Chancy Chatter

These are the potentially dangerous words of an over fed, under appreciated, tattooed, formerly pierced and occasionally purple-haired, wife and mom.

Sunday, October 24, 2004

Ancient History

As it happens from time to time in every relationship, my husband and I are at each others throats this weekend. It's funny how a minor incident can trigger and all out war between spouses. This is especially common when there are more serious issues simmering for months or even years without being stirred. One small thing can send a torrent of hot, bitter anger boiling over the sides of the domestic pot.

In my house there is a recurring theme in our nastiest disputes. Whether we are disagreeing over how much money to spend where or how to deal with my two year olds tantrums, we always seem to return to one subject. History. I'm not talking about The Political History of America. Or World History 101. I'm talking about my personal history. Or more precisely my sexual and romantic history. My husband who is introverted to the extreme, shy, quiet and never confrontational becomes a raging maniac when he gets pissed off. His rants always seem to include references to my ex-husband and my old lifestyle with an emphasis on his belief that I preferred that life to what I have now.

Yesterday was a perfect example of this pattern in motion. We have been arguing for days about a bank error I made. I deposited money into the wrong account. Before I realized my mistake we had incurred an overdraft protection fee of $28. When the argument was really raging yesterday he decided to read my last blog entry, Drunk Blogging. He didn't read the whole entry. He got as far as the phrase that described events that took place in a hotel room several months before he and I met. He came to me, furious, to give me his interpretation of my writing. He said, "I read your last post and all I heard was how much you enjoyed getting fucked like a whore by your ex!" I have since read and re-read that post and I still don't see that message peeking out beneath the concept of communication through music but I suppose my meaning could have been lost in tipsy, sarcastic, rambling.

As I tried to explain my reasoning for using that example in my writing he angrily demanded that I put the past behind me. He seems unable to understand that you can put the past behind you without forgetting it. Think of how backward and ignorant we would be if we never studied history. It would be more pleasant to never talk about the certain things in the past, such as war, famine or natural disasters. Still, how would we learn from these events if we were banned from recording them or even speaking of them? Just because we read about the days before this country's civil war does not mean we wish slavery was still legal. Our personal histories are no different, really. Every experience we have becomes a piece of us. Some things mark us lightly other things scar us deeply but each memory has a lesson embedded within it. Our memories define our outlook on the future.

I make no apologies for my history. I am not ashamed of the mistakes I've made or the heartaches I've suffered in thier wake. I never want to forget the adventures I've had or lovers I've enjoyed. Somehow, this platinum band was supposed to bring me blissfully selective amnesia. I am suppose to approach life as though I never loved or fucked anyone before I met the man I am joined to now. How could I do that? How could I forget that summer after my 16th birthday when I fell in love for the first time? What about the darkly sexual relationship that dominated my life through out my early 20's? Should I erase all those years too? What he doesn't understand is that without my past I would be a completely different person. The woman he was so fascinated with, the person he married would cease to exist all together. I would be replaced by a plain, dull, shell of who I am. Then again, maybe that is what he would prefer.


Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Anticipation (Strong Sexual Content)

Disclaimer: This is fictional account, of a fictional affair, which is NOT based on any true story or real life experience. (Disclaimer made necessary by one paranoid individual who regularly misunderstands my fantasies and shall remain nameless.)

As I drive into the restaurant parking lot I am terribly nervous. I take few deep breaths and will my hands to stop shaking. I peek at the rear view mirror, lip gloss looks fresh, hair is perfectly askew. I know you're here already, waiting, so I force myself out of the car. Smoothing out my skirt I have a sudden doubt about what I'm wearing. My best a-line skirt and a red sweater with a deep V-neck was probably too dressy but I wanted to look my best for you. It's too late to change now anyway. I head for the doors, my black strappy heels click-clacking as I go.

You said you'd be waiting for me just inside. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt and take one more deep breath. I can barely get my wits together to open the door but I manage somehow and find you inside, just as you'd promised. We recognize each other immediately and I notice that pictures and descriptions have barely done you justice. You smile, exuberantly, dimples flashing and I blush as I squeak out a shy "Hello." We reach out to each other and embrace without further introductions. Reaching up I wrap my arms around your neck. You're so close I can smell you and I am overwhelmed to finally be so near you. You quietly tell me you're glad to see me, treating me to the sexy voice I've come to know so well, as we are shown to a table.

