Deluge

Friday night was date night. A new rule instituted in my house that is supposed to encourage intimacy between my husband and I. In theory it would work like this: My child goes off to spend the night with her Grandparents in the afternoon. My husband comes home and we begin an entire evening of quality time together. He would be able to unwind and focus on more romantic and sexual feelings because he is not inhibited or worn out from dealing with our daughter. (His words not mine.) Unfortunately nothing is that easy and the same excuses that he uses the rest of the week apply here.

So we went out to eat but he is still sick, or maybe I should say sick again? One cold or viral illness is starting to run into the next with him. The night was nice enough. We talked about one thing or another and even had some laughs. We ate Chinese and my fortune said, there is a deep and true friendship between you both. Notice, it didn't say there is a deep and true romance between you both, or there is much lust between you both. We went home and he turned in early. 8pm to be exact. I sat in the dark and silent house, wide awake and bored. It had been a good day all things considered but I couldn't keep my mind from drifting to concerns about my marriage and the ache of longing for things I can't have. Before I knew it, I was crying. Quietly, but steadily. The storm had begun.

Now I admit to crying on occasion. I've been known to get teary eyed over a sad or beautiful song. I usually cry when I'm mad. I get weepy during sappy movies. Tender moments between myself and my love ones never fail to get me bawling and if my feelings are hurt I'll sulk off in private and cry like a baby. Still, I generally keep a tight grip on my tears. The crying that started Friday night was unusual in that I couldn't seem to stop it. I finally took some tylenol PM for my aching head and went to sleep with tears on my face. When I woke up Saturday morning small tear drops would squeeze out of my eyes when I blinked. I would have liked to distract myself by snuggling with my husband before we went to pick up our daughter but he was fast asleep until nearly 9am. So I got up and moved around the house in a tremendously sad mood wiping at the now annoying tears that seemed to continuously slip down my cheeks.

Saturday turned into world war three by dinner time. With me in a depressed state and him doing his damnedest to not notice, a fight was bound to ensue. I believe the argument that broke the dam was about ironing his shirts. A subject I am getting sick of discussing. He knew he was being unreasonable. He's learned that acting like a spoiled child will distract us from real problems. If he can pick a fight about something else then the fact that we've only had intercourse 3 times since December gets ignored. It was at that point that I began to sob. I couldn't even control my tears long enough to have dinner with his parents. I was forced to stay at home (I needed to iron shirts anyway) and the whole time I ironed, I sobbed.

I managed to hold in the gut wrenching wails long enough to bathe my little one and put her to bed. By this time my eyes were on fire from nearly 24 hours of a continuous salty drip. I got a stinging hot shower. I leaned against the cool white shower wall and allowed myself to scream out whatever agony was twisting inside me. By this time I was worried about myself. I haven't cried like that in years. I went to bed, trying to hold back. Silent tears still trailing down my cheeks and dripping from my chin. Of course, it was mentioned when he came to bed. He yelled at me for trying to pick a fight when he was ready to sleep. I pointed out that I had been crying all day. He turned over and slept or at least pretended to and I cried and cried until I was hoarse.

I eventually went out to the couch. I snuggled into it's cushions and the King of Hounds came and licked my face before laying down at my side. He stayed there as if he were watching over me. My most loyal protector...a mix breed hound named Ozzy. Sometime after 2 am I awoke to find my husband standing over me.

"Do you want to sleep out here? Or do you want to come back to our bed?" He said in a fierce tone.

It wasn't a question really. It was an ultimatum. He is a man of few words and never says what he really means. He implies, he suggests, he gestures with his eyes and body language but he never uses words to express himself. He does not like it when I leave our bed for any reason. I knew there would be hell to pay if I stayed on the sofa, so I went back to bed. By this time my entire skull was throbbing from hours and hours of bawling and blowing my snotty nose and despite my best efforts I continued to cry until I feel asleep.

My strange crying fit mirrored the weather. Friday there was a warm drizzle that became a cold drizzle later that night. Saturday the rain became steady and the temp continued to drop. By Saturday night it was almost freezing and the rain turned heavy, drenching even and continued through out Sunday morning. It was Sunday morning before I was able to pull myself together. My in-laws wanted to take my daughter to Sunday school. I'm usually not thrilled about that sort of thing since I am relatively opposed to organized religious gatherings. However, I was sick from the days of crying and could barely drag myself out of bed and thought it might be best if she spent the day with them.

Laying alone in bed with my husband he finally indicated that he was concerned over my 2 day crying jag. We talked, the same talk we've had a thousand other times. He responded as he usually does, first changing the subject, then looking away in silence. He avoided my eyes so that I couldn't see his emotions. Sick of talking to his eye lids, I indulged in another hot shower and returned to bed. He seemed to have come around by then and pulled me close for the first time during my bizarre crying jag. His eyes said he was worried, not angry, not indifferent. He said over and over that everything would be Ok. I think he wanted to convince himself as much as me. It's just one more promise that I am reluctant to believe. He kissed me and then kissed me again and then whispered something dirty in my ear.

I almost burst out laughing at his suggestion. This is why I stay in a perpetual state of confusion. The last time he initiated sexual contact with me was sometime around New Years. It struck me as strange that he would choose to try again at that moment, when I was laying in bed, feeling hopeless and out of control with grief. Still, I've learned to take his attention wherever and whenever it comes. So, with me still dripping the occasional tear, we engaged in some long over due sexual activity. It was good. Albeit strange. After I came the crying finally dried up. Not that all my concerns were put to rest. No, his rare sexual aggression only serves to complicate the situation. Was it a pity fuck? Did he feel that I had reached the end of my rope and that intimacy was required to pull me back before I let go? Was he genuinely desirous of me and had just been to sick or too distracted to act on it until that moment? I doubt I'll ever know.

I felt recovered by Sunday afternoon. Well, except for sore eyes and aching head which are still bothering me today. I cooked Sunday dinner for the family and enjoyed being with everyone, including him. It was as if I had needed to wash something out of my head. As if I was trying to rid myself of all the anguish and stress of the past months. I hadn't let myself feel the extent of my frustration, or the weight of my decision to move out here. A choice that more or less cemented my commitment to a relationship that has been struggling for sometime. Maybe I needed to wash away all that anger and pain in order to get back into the rhythm of my life.

