Of All the Dirt Roads

I zipped up my hot pink running jacket, turned the music up on my phone, popped it in my bright yellow arm band, and headed out for my run. The country air was crisp and cool, but I knew that running down the several miles of dirt road that lay ahead would get me warmed up quickly.

The crunch of my shoes on the sandy earth kept time with the music. I hadn’t been to my grandmother’s house since the spring. The quiet solitude is something I had missed. Nathan came with me this time. Thoughts of how well he mingled with my family swirled in my head. But a mile and a half into my run my mind calmed and morphed into quitely absorbing the tranquil nature surrounding the road.

Another mile later I heard a truck approaching. It didn’t surprise me. I’d been passed by two trucks on my four mile run the day before. Though it’s been a decade and a half since I’ve lived in these woods I still caught myself wondering if I knew the people who passed me. The truck I had heard crested the hill I was approaching. I kept running, but eased to the side of the road for safety. The closer it came to me the slower it seemed to go.

And then it stopped.

I didn’t know if I should keep heading toward it or turn and run the other way. Running away wouldn’t get me very far, I reasoned, so instead I slowed to a walk to delay my approach. When I was about 25 yards away the truck door swung open and a familiar looking man clad in worn denim, a long sleeved blue polo shirt and a baseball cap climbed out of the cab.

“Marian?” he said, “Is that you?”

The voice was one I had heard on the phone only a month ago. The man walked toward me with a confident swagger.


Surely this man who was bridging the distance between us with more than a little haste was not the high school crush who had found me on Facebook recently. The very one who claimed to have been searching for me for 16 years. But it was.

“What in the world are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice incredulous as he came to a stop in front of me.

“I’m here for Christmas. And I’m out running,” I said simply, “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

Cameron closed the two-foot gap between us and pulled me into a tight embrace. My head rested on his chest and I breathed in his scent. He smelled of soap and pine and sawdust.

“I’m actually holding you,” he whispered.

I pulled away and for the next few minutes we peppered each other with questions. We had done a signifcant amount of catching up via text and with a couple of phone calls before I had slowed down our communication, so it wasn’t like we had 16 years to retrace. But the shock of coming upon each other so unexpectedly seemed to make time completely fall away.

“So things are good with you and your man?” he asked, the sideways smile I remembered so well gracing his face.

“Yes,” I said, “Really good. You know that’s why I eased up on talking to you.”

“I know,” he replied.

We both suddenly ran out of things to say. I looked down at my shoes willing my heart to slow down. He gently pushed my hair off my forehead, bringing my gaze up to meet his.

“I’m sorry I’m so sweaty.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said huskily.

And with that he pulled me to him, bent his head and brought his lips to mine. Finally.

I willingly succumbed to the moment. Our bodies pressed together as our mouths explored. Shamelessly we made out like teenagers in the middle of the road. His hands ran up and down my back before dropping to my waist and then running up the front of my running jacket.

As he grasped a breast I broke the kiss, the intimacy of the touch triggering my mental brakes.

“We have to stop,” I choked.

“I know,” he sighed, “but damn I want you. I want to take you right here out in the open.”

We walked together toward his truck, perhaps because it offered a semblance of shelter other than the woods that flanked the road. We stood there for a while, leaning against the hood, just content to be in the moment together.

“Of all the dirt roads in all the backwoods of this county, you had to be running down this one,” Cameron said.

He put an arm around me, and kissed my temple. Then he began to leave featherlight kisses along my jawline and a neck. With each kiss a fresh crop of chills covered my body. Longing and desire swept through me. And Cameron felt it.

In a swift movement he was behind me, pressing me against the truck. I could feel his erection straining against his jeans and pressing against my ass.

“It would be so easy,” he whispered, “I could pull down your leggings and slip inside you right now.”

I arched against him, wanting it. Wanting him. Wanting the raw roughness of it all. I turned quickly and caught his mouth with my own. He unzipped my jacket and began to kiss down my neck toward my heaving breasts.

A large warm hand reached in my sports bra and pulled out a creamy mound. In moments he was at my nipple, sucking, teasing with his tongue. My pelvis ground into his. He freed the other breast and went back and forth between them. I ran my fingers through his close cropped hair, desire mingling with primal need. I felt his hand between us, unzipping his jeans.

“No!” I cried, coming to my senses. “I can’t. I can not do this to Nathan.”

I stepped away, trembling, while he struggled to zip his jeans back up.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Marian,” he said, “it’s okay. I didn’t mean to take it so far. I know you aren’t available. You just drive me crazy.”

