yet been put away. Defensive, I found myself listing off the mundane tasks I had performed. The same tasks I do everyday that seem largely insignificant to him.

I love my husband. However I am forced to conclude that he is incredibly ungrateful and rarely considerate of anyone but himself. He asked me to set my alarm this morning to ensure he got up on time to attend today's festivities at the college. When I finally said something to him about getting out of bed (twenty minutes after the alarm had gone off) he responded with anger and complaints. He proceeded to turn on the over head light at 6:30am on Saturday morning eventhough there were softer lighting choices at his fingertips. He spent the rest of the hour slamming things around pointing out all the things I'd failed to do to make his morning smoother. He left in a huff and I just stared after him as he drove out to the road wondering how he could be so incredibly blind.

His criticism would weigh less if it were balanced by praise but he can't be bothered. Somedays I feel like I would sell my soul to hear him say I was beautiful. Not because I don't believe I am. I see beauty in every little measure of me. I just want him to see it. Even a mention of appreciation for the everyday crap I endure on his behalf and on behalf of our little one would go a long way to soothe my chapped hide.

Libraries

2005-04-22T08:31:00.000-05:00

The closest library to my rural location is nestled among restored buildings and the farmers market in a near by small town. The main streets there are still paved with bricks instead of blacktop and people drive and walk leisurely around the little shops as if no one has anywhere important to go. It's the kind of preserved charm you only find in small southern places like this.

The library is very small but holds the distinctive smell of print and the hushed sounds that you find in every library, regardless of size or location. It is oddly staffed by educated elderly and young but unusual citizens. The circulation clerk is young man with impossibly thick glasses and a lazy eye. While he seems perfectly capable of doing his job he's also considered "not quite right" the polite term in these parts for people with some sort of mental deficiency. I like the way he smiles at me while I check out my books. He's trying to be polite but can't look me in the eye. He catches a glimpse of my volumptous cleavage peeking out of my v-neck blouse, blushes and moves his eyes to my books. I insist on looking him in the eye, something most people wouldn't do with this awkward little guy and smile back at him. His blush deepens but his grin also widens. I feel like I might have made his day.

Leaving the library, squinting in the hot Georgia sun, I am suddenly reminded of another afternoon trip to the library when I was a teenager. I remember making the long trek to the Mercer Library with a fellow member of the debate team. His name was Stephen and he must have been a year older than me because he could drive and had a huge beaten up car. I don't remember the model, as young girls are not usually concerned with such things. Stephen seemed to be an outcast even among our little group of outcasts. Strange that he'd have been such a loner because he was painfully beautiful. He was tall and muscular the way a lot of teenage boys are. He had these luminous blue eyes that looked like planetary orbs and silky red-brown hair that he let grow too long in the front so it swooped across his left eye.

Stephen never seemed interested in me romantically but he was interested. He would often bring me cassette tapes of music copied from his own collection. I heard Nirvana and The Violent Femmes for the first time, long before the other kids in my little suburb knew they existed, thanks to Stephen. There was an odd connection between us. We were not usually partnered at debate tournaments but the one time we were we got second place in our division. it was the best placing I ever had at a tournament. We just got each other. It was in preparation for that tournament that we had gone to the big, college library in the next town over.

At the library we would talk in excited whispers when we found a piece of good evidence for or against our topic. One time, while trying to slip past him in the stacks my backside brushed his front and I felt the unmistakable bulge of an erection in his pants. We were both embarrassed and said nothing aside from sorry, and excuse me. On the ride home he asked if I liked to drive fast. I had no idea since being driven around by boys was a new experience for me. I said yes anyway, because it was the answer he wanted to hear and we went barreling down the interstate with the windows down and some soon to be labeled "grunge" band whining from the cars speakers. It was too loud to talk but every once in a while he would look over at me and smile widely, as if he were sharing some incredible secret joy with me.

Maybe he was interested in me romantically after all.

