Endings

I've never been so happy to see a month end. This past November was one of the worst months of my life, and I've lived a few doozies, let me tell you.

I missed a very important deadline in the academic world, thus ending my streak of always having my grades in on time to date. I was officially called upon the carpet for it and have officially apologized to parents and students alike. Safe to say, I will never make that mistake again.

Also ending this month was any free time that I ever had - now with another person hanging around the house, an adolescent person who needs a ride to and from work, swim practice, and school, I've found I've less time to indulge in my afternoon winding-down rituals.

Scarily, almost ending this month was my marriage. For nearly 20 years now, my union with the WCM has been stable - boring at times, irritating as sand in your swimsuit at others, but always stable. It was rocked hard this month, and the sad part about that is that he doesn't even know it. Suffice it to say that I should have a fucking Oscar on my mantelpiece for the acting that I can do. Believe me when I tell you that he knows what the problem is. He just doesn't know the magnitude to which it affects me. I've told him. Repeatedly. He just. doesn't. get. it.

Lastly, a few of the illusions I've had about myself have ended. I've had the chance to look clearly at myself in the mirror and examine the parts of me (physical and not) that have been giving me agita for a while. I've accepted that I'll never wear a bikini, but that I can look damned sexy with the right lingerie. I've accepted that I'll probably never find what I'm looking for within my marriage, but I don't know what I want to do about that at this point. I've accepted that I could and should work a little harder at my job, but am not sure what I'm going to have to give up in order to do that.

So many endings without subsequent beginnings. No wonder November was bleak.

Small Change

Standard disclaimer: not my real life, this is a strict work of fiction, from the fertile and twisted brain of a very horny woman...

Usually I am the dominant one - the one who cannot sit still or wait to touch. I approach, reach out, capture and still with my body. Impatient to feel, craving the silken burn of his hands and lips, I rush to begin and take the aggressor's role. Rarely is satisfaction so pleasingly wrought as when I work for it thus. The control of it calls to me, the power and mastery of the situation fulfill me. Almost as rewarding as my own climax is the knowledge that I caused another's.

This day, though, he made me wait. Not physically restrained, but held off by his regard and posture, I waited, wondering what lay unsaid between us. Head to the side, I stood in my delicate heels, attending his desire. An eyebrow arched, a devilish smile, his hands lifted and caged my jaw, angling my head and drawing me forward to meet his mouth. One hand slid further into my hair, firmly anchoring my mouth to his. The other hand traced down my back, pulling me closer to his promise of pleasure. My own hands flew to his shoulders, seeking balance, and searched for his shirt buttons, fumbling ineffectually at my attempts to uncover his body. Breaking the kiss, shaking his head, he murmured a playfully disapproving "no." He slid his hands around my waist and untied my dress. As it unfolded and slid noiselessly to the floor, he slipped my lacy camisole over my head, tossing it carelessly on the puddled dress.

He stepped back to survey his work, and I ducked my head and fought to keep my hands by my sides instead of crossing them protectively over my scarred midriff. Two fingers on my chin raised my face. his gentle "stop it" rang loudly through my head - loud enough to straighten my spine and square my shoulders. "We'll keep the heels," he stated decisively. "Everything else goes." My eyes, shocked, flew up to his. Never had I bared myself completely to him. I had always covered part of myself. My fingers trembled as he stepped behind me to unhook my bra. As it slithered down my torso, he cupped my breasts from behind, feeling their weight, teasing their sensitive tips with his thumbs. My head fell back against his shoulder as I absorbed the caress. his lips cruised my shoulder up to my ear, leaving a tingling trail that tightened those peaks further.

His palms flattened on my ribcage and slid inward and down, firmly pressing my soft abdomen, feeling the scarred ridges left there, holding me immobile. As his one hand quietly made its way under the elastic of my panties, the other cupped my jaw and twisted my head, granting him access to my mouth. I welcomed his tongue as I welcomed his long fingers, both thrusting inward, invading my body. My hips gyrated with the rhythm he set, brushing his hard length behind me. I sagged back against him as he withdrew his fingers, but jerked upright when he knotted his hand in my lacy underpants and ripped them from me.

"The bed," he muttered and tilted his head toward the snowy duvet, soft as a cloud. Not sure of his intent, I perched my bottom on the edge of it. "Further back," he instructed softly. I watched, fascinated, unsure, as he sat on the edge of the bed and slid his hands from my ankles to my knees. As he parted them, arranging them akimbo, I fell back, supporting myself on my elbows. The delicate, tentative swipe of his tongue against my most sensitive flesh raised gooseflesh and pulled a moan from deep inside me. Murmurs, pleas, exhortations to the supernatural passed my lips in no random or coherent order. I could only feel his mouth and hands on me, lips sure and firm one second, soft and tender the next, slowly building the pressure within me.