“I can’t…”

“Please don’t be sorry,” he said. “I didn’t look for you for 16 years to drive you away by thinking with my cock. Please don’t disappear on me again.”

“I won’t.”

“I have to go,” Cameron said, “I’m 15 minutes late to pick up my son.”

“Okay,” I smiled, “and I have a run to finish.”

He hugged me once more and gently kissed me before climbing into his truck and driving away. I stood in the road, listening to the sound of him leaving. And then, with a deep breath began the long treck back to my grandmother’s, and back to Nathan.

Nobody Lies About Being Lonely

“Nobody ever lies about being lonely.”

The words leapt off the screen at me as I watched From Here to Eternity for the first time last night. Beyond the cinematic beauty of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr making sand- and sea-filled love on the beach, this rather quiet look at complicated people triggered a sweet concoction of sadness, nostalgia, longing, and reflection inside me.

But that’s what good stories do. They connect.

In each of the characters I saw reflections of my own personality and past. The determination to stick to a preconceived plan, no matter how shallow, simply because it was the original plan. The fleeting magic of lust crashing into love with few words needed to express the deepest, most turbulent of emotions. The pain of separation and longing for something one knows deep down truly can not be. The commitment to one’s own definition of “right” whether it lines up with others’ ideals or not. The comfort found in conformity. Continue reading

Why Being a Top Sex Blogger Is Better Than Peanut Butter on Pancakes

So there I was. At lunch. Scrolling through my phone for the brief 15 minutes I was allowing myself to inhale a deli sandwich. And I see the notification that the fabulous Rory at Between My Sheets has posted her annual Top Sex Bloggers List.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you don’t really want to admit to yourself that you want something? Like… No, I don’t really want that fancy car. The maintenance just isn’t worth it. Or, no, I don’t want to be invited to that party. Finding something to wear will just be too much work. Or, no, I don’t want to slather some peanut butter on my pancakes. That might make them too rich to eat. This was one of those times. I really wanted to be on the list, I just tried not to admit it. And, as I reminded myself while the page loaded, I don’t write nearly as much about sex as I used to. I’m not even sure I am a Sex Blogger. Sexy Blogger? With a heavy emphasis on the Y? Ok… I’ll take that one. But this is the SEX Blogger List.

I dabbed the low fat mayo off the corner of my mouth with a too-thin napkin. Ahhh… there is was. The List. Her top ten is spot on. I read eight of them regularly and now will add the missing two to my reading docket. You can’t fault Rory’s taste.

Then I got down to the rest-in-alphabetical-not-numerical order part. My eyes dart to the Cs. Sigh. Nope. Creative Noodling isn’t on there. My bottom lip poked out a little. Oh well. Maybe I’m not posting enough, I thought. Maybe I’m not relevant. Maybe I don’t have enough drama going on in my life for people to stay interested…

Then I saw it. Marian Green of Creative Noodling. I was in the M section!!! I smiled down at my phone, a little embarrassed about how pleased this had made me. Ok. More than pleased. Downright thrilled. So thank you so much to those of you who nominated me. It is validation that just maybe I’m doing a little bit of good here. So I’ll keep on going. And I can say without any doubt that being voted a Top Sex Blogger of 2014 is WAY better that peanut butter on pancakes. It really does make them too rich for my taste.

How to Survive When Crazies Takeover (Hint: Don’t Be the Black Guy in Season One)

I feel as if I’ve been fighting a Crazipocalypse for the past couple of weeks. Something is in the air. People who I believe would normally behave in reasonable manner have been behaving off-kilter. It’s like I’m in an on-going episode of Candid Camera but no one ever points to the bushes and says, “Look! We’ve been filming you this whole time! It’s all a prank!”
The Crazies!!!! They are coming for me!!!!!

The Crazies!!!! They are coming for me!!!!!

Thankfully I have good, humorous friends who help me realize that the pinpoint of light at the end of the tunnel isn’t actually a train. Before the Crazipocalype peaked I was describing the impending sense of doom I had weighing on me to one such friend. He’s got much more experience in this area and offered some sound advice I’m going to pass on to the rest of you in case I’m not the only one in a battle against the Crazies. (And, judging by some of y’all’s blog posts, I’m not.)

