Safe

Head held high, I stride purposefully past his room, eyes fixed on the exit at the end of the hall. If I can make it there, I will have spent the day free of all contact with my bien aimé, free from the occasion of sin. I will be pure, redeemed, virtuous once more. There will be no sly glances or furtive caresses that make me burn. Today, there will be no hidden messages passed between us. His hands will not skim my body, and his lips will not tantalize mine.

The urge to pop my head into the doorway and wish him a good evening rises. A friend would do that, surely? Ruthlessly, I quash the impulse. A meeting reminder floats to the front of my consciousness – did he remember to send it out to our committee? Gritting my teeth, I shove the thought aside. Temptation to break my stride swirls around my head.

The teacher on the other side of the hall steps out and gives me a cheery wave. I smile at her and wave back, not speaking as in the quiet hall, the sound of my voice would ring like a bell, announcing my presence. Bearing silent witness, she walks alongside me to the next classroom and steps in to confer with another colleague.

Nearing the exit, I fumble with my keys, preparing myself for the maze of the parking lot. When they slip through my fingers and crash to the floor, I swallow the curse that flies to my lips. Heart pounding, startled by the loud noise, I scoop the keys up and hasten my steps, hoping that they didn’t betray my whereabouts. Nervously, I find the right key and hold fast to it as my other hand closes over the door handle.

Passing through the heavy double doors, my shoulders droop, seemingly exhausted from holding the burden of my guilt. My steps slow as I reach my car, and my breath comes heavy as a marathon runner’s as I twist the key in the lock. Slumped in the driver’s seat, I heave a relieved sigh.

Safe, I think.

Reflections

The atmosphere is celebratory, adrenaline pumping, partygoers smiling as the music crashes over us. Smiling up at my bien aime, I offer him a sip of my drink. He leans over and closes his lips over the straw, drawing deeply, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel his fingertips graze my thigh, then trace the curve of my hip. His lips, still wet from the drink, echo the curve when I move into the caress, nestling snugly into his side. In the mirror over the bar, I catch our reflection - we look right together, happy and affectionate. His hand, now at the small of my back, steers me toward the door. Bidding adieu to the chaos of the party, I willingly depart.

His fingers entwine with mine and tow me toward his car. In the darkened cabin, he leans over and lays his lips softly across mine. Sighing, I close my eyes and tip my head back, granting him fuller access to my mouth. Our lips meet and cling repeatedly, each time growing softer and sweeter. His arms encircle me as our mouths collide again and again, tongues playfully darting about. His hand rests on my cheek, tenderly holding me to him while mine is over his heart, clutching feverishly at his sweater. I cannot think past this moment, nor do I want to. I want to stay here in this place, where time and reality are suspended. I want to swim in it until I drown.

Yet trepidation comes, surely as the dawn, and I pull back and whisper my regrets. He pouts playfully, but gives me a small nod of resigned understanding. Tracing his index finger down the contour of my cheek, he whispers "go, then." Tripping the lock, I step out into the night, where a brisk wind cools my heated face and calms my ardor.

In the morning, I examine my reflection in my own mirror. I look the same as the woman at the party the night before. But how, I wonder, can I look so serenely unchanged when I feel so profoundly and fundamentally different?

Disclaimer

I feel as though, at this point, I should put up a disclaimer for those that know me In Real Life, and may be worried.

I have been indulging in a bit of creative writing recently, pulling some scenarios out of my ass from my imagination and embellishing them. As I am somewhat prone to hyperbole naturally, these scenarios are fraught with emotion and tension. Lucky for me, that's what I intended.

Do not worry about me. This is not my life. I am fine.

If you're really worried, call me. We'll chat.

Bien aimé

Amidst the rumpled sheets, I sit silently weeping, clutching the blanket to my breast. Years of neglect have led me here to this place, the despair clawing at my throat my constant companion. Years of being denied, rejected, and pushed away. Years of learning to be quiet, be accommodating, be grateful for what little affection my husband chose to show me. My nature, naturally submissive, put me here, trapped me in this conjugal cage.

