Is it scary to leave your first comment ever? Well, yes. It was for me. I wasn’t sure what the “rules” were. I was afraid I was breaking into a private conversation. Everyone seemed to know everyone else… so who was I to jump in with my two cents? I wasn’t sure I should make the leap from lurking reader to commenter. But I did. And goodness I’m glad. That first comment paved the way to interactions with some of the smartest, wicked-sexy people on the planet.
So I’m putting the ball in your court. I have more hits on my posts than can be accounted for by the regular commenters. So I’m thinking… I’m hoping there are regular readers out there I’ve never heard from and I’d love to invite you to join the conversation. Not sure how to do it? I’ll show you.
So what to say? Well I have questions for you! What are some of your favorite posts? What would you like to read more about? What are your questions for me? Just click that demystified little comment box below and let me know. Please… : )
I stirred under the creamy cotton sheets, the soft fibers brushing gently across my naked body. Flickering memories of the night before slowly played across my closed eyelids. Just as I reached between my legs to touch my slick wetness I returned to full consciousness and sat up, startled. I had basically had sex with my friend’s husband and, even if they were swingers, I felt like I had betrayed her.
There would be no postponing the facing of the proverbial music. I walked across the beige carpet to the curtained window, wondering what on earth I was going to say when I saw her. But when I looked down from the second story view, I inhaled sharply. Her car wasn’t in the driveway. What did that mean?
After hurriedly tossing on a black slip that lay discarded beside the bed, I padded silently down the stairs. All was quiet. I bravely walked to their bedroom door and gently turned the knob. In a tangle of burgundy blankets Damon lay sleeping, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. I tiptoed to the edge of the bed and whispered his name.
Tonight I depart from my attempt at writing my hyper-romantic story about the Australian who got me so spun up that I had to start a blog to recover. Instead I’ll regale you—or at least attempt to—with a tale that lays my baser nature bare. It began innocently enough in a round about way. The man—we’ll call him Damon—friended me on Facebook several years ago in order to get in touch with the man I was dating at the time who, incidentally, shunned Facebook like the plague. They had been childhood friends and Damon was on a reconnecting bender. Connection made, I assumed he would bow out, unfriend me, etc., but instead he remained, occasionally commenting on my status updates and posting amusing ones of his own. So when Damon and his wife came through town and wanted to meet up with us I readily agreed.
The wife—we’ll call her April—and I got on immediately. Phone numbers were exchanged along with promises of popping in for a stay at their home if and when I was in their city. Which I did. Twice. The first time I detected only the slightest undercurrent from Damon, that invisible rippling of the atmosphere when a man is drawn to a woman and she is aware of the attraction. It wasn’t an issue because April and I went out for drinks, leaving him home, and got to know each other better. That’s when she began to reveal their naughtier side. On occasion they would host parties at their home. Yes, those kind of parties. Turns out my new friends were into soft-swap swinging.