 Rory:  How are you today?
 me:  I’m a little frazzled. But hanging in there
 Rory:  Frazzled?
 me:  are you not familiar with the word?
 Rory:  I am. More inquiring why
 me:  lots of irons in the fire. a girl abandoned her job. and it’s just a nutty feeling in the air.
 Rory:  Oh dear
 me:  like all the crazies are gonna come out. think zombie takeover. But instead of zombies… the crazies.
 Rory:  Get home, and lock the doors! Invest heavily in canned foods and shotguns
 me:  yes sir
 Rory:  I’m on season 4 of walking dead. I’m full of useful tips for just such occasions
1. Making friends with a redneck who can operate a crossbow is a good idea
 me:  What else?? I need to know these things!!!!
 Rory:  2. Don’t be the black guy in season one. It doesn’t work out for you.
The black guy in Season 1.

The black guy in Season 1.

 me:  Ok… Noted. I can do that. next?
 Rory:  3. Never, EVER, split up! Scooby and the gang do this all the time, but that is a silly silly cartoon. You will probably get eaten
 me:  And what if I’m alone already? Does that mean I should just throw in the towel?
 Rory:  Nope. Keep running. Never give up babe. Your pretty and likable, so you’ll probably be around until season 6 at least. Hell, you may get your own spin-off if you play your cards right
 me:  You know I’m gonna work up a humor post from this chat, right?
 Rory:  Please do 
 me:  What do you want your name to be?
 Rory:  Hmmm… I’m feeling on the spot… Rory. Can I be Rory?
 me:  Mmmm. I like it.
 Rory:  Oh, another point. Don’t get pregnant. Yes, we want to repopulate the species after the zombie apocalypse, but you’ll die in child birth, probably during sweeps week.

So there you have it my friends. With Rory’s sound advice we can all hope to live through the Crazipocalype and perhaps even have a spin-off all our own.

Jack Wanted to Compare Cocks

“I know things are going great with you and Nathan and I’m super happy for you,” Jack began, “but you have to admit, no one fucks you like I do.”

I smiled. After our business trip a while back where the sex he was expecting didn’t happen Jack has been a little unsure of where he stands. Granted, I just played sick instead of actually breaking things off with him. But with his hypochondria as my ally it was the path of least resistance. So I took it.

With his question he had laid another smooth road of deflection at my feet. Of course no one fucked me like he did. No one ever fucks anyone exactly like someone else.

“You’re right,” I agreed.

The responding grin told me he had not heard what I meant. Instead he took my two word reply to mean that the love making with Nathan was nowhere near as earth shattering as what I had experienced with him.

“I thought so,” he chuckled.

His blatant smugness irritated me, but I resolved to let it go. Continue reading

Running, Bourbon and a Sexy Pic

After I shared just how dark and gloomy I’ve been feeling the other day, this wonderful community chimed in with love, support and a flurry of try-this-to-feel-better suggestions. And I tried some of them last night. Now perhaps these shouldn’t have been done all at once, but though I’m not completely out of the storm, there is a sliver or two of light cracking through so I might have to rinse and repeat tonight.

First, I ran. And I ran hard. I beat by personal average mile time by a full 30 seconds. The thin, long-sleeved t-shirt that belonged to a man who has long sense forgotten it clung to my sweaty frame. The fog I’d been running through for thirty minutes only added to the dampness on my skin.

Second, I drank. Once home I immediately launched into preparing dinner for Nathan and I, but did so with a glass of Makers Mark in my hand. Neat. No water. No ice. I told a friend and he asked if the burn felt good. “What burn?” I responded. There was none. It was like syrup. Without the sickly sweetness. I felt myself begin to mellow. There were still some biting words aimed at Nathan that he didn’t deserve, but not as bad as the day before. And certainly not as terrible as they could have been. I drank some more.

Third, I took selfies of my cleavage. And I’m not feeling so gloomy that I’m too selfish to share…  Continue reading

The Tornado Is Back

It’s not a literal tornado. One that blows houses apart, upturns cars and leaves a path of broken bits and pieces of ruble in its wake. But it’s how I describe it. This feeling. This darkness that is so unlike my natural sunshine. And it’s no fun.

It tells me that I’m a bad person because I don’t keep up with everything like I should. I’m not perfect, so I’m dreadful. It’s not pretty. It’s not good.

It’s an anger that builds up and swirls around faster and faster and I just want to get mad at anything just have something to get mad at to give it some type of release. Any release at all.

Logically I know what causes it. Fucking surgery. Fucking broken body. Fucking imbalance. And that helps. The knowing. But I still have to live through the tornado. I still have to try to control the fury that threatens to leave a path of destruction and broken bits in my wake.

Because I am the monster. I am the tornado.