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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My Silent Anniversary

Marian Green:

It’s here again. This is what I wrote about this day two years ago. It’s strange reading it. Realizing that it’s not been three full years since… IT… happened.

Originally posted on Creative Noodling:

A year ago today I woke an unbeliever. Sure, I believed in love, but I viewed it as the culmination of a series of choices. It was a systematic thing. A person loved because he or she chose to love and that love was based on similar worldviews, attraction, personality and most importantly commitment. The butterflies always fade so, at the end of the day, there must be more than lust and attraction as the ties that bind together a relationship. I thought anything else was an illusion. I lived in a black and white world. There was committed love and passionate lust. I didn’t allow that there might be something else… an other, a gray area where science and reason ceased to exist.

I scoffed at the romantics, the ones who told tales of love at first sight. The idea of “falling” in love was as foreign to…

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It’s February. Again.

February sneaks up on me, and yet doesn’t. I see February coming. I expect the turmoil that will come now. I brace for it. Plan for it. Hoping to minimize its effect. And then I turn around and I’m in it.

I feel guilty for writing in these few moments I’ve found. There are kind, wonderful, heartfelt comments on my last post that I still haven’t responded to. I think of what I want to say back to y’all when I’m driving, the only part of the day lately when I can be alone with my thoughts. And then, when I can be in front of a computer, the words escape me and work pressure crashes in, blocking all else.

But I’m really feeling February tonight. And I need to write. So I hope you understand.

Many years ago I was married. I’ve never revealed that here. But I was. It ended… in February.

My grandfather, my hero, he died suddenly in a tragic accident… in February.

I met, loved and lost Ian, the reason I began blogging… in February.

I had a long drive home in the dark tonight. And, for reasons I choose not to share here, I cried for most of it.

I’m fine. Just… a jumble of feelings. All these Februaries. They add up.

Feeling Down About Going Down

I’ve been in a bit of an emotional tailspin since my last post. I can’t lie. Reading the comments really left me heavyhearted. I began questioning if I should even attempt to get Nathan to add going down on me to our sexual mix. What if I tried and he refused? My optimism was dashed. I felt incredibly sad. Continue reading

Things Aren’t Perfect

Perfect is a high standard. One I tell myself I should let go of. It’s a lot of pressure you know… trying to be perfect all the time. Trying to live up the standards I expect of myself. But if I’m going to aim for a something, it should be high. Right? So then I revise my statement to “self”, crack the whip, and once again strive for perfection.

But things aren’t perfect.

I could write a very long list of all the things about me that aren’t. But I don’t feel like penning a post with that many words. So instead I’m going to talk about one aspect of my relationship with Nathan that isn’t perfect. This doesn’t mean that it’s the only part that needs work… just the part I’m choosing to write about at the moment.

The sex. It isn’t all I want it to be.

I want more. I want him to be more passionate. To manhandle me. To toss me across the bed and have his way with me. Somewhat subjective, I know. But if I stepped back and pin-pointed a key element that relates to all of those wants… the one missing act that I crave… I keep coming back to cunnilingnus. That’s right. I want the man to want to go down on me.

I realized this isn’t something he enjoys soon after we started having sex. He never made a move to go there. Even after copious amount of oral sex from me. It simply didn’t/doesn’t happen.

I tried making a game of it. We got in a faux debate over who sang a certain song and I knew I was right. So I told him, “Loser has to go down on the winner.” He laughed and said, “Sure!” But he still hasn’t paid up. Not for that time or the other three times he’s lost our now “usual bet.”

One of the sexiest things I’ve ever heard a man say was when a friend of mine was describing his first time seeing a girl naked. They were both in their teens and upon the removal of her bikini bottoms he said a switch just flipped in his head that said, “Oh. Mouth goes there.”

And there he and his mouth went. It was a natural reaction.

That’s how I feel about sucking on a cock. It’s supposed to go in my mouth. It feels so good there… tastes. so. good. Just thinking about it makes my tongue start to circle.

But Nathan obviously doesn’t feel the same way about my pussy. Is this something that can be taught? Can I teach him to love feasting on me?

I don’t know. But I’m formulating a plan.

Testing My Will Power

The screen on my phone showed an incoming call from Cameron. After confessing that I wanted to see him again there had been no more communication. Now, almost 24 hours later, he was calling.

“Hullo,” I answered.

“Hi beautiful,” he crooned, “Whatcha doing?”

