I’ve just watched this once and I’m covered in goosebumps from head to toe!!!!! Anne Hathaway’s singing is bone chilling in a good way. And Hugh Jackman and Eddie Redmayne in the SAME FILM!!!! Be still my heart. I need to do an entire post dedicated to my facination with Mr. Redmayne. But that can wait. Because here is this—the Les Miserables trailer.
I had a lucid dream last night and it was lovey. You see, many of you were in it. And I played the part of a gypsy, wandering free, visiting each of you in the flesh. In this sweet dream of mine daily responsibilities existed not. Money wasn’t an issue, nor was time or not knowing actual destinations.
First I dropped by Hyacinth’s place, met the neighbor (Yes… his cock is magnificent. No… I didn’t dream anything naughty with him) and had some excellent sushi. I tried to talk her into tagging along on my adventure, but she has a puppy that requires walking so she only went as far as Coco’s house. We drank good wine, talked about boys and played dress up with her hats for while before Hy had to go home and I was off once again. Continue reading
This is completely random, but where is everyone? My post feed is strangely quiet. I had a lovely dream about several of you last night that I’ll put up in a bit… but I feel like I’m the only person on WordPress right now. I know… You all have fabulous lives and adventures that you’re out living. That’s wonderful. Just check your email on your phone and tell me what wonderful happenings are happening.
In other news someone landed on my blog today by googling “naked women that used to be men”… who knew I was so cutting edge! : )
I could practically hear the tent pitching in what I assume were pleated trousers. They might have been khaki or navy. The color didn’t bleed through phone line. His nervous chuckle did.
“I do so appreciate your help,” I said.
“I appreciate your appreciation,” he said, allowing a small laugh to break up his clipped Indian-accented English, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Well,” I said, dropping my voice down to its best 1-900-number tones, “you’ve been such a darling making sure that unnecessary late fee was dropped, I hate to ask for anything more, but… do you think you could get a fresh statement that reflects the changes
sent to me?”
“Why certainly! Do you wish for a hard or electronic copy, ma’am?”
“Oh, a hard copy, please.”
“Certainly [giggle], would you verify your mailing address?”
And then, because I’ve been stuck at home recovering from surgery and was bored out of my mind, I recited the address as if he was paying me ten dollars a minute.
“Very [deep breath] good. It will [deep breath] go out [deep breath] tomorrow,” he stammered.
“Thank you for the excellent customer service,” I cooed.
“No ma’am,” he faltered, as if having to mentally translate the words, “It was all my pleasure.”
I want a knife tonight
one that fits my hand
black, balanced, sharpened to a fate
made to slice fat and sinew
in something hungry and dead
I’ll use it light and fast
to cut away the years that stand
between your birth and mine
There’s a deep groove for tears
along the Interstate we didn’t travel
where Destiny counts coup
scalping knives on slick highways
sterile rest areas and truck stop snacks
She tracks the ways we could have come
together but did not
I want revenge for that
How can I love you so
with the knife incise that symbol
on a black and rain wet tree
as you mark me as your own
then lie with me in russet leaves
and make fog rise in and out on air
in fields and subdivisions more blessed
Now carve on me your every fevered plea
Age makes me, my gift, imperfect
before it touches you,
no sharp implement
can take time back or let me stun you now
wit’s first fruits, white skin, smooth hands and face
pomegranates, mango, berries, roses
and new wine,
what I would suffer to make it so, again
For the privilege of surrender, I would give you even this
the body that I have, the time that I have left
Let that wicked blade flay also carrion
fears and doubts that haunt the girl to death,
when I, awakened now, would live on for joy
in finding unexpected, something sweet
to want, you, my mystery, where none
was foreshadowed, where in fact all mysteries
were slain, all shallows known, all deeps imagined,
all fishes fried, all colors named, the last die cast
In one economic motion without regret
I’d slide the knife across the soft sad nape
of my mistakes, sheathe it when you look again
to wear my black dress into our rented room
