He Took Me On The Rug By The Fire

I had just lit the fireplace when he walked in, smelling of leather and spice. His hands were cold from the weather and I let out a squeak when he lifted the bottom of my gray knit shirt and warmed them on my abdomen.

With his lips on mine he backed me into the living room and slowly worked his fingers up my midriff to the teal lace that covered my breasts. My nipples, already hard, happily sprang from their enclosure as he unhooked my bra. In swift, fluid motions I was stripped of shirt, jeans and underthings. He pulled my naked flesh against his clothed body and began rapidly coating my skin with searing kisses. I arched against him, my head tilted back and my hair grazed the lower half of my back.
Wordlessly we sank to the floor, the softness of my chenille rug cushioning our decent.

He unzipped his pants and his hard cock sprang forth, throbbing and ready. In the flickering firelight as he hovered above me he looked like a conquering hero of old. His blue eyes softened as he looked into my green ones.

And then he entered me, slowly, gently. I bucked against his pelvis, attempting to hasten the coupling. Taking my cue, rapidly he rode me, the hardwood floor beneath the rug letting me feel every thrust and parry.

My orgasm came fast and hard. His followed soon after so that as I was recovering from mine, I felt him pulsing and then surging deep inside my clenched channel.

“Hi,” Nathan whispered in my ear.

“Hi,” I whispered back, smiling as I realized neither one of us had said a word until that moment.

Nighttime Visitor

The slight creak of my door opening stirred me from sleep. Through half closed eyes I saw a familiar shadowy form bathed in the flickering light of a candle I’d forgotten to extinguish. Slowly he approached my bed. I didn’t move.

I lay there on my back, naked but for panties, the sheet pulled up to my waist, one arm tossed above my head, my breasts completely exposed with nipples hardened by the chilly night air. I felt him looking down at me, but I remained motionless, afraid to let him know I was aware of his presence. I heard him turn and retrace his steps. His hand was on the doorknob when I found my voice.

“Nathan,” I whispered to my out of town friend, “Don’t go.”

He returned to my side. The only thing that had changed about my position was my eyes, which were now open and staring into his. He bent and found my lips with his own. Gently, tenderly he kissed me, his soft beard tickling my face. Our mouths opened and our tongues tentatively touched, tasting, exploring. He broke the kiss and pulled away, his eyes raking over my body.

“If I go any further you know I won’t be able to stop,” he said hoarsely.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

He stripped off his black knit shirt, unfastened his jeans and let them fall to the floor. He stepped out of them and stood there in only his boxers. I slid toward the center of the bed and lifted the sheet in invitation.

And then he was beside me, the heat of his body pressing against me, his arms pulling me close. His mouth found my right breast and he took the nipple in his mouth, flicking the sharp tip with his warm, wet tongue. I arched and moaned at the sensation.

I tugged at his boxers and he hooked a finger in the waistband and slid them off in one smooth motion. I repeated the action with my panties. With no preamble he was on top of me, kissing me again, his cock poised for entry. I spread my legs.

Gently he thrust and was in, my ready wetness accepting him hungrily. Flesh on flesh we coupled, only breaking eye contact to kiss. I felt the orgasm building and lifted my hips to meet each thrust, our tempo slowing increasing until at last I felt the wave crest. I pulled him to me and, with his naked body against mine and my legs wrapped around his waist, I came. Just as I finished I felt his cock pulsing wildly inside me and he started to pull out.

“No,” I whispered, clutching him with my arms and legs, “come inside me.”

He let a low moan escape, thrust to the hilt, exploded in my core and collapsed on top of me. We drifted to sleep sharing a pillow.

He’s in the shower now and will leave soon. Although there has been lots of affection this morning, we’ve yet to talk about last night. And maybe we won’t. I do know I’m more at peace right now than I have been in a very long time.


Like boxers in ring we circle.

We dance.

Neither willing to throw the first punch.

Our gloved hands stay raised defensively.

Our feet dance to the left while our bodies feign to the right.

We circle.

We dance.

The line is approached again and again.

Yet no toe crosses it.

The bell dings.

This round is over.

How long will we wait each other out?

Fish in a Basket

He walked in without knocking, calling out a loud greeting so as to not startle me.

“Honey! I’m home!” he joked.

My angst had been building for weeks, the lust palatable. The last time I had sex was with Lover on October 23rd. That’s fifty-eight days without that which I crave. I had reached my tipping point. My heels clicked across the wooden floors as I ran from the kitchen to the front door, tackling my out of town friend with a fierce embrace.

Just home from the office myself, I still wore work clothes. The long, flowing black skirt I had slipped on that morning grazed the tops of creamy ankle boots and a winter white angora sweater wrapped me in comfort. My hair was pulled up into a high, loose bun and, thanks to a good skin day, my face was free of makeup except for mascara to highlight my long, blonde eyelashes.

“Don’t you look sweet and innocent,” he said, kissing the center of my forehead.

“Do I?” I demurred. “I certainly don’t feel that way.”

I still hadn’t stepped away from his embrace and looked up at him through my eyelashes.

“Don’t toy with me Marian. You know better,” he said firmly.