Lunch is ordered but barely touched. We try to make small talk but it quickly becomes more serious. Our hands meet on the table and your finger tips gently explore the back of my hand. As our eyes meet we grin, mischievously, at each other. We both know that this touch is just forplay for future forplay. You ask if I'd like to go back to your hotel room. If I was smart I would hesitate but I have already weighed the consequences and made my decision. As we're heading out your intentions are obvious, your erection boldly visible beneath your slacks. Within minutes we are at the door to your room. Standing outside, you ask me one last time if I really want this, a relatively rhetorical question, so I ask you the same. You answer me with our first kiss which is wet, hungry and insistent. The door is open and we stumble for the bed. There is no more talk of turning back as I help you out of your shirt. You move your hands beneath my skirt, caressing my backside as you whisper sweet and dirty words in my ear between kisses.

We have talked about doing this too much to take it slow. The first time goes quickly. We barely take time to move aside the constricting bits of clothing. I am slick and hot from months of wanting you and your rock hard cock finds it's mark easily. Thoughts of everything else melt away and fear is dissolved by lust. I am calling your name as I push up to meet your thrusts. Crying out in symphony we are both reaching that exquisite peak. You come deep inside me as my muscles contract, my entire body shivering as it drinks you in. We collapse in a tangled heap, laughing about the urgency of our first physical encounter. We are not disappointed. We have the whole day to hide away in your room and play this game.


Thursday, October 14, 2004

Bad Poetry

I warned you it was coming. I haven't been brave enough to post poetry until today. Which is a little odd since poetry is the only thing I've ever had published. It was nothing impressive, just two poems in a literary magazine put out by the local college. Still, you'd think I'd be more confident. In my defense this has not been revised and was written during a terrible sleepless night. No one in my house slept last night. Is it a full moon or something? Without further procrastination, here's my latest poem:


I worship at the foot of a stone idol
Wet eyes down cast, salty kisses on cold feet
There is no absolution for me here.
I won’t accept pity that requires piety.
I am flawed, seeking the company of familiar sin.

Here at the foot of the master,
I am gripped by my weakness.
Do his rock eyes see through my tender flesh?
Can he see the places I have fallen?
Do deaf ears hear the agony of desire,
Poured into the burning ears of another?

I try to keep my eyes open.
To behold his hard face.
To believe that salvation is there
But faith is belief in a love that can’'t be touched
Or tasted, or smelled, or heard.
Faithfulness is isolation and deprivation.

Stone lips do not speak.
In this moment I am faithless.
All but surrendered to the seduction of words
Forbidden phrases and breathless pleas,
The hot and supple acceptance
Of my barely hidden vices.

I prostrate myself before his likeness.
I have not broken all of his commandments.
Still, I let my eyes slip shut and my hands unfold
Without thought, I turn to the sweet sound of my name
I am waiting. Call me.
Take me away from this cold ritual and let me burn.


Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Delayed Rant

I was working on this post earlier, while my baby girl napped, but something or someone distracted me. Strangely, I'm just now thinking straight again.

I was at the store this morning (Walmart to be exact) standing in a miserably long check out line when I noticed the lady in front of me. She had 3 small children with her. They were all wearing dirty tattered clothes and 2 of the kids had snot dripping down to their upper lips. I realize that kids are, by nature, dirty and snotty, but I never let my kid leave the house looking like a street urchin. Anyway, now that her neglected kids had my attention I took a minute to assess her groceries. This woman's buggy was over flowing with JUNK. Case after case of soda, oreos, potato chips of every variety, frozen pizza, expensive frozen TV dinners. The only thing with any nutritional value in that cart was 2 very pricey steaks which I assure you would not feed a family of four. I was thinking to myself, where's the milk for these snotty little kids to drink? What about fruit or veggies? There were no eggs, no bread, no meat, cheese or peanut butter. What in the hell do these kids eat I wondered? At this point I wasn't really mad. Just feeling kind of sorry for these kids who obviously weren't being looked after properly. However, when she went to pay, my anger boiled up and threatened to spill over. She pulled out her fucking EBT card. That's right folks FOOD STAMPS! So my tax dollars are paying to feed her poor hungry kids and all they are getting is CRAP. It's like her yanking a buck out of my pocket and wiping her ass on it before she flushes it down the toilet.