and ease away the burdens of many morrows
from your skin with oils and water heated in my hand
into this vessel all your pains take
as lovers wished since ever time began
And to be wanted in return, what fortune sweeter
to hold that fire that makes us whole
All lies, all shame, all hidden places let
me in, and I now offer you my last white sheet
pale flesh, my thigh, then fold by fold
you’ll take your joy of me, let one heart beat
one breath, we two carved down
in yearning and in voice to make a single form
One cry between the two of us, a last hot sound
Just this once you’ll let me beg for more
and lie back smiling ‘til further sounds are torn
from your throat and from mine, our flesh still sore and slick
from too much bliss, sweet your shadow on me
cut away all that I cannot taste but crave tonight
the knife again, the Monster can taste my blade too
She-Fate who would not bring you sooner
Lying together I would put the sharp things down
look into your coffee-colored eyes, cry, yes probably,
and repeat this verb
this old Saxon word for both true parts
double-edged joy: to hold so close, to cut and sever
for love means both – delight, our soul’s reunion in the flesh
and parting also, these hours in the rapids flash away,
when lips and fingers meld and sweat cancels thought
Fear is vanquished here, relieved and given flame,
and thereby you, my thane, and I are made anew
From the black and velvet tree I will tattoo your name
I cherish both our breaks and bonds, for each are true
To come inside we peel away and by the kiss we cleave
The Oldest Verb: To Cleave.
I reblogged this a while back from Melissa Hassard’s site, but got selfish and wanted the whole thing, so I’m posting it again in its entirety. You can access Stacy Ericson’s site (the poet) by clicking here.
“Good, god!” he gasped, “You come like a man!”
My grip on the antique iron headboard loosened and my arms, which had been braced for leverage, relaxed slightly. I looked down at him, lying on the bed, his hands on my hips keeping pace with my gentle rocking rhythm.
“You aren’t done are you?” I asked.
“No, but I don’t think it would matter if I was.”
“Hell yes it would matter,” I panted, “and I’d be royally ticked off!”
“You’re going to come again aren’t you?”
“If you’ll shut up and suck my nipples, I’ll come several more times,” I said as I leaned forward, putting them in close range of his mouth.
The fire within began to build, even more rapidly this time. I pulled away, leaning back so his swollen shaft massaged that magic place deep inside. With one hand clinging to the cold metal of the bed and the other rapidly massaging my exposed pearl, I rode him. There was no in and out motion, just deep, hard rocking that shoved his hardness against me again and again. I felt it kindle in the depths of my belly, that flaming tongue of passion. It rose higher and higher until finally, I was consumed. My deep, guttural scream filled the room as my back arched even further and I clenched my muscles tightly around his spear, almost pushing him out. And then, with a final gasp, I released and came against him, a mass of throbbing sensuality.
My surroundings slowly came into focus again when I heard him speak my name. He was pulling me to his chest, wanting my body against his. I let him wrap his arms around me and run rough fingers up and down the soft, smooth skin of my back. But not for long. I needed more.
This time he cupped a breast in each hand and I leaned into him, letting him support most of my weight. The rest I split between the headboard and my knees, which gave my hips full range of motion. Again I rode him, but this time less selfishly, bringing him with me on the journey. We climbed the mountain together, pacing ourselves, going ever higher.
I reached back with one hand and felt his balls, covered with my dripping juices, clenched snugly against him. He moaned at my touch so I continued stroking them while my hips circled above. The borderline pain inflicted on my sensitive breasts as he gripped them tighter and tighter brought me to very brink.
“Come!” I yelled, “Come with me, Come with me now!”
His body shuddered and my hand, which was still fondling his balls, felt them press tightly against his body and then pump the thick, white liquid through his rod. Right before he ejected passion’s fluid, my body responded with a liquid rush of its own, raining down proof of my orgasm as I leaned into his hands with all my might.
I rolled off and lay sprawled on the bed, letting the ceiling fan dry my glistening body.