A Poem

2005-04-20T12:24:00.000-05:00

I write poetry daily but rarely post it. It always comes out darker than I intend. I suppose it is my way of purging. Anyway, I feel compelled to post this one. Remember, it isn't necessarily indicative of my mood.

Waiting

Time erases and recreates all that we've done
Longing takes on a life of its own and becomes
A sad beast of burden struggling under the weight
of familiar voices and the ill advised passionate pleas
erupting from lovers, blindly carrying on beneath thin sheets

I tell myself to think of the pretty pink promises
The sincerely felt heat of our star crossed link
And hope of new dances around the forbidden word
I tell myself the blue stories are nothing but lies
I will tell myself anything that pleases my heart

I take comfort in the songs that remind me of you
Singing along, trying to feel your bolt of blue
I am compelled to wonder if you look for me too
Am I in your day dreams, am I in the words you use?
Weary, I vanquish you but hope you'll reappear

If I could slip a note beneath your windshield wiper
If I could run into you unexpectedly in the places you go
If I could paint myself into the landscape around you
I could tell you how time goes slower with each passing day
I could tell you all the secrets that you used to know

HELL-thy

2005-04-19T14:29:00.000-05:00

As of yesterday I am on a mission to restore my body to its former glory. No, I am not talking about getting thin. Trust me, I've been gloriously chubby my entire life and that's not about to change. I'm speaking of last summer's glory when I was fat but not too fat, going to the gym 5 days a week, and wearing sleeveless shirts without a self conscious thought. I stopped going to the gym in the Fall and then the stress started piling on at home, enter the holidays and their evil but delicious food seduction, followed by moving to the country where everyone wants to come to your house to eat and they don't want salad. Well, they don't mind potato or chicken salad, or possibly fruit salad made with extra sugar, poured over rich butter pound cake and topped with real whipped cream but those aren't the kinds of salad your doctor would recommend.

Basically, I can't fit into last years summer wardrobe and I'll be damned if I'm buying all new capri pants and ditching the flirty, skin baring blouses I adore so much. So I am eating what I should. Lots of veggies, lots of whole grains, no sugar... You know, all the foods that taste like they were purchased down at the local feed store. I'm also drinking water which isn't such a big deal because I always drink water but somehow water is less quenching when you know you can not drive into town for a vanilla coke when the mood strikes. I could really be enjoying the exercise if only I could put my vigorous sexual activity plan into action. Unfortunately, you need a good partner for that sort of work out and it must be done a few times a day. While my husband is good, his libido is more in the three times a month range than three times a day.

Still a little strength training in the morning and a long wilderness hike in the afternoon is a much nicer than an hour on a treadmill followed by fighting with five or six weight machines that look more like torture chamber furnishings than weights. The food is the big issue. It's not that I am hungry. I am consuming plenty of calories through a balanced diet and I know I am not starving. It's the splenda and skim milk instead of honey and whole milk in my Chai tea. It's the egg white and spinach omelet I ate this morning without cheese because I didn't need the extra fat and calories. It's the brown rice and whole grain low-fat bread that has the texture of sawdust. It's never having dessert. It's the veggies cooked without butter or bacon grease (its a southern thing) that can't be mashed up with mayonnaise and bread crumbs and baked to a golden brown, casserolific masterpiece. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it!

I'm a sugar addict and I need a fix for godsake! I want a blended rootbeer float or hot sex* RIGHT NOW!

*Sex is the official methadone for food addicts.

Marital Relations (sexual content)

2005-04-18T08:45:00.000-05:00

After being separated for a week and enduring the panic of my daughters penicillin allergy I was desperate for the comfort and distraction of sexual contact. I had tried to offer little hints, to initiate close contact between us but he hadn't taken the bait. Our daughter was staying with her grandparents because we were supposed to be running to the store. Finally I just came right out and asked if he was interested.

I wasn't surprised but I was crest fallen when he responded by saying, "I thought the plan was that we were going to try and get this shopping done and get back soon?"

"You're right." I said, trying to hide my disappointment. "We should get going."