“I’ve just finished dropping off gifts to my grandmother’s friends that she wasn’t able to deliver herself because of the stroke. Of course it’s taken a while because at every stop there’s a lot of visiting that happens. So now I’m hoping I can drive to town and get some dinner before everything closes.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“I have no idea,” I laughed, “You forget I haven’t lived here in 16 years.”

“Oh no… that is something I have certainly not forgotten. I know some places that are decent. Would you like some company?”

“Actually,” I said with a sigh, “That sounds wonderful. I really don’t feel like being alone right now. It’s been a hard day.”

“If you’ll come to my place, I’ll drive.” Continue reading

The Kind Of Sex I Need

I was driving to the bank when it hit me. An over powering urge for sex. But not just any sex. No… run-of-the-mill sex won’t do today.

I need mouth on my clit, fingers in my channel, can-hardly-get-air sex.

I need arms pinned above my head, legs on shoulders, balls slapping ass sex.

I need cock in my throat, moans in my ear, mouth on my breast sex.

I need bent over the bed, filled to the max, come until I can’t come anymore sex.

So here I am, at work, trying to complete ten different projects. But the majority of my brain is flashing dirty thoughts faster than a barking auctioneer. Maybe I can manage a finger in my panties on my drive home…

Muscle Memory (Dancing With Boundaries Part 5)

I stared down at his erect manhood. It bobbed up at me by way of greeting. I licked the tip of my middle finger and delicately traced the edge of the large helmet. Mr. Past leaned back in his seat and moaned.

Unable to resist I wrapped my hand around his girth and squeezed. I could feel the pulsing against my palm. For a few minutes I reveled in the smooth texture of his skin, the length of him, the power of the spear that throbbed in my hand. And then I couldn’t help myself. I had to taste him.

The smell of pine scented soap filled my nostrils as I opened my mouth to accommodate him. At first I could only take the head and a couple of inches, but gradually my jaw relaxed and I took him deeper and deeper. This I remembered. Like it was yesterday. The feel of him against the back of my throat. I swallowed, clenching my muscles around him. A satisfied moan was my reward.

“Are you going to?” he asked.

I nodded, not letting him leave me.

“Will you open your mouth and let me see it?”

I nodded again.

I pulled back and began flicking my tongue around and around the tip, faster and faster. And then, as I felt him pulse, I slowed, and switched to long deep strokes with my mouth against my hand, creating a fluid rhythm that would take him to the brink. My lips clenched around his shaft, working with my throat and tongue to pleasure him. I wanted to give him this. This memory.

“Marian,” he whispered, “almost… there…”

I hummed in acknowledgement and felt his balls tighten, but didn’t stop the steady pace. Three seconds later the hot stream of his release filled my mouth. I slowed, but kept milking him. When he finally relaxed I pulled away. And opened my mouth for him to see.

“Oh wow,” he said.

I smiled, reached for my almost empty iced tea, removed the lid, and spit his seed in the cup.

“You know it gives me a tummy ache,” I said in explanation.

He leaned in quickly and kissed me—hard—not minding the taste of himself still on my lips. I kissed back with all the longing for a reality between us that didn’t materialize. That wouldn’t. But that didn’t keep me from loving him with a love that wouldn’t fade. No matter the distance or the years we put between us.

We sat and reminisced for a few more minutes before he drove me back to the hospital. Back in my grandmother’s room I thought about what I had done. I tried to feel guilty for it. It went against my commitment to Nathan. But I didn’t. There was no rationalizing away what I had just done. Mr. Past and I came before Nathan. Somehow the love of auld lang syne was completely separate from the love of present and future. It was like I was living in parallel worlds that didn’t touch. One did not affect the other.

The only guilt I felt was for my lack of guilt.

My phone chimed. I looked down, expecting a text from Mr. Past. But it wasn’t from him. It was from Cameron. “Hope you had a safe trip home,” it read.

“I’m still here.” I texted back, with an explanation of what had happened with my grandmother.

After he shared his concerned he sent, “Do you know how long you’ll be staying?”

“Why do you ask?” I replied.

“I really want to see you again,” he answered.

I sat there, staring at my phone, and thought a long moment before I sent, “Me too.”

The Problem With Fabric Upholstery (Dancing With Boundaries Part 4)

I ate the last bite of my drive through chicken and took a long sip of iced tea. Mr. Past took a swig from his bottle of water and smiled.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said with a sigh, “There hasn’t been time to eat today. This is the first nourishment I’ve had.”

“I’m glad I could provide it,” he said tenderly.