I didn’t pretend to not know what he meant. In the past he once told me, “You keep men like fish in a basket. You give them just enough water to survive, but never let them be free of you. And you don’t ever commit and go ahead and devour them. They are left in purgatory.”

Instead of slipping back into friendship mode as I’ve done when he has scolded me in the past, I stood on tiptoe and wrapped my arms around his neck, leaning into him with the full length of my body. He looked into my eyes, as if trying to read my intentions. I met his steady stare with nothing to hide. His lips landed softly on my right cheek and then the left one before he pulled me close.

“Oh Marian,” he whispered in my hair, “What am I going to do with you?”

“You could kiss me,” I said into his warm brown sweater, trying not to whine.

“And where would that lead?” he chuckled, “Are you ready for that?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, “I’m just needy I suppose.”

“Well, let’s not make any rash decisions on empty stomachs. How about I take you to dinner?”

I nodded, stepped out of his arms, grabbed my purse and let him shepherd me into his sleek, graphite colored, high-performance car. He has always liked nice things and can be materialistic to a fault, but as I sank into the soft black leather and ran my fingers along the burled wood finishes I wasn’t complaining. The powerful engine purred, then roared as he transitioned smoothly from first to second to third, his long elegant fingers gently flicking the steering wheel mounted shifters.

We walked into the restaurant and I glanced around as he asked the hostess for a table. My heart jumped into my throat. Who should be sitting in the bar, drinking whiskey and looking like delectable trouble? None other than Lover, the man who gives me so much physical pleasure but lacks emotional depth. He didn’t see me and continued talking and laughing with the men he sat with at the bar. My out of town friend doesn’t know about Lover. This had the potential for awkwardness. I took pre-emptive action and texted him.

Me: How’s the whiskey? Don’t look around. lol
Lover: Serious? You here???
Me: Yeah. Afraid so. But with a friend. So behave.
Lover: A friend? New guy?
Me: Really just a friend. But still… He doesn’t know about you.
Lover: I’m gonna come over there and whip out my cock.
Me: I’d fall on it out of habit. And we’d get kicked out.
Lover: Well then we need to find time for that to happen.
Me: Yes, we do.
Lover: Text me when you’re ready for me to fill your pussy and you want to cum all over my cock.
Me: Ok : )

My friend never knew of the exchange and ate his soup and chicken sandwich in blissful ignorance. I nibbled on my salad, keyed up and on edge. Lover left before us, surreptitiously tipping the brim of his ball cap at me as he passed. Out of town friend finished his meal, paid and we walked out into the cold night.

Once back at my house, I poured drinks—aged single malt Scotch for both of us—while he built a fire in the fireplace. I struck matches and lit all the candles in the room, filling the space with a warm, flickering glow. We sank into my worn brown leather sofa, his arm draped around me, my head on his chest, our sock feet resting on the old trunk in front of us and listened to the sound of the cracking fire. He had plugged in his iPod to my stereo and soft mix of 1970s classic rock filled the room. For hours we talked, laughing quietly, making plans for Christmas, remembering details of our long friendship. Every now and then I’d get up to freshen our drinks and he would add another log to the fire until at last he whispered in my ear, “It’s time for bed, Marian.”

I nodded sleepily, stood, grasped his fingers and led him into my bedroom. He sat on the edge of my bed while I went in the bathroom and slipped on a silky black nightgown. When I returned, he had turned down the covers and fluffed my pillows. I slid between the sheets, let him tuck me in and closed my eyes as he bent and gently stroked my hair. I didn’t ask him to stay. I was afraid he would tell me no. So he slipped away to the guest room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Do I just want him because I’m in a dry spell, I wondered as I snuggled under my down duvet. Does his careful dodging of my advances just make me play into his hands? Does he just not want me? Am I falling into the trap of wanting what I can’t have? And if he does ever give in, will I tire of him and cast him aside? Do I really treat men like fish in a basket? I simply don’t know.

The Tasting

In deep, round tones the man on the other end of the phone line walked me through the tasting. I held my glass up to the light as he instructed, admiring the play of light on the honey colored liquid, watching the legs of wine dance down the sides.

“Nose the glass,” he said.

I tilted the glass and breathed in deeply, my nostrils filling with notes of citrus, pear, butter and caramel. My soft mmmmm of pleasure purred through the line to his ear.

“That’s it, I can hear you enjoying the scents. Now sip.”

Slowly I took a mouthful, enjoying the flavors that went from crisp to cleanly sweet to a velvety dry finish. My exhale blew the lingering taste of fruit across my tongue.

“That was like drinking a Mediterranean summer afternoon. It’s my favorite of the three we’ve tried so far,” I cooed, the wine relaxing me and my voice.

We spoke of the grapes, where they were grown, how they were harvested, the barrels they rested in. Laughter chimed through the line—his rumbling like thunder, mine tinkling like crystal—as he walked me though the vineyard’s offerings.

“I shouldn’t say what I’m thinking,” he said.

“And why not?” I asked.

“It’s not proper,” he warned.

“Then by all means, do tell,” I teased.