The burn began at my knees, slowly surrounding me in torpor. The slide of two long fingers inside me released the burn, and it streaked like wildfire up my legs, coalescing at the juncture of my thighs. My head thrashed on the pillow, my body convulsed helplessly, consumed completely by the stark, sheer pleasure he brought me. As I regained enough strength to lift my head and peer down at him, I saw more of that impish devilment in his eyes and wondered idly what more he could have in store for me...

Switcheroo

Typical - I say it's slow these days and all of a sudden, I've got loads of backed-up writing pouring out of my brain... Standard creative writing disclaimer...

*****

He needs me, and he hates that he needs me. I represent his weakness, his craving for closeness and comfort, his pent-up desire, and his neglected wants. I am his shame and satisfaction clothed in flesh. He alternately turns to me and spurns me, as his shame waxes and wanes. I can read it in his eyes when he comes to me, in the stance of his naked body as he stands still and waits for me to approach.

I know that he thinks of his wife when he closes his eyes. When he feels my touch, I know he wishes it were her fingers trailing along his skin, her lips teasing his nipple, her teeth gently nipping his thigh. My body becomes hers when seen in his mind's eye, and he resists touching me intimately, confining his hands to safe areas where there are no obvious differences - my sides, the flat of my back, the swell of my calf. He comes to me because she won't give him what I willingly surrender.

Even though his touch is neutral, I still receive pleasure in his embrace. It's a twisted pleasure, though, more mental than physical, though the physical is intense. It's a triumphant fist in the air ever time he throws his head back in ecstasy. It's fireworks exploding on the Fourth of July when he groans my name. I celebrate the fact that I can produce that euphoria, that I can bring him to that peak, as my own husband finds little use for my talents.

For my husband, I am a figure, a symbol. I am a wife and mother, no longer a lover. Our trysting days are long past. The tender explorations of our courtship have been long since relegated to memory. I am the drudge that cooks and cleans. I hang his laundry and do his shopping, my womanhood sacrificed on the altar of his comfort. He wastes no affection on me. Weeks will pass without a kiss, the merest sign of matrimonial contentment, let alone anything greater. Sex requires too much time and exertion more fruitfully spent on other activities.

And so we close our eyes, my lover and I, each yearning for the ones who vowed before God and Man to have, hold, and love us until death do us part to do exactly that. We close our eyes and have each other in the way that lets us both stay in those marriages. Sweet kisses temper the bitter truth that a marriage can last longer than the love that inspired it.

Perhaps the last bit of creative writing you'll see from me

So, I've been fiddling about with this creative writing for a while now. It comes in fits and starts - more fits recently - and this whole "bien aime" business has gotten a bit stale. So, I'm fictionally saying goodbye to him. I had this strange epiphany about it at Target the other day when I was trailing Miss Peanut around the dollar section, watching her select bits of cheap tat on which to spend her allowance and thought that, you know? it was really time to be done with this.

*******************

Crying doesn’t help. It doesn’t take away the humiliation, the feelings of failure and inadequacy, or the helplessness you feel at being unable to smile. Crying doesn’t remove that nagging ridicule gleefully dancing a malicious flamenco on your psyche with its pointy stiletto heels. Crying resolves nothing, fixes nothing, and helps no one.

Finger-pointing is equally unproductive. After all, I am the only person in the room. I am the guilty one: guilty of prolonging the affair long past its viability; of placing more value on it than it deserved; and of assuming too much about my place in his life. Granted, I didn’t act alone, but there is no one but me who can take the blame for my actions.

I was the one that initiated our trysts. I was the aggressor. I sought him out when I felt lonely, and hinted, intimated, slowly seduced him into my arms. If he had qualms, I crushed them. I inveigled and invited, drawing him to me with promises of pleasure. What he needed to hear from me, I willingly told him, though, in my heart, I didn’t always mean it. I schemed for this man. I had to have him. And, for a short while, I did have him.

I loved sliding my arms up his back while I kissed him, feeling my neck stretch as I tipped my head back for his lips to join with mine. Feeling so small, so tiny, next to his tall strength was a gift I’ve never before had. I would breathe in his scent – spicy, fresh, male – as I dropped kisses on his chest and feel intoxicated by it. The softness of his lips as they twisted with mine made me shiver with need, and the silken swipe of his tongue anywhere was enough to raise gooseflesh.

Later, pulling groans from him as I used my mouth to tease his proud member or sheathing him inside me to ride astride, I would feel triumphant, powerful. He filled me completely, with not a fraction to spare. Pushing, grinding, swirling my hips produced twin moans from us both. His strained exhortation to slow down would drive me to use my hand to gently massage my own proud flesh so that we could finish together. Rocking slowly, incrementally, I teased myself with him, loving the friction and his sheer size, waiting for the moment when I felt the wildfire begin to coalesce at my knees. Streaking its way towards the point where my hand would be working, it bathed my whole body in its fulminating warmth. Stars exploded behind my eyes as I collapsed, helpless, on his chest where his final shout still reverberated.

But no more do we meet. No more do we talk. All communication is ended, and I am bereft. Our orbits, which once intersected, are now completely separate. Part of me feels discarded, left behind, destroyed. The greater part of me, though, feels resigned and calm, even. That is the part of me that believes that I can move on from this. That I can learn from it. That someday, I will no longer be sad that this part of my life is over, but will instead smile because it happened.