Then again, maybe I'm finally succumbing to the same mental illness that plagues half of my father's family. Maybe some lithium and a therapist are in my future. I doubt it. I think I'm as sane as any of us are. Maybe more so.

After The Thrill is Gone

---Any kind of love without passion. That ain't no kind of lovin' at all--- The Eagles


Do you remember that night during our engagement? When we bought that Polaroid on a whim. A forty dollar purchase just so you could photogragh me nude. We could have waited because you knew you'd be buying a digital camera within a week or two. We were just so caught up in the moment. I'll never forget how you followed behind me on the way to the register, so close that I could feel your huge erection against my back. You couldn't wait to get me home. You couldn't wait to capture the fire in me that had awoken the fire in you.

Now that part of you, that passion beneath the shy exterior, sleeps once more. Or is it dead? I have grown weary of trying to ignite you with my spark. My tears are turning from frustration to mourning. I grieve for you. I grieve for the us we were when you still burned.

Sugar Daddy (sexual content)

I was originally going to try and pass this story off as fiction. Then I realized that was rather chicken-shit of me and decided to post it honestly.

I was twenty three and newly divorced. I had tried to make it on my own in Mississippi and ended up penniless with nothing but a couple of changes of clothing and a lot of heavy emotional baggage. My parents had come to the rescue, purchasing a one way plane ticket, a car for me to drive that I hated, and paying the back rent I owed for the shitty little one room hovel I was leaving in Mississippi. They of course, made me an itemized bill for their assistance, which I was to begin paying back immediately. I got a crappy job and an unfurnished one bedroom apartment and started trying to put my life back together. Shortly thereafter, I totaled the car they bought me and they were forced to buy me another, doubling the debt I owed them and making some huge hospital bills for myself at the same time.

Finding myself in a desperate financial situation (again) I took a job working the 11pm to 7am shift at a convenience store. Yes it was dangerous, but that shift paid extra and it didn't interfere with my day job... well except for the sleep deprivation but at that point I wasn't sleeping much anyway. I had been working there just a couple of weeks when this middle aged man started coming in and chatting with me regularly. At first I didn't think much of it. I was glad for the company and I figured if I was robbed and killed at least I wouldn't die alone. However, he eventually asked for my phone number and made it clear that his intentions were more than friendly. I was shocked and appalled. He was old enough to by my father for heaven sakes! I wasn't attracted to him at all. Still, he kept trying and his persistence was wearing me down.

He had a civil service job and worked the grave yard shift himself. Although, he seemed to be at the store as much as he was at work when I was on the schedule. Finally he came in one morning as I was about to get off and offered to take me out for breakfast. I was hungry. I had just emptied my checking account paying the rent and all I had in the kitchen at home was some sour milk and ramen noodles. I accepted his offer, if nothing else just to fill my stomach. Over breakfast he decided to plead his case. He insisted that I should give him a chance.

"Look," I said with a gentle smile. "You're a really nice guy and I appreciate your friendship but I just don't think we have enough in common to date."

"Oh really!" He replied with a hearty laugh and a wink. "I bet you and I could get along very well in certain areas. Have you ever been with any guy older than 25?"

"No." I admitted.

"Well then you don't know what you're missing Darlin'!" Russ informed me with a big grin. "But that's fine. We can be just friends. I love being in the company of a pretty girl. So, how 'bout if you let me take you out from time to time and I promise to be on my best behavior. It will be entirely platonic."

I watched him flip through the cash in his wallet to pay the bill and probably licked my lips at the sight of all that green. I wasn't sure what I was getting myself into but I casually said, "Okay." And so began my unusual relationship with Russ.

Soon we were going out regularly. He always took me wherever I wanted, the movies, dinner, shopping. He always seemed to know when I was broke and would stop by out of the blue with Chinese take out or groceries. Sometimes I felt guilty for taking his gifts but I took them anyway. Partly because I needed some of these things and partly because I was enjoying being spoiled. He was true to his word for a couple of months. He never asked for more than a hug.

Then, one Friday night after we'd both had too much wine at dinner his hug got a little out of line. His hands roamed from my back to my backside and he turned his face to mine and kissed me. My heart racing, I stepped away and reminded him of our agreement.

"Come now, what will one little kiss hurt?" He asked brushing my hair out of my eyes.

My mind was spinning from the alcohol and the kiss hadn't been bad, really. What the hell, I thought and leaned back in for more kissing. Within moments his hands had found all my hot spots. This guy knew all about touching a woman. He knew not to go right for the obvious. He touched my neck, my waist, the small of my back. It was like he was mapping me with his hands. I found myself shaking, my panties going from damp to soaked, reminding me that it had been far to long since I'd been touched by anyone other than myself. When I did not protest his warm caresses he began to unbutton my dress. Before I had time to think it over I was completely exposed and laying across the ratty old sofa that was also my bed.

He kissed me lightly from my head to my toes. Somehwere between moans I mentioned again that this was not such a good idea. He shushed me and then buried his face between my legs, lapping up my wetness with obvious expertise. The line was crossed and I couldn't think of anything but the growing tension in my pelvic floor and delicious tease and tickle of his tongue. I felt the orgasm well up inside me and I was so ready to let go, to come harder than I had in a long time, when he suddenly stopped.

I was breathless and confused as he hovered over me looking into my eyes. He was undoing his slacks and I knew what that meant but my urge to come was far stronger than any reservations I had. I looked him over again, the lines around his eyes, the silver hair, the obvious age difference made him seem authoritative. (Those of you who have read me from the beginning know how I respect authority, in fact there's a guest post buried somewhere in Jen's archives about this fact.)

"I think you've teased me long enough, little girl." Russ said in a steady, stern voice, his pants pushed down around his hips as he pulled his rigid cock out of his boxers.

It was the "little girl" that made my adrenaline really start rushing. It spoke to the submissive in me. I think my eyes probably went glassy at that point, my entire body was a live wire, I felt as if I would implode as soon as he touched me. I panted and most likely whimpered aloud in anticipation as he positioned himself between my legs. He rubbed the smooth, rounded, head of his dick across my clit and pushed it between my slick folds but not inside me. I had never felt so tortured. Even in all my crazy sex soaked days in Mississippi I'd never wanted to have a cock inside me so badly. I lifted my hips in an attempt to impale myself but he used one strong hand to hold me against the couch.