I wince as I pull me legs up, the soreness between them evidence of my husband's earlier attention. Never one to waste a moment in idleness or in unprofitable activity, our morning's encounter was perfunctory and brutish. Awakening to his palpating hands on my breasts, I feel my nightgown being inched up my thighs. As his leg slides between mine, a prelude to the main event, I bestir myself to put my arms up, slowing his progress. My only protest silenced by a bruising kiss, more punishing than passionate, I feel him probing for entrance. Unprepared, tense, I set my jaw as the rhythm of the bedsprings attests to his efforts. At his finish, I feel relieved when he quickly rolls off and heads to the bathroom to perform his ablutions.

This is my reward, this extra attention, since I lost weight. From the earliest days of our marriage, our romance has waned until our infrequent unions became near-mythical in appearance. I always took the blame, somehow, for the lack - I was too heavy, I didn't cook enough to provide adequate sustenance, I asked for too much. Was I never satisfied? Was I a pervert, or a nymphomaniac? Did I have serious problems, or did I need therapy for my "addiction?" Sometimes, my hair was to blame after a visit to the stylist: it was too short or it was the wrong color. Other times, my housekeeping was faulty: how is a man supposed to feel romantic among all this dust? I would protest, feebly, that I wasn't always to blame, but somehow, wound up shouldering most of it. I paid lip service to the feminism of my forebears, but never really lived it.

My tears begin flowing as I hear his footsteps recede down the stairs, shouting his goodbye as he trundles off to the DIY superstore to fetch this or that for the house, his duty done for the month. Among the softness of the bedclothes, I feel my heart harden and sink, like a stone cast in a bottomless well. Feeling hopeless, a prisoner to my despair, I lay back against my pillow and try to order my thoughts.

No order comes, but instead the memory of a gentle hug from my bien aimé earlier in the week. Calmed, I head to the shower to wash away the ugliness of the morning. Is it any wonder that a spirit thus broken, revives under gentle attention? Wrong, certainly. Sad, certainly. But revived it is.

Rendez-vous

The work is tedious, but necessary. He reads the names, I type them, matching people in functional pairs. Periodically turning to check up when progress grows slow, I smile. Friendly, safe, I smile. Looking up, catching my eye, he smiles back. We work.

I lean over his arm and brush his hand aside with mine, to ostensibly check the spelling of a name I know as well as my own. Another group is made. His hand rests on my shoulder as he leans over me to check a pairing on the computer screen. Poring over the same papers, faces close, we work. But all too soon, our work is completed. Following him down the hall to retrieve our printouts, I feel each step like the condemned prisoner marching to the electric chair, for once collected, the printout will signal the end of our meeting today.

I walk back, copy in hand, and place it carefully in a special folder marked with the reason for our rendez-vous. Slowly, delaying, I slide the folder into my bag, looking up to find him close. Wide-eyed, we exchange hopeful banalities about how we anticipate our work will help the targeted population. I struggle to hold up my end of the conversation, as it is increasingly difficult to concentrate over the "Touch Me" playing a screaming refrain in my head.

Abandoning all pretense, I take a slow step toward him. Careful to read his signals, I tingle with suffused pleasure as, almost shyly, he opens his arms. Stepping flush against him, I cannot say whether my smile is pure or predatory, and I do not care. Wrapped in his arms, pressed firmly against his body, my spirit feeds on the sensation. I feel the warmth of his cheek against mine. I feel his breathing hitch as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I feel his hands sliding down my back to settle in the hollow of my arched spine. I feel the press of his palms as they slide around my hips, and the brush of stubble as his lips close quickly over mine, the barest contact made, the chastest of kisses stolen.

"You're so bad," be murmurs, slipping his fingers into my front pockets and tugging me further toward him. Not even considering my typical demur, as this phrase has become part of our code, I duck my head, giving him a sidelong glance, and drawl "yes." My smile, no longer safe, stays steady as I slide my own palms down his shoulders, resting briefly on his biceps, before stepping reluctantly away.

Yes, I'm bad. I'm bad for wanting this, for encouraging this, and for allowing it. I'm bad for being tempted and tempting in return. Most of all, I'm bad because, selfishly, I want this dalliance more than I want the relationship I've vowed to keep forever.