If my tax dollars must go to feed the hungry, fine. I'm not insensitive. I don't wish hunger on anyone. Just don't let lazy welfare Moms decide what to buy themselves with my money. Give them a voucher for milk bread, eggs, beans, produce, hamburger and chicken. Hell, that's all my family can afford to eat. Furthermore, no one needs soda, candy, or chips. Those items are wants. I can't stand seeing people suck the government teat to get things they want. So... if you are an adult, and you are able to work, get off your lazy ass and pay for your own soda, chips and candy. Oh, and if you're so lame you can't even wipe your kids noses or wash their clothes head down to the local free clinic and let my tax dollars pay for some birth control.


Monday, October 11, 2004


I have often wondered if the reflection I see in the mirror is the same image others see when they look at me. Perception of self image can be horribly skewed. Think of the emaciated, anorexic teen who looks in the mirror and sees herself as fat. Can the opposite of this phenomenon also possible? I may be facing the mirror and seeing a more attractive image than actually exists. When I stand naked in front of my dresser mirror I see every part of me curving, volumptiously. I realize my curves are some what exaggerated. I do see the ample flesh proportioned evenly across all my sumptuous parts, my breasts, my tummy, hips and thighs but it doesn't look ugly to me. In fact, as I watch myself stretching I feel sensual, touchable and proud of my body. As I get dressed I rarely look for clothes that will cover the bulges or hide the lumps. I look for things that will accentuate my shape.

I like to think that I can project this opinion of myself to everyone who sees me. I am able to walk with my head up and my shoulders back, feeling like a goddess. I believe that others are forced to see me this way because that is how I carry myself. I adopted this attitude sometime in my late teens. After a childhood of being taunted by my peers and forced to diet by my parents I woke up one morning tired of hating myself. I decided to embrace myself just as I was, the fat girl, fatso, porky, lard ass, or whatever. If I was going to survive I'd have to learn to hear those words without cringing. After that, the way others saw me changed as well. Of course, a few people have made obnoxious comments about my weight after these revelations. Idiots are everywhere and in every age group. However, I've also attracted the attention of many people who would normally have dismissed someone my size. As one guy I dated put it, "I've never been attracted to a big girl before but there's something about you I can't resist."

Despite all this talk of confidence, the myth I've created is sometimes shattered when I see photographs of myself. My husband is notorious for taking candid and unflattering shots of me around the house. I look at these pictures and the curves I've displayed so proudly have slumped into rolls. My fair, olive complexion that I love so dearly, looks blotchy. I am always disappointed with the way a camera captures my eyes. They look small and dull, nothing like the big, green, mischievous gems that peek out at me from beneath long lashes in my reflection. I sometimes fear that this is what people see when I am walking around in the big, bad world. Regardless of what others see, my own perception of self is what keeps me alive. It prevents me from hiding in my house, gives me the guts I need to take risks, and allows me to express myself without fear.


Sunday, October 10, 2004

The Green Eyed Monster

Several years ago, when I was single, I had a huge crush on a girl named Pam. Pam lived in the apartment complex where I worked and she was an incorrigible flirt. She would come into my office, dressed scandalously and sit on my lap. She told me all about her naughty adventures and would hint around that there should be something between us. Despite her interest I never got more than a taunting kiss or quick caress from Pam. We were both used to being the pursued as opposed to the pursuer so we never figured out our respective roles in the relationship. I remember a party we went to together where Pam was unabashedly working the entire room. She had every guy and like-minded girl drooling. I was miserable with envy. Not only did I want her for myself but I wanted to be her. I wanted everyone's eyes on me. She drove me to distraction for several months before she stopped paying her rent. I took great delight in evicting her. Out of sight, out of mind I thought. Of course, in using this story as an example I'm proving that I still remember her fondly.

I have always been attracted to people who seem to captivate everyone they come in contact with. I enjoy watching my lover catch the eye of everyone in the room. I especially love inspiring spiteful glares as everyone watches him (or her) leave with arms wrapped intimately around me. Nothing feels better! Of course, I am human. I have occasionally been guilty of watching flirtatious displays and letting my hot little temper get the best of me. Sexual innuendos passing a little too freely between friends or a casual hug that seems to linger too long can bring out the bitch in me. I’'m not the type to start a cat fight but smart remarks and sarcastic humor can be just as nasty.