“Do you mind if we skip the cuddling part?” I asked.
He reached over and slipped a finger between my thighs, sliding it between my moist folds, briefly exploring my spent channel.
“Just checking,” he said with a chuckle.
I don’t mind living in a man’s world as long as I can be a woman in it.
A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.
I don’t know who invented high heels, but all women owe him a lot.
Some people think luxury is the opposite of poverty. It is not. It is the opposite of vulgarity.
All good art is an indiscretion.
It’s often just enough to be with someone. I don’t need to touch them. Not even talk. A feeling passes between you both. You’re not alone.
I never lose sight of the fact that just being is fun.
I don’t know why women want any of the things men have when one the things that women have is men.
If you want to give up the admiration of thousands of men for the distain of one, go ahead, get married.
Sex is a part of nature. I go along with nature.
Life is to be lived. If you have to support yourself, you had bloody well better find some way that is going to be interesting. And you don’t do that by sitting around.
I want to write you a love letter but I don’t know where to begin.
Start at the beginning you say?
When was the beginning? The feeling has grown, blossomed,
more and more each day
I take pen to paper with the best intentions
The words, they flow, they tumble
They dance across the page so beautifully, so swiftly
that I can’t believe they’re my inventions
My eyes are closing, I’m fading fast
Quick… let it out. Write it down…
Or all your pretty thoughts will be left in the past
It’s too late. The meds have kicked in.
So instead, I’ll just dream in happy bliss
And send you a picture
Of where you’ll place our very first kiss…
Separation and distance are opposite sides of the same cruel coin that often undermines relationships. They claw away at the foundation, leaving matchsticks where pillars once stood. The one left behind sometimes invents ways to love the one who is gone less… just so it doesn’t hurt so bad. Because if you can numb the ache. Dull the pain. Simply not feel… you don’t feel so worthless, so unwanted, so second-place.
Why do you lean back in your chair, close your eyes and imagine my lips grazing your jaw line, slowly working my way to your ear lobe before biting it gently, sucking and then softly blowing in your ear? Why do you picture my doing all this while I’m climbing into your lap, straddling you, running my hands up and down your chest and arms, and then going lower still… feeling your growing bulge beneath the confines of the well worn denim?
Please, tell me why.
This man only answered one of the questions. But he did it so well, so thoroughly, I wanted to include in a post all its own. He describes drinking a woman in visually with such appreciation and tenderness I just want to get naked!
To see a woman naked, that’s easy. Hips. Eyes. Face. Hair. Thighs. Neck. It becomes a rapid-fire scan of the places our brain subconsciously knows exactly what it’s looking for—curve of the hips for child-rearing—like gentle parenthesis, but not too gentle. Then the waistline—the area about where the top of a properly fitted pencil skirt would start. Ah… and that very sensitive area, that with just the right pressure… Mmmmm.
The eyes… they tell a lot. Permission. Denial. Anxiety. Confidence. Playful challenge. Passion. The eyes are the gatekeeper to all of this… and mine… are… doing… the… same… thing… on the other end….
The face… my default scenario is a Sunday afternoon, in a bedroom with windows open and curtains wandering on the shifting breeze scented with freshly cut grass. Oh face, face, face… symmetry… expression. The eyebrows tell more than they are ever given credit for. Furrowed in concentration or puzzlement. Raised in question. Arched in thought. Lips assist with this. A neutral expression has been more intriguing than anything mostly for the challenge of provoking a smile or a bite of the lip.
The Hair… To long for the feel of it brushing against skin—the artist’s brush of tenderness and passion. The scent. The way it moves… obscures… reveals… especially the ears. Exposed ears are difficult to resist.
Thighs… Ah… to touch… to squeeze. The more rudimentary parts of the brain rationalize mobility, strength and agility. The more aesthetic regions note grace, the delicate curves and structure.
To see a woman, in this situation—exposed and open—is to witness the beauty of form and function, to appreciate the hard-wired needs alongside the sensual wants.