Drowning in the Green Heat

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

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

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

E.R.

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

What to do about insomnia (sexual content)

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

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

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

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

Panting and turning to face him, Mary smiled wickedly.

"Planning on going back to sleep?"

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

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

My Ten Feather Pillow and The Power of the Moon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Busy, sort of.

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

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

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

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

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

Scary Survey

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

Do you believe in ghosts or other paranormal activity?

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

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

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

True Love

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

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

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

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

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

If I could just stop thinking maybe I could sleep.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

Damn. Nowhere near 200 words.

Hiding Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freaked out Mom moment

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

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

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

Motherhood is not for the faint of heart.

Four mostly unrelated topics.

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

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

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

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

4 AM

Can't sleep.

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

Seducing Brandy (sexual content)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say what?"

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

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

"I think..."

"Say it, just say it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Idiosyncrasies (idea stolen from Jen)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fruity

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

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

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

Yum!