"You want that, don't you?" He asked, looking directly into my eyes, using that same even tone.

This level of sexual hunger was new to me. I nodded my head. Uncertain of how much I should really say.

"Tell me." He demanded.

I licked my lips and said in a hoarse whisper, "I want it."

"Not good enough!" He said with a wicked smirk and without warning smacked the side of my ass with the hand that was originally holding me still.

I'm sure I yelped out in surprise. I was a bit shocked that he'd dare to spank me the first time out but my excitement only grew. I had already slipped into that role, the innocent, the subservient. It was intoxicating.

"I want you to fuck me!" I said, louder than my original whisper, a bit more direct, as I was getting desperate.

"That's my girl," He said gently and with a grunt slowly began to push inside me.

Despite my extremely lubricated state it had been a long time since I'd gotten laid. It was a tight fit and his face gave away his enjoyment of the hot, snug, space. I was trembling all over, tugging at his hips, trying to pull him in. I was nothing but want at that point. I wanted to him deep inside me, I wanted it hard, I wanted to hear him talk to me in that controlled voice... I wanted to come. I begged for him to give me more, begged for him to fuck me harder and he did, all in good time. As I was coming, head back, obscenities flying, I heard his voice again.

"That's right, come for Daddy, honey.... good girl." It was a bit shocking I suppose. I mean you hear people say in that silly tone who's your daddy!? but this wasn't said in a silly way. It only intensified my continuous orgasm. I felt delirious as he reached his own peak. As if the whole situation was some drug induced fantasy. Still, as we rested and reality began to creep back in I was terribly embarrassed and angry at myself for letting this get so far. I asked him to leave and he did reluctantly, kissing me on the forehead and telling me he'd call the next day.

He did call the next day and we had a very long talk. I reiterated that I didn't want a relationship with him. I told him I thought we'd made a mistake. I was frightened by the power of that experience, the intoxicating effect. I knew I'd never be able to see him again without remembering and wanting more. He was calm and assured me it was nothing to be so freaked out over but he respected my wishes. He was calm because he knew I'd be back for more. He gave me his home, work and pager number and told me to call if I needed anything. I took the digits but swore I wouldn't need them.

I did call again, regularly, when I needed a nice dinner out, or a little extra cash to pay a bill, or if I just needed more of that inebriating sexual play. We became very good friends and I eventually welcomed his out of the blue calls and visits. He loved to take me shopping for clothes and would wait patiently in the big chair outside the dressing rooms for me to model my new outfits. Then in the mall parking lot, as we sat in the car, I'd give him a hand job or a blow job, just for the thrill of possibly getting caught by passers-by. Yes, it was also a thank you for dropping a couple of hundred dollars on something cute for me to wear on dates with guys my own age. When those same guys treated me like crap and I'd give them the boot, Russ would come over and indulge me in long bubble baths and back rubs. He'd let me bitch and moan about what pigs men can be and then he'd take me, like he took me that first night, making me come like no one else ever had.

It lasted for about a year and ended abruptly when I met my current husband. Russ was disappointed but understanding and called once in a while for the next few months just to make sure I didn't need anything. I suppose some would say this made me a whore. Call it what you like. We were two consenting adults who both got what we wanted and enjoyed every minute of it.

Halle-friggin-lujah

The new computer arrived shortly before 7pm and was delivered to the wrong address. I was actually glad for once that my in-laws are my nearest neighbors. They brought the box right over.

Because my husband is not the super genius he originally thought he was AND because he is sick again, (complete with 102 temp and sore throat) rendering him powerless, the new computer is not yet crammed full of the old computer's goodness. However, I have installed mozilla and set up the net connection so I am once again restored to my previous posting and reading glory. Well except for the crippling speed of dial up, which I've come to believe is my punishment from God for using the computer to download excessive amounts of pornography back in the good old days of cable modems and news groups.

Mr. Masters in Computer Science was too miserable and tired to give me a lecture on the proper treatment of this new laptop. Yet, when he handed it over to me he gave me a good scolding look and I think he actually delivered the lecture telepathically. It went something like this:

Do not drag this laptop all over the house when it is tethered to the wall by cables or cords. This is how you damaged the old laptop.

Furthermore, if you see you have damaged something please report the damage immediately instead of continuing to abuse the damaged computer until you've destroyed it.

No cooking near the laptop, heat from the stove top, grease splatters or wet spills are all BAD for the computer.

Don't eat breakfast over it. As I recall you ruined a keyboard on your first laptop this way.

No using the laptop in the bathtub. This is not safe for you OR the computer.

Do not throw the laptop. Ever. Not even a gentle toss onto the couch.

Don't leave it outside.

Don't leave it in the car.

Don't fuck up this one or I'll find you a big, ugly, used, dinosaur of a desk top and that will be your only connection to your precious blogs!

So, I have vowed to treat my new baby with more gentleness and respect. Well for the first few weeks anyway, until I get her broke in and the memory of my previous crimes begin to fade.

Happy Endings

Todays story goes like this:

I trudge back and forth through the new, much larger house, trying to keep it clean. While trudging, I step on a handful of leggos and then stumble backward into strawberry yogurt which had no business being on the floor in the first place. Discover that one of my husbands black dress socks has infiltrated the whites. Great, one more load of laundry, this time with bleach. What's that stench? The King of Hounds has tangled with a skunk. Country living stinks, literally. Give up on house. Turn on half dead computer and risk being electrocuted or seriously burned to read a few blogs and talk to some friends.

Later on, I make dinner while my daughter lays in the floor kicking and screaming. She wants Kidsongs rewound for the hundredth time today. But if I have to hear Kidsongs one more time I'm going to hang myself from the ceiling fan. So she keeps screaming. I greet the spouse who wants to know why am I abusing the child and turns Kidsongs on for the hundred and first time today. I briefly consider hanging my husband from the ceiling fan. Everyone is starving. I get dinner on the table but no one eats much. Apparently, Cheesy Pecan Chicken wasn't a big hit. Listen to husband complain that he only has four ironed shirts left in the closet. But you can only wear one at a time dear! He likes to have a big selection each morning. I briefly consider ironing the wrinkles out of his dick.