I moved around the kitchen looking for my purse and the shopping list. Concerns from earlier in the week began to creep back into my mind. Why wasn't he ever in his hotel room when I called? He only called me once, to tell me he got there safely. I got one, four or five word, e-mail during the entire week. Was he that busy? Since returning home he had mentioned the other male instructor that attended the training with him but always changed the subject when I asked about the 24 year old female instructor, who also went on the trip.

Lost in thought, I was surprised when he came up and put his arms around me.

"You know, this is probably the best chance we're going to get for awhile." He admitted.

"It may be good timing but if your not in the mood I'd rather wait." I said with a heavy heart. (He has explained many times in the past that he often feels obligated to have sex. The thought of him reluctantly fucking me, as if he's just doing a chore, makes me want to cry.)

With his brown eyes fixed on mine he sighed and insisted "I was away from you for a whole week, of course I want to."

Without further conversation he pulled me close and began to kiss me. Soon he was pushing up, ripping open and yanking off my clothes and I found myself shoved up against my kitchen counter. Swept up in a fantasy I have had numerous times, I let the sensation of his hands, his mouth take over my worries. He motioned for me to sit on a bar stool and then knelt between my legs. He buried his face in my pussy, lapping and sucking hungrily. I braced myself against the counter and spread my legs lewdly to allow him comfortable access to the feast before him.

The intensity of his attention reminded me of a more passionate time in our life. When our relationship was new he could spend hours eating my pussy. He'd vary the speed and pressure of his tongue and lips and add penetration with his hands and objects, making me come over and over again. I would often have to pull him away from my tender cunt after many orgasms and beg him to fuck me. Over the last couple of months I have seen a few glimpses of that time. I am trying to be hopeful. Maybe he is waking up or at least trying a little harder.

We ended up in our bed and he fucked me hard and deep, a rare event in our house these days. I fully expected this to be the last act but he surprised me by holding back and holding out. He lay next to me for a moment, probing and squeezing me with his hands. I rubbed his throbbing cock which was still wet with my slick juice. I wanted to taste myself on his skin and I told him so. He must have been waiting for the invitation. He wasted no time getting on his knees in front of my face. I took him in my mouth, savoring the pungent smell of sex and the sweet and musky taste of me on him. He took my head in his hands and pushed me further. He began to move his hips and I realized that he wasn't interested in a standard blow job.

Thrusting his cock into my mouth and then into my throat he looked down at me. His eyes roamed over my entire squirming body and he began to talk to me while he fucked my mouth.

"You like it when I fuck your throat don't you?" He asked.

Although I moaned deeply in response, it was mostly a rhetorical question. You can't talk much when you're stuffed to the gills with a thick, hard dick. In fact, you can barely breath. You'd think this would be unpleasant or at least frightening and I suppose with a partner you didn't trust it would be. However, there is something undeniably thrilling about giving up so much control. Allowing a trusted partner to use your mouth like a cunt lets you feel the size, shape and distinctive detail of his erect cock in a way that you can't during normal intercourse. There is of course the breath play aspect of it. You have to learn to breath in a pattern, stealing breaths as the man withdraws and holding your breath as he thrusts down your gullet. It is a pleasure I can not fully explain.

"God I love giving it to you like this..." He was going on through gritted teeth as I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing.

He reached out with one hand and began to rub my pussy hard. I arched my back, pushing my swollen clit against his hand. It was getting harder to concentrate on breathing which meant I was getting a little light headed. The taste of him, the sensation of his cock growing even wider and longer as he pushed it down my throat, and now the direct stimulation to my clit was more than I could take.

"Fuck... You want me to come down your throat, don't you?" My husband asked, as I humped his hand wildly.

Dizzy and over the edge I came, my groans sending a tickling vibration from the head of his cock down the shaft. My orgasm must have answered his question because he crammed his engorged member even farther into me and I felt heat of his load spurting down the back of my throat. The muscles of my throat swallowed involuntarily around his cock, adding to the intensity of his orgasm as I held my breath, waiting for the last of his liquid love to slip down into my tummy.