Communique from Cookie Central

Hello everyone! I'm still alive, but I'm baking cookies and not to be disturbed. So far, I've made Fudge Drops (a new recipe, and OMG yummy), Russian Tea Cakes, and Gingerbread People. I've got another couple of batches of yumminess still to go - Chocolate chip, Peanut Butter blossoms, Pretzel Snaps, and Iced Butter Cookies.

Can I just say here that this level of holiday baking is decidedly NOT NORMAL for me, and I'm wondering where it's all coming from psychologically? I've even managed to keep my hands out of the cookies, except for the obligatory Quality Control check from each batch. This is also NOT NORMAL for me.

Hmmmmmmm. Pondering... Could it be? Perhaps?

Sublimation?

The Return of my Bien-Aime

Disclaimer: this is not my real life. I've been reading so much, er, fiction, recently, that I have to have an outlet. This is it - my fiction. Enjoy it or run screaming from your computer screen. Either way, it's better than that pic of Bourdain that I had up here for a couple of weeks...

It has been a while, and we are awkward as we negotiate our encounter. Who is responsible for making the first move? Who is the taker and who is the taken? Questions, second-guesses, the uncertainty begins to set in as no one will move. In the end, it is more than I can bear, and I step up to him, a silent plea in my heart for his response.

The softness of his lips against mine is like balm on my soul. Gently catching and parting, we communicate our desire through their tentative and tender movements. Our eyes are closed as our mouths mesh and meld, blinding us as we slide our eager fingers over one another’s familiar contours.

Mine is the first moan to escape, as my spirit flies free and wild, exulting in the joy of being wanted. His follows soon after, as my hand cups him boldly through his jeans. I topple my bien-aimé back onto the bed with a grin. Shoving up his shirt, I busy my mouth with dropping open-mouthed kisses on his stomach. His sighs as I press my face to his abdomen are sweet to my ears. My fingers slide further up under his shirt to sift through the hair on his chest, raking a flat nipple. Leaving a damp trail, my tongue skims up the ridge of his ribs to toy with that nipple, provoking a stronger response – a groan pulled from his throat is my reward.

Eyes open this time, I straddle his hips and lean in for a blazing kiss. Tongues that were timid earlier are now venturesome, and strain against each other, twisting in the passion now ignited. His mouth is delicious, minty and male, but it is a different taste that I crave today. Gliding my mouth south, pausing to leave my invisible mark here and there, I feel his body jerk as I imprint a soft kiss at the crease where his leg meets his groin, just visible above the low waistband of his jeans. Almost gleeful in anticipation of his reaction, I undo the button and zipper, and smooth my hands down his thighs as I smother my smile low in his stomach.

Ah, my bien-aimé, it is good to have you back.

Delving deeply into TMI territory

Ok, so here's the thing: apparently, as women age, certain areas of our bodies become, well, slightly less tropical, to not put too fine a point on it. Things are becoming a bit more arid in some of my regions. As a matter of fact, the WCM noted upon his last foray into the bush, that there was some danger of a brush fire. I did, in fact, feel the effects of this relative drought, later that evening, as the friction involved during his expedition left the area rather, ahem, scorched.

Upon realizing that the situation was, in fact, dire, I resolved upon the spot to find a solution to this problem. If there is to be a raging inferno in my loins, I'd rather it be the kind that leads to mind-numbing, bone-melting orgasms, and not to walking spraddle-legged and saddle-sore later. So I girded the aforementioned loins and decided on a sortie to Target - specifically, to the "feminine products" aisle.

My mission of finding lubrication became much more complicated than I had orginally anticipated. I had no idea of the scope of the product. Did I want a regular bottle of clear liquid or did I want a can of lubricating mousse? Or, perhaps, a mist application? Did I want a scent? And if so, did I want it fruity, flowery, or something entirely different? Did I want one large bottle, or did I want an assortment of smaller bottles, each with a different property? Oh, and speaking of properties, did I want it to warm me, cool me, soothe me, or make me tingle? Then, there is the brand issue - would one be considered the Ultimate Cheapskate if one purchased store-brand lube, as opposed to a brand name? We are in a recession, after all. Where, exactly, does one draw the line, if there is indeed a line to be drawn in such matters?

In the end, after spending ten minutes blushing and tittering in the aisle, I purchased a variety pack of individual packets - some warming, some tingling, some soothing, and two fruity flavored ones. That should make for some interesting moments, eh?

I lied...

So, I lied about only having one vice. I have another.

Kissing.

I love the moment just before our lips meet, the quiet anticipation hanging still in the air. The softness of his mouth, tender and gentle on mine, is smooth as balm and warm as brandy. The soft silk of his inner lip as I swipe it teases my tongue, and I swallow the murmur of pleasure he makes. My nerve endings burn and tingle as he glides his mouth along my jaw, tracing a feather-light touch on my skin. The subtle scrape of teeth on my neck hardens my nipples and raises gooseflesh on my thighs. I surrender to my love and close my eyes completely, a blind slave to sensation.

