She Whispers

The AMAZING Anne Schilde left this as a comment on my Whisper post and it was TOO gorgeous not to share. Grab a tissue (yes, for THERE) and enjoy. 

Don’t be afraid. It’s only a whisper.

It tickles a little, I know, warm and gentle under your ear. It’s okay. It’s only a whisper.

The tiny hairs on your neck rise in alarm when they feel my breath. “Marian!” they warn. “She’s so close!” Hehe! No one can hear them. They only whisper!

Goosebumps rise at your nape, toppling down your body like tiny little dominoes of joy, telling me when to stop… begging me not to stop… worrying I will find the one tile that fell astray and I will know WHERE to stop. Worrying the secret has already been whispered.

I breathe you in. You inspire me! You know you do! I’m so close, and the cool air pulls you past my lips to savor your scent. Your perfume has faded. It’s the whisper of you, you! that quickens my heart and you feel me tremble with yet no touch. So, so close. I can feel your skin whisper. Continue reading


The saline spray splashed over the pontoon as we crested the last breaking wave and the calm, turquoise waters spread before us, a shimmering blanket of possibilities.

Let’s sail away on a catamaran.
Leave behind the burning sand.

We’ll live on champagne
and what comes from the sea,
content and happy to simply be.

You took my dream and made it real.
We’re claiming our freedom.
It’s time to feel.

So now on a woven deck we ride,
laughing and clapping at the changing tide.
Take me darling! NOW I cry!
Own me, claim me, before I die.

Draw the sail in.
Tie it up tight.
Then bend me
and fuck me
with all your might.

Fingers entwine in the deck and the lines
while the wind overhead whistles and whines.
We fly the hull of passion’s race
catching the wind that has no face.

Is this drench that covers, you or me?
Again, again, again is my plea.
For tomorrow will come
and dawn will break
bringing an end to our wake.

But for now we float hand in hand.
And I don’t care
if we never find land.

If You’ll Walk Outside I’ll Kiss You

There were two of them coaching the other team and I couldn’t decide which one held the greater sex appeal for me, but it was the bold, lanky sandy-haired one who introduced himself and asked for my number. Sam strolled back to the sidelines and held open his hand to show the reserved, muscular, brown-haired one his prize. The quieter man glanced over his friend’s shoulder, meeting my eyes across the gym. Our gaze held for a full five seconds.

A week later Sam called—his voice raspy from coaching—and invited me to his birthday party. And that is how, eleven days after I couldn’t decide which one I was most attracted to, I happened to be perched on the kitchen counter of the blond one’s apartment sipping a Coke while being introduced to the friends who’d come to celebrate his thirty-second year.

I wore my favorite faded, well-worn jeans that sat low and loose on my hips with a white tuxedo shirt, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and the front unbuttoned to the top of my white lace bra. My sun-bleached hair hung in relaxed waves, framing my face, which was bare except for a hint of lipgloss and mascara. Classic rock played on the radio and I gently swayed to the likes of Def Leppard, AC/DC and Aerosmith.

The other one, the one who hadn’t asked for my number, walked through the door. He didn’t see me. I watched him mingle among the group, back-slapping the guys and side-hugging the girls, slowly weaving his way toward the kitchen presumably in search of a beer. Then he saw me. Sam must not have told him I was coming. His mouth hung slightly open, unformed words to friends halted in mid-sentence. I smiled. He closed the distance between us. Continue reading

Tan Lines and Summer Beer

I’m sprawled across my bed after a heavenly day on the lake soaking up the sun. Naked. And I’m taking pictures of my tan lines to send to a lucky fellow. Yes. Miss Green is being risqué.

But what I really want to tell you about is Summer Beer. Oh. My. Gosh. DELISH!!!! And so damn easy! Here’s what you do…

In a large pitcher combine: four beers, one can of frozen limeade concentrate and then fill the empty limeade can with vodka and add that too. Shake the pitcher. Serve. Preferably on a lake with good friends.

Now… how to get a good angle on this tan line? ;-)


I want to sail the Mediterranean on a moonless night and float along listening to nothing but the waves. I want to be pinned between the infinite galaxies and their watery reflections. I want to stretch out on the deck completely alone and fill my nostrils with the scent of the salty sea air. I want to be free.

The Bath

There’s oil in the water and on my skin. It smells of almond flowers. My skin is golden from the sun. And warm.

You sit behind, cocooning me with your body. My back rests on your abdomen. I breath.

I rest.

