He Had the Devil in His Eye

I perched on the pub stool, sipping my third bourbon, catching snippets of four different conversations around me and gently swaying to the 1970s era rock music that filled the bar. Work stress had cumulated to a beyond-reasonable point and, after a very long day, I decided to stop at this casual watering hole to unwind. The extrovert in me just needed to be around people for a little while. People I didn’t really know… just happy, warm bodies.

And the flirt in me needed to, well… flirt.

I recognized a couple of people from similar, previous evenings and was greeting as an old friend. So I settled in to soak up some some attention. I alternated between harmlessly flirting with men I had no interest in, and serving as several women’s new BFF, listening intently to their current troubles. And that’s how I happened to be surrounded by men and women, some I knew, some I didn’t, when a tall, clean-shaven man in a white button down shirt and gray slacks appeared at my shoulder. He had dark hair with silver at the temples which he wore slicked back. His voice stood apart from the others. It was brash. Abrupt. Northern.

Obviously a crony to the crowd I’d been welcomed to for the evening, he quickly immersed himself in the ongoing chatter. We were briefly introduced and I nodded and smiled, but kept my attention on a woman to my left who had had a rougher day than me. Not long after she called it a night.

The New Englander was still at my shoulder, but listening to the conversations now rather than joining in. I looked up and to my right and our eyes met. And held.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you make eye contact with someone and words simply weren’t necessary? It’s as if everything is just out there. And you both know it. And neither one of you care.

In those seconds when our eyes held I could see everything. I could see him crushing my mouth with his, demanding my lips to open. I knew how rough he would be, leaving bruises on my shoulders, my arms and my breasts. I could feel how he would suck at my nipples while thrusting his fingers in my jeans, moving my panties aside and forcefully bringing me to orgasm.

My eyes widened with the knowledge. And then narrowed. I would give as good as I got.

He saw the shift, the fire in my eyes and he challenge in them and smiled.

“You’re trouble,” he said softly.

“Mmmmhmmm,” I nodded, the corner of my mouth turning up slightly. He hadn’t dodged what had just happened. He accepted my instant awareness of his dominant nature and equally quick, I-dare-you-to-try-to-get-me-be-submissive attitude.

And heaven help me… I wanted him to try.

Using Sex to Cope with Grief

Nathan lost a parent this weekend. Suddenly. Unexpectedly.

The call came in the blackest part of the night. We had hours if there was to be a final goodbye. Bags were quickly packed. Work arrangements made. And off we drove into the dark towards rural America.

Dawn broke and the worry showed across his face. Half way there the phone call came. There was no need to rush any longer.

Trembling, with tears pouring he kept driving. “Pull over,” I whispered. He did. I held him against me and we wept. The utter sense of helplessness and loss was overwhelming. I couldn’t fix it. There was nothing we could do.

We are retracing our steps back home now, after a weekend of family, funeral planning, and grieving. Two-lane roads cut through farmland; the sun warms earth. There aren’t as many tears today. Those will come again later. For now there is just calm. And sadness.

I was surprised to feel Nathan’s hand on my inner thigh as we cruised along. Instinctively I spread my legs. The fingers of his right hand went higher while the left one stayed on the steering wheel.

“You’re wet,” he said.

“Mmmhmm. A little bit.”

His fingers moved my panties aside and began teasing my pearl. I could see his cock beginning to strain against his shorts. I cupped his hardness in my hand and moaned. Faster and faster went his strumming fingers. Until I came in the passenger seat.

I looked into his eyes and smiled. Still hungry.

“You aren’t done are you?” he asked.

“I don’t have to be,” I said eying his crotch.

“You want me to fuck you,” he said.

I nodded. A few minutes later he turned his fancy car off the blacktop and onto a rutted dirt road. He drove far enough down it that we weren’t easily visible.

“Now what?” he asked.

I was already getting in the back seat and removing my panties out from under my skirt.

“Ohhh…” he quickly understood.

I knelt on the seat and watched as he unfastened his shorts and slid them down. My mouth sought out his erection. I lapped noisily as his middle finger delved into my channel.

I raised my head and kissed Nathan’s delicious mouth. Our tongues played as I shifted positions and straddled his lap. His hard, straight cock slid in easily and, gripping the head rest, I began rocking my hips against his.

My cries as I orgasmed filled the confined space. He came with me, moaning deeply.

I dismounted and took in the image before me. My man, sitting with his cock dripping with white cum, head leaned back, eyes closed, a content smile on his face.

For a little while the pleasure my body could offer him blocked the grief. For a little while he wasn’t mourning. For a little while…

I’m Always a Woman

I was deboning chicken when Billy Joel’s “She Always a Woman” began playing. My hips began to sway and the lyrics seemed louder than usual.