Perhaps the best way to deal with that little rush of jealous anger is to let it fuel your passion. Maybe pull the misbehaving partner into a coat closet and plant a few hard kisses on their mouth before planting a couple of hard smacks on their backside. (I was spanked entirely too much as a child and now consider it an appropriate and arousing way to communicate.) Better yet, wait until you get home, pin your naughty lover down on the bed and subject them to all sorts of sweet torture. Use your tongue to mark their body with your name, commanding them to repeat that they belong only to you. Then, tease them mercilessly and make them beg for release. That sort of treatment would not soon be forgotten. I'’d also remind them that turn about is fair play. I’'m not afraid to play the part of the tempting vixen, the woman who flirts with everyone'’s date even though she brought her own. If that sort of behavior inspires lust and soft discipline from my lover, then it’s worth the jealous stares and angry wives or girlfriends left in its wake.


Friday, October 08, 2004

Melissa EtheridgeMemories (Warning: Strong Sexual Content!)

I was sad to read that Melissa Etheridge is fighting cancer. I don't necessarily list her among my favorite artists but her music brings back some very interesting memories. I've always considered myself bi-sexual but I haven't had the opportunity to have many relationships with women. My first and probably most notable experience was about 10 years ago when I was married the first time around and living in Mississippi. As I have mentioned before, in my first marriage we developed an open relationship. We invited other partners into our bed and on a couple of occasions my ex and I both had sexual relationships outside of the marriage completely. My affair with Diana was one of these "outside" relationships.

I met Diana while I was taking classes at a small community college on the coast. I had joined the debate team and was thrilled to find myself the only girl in the class. I've always loved men with big brains and of course the debate team was full of them. So on the 3rd or 4th day of class I was not pleased to meet Diana, a late addition to our group. She was tall, or at least taller than my stubby, 5'2 frame. She had amazing long red hair that framed delicate facial features, high cheek bones and entrancing blue eyes. She wasn't skinny but she didn't boast outrageous curves either. She had small breasts and a slightly curving waist over subtle round hips. She was probably the oldest student among us but this seemed to work to her advantage. Her maturity tended to lend an air of confidence to her arguments which was very compelling. She was always dressed conservatively in class which was quite a contrast to my insistence on low cut shirts and extremely tight jeans for regular apparel. In those first days of class I was green with jealousy as I watched all the guys engage her in conversation and ask her opinion on the days topics.

I was so focused on her intrusion into my all nerd gang bang fantasies that I was surprised when she approached me and suggested we study together. I wanted to say no but there was something about the way she talked, the way she looked into your eyes when she asked a question, that made you unable to reject her. I said yes and soon we were preparing for debates together on a regular basis. It didn't take long before our conversations stopped being about debate tournaments and started getting personal. Diana had an extremely dominant personality. As always, I was very open and talkative so I just let these chats go where ever she led them. During our study sessions there was always music playing. Melissa Etheridge's Your Little Secret and Yes I am, as well as some U2 selections, were among Diana's favorites and I now know the words to several of those songs by heart.

I was very young, 19 to be exact. I lacked the experience to realize she was seducing me. She bought me flowers, read poetry to me and took me out for expensive lunches and shopping trips to New Orleans. I couldn't help but be infatuated with her. She was beautiful, smart, funny and had a thousand interesting stories to tell, most of which revolved around her sexual history. One night, she planned an elaborate picnic for us at a park by the bay. We sat on a blanket near the water drinking wine by candle light and eating the food she prepared. She asked me, as she leaned close to me, if I found her attractive. Blushing, I confessed to being smitten with her. She leaned in for the kiss and my world started spinning. I could taste the wine and fruit on her lips as her small and well trained tongue played in my mouth. She had brought a radio and U2's "All I want is You" was playing in the background as we made out for the first time.

We drove back to her house in silence but holding hands our fingers intertwined intimately. I was nervous and felt like I was heading into uncharted waters. I wondered if I'd know what to do or how to respond. At her place she took me by the hand to her bed. It was one of those really tall 4 poster beds and it was made up in various shades of cream and white. Later she would tell me that her bed was her refuge, the best place in her home. It was certainly a fitting place for our first night together. It was soft and feminine, warm and inviting, just as she was once I was in her arms. She slowly undressed me, removing my thin white sweater and the long, rose and tan colored skirt I had worn on our picnic. I helped her out of her clothes as well and we lay next to each other naked except for our panties, kissing as we examined one another's body for the first time.