As our kisses grow hotter, our tongues get bolder, tangling and writhing against one another as our bodies strain beneath our clothes. Our mouths, once soft, harden and thrust against one another. His hands mold my flesh and his arms pull me close, even as he tips my head back with the force of his embrace. A hand in my hair tugs my head further back, and I capture his lower lip between my teeth, gently trapping him to me as he pulls me away. Giving himself to me completely, he nuzzles my face, kissing around my mouth, tantalizing and teasing. Delicious.

Kissing is passion and tenderness, dominance and surrender, carnal and cerebral. It is the beginning and the ending, the pure and impure expression of love.

Mmmmm.

Oh so wrong, but...

Do you know that of all of the Food Network "personalities" out there, I find Anthony Bourdain the most repellent? I think he's an arrogant douchebag and wouldn't want to waste any time on him.

That said...



Just exactly how fucking wrong is it that this picture of him makes me want to get down on my knees and do dirty, dirty things with him?

Pretty fucking wrong, that's how wrong.

But I'd bet it would be oh so good...

Bits and Pieces

Because my mind is working in fits and starts these days - divided among school, family, friends, and hobbies, and not necessarily in that order - I offer you these bits and pieces of cognitive detritus. Do with them what you will.
*

So far, I've heard loads of funnies in the hallways of my high school. One girl was chatting cattily with a friend about another girl when I happened to be within earshot, and I overheard the truly priceless description of "she thinks she's Queen Shit on Turd Island." Well, that was worth a giggle - and not a detention - that day.

Another student's parting shot as he sailed out of school for the day was "I'm OUT, like titties at a strip club."

***

Cake has gone stale in my house. I baked one on Wednesday night, because I was trying out a cupcake recipe for a new colleague's birthday (more on that later) and only needed to make 6 cupcakes. I poured the rest of the batter in a smallish square pan (8x8, if you must know) and baked it. After I was done working cupcake magic, I frosted the cake (chocolate! even!) thickly with the rest of the (chocolate! again!) frosting. Nobody, including me, has touched it.

There is a half-gallon of ice cream - Edy's Loaded Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup - that has been in the fridge for 2 weeks, similarly untouched.

The WCM bought a tub of scrumptious coconut macaroons at Trader Joe's a week ago, and aside from the obligatory one-macaroon sample - necessary to declare them scrumptious - they are still sitting in their clear plastic tub on the counter.

WTF? I am perplexed, yet not particularly hungry. Maybe that's why I'm sitting at a new record low weight for me. It makes me nervous and more than a little insecure, body-image-wise. But, hey - I know that if I'm too nervous about it, I certainly know how to make the number on the scale move UP.

*****

My legs hurt - pleasantly so, though - from some fairly athletic and bendy canoodling I was doing the other day. Ha ha! I canoodled! I am smug with my canoodling! And also yoga.

*******

Those cupcakes I was talking about? Deeeeelicious. This is what I did - I baked 6 chocolate cupcakes. Then, I popped them out of the silicone liners. After that, I cut the tops off ("Off with their heads!" - I am a French teacher, after all). Following that, I cut the bottoms off and replaced them in the silicone muffin cups. I put four of the lovely middles into my mouth in the freezer. I then softened a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and layered some over each of the cupcake bottoms. I replaced the tops and froze these mini ice-cream cakes until they were solid. Once they were solid, I frosted them, and put them back into the freezer. They were yummy. Very yummy. And appreciated by my whole department. All 6 of us.

*********

And that's all I have to show for my last 2 weeks of toil and travail. Perhaps y'all did better.

Birthday imps...

So it's my birthday today - 38, to be exact, and I've had a wonderful day of it. The WCM is on his way home now to take me out to dinner. I've chosen a very expensive, but exquisitely delicious, steakhouse to go to, all because they have Bearnaise. I love that sauce... but I digress. I was telling you about my birthday.

I woke up late, skipped exercise class - because it's my birthday, dammit! - and received online b-day wishes from one of my closest friends. After taming my mane - I went to bed with wet hair last night and was rocking a sweet faux-hawk this morning, I took myself off to Starbuck's for an indulgent breakfast drink. I hit the nail salon next, and got a mani/pedi, and felt completely spoiled.

Lunch was yummy - a turkey artichoke panini from Panera with a caesar side salad. Strangely enough, I had enough room to finish the whole meal - that's rare. It was packed in Panera, though, and I had snagged a little 2-person table. I don't know what imp suggested it, but I invited a perfect stranger to sit and eat with me. She was a very nice lady named Sue, and we had a great chat about everything and nothing. I wished her a good day and she wished me a happy birthday, as I continued my shopping.