Looking into his eyes, I wonder just how bad do I dare to be?

Pas de Deux

And so it begins: idle chitchat, casual touches, glances through lowered lashes. Excuses are made, pretexts are found, giving us a reason to visit one another. Small details of our lives are exchanged, words becoming codes within our growing intimacy. Rules are sidelined, restraint is abandoned, and judgment becomes a casualty in a momentary lapse.

To the depths of my soul, I feel the shameful thrill of it. Unexpected, yet accepted, I revel in his attention. His hand in my hair and his lips on mine anchor me as my consciousness soars, expanding with each indrawn breath and soft whisper. Emboldened, my hands roam and they are rewarded when his do the same. Learning the planes of his body, as he learns mine, I discover the sensitivity of his nape, the strength of his shoulders, and the give of his earlobe between my teeth.

I feel powerful and vulnerable, generous and greedy, wanting and wanted - the balance of emotions keeps me from exploding in sweet frantic joy. Were circumstances different, committments unmade, the outcome would maybe have been sweeter. But unrequited and unfulfilled, we separate.

In the bright light of day, there is guilt, but no recrimination. There is no fault or blame assigned, no accusations hurled. There is acceptance, fleeting regret, and mutual agreement that our indiscretion was a mistake. There is still yearning, but we scruple to squelch it.

Now, we dance. We waltz in tandem, tiptoeing delicately around our attraction. We move toward one another, sidestepping and shuffling around the pull we feel, still eager for even the fleeting contact of the dance, yet wary of where it may lead. Unwilling to give up this small pas-de-deux, we still live the pretexts and invented reasons, soldiering on with our work, squashing our feelings. We fight to hide it, even from ourselves, yet still, we dance.

Mmmm, pizza!

What Your Pizza Reveals

People may tell you that you have a small appetite... but you aren't under eating. You just aren't a pig. You are a very picky pizza eater. Not any pizza will do. You fit in best in the Northeast part of the US. Your taste in food tends to favor what's rich and comforting. You prefer food that will definitely satisfy you. You are dependable, loyal, and conservative with your choices. You have many conflicting and complementary layers to your personality. You should consider traveling to Australia. The stereotype that best fits you is geek. You're the type most likely to order pizza to avoid leaving your computer.

What Does Your Pizza Say About You?

Ok, so here's the deal:

1. My appetite has been forcibly reduced. So, I'm not so sure about how accurate that first one is...

2. Picky? I prefer discerning. Northeast? Hell, yeah!

3. Rich & comforting - I reiterate, Hell Yeah!

4. Dependable, loyal, conservative?! I'll take the first two. I prefer to use the term "classic" in place of conservative.

5. I like Australia. I'd love to go.

Thanks to Hube for this one.

Bad Grammer makes me [sic]

Yes, the misspelling was intentional.

I saw this on a T-shirt and had to quote it, as it seems to be a recurring theme in my life.

Why is it that people cannot seem to spell the word "lose?" It seems that every time I visit a certain Weight Loss Surgery support board, somebody is misspelling this very simple word. Here's an example:

"I want to loose 100 pounds."

No, you don't want to loose them. You want to lose them. Your pants get loose when you lose weight. It's not a hard concept, this spelling thing.

Also, there, they're, and their. To quote one of my favorite cartoon characters, "AAAAAUUUUGHHH!" I learned to differentiate between these three words in third grade. Gettensie ein grip, folks. "Where are the children? They're over there, with their friends."

Oh, wedgie update - I lasted the night, but haven't tried again. It was traumatic.

Wedgie!!

I'm currently fighting to keep a wedgie.

Yes, you read that right - keep a wedgie.

You see, I'm trying to build up a tolerance to wearing thongs. I detest a Visible Panty Line, yet cannot tolerate the feeling of cloth wedged betwixt my buttocks. Mistakenly, when I was last purchasing undergarments, I picked up three pairs of lacy brazilian-cut boyshorts. They are ridiculously sexy - if buttocks are your thing, and they are NOT the WCM's thing unfortunately - as well as ridiculously uncomfortable.

