Wet. (Short but Sweet Sexual Content)

I have fallen madly in love with the bathtub in my new master bathroom. It's deeper and wider than the bathtub in our old house. Soaking in this huge tub is my new obsession. If anyone is in a giving mood you can stock me up on bubble bath, bath salts, bath oils and fancy soaps. (E-mail me for my private mail box address.)

Last night as I lay in the steamy, scented water I realized there was plenty of room for someone else in the tub. I let my mind wander to the thought of my man sliding in behind me, his legs alongside my legs, big arms wrapped around me, his rock hard cock pressing against my ass. This would be the perfect position for him to kiss and nibble the back of my neck and to peer over my shoulder at my lovely tits all soapy and buoyant. His hands would undoubtedly find there way to my little silver rings, tugging at them and then rubbing my erect nipples. I wouldn't be able to contain my whimpers and moans as his hands found my pussy beneath the water. His expert manipulation making my inner folds slick and ready for the throbbing tool now urgently prodding my back.

The watery surroundings would make it so easy to lift my hips and enter me. With gasps and exclamations of delight I would find a slow rocking rhythm, the water sloshing as I moved, his hands still able to reach my swollen clit. In my deprived condition I would cum right away, the walls of my tight little box, gripping and squeezing the cock inside me. After allowing me to recover with his pulsing erection deep inside, my lover would push me forward. Holding the front of the tub I would meet his hard thrusts, crying out as he filled me completely, his fingers digging into my hips. In this position he'd have the most amazing view, he could watch his cock slip in and out of my wet cunt. The near to exploding red and purple rod parting and then disappearing into my fuckably pink pussy. The sight of our union, the intense heat and friction, the sound of me calling his name would overwhelm him. Groaning in ecstasy, my name on his lips, he would shudder and fill me with his hot load.

I'm pretty excited about my new kitchen too but that's another story...

The good, the bad and the ugly

The Good:

On Friday afternoon our new home finally got over the final utilities hurdle and we have water! WOOOO HOOOO! I've slept in my own bed two nights in a row. I can cook, clean, shower and flush the toilets so I no longer need to live with my in laws. There is a God and he knows I was about to snap and go on a murderous rampage. It sounds like I'm being funny but I'm quite serious. One more hour of my previous situation would have pushed me over the edge. It was like someone pulling a pot off the stove moments before it boiled over.

The Bad:

I had really expected that once we were in our own home and not squeezed into a tiny house with my in laws that my husband would be interested in re-consummating our relationship. We haven't had sex in three weeks and one day. (It's been long enough that I had to consult a calendar in order to remember.) However, he has not been too interested. I cried myself to sleep Friday night after being ignored and rejected. Last night I brought the subject up which led to him getting annoyed with me, which led to me feeling crushed and again crying myself to sleep.

The ugly:

Healthy or not, sex, love, affection, appreciation, communication, intimacy, self-esteem, stress management, and basic happiness are all tangled up in my mind... especially where my marriage is concerned. I am a very confident girl. On a rational level I realize that I am attractive, sexy, and desirable. I know there are a lot of men who would give their right arm to have an attractive wife who's willing to be fully responsible for the housework and childcare, who's willing to go great distances to see her man happy and who's hobbies including cooking and fucking. Despite this knowledge, I can't help but feel ugly, at least in his eyes. I want him to see me the way I see myself, the way others see me. But there is no excitement in his eyes, no lust in his touch, he does not see the things that make me attractive. If I can not be beautiful or worthy to the man I am joined to for life, how can a feel beautiful at all?

Ultimately I have to wonder how long I can live like this. I'm not talking about leaving, of course. I decided some time back that divorce or separation were not options for me. I'm wondering how long it will be before some other man (or woman for that matter) gives me the attention I'm so starved for and I cave to temptation. I don't want to be that kind of person. I don't want to be a sleazy, cheating, bitch. I don't want to be the sad, sex starved, housewife who throws herself at the UPS man. Still, I am starved and growing hungrier everyday. A woman with a broken heart and neglected body is an indiscretion waiting to happen.

A lot of rambling and a short quiz

I had this great story in mind last night about two people who once had a torrid secret affair and then run into each other with their spouses in tow at a romantic restaurant. They end up rekindling their passions in the restroom while their significant others sit blissfully ignorant just a few feet away. However, as I wrote it this morning it turned into an epic. A real trashy, romance novel sort of thing complete with melodramatic dialog and soft core porn scenes and I decided not to post it.

I also considered posting about a dream I had last night. It involved a big bed and a passionate guy who said all the right things before fucking me in every position he could twist or bend me into. But then I realized that two sex posts in a row would spoil you guys and ditched that plan too.

I've got to stop listening to country music. I had thought it would help mold my mind into my new surroundings. Instead it just makes me weepy and wistful. Not a good combination right now. So I am listening to my favorite MP3 playlist now and although many of those songs also make me weepy and wistful they also make me smile. I'm listening Barenaked Ladies croon "Am I the Only One." Before this I was listening to a song e-mailed to me by my favorite blogger. I could write an entire post about communicating through music. If you really need to get through to me and I'm being stubborn just dedicate a song to me, or better yet sing to me and I'm liable to melt into a happy little puddle. I've noticed a couple of memes out there lately that have you listing your favorite 10 songs. I find this hard to do since it really depends on the mood. So, what I want to know is what song fits your mood at this very moment? I'll start. If I had to choose a song that summed up my mood today it would be King of Grey by Will Hoge.

Girlfriends (The much talked about girl on girl post, complete with sexual content.)

She sat in the big overstuffed chair, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. The afternoon sun poured into the window near by, illuminating her face as she studied her book with intense satisfaction. I moved behind her quietly and slipped my hands across her shoulders, under her silky hair and began to stroke the back of her neck. Her muscles were tense from being bent over her book.

"Am I disturbing you?" I asked. Her little smile had already answered me.

" Not at all." she replied, never looking up from her reading.

Her approval confirmed, I let my finger tips run across her shoulders and slip beneath her blouse. My hands ran over the faint rise of her collar bone, brushing the top of her chest. I looked down upon her creamy bosom, the quick rise and fall of her breathing gave away her growing excitement. She knew what I was up to and she was eager to be seduced. As I felt the lacy detail at the top of her bra she looked up. She held her mouth in the shape of an invitation and I accepted. Bending down I pressed my lips against hers. She parted her moist and succulent lips and I slipped my tongue inside. The sensation was like electricity, little jolts of thrill spread from my tongue to my nipples, bringing them to attention instantly. Our mouths opening like morning glories in the dawn, we explored each other with this long kiss.

I took the book from her hands and joined her in the big chair. I nuzzled into her neck and smelled the sweet, fruity scent of her body lotion. Her hands began to roam over my body, exploring the curve of my hips and the heft of my breasts. I could feel my pussy getting slick and wondered if hers was too. Without asking I reached my hand beneath her skirt and found the silky and moist material of her panties covering her sensitive slit. She moaned softly at my touch. Encouraged, I moved her panties aside and touched her very gently, just lightly trailing my fingertips up and down her labia. Her small hands were beneath my shirt now kneading my large breasts, finding my hard nipples and caressing them. Our mouths met again and the kiss was more intense, more demanding.