Now that I'm getting tired I chase a screaming, naked, cranky little girl into the bathroom. I wash her massive head of hair. I put her in a head lock and wash, yogurt, dirt, and dog hair from her sticky hands and face. Pajamas, milk, stories, "All the Pretty Horses" ...twice. Husband is watching "Saw" so I put on my head phones and let my MP3's drown out the hideous screaming coming from the TV. I Briefly consider taking a saw to husband. I sneak off to turn on the dangerously unrepaired lap top and read one or two more blogs.

I find the perfect post. I read, I smile. I smile harder. I get a bath, post this silly tid-bit, and go to bed happy.

Distance

Forbidden Fruit (sexual content)

*This was written in a hurry on Sunday during stolen time on my in-laws computer. They were at church which makes it even worse if you think about it. It was spell checked even more hurriedly Monday morning. I apologize in advance for typos and misspellings. In case you're wondering, this is a work of fiction, the characters are inspired but not real nor is it based on any true story.

Callie woke suddenly out of a deep sleep and looked frantically around in the dark at the unfamiliar surroundings. It took a few minutes to remember that she was not at home in her own bed. In the distance she heard the sound of another heavy hotel door slamming and the memory of yesterday, of last night, came flooding back to her. It had probably been foolish to agree to this. Of course, it had probably been foolish to contact him in the first place. Eventhough her first e-mail had been innocent, just a few words to say she appreciated his writing, she knew before she ever hit "send" that she was attracted to him. She knew she would be easily tempted if he returned her interest. Still, that was months ago and they had moved miles beyond that now.

She was facing the hotel wall and assumed he was sound asleep. She let out a deep sigh and thought about her husband at home and wondered how she'd ever let this happen. The answer came too easily. It had gotten this far in part because she was needy. Her marriage had been troubled and so had his. It was easy for two like minded, lonely people to turn to one another. The other part was all about him. His uncanny way of getting to her, his obvious passion for her, his brilliance, his dark fantasies that mirrored her own, all of it made him irresistible. She smiled despite the turmoil brewing inside of her head. Despite her guilt, despite the upcoming agony of his departure and the difficult transition of returning to her real life, she was happy to have finally laid eyes on him. She nearly giggled, thinking that she had laid more than eyes on him! Last night had been almost beyond words, it had been animalistic and twisted, yet tender and heartfelt, a bizarre combination of opposites that made her head spin.

She couldn't get back to sleep and turned to gaze at him only to find him already staring at her. She blushed and smiled.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked quietly.

"Long enough to know that you can't sleep." He replied and pulled her close.

His erection was immediately obvious, pressed hard into her thigh as they lay next to each other. Callie was learning to like his ability to give performance after performance. He was as insatiable as she she had always been, maybe more so. He kissed her neck and she could hear him inhaling, drawing in her scent as if he wanted to make it a permanent part of the olfactory center in his brain. Feeling his body so close and smelling their individual scents mingled with the sex soiled sheets was enough to bring her mind back from guilt and to the lustful moment at hand. Still, she was sore and exhausted from the evening's play. Even her mouth felt raw, and her jaws tired from hours of teasing and pleasing him with her mouth, from endless kisses and the occasional lip biting in an effort to keep the neighboring rooms from calling the front desk.

"I think I'm too sore everywhere." She confessed. Her mouth forming a pout to show her disappointment.

"Everywhere?" He asked, a devilish tone in his voice.

His hand slipped down her tummy and ran between her thighs to her already wet lips. She let out a small whimper as he touched her there, where she was so tender and sensitive. His hand moved quickly beyond her slit and she gasped as his now slick fingers brushed along the tight opening of her ass. His suggestion made her nervous. Not because she had never allowed anal play with other lovers but because she hadn't done this with him yet. She swallowed hard and thought about the heft of his cock now prodding at her thigh with its steel like hardness. She didn't know if she could take it but she wanted to try. Trembling she ran her hand down the length of his arm and pressed the back of his hand encouraging him to continue his explorations.

"Maybe not everywhere." She finally responded her voice shaking with excitement and fear all at the same moment.

With her approval he began to tease her most private opening. His mouth found her nipples one at a time, drawing them out again and her entire body was flushed pink, practically glowing in the darkened hotel room. Using the lubrication dripping from her swollen cunt he pushed first one and then two fingers inside her as she squirmed and wriggled with a mixture of self-conscious anxiety and pleasure. Using his free hand he stroked her now throbbing pussy. He continued to work with his other hand, moving his fingers in and out of her ass, slowly and methodically opening it to make room for his engorged shaft. As Callie's excitement grew her inhibitions were tossed aside and she began to hump back at his hand and moan openly. He let her lead the way, giving the cues to go further or slow down. Within moments she had turned herself over and raised herself up on her knees and elbows presenting her backside to him as if it were a precious gift.

"Fuck me," she pleaded. Her voice husky with desire, "fuck me in the ass, I want it..."

He didn't let her finish the sentence before positioning the purple head of his cock at her puckered hole. He let his hand slip across her pussy, coating it with hot juice which he rubbed along the shaft of his erection to ensure a smooth entry. He let the head breech her opening and she whimpered loudly relishing the feeling of being stretched out this way. He let her push back, taking it as she could, adjusting to the invasion of his hot, hard, dick. Callie was close to coming already. The new sensations, the thrill of exposing this part of herself to her new lover, allowed her to adjust quickly and all she wanted was more.

Sensing her readiness and feeling his own need rising up from within he began to thrust in and out of her slowly at first. He wanted to savor the intense heat and constriction of her tight little ass as long as he could before he had to let go. He wanted to make her come this way and he moved has hand beneath them and found her clit hard and waiting to be touched. She was over the edge almost instantly, her entire body spasaming and jerking beneath him, making her ass tighter and hotter. He gave in now, thrusting quickly and deeply, as she called his name, still lost in her own orgasm. She let him fill her ass with his cum, something she'd never let anyone do. She was so wrapped up in her pleasure it didn't occur to her to stop him.