“I was thinking that the flavors of this wine, combined with the sound of your voice must be what phone sex is like, although I’ve never tried it.”

My laughter trilled out, bubbling like champagne.

“Where on the planet are you?” he asked, his lust making his voice even deeper.

I told him.

“I’ll be in your town in March conducting a tasting. Would you do me the honor of being my guest?”

“It would be my pleasure,” I said.

“I’ll see you in one hundred and eighty or so days. That’s a promise.”

the tasting


In the shadows
Of tall buildings
Of fallen angels
On the ceilings
Oily feathers
And bronzen concrete
Faded colors
Pieces left incomplete
The light moves slowly
Past the electric fence
Across the borders
Between continents

In the Cathedrals
Of New York and Rome
There is a feeling
That you should just go Home
And spend the lifetime
Finding out just where that is

In the shadows
Of tall buildings
The architecture
Is slowly peeling
Marble statues
And glass dividers
Someone is watching
All of the outsiders
The line moves slowly
Through the numbered gate
Past the mosaic
Of the Head of State

In the Cathedrals
Of New York and Rome
There is a feeling
That you should just go Home
And spend the lifetime
Finding out just where that is

In the shadows
Of tall buildings
Of open arches
And lessly knealing
Sonic landscapes
Echoing vistas
Someone is listening
From a safe distance
The line moves slowly
Into the fading light
A final moment
In the dead of night

In the Cathedrals
Of New York and Rome
There is a feeling
That you should just go Home
And spend the lifetime
Finding out just where that is

In the Cathedrals
Of New York and Rome
There is a feeling
That you should just go Home
And spend the lifetime
Finding out just where that is

Songwriter: JAY CLIFFORD | Preformed by: Joan Osborne
Cathedrals lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group


I Almost Deleted My Blog

I have been unspeakably sad. And still am. The ache in my heart is a physical pain that manifests itself in the form of salty drops flowing down my cheeks. I’ve never understood self mutilation. The idea that the cutting or harming of one’s own flesh could ease the ache didn’t resonate. But that’s what I came close to doing in a metaphorical sense. I almost cut away this intimate part of me that is this blog. There was little rational thinking behind the thought.

I did not loose a child. I did not walk into that horrific scene as a first responder. I did not have to tell a mother that her arms will never again hold her baby.

Even now. All I can think is: Oh my God. Those sweet babies. Sweet precious babies. Precious innocents forever lost.

My soul is keening.

What I Want

On my way to the airport this morning while weaving through horrendous traffic my mind retreated to a quiet corner I don’t often let it go. While being cut off by a decrepit Dodge minivan I began to fantasize. About what you ask? About what I want. And this morning what I wanted was to be curled up in the crook of a man’s shoulder, my eyes closed, absentmindedly playing with his semi-hard cock with one hand, while he gently stroked my hair and read a book. I wanted that familiarity, the comfort of skin on skin that comes with trust and time.

As I lay here in my hotel and fight the chills and aches my out of town friend shared I wonder if that desire is just a passing notion–if I will still want that in the bright sunlight of my adventuring days. I don’t know. What I do know is right now, this second, I want fingers lightly tracing my naked spine, soothing me to health. But when you’re like me, what you want changes. And that’s the catch isn’t it.

Best Laid Plans

My very good longtime friend rolled in my driveway, stepped out of his car and wheeled his well-worn luggage into my home yesterday evening. His business has been taking him though my part of the country more often and I’ve become a sort of halfway house for him. I don’t mind in the least… In fact, I’ve come to enjoy our fireside chats, his perspective on life and calming presence. I’ve only written about him once on this blog and even then, his appearance in the tail end of this post was slight. Why? Because the closer we get the less I want to take a chance on jinxing it by putting my thoughts and feelings into words.

So what happened? Well, I’m getting to it. My very full Friday left me no time to think about prepping something for us to cook together, which we often enjoy doing, so we opted for the speed and convenience of southern drive thru chicken. Now because I only indulge in this cholesterol-boosting treat on rare occasions, I forgot that it is also packed with sodium. About an hour after we had eaten I was craving water like a desert stranded plane crash victim. Thankfully my fridge dispenses as much of the chilled, filtered goodness as I want. So I quenched my thirst greedily—to the tune of almost two liters of water!

With my stomach distended and sloshing there was no way I was following through with my original plan. If and when we do have sex it will be making love, not fucking. And that sort of thing is best attempted when one is feeling one’s best. At least I think so.

He’s still here, out on my back porch grilling burgers for us, but has been complaining of flu-like symptoms. So I think our night will play out like the dozens of others we’ve spent together: comfortable, homey, loving and chaste. Does it surprise you dear reader that I can hold back the raging sex drive I so often write about? It certainly does me, but when navigating the tricky waters between friend and lover I’m choosing caution over quick satisfaction.

Sex Tonight

I have every intention of having sex tonight. Unless I chicken out. You see… my good friend is back in town. And we’ve been growing closer. And closer. I haven’t written about because I don’t know where things are going. So do I risk the friendship by adding the physical? Again. I don’t have the answer. Maybe I’ll find it tonight.