Thursday, June 30, 2005

Bye Bye Spanky?

There are only two people close to me who know I write this blog, Papi and my little sister Peaches. But now there may be three. You may have noticed a few days back that I commented that Spanky recently called me Spanky... giving me pause to wonder if he had stumbled across this blog. And, if you were really on your toes, you might have noticed that last week I posted about an encounter Spanky and I had the night before... then, when I received an anonymous comment saying "bye bye Spanky," I immediately deleted it. I was sick to my stomach over the whole thing. Not that Spanky would know about my blog or the details of my sexual encounters with others. No, that's fair game. Rather I was devastated that I would have inadvertently hurt him in my accounts of our sexual encounters. I guess I'm still struggling with the question of how to balance my right to tell my own story with my responsibility to do no harm to others.

Friday, June 24, 2005

The Real Queer Eye

I haven't forgotten about Twiddly's question. Honestly, I was hoping no one would press me to talk about the difference between queer and gay/lesbian. I was gonna just ignore the question. But then I read today's word-of-the-day* and understood it was my fate to struggle with that question right here for all you all to see.

In case you didn't know Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day for June 7 was:

homonym \HAH-muh-nim\ noun
1 : homophone
2 : homograph
3 : one of two or more words spelled and pronounced alike but different in meaning

Did you ever notice that "homo" was in the word homonym?

And you may ask, what homonym praytell could compell me to the discussion at hand? And I say to you, the word is "queer."

Now, for much of America the word queer has one and only one meaning. Odd. And not odd as in unique or special. At its' most benign the meaning is akin to Webster's definition: differing in some odd way from what is usual or normal. But walk onto any third grade playground and you'll get the real meaning we all grow up with. Odd as in you-can't-play-with-us-you-sissy. Odd as in I'm-gonna-shove-your-head-into-this-toilet-where-it-belongs-you-faggot. Odd as in you-fucking-dyke-I'll-show-you-how-a-real-woman-takes-it-up-the-cunt. In other words, any person in their right mind would think twice before proclaiming "Hello world. I'm a big fabulous queer!" This is often true of folks in the lesbian and gay community as well, particularly folks of my generation or older. Lots of gays and lesbians want nothing to do with the word queer since it has generally been used to oppress us and harassss us and brand us as societal outcasts.

But there are those among us who wear our queerness on our sleeves nonetheless.

Some of you may not know that this month of June is the month that gay, lesbian, bi, trans and allied folks celebrate our pride and commemorate our struggles in parades and celebrations all around the world. The 1969 rebellion at the Stonewall Inn in New York City is commonly attributed to be the moment the tide turned and the queers fought back en masse. Often thought to be just a skirmish between a bunch of nelly queens and some good old boy cops, iactualityty the riots spanned over three sperate nights and at one point involved up to 2000 angry queers and over 400 police officers. And when I say queers, I mean queers. Bull dykes. Drag queens. Flaming fags. Transgender folk(before the word transgender was in the popular lexicon). Queers.

Eventually the police sent in a riot-control squad that had originally been trained to counter Vietnam War protesters. So, what do the queers do when faced with a row of armed cops in full riot gear? They start throwing rocks and bottles and flipping over patrol cars. Then they got really serious: they faced off the cops with a chorus line and started to sing:

We are the Stonewall girls
We wear our hair in curls
We wear no underwear
We show our pubic hair
We wear our dungarees
Above our nelly knees!


Now if that isn't fabulously queer I don't know what is.

*I started drafting this post on June 7th, when homonym really was the word of the day.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

I Touch Myself

I'm not really missing in action. More like missing in inaction. I've been sad and lonely and filled with anxiety. Hibernating. Hiding. Pretending to hold my head up all day leaves me exhausted each night. I come home and crash. But I promise to return when I can muster up a little umph and maybe a story to tell.

Not much going on in my world sex wise. The most action I've had lately was my unsuccessful insemination a few weeks back. I haven't even felt the need to make a date with Wanda. Pretty sad, huh? Even my phone sex trysts with papi have been few and far between. I used to call him up all most every night and cum for him over and over. These days we talk and I touch myself but my pussy is like a shivering kitty curled into a tight little ball too tired to wake up.