We were both weak afterward. It took him longer than usual to get out of bed and into the bathroom for clean up. I was worn out but pleased. For once I didn't wonder whether he had really wanted to or what had gotten into him. I was just glad to have gotten more than I bargained for!

Update

2005-04-15T14:15:00.000-05:00

Severe allergic reactions in small children are terrifying. Especially if you are the mother of the small child. Could this week get any weirder!?

Seriously, I feel like I am in the twilight zone.

Icarus

2005-04-15T07:29:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I spent 16 hours basking in the glow of my sisters. While several things in the background went totally awry and my mind was still investigating disturbing information, laughter and camaraderie blanketed me. The sky could have fallen and I'd still have been smiling. The three of us together weave a silver cocoon that nothing can penetrate. It was a much needed break from over analyzing my entire existence. The fact is, I think too much and in doing so, talk too much. It's not that everything is cleared up but that I have more clarity.

I awoke at 6am with an odd panicked feeling. My daughter was asleep next to me, totally covered by blankets. She seemed fine but I could not get back to sleep. When she woke up at 7am I learned why my motherly instincts were aroused. She is covered from head to toe in a horrible itchy rash. Her face, arm pits and lips are swollen and she has a fever. Needless to say we have an appointment with her pediatrician first thing this morning. I feel terrible that she is suddenly sick again after just getting over three weeks of sinusitus. It's very odd since my daughter is possibly one of the healthiest kids I've ever met. Excluding a surgery she had to correct sleep apnea last year, she has rarely needed any kind of medical intervention.

I apologize for the lack of coherent or stimulating posts. In all honesty, I have been thinking of taking a break from blogging all together. However, I am not making any decisions about that while everything else around me is in chaos. I may feel something completely opposite when my daily routine returns to normal. Why would I take a break from the world of blogging? As I explained to a good friend yesterday, I feel burned. Like I've been flying a little too close to the sun. That may sound cryptic but it makes sense to me.

Distortion

2005-04-13T22:18:00.000-05:00

Sadly, the exodus has gone sour. I nearly fell asleep at the wheel trying to get here in my insomnia addled state. Now that we have arrived I still cannot rest. Apparently I failed to consider my three year olds desire to go on this trip. She is miserable here and was awake nearly 3 hours past her usual bedtime. She was, of course, very cranky and unreasonable during this three hour ordeal. We were both miserable and the sweltering heat in my parents guest room certainly did not help matters.

This day has sucked royally and I'm feeling all used up. Usually I'd turn to the distraction of my favorite blogs to ease my mind. Most days I know where to find my fix. Truly, I have formed some deep and lasting friendships in this real but intangible electronic universe. All that aside, I could kick myself for becoming so attached to and possibly even dependent upon this bizarre world. This can be a mentally and emotionally dangerous amusement. This computer screen can become a fun house mirror where truth is twisted into fiction and fiction is often passed off as truth. You have to expect that when you see your reflection here it's not always the view you had mind.

What in the hell am I talking about? If I knew that I wouldn't really need to be writing right now. I could be fast asleep dreaming of pink elephants, dancing with roses in their teeth. Instead, I am sleep, love, and comfort deprived and this entire charade suddenly makes me feel exposed, vulnerable and foolish.

Escape from The Rural South

2005-04-13T07:00:00.000-05:00

After two days of maddening boredom and two nights of silent, empty, insomnia I have decided to hit the road. I'm going to take my daughter and go visit my family. I don't really feel like making the drive nor do I feel like getting things all squared away at home before we begin our exodus. Still, I'm going, because I don't think I can take another day here in the middle of nowhere with nothing and no one to entertain me.

Wait, entertain is the wrong word. With my husband away from the house many of the chores and deadlines I normally follow are no longer applicable. The house stays cleaner, the laundry is cut in half, meals are smaller and less labor intensive. There is no time frame in which I need to work, nothing that needs to get done before 5pm so that the house is clean and inviting when he walks through the door. Essentially, I have no job to do. I've lived with my husband for five years. I am accustomed to and comforted by his presence. I miss his smile, his stories about work, his habitual I love yous, his hugs, and his snoring, blanket hoarding, bedtime behaviors.