We undressed each other, trying not to be too hasty, trying not to rush but our need was undeniable. We'd been too long without one another, without this tender release. I knelt before her and admired her gorgeous body. The perfect tear drop shape of her heavy tits, the perfectly rounded form of her tummy, the definition of her waist over her feminine hips. My eyes traveled to the triangle of dark curls between her legs and pushed her knees up and over the arms of the chair. Now I could see the lovely rosey shade of pink hiding beneath those curls. Sweet and wet, her pussy beckoned to me. Now these lips formed and invitation and I couldn't have resisted if I'd wanted to. I moved in to kiss the slick and salty lips before me and I felt her hands in my hair, pushing me down into her sex. I kissed and licked and sucked and nibbled while she wriggled beneath me. Her soft moans turning to pleas and then yeses as I increased the pressure and speed of my attentions. When she had stopped bucking beneath me, when she had called my name for the last time and let her trembling knees come back together I crawled back into the chair with her. Our bodies damp with sweat we snuggled close to one another, giggling and talking as she recovered. I knew she'd return the favor soon enough but for now I was content to be skin to skin with her, looking into her flirty, lust dilated eyes.

Handle with Care

Lately I've been doing a lot of venting here. If you're a regular reader you know that my life has been pretty stressful the last couple of months. Each time I think I'm at the end of my rope I get pushed just a little further. While you might not guess it from my whining and bitching here, I am a tough little cookie. I've been through a lot in my 29 years and I can survive just about anything. I have my Dad to thank for that. He may never have been able to express affection or approval but he taught me to be strong no matter what. He taught me to suck it up. If you know me in real life and you've ever seen or heard me cry, count yourself among a priviledged few. I only allow myself to be vulnerable in front of a chosen few. Of course, I've chosen foolishly a time or two but as they say, the heart wants what the heart wants.

I may be straying from the point here. Just keep reading, I'm getting to it.

I am more sexually frustrated than ever before. In fact, I have been plagued by disturbing sex dreams over the past week. Some of them have been graphic enough to really shock me and trust me, I'm not easily shocked. There's no denying that a good hard fucking would probably cut my angst in half. However, my need for physical gratification is greatly over shadowed by something else. I need to be soft for a little while. I need to let go. I need to bury my face in the chest of someone who gives a shit about me, sobbing and screaming until my snot and tears soak through their clothes. If I'm going to have sex with this soggy shirted person I need them to be gentle. I need to be treated like I am breakable, eventhough I'm not. Now is not the time for mirrors on the ceiling, for paddles, restraints, double penetration and dirty talk. Stroke me, kiss me, whisper something sweet in my ear, consume my tension slowly. Pretend I'm a precious but delicate treasure, hold me securely but don't bruise my tender flesh because it's far more pliable than usual.

Yeah. I'm that sarcastic but funny girl next door who dyes her hair purple and cusses like a sailor. Yeah, I'm a dirty little slut, the one who'd hit on you at a bar and go down on you in the men's room while strangers watched. Yep, If you don't read my blog or rank among my most inner circle, you know me as the hard ass who refuses to show fear or pain, and uses the phrases "Suck it up" and "Dry it up" more than "I'm sorry." I'm not saying I'm a porcupine. I'm not too prickly to pet. If you're a guest at my house I'm going to greet you with a cold drink, a smile and something I baked myself. If you ever have the pleasure of being my lover you'll get more attention and adoration than you ever bargained for. The tough girl, the bad girl is me but it's the outer layer, it's the me you get when I don't want you too close to my heart. Yet, it's the core of me too, it's a big part of what makes me, me.

I had intended for this to be a sex post. (For those of you who like that sort of thing, sorry.) It was going to be something about me needing a woman's touch. Soft eyes, soft skin, an innate understanding of feminine complexity. It's possible that I need the kind of tenderness a man could never give me. As much as I hate to make gender generalizations, experience has taught me that men and women are simply wired differently. I could ramble on for a couple more paragraphs here. Go on endlessly about how misunderstood I am but that wouldn't get us any closer to the tender, girl on girl, story I had planned. I think I'd better end this and try again later. I'm just too fragile today.

Bad but Happy Poetry

I am a busy busy busy bee lately and I'm still using stolen dial-up to post this stuff. I feel a bit sheepish about going off on my husband on Sunday. I am suffering from too much stress and not enough stress release I'm afraid. Anywhoo... I thought I'd post something less angry or pity-party like. Here's a poem I wrote a long time ago about this place that is now my home, back when my relationship with my husband was young and weekends in the country were a treasured break from reality.


Riding Shotgun


On the cusp of summer
Smell of dirt and honeysuckle
Choke out suburban row-house life
Far from paved roads and red lights

I catch you staring, that way
All beer and adoration
And I feel like the Queen of South Georgia
Or at least Home-coming Queen

Seventeen again, naive enough
To believe that lust
Is a side effect of love
But not caring
About the consequences of either

No fear
Just the thrill of tossing beer bottles
Radio blaring, cloud of dust spreading out
Obliterating the need to look back
Nothing but corn-rows and blue sky
And you with that farm boy smile

Fresh-laid concrete rail-ties
Speak of progress, even in this place
But who wants to think of progress
When this could be our whole existence

Just let me ride shotgun
With the weight of your right hand
Hot and firm on my left thigh
Somewhere beyond mundane but short of chaos
Riding under the last stars in Georgia

All work and no play makes Christine pissed off

Our new house is 2 weeks behind its projected move in date. Our stuff is in the house and we have power but we still don’t have any water and the installation crew is still working on cosmetic problems so we can’t actually move in. My husband has had one mysterious illness or another for the past two weeks. Of course we don’t have health insurance through his new job yet. He hasn’t received his first paycheck here either and we ran out of money from his December paycheck at the old job weeks ago. His parents have shelled out about $300.00 in doctors visits and medicines to try and help their poor sickly baby boy. If I have to hear one more time how sick he was as a child, how he has a weak immune system, how he needs my support during this stressful time I am going to punch my sweet angel of a mother in law right in her mouth. I find it odd that he’s suddenly been stricken with multiple viral infections when we need to be unpacking boxes and putting together the furniture that was disassembled for the move, and so on and so forth.