Feeling lonely and horny I called Spanky today and invited him to come over for dinner. I told him I was gonna be out of town this weekend and suggested he might want to punish me in advance. Of course he readily agreed, which made me feel good. He's a pretty sweet guy that Spanky. And his stoner ways are kinda working for us since we can be outa sight, outa mind for weeks and then be all happy to see each other once we remember the other one exists. Anyway, he's on his way over so I can't stay long. Just wanted to let you all know I'm still alive. And curious.

Oh, by the way, Spanky called me Spanky today. Do you think he found my blog? Or just coincidence? Curious.

Friday, June 17, 2005

The Word of the Day for June 17 is:

Brobdingnagian•\brob-ding-NAG-ee-un\• adj:
marked by tremendous size

(thought you all might have fun with that one)

Thursday, June 16, 2005

La Cuchara

My friend Pez was returning home to the states after spending quite some time abroad. She had asked me what I wanted as a gift and I told her I was sure to be happy with anything she chose. Our mutual friend Mirva, on the other hand, said she specifically wanted some culinary something or others, neglecting to take into account that Pez knows absolutely zip about cooking. Afterall, the girl lives off of water and string cheese. Although after a year in South America she now seems to subsist on wine, chips and salsa. Anyway, Pez brought me a very nice bottle of wine and a beautiful print and I was tickled pink. After presenting me with my gift she asked me if I would take a look at what she had brought for Mirva and see if I thought it would be to her liking. You see, Pez knew that Mirva is impossible to satisfy and a very snobbish foody... and she knew that I understand both Mirva and foody accoutrements pretty well.

So she pulls out a sweet little handmade hardwood cutting block and I tell her Mirva will love it. She already owns at least 10 cutting boards, none like this one, and I'm certain she will be thrilled to ad it to her collection. Then she pulls out this cool looking wooden citrus pulper thing. I've seen ones like it in Cost Plus but this one was much nicer. Almost a piece of art really. I say, Oh yes, she'll love this. Sure, she probably already has three... but none will be as nice as this one. Finally she says I'm not sure about this one. It is pretty plain but all my friends who like to cook tell me it is their favorite thing ever that they got in Chile. And she pulls out a simple wooden spoon. And God only knows why but I knew I had to have that spoon!

Maybe it was because I had read one too many of Kasey's posts. Or maybe it was because I was going on my third day of no orgasms after being firmly instructed by my papi that I was not allowed to cum until he granted me permission (a whole nother story in itself). Whatever the reason I told Pez the mostly truth which was that I thought Mirva would find the spoon to be banal and perhaps be a bit miffed that her friend went all the way to Chile and all she brought back was this stupid wooden kitchen spoon. I offered as an aside that I really liked the spoon and would love to have it. I may have mentioned something about my appreciation for its' Shaker like simplicity or my desire to support locally made goods over mass produced child slave labor spoons. And while everything I said was indeed true... what was really seared into my mind's eye was the image of me bent over my papi's knee as he beat red stripes across my ass with la cuchara. I was certain my cheeks were bright red (on my face silly reader!) and my breath was labored as I cautioned Pez that she might seriously offend Mirva if she threw the spoon into the mix.

In the end, Pez gave me the spoon. I felt a tiny bit of remorse until Mirva asked me the next day what Pez had gotten me. When I told her she said Oh, well that must have cost a lot. I said I thought her lemon squeezer thing looked pretty nifty; that I had never seen one quite like that. She replied off handedly Oh, I have one already. You can have it if you like. I asked if hers was as nice or just some cheap mass produced China knock off and she said Whatever, a lemon squeezer is a lemon squeezer. Who cares? I knew then that the spoon had indeed made its' way to its' rightful owner.

But then karmic retribution came into play...