She can kill with a smile
She can wound with her eyes
She can ruin your faith with her casual lies
And she only reveals what she wants you to see
She hides like a child
But she’s always a woman to me
I do this. I lie. I use my eyes and my smile like weapons. I distract. I put on a mask daily.
She can lead you to love
She can take you or leave you
She can ask for the truth
But she’ll never believe
And she’ll take what you give her as long as it’s free
Yeah, she steals like a thief
But she’s always a woman to me
I don’t ever want to be the one who is “in love” the most. It’s too out of control for me. It’s scary. It hurts.
Oh, she takes care of herself
She can wait if she wants
She’s ahead of her time
Oh, and she never gives out
And she never gives in
She just changes her mind
When I heard that line as a young girl, it resonated with me. I didn’t have to be wrong. I could just change my mind. And I do. Sometimes to the detriment of those around me.
She will promise you more
Than the Garden of Eden
Then she’ll carelessly cut you
And laugh while you’re bleedin’
But she’ll bring out the best
And the worst you can be
Blame it all on yourself
Cause she’s always a woman to me
These lines give me the most pause. They are the most unflattering. But yes. I have been guilty of this as well. The problem is… when I’m promising the Garden of Eden, I truly believe in what I’m promising. I do. But I just have a difficult time delivering. Even worse, sometimes I promise carelessly. Not really aware of how my words and actions are taken. As I’ve gotten older thankfully I’ve become more aware. But I still cut. A friend told me once that I wield a power I have to be careful with. So I try. But I do fail.
Oh, she takes care of herself
She can wait if she wants
She’s ahead of her time
Oh, and she never gives out
And she never gives in
She just changes her mind

She is frequently kind
And she’s suddenly cruel
She can do as she pleases
She’s nobody’s fool
But she can’t be convicted
She’s earned her degree
And the most she will do
Is throw shadows at you
But she’s always a woman to me

I don’t know what it means to throw shadows. That line has puzzled me for a long time. If anyone has any ideas to its meaning I would love to be enlightened.

I believe there are parts of this song that speak to all women. Because at our core… no matter what else we may also be… we are women. And as my friend said, there is power in that. I hope to use it wisely. And to be forgiven when I don’t.

Baring My Midriff

Words are not flowing these days. But I feel an intense need to be active here. So I’m pulling a page from Hy’s book and speaking with pictures instead. But I don’t want them to only be a gratuitous nod to my vanity. I need to mean to something. To somehow help me grow as a person. At least for now. If I decide to post more photos in the future they may simply be for fun. I’m just not in a simply fun mindset right now.

So I’m showing the part of my body I like the least. My soft, tender belly. Five months ago I wouldn’t have considered even taking these, much less sharing them. But eating right and running is slowly helping me inch closer and closer to the shape I want to be. So even though I still have a lot of work to do, and even though my stomach is still my least favorite part of my body, I’m proud to be at a place physically and mentally that I will share these with you. So here I go…

I’m baring my midriff. In a series of progressive shots. (which shouldn’t be such a big deal considering the soul baring I do around here.)

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It’s Too Late

You were my favorite. And I yours. This we both knew. And didn’t hide it.

Do you remember making sure I had two, even three umbrellas in my Shirley Temple so my dolls wouldn’t have to share? I do. You made me feel like a princess.

You don’t know how bouncy I would be at holidays. Not waiting for the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus, but for you. The big man with the gentle smile who looked like every drawing I had ever seen of Jesus.

Your hugs smelled of spearmint and cologne. And a hint of smoke. You’d pick me up and swing me around. And I would laugh and laugh.

I eventually got too big to toss in the air. But I would still be anxious for your visits. How we must have looked, the raven haired man with the fair preteen. Heads together over what ever game I wanted to play.

Your fingers showed the first signs. Twisting until they looked like gnarled branches. The limping came later as your knees followed your hands.

Visits were less frequent. And as the years passed there was less man and more bone under your loose shirt. Had I been aware I would have known.

It wasn’t until your secret was found out and the family knew that it made sense. The black in your smile.

Ashamed, you withdrew. I would ask about you. But the family would just shake sad heads and say they hadn’t heard much. So I left it alone. I didn’t try to find you. I left you on the fringes.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that the last time I saw you… Was it five years ago? I can’t remember. But I didn’t know it would be the last.

And now it’s too late. You’ve gone to sleep. Never to wake in this world again. And my heart is breaking. Because I didn’t tell you.

I let you die without you knowing that your shame didn’t matter to me. That I loved you anyway. And for that I will never forgive myself.

Sweet dreams, cousin. I am so sorry I was not the kind, gentle princess you always believed me to be.

The Arrogant Jut of His Penis

I read that line in a Sandra Brown novel and wish I could claim it as my own. It jumped off the page at me. In six simple words she had accurately and deliberately described what a penis does.

In that moment I thought of Nathan’s penis. He is not large in build. Five foot eight with a runner’s body. So the first time I felt his erection pressed against me I was surprised. Not because he had one, but because he was larger than I expected.

Most mornings I wake to the jut of it against my ass, his salute to the day offered up for my pleasure. Arrogantly it defies our schedules, baiting me to indulge rather that make it to work on time.