I hit Goodwill - or "The Clothing of the Dead" as my friend Shari calls it, looking for a denim jacket. Normally, I don't find much at Goodwill, but Oh Holy Shit, did I make the find of the century today. Now, I have to tell you about my Favorite Pants Ever. I found these great cargo pants at Ann Taylor Loft about 40 pounds ago, and bought them in a size 10, because I didn't think I'd ever get any smaller than that. "Psyche!" said the Weight Loss Fairy! And I had to give those pants away. Imagine my surprise when I found those very same pants - not the same pair, mind you, because that wouldn't have been very fun - in a different color and a smaller size today at the Goodwill! I ran into the changing room, gave them the quick once-over, and tried them on. They fit! Score! And they're a size 2. Double score! Are you ready for the slam-dunk? They were $3.50!!!!! Thank you Birthday Gods! And the Weight Loss Fairy!

But the imp was not to be silenced. Oh no. That freakin' imp got me into big-time trouble in the next store I entered. See, up by the Goodwill there's a little "adult" store called the Birds 'n' Bees. I've been curious, and since my anniversary's coming up (18 years with the WCM, oy!), I figured I could probably pick up a little something for that occasion. Well, I went in and looked around, trying valiantly not to blush and totally failing. I was also trying to ignore the guy trailing me around the store, but I eventually shook him. Ew. I found a little something in black that I thought might work, but had to try it on, and got the sales guy to open the dressing room for me. Yes, sales guy. Unlocking the door, he asked "A little surprise for the hubby or boyfriend?" Well, that goddamn imp twisted my tongue and when I opened my mouth, it said "both."

I don't know what possessed me - other than the imp - but I knew I was in for it after I got out of there. (The outfit worked, by the way.)

Sure enough, the sales guy hit on me. Now, answer me this: if I had both a husband and a boyfriend, do you really think I'd have enough time and energy to juggle another man into there? Um, no. I had to decline his most thoughtful offers. I guess I won't be shopping there in the future...

The birthday fairy took me to a Spa for a facial next, where my fantastic facialist spent nearly two hours going over my skin with this unguent and that potion. She massaged my face, neck, shoulders, chest, arms, hands, legs, feet, and scalp. I glow, people, with total relaxation and satisfaction.

I'm now going to step into the shower and sluice myself with other potions and lotions. Bring on the bearnaise, people, and put a candle on my steak. I'm doing my birthday in style!!

Sexy!

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt sexy. Recently, though, I’ve been feeling my mojo, though, and have decided that I want to keep that feeling. It’s nice. So today I went shopping – specifically, lingerie shopping. What a ridiculous farce that was!!

First, let me preface this by saying I haven’t worn anything remotely sexy to bed – for sleeping or, ahem, not sleeping in about 16 years. The WCM is not a fan of lingerie, see? It costs money, right? He’s happiest with naked, so that’s how it’s been, unless it was cold out, and then it was flannel. However, I’ve decided that I’m dressing for me first now, and I want to sleep sexy, dammit!

I went to a smallish department store first, where I found relatively little that blew up my dress. There was this one little thing I tried on:While pretty on the hanger, with my short spiky hair, it made me look like a refugee from Tinkerbelle's grove that done grew up all of a sudden, with the requisite wrinkles and gray hairs. Even the padded bra couldn't quite distract me from the freak show of wrinkles and sag that I call my torso. It was ridiculous. There were a couple of other similar disasters until I called a halt and headed for the mall.

There, at a larger department store, I perused my selection. Hmmm, not much in the underwire section. I womanfully grabbed everything I thought might work in the "cover the lumpy-bumpies and still look nice" department. The closest I came to success - and that was indeed a loooooong way off - was with this number:


Alas, no, that's not me. The whole lacing and unlacing thing was what ultimately decided me against this contraption. I'm looking for some "easy access" garment, just in case my man indeed get fired up by it. The last thing I want to do is spend 20 minutes getting in and out of my lingerie. If I can't lift it over my head and be done with it in two seconds, frankly, I'm not interested. Although, it wasn't bad once it was on.

Similar disasters ensued at other stores, including this one:

Pretty, huh? It was, at least, a step in the right direction - covering most of the freak show, but, unfortunately, letting quite a bit hang loose. Um, no. Next!!

So, finally, I headed to where I should have started: Victoria's Secret. In about two minutes of searching and 3 minutes of trying on, I found something lovely that doesn't make me look like one of Tinkerbelle's fairy friends or like I should be working in a cheap bordello. It's fairly sleek, somewhat lacy, covers the necessary bits while revealing just enough of the fun parts to be sexy. Since I bought it, and its matching thong (yikes!), I'm not going to post a picture of it. You can just use your imagination!

Crumbling

Disclaimer: you thought I was done with this, didn't you? Well, this creative writing experiment is drawing to a close, as you'll see with this latest installment. Standard boilerplate applies: this is just creative writing, not my real life (THANK GOD!!).

I crave my bien aimé.

I need his hands to anchor mine, stretched high above my head, while our mouths meld. I need the lean line of his body flush against mine, pressing me into the mattress. I need his legs tangling with mine, touching every nerve and pulse point at their sensitive juncture. I need the tenderness of his kisses, the surety of his hands on my body, the feel of his arousal rampant against my belly.