The next morning I called my papi on my cell from Mirva's guest room (I was staying with her as I had traveled to her city to greet Pez on her return home to the states). In soto voce I told him about the spoon and how I had wrangled it into my possession. I told him how sexy I thought the spoon was and how I wanted him to spank me with it when I saw him next. He asked me where the spoon was then and I told him in the bottom of my bag where Mirva wouldn't see it. He instructed me to get it out. I did so with equal amounts of excitement and anxiety.

He asked me what I was wearing and I told him I was still in my pj's: a t-shirt and some panties.

Good, he said. Where are you?

I'm in the downstairs guest room.

Where's Mirva?

Upstairs, in her bedroom. Still sleeping, I think.


I want you to rub the spoon between your legs.

That's so silly. I would rather you were here to...

Do what I tell you!

OK. I'm doing it.

How does it feel?

Silly. Smooth. Hard.


OK. Now rub your pussy over your panties.

Papi...

Do it!

OK. I'm doing it.

Good girl. Now how does it feel?


Silly. But nice. It's making me a little wet.

At this point I think I started to moan a little. And squirm.

Now, I want you to slap your pussy ten times with the spoon. And don't you dare cum!

Papi... that will be too loud and Mirva might...

Do it!

Yes sir. I'm doing it.


I started to make soft hesitant pats, first to the outside of my thigh and then working my way inward till I was slapping the outer lips of my pussy. Then I swatted and counted aloud ten times in rapid succession, rushing to get it over with.

The feeling was odd. Not particularly nice, put not altogether unpleasant. More striking was the powerful sensation of embarrassment and mortification, even though there were no witnesses to my act of submission.

Describe the room to me, Pussy.

Well, I'm lying on my back on the futon. There are two french doors that open out onto the deck and the backyard. There are some gauzy curtains to keep the nextdoor neighbors from getting a good look inside.

Will people see you if you go out on the deck?


Here I started to get very anxious. You know of my aversion to role plays? Well, multiply that by a zillion and that is how much I dread the idea of anyone watching me do anything that remotely resembles exhibitionism. Multiply that by ten zillion and that is how much I abhor the thought of anyone watching me do anything foolish.

Yes, the neighbors could look out their windows and see me. And should a car drive past the house they could see me too.

Is there anyone looking or driving by now?


No, but...

Go out on the deck then.

But...

Do it!

OK. I'm standing on the deck.

Did you bring the spoon?


I looked down... and for better or for worse the damn spoon was in my hand.

Yes sir.

I want you to slap your pussy six times with the spoon. And remember, no cumming!

Papi, I can't. Someone might see me.

Yes, you can. And you will. Now do it for your papi.


I swallowed hard. I knew I could tell him to back off. That was my safe word. My out. But I also knew he was testing me... and if there is anything I hate, it is failing tests!

One. There, I did it.

OK. Now four more times.

Two.... Three.


So far, so good. No one had driven by or peeked out their window. My heart was racing and I felt panicky.

Four. Five. Six. There, I did it! Can I go back inside now?

Yes, papi's good girl may go back inside.

I rushed back through the french doors and collapsed on the bed, spoon still in hand. I felt giddy and proud and triumphant. I passed the test!

That First Crimson Drop of Blood

Damn. I just started bleeding. Ah well. It just wasn't meant to be right now, right? The consolation prize? I get to see my papi next weekend for one precious night. And, knowing that I'm not pregnant means he can do dern near pretty much whatever the fuck he wants with me and I won't mind one tiny bit. He's quite the sadist when free reign is given.

Damn. I knew deep down I wasn't pregnant. But when I saw that first crimson drop of blood I still burst into tears. I guess that's what floods out when you release the dam that was stubbornly harboring hope.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

The Word of the Day for June 14 is:

woebegone•\WOH-bih-gahn\•adj.
1: strongly afflicted with woe: woeful
2: exhibiting great woe, sorrow, or misery
3: being in a sorry state

Sunday, June 12, 2005

The Night I Almost Lost My Two Best Friends: My Dog and Wanda

One night I stumbled home in the wee hours of the morning as I am sometimes wont to do. As I groped my way across the dark apartment my dog followed close at my heels. I admit she is normally neurotic and clingy but this seemed a bit much even for her... usually in the middle of the night she wouldn't bother getting outa bed to greet me since she knows I'll just be under the covers myself in a minute. She's been through the routine enough to know.