“Thank you,” I said softly, “I’m going to have to get back soon.”

“I know. But first…” he leaned in for a kiss.

The tea and the water had cleansed our mouths and the coolness of our tongues mingled slowly. I felt a warm hand on my thigh, moving toward my heated center. Cupping my mound through my leggings I felt his palm move against me, pressing, hard. Instinctively I pushed back. And then, the pressure was gone.

I glanced over in time to catch him with his palm in front of his nose. I raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Your pussy always smells the same. God, it takes me back,” he said by way of explanation.

“I hope you mean that in a good way.”

“I do. You’re full of sweet musk. Always. That hasn’t changed since we were teenagers.”

“And has this changed?” I asked. Boldly placing a hand on the erection that strained against his jeans. “Do you still list a little to the left?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. Feel free to check for yourself.”

Instead of taking his hint I just let my hand rest where it was, and deepened our kiss. His hand returned to my crotch.

“How do I get inside these tight things?” he asked.

“From the waistband,” I moaned, easing back in the seat to give him better access.

“Is this thing one piece?”

“No… here. See?”

He saw. And, once the path had been illuminated for him, he had his warm hand against the flesh of my warm mound, fingering my wetness.

“Oh, wow.” I moaned, easing the leggings further down my hips.

Back and forth his fingers went, teasing me, playing with me.

“Please put them inside,” I whispered.

“What was that darling? I don’t think I heard you.”

“Please. Please. Please. Please.”

“Please what, baby?”

“Please. More. Please.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. Oh yes.”

My words were whispered groans…

“Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry! How did you make me do that so fast? Oh my gosh! Your seat!”

“It’s ok. I put a shirt down.”

“Huh?” I asked stupidly as I dug for fast food napkins to dry up the mess I had just made. Mr. Past quickly offered me a roll of paper towels. Props to the man for being prepared.

“I put one of my workout shirts in the passenger seat just in case,” he explained.

“Oh,” I said lamely. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Now, where were we?” he asked, reaching for my well again.

“Oh no you don’t,” I said, scooting away to the edge of the seat. “I can’t be trusted to not soil your car. Or my pants, which I have to wear tomorrow. I’m just relieved they didn’t get wet.”

We resumed our kissing and petting, with him staying above my waist with his explorations. But the more I felt the straining against his jeans, the more I wanted… more.

“May I just look at it?” I asked.

“You do whatever you want with it.”

I unbuttoned and unzipped the denim. Mr. Past lifted his hips and eased down his boxers. Yes. It still listed a bit to left.

Reader note: Yes. I know I’m stretching this out. But I’m trying to keep each post fairly short and add a new installment everyday. I’m not teasing intentionally. Promise. 

Making Out in a Parked Car (Dancing With Boundaries Part 3)

“Too bad I don’t have the wife’s van again,” Mr. Past chuckled as we approached his four door sedan.

“That was wrong on so many levels,” I said smiling.

“Yeah,” he said as we got in the car, “I had to chuck that air mattress because you soaked it so badly.”

“No!” I gasped, “It wasn’t that bad!”

“It was!” he insisted. “Best $30 I ever threw away in my life.”

I sat in the passenger seat trying to not be embarrassed that I had lost control like that. When I looked up at his gentle teasing and met his eyes all I saw was love. Our eyes locked for a full two seconds. I don’t know if he moved first or I did, but there in the dark, inside his parked car we met across the center console in a passionate kiss.

I leaned into him, drawing him into deeper and deeper kisses. Our mouths opened and tongues explored. His hands framed my neck and the back of my head, cradling me. There was a new confidence about him. One that I believe has come with age and his toned physique.

His mouth explored my face, leaving the safety of my lips for other terrains. Down my cheek to my jawline he went, leaving a trail of yearning in his wake. As he left a line of firm, insistent kisses I felt myself yielding to his touch. I was across the console arching into him.

Even though it was dark and foggy out and the windows of his car were tinted I was aware that if someone passed by and looked closely, our actions would be noticed. I pulled away, leaving my hand on his thigh, and took a long breath.

“That was nice,” I said.

“Mmmhmmm,” Mr. Past agreed.

“Not to change the subject,” I said, “but I’m really hungry. Would you mind driving me somewhere to get some nourishment?”

“I don’t mind at all,” he said, “and we could also find a more private place to park.”

“I like that idea,” I said smiling.

He put the car into gear and drove out into the darkness in search of drive through chicken and a secluded alley. Seven minutes later he had found both.