As they headed for the shower, Callie's mind swirled with guilt and she felt suddenly shy, embarrassed by her wanton behavior. He noticed that she was looking away, that her blush was more than afterglow. He didn't make any attempt to talk her out of her awkward feelings. He knew all too well what she was going through. They were both wallowing in their carnal desires, giving in to months of temptation, and getting to know each other so intimatel. Still, they were betraying others to be true to themselves, to each other. It was as messy as the hotel bed they had been fucking on for the past twelve hours. They showered without much talk, washing one another as if they'd been together for years instead of hours or months. They went to bed back to bed with clean skin but dirty minds tying not to think of the impending sunrise.

The Grudge

My husband loves horror movies. He has a bit of a passion for them you might say. (He has passion for a lot of things other than me, now that I think about it but I digress) So last night he insists that I watch The Grudge with him.

I do not like horror movies. I am prone to insomnia and nightmares and therefore avoid really spooky stuff. I accidentally saw Poltergiest as a child and was traumatized for months. I had a clown and rocking chair just like the one in the movie. I never again allowed that dumb stuffed clown in my bedroom. The Grudge is, according to my husband, a remake of a Japanese film. He says The Ring was also a remake of a Japanese film. The Ring scared me out of my wits and kept me from sleeping for days. What is it with the Japanese? Someone PLEASE explain Japanese culture to me. Help me understand! Their porn is weird, there movies are creepy and I will NEVER fully understand anime.

Anyway, point is, I watched The Grudge last night. I got 3 hours of sleep which was riddled with horrible nightmares about the ghost things in that movie coming to get me. Then I stayed awake, jumping at every tiny sound afraid to turn off my bedside lamp. My husband finds this hilarious. I am sleepy and bleary eyed today and everytime I close my eyes I see that thing from the movie. *shiver*

Who's your blogger?

I've been working on the same damn sex post for two days now. Unfortunately, my computer constantly going in and out of working order has put a serious crimp in my writing style. My laptop is now in the hands of some repair guys about 120 miles away from here. So I am forced to post from another computer, a dangerous operation at best. You can't tap out creative pornography in the livingroom of your in-laws home while they slink around trying to catch a glimpse of what you are so intently typing.

I tried to catch up on my blog reading this morning, stopping at the important places. I should know better than to read the blogs of friends that I can't correspond with right now. I'm out of the loop so to speak. I can't IM them or even carry on a decent e-mail conversation. A quick comment can't really substitute for a question and answer session with the screen names you would normally see daily.

It's crazy really. The intense friendships and dependencies you develop in the blogworld are so real and at the same time unreal. Think about it. Everyday you read your blogs, you know the ones that make your mind race, your heart beat harder or even your erogenous zones tingle. The ones that stay on your blogroll no matter what, the ones where the writers have become real people to you and not just their haloscan log-in names. You start to feel like those words speak to you personally. As if the writer is sitting on your couch, or at your kitchen table, telling you their stories, pouring out their heart to you. Or maybe the writer is in your bed, whispering in your ear, telling you all the pretty lies and dirty things you've ever wanted to hear. You become attached. It's almost a love affair. On some level you're aware that this is just a silly blog written by some silly person you aren't likely to ever see face to face. Despite that awareness it's still one of your blogs.

Then one day you're reading through the comments at one of these cherished places and it occurs to you that this blog is cheating on you. That's right. Someone else has been with your blogger. Oh maybe the comment seems innocent on the surface but you, knowing this blog so intimately, know what the person commenting is getting at. Maybe you try to shake it off. Maybe you try to reason with yourself. You try to be logical. Of course, your blog is read by at least a hundred others. Of course those other readers enjoy and identify with your blog, just as you do. Still, the feeling of possession is hard to shake. I mean, think of all you've been through with this blog! Think of what you and this blogger have meant to each other! How could your blog be having such a close relationship with someone else?

I certainly hope you all know what I'm talking about. Otherwise you'll be leaving here today thinking, wow, Christine has finally lost it. I assure you I'm quite sane and exaggerating (a bit) for effect. I hope some of you feel that close to this blog. Although I'd hate to see you all fighting over me... no wait, I'd probably kind of like it. Just remember, when you're feeling all warm, safe and snuggly with your favorite blog someone else is probably reading it and feeling the exact same way! It's scandalous really. Blogs are sluts, they get intimate with anyone who'll pay them a little attention and they don't care who they hurt in the process.

Rambling with no direction...

The new powercord arrived yesterday but apparently the demise of the previous cord damaged something inside my laptop. It works for now but sometime later this week I'll have to hand it over to the repair people for god knows how long. Fear not. I will find a way to post or turn it over to guest bloggers while my equipment is out of order.

Speaking of things that still don't function properly, I have come to the conclusion that I should give up completely on having any kind of normal sex life. My bedroom has become the setting for a ridiculous comedy of errors. I could write a long and tearful post on my frustration and anguish but I won't. At least I won't today, tune in tomorrow or next week to see if I break down and once again, describe my heart break in vivid detail.

Commenting on Jen's blog yesterday I described being married with children as a tightrope walk. I've been thinking about how accurate that image really is. I am constantly struggling for balance here. If I indulge myself, whether it's going out to get a pedicure or hiding behind a locked door in the bathtub for an hour, that means that someone or something else must be neglected. If I ignore any of my needs, sexual or otherwise, I find myself depressed, distant, less patient and therefore less able to handle my responsibilities. Factor in the harsh realities of marriage and how difficult it is to keep a romance healthy till death do you part, and you have one precarious journey.

Powerless

The power cord to my laptop has been acting up for quite some time. It has to be held just the right way for it to actually work and it over heats and has to be unplugged before it bursts into flame. I finally convinced my husband to order me a new one yesterday. Just in time, apparently, because yesterday evening the cord stopped charging the computer and it went all melty complete with burnt electrical smells. It took all night and nearly an entire jar candle from The Yankee Candle Company to rid the kitchen of the stench.

A new cord is suppose to arrive Monday evening. Until then I'm running on the drop of juice left in the battery and the kindness of family members who'll loan me a computer with a modem. There maybe an audio post in my future. I'll even take requests. What would you like to hear me audio post about?