My in laws are so kind that they have been trying to take my daughter off my hand for hours each day. They say I must be worn out from being with her 24 hours a day with no help. They just don't get it. When she's gone off with them or asleep for the evening at 8pm the house is unbearably quiet. I don't mind having her all to myself on these long lonely days.

Long Distance (sexual content)

2005-04-12T12:26:00.000-05:00

Thunder rolled outside her bedroom window as Amy tossed and turned restlessly in her bed. A particularly bright strike of lightening flashed through the open blinds and she was jolted from her attempts at sleep. She crossed the room to close the blinds and pulled the sunset red curtains closed too, just for good measure. She shivered. There was nothing between her and the cool night air but a pair of cotton panties and a thin tank top. She walked into the closet seeking her terry cloth robe but saw his shirt hanging there instead. It was the all business, blue, button down collar shirt Travis had been wearing the last time she saw him. It had been hanging there for months, an unwashed reminder of him. Smiling sweetly she pulled it off the hanger and over her bare arms. She laughed at the length of the sleeves and rolled them up a couple of times so that her small hands were free. Even with her ample bust taking up an extra inch or two of fabric, the shirt nearly swallowed her. The shirts hem fell just below her rounded backside, making a perfect nightgown. She crawled back into bed, happily wrapped in the scent of him.

Her friends thought she was crazy. They assured her that long distance relationships never ended well. To make matters worse, Travis's job had him on the road constantly. He was often out of contact for days or weeks at a time. Their relationship was mostly e-mails and phone calls. Her friends would say you couldn't trust a guy like that. Those kind of men had girls in every port, so to speak. Normally, Amy would agree but they hadn't heard the tremble in his whisper, or the rich singing voice he used to serenade her. Amy took their opinions with a grain of salt.

Laying in the dark, listening to the storm howl outside, Amy thought of the last time they'd talked. It had been days since the last call. She wistfully remembered watching the clock, waiting for the phone to ring. Each time it was like being a match held against a strike plate, like waiting for spontaneous combustion. When the phone finally rang, she had nearly jumped out of her skin. Her thoughts raced as she forced herself to wait for the second ring.

"Hello." Amy had answered, trying to keep her tone calm in case it wasnt who she expected.

"Well, Hello." Travis said slowly, his voice the familiar deep and smooth of her daily fantasies.

She melted. Her nervously bitten lip dissolved into a sheepish grin. She let out her held breath and leaned back dreamily into her pillows.

"Hey you." She uttered with a kittenish purr. It was the only greeting she had been able to muster in her lusty, love struck state.

Travis always playfully complained that "Hey you" was no way to greet a lover but he knew what she meant. They had talked sweetly for a minute, with Amy struggling to hear his quiet compliments through the sound of her own heart pounding wildly. Even before the conversation had turned dirty, Amy was moving her panties aside and had cupped her pussy lips. She could feel the fevered heat and her own pulse beneath her shaking hand.

Now, engrossed in the memory, she stroked the length of her slit, coating her fingers in natural, juicy, slick, lube. She wished the phone would ring. She wished he wasn'tt about a thousand miles away. She found her nipples, hard and aching, beneath the fabric of his shirt and pinched at them with her free hand. Sliding two fingers inside her wet opening she let the memory of his voice guide her and coax her to the edge. She rolled on to her stomach, her hand still working feverishly. Rolling her hips, she rode her own soppy wet fingers, her clit grinding against her palm. She came, crying out, his name lost under the sound of the thunder. Amy cuddled up to her pillow and began to drift off, the smell of her pussy and his blue shirt perfuming her dreams.

