Amputating

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Bad Addiction (sexual content)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think I have the worst headache of my life.

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

Reluctant prose about a cheap dress

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

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

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

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

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

Love Hurts

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

~Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overlooked

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

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

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

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

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

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

Libraries

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he was interested in me romantically after all.

A Poem

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

Waiting

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

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

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

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

HELL-thy

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

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

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

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

*Sex is the official methadone for food addicts.

Marital Relations (sexual content)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Update

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

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

Icarus

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

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

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

Distortion

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

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

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

Escape from The Rural South

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

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

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

Long Distance (sexual content)

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

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

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

“"Hello.”" Amy had answered, trying to keep her tone calm in case it wasn’t who she expected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sleep

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

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

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

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

Now where was I?

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

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

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

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

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

My rich fantasy life is still my favorite outlet.

Another delay

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

Intermission

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

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

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

The Sex I Wish I Had

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

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

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

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

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

I lied.

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


Part One: The sex I had.

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

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

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

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

My apathetic account of the weekend

Saturday was consumed by the mother of all birthday parties. It went off relatively well and my little one is now officially three years old.

Beyond that there is nothing to write about the weekend. Oh, I could write. I could write a fucking novel about the never ending battle for intimacy in my marriage or the painfully confusing attempts at communicating with my husband about the same issue but I'm sick and tired of writing about it. In fact I am sick of writing about sex at all. The sex I've had, the sex I wish I could have, the sex I imagine other people having, all serve as a frustrating reminder that, try as I might, I can not get this one part of my life to bend to my will.

Sunday afternoon while my daughter napped and my husband entertained himself with 4 seasons of Sealab 2021, I fell into a deep, depressed sleep. I shouldn't have been tired but the entire day up until that point had been a struggle and my mind desperately needed to be blank. I curled up on the couch and just gave in to my own inner darkness. I woke up three hours later.

"You looked so peaceful, I hated to wake you." My husband told me sweetly.

He made no mention of the days events, not even a comment about the oddity of me sleeping for hours in the middle of the day. I smiled weakly and rubbed my eyes. It's so like him to pretend nothing is wrong. It's so like him to offer up that quiet and tender affection as a consolation price for losing yet another bit of territory in the war for passion.

I bucked the fuck up and moved on with the day. Dinner, dishes, bath and bed for the Birthday girl. I eventually got what I wanted. Sort of.

Matters of life or death

I don't usually get into serious political debate here. Mostly because any opinions I could bolster would be tempered by the admission that I care more about the debate of such matters than the actual advocacy of one position over another. None the less, a book I've been reading kept me awake and thinking most of the night about government accepted or endorsed killing. The book was Meals To Die For, a look at death row through the eyes of an inmate in the Texas prison system. The author worked in the prison kitchen preparing last meals for those condemned to die. My first thought when reading the introduction was that like everyone the writer seemed pretty set in his opinion of the death penalty. An opinion undoubtedly shaped by his own tangle with our legal system. Still, I read past his personal belief and tried to glimpse the reality of our justice and penal system when it comes to executions. As usual, I found more questions than answers.

I am inclined to think that the death penalty is the only realistic solution for dealing with cold blooded killers. Violent criminals who are, for one reason or another, beyond rehabilitation have no place among us. Their life is not worth the many lives they have taken and will take if they have the chance. I suppose we could lock them in up in prison for the remainder of their natural lives. This really isn't much of a solution either, since they can and likely will kill in prison as well. (I'm not just talking about other prisoners here, I'm talking about guards, medical staff, chaplains, ect.) Not to mention, there is always the chance that they could escape. Forgive me for saying it but I also feel reluctant to see tax dollars spent on feeding an housing people that are so dangerous they can not be allowed back into society.

Unfortunately, I can not think of a simple and easily applied formula for deciding which killers are deserving of disposal and which are not. Then there is the unpleasant fact that our justice system is far from perfect and while it often allows the guilty to go free it also allows some innocents to be convicted. I have no doubt that innocent people have died at the hands of the state after a jury failed them and sentenced them to death. Still, life isn't fair and in every task humans undertake, a margin of error is to be expected. This does not mean we can or should stop trying to provide justice.

I think what disturbs me most about the death penalty is the idea that is anything more than taking out the human trash. It is obviously not a deterrent to violent crime. Anyone arrogant enough or disturbed enough to commit premeditated murder is not likely to be considering the consequences of their actions. Nor is it a reasonable punishment, since a nice comfy death by lethal injection is a pretty light debt considering the heinous nature of death penalty crimes. If only the victims had gotten off so easily. If only the victims families could have such peaceful sleep as that offered by the death cocktail given to the condemned prisoner. With this in mind it's not even a satisfying form of revenge. If my daughter was brutally murdered, watching her killer die peacefully like a dog being put down, would hardly comfort me. The best I could get out of it would be the knowledge that he or she would not kill anyone else's baby.

The people who are possibly most "punished" by the death penalty are the family members of the murderer. Everyone is someone's baby, or someone's daddy or mommy, someone's brother or sister. They will live with their loved ones crimes on their shoulders, they will suffer the same horrible loss as the victims family. Is it really fair that the mother or child of a killer receive a more painful sentence than the killer himself?

If asked outright if I supported the death penalty I would have to say, yes. Some people are beyond saving. Some people are too dangerous to be stored until their natural appointment time with a higher power. However, I admit that our methods of choosing who deserves this fate are seriously lacking and that the death of these prisoners is hardly a victory for anyone. It is simply extermination. Killers are like poisonous snakes or diseased rats. You can cage and feed them but given the chance they'll bite.