Anyway, as I approached my bedroom I heard a weird humming noise. I thought it sounded like my upstairs neighbor was vacuuming, which seemed odd. I haven't known him to vacuum in the middle of the night. Actually, he has hardwood floors and I haven't known him to vacuum ever. As I got closer to my bed the noise got louder and I realized it was coming from under my covers. Meanwhile my pooch is standing in the bedroom doorway quivering, her tail between her legs, like Gromet looking into the eyes of the Evil Penguin.

When I reached down to see what it was I discovered my comforter was vibrating madly and hot to the touch! I pulled back the covers and the humming turned into a roar. There before my eyes was Wanda, my Hitachi Magic Wand, brrr-ing away like a desperate housewife trying to cum all alone after hubby has gone to sleep... she must have been going all night. The freaky thing is that it looked like she was about to explode. The casing was all warped and melted and the mattress and covers were red hot for like a two foot radius!

I guess I had left her plugged in and somehow my dog must have managed to turn her on while climbing into bed. So, fate intervened on my behalf that evening when my triste with Mr. D had ended with him falling asleep in front of the tele. Else I am certain I would have come home to a four alarm fire and my two favorite companions burnt to a crisp.

These days Wanda ain't half the girl she used to be. She groans and shakes when I turn her on, and she heats up rather quickly in my hand. I don't want her to burst into flames and catch mi cosita on fire or anything. But damn, that girl was hella expensive and she's the only one who can make me cum like she does.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Typical Awkward Abandon

Until 2003, at the age of 37, I had only had sex with three people. Well, six if you count a drunken orgy with three friends as a freshman in college. But I don’t really count that as we all just got more frustrated than anything else. Poor communication, particularly as it relates to feelings and carnal desires, had to do with the demise of all of these relationships. I’ll own the bit that was mine: I have an incredibly difficult time knowing my own needs and desires after years and years of refining the state of simply not having any to begin with. It was my experience that allowing myself the luxury of desire only led to pain and disappointment down the line. Better to want nothing of life. Of course, I didn’t understand until it was much too late the toll that takes.

When I fell in love with Elle, the third or the sixth of those people depending on how you choose to ad it up, it was quite literally love at first sight. I looked up and saw her enter the room and I was sprung. She had a sort of chubby, well, fat really, soft butch bjork thing going on. I remember she wore a green hoody and shaggy baggy jeans, looking like a scrappy tomboy in a roomful of preppy baristas all trying to appease the corporate wigs at Starbucks. We would be sequestered away all weekend in a stuffy windowless office for a fucking “sanitation” class. It was required to rise from barista to lead clerk and thus merit your lousy fifty cent raise. As the city health inspector droned on and on about the appropriate handling of dairy products and the numerous varieties of cockroaches found in Chicago sewers I gazed at her and imagined she and I and Upton Sinclair were drinking our double tall americanos and laughing as all the grande nonfat latte ladies were dropping like flies on the streets of Chicago.

I wooed her with my typical awkward abandon and it took me for fucking ever to figure out if she was queer. Every rainbow flag and Queer Nation sticker I spotted in her apartment belonged to her roommate, a flaming fairy if ever there was one. And of course, all her queer friends were his friends too. So no dish there. And for every move I made to indicate my adoration I was simply confused more by her sweet smile and seductive silence.

During a particularly treacherous Chicago snow storm that fortuitously prevented me from driving back home to the south side of the city, we went for a midnight walk and I confessed my love. Under a heavy blanket of silence – only three feet of snow and Elle could hush the cacophony of the EL trains and the sirens and the steady stream of traffic off of Lake Shore Drive - I told her “I think I’m falling in love with you.” Her only response was “me?”

