Holy Roughnecks

In a land far from my own I pulled into a no-name gas station to fill up my rental. A Lincoln towncar that had seen better days backed up to the pump ahead of me. Not familiar with the area, I kept my focus on my car. Safety in not making eye contact and all that.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the driver’s door open and a rugged, large, leather-skinned man emerged. I couldn’t help but look. The back door opened and a larger, muscle bound, jean clad man stepped out. I was openly staring.

They bore the marks of their trade. Oil men. Roughnecks. Dirty hands. Clear eyes. Smile lines etched on their faces.

The other back door opened. Yes. There was another. Blonde hair cropped close. Late 20s with the sun damage of 40+ year old man.

And then a last one hoisted himself up and out of the front passenger seat. His arms were as big as my thighs.

There were four of them. Four massive men.

They all looked my way in unison. Not of their world… And it showed. My skin is a pale gold, shielded every day with generous coatings of SPF. My white button front shirt was crisp and clean. Though I too wore jeans they were paired with brown leather four-inch heels.

Eyes met. They smiled. I allowed the corner of my mouth to lift. The driver nodded. I did the same. I’ve heard about roughnecks, but this was my first experience seeing them up closer.

My mind went to dark and dirty places. Their large, calloused hands on my soft, pale skin. Chapped mouths on my nipples.

And I got in my car and drove away.

F*ck Therapy (wherein I call Nathan an unfeeling bastard)

Some things in my life are coming to a head. Things I don’t go into detail about here. This is still an anonymous blog after all.

I read about others going to therapy and it being well… therapeutic. I have friends who are therapists… and I know they help people. I know all this in my head. But I won’t do it. Will. Not. Why? For several reasons, the foremost being that my shit is my shit to deal with. And I want to deal with it alone. Heaven forbid I get told how I handle it is wrong.

So I don’t do therapy.

So when things start to come unwound I simply wind up tighter. And tighter. Until something snaps. Last night I snapped. And Nathan was there for it.

“You don’t understand,” I sobbed.

“I do,” he argued, “But I think you’re wrong.”

I railed against him for an hour and a half. There were tears, angry words, wailing and gnashing of teeth. We were in each other’s face. Literally at the other’s throat. I called him an unfeeling bastard. You see, I wanted his support in something that he fundamentally disagrees with me about. This something is more important than anything I’ve faced in a very long time. Continue reading

Sometimes the Angel Wins

A continuation of the tale I began telling but didn’t have time to finish…


I bit my lip again as the New Englander’s look intensified. The hum of energy between us felt almost audible. It had been too long since I had felt that level of attraction. My body leaned in toward him, inviting him to make his move.

He pulled away. It was calculated. Like a fisherman pulling a line taunt to set the hook. I felt my eyes sparkle, excited at the game. Though I wanted to mirror his pulling, I held my position instead—chin propped on hand, breasts crushed against forearm. I grinned. And watched him drink me in.

There’s something about an obvious appraisal, a long appreciative look, a head to toe stare that that makes one feel desirable. He came closer again.

“Wanna go have some fun?” he asked, low enough that only I could hear. Continue reading