Let’s see…Since the first of the year I have packed our old house all by myself with the exception of his Star Wars and Comic Book collections. (He didn’t trust me with those.) I also cleaned the old house and made it ready for the new owners all by myself. Keep in mind I did both of these tasks while my 2 year old tugged on my pants leg. I have also done all the dealing with getting services turned on or off, including overseeing the work being done here at the new house. This weekend I had to go back to the old house and clean out the garage too because he was too sick to do it. I also had the joy of sorting, cleaning, pricing and setting up the yard sale items. Then I got up at 5 am and put out the signs for the yard sale. Then I sat in the freezing cold and misty grey weather, holding the yard sale so that I could make the money we needed for new household items such as curtains, new linens, garbage cans, toilet brushes, you name it. Every box that has been unpacked in the new house has been unpacked by ME. I have hauled the stuff we left behind out of the old house and then up the stairs to the new house. I haven’t slept in my own bed in weeks. I have only had sex once in the past five weeks and I had to take a cold shower AGAIN this morning. So excuse me if my sympathy level for my darling husband is at an all time low.

Here’s a description of a day in my husband's life during the last 3 weeks. At 6am his Mama wakes him up with a hot breakfast. Then he puts on his work clothes which she washed and ironed for him. He takes the lunch that she made for him and heads off for work around 7:30am. He gets home from work at about 5pm. His mother makes us all a huge dinner with dessert. After eating he sits on the couch or at the computer until bedtime. Then around 10pm he goes to sleep. Sounds rough huh? So why in the fuck am I expected to fuss over him like a nurse maid? Why exactly should I feel sorry for him? Who the hell is pampering me? Fuck, I can’t even get laid. So this morning when I went in to get him up at 9am and he informed me he had a headache (what’s new?) I kind of lost it. I went off on quite a rant about what a pathetic Mama’s boy he’s been this month. We have barely spoken since and I’ve caught myself crying and sniffling several times. He was awake for about 3 hours and is now back asleep on the couch at his Mom and Dads.

I couldn’t stand to look at him another minute. I have planted myself at my own kitchen table in the new house. I can see out the huge picture windows to watch the sun sparkling on the pond and the wind blowing through the pines. Yes. I admit it. I’m hiding up here. I’m sure I should be down there checking on him and spending time with the family. Instead I’ve got the radio blaring and I’m basking in my secret love for country music. The only stations that come in clear here are country so I finally have an excuse to listen. I feel better. I think I’m over my tantrum but I still don’t want to see him.

Dreaming Again (Sexual Content)

*I realize that my last erotic post was also about a dream, or dreaming in general, an obvious indulgence of my own silly fantasies. What can I say, I'm doing alot of fantasizing when I should be sleeping lately. So... I'm sticking with the dream theme. Just play along, okay?

I've always hated sleeping upstairs in the guest room at my parents house. The room is situated over the garage and it's always too warm. Furthermore, sounds from all over the house seem to rattle through the walls and puddle right near the head of the guest bed. So at midnight I was listening to the various creaks and whirs of the house. I tossed and turned, my sweaty t-shirt clinging to my heavy breasts and little droplets of perspiration tickling down my thighs. My restlessness was made worse by the unmistakable need gnawing at my mind, it's sharp teeth nibbling down my spine and spreading put to each extremity. It was the kind of need that finds its way to every forbidden crevice of your body. Laying on my back and staring up at the ceiling I bit my lip and tried to push the thought of him away. If I started thinking of him I'd never get to sleep.

Some lovers just get into your head. Even when they've long since ceased being your lover or are too far away to physically seek out you can't help but conjure up their golden image. No matter how foolish it seems to entertain the thought of them, you do. Maybe it was the unrelenting heat in the room, reminding me of how my body had been slick with sweat when we had fucked like wild things for the first time. Maybe I was remembering another night when we stayed up way too late, talking dirty to each other till words enveloped an penetrated us, bringing us to the delicious and dizzying height of orgasm, repeatedly. For whatever reason you haunted my sticky, warm night, hovering over me like a phantom.

I wanted you here. Next to me, your mouth hard pressed against my mouth and then my neck. I needed your lips suckling at my tits, licking the salt from my damp skin. My pussy was so damn wet. My t-shirt and bright pink, hip hugger panties seemed terribly uncomfortable all of the sudden, as if my skin was chaffed and could only stand to be touched by you. Rationally I know that distance would never allow you to touch me, nor could my scent, salty and musky, mixed with the spicy sweet smell of my soap, find you across the miles. No amount of dreamy longing would open the portal between my location and yours.

Despite this obvious encumbrance I heard your voice. Faint at first, as if it were choked out by the humidity but then growing stronger. "Touch yourself, Christine." Your disembodied voice commanded. I closed my eyes, trembly now, and licked the beads of sweat from my upperlip. Moving my hands over my breasts I noted how hard my nipples were, each of my breasts seemed to scream with arousal, calling to my finger tips. Slowly I let a hand trail down my stomach, and traced the top of my damp panties with my soft fingertips. "Rub your pussy." You ordered, your voice firm but calm and I could almost see you, standing at the end of the bed watching me with your cock in your hand.

I proceeded as if I was putting on a show for you. I lifted my round ass off the bed to slide the panties of my hips and then let my knees drop to the side, so I could spread myself wide open for you. All the while I could still hear your voice. Sometimes you moaned just a little as I watched the vision of you slowly stroking your huge erection. Mostly, I could hear your breathing between words, ragged and quick. It exposed your desperate lust even as your words expressed total control. I slipped a couple of fingers into my slick pussy and then brought them to my mouth. If you had actually been here I would have fed you this honey, rubbed it right across your lips and let you see that it's as sweet as cane syrup.

As you watched with satisfaction you instructed me to get my fingers wet with my juice again. I obliged of course, relishing the feel of my own dripping wet pussy. Then you told me to go lower and I explored the tender space around my ass, already slick from the natural lube gushing from my snatch. "Finger your ass, for me." You said but I hesitated not sure about going so far for my little fantasy. "Do it, Christine!" You yelled out, the urgency in your voice made me squirm and in my hazy unreality I watched your hand moving faster, your knees began to shake and you reached out for the foot board of the bed to steady yourself.

I did as you requested, abandoned myself to the dirty pleasure of fucking my own ass. With one hand worked my little fingers in and out of my tightest hole, I furiously rubbed my clit with the other. Moving beyond whimpering and heavy breathing I began to say your name, over and over, making it my mantra as I rubbed and prodded my body to the brink of cumming. As I arched my back and felt my pelvic muscles tighten I thought I heard your sharp intake of breath and your animal grunting. I tried not to cry out loudly as I came but imagining the hot splatter of your thick seed landing across my stomach and breasts made my own orgasm hard to contain.

Panting and quivering it seemed like your ghost, that stubborn image, had finally left me alone. As I drifted off to sleep, too tired to even care about the temperature or the noises from down stairs, I heard the softest whisper. It was like you leaning near my ear to tell me some gentle goodnight. "Thank You." I murmured.

Did I write that?

Since I've been going through this big moving transition I have had no time to fuss over my words, to think about every sentence I write, or to carefully select material from my constantly moving conveyor belt of thoughts. Either you guys are getting the most realistic and uncensored version of me, or you're getting my worst writing ever. Either way, things are just a week or so from returning to normal. I don't know about you guys but I'll be breathing a huge sigh of relief.