Later that night, as we lay side by side on her small futon, afraid to let our bodies touch as we shivered to death trying to stay warm under two thin blankets in a room with a broken radiator and the chilly winter air hissing through cracks in her tenement windows, I finally managed to ask her “Can I kiss you.” “I don’t know” she said. And then I kissed her.

We were together for just about five years, but in my heart it was a lifetime. Of course, being queer, we were never married. But we often spoke of looking forward to growing old together. We talked about having children and creating our own family since our families of origin were not our real families. She would often say “I can’t imagine I would ever fall out of love with you.” And then she would ask me “Will you always love me?” And I would tell her the only truth I knew for sure “I don’t know the answer to that. But I love you very much right now and I can’t imagine it ever being otherwise.” My heart wanted to believe her, that she would always be true to me. But my head already knew that love is fickle.

Eventually, my heart was indeed proven wrong. It started when I bought her the computer. And she got on-line. And she became addicted to the internet. She would stay up late, leaving me to fall asleep by myself to the sound of her clicking away on the keyboard right outside our bedroom door connecting with people in chatrooms on the other side of the world. It got to the point where she was forgetting to eat and not sleeping at all and looking all disheveled and missing work and doctor’s appointments just to be on the internet. I had seen this behavior before with roommates who were addicted to heroin. It scared me, but I knew, as with other addictions, I was powerless to stop it from running its’ course.

One night I came home and she had made a beautiful dinner. Homemade soup. A hand picked salad with fresh herbs. Some fancy entrée which I can’t for the life of me recall. Candles. Wine. She had loved to cook for me in the earlier part of our courting but it had been some time since she had even so much as joined me for a meal. As we sat down I looked at her and told her how beautiful everything was and asked what the special occasion was. She looked at me with her empty, mysterious eyes and nothing came out of her mouth. And in that moment I knew what I had not known the moment before, and, of course, had always known. I asked her “are you breaking up with me?” and she burst into tears. She never said the words though. She never said the fucking words.

Of course, there is more to the story. You have surely guessed it involved secret internet affairs. Which it did. And, I don’t mind admitting, even though I am not proud of it, I learned about these relationships by entering the password she had posted for weeks on a sticky-note to the monitor and reading the incredibly passionate and erotic exchanges between her and some baby dyke in Switzerland.

And months and months of not having been intimate, in any way, with each other.

And not even having the energy to argue anymore.

Eventually a few painful sessions spent with a couple’s counselor brought us no closer to a solution. I believed we could work things out if only we could just tell one another the truth. And she could never say anything more than “I don’t know.” Finally, I told her “I don’t know” was not enough for me and I left. To this day I resent that she never had the courage to say that she did know what she wanted. And just tell me the truth.

So, the part I hadn’t guessed, as I doubt you have, is this: I found out much, much later that Elle had told a close friend of ours that one of her reasons for being unhappy in our relationship was that she wanted to explore more kinky sex. And I thought Jesus fucking Christ, couldn’t she just have fucking asked for what she wanted just that once?

Flash forward five years. I have been celibate and depressed and closed off from people the entire time. Licking my wounds. Thinking if I don’t let anyone close I won’t get hurt again. Then, by some twist of fate, I got sent to a meeting some states away where I met a young man from Africa. Nothing happened but some smiles and a few passing words, and yet my life would never be the same.

A month later fate intervenes again and I get sent as part of a work delegation to Africa. And once again there is one of those moments where I am sitting in a crowded room and I look up and I’m instantly in love. I see his face from across the room and a secret smile passes between us. For the short week we were together in Africa nothing much more then meaningful glances and quiet conversations were exchanged between us. But as soon as I left Africa behind I knew I had made a mistake. I had missed my opportunity to tell the truth and make my desires be known.

Once I returned home to the states we started to email one another and the truth telling began. Our affection was confessed, as was the reality of his situation. In short, he had left the priesthood to be with a woman named Anabelle and he had made a vow to remain true to her. He believed that since he had left God to be with her that leaving her would be betraying God once again. In the end, his love proved fickle as well and he left her too. But not to be with me. Instead he began to wonder the world searching for himself yet again.