I need to feel physically, because I am numb emotionally. I sit in my place on the sofa, hands running over the smooth leather cover of an old book. My husband sits in his chair, pointedly ignoring my presence, yet covertly curling his lip at me when he thinks I cannot see. His cold disdain would be more cutting than his hot anger was last night, were I invested in it. Where there were accusations, fury, and boiling emotions now there is icy disapproval. Intellectually, it is sad that he hurts, but in my heart, I am not sorry. No, I am not.

The book in my lap is from my school days. It is by an Italian writer, dating from the Middle Ages, full of stories from that time. One, in particular, begs to be read. It is of a lady, Madonna Filippa, who was caught being unfaithful to her husband and brought before the court for punishment. Once there, she calmly told the court her tale: she had a wealth of love to give, but her husband did not want it all. He turned her away when she sought to give it to him. She never denied him her love, but being so constantly turned away left her with a surplus. What was she to do with it? She very practically found a willing recipient and gave it away.

I am not sorry that he hurts, because for years, he turned me away. He denied me. He withheld his affection, and left me with a surplus of love to give. Our relationship became unbalanced, and the foundations, once solid, began to crumble under the unequal weight. Now it is rubble and dust at my feet, creating mountains of emotional debris to climb over.

Boccacio’s common-sense solution hasn’t worked well for me, as I am unable to remain as composed and insouciant as Madonna Filippa. Instead, I am numb.

Dreamriding

Disclaimer: ok, it's been a while, but most of you know the drill. This is a bit of creative writing - feel free to skip it if mild erotica is not your thing. Lord knows, it's my thing...

Curled warm in my bed, I ride my dreams, flying through improbably erotic scenes until it settles into a plump feather mattress in a rough tester bed. A squat wax candle scented with juniper and bay burns low on a battered table, just out of arm's reach. Quilts lay heavy on my body, keeping me comfortably still. A pleasant torpor fills my senses until I hear the heavy bootsteps echoing up the stone stairs.

The heavy door scrapes open, and the mattress shifts as my bien aime sits next to me and rests his hand on my hip. Even through the sturdy blankets, I feel the warmth of it, feverishly so. My lips curve as his mouth descends. As always, I am lost at the touch of his lips on mine. Unable to parse a coherent thought, I moan wordlessly, the sensation overloading my mind. My hands claw at the blankets separating us, my legs thrash to be free. His hands stroke me softly, his legs capture mine. His touch gentles me and calms my frenzied state.

Freeing me deftly from the bedclothes, he pulls me quickly onto his lap, so I sit facing him. My prim flannel nightgown rides up high, and I feel the rough homespun cloth of his breeches against my bare legs and bottom. Murmuring softly to me, my bien aime slides his hands under my nightgown, pausing to fondle and knead my posterior. My head falls back and I offer him my throat. Sliding one arm around my waist, he holds me in place with his other hand on my throat as his lips roam, finding the sensitive juncture of my neck and shoulder. My whimpers and moans spur him on as he descends, his lips blazing a trail through my decolletage. Swiftly unbuttoning my nightgown and spreading it wide, he lowers his head to my breasts. Motion suspended, almost unable to breathe as the tingling evoked by his tongue suffuses my consciousness, I am only able to expel a hissing breath. All sensation is centered there, as I arch back to offer him better access...

The dream slips away as my slumber claims me, yearning and unfulfilled, leaving me with the scent of bay and juniper washing over me.

Dullsville...

That's where I seem to be living - Central Dullsville, just around the corner from West Yawnmouth, on Blah Boulevard.

I can't wait for school to be done. I'm so over it right now.

My creative juices have run drier than, well, see, drier than a desert. That's just how low they've gotten - I can't even conjure up a comparison that's not hackneyed. My poor imaginary Bien Aime has got to be feeling neglected.

My husband's diet has me reverting to some old behaviors - eating cookies when he's not home, for example. I shouldn't feel guilty for having 2 cookies (because I really only have room for 2 - sometimes, if they're smallish, I'll have 3) when he's not at home, because technically, I'm not dieting. I'm done with the weight loss thing. Done. However, I don't like this behavior returning - it's too easy for that to become a habit.

I am now living on a budget, thanks to that monthly car payment and exorbitant gas prices. I hate living on a budget. I suck at it. Usually, I know roughly what I've got in my account and roughly how much is coming out in bills every month. Now, since that car payment factored in, I've got to be a lot more careful about the casual trip to Target that I was wont to make.

And, unfortunately, I am now about 2 sizes smaller than I was this time last year, so a lot of my shorts are falling down on me. Tops are allowed to be somewhat roomy. Shorts? Not so much. I hate wearing belts on shorts/pants that are too big, because the bunchy fabric around my waist/hips creates that ever so flattering Mom Pooch. Er, no thanks. I'll pass. Just call me Droopy Drawers.

My house is a hideous pigsty of filth and clutter. And I always turn into a bitch when I have to ask people to clean up their own crap.