Damn Near Perfect

I just feel happy today. The sun is shining and it's 65 degrees outside. If you happen to be trapped in perpetual winter somewhere up north you should be green with envy. I'm watching my Father-in-law and a neighbor put up our fence. All the end posts are up and when I go down to the pond and look back at the house I can finally see the puzzle coming together.

I am totally enamored with this place today. The fresh air, the smell of earth as the tractor drills out the post holes, the sight of the pond through the pines, it's all breath taking. I now remember falling in love with this place the first time. That spring before I was married was glorious. Honeysuckle and rambling roses climbed every fence post. New calfs were everywhere, all velvety with shaking legs. I loved the bright green rows of newly sprouting peanuts and the tunnels created by old oaks as we bounced along red dirt roads. Even though spring is a few months off I sense it coming and I suddenly realize... I can be happy here.

I even love the way my dog seems to be more secure in his identity as a bagle hound (half bassett, half beagle) in this place. He's become quite good at tracking and flushing out rabbits, chickens, and anything else that isn't big enough to be a threat to his own hide. He's also become more protective and will put himself between my little one and a cow, tractor, stranger, or anything else he deems dangerous. He runs the property line, chasing the ATV's and my Father-in law's pick-up truck. Then, when he's thirsty he splashes into the pond with no regard for how wet and muddy he'll get and helps himself to a drink. He lays on the front steps all day like he's the King of Hound Dogs.

My life isn't perfect today. I smashed by big toe yesterday and not only does it look like a horror movie prop but it kind of hurts too. The power cord to my laptop is fried and I'll have to wait for the UPS man to bring me a new one. There isn't exactly a computer or electronics store within easy driving distance. Furthermore, I am still not getting laid. None of that is going to ruin this day for me. Besides, perfection is boring. I'll take complicated over complacent any day.

The Last Fat Woman Standing

Over the weekend while visiting a friend, her sister, who is a nurse, asked me to look at some photos. I wasn't sure why she thought I'd care about pictures of a stranger but I didn't want to be rude so I followed her to her computer. Now captive by her wishes I learned that the photos were before and after shots of a woman who had weighed about 300lbs and had gastric by-pass surgery.

For those of you who might not know about this procedure let me describe it as it has been described to me by people who have actually had the surgery. Basically, doctors surgically remove most of your stomach, leaving a only a very small pouch and then they remove a good portion of your intestines as well. The result is that you are unable to eat solid food for a long period of time and once you can eat solid foods (as your tiny new stomach stretches) you can only eat small portions. By small I mean tablespoon sized portions. Also, with part of your intestines missing your body no longer fully digests food, preventing you from absorbing fattening meals (as well as many nutrients.) Of course, you lose massive amounts of weight very quickly. It is essentially medically induced anorexia.

I didn't really need to see these photos since my own mother had this surgery a few months before my wedding. My aunt has recently had it as well, as have several other women I am acquainted with. The nurse seemed to think she was showing me the answer to all my problems.

"Isn't it amazing!" She gushed. "I mean look at her! She looks great! Especially since she's had the tummy tucks to get rid of the extra skin."

Losing that much weight so quickly tends to leave the skin saggy and stretched out. We have always called it a "skin sweater" behind my mother's back. (She hasn't had her tummy tucks yet.) I had to really curb my urge to smack the shit out of my friend's sister, the wonderful informing nurse who wanted me to know all about my weight loss options. As if no one had outlined these options to me before, seeing as how I've been considered obese since I was two years old. I am particularly offended by this new craze as I have seen the results in my own family. I can't help but wonder how it was decided that this form of mutilation, and that is exactly what it is, is the best way to deal with the medical and emotional problems that cause, or are created by, obesity.

"You know," says the now annoying nurse, "Insurance would cover this for someone your size. I can get you the name of a doctor in your area."

Having had about enough of her condescension I looked her straight in the eyes and said "I don't want to be thin that badly."

Now stumbling and looking confused, the nurse, who is no thin mint herself says, "Well I wouldn't do it to be thin either, I'd do it to be healthy!"

Right. Because there is just nothing healthier than being sliced open and a good portion of your digestive track removed in order to make it easier for you to starve yourself thin. Fortunately, I heard my mother use this excuse when she decided to have surgery. Now, 5 years later I know that she is no healthier. She still doesn't exercise, she still smokes a pack a day, she still has arthritis in her knees and she now has a whole slew of new health problems related specifically to her surgery. But she is thinner and what fat person in their right mind wouldn't want that? I mention to Ms. Nurse that my own mother isn't much better off for having this surgery, except that she now finds a wider variety of clothing available in her size.

The nurse, oblivious to her own stupidity then says, "Well, I am about 20 lbs too small to be considered for this surgery but I'm thinking of gaining a little so I can get it done, that's how great I think it is."

Tell me, does that sound healthy on an emotional or physical level to you? I am not going to get embroiled in a debate over the health risks associated with obesity or the prevailing attitudes among physicians and society at large regarding fat people. However, I will tell you this. I hate this surgery. I watched my mother go through the entire process. When she decided to have the surgery she told everyone that it was for her health. For the most part, everyone bought that. Afterall, is there anything more unhealthy and disgusting than a big fat person? However, she could not fool me. I knew that my mother hated herself and blamed her fat for all her problems. I knew her problems were rooted in her self-esteem, her smoking, her refusal to exercise and her age, from which she was desperately trying to escape.

Since her surgery my mother admits, privately but never publicly, that her surgery made her stomach small, but did not fix her mind. She still over eats. She will eat until she is sick with stomach pains, vomiting and diarrhea. She knows eating certain foods or too much food will make this happen. Still, five years after surgery she can't stop eating things she shouldn't. She has gained some weight back, but will stay relatively thin thanks to that whole intestinal by-pass thing. She'll also have to take weekly vitamin shots for the rest of her life to keep her hair from falling out and her body systems from failing. The saddest part? My father does not love her anymore than he did when she was fat and that's the result she really wanted.