At first, she thought the banging noise was just the thunder but as she woke from her deep sleep she realized it was a blunt sound, not the distant grumbling of clouds. Her eyes flew open as she realized it was someone knocking on her door. No, it was someone beating on her door! She jumped up and navigated through narrow apartment hallway in the darkness. Flipping on the porch light she wondered nervously who it could be at this time of night. Through the peep hole she was surprised to see Travis, dripping wet from the rain.

She let him in and pushed him hard against the door, wrapping her arms around his neck. Standing on her tip toes she kissed him with reckless force, his wet clothes soaking into her bed warmed body.

He pulled her away and caught his breath. "Happy to see me?" He asked, grinning, his dimples barely visible in the darkness.

Amy nodded and blushed, looking down and then up at him below her thick black lashes. He ran his finger tips down the opened buttons of his shirt and then between Amy's legs, finding her wet and swollen from earlier play.

"No need to ask you what you've been up to, I guess." Travis remarked with a raised eyebrow.

Taking him by the hand she said with an impish giggle, "We need to get you out of these wet clothes and into me."

He was in her bedroom and undressed in no time. A few hungry kisses were all the forplay they needed. Still wearing his shirt, Amy was bent over the side of the bed, the shirt tail flipped up over her back. Her exposed ass was in the air, her legs spread, the smoothly shaved lips of her pussy illuminated by the bedside lamp. Travis stroked his steel rod of an erection as he rubbed her slick cunt. He gave it a little slap causing her to whimper and spread her legs even wider. He entered her slowly, filling her completely and then working in and out of her eager pussy with steady rhythm. He gripped her hair in his hand, pulling gently so that she arched her back and moaned out his name. Travis made her come easily, he held her hips, impaling her as she shuddered underneath him. The hot, wet velvet of her vaginal walls rippled with orgasm, triggering his own release.

By 9am the following day Amy was alone again. She was trying to concentrate on cleaning her apartment, trying to put the mornings goodbyes out of her head. As she made the bed she found his blue shirt tangled in the sheets. She put it to her face and inhaled. It was really dirty now. It still held his scent but now that was mixed with the pungent aroma of their lust. She started to toss it toward the hamper but hesitated. She hung it back in the closet, saving it for another rainy day.

Sleep

2005-04-12T08:49:00.000-05:00

There is another, sexier post, half written, that will have to wait until after I have a nap. In the meantime, this is the best I can do.

I spent most of last night waiting for my husband to call and say he had safely made it to his hotel. He is attending a training seminar this week with the other new instructors from the college. When he finally called at 11:30, nearly 3 hours after I expected him to call, he explained that it was a much longer drive than they had expected. I had been pacing the floor with worry for about 2 hours by then. I was relieved that he was safe but unable to relax and get to sleep in my empty bed. So I stayed up much too late, watching sappy movies and feeling even more alone than usual.

I finally fell asleep around 2am. My rest was promptly interrupted by my daughter who was awake in the night for no obvious reason. I carried her into my bed, in hopes of comforting us both. However, she seemed restless and anxious, just like me. She would get still and quiet and then cry out with a bad dream just before getting deeply asleep. It was after 6am when the two of us finally settled down. She slept until almost 9am. A rare event since she usually rises with the sun. I was up shortly before and I'm seriously considering making coffee today instead of my usual hot tea. I could use the extra caffeine.

Last nights restless condition led to more time than usual spent in that dreamy state somewhere between sleep and awake. My muse spoke to me all night, whispering sweet nothings and wicked suggestions, pretty lies and impossible promises. In that precious in between time, when you are conscious but not grounded in reality, anything is possible. In those fleeting moments I was not alone but snuggled safely in strong arms, with the full lips of my lover occasionally kissing the nape of my neck.

Now where was I?

2005-04-10T07:45:00.000-05:00

Well at this point my three part series has totally lost its momentum but I'm going to write the last part anyway, just to prove to myself that I can. I have trouble finishing things. I like to blame that on my astrological sign. Geminis like to live in their heads. I tend to value ideas more than the actual execution of ideas. Astrology aside, my mind tends to jump around and move forward at high speed, making it difficult to finish projects that carry on for more than a day at a time. Some people take medication for that sort of thing. I kind of like it... but now I'm rambling away from the topic.