She ran her finger tips around my pale pink nipples and told me in her husky voice that my breasts were luscious. I instinctively reached for her small but lovely breasts as well and felt her rock hard nipples. We marveled at the delightful differences between my chest and breasts being large, round and heavy, with small nipples and hers being, small but graced with large, pert nipples that stuck out like short straws from her tits. I could never get enough of sucking on her nipples and that first night was no exception. She would pull away and drag her long hair across my quaking skin before her hands found their way below my waist. When her fingers gently parted the lips of my wet pussy I was panting, begging for release. She found the right spot with ease and taunted my swollen clit with quick but irregular strokes, keeping me on the edge but never letting me go over.

We stayed in bed for hours playing this game. Both of us bringing the other close to the brink of ecstasy without allowing that final release to take place. We explored each other with our hands and of course our mouths until I thought I'd die if we didn't put and end to the exquisite torture. When I insisted that I had to come Diana crawled on top of me and encouraged me to spread my legs wide and shift my hips upward so that our most sensitive places could meet. We rubbed our sweat drenched bodies together, rhythmically, until we came. Both of us were overcome by body trembling and mind altering climax. Afterward I felt like I would never stop shaking. She held me and caressed me until we fell asleep.

For reasons that I won't go into now, Diana and I were only together for a short time. Our relationship actually ended rather badly and I'm afraid I owe her several apologies that I've never had the chance to make. I wonder if she knows what an effect our affair had on me. I now own those Melissa Etheridge CD's that she was so fond of playing. I listen to them and remember her fondly despite our unpleasant parting. I can still hear her singing "I want to come over" and sometimes I wish I could call her up on the phone and tell her that my door is still open.


Sunday, October 03, 2004

Saturday With a True Friend

On Saturday I sent my husband and child away in the morning. I took a scalding hot, 45 minute shower. Strangely enough I still felt dirty afterwards ;-) but now I'm getting away from my original thought. After the shower I gave myself a manicure and a pedicure and laid on the couch listening to the heavenly silence. After Hubby and Child returned I got dressed, slapped on my favorite lip gloss and went on a date with my best friend S. We had lunch, shopped and talked about anything and everything that was on our minds. It was a great Saturday.

I've heard women go on and on about the benefits of having "girlfriends" on shows like Oprah but throughout my life I've avoided real friendships with women. Generally, I don't trust them. This pretty much prevents me from having long endearing relationships with them. As early as grade school I learned that other females are likely to manipulate you and then stab you in the back whenever you stop being useful to them. I've had much better luck making long lasting bonds with men.( Although, at this point in my life I keep in touch with very few because of my husband's jealousy.) Don't get me wrong, men lie and manipulate too but mostly in relation to getting laid. When you take that out of the equation (by making it clear that you will or won't right up front) they make much safer friends than women.

Despite my distrust of the fairer sex I have managed to make 2 lasting friendships with girls other than my biological sisters. The first one, Kristy, was the first person to speak to me when I moved to GA in the eighth grade. She is loud, obnoxious, protective, and loyal. We grew up together. Although we don't have too much in common she's been around through just about every major event in my life. We haven't lived in the same state for over 10 years but we keep in touch by phone and occasional visits. The other one is S. I met her 4 years ago when I got a job as her office assistant. Working together we learned that we have more in common than should be allowed. Crazy drug/alcohol/sex addicted ex-husbands, our past lesbian encounters, a weakness for sleeping with people we probably shouldn't, screwed up family histories and our uncanny sense of humor are just a few things we share. She, like no one else, understands me. I can and do tell her everything.

Strangely, I've never felt competitive, jealous, or distrustful of S. It's a little odd, really, how accepting we are of each other and how much we trust one another. I believe that there are all kinds of soul mates in the world. In our lives we will meet many people who we are connected to on a level that is beyond human understanding. For me, S. is one of those people. We have already agreed that if both our husbands die we will settle down in a state that allows gay marriage and grow old together. (After we've hidden the bodies or at least covered up evidence of foul play, of course.) Don't laugh. I'm quite serious. Except for the foul play part. (I'm not a killer!) Anyway, the point is, true friends are rare. Thanks S. For everything.

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