Who cares if you're late for work?

I know what time it is, I can see the clock. But it's been a long time and I'm sick of waiting. Just lock the bathroom door, who'd have the nerve to knock, knowing we're in here together?

I'll be quiet I promise. Ok, I'll be mostly quiet. (Running my hand down the front of his slacks, feeling the bulge there, growing despite his protest. I grin, my best naughty girl smile) I know what would keep me quiet. I never talk with my mouthful!

Come on baby, let me suck you off at least, you know you want me too... (lips now forming the perfect pout. He turns his back on me to face the mirror, so I stand on my tippy toes and kiss the back of his neck.) Please, please... I need you so badly.

He's out the bathroom door without further discussion. He grabs his lunch box and gives me a quick peck.

Have a nice fucking day.

Rural Living 102: Invasion of the Bible Thumpers

My mother in law is determined to make me a pillar of the community or at least quietly convert me. We’d been officially living here for about five minutes when she suggested I join her “Secret Sister” group. She described the group as sort of support group for the women of the community and tried to entice me with promises of group sponsored shopping trips, as well as excursions to museums and theaters. She carefully avoided all questions about the origin of this group but I should have realized that in a community like this, a club for women had to be sponsored by a church.

Basically, in this tiny farming town, there is one church for every ten to fifteen people who live here. Most of these churches are of some evangelical nature and are of Baptist denomination. There’s First Baptists, Missionary Baptists, Primitive Baptists, Southern Baptists and most of those fall into the category of Believe Like we do or go Straight to Hell Baptists. My mother in law, who is generally a great lady that I get along with easily, knows that I like organized religion about as much as I like politicians and nasty stomach viruses. So I was sure she wouldn’t rope me into some fanatical prayer circle, complete with sickeningly Christian housewives, eager to pray for my heathen, foul mouthed and vain demeanor. “You need to get to know the other women in the community!” she insisted. “This isn’t like _______; people here enjoy getting to know their neighbors.” Not wanting to disappoint her I agreed to join this Secret Sisterhood.

Only after my commitment did she reveal that it was indeed a church group. Great, so now I’ll have the ladies from Such and Such Baptist at my door to swap recipes and discuss the poor, unsaved, souls of the world. They’ll probably show up in the afternoon just after my daughter has gone down for her nap and I’m watching my favorite gang bang porno flick, assaulting myself with a variety of penis shaped objects. I’m assuming this means I’m going to have to cut down on expressions like “Christ on a cracker!” and “Holy Mary Mother of Fucking God!” There is also the unpleasant issue of my Catholicness, something my husband’s family has been kind enough to overlook. Of course, I can solve that problem by telling the church ladies that I’m no longer a practicing Catholic. Still, what are the chances I’ll be able to keep my mouth shut about my disdain for evangelism when they begin to unburden themselves of their bigotry, discounting every belief system but their own?

You see, I figure that God doesn’t need advertising. Since he’s beyond our incredibly limited, drooling idiot like, human comprehension it’s pretty damned egotistical to assume anyone or any church for that matter (remember people are even more shamefully stupid in groups) knows what the hell God likes or dislikes, requires or doesn’t require. So I figure the last thing God wants is me hanging out in the pews alongside my fellow morons screaming Amen and wallowing in some asinine interpretation of what is right or wrong. I have a sneaking suspicion that religious doctrine exists solely to numb our resistance to societal controls and to calm our childlike fear of the unknown. Thus sermons and bible studies mean little or nothing to me, except as occasionally interesting literature. I have a tendency to regard them the same way I did required reading in college, as interesting tid bids of language to be analyzed.

I am rather concerned that I am going to embarrass my in laws. This hard working farming family, good church going folk who are well known and trusted by all, have married off their only son to a devilish girl. I feel a wicked sense of pleasure in being this community’s bad girl. If I am going to be a Secret Sister my first mission is to convert the converters. How long do you think it will take for me to invite them over, get them drunk, read their tarot cards and convince them to play strip poker? Bwaahaaa haaa haa, let the games begin!

Clearing my cluttered mind

The repair crew was back at work today at the old house. Complete with the sexy scented, blue eyed, guy in charge. I came up from the Farm to let them in the house and again Blue Eyes was all smiles and easy conversation. The only difference was that I was not as alluring as I had been on his first visit. It was damn cold this morning and I was bundled up, hiding the curves I love to flaunt with my purple coat and hood, lined with dyed fox fur. I had not been granted access to the one and only bathroom where we are staying so my hair lacked that perfect, messy but sexy look that I force it into every morning. Still, there he was flashing his take your breath away grin and standing close enough to me that we were in danger of touching. I'm either far sexier than I realize or the guy is just an incorrigible flirt. Hell, it's probably six of one half a dozen of the other.

So tonight I locked the door to the master bath at my parents house and ran the hottest bath water I could stand. I immersed myself in this bathing ritual, the one I've been deprived of for almost a week. I turned on the spa jets and opened my legs to let the water run over my sensitive places. Eyes closed, fingers at my nipples I let his face wander into my mind and begin to imagine his kiss. I bet he's an amazing kisser, probably laid back and playful at first before becoming hungry and fevered. No one disturbed me and my mind flitted from one fantasy to the next... The repair guy and I alone and discovering each other, to my husband, his mouth and his rarely used, expert, pussy eating skills, to my girl crush and her flirty eyes and creamy skin, to every dark and twisted layer I keep hidden. My endless cast of character's danced and swapped, cutting in and joining at will. Much needed release was achieved and the story ends there.

I have nothing dramatic to say tonight, no big words or surprise twists. No deep revelations. No Penthouse Letter style confessions to make. It's just me and my tired head trying to keep this blog afloat... no, trying to keep myself afloat in the endless waters of long days and restless nights.

Quickly

Between the hectic pace of moving and supervising the finishing touches on our house I have had little time to post. Not to mention, I'm sharing a very small 2 bedroom 1 bath cottage with 3 other adults and a child, so quiet and privacy are scarce.

My fingers are itching to type out all the swirly and pent up thoughts and feelings in my mind but I am in hurry so who knows what will come out. I have been listening to The Counting Crows all morning while driving back to the old house. I'll be spending the next two days at my Mom's while I tie up some lose ends at the old place. I am feeling a little lost. I am lonely, or sad, or frustrated or something but I just can't wrap my mind around the words to describe how I feel. A line from a Fiona Apple song, Shadow Boxer, keeps playing in my head: "I was on to every play, I just wanted you." I'd tell you why I can't get that out of my head but I haven't fully figured it out myself yet. Besides, I think it has something to do with a secret that I won't reveal.

I find it strange and sickly humorous that I started this blog to tell my secrets. To purge myself of the things I couldn't tell anyone else. In the process I have created even more secrets. New inside jokes and unmentionable heart aches that stay buried in me, too private for the bright light of this screen.