What is my point here? Being fat has not destroyed my life. If you're wondering just how fat I am, let's just say I'm plenty fat enough to be a candidate for gastric by-pass surgery. It has never stopped me from getting laid, or falling in love, or being loved. It has never stopped me from getting a job or a promotion that I wanted as long as I was qualified for the position. I don't have to struggle to pull my fat ass out of bed in the morning and I don't get winded walking from the back of the parking lot into the mall. I do not have high blood pressure or any other problems usually blamed on obesity. Sure. I was teased as a kid and there are still people who say and do obnoxious things to me because I'm fat. Luckily, I learned long ago not to let that kind of stupidity define me. Am I as healthy as I would be if I weighed 100lbs less? Probably not. Nobody is perfect. Not even thin people. Do I have a problem with food? Obviously. I'd say I'm good an addicted to the stuff and that, along with some genetic predisposition has contributed to my voluptuous figure.

Despite my addictions and my size I have no desire to hurt myself some more by having someone carve away vital parts of me. I struggle with my personal demons daily. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose. I can do many things to improve my longevity that don't include being surgically starved. However, I have become concerned lately that I will soon be the last fat woman alive. Everyday I run into more people who have had or know someone who has had weight loss surgery. I know at least two people who have died from complications following this surgery.

People remark on the tragedy of this by saying things like "And just when she had finally got some of that weight off, what a shame!" or "Well, being so big would have killed her eventually anyway."

The sickness of obesity is larger than the obese people themselves. It extends to everyone who perpetuates the myth that to be thin is the only way to be healthy or that being thin is worth any cost. I wouldn't be surprised if this surgery was someday encouraged or required by HMO's for all people who are a certain amount over weight.

I say, get away from me with your scalpel! If you are offended by my gluttonous form look away but do not expect me to surgically alter myself to fit your definition of normal. To my obese counterparts, remember this: people will never value you more than you value yourself.

Betty Crocker Syndrome 2 (The X-rated version)

*A note from the author: After reading this over a couple of times I'm amused at my ability to be sickeningly domestic. It's even getting all tangled up in my sex stories. Oh well. I am what I am. Didn't Popeye used to say something like that?

I know, I know, I said I'd stop baking!” I say with a big guilty grin. “But I needed to make just one more batch.”

I have to make the oatmeal raisin cookies. I'm practically famous for them. I've given the recipe to all of our friend's wives. Well, I've given them most of the recipe. I can't be expected to tell them all my secrets. You stare at me openly, noticing little beads of perspiration on my forehead from mixing the stiff batter by hand. You see the rosy glow in my cheeks from the heat of the oven, it's similar to the blushing I do when you've got me worked up. You shake your head and smile, sliding behind me and wrapping your arms around my waist. Go ahead and tell me how much you appreciate the modern woman. I know, I don't have to be barefoot in the kitchen when you come home from work. I'm an educated woman, not to mention strong and confident. I could claw my way up the corporate latter with the same amount of effort it takes to mix up these cookies. Still, you've got to admit, there's something sexy about a woman in the kitchen. After all, they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Of course, I've always believed it's a couple of inches lower but if you can do both you'll win them every time.

You kiss the nape of my neck and ask for a taste. From the tone in your voice I gather it's not the cookie dough you really want to taste. I bat my eye lashes and play dumb.

“Here!” I say in a mock frustration, as if getting this next cookie sheet into the oven is a priority.

Turning around I shove a sticky, sweet, finger-full of cookie dough in your mouth.

“Mmmmmm.” Is your only verbal reply but your looking directly into my eyes with evil intent as you suck and then lick the dough from my finger.

Your tongue flicks across the fleshy tip of my pointer. You're making a rather vulgar suggestion and you know it. Without saying a word you've got me thinking about your tongue working my already wet pussy. Within seconds my arms are wrapped around your neck and you are kissing me, your sweet tongue slips around in my mouth as your hands find their way to the waist band of my jeans. You strip away my jeans and I kick them aside. As I watch you sink to your knees in front of me, I sigh, smile and lean my head back in anticipation. You find my lace trimmed, sunshine yellow panties damp with excitement. Pushing the crotch out of the way you taste me, teasingly at first, just barely tickling my wet folds with your tongue. Then your probing becomes more direct as I whimper and squirm and try to hold myself upright on shaking knees.

I am dizzy with lust and racing thoughts when you suddenly back away from me and start undoing your belt. I protest at first, wanting your mouth back where it was but then I see your cock, huge and straining against your pants. I watch with worshiping eyes as you unleash your erection, it is nearly purple and throbbing. I barely have time to get out of my t-shirt and bra before you are moving me into position. Your hands find the way to my hips and help me hop onto the counter. Mixing bowls and measuring spoons are shoved over, and the wooden spoon I had been using clatters to the floor as we begin. I am quickly impaled on your stiff cock and now your panting and moaning joins my own. I wrap my legs around your waist as we find the perfect rhythm. I lean back on my elbows so you can watch my face and see my beautiful breasts bouncing with each thrust. You lean in to suck each nipple, never missing a beat and I am filling up and spilling over with pleasure. As I come I stare into your eyes intensely. I want you to see me climax. I want you to watch my eyes dilate and then go soft and fuck drunk before you come too.

Momentarily satiated my cries return to soft whimpers and I begin to talk to you quietly at first, urging you on, telling you how fantastic you are. Then, as you fuck me harder and I feel you nearing the edge I get louder, calling you by name, begging you to come inside me. Your body tenses as you push inside one last time and your words are all but incoherent, except for my name and the announcement that you are coming.

You lean into me, resting for a moment. The oven buzzer is going off and the toasty smell of oatmeal and brown sugar is hovering over the sweaty, musky, sex smell of our bodies. Steadying ourselves I reach for an oven mitt and tell you I’ll meet you in the shower. I look over my shoulder and see you standing in the doorway, staring at me. Still naked, I bend over slowly in front of you and carefully open the oven. I think round two is about to begin.

One man's pet peeve is another man's pet...

I'm a long time fan of Gut Rumbles. I think it was one of the first blogs I ever read. Even when I don't agree with Acidman, I respect his blunt honesty. He put me on his blogroll sometime back and I was quite flattered. So when I read this post I had to laugh. I am rather surprised I ever made his list of Good Stuff, considering his pet peeves. I'm guilty of committing several of those sins! The typos, the misspelled words, the lack of grammatical skill, the habit of writing erotic fantasies. Furthermore, while I don't have a sexy "skin" on my blog I certainly consider myself sexy and I undoubtedly fall into the "Fat Wimmen" category.