I need a vacation. From my life.

A taste of power

True story this time...

So I was at a “passion party” the other night. You know this kind of party – a bunch of women tittering with embarrassment whilst passing around forty different kinds of vibrating dildos. Although, with this particular crowd, there was far less embarrassed tittering and far more bawdy suggesting going on. Even with my aunt in attendance, my cousin (her daughter) and I had a grand old time comparing notes and swapping stories.

Lubes, creams, lingerie, and toys were passed around the circle – ask me some time about how we played a game involving an eighteen-inch double-headed dildo going back and forth between our thighs... but I digress. The various unguents, edible and not, were smoothed on our forearms and sampled. One, in particular, aroused the most palaver – a product designed to suppress the gag reflex, useful when giving blow jobs. The look of instant distaste that flashed on most of the faces and the way this product was quickly tossed from woman to woman would have given away their disgust immediately if anyone had been in doubt of it before. My cousin and I exchanged a look that promised confabulation later.

After her guests had gone, my cousin and I began chatting about that reaction. See, neither of us has a problem with blow jobs. It seems that we both enjoy giving them, for various reasons. I can’t speak for my cousin, but for me, there’s such power in fellatio. Most women see this power as balanced on the man’s side – they feel that since he’s the one receiving the orgasm, that he is the dominant partner in the situation; that the woman, on her knees, is submissive. Actually, that’s quite the opposite of what I feel, even when I’m on my knees.

You see, during that time, I am the one in control. I can draw out his pleasure or I can make him come quickly. His sensual torture can be intensified at my whim. When his cock is in my mouth, he is in my power: I have his most sensitive part next to my teeth – the part of me that can do maximum damage. He has to submit to my tender ministrations, lest I slip. More than that, though, is the power to bring my man to the edge of himself, then pull him over with my lips and tongue. Wringing out the anguished moans as he tries to hold back, hearing his breathy exhortations and eventual warnings, feeling his hands fist in my hair as he attempts to slow my progress – these are my finest moments, the moments when I claim dominion.

I may be on my knees looking up, but the eyes looking down into mine are adoring in their surrender.

Nightmare

Disclaimer: you've seen it before, so it should come as no shock to you that I do this creative writing thing. The things I write can be a trifle, er, naughty, so be forewarned! This is just creative writing, alas, and is not my real life, which is quite boring, actually.

Cocooned in the cozy warmth of my bed, the rustle of the sheets penetrates my dreams. The mattress shifts, and my pillow gives as another head comes to rest behind mine. An arm snakes beneath my pillow, capturing the hand that I have curled under my chin. The other arm crosses over my body, fingers sliding between my ribcage and the mattress. Pressing my back up against the warmth behind me, I shimmy until I am snugly cradled in the firm curve of his body.

Drowsily aware of each other, we drift in and out of consciousness, unable to truly settle back into our slumber. Each twitch or movement serves only to highlight our closeness. His hand slides out from under my ribs and moves up to cup my breast, lazily fondling its softness. Lips descend on my neck, pressing soft kisses along its exposed length. Moaning, I reach behind me and plunge my fingers through his thick hair, holding him to me, begging wordlessly for more.

His hands roam as his hips flex against my bottom, stroking his hardness against me. His fingers find my core and massage me through my pajamas. Gyrating back against him, aroused beyond belief, reveling in the gentleness of his touch, I moan his name into the darkness of the room. He stops moving.

It is the wrong name...

Because I'm no good at knitting...

Disclaimer: apparently, I'm horrendously aroused this week, as I've managed to conjure up enough smut to appall even myself. I've always dropped stitches when I've tried to knit... perhaps counted cross stitch...

My bien aimé is next to me, in my car, trying not to fidget. Wordlessly, I hand him a bandana. His head tilts, quizzically at first, then jerks with the sudden realization of the bandana’s purpose. I can almost see the anticipation crackle around him like electricity as he places it over his closed eyes, meticulously knotting it behind his head.

I drive a short distance away to a borrowed house. Taking my lover’s hand, I lead him carefully up the steps, placing his hand on the railing while I unlock the door. Once inside the house, my bien aimé jumps as the click of the lock in the door sounds as loud as a gunshot. Quickly divesting us both of our coats, I tow him gently toward the bedroom. He stumbles as I turn him to face me, quickly righting himself, visibly calming upon regaining his equilibrium. I can feel my own gaze go gimlet, eyes narrowing, as the thought of truly unbalancing him runs through my mind. With an invisible smirk, I gently push my fingers against his taut abdomen until he takes a tentative step back and falls backwards, arms windmilling, onto the bed.

My laughter echoes around the room at his muttered epithet. Clambering astride his body, I whisper instructions, lips grazing the shell of his ear, until he moves up to the headboard. Still atop my love, I lean in for the tenderest of kisses, running my hands down his arms to encircle his wrists. Pulling them above his head, I wrap them both in the scarf anchored to the headboard. As I twine the scarf around his wrists, his hips twitch. Sliding my hand down to his neck, I can feel his pulse hammering there. Seeking to reassure him, I murmur encouragement, letting him know the word that will make it all stop. He nods, grinding almost imperceptibly against my core, eager to test his bonds and my power.