Rural Living 101

The weather was bad on Friday and the dirt roads were a mess. Thankfully, I managed to drive to town twice without putting my car in a ditch. Walking a half a mile in the rain to get a family member to pull your vehicle out of the mud is no fun. Not to mention you have to hear the story, with plenty of embellishment, knee slapping, and city girl jokes, told and re-told to every neighbor.

Well Digger's asses aren't necessarily cold. The one digging our well on Friday came out of his thermal cover-alls, while chatting with me about his progress, because he was "hotter than a tick on a burning dog."

Men in this community, (farmers, railroad and factory workers, and skilled tradesmen) will work hard all day long, in any weather, to help out a friend and expect nothing in return but a home cooked meal and heartfelt thanks. Furthermore, they smile the whole time, never complain and always "know an ol' boy" who can do or get anything they can't.

Dial-up sucks. It's like trying to substitute tylenol for heroin.

Moving On

Today is my last day in this house. Everything is boxed and stacked, awaiting the arrival of the u-haul this weekend. The car is loaded with the suitcases we'll be living out of for the next couple of weeks and I am exhausted. I am sore, achey and strangely weepy as I look around at the naked walls. I can see the sad grey sky through the bare windows, feel the cold pushing out the past weeks warm front. It's perfect really, this weather, for the way I feel.

I have lived in this house longer than any other during my lifetime. As a military brat I moved every 2-3 years. As a young adult I moved constantly, from one shabby house or apartment to the next, trying to escape my bad choices, my broken heart, my own skin. The last couple of years in this house I have felt trapped and smothered, as if the very walls were going to squeeze in to crush me. I am ready for a change.

Despite my itching for a fresh start, I have made so many memories here. I suddenly feel reluctant to walk away from this too small, cookie cutter house. I remember the undeniable joy of moving into this house. The first house both my husband and I had ever owned. When they gave us the keys we couldn't wait to stay the night in it. We drank beer and ate take out in the middle of the livingroom floor. The floor was too hard to sleep on but our relationship was young and hot and we found better ways to occupy the night. This is the house where I watched my body swell and change to accommodate my baby girl. I laid awake each night, as the time of her birth grew near, holding my belly, feeling her kick and jump inside me. Now I can see down the hall to her room and remember so many nights spent rocking her in there. Singing to her as she fussed and fretted and then standing in her doorway to watch her sleep, the rise and fall of her little chest bringing a smile to my tired face.

I know it will be forever changed when the new owners move in. They'll probably keep the lawn nice and the ceiling fans clean. But I am so possessive of some of these spaces, like the Kitchen, that I can't bear to think of them being changed. The kitchen was the only place in this house that was totally mine. I allowed none of my husbands Star Wars figures or bizarre comic book memorabilia in that room. It's just a small galley kitchen with a small space for a dining table at one end. But I had a vision for it. I painted the boring oak cabinets honey gold, the walls I painted burnt orange and tomato red. I hung country curtains at the windows, they had little red and orange roosters on them. They made all the colors work together. Everyone said I was crazy when I did it. Yellow, Orange and Red? In one small room? Why not I thought. When it was done everyone was honestly impressed. It looks amazing, albeit out of place, as the rest of the house has white walls and that early american daycare center look so popular among very small households where a toddler rules the roost. I am sick with the knowledge that the new owners will probably slap some white paint on my beautiful flame colored kitchen as soon as they ink is dry on the closing contract.

Saying goodbye is so hard. Friends and family I'll see again, we're only moving a couple of hours away. But this house, the backdrop of some of the best and worst days of my life, will never be mine again.

High and Mighty

I was talking to Jen last night about my impending move to "God's Country" and remembered a bloggable tid-bit from my weekend. My husband and I spent last Friday night in a hotel room in the little town nearest to the farm. Saturday morning we ate breakfast at a local greasy spoon before returning to his parent's house.

The place was filled with hunters hungry from their early morning expeditions and eager to brag about the 7 point buck they had draped across the back of their pick up truck or in most cases, the one that got away. As I walked through the restaurant I was aware that all these men were staring at me. No, they were leering at me, eyes intensely on my breasts as I walked with my shoulders back, my best "too good for you" smirk on my face. As we ate breakfast, these guys, all decked out in camouflage, seemed to whisper and snicker while looking my way. I ate my hashbrowns and eggs while giggling at my own jokes and trying to act like there was no one in the room but me and my hubby. As we walked out, I again felt the weight of all eyes on me, as guys aged 16 to 45 elbowed one another and winked at me shamelessly.

Walking across the parking lot I said to my husband "Can you believe the nerve of those guys? Jeezus H Christ!"

"What are you talking about?" He replies, a quizzical smile on his face.

"I'm talking about the way guys stare at me around here! My God, you'd think they'd try to be less obvious." I carried on, ranting about how "I was probably the only woman with all her teeth they'd ever seen in that place..." blah blah blah.

My husband shook his head and chuckled. "I think you have misunderstood their interest..." He began to explain.

I interrupted with narccisitic indignity, that I "Knew perfectly well what they were interested in! As if I'd give any of those rednecks the time of...."

Clearing his throat, and opening the car door for me, my husband said calmly, "I hate to tell you this, but they were staring because they thought you had 4 nipples."

"WHAT??? " I said, annoyed now and suddenly aware that I was about to be very embarrassed.

"Look at your boobs." He said, trying to contain his grin.

Apparently the combination of my thin bra, oddly textured t-shirt, and the morning chill had combined to form a sttrange illusion. My nipples were hard and obvious, but you couldn't see the outline of my nipple rings. You could, however, see the little balls at the bottom of the rings. It did, indeed, look like I had two nipples on each breast. I doubt the people in that area have seen a lot of pierced nipples so they would not have assumed that my unusual nipple configuration had to do with jewelry. I covered my red face with my hands and had a good laugh at myself. Serves me right for being such a snobby bitch!

Three Things

Jen made me do it!

Three Things

3 names you go by:

Christine
Sugar Bear (nickname from my parents)
Mommy


3 screen names you have:

hmm... think I'd better leave this one blank


3 things you like about yourself:

My open mind
My sensuality
My breasts


3 things you hate/dislike about yourself:

My ineccesant talking.
My inability to "play hard to get."
My tendency to be sarcastic at inappropriate times.


3 parts of your heritage:

Greek
Scottish
Creek Indian 1/32


3 things that scare you:

Getting caught
Fire
Losing my child


3 of your everyday essentials:

Blogging, e-mailing, IMing
Hot tea with milk and honey
Long, hot, bath/shower (which usually includes giving myself an orgasm)

3 things you’re wearing right now:

Sheer orange and red bra
faded, boot cut, jeans
Platinum wedding band

3 of your favorite bands/artists (subject to change at any time):
(Only three!?)