Yet, I persevere. I want to wear them, but am just not sure that I'm cut out to sport this fashion.

It's been 39 minutes since I put them on. If you pray, pray for my ass.

Retail emporia

I am a shopper.

For those who know me, this is decidedly not news. I have shopped my way through good times and bad, solved crises in the discount stores, and soothed myself with many a bargain. It is a skill that I learned at my mother's knee beside my mother's shopping cart. Part of me will always be comfortable at a mall. Over the years, though, it seems that certain rules of deportment have ceased to be observed at the various and sundry retail emporia that I frequent. Allow me to offer a refresher course:

If you are a stroller-wielding psycho-mom, please refrain from swerving wildly in a crowd. No one likes being kneecapped by your ginormous child-carrying SUV. While we're on the subject, is that monstrosity on wheels entirely necessary? What happened to the unobtrusive umbrella stroller? Must you take up the entire aisle in already crowded stores with your unwieldy contraption? Just do us all a favor, please, and watch where you're going?

If you are a couple of power-walkers, just die, ok? You're in a fucking mall, not the track. Allow the rest of us mere mortals to perambulate at normal speeds without you tailgating. And while you tailgate, you can cease and desist with your condescending huffing and puffing - we both know it has nothing to do with the great speed you're traveling and has everything to do with the fact that my 6-year old and I are moseying along in front of you in complete disregard to your athletic endeavors. Six year olds don't move very quickly, especially when they're as shrimpy as mine, so go suck someone else's oxygen. If you keep tailgating after this, you're going to get another suggestion of things you can suck.

If you are the unwashed teenage mall rats, well, just comb your hair and wash your face. I really can't complain about you too much, except to say that you're aesthetically unpleasing. I mean, well, I could complain about you, but that would be really the height of hypocrisy. I could say quit polluting my airspace with your foul language, but hey, fuck that, because I've been known to drop more than the occasional F-bomb. I could say that your idea of what passes for acceptable attire is questionable at best, but my fashion choices have not always been sartorially sound. I could also say that your time would be better spent cracking open a textbook and doing some homework, but alas, I too am at the mall procrasturbating. So, basic personal hygiene is the best I can recommend - master it.

Lastly, if you are one of the spasmodic cretins who swerve wildly from one aisle to the other with blatant disregard for even the most basic of traffic patterns, and you know who you are, bitches, go back to New Jersey and learn how to drive before you come across the border to shop in my state.

Thank you all for coming to this course in shopping etiquette. It couldn't happen too soon, as the holidays will be upon us, and you all know what that means. No? It means that whatever poor bastard doesn't heed my instruction here today is going to get clotheslined or cold-cocked if their transgressions occur within my reach.

Dad, Incognito

My father is akin to a deer in the headlights when it comes to technology. Luddites look upon him with fond condescention. Yet, he usually gives pretty good advice.

Going incognito was his suggestion, although the way he made it was precious. You see, he'd heard a radio program which extolled the perils of posting personal information on such interfaces as "MySpace" or "Facebook" and how such information could be viewed unfavorably by prospective employers and such. I agree with him, basically. He knows I have a blog, and did indeed stumble upon it at its last address. He cautioned me to:

"be careful about what you put on that MyFace thing you have."

Yes, Dad. I'll be careful about what I put on MyFace.

Such a sweetie.

Incognito

I had to move, go underground, be incognito.

People found me. They shouldn't have.

I want to be able to write about those that make me peevish, even if I don't use their names.

If you're one of them, look out.

Many bits of great stupidity

These days, my life has been filled with myriad bits of great stupidity. You know the kind. If this were a beer commercial, these random bits of jackassery would have their own backup singers screeching their praises. So as not to have my head explode with the sheer mind-boggling idiocy of it all, I've decided to share. Pull up some popcorn and enjoy.

A colleague that doesn't understand the insular world in which we live

People who overuse jargon, catch phrases, and buzzwords

A few people that irritate me very much. A lot. Extremely.

Oatmeal cookies - less is more

I edited this post, as I really don't want anyone from school reading what I wrote. It was ill-advised. I'll tell you all about it if you ask me, though.