But it was too late. I was already transformed. I will never again pass by love, or the chance for it. And I now know it takes more risk, and courage, and humility, and honesty, and did I say risk, then I ever imagined. And it may be fleeting or it may endure a life time, but we will never know unless we dare to say, out loud and to the ones we love, what we want. And to the ones we want, what we love.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

The Queer World

TwiddlyBits asked...

"Was this your first time with a man in a skirt (or any feminine attire)? Do tell us more!"

So I figured I might as well share the response with the rest of you since T. Bits probably isn't the only one wondering.

Yes, Prince was the first male bodied person in a skirt that I've slept with. And even though I've used male pronouns to refer to Prince, it was only due to the limitations of the english language and a desire to have you be able to track the story. In truth Prince identifies as genderqueer and had told me so on our first date. But I never pushed Prince to define what that meant. I knew s/he would tell me when s/he was ready.

While Prince was my first genderqueer lover - remember, up until Rob I had only had 3.5 lovers in my life - the reality is I have lots of qenderqueer and transgender people in my life. I am queer identified myself and I live and work in the queer world. Not the gay world. Not the lesbian world. The queer world. And for those of you who don't know the difference, well, that's why I hadn't bothered to mention it before now.

But one of the things that endeared Prince to me is that s/he lived entirely in the straight world, even though s/he identified as bi and genderqueer. And I don't mean straight only in the sexual sense. Sure, s/he knew enough about my world to use the term genderqueer... but the reality was that in 44 years no one had ever loved zer for who s/he was, not in spite of it.

Honestly, these days when I talk to Prince or mention zer to someone else I use male and female pronouns interchangeably (as well as gender neutral terms like "zer" and "ze"). Although I tend to lean towards the feminine ones. I know she is thirsty for them. And I want her to know she truly is my princess. So, from here on out I will use he and she interchangeably for her.

So, that's that. Now. To explain the bit about how I became the frog is much more complicated.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

Beautiful Princess

I know that in the fairytales the girl kisses the frog and he becomes a prince, or something like that. But in my fairytale I kissed the prince and he became the princess... and before I knew what had happened to me, I became the frog.

I kept sneaking home in the wee hours of the morning while prince slept soundly in his bed, praying that my fragile glass slipper fantasy would not turn into a rotting hallowed out pumpkin shell before the sun came up. And every night I would return hoping to spend just one more evening with my prince.

The day after the homeopathic nurse routine I popped over to Prince's rickety old shack in the early afternoon. He had done some work that day at one of his a construction sites, but since he still wasn't feeling well he had gone home early. When I got there he was still in the tub cleaning up so I made myself comfortable. I rinsed out a coffee cup and poured myself a glass of his cheap port. It was sweet and syrupy as it slid down my throat. I put on a CD I had burned for him... I think it was Jane Siberry. Yes, I am certain it was. It was that album with "When I was a Boy." I was browsing through the rest of his CD's when he stepped out of the bathroom.

His long hair was wrapped in a towel and twisted about his head. He smelled fruity, like some kind of pink fruit. Cherries maybe. His chest was smooth and bare. There was no sign of the sweat, grease and debris that usually covered his body after a long day of work. The only reminder of his day time persona were a few small scratches on his forearm where he had been a bit too hasty with a two by four.

He smiled and casually said hey you. But the moment was anything but casual. It was a test. One that he fully expected me to fail. Because what I haven't told you yet is that the only thing he wore, besides the towel, as he sashayed toward me with a tentatively confident stride, was a long flowing skirt that stopped just above his ankles.

I like your skirt, I said as he walked passed.

This old thing? Gosh, I've had this for years, he said.

Mmm. It looks comfortable, I said. All the best clothes are old and comfortable, aren't they?

I followed him into the bedroom and leaned back on the pile of pillows in the corner of his bed. I watched as he dried his hair, flipping it back and forth, whipping the towel about like a teenage girl at the beach. Behind him