Barenaked Ladies
The Distillers
The Counting Crows


3 of your favorite songs at present:
(at random from my MP3 player)

I am the Highway, by Audioslave
Singing in my Sleep, by Semisonic
The Old Apartment, by Barenaked Ladies


3 new things you want to try in the next 12 months:

Write a novel
Karaoke
Meet a fellow blogger


3 things you want in a relationship (love is a given):

Sexual Chemistry
Trust, trust, trust
To be understood


2 truths and a lie (no particular order to keep ya guessing):

I've never exposed myself in public.
I held a 4.o GPA for the first 2 years of college.
I got a very silly tattoo of a cartoon rabbit on my chest when I was 18.

3 physical things about a love interest that appeal to me:
(I'm assuming this should be about the opposite sex)

Broad shoulders,
Big hands,
smile/dimples


3 things you just can’t do:

Be patient
Tolerate stupidity (unless it's my own)
Be quiet

3 of your favorite hobbies:

Writing (includes blogging)
Cooking
Sexual Exploits (both real and imagined)


3 things you want to do really badly right now:

Finish packing and put this hellish moving episode behind me
Run away
Get lost in a really intense kiss

3 careers you’re considering:

Writer
Massage Therapist
Kept Woman


3 places you want to go on vacation:

India
Ireland
Alaska

3 kids names (either boy or girl):

Gwenevere
Gus (short for Angus)
Gabe

3 things you want to do before you die:

Get paid to write
Learn to make biscuits and cornbread like my Granny used to make
See my daughter fall in love

Old journal entry

Laptop Longing

Dreaming (sexual content)

The sound of the backdoor being unlocked startled me from my sleep. Knowing I'm a light sleeper you call quietly across the house, "It's me, Baby." calming my fears of home invasion before they get started. I look at the clock and it's almost 2am, you shouldn't be here at this hour but my dreamy half asleep mind can't form the obvious question. I make out your familiar form in the dark doorway of the bedroom. You're already getting undressed. I hear the end of your leather belt being pulled through it's buckle, the zipper of your pants opening, the swoosh of your slacks hitting the floor. I manage to hold my eyes open long enough to watch you strip your shirt away from your broad shoulders. The curtains are long since packed and moonlight filters through the blinds, illuminating the skin of your chest and your face, making your eyes visible as you stare at my shape outlined by the blankets.

You slip between the covers, the heat of your body warming me instantly, encouraging me to unfurl my limbs and reach for you. With a drowsy smile I begin to ask what you're doing here but you shush me and kiss me, a small kiss at first, gently waking me. But it quickly becomes more intense as you wrap your big arms around me and I throw my leg over yours. I love being awakened like this, I'm so easily aroused when I'm not quite awake. I relish the feeling of not being able to separate my lucid waking dreams from the reality of your presence. You're hands roam beneath the thin t-shirt I wore to bed, finding my nipples hard and responsive to your big hands brushing across the silver rings. Your hand steals down between my legs and finds me bare, I didn't bother with panties tonight. I hear a small moan escape your lips as you explore my incredible wetness with your finger tips.

I stroke the back of your head as we kiss. Your mouth moves away from mine and down my neck and I hear you breathing in the smell of my skin. I am brave in my dazed state and push your head down, demanding you attend to my breasts. Of course, you can not resist and suck each nipple, relishing the taste of my skin and the unusual sensation of the metal rings against your teeth and tongue. I push you down further, until the covers slip away from us and your head is between my thighs. I feel your lips against my tender, slick cunt. Your teasing little kisses there making me squirm, making me beg you to lick me, pressing your face to my fevery folds. You run your tongue up and down my slit and around my clit masterfully, as my whimpers become moans. You suck my clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue against it and you feel me tensing, my climax imminent. Your hands cup my backside as I'm writhing off the sheets and you keep your mouth to me until I'm calling out your name, lost in a fit of pleasure.

Breathless, I pull you up and taste myself on your mouth. I can feel the insistent pressure of your painfully hard erection at my thigh and I am so ready to have you inside me. I tell you to "fuck me" as if I could stop you at this point. You are maddened by lust, the scent of my arousal in your nostrils, the taste of me filling your mouth. Your knees are between mine instantly, pushing my legs apart, opening me. You push in with one strong thrust, filling me with the hard, hot, proof of your desire. Suddenly the dark features of the room fall away and all I see is your face above me, your eyes staring down into mine as we move together.

It's nothing unusual or exotic, this dance of back and forth, in and out. We didn't have to consult any manuals or videos to learn this. It is instinctual. It is the natural rhythm of soul mates joining. As we reach the peak I clench your back with my small hands and wrap my legs around you, trying to pull you in as deep as possible. I can feel you coming inside me, the pulse, pulse sensation coupled by the hot gush brings me over the edge too and soon we are a sweaty, tired, tangle of arms and legs. I look at the clock and it is impossibly late or early, depending on your perspective. I am sleepy again and I hear your breathing, slow and regular and know that the hour has caught up with you too. You tug the covers up around us without bothering to clean up. As we drift to sleep I am aware of you against my back, your face nuzzled into my neck and I return to a sweeter dream than the one you woke me from.

Moody

In the space of one day, yesterday to be exact, I was happy, miserable, worried, relieved, sweet and bitchy, excited and depressed, in tears and then in giggles. I'm moodier than an unmedicated, bi-polar, teenage girl, who's got her period.

So what in the hell is wrong with me? I'm not quite sure. Maybe the stress has finally broken me and this is the first part of a long slide into insanity. I'm not sure that bothers me all that much. I'll bet being a mental patient could be very relaxing. I'd have a regular bedtime, soothing meds and group therapy to dominate with my delusions of grandeur and endless ramblings. I wonder if the doctors will let me blog? Maybe my heart is being broken and I refuse to acknowledge it consciously. The denial causing all the confusion and drama to well up and spill out without direction. I have noticed that I'm terribly vulnerable lately. It's like I've just let all the bricks in my emotional sea wall crumble away. Now the waves lap at me uncontrollably, making me feel the salty power but taking me away bit by bit with each retreating tide.

I'm pretty sure most of you are rolling your eyes at me now. I'm aware that the seaside metaphor was probably over the top, I just don't care.

There is nothing harder than trying to impress someone with conversation when you are sure they are smarter than you by several IQ points. I mean, how do you talk to someone who makes you speechless? I talk circles around most of the people I know. I usually sound witty and intelligent, knowing how to draw them in with the perfect combination of flirty innuendo and brainy vocabulary. But every once in a while I run into someone who's just flat out got me beat in the world of dialog. Then I babble like an idiot and fail miserably in my effort to entice them. I fucking hate that.

Warning: Mom Moment Ahead

As you know I don't talk a whole lot about being a Mommy here. I generally save this space for longing and lusting, complaining and commiserating, perversions, pouting, pondering and all that sort of stuff. Today I feel like rambling on about my kid. So pardon me while I deviate from the usual formula.