I wonder if I am overlooking my personal pet peeves in the bloggers I read regularly. Maybe some of you are annoying me more than I realize?

*Update: I'm guilty of this one too! *

No rest for the weary.

I spent the last half of this weekend driving endlessly to attend a baby shower for a friend who lives in Florida. Last night I was so tired I couldn't even hold my eyes open long enough to turn on the computer. This morning my to do list looks menacing and includes taking the dog to the vet, shoe shopping for my squirmy almost three year old, banking, groceries, and a few other things that require me to be in the car all friggin' day.

*sigh*

All I want to do is sit by the computer with a cup of hot tea, catch up on my e-mail and favorite blogs and post something worthwhile. Priorities suck.

A thought...

I love it when you're lying in bed with a lover, basking in the afterglow. Maybe you're even thinking you need to get up and get moving but your partner looks at you and suggests one more time. Sometimes the best things get said in done in round two (or three or four.)

Not that I would know from my current situation... but I remember what that was like. I sincerely hope everyone who reads this has a moment like that over the weekend.

Betty Crocker Syndrome

I bake when I'm very upset and don't want to deal with my problems. In the past two days I've baked 3 dozen cookies, the hard way, no tube of refrigerated cookie dough has ever found it's way into my fridge. I've also baked 5 mini pound cakes. Not just any pound cakes, my secret chocolate buttermilk pound cakes. I had plans for spicy oatmeal raisin cookies and pecan pralines tomorrow. All to be given as gifts to the people who have helped us move. At least that's my excuse. Really it is just a distraction. A way to bide time. Finally, someone who knows me all to well, intervened.

"Stop baking!" The concerned party demanded.

Today has been a weird day. On the domestic front my little one was unusually wild and defiant today. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when her grandparents showed up and asked if she could go off with them.

"I'll get her shoes and coat!" I replied and shoved them all out the door before anyone changed their mind.

There have been some fucking fantastic moments in my day which I won't go into. They were followed by some awkward and then traumatic moments that I'm trying to forget and again will not go into here because I just don't want to dwell. I am tired but unsure of how to find sleep after a day like today.

I think I'll go slide into the smoothness of my new 300 thread count sheets (A gift from my Mom, a surprisingly well thought out and untacky one, actually.) and snuggle up to my pillows. I'll let that dreamy feeling wash over me and suddenly my pillow will be the lap of someone dear to me. The new fluffy, red and gold comforter will wrap around me to form protective arms and I'll breath out the day in a few heavy sighs. I'll let these songs in my head sing me to sleep and maybe tomorrow I won't feel so much like baking.

Insatiable

We aren't fighting about it really. I've said how neglected, ignored and hurt I feel and he rarely says anything so we're done talking about it. With each passing day I've become more saddened, more ashamed, more bitter towards him. So it caught me off guard last night when his eyes were so soft. When he actually saw my quiet tears and said he missed it too but...

but, but, but... more excuses, too tired, too sick, too depressed. The excuses make me livid, I am so fucking sick of every single one of them. I know this is selfish. I am concerned about his feelings, his physical pain, his mental funk, all of it. Yet, all I can do is cry and complain and throw daggers with my eyes as I rant on about how many weeks, days, hours it has been. I have delivered many monologues on how much I need, need, need and up until last night I really didn't think he was paying any attention to them.

His eyes were just so soft when he looked at me. "I love you." He said. I know he meant it. He always means it.

In bed he told me he had planned to ravage me. He had intended to attack me when I came home and show me how much he wanted me, needed me, the way I've been wanting and needing him. We all know the sayings don't we? The ones about best laid plans and good intentions? He apologized for not carrying out these acts. He explained he'd taken too much pain medicine, was too sleepy now, too woozy, he just couldn't.

I smiled sweetly. I kissed his face and told him it was okay. I'm sure he felt me trembling in an effort to control the emotions I was swallowing. Today I feel like a bitch. Those soft brown eyes just kill me. They remind that despite his shortcomings, despite the absence of sexual overtones, he loves me. I am a fool to always want more, something more passionate, or something more volatile, something more expressive. His tenderness should have been enough.

Take the money and run

There was a time when I was notorious for seeking escape when I was scared, depressed, stressed or angry. I remember some bad nights on the coast of Mississippi when I'd throw a few things in a bag, take every last penny out of my checking account and drive, drive, drive with no destination except away from my life. I'd ride like that for hours with the radio blaring, tears running down my face, swearing I was never going back. Usually, as the sun came up I'd realize I was in Florida or Louisiana and wonder what the hell I was thinking. I'd sleep in the car for an hour or two and then return home, just as hopeless and miserable as when I left.

There was also the constant moving. Until I got married to my current husband I moved to a new place at least every 6 months. As the seasons changed my latest small, shabby, dwelling, rented earlier in the year would seem like a toxic pit. I'd convince myself that if I could just get a change of scenery, a fresh start, if I could hide from the bill collectors who were relentlessly searching for my ex, then I'd be happy.

Having a child has ended that sort of reckless running away. She's my number one priority and she needs stability. Which means, Mommy can't pack her up everytime the shit hits the fan and drive a couple of states away. I still feel that urge though. When my husband and I have a terrible fight I have a tendency to pace around the house with my car keys in hand. There have even been times when I packed an overnight bag and thought about going somewhere (anywhere) to get away from that moment. I've never actually left. It's just an impulse I have when I feel like things are going all wrong.

So when my husband handed me 3 checks today, totaling over $12,000.00 (paycheck, proceeds from the sale of our home, ect.) and ask me to deposit them, I had one of those moments. For a second I wondered what would happen if I just cashed them and packed some clothes and drove off. Maybe somewhere up north because I've never lived anywhere above Tennessee. Maybe out west because I always loved the desert and the mountains of Colorado when I lived there as a child. It was a fleeting moment. I'd never do such a thing. I'll drive to the bank and deposit them as promised and then go grocery shopping. I'll come home and do the baking for the silly "Secret Sister" dinner this evening. I'll come home after the dinner and sing my little one to sleep before crawling in to my bed with my husband. I'll fall asleep with the same worries I woke up with this morning and not give running away another thought.