The Sex I Imagine Other People Having (With or without me)

I have a ridiculously large cast of sexual actors floating around in my head. Anyone who makes the cast, male, female, alien, android or whatever, becomes bi-sexual. I don't care if a Klingon would never touch another male humanoid in real life. This is my sick, demented world so you'll fuck, suck, lick, spank, bite and fondle one another at my whim. I have a few special cast members who get top billing but everyone is fair game. Highschool crushes, professors from college, random people I've seen on the street, old friends, new friends, previous co-wokers, repair men or construction workers, musicians, bloggers, fat people and thin people, pretty people and even mostly ugly people, smart people and a few dumb people. Anyone who has ever caught my attention for more than a moment or two has the potential to become a character in my next fantasy or fictional account.

In the eighth grade there was a boy in my class who taunted me cruelly. Anthony seemed to hate me. He called my fatso, piggy, and made horrible cow noises or "boom, boom" sounds when I walked. He was one of many people who made my days at Jr. Highschool really miserable. Still, I had an uncontrollable sexual obsession with him. I would sit in class, staring off into space, imagining Anthony in his soccer uniform. Then I'd imagine him taking it off. I often fantasized about him masturbating in front of me. I would lay in the bathtub at night, backside against the front of the tub, legs open so the water fell on my inexperienced pussy, dreaming of Anthony. I would write elaborate stories about the two of us in my diary. In my stories he would confess to getting a woody while looking at me in class and then make out with me. I also wrote a story where he smooth talked all of the popular girls into letting him take their pictures in various sexual positions. Then he sold the photos to other guys at school. Take that, you snobby bitches!

I suppose these fantasies were my way of processing the painful emotions surrounding the rejection heaped upon me by my peers. Maybe masturbating to the thought of Anthony allowed me to release my seething anger in the form of orgasm. Maybe it prevented me from being the first girl to wrap myself in a trenchcoat and use one of my father's handguns to silence my tormentors.

My rich fantasy life is still my favorite outlet.

Another delay

2005-04-08T12:55:00.000-05:00

Mommyhood is a 24/7 deal. I'm on call all the time. My little one is very sick so it's all work and no play for me today. I shall return as soon as possible.

Intermission

2005-04-07T10:10:00.000-05:00

I am giddy like an excited little girl today! (Minds out of the gutter folks, my hair is too short for pigtails, I'm not wearing a catholic schoolgirl outfit and I am not licking a giant lollipop.)

I am driving north in about four hours to celebrate sunShine's birthday! We will be the same age until June when I turn thirty.. er I mean twenty five. Oh who am I kidding? SunShine, we are getting old girlfriend!

With all this excitement I can not think clearly enough to write part three in my series. It'll have to wait until tomorrow.

The Sex I Wish I Had

2005-04-06T12:32:00.000-05:00

This is part two in the aforementioned series of posts about the sex I had, the sex I wish I had and the sex I imagine other people having. The original draft had a lot of background material in it but when I read it I realized it was entirely too long winded. So I've decided to skip all the boring stuff and get right to the point.

I wish I had the kind of sex that started first thing in the morning before I'm really awake. You know, where he snuggles up to me and presses his erection into the crack of my ass. It doesn't matter that we are too sleepy or don't really have time for a morning romp but it should start there. I want forplay to be an all day, everyday event. Kiss me. Not that lame, stiff faced, obligatory peck on the mouth I'm so used to. Hold my face in your hands and let your mouth linger against mine. I want him to slap me on the ass as he's passing by, just to remind me that he knows what a bad girl I am underneath the mild mannered, housewife facade. I wish he'd send me a dirty e-mail. It could be simple, just a three word inquiry, "fuck me tonight?" Whisper something dirty in my ear as we sit down to dinner with the family. Place my hand on your cock underneath the table. Look down my shirt. Stare at me too long. Smile back when I look at you over my shoulder.