My daughter will be 3 in April. She is a complicated little thing. She tends to panic around strangers, requires regimented routines to avoid meltdown and is attached to at least 4 different "lovey" like items. Despite this shyness and insecurity she's also wild, loud, obnoxious, headstrong, destructive and melodramatic. While this description might fit any two year old I assure you my child is just a bit over-the-top terrible two. I have suffered many shocked and horrified looks from other playgroup moms and strangers in the grocery store. I am very sure that if she were a little boy people would just snicker and say "Boys will be boys!" Instead they see my strikingly pretty little girl and say "Oh my goodness! What a little doll!" before she begins to run around screaming, climbing shelving and flailing and kicking as I try to discipline her. Then they just back away, quickly.

At the age of 18 months she was kicked out of Kindermusic because two of the other moms felt she was too rowdy. Mind you these whiny, bitchy, moms with pathetic, timid little snot-nosed babies didn't seem to think the boys in the class (who were notorious pushers and toy takers) were too rowdy. Just my little girl. Of course the teacher tried to play politics and suggested switching us to the Thursday class. I never truly understood the problem, she never bit or hit another child. She may have been a bit over stimulated at times. She had some trouble following directions when she was excited but she was a toddler for fuck sake, what do you expect? I actually heard one of these Moms say "If she were a boy I'd understand it!" To their gentle suggestion that I get my kid away from their kids I responded... Fuck you, you sexist, boring, Martha Stewart wanna be, snobby little SAHM, cunts. She might be aggressive but she's twice as smart as your brat and better looking too! But I digress.

She was pulling up and cruising around furniture by 7 months and walked at 8 months. She could climb, run and jump long before she had the cognitive ability to really handle being that mobile. She has always been absolutely fearless when it comes to physical stunts. She was just over a year old when I found her at the top of her changing table/hutch, high enough to touch the ceiling, happily preparing to jump down. Last summer we were sure she'd drown while we played in the pool with her. She refused to wear water wings and insisted she could swim without our assistance. Sure enough, after quickly dragging her up from the pool bottom a time or two the little devil was swimming better than I do. Despite her early physical development she was slow to develop language skills. Then we discovered that her super enlarged adenoids were interfering with her speech and hearing. Now she chatters on incessantly, repeating every potty-mouthed phrase, and motherly chastisement I utter.

I would rattle on about how potty training stinks (ha ha, get it?)but instead I'll impart a tiny bit of recently learned wisdom. Most kids don't go for the "Borg" method of toilet training. You know, where you chase them around the house with a pair of "big kid underwear" insisting that "resistance is futile!" Trust me, if they don't WANT to use the potty nothing you bribe or threaten them with will change that.

Since Sunday it's been just me and her. She's helped me pack, and by that I mean she's dropped my keys, the new garage door remote and several other not-be-packed items into the boxes I'm filling. She's obviously freaked out by us rapidly emptying the only home she's ever known. She keeps asking where everything is and demanding I find it. "Where books Mamma? You find 'em Mommy! Find books now!" (Insert me sighing heavily and rubbing my aching head here.) She's been extra insecure which means lots of snuggling and dropping everything to read "Big Barn Surprise" about twenty times a day. You'd think I'd be sick of having her in my hair and at my feet but I've loved getting her all to myself this week. There have been no indulgent grandparents to compete with, no Daddy to steal her away.

Every morning, shortly after dawn, she comes into my room and says "Wake up sleepy head!" in her yawning angel voice. I pull her up into "the big bed" as she calls it. We snuggle up and I warm her cold little feet, tickling her neck with my nose. There is no sweeter smell than her blueberry shampoo scented hair in the morning. I have, for one reason or another, had to deal with accusations of lacking devotion to her. On rare occasion someone has assumed that I can not be sensual, self aware, interested in matters outside my family and still be a good mother. Bull shit. I love other people. I have hobbies that don't involve disney movies or clipping coupons for glow in the dark pull-ups. I think about and worry over and long for things that have nothing to do with my child. Yet nothing eclipses her pretty face, her daily needs and wants, or the near painful joy of making her smile or rocking her to sleep.

Solitude

I'm sitting here as the night slowly drags by waiting for anything and nothing to happen. My house is quite and eerily empty with most of our belongings packed away. I'd like to tell you I'm actually enjoying this near empty house and the unencumbering circumstance of being away from my husband. I want to be the strong independent type. The happy loner. I'm not though. I just dread crawling into the big empty bed again tonight. I even put an extra blanket on last night in a desperate effort to make it more cozy. I'm afraid it's still cold and empty without my husband's big, staying on his side so I'll stay on mine, ignoring, snoring, form.

I am reminded of my days as a single girl and how I always hated to sleep alone. My best friend at the time was a quirky, newly out, gay guy, named Jason. We worked opposite shifts at the hotel. He'd pick me up at the end of my 3-11 shift and while we drove for the bar I'd change out of my tacky front desk uniform into my see through or low cut top and perfect form fitting jeans. The jeans I spent the equivalent of an electric bill on because they were the only plus sized, boot cut, petite length jeans available. God forbid I go out looking like a frumpy, hopelessly unfashionable, fat girl. We'd drink and dance and hang out with the bar flies until they kicked us out. Then we'd sober up at a 24 hour diner before sleepily driving back to my place and crashing on the full sized mattress (stolen from the hotel) on my bedroom floor. It wasn't much of a bed but it was better than the first few months living alone when I was sleeping on the hard floor without the benefit of mattess. Jason, like me, was a snuggler. It was of course, ridiculously platonic since Jason was strictly into boy on boy. However, it was wonderfully comforting. I wish Jason hadn't disappeared from my life after I got married. I could use his warmth tonight.

What I'd really like is to be satisfied and spent, spooned up against my lover while he whispered in my ear. Wait, if I'm going to fantasize, why not go all out... What I'd really like is to be satisfied, sore from hours of fucking and love making (in that order) and spooned up against the broad chest of my lover, his arms encircling me while he sang me softly to sleep. Yeah. That's what I'd really like.

Good Words on Guilt

This is a gorgeous piece of writing.

How many nights have I lain awake and felt guilt rip back the cover of excuses and justifications in my mind? Too many nights through out my life I've wept for those I've hurt, those I've so easily betrayed. I don't know which betrayals are worse. Is it the ones I got caught in and had to look into the eyes of my victim and see that anguish, know I had caused it? Or is all the little lies (not to mention a few big ones) that I've crafted, the selective omissions I've made over the years that truly eat away at me.

Sure, I've been the recipient of plenty of betrayal in my life time. Still, those hurts have healed up much better than the self-inflicted wounds created when I've lied, cheated, or left someone behind. I suppose someone might read words like these, like the ones Edge has written and start dishing out judgments, or whine about the times they were hurt by some cruel and heartless soul, like myself. Yet, I'm sure that sort of attitude is nothing more than hypocrisy because we're all guilty at some point of something.