Determined to shake him up, I yank up his shirt and spear my fingers through the crisp hair growing on his chest, raking my nails lightly over his nipples. Delighting in the breath that whistles through his lips, I lower my head and take one gently between my teeth. His indulgent chuckle spurs my indignation. Sliding lower, I nip at his stomach while I undo his pants. I trail my tongue above the waistband of his boxers, and, dipping my head, I blow my hot breath along his length. My reward is his tormented moan and the first creak of the headboard as he pulls against his restraint.

My smile is wide and predatory as a shark’s as I slip my hands under his buttocks to curl my fingers in his clothing. Peeling his pants down his legs, I find myself at eye level to the object of my most abject desire. Leaning up, I push my beloved’s blindfold up so he can watch my every move. His indulgent smile becomes strained as I close my eyes and rub my cheek against the silken skin of his erection, humming in appreciation. His groan grows ragged as I drag my mouth from the base of his shaft to the crest, quickly encircling the engorged corona with my lips. Teasing him with my tongue, keeping him barely in my mouth, I push down hard on hips that strain to rise, asserting my dominance. Again, I am rewarded with the creak of the headboard.

Flattening my tongue, I slide my mouth down as far as I can go, taking as much as I can into the moist heat of my mouth. I revel in the satiny texture of his most sensitive skin as I draw moan after moan from his mouth. Grasping the base of his erection, I let my hand follow my mouth as I ascend and redescend, rejoicing when his head thrashes on the pillow and his biceps work desperately at the bonds holding him fast. Turning my head to the side, I look up at him, mouth still busily employed, and meet his wildly aroused gaze. His chest heaving, his arms straining, he mouths the word I dread.

Panic.

Taction

Disclaimer: Creative writing, blah blah blah, not for real, yadda yadda yadda, just my rampant horny imagination running wild etc...

My fingertips glide softly over my lover’s cheek, tingling from the scratch of his stubble. The backs of my fingers caress the smooth skin of his neck as I glide my fingers up into his hair. Twining in the thick silkiness, my hand luxuriates in its texture. I hold my bien aimé to me with a gentle pressure against his nape, as my lips explore the richness of his mouth.

He tastes of mint and coffee, his tongue wet velvet as it brushes against mine. Enveloped, by his kiss I feel the edge of his teeth on my upper lip, massaging as I strain in his embrace. Pushing my breasts against his chest, questing to come closer, I climb into his lap and feel his hands support my bottom. The wool of his sweater prickles under my fingertips as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and tip my head up to him. Palms smoothing along his arms and back, I whimper as he slowly grazes his lips along my jawline, cruising down to my neck. My whimper becomes a moan as he playfully nips my throat, then scrapes his teeth along my jugular.

Unfolding my leg, he encircles my ankle with his hand, skimming it up my calf and sliding it underneath my skirt. Tremors ripple along my spine, and I press my forehead to his neck as his thumb traces a circle along my thigh. Pulling his mouth to mine, I lose myself in its tangy softness while he continues to gently quest beneath my clothes. I feel the length of his fingers slide beneath my panties and I arch to him in anticipation. He speaks to me, always speaking, murmuring encouragement as I begin to writhe in his arms. Circles, endless circles, lazily tighten my abdomen, spiraling me into mewling mindless pleasure.

As I come back to myself, I see his smirk. Shooting him a playful glare through my lashes, I gleefully promise full retribution. Later, though

Life Cycles

Disclaimer: once again, you find me indulging in a spate of creative writing. Take it for what it's worth - my overactive, glandular imagination expressing itself in luridly purple prose.

The guilt is there, waiting in the background, ready to pounce once we’re no longer in each other’s presence. It picks at us, and nags us, berates us mercilessly about our faithlessness. We cycle through our relationship, moving elliptically closer then far apart as the remorse tears at our consciences. Always friends, sometimes lovers, we are drawn together yet flow inevitably apart.

Softer with our spouses, assuaging our culpability, we are kinder than they deserve. Small gestures and tokens of affection are proffered where there used to be none. A dinner cooked with extra care or a distasteful chore done without asking serve as atonement for our unsuspected sins. We compromise more readily, argue less, and seek to please those who push us away. When they push us, though, we enter each other’s orbit, where forces stronger than we are take hold.

It is during those times, when we turn to one another to fill a space that others have left empty, that we rationalize our behavior. If we no longer have this need that the other cannot, or will not, fulfill, then are we not better partners? If my bien aimé holds me close and touches me gently, will it still bother me if my husband does not? If I steal his breath with my kisses and make his head spin with my caresses, will he be kinder to his wife? When we come together, sometimes in desperation to be close to someone, will it prevent conflict at home?

As we move through these cycles of carnality and contrition, I wonder at our relative inertia. Stuck in the same winding gyre, will either of us ever fly freely again?