I want the kind of sex that is bold, unafraid and vocal. I want him to be aggressive. Talk to me with confidence for God sake. Be cocky. Furthermore, I want to be able to slide my hands up the leg of his shorts, or make a naughty proposition, without the fear of rejection. I want him to get hard from reading my stories, not jealous, not disgusted. I want him to accept my fantasies instead of fearing them. I want to hear him tell me that what I'm doing feels good. Tell me I look good, sound good, taste good, smell good. Tell me to fuck you harder when I'm on top. Tell me what you are going to do me next. I want to hear his pleasure, I want to hear him describe the view from his position.

I want sex that is a priority. Not something we should do if we get the chance or we're not too tired or as a once a year attempt at proving that passion still exists. I want sex that shakes me to the core of my being, that is an expression of a deep connection between two souls. I want sex that makes me scream and cry and then giggle in the trembling afterglow.

I wish for sex that doesn't end in silence and solitude. We should not want to rush off and wash away the evidence. We should wallow in it. We should consider doing it again. He should never have to ask if it was good enough. If he really knew me, if he had paid attention, he would know.

I lied.

2005-04-05T13:08:00.000-05:00

Remember what I said yesterday, about being tired of writing about sex? I meant it, really I did. Only today I'm feeling less tired of writing about sex. I actually want to write about the sex I've had, the sex I wish I had and the sex I imagine other people having. Some of you will be thrilled that I got over my fatigue so quickly. Some of you will be rolling your eyes and documenting this as further evidence of my unhealthy mercurial mentality. Either way, I think a three part series of sex posts would sufficiently swing the pendulum away from yesterday's hasty statement.

Part One: The sex I had.

Well, frankly I've had a lot. If you asked me how many partners I'd had I would be forced to go all Bill Clinton on your ass. How many people have I had sex with? That depends on your definition of sex. Does it count if I can't remember their name? What if I was so drunk that I only have a vague recollection of the alleged sex? Does phone sex count? See, the actual quantity is debatable.

I think the most telling example of "The Sex I Had" would be my first marriage. My ex husband was as sexually motivated as I was but far less concerned about the consequences of exploring our sexuality. I was desperately in love. (As much in love as any teenage girl can be, at least.) I was eager to please and had my own dark sexual curiosity brewing. He and I were a dangerous combination. After forcibly introducing me to the concept of an open marriage we began a no holds barred spiral into a rather unhealthy sexual relationship.

At first, it was as simple as acting out a fantasy. The thrill of watching, being watched and having an extra set of hands, an extra mouth or cock to round out our play seemed relatively harmless. However, I think I began to realize the darker possibilities of our game the first time we had a threesome with another woman. I watched him, my sweetheart, the only man I'd ever really been with, my husband, holding open the long legs of this pretty redhead, fucking her hard. Suddenly I was seeing him through the eyes of an outsider. I watched what he was doing in a way I could not when he was doing it to me. There was so much anger in his lust. He plowed into her as hard as he could and when her moans became mixed with expressions of pain he responded by saying something like, "You know you like it you nasty slut!" He gripped her thighs until purple marks appeared beneath his finger tips. When she began to squirm in discomfort and asked him to loosen his grip, he could hold out no longer. He continued to hurt her until he had pumped every drop of his copious load deep inside her

I was shocked by the sight of it and undeniably turned on at the same time. The power in his lean and tan frame, the slickness of his cock as it moved in and out of her, the cruel edge in his voice, all of it was horrifying and glorious. He wasn't a big guy but he was incredibly strong and aggressive. I was watching him do what he loved to do best, fuck. I felt a sick pride, like I was watching him excel at some sort of sport. A feeling not too far from reality because to him, fucking was indeed a sport. Twisted up with my lust was jealousy. I wanted to be the only girl to make him come. I didn't mind being his nasty slut as long as I was the only one. However, that was a boundary I had allowed him to cross and there was no going back. From that point on our life together was spinning wildly out of control. I have always thought about writing the whole story but I always hold back. I am never brave enough to totally immerse myself in that biography.