You touch me gently. With just your finger tips… tracing my outlines. You pull me tight against you, dip your head, put your lips on my shoulder and follow the line up to my ear lobe. You take it carefully between your teeth and let your warm breath tickle my ear. But it doesn’t tickle. It gives me good shivers. Everywhere.

I lean back further, tilting my head back and against your shoulder. I’m trusting in every way. I ask you to kiss me. Please, please kiss me.

Our lips meet.
The water boils.

Sad Country Songs

It’s 1:44 in the morning. And I’m content… happy even. So why am I trolling through YouTube listening to sad country songs? (and some of these are old school… like late 80s early 90s!) Honestly I have no idea. Maybe it’s the nostalgia… Maybe it’s that minor key sound… But I’m in a sharing mood. So here ya go. Marian’s Middle of the Night Playlist.

Continue reading

I’m Drinking Jack Daniel’s

Please understand. I’m not blaming Old No. 7. But the multiple sips I’ve had have loosened my fingers enough to let you know that Miss Green needs a good fucking. Sigh. Yes, I could go get it. But I’m waiting. For what you ask?

I’m waiting for you.

I’m waiting for you to:
Bend me. Twist me. Spank me. Fill me. Screw me. Slap me. Fuck me. Claim me. Mark me. Own me.

Make me yours.

I’m begging you to handle me. Show me who’s the boss. Prove to me you’re smarter, stronger, braver, sharper, faster. I WANT to be less than you. Are you there? Can you hear me?

Yes. Yes, I will push back. I will make you earn it. I will battle with your brain, your body and your soul. I will nip, tug and scream before you earn my submission. But when you do. God, when you do. You will feel like a king. And you will have earned it.

Three cheers for Jack Daniel’s anyone?


We Are Fire

Dance in the fire with me. As long as you don’t let go you’re safe from the singeing heat. We weave in and out of the blue, orange and red. Hearts pounding.

Lips and tongue meet, teasing the licking flames higher. You grip my hair as I press my body against yours pushing, pulsing, dancing.
Kiss me. Show me your magic and I’ll show you mine. Climb with me higher and higher.

What once seemed impossible is now happening. The heat surrounds, consuming, devouring. I burn. I burn for you.

We dance in the glow. We are beautiful. Our shapes collide melting into each other. The shadow on the wall shows one writhing being.
Joined together in the dance as old as time we unite with a common goal. We climb higher and higher.

You reach the pinnacle screaming my name carrying me along with you to the peak of the flaming pyre. We are fire.

Bren on the Rocks

“Four Roses on the rocks,” said the man at the wooden-topped bar.

Bren pulled the embossed bottle from behind the counter, grabbed a weighted glass and added five square cubes of ice. The fragrant whiskey followed.

The stranger lifted the amber liquid to his lips and took a slow sip. Bren watched him carefully set the glass down and let out a long sigh. His full lips glistened with a remnant of the drink. As she imagined kissing those wet, moist lips she felt the deep rise of lust, passion and longing between her legs. Bren almost dropped the bottle. It had been months since she felt the stirrings of desire.

The man looked up and met her steady gaze. Bren’s eyes were the exact color of a lake a twilight. He imagined what those lavender-blue jewels would look like pinned under him in a cloud of crisp white sheets. The vibration in his pocket broke his focus and train of thought.

The meeting has been moved to 11 a.m.

Interesting. He could have a long morning in bed if he chose.

Anatomy of a Heartbreak

Is this real? Is this happening? Oh god. It is.

Spiraling down into darkness, melting into despair, dissolving into the fetal position. Breathing. Every breath hurts—like a hot knife stabbing the lungs. Tears don’t come. Not yet. A layer of shock covers, protecting, but not for long.

Reality breaks the numbness. No more touching. No more kissing. No more tender words. No more love. What was is simply no more. And then, on a random intake of breath, the pain explodes. The grief comes rushing out in a fit of racking sobs that twist the gut into a thousand knots. They come in waves until they can come no more. The body is whipped, drained, spent. Restless sleep engulfs. But it doesn’t last. Upon waking it all comes rushing back. The cycle continues. The agony—both metal and physical—a hair’s breadth from unbearable.

A week, nineteen days, three months or more pass. Finally, a good day allows the sun to break though and warm the soul before it plunges back into the depths of despair. Then two good days grant respite. And the darkness invades again. The pattern continues for who knows how long, until the realization dawns: despair days haven’t visited for a week and a half. Strangely the heart crunches at this, grieving the grief of a great love.

Ever so slowly time, the great healer, does its work and thoughts of the cherished one no longer wield that angry knife that pierces the lungs. Instead a calm sadness lingers that will forever pay homage to the death of a great love.