Wicked Wife

There is a small team of repair men working on the garage door and siding to make the house ready for the new owners. The guy who does all the talking is a hot little thing. He's got the clearest blue eyes I've ever seen peeking out from under his dusty, paint spattered, baseball cap. What is it about guys who work with their hands for a living? He even smells good, a mix of man sweat and cologne, be still my heart. When he came to the door this morning, he seemed flustered, blushing and grinning as he talked to me. I was wearing a terribly low cut blouse. Not on purpose of course, it just happened to be what I put on! (Picture me blinking innocently while telling that lie.) He was very nice and even cut back on the charge for his labor when parts for the garage door cost more than estimated.

I know it's evil but as I was showing him the window in our master bedroom that might need repair I couldn't help but wonder how I might go about seducing him. Maybe I'd wait until he gave me the repair estimate, bite my lip and feign tears. "Oh dear! We just can't afford that! What ever will I do?" Maybe he'd move to comfort me, put an arm around my shoulder and then be unable to control his urge to draw me near. I could nuzzle my face in his muscled neck, inhaling his manly smell, pressing my chest provocatively against him. My excited nipples would be obvious as the little metal rings are visible through my clothes in times like these. Maybe that would entice him to kiss me boldly, reaching up to fondle one of my heavy breasts.
From there we'd wind up across my king size bed, me tearing open his work-worn jeans and unleashing his raging hard on. What a turn on it would be, to suck a strangers cock right there on my own bed. My pussy is slick just imagining it...

Good thing I'm a faithful wife. I could have been very, very bad today. *Sigh* Of course, I was not bad. I smiled my best, sweetest, dutiful housewife smile and thanked him for his hard work. He'll be back next week to fix everything else and I'm sure I'll have cooked up new and more deviant fantasies starring him by then. No worries though, I'll still be good. At least until he's gone and I can steal away, beneath the warm covers of my king sized bed and lazily toy with the idea of fucking the repair guy while I happily toy with myself.

There's reason to believe, maybe this year will be better than the last...

(The title is swiped from a favorite Counting Crows song)

I am aware that this is a time for reflections and resolutions but I'm not sure my current state of mind really lends itself to either in any constructive way. We are now well mired down in the complications of getting out of this house, and erecting a new home in the middle of fuckin' nowhere. While everyone else was ringing in the New Year we were ringing our hands over lately requested repairs from the buyer of our house. Today we had to drive down to our soon to be home site to flag out the location and discuss some details with my Father-in-law. He is coordinating the seemingly endless number of tasks that must be done in order to get our high-end manufactured home with it's gorgeous gold and red walls, dream kitchen and giant walk-in closets brought in and set up. A request for an official address from the postal service must be made, multiple permits obtained, fences knocked down, (so the trucks can get the double wide through the pasture, to the site) and trees and brush removed from the site. Then there is the well, the septic tank, and the water softening system. The electric company must be contacted and run a line out to the home, as well as the phone company. I won't even get into the satellite net connection which will cost dearly and undoubtedly end up being barely better than dial up.

With all the headache inducing minutiae surrounding this move I'm surprised I even care that last night was New Years Eve. Despite all the chaos I was painfully aware of the date. New Years has a special meaning for my husband and I. On New Years Eve 1999 we had been seeing each other for about 3 weeks. We were both obviously infatuated... drawn to the weird and quirky extremes of each others personality. He was different than all the guys I'd been dating. He was very smart, well educated, geeky even but cute and oddly down to earth for someone whose major interests were computer technology, Star Wars, and comic books. He had these gorgeous, deep brown eyes that spoke for him most of the time. He was quiet, shy, and nervous but could flash this devilish smile that would give away his wicked genius. He often looked as if he were just biding his time in this timid facade for the day when he'd take over the world with some brilliant but diabolical plot.

I had not intended to have a serious relationship with him. But he was so loyal, so endearing, such a refreshing change from the slimy tentacled, gone before daylight, never to call again bar boys, that I fell for him without even realizing it. So at the stroke of midnight, when he pulled me close and said "Hey, since Y2K could bring about the end of the world tomorrow, I should tell you... I think I love you," I reciprocated. The TV countdown came to end as we kissed wildly, the taste of our strong rum drinks mingling on our tongues. By February 2000 we were engaged. Although it did seem too fast, I just couldn't say no. Despite any doubts I had about my ability to be a good wife, or how little we really knew each other, I could tell he was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time. We were married in May the same year. There was less than 6 months between our first date and our Wedding Day. Looking back on it we must have been crazy but then, love makes you do crazy things.

We've tried to acknowledge the holidays as an anniversary of sorts each year. This year, with the marital troubles we've had, his new job and moving all piling up around us, we've done little to celebrate our beginnings. The best thing I can say about our current situation is that we are too busy and exhausted from moving to fight with same vigor that drove us to marriage counseling back in October. I still feel there is a major component missing between us. We lack passion, or infatuation, or sexual compatibility, or something. I found myself mulling the whole thing over in my head last night as I struggled to keep my eyes open until midnight. I listened to the Counting Crows, "Long December" and tried to let go of my melancholy. I cried a little thinking about how good that New Years Eve 5 years ago was and wondered where the time goes.

We did not totally ignore the anniversary of our first "I love you." We talked about it. We even admitted that we should have been making love to commemorate the occasion. Still, we were both tired, stressed, unable to motivate ourselves to do more than lie in bed next to each other and watch TV. We even kissed, softly, sweetly, complete with short but tender verbal exchange at midnight. I snuggled in close to him before we turned out the lights and tried to take solace in the warm and relaxed friendship so obviously displayed between us. It is no small thing, I realize. This deeply felt affection we have. Held together not by unbridled sexual chemistry or some bizarre and unnerving mental connection but by the binds of creating a home and family.

Truthfully, another man (or woman for that matter) with a stronger libido or attraction to me might have awakened my tired body with an electric touch. Someone with a gift for words would have easily pushed through the barrier of to do lists and looming disasters in my head and probed the lusty, needy part of my brain until I was wild and uncontrollable. Yet, there is something to be said for the gentle closeness I feel to my husband. Worn and frazzled, we understood each other, even if that meant accepting that our evening wasn't going to be all excitement and fireworks. I have to accept that this is how things are. This is never going to be a hot and sultry romance. What little bit of hot and sultry there had been early on was fueled by the newness of it, the thrill of getting to know one another as lovers. Don't misread this. I love him deeply. He is the father of my one and only child. Her adoring protector, her life long hero, the one person who loves her as much as I do. He has laughed with me and cried with me and worried over me and wiped my face when I puked. And while I admit to longing for more in our sex life, he is a very good lover when he's actually in the mood.

I'd like to be able to tell myself that this is just the nature of marriage. That passionate, head over heels, sex crazed, love is a symptom unique to new relationships. I have often asked myself if it was even possible to have stability, comfort, safety (things essential to a life long partnership) and also have that animal attraction, that can't keep your hands of each other desire. Even though I think I know the answer, I don't really want to know the answer. So I keep contemplating and hoping, searching and longing, despite the probabilities.