Most mornings I do. “Get inside me,” I moan. And he does. Rocking me awake with the strong thrust of the arrogant jut of his penis.

Freedom Loving Tits

Right this moment I’m lounging across my bed, a view of the sea, palm trees, hammocks and thatched roofs out my window. Nursing a bottle of champagne. Reading a Danielle Steele novel. Wearing nothing but a bra and haram pants.

Except that I was a little careless in the sun today. And the bra straps are touching my freshly pinked skin. So now I’m in only the haram pants.

//// a little while later ////

Half the champagne is gone. I slip on an apricot hued tee shirt, refill my glass and adjourn to the balcony. My nipples are clearly visible through the sheer fabric. I relax on the deck chair with my book and bubbly. Not oblivious to the glances I get from the staff setting up for the poolside dinner below.

But I don’t care. They can stare at my freedom loving tits.


Yesterday was my blogging anniversary. I wouldn’t have known if WordPress hadn’t told me. I’ve been disconnected from this world.

But as life would have it, I find myself in an airport, heading to a lovely place, with a delayed flight. So I sit at the airport bar and sip my white wine and nibble on a house salad.

And thinking.

I chatted with the blogger I met in New York last night. It’s been just over a year since that trip. Which seems strange. I feel I have changed a great deal since then. And not just on the outside.

I’m more successful than I have ever been in my career. I am focused. I am not searching. Well, not searching as much.

Nathan grounds me. But a times it’s like a weight. I asked him in a moment of anger several days ago, “What is it like to be you? What is it like to never be emotional?!!”

He replied, calmly and in complete control, “I have emotions. I just don’t allow them to run away with me.”

In scheduling the travel that I do I am in some ways running away. I just don’t know from what. Reality perhaps?

When texting with an old flame recently I told him to “tell me something good.” Meaning that I wanted to hear about something good going on in his life. But the message I received back read, “You’re beautiful, thought of (constantly), and wanted (badly)”

My heart skipped. I felt very alive. And for a moment, not so disconnected.

Benedict Cumberbatch Is My Soulmate (some fun on this cold Monday)

At least that what’s the quiz on Buzzfeed told me.

I suppose I do see the draw. The slightly arrogant British thing he has going on. And those lips… I’m sure he’s a good kisser. And he makes a tailored suit look like it was made to look. Simply perfect.

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But when it comes to foreign actors, there are two others I much more drawn to, although they are quite different from each other.

The first is somewhat expected. Chris Hemsworth anyone? And not just because he looks like the demigod he plays in the Marvel comics films. But the accent, the eyes, the shoulders. And on top of all that… look how he dotes on his expecting wife. Ladies, just soak in the moment and enjoy.

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What other non-American actor to I find myself conjuring on occasion? Eddie Redmayne. There is something so innocently boyish about him that makes me feel much older than him although we are the same age. That and his wide mouth were what made me sit up and take notice the first time I saw him. But it took more than that to draw me in. It may only be in my imagination, but in photographs and in film, there is a depth behind his eyes that speaks of an old soul. One that has been ’round many times and may (as I often feel mine is beginning to do) finally be remembering what it learned in the previous lives it was graced with. Or I could just be a sucker for freckles.

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See what buzzfeed has to say about your non-American actor type here:

I’m Going to Do Naughty Things

“Go on cat,” I heard Nathan mutter to my black furry familiar who insists on sharing our bed, “I’m going to do naughty things to your mommy. She doesn’t know it yet. But I am. So scamper along.”

The cat scampered. Through the fog of morning sleepiness I felt Nathan’s hand on my shoulder, pulling me toward him. His fingers lightly roamed my already naked body. I rolled to my back, exposed.

My eyes still shut against the morning, I let my other senses take over. My legs fell open like the petals of a mature, drunk rose in full sun. If Nathan wanted to take me while I slept, I wouldn’t stop him.

I was more than willing to let him do his naughty things.

Two Years

Marian Green:

And now it has been three years. Yes. I still love him. But I think it’s more as a figment… a bit of ether I can hardly see. Two of the white roses he sent me hang withered and dried in my office. A gorgeous bunch of fresh white roses arrived this morning. No. Not from the Australian. I knew they weren’t from him. But from a friend who sent them to show love and support on this day. I won’t lie. As they were set on my desk I started shaking. The mere memory of him causes me to tremble still.

Originally posted on Creative Noodling:

It just hit me. Right this moment, two years ago, the Australian was telling me he loved me. After meeting me only just that morning and spending a magical day together.

“I didn’t know it could be like this,” he said as we lay naked discovering each other’s bodies. “How is it I feel this way? How can I love you after less than a day?”

Yes. I can still play back his words in my head. But I went all day not realizing it was my silent anniversary. The day I will forever remember as the day I fell. The day that I wouldn’t ever undo. The day the I lost my jadedness. The day that led to the shattering of my heart. The day.

I might have missed it if someone hadn’t reminded me that Valentine’s Day was fast approaching. Funny thing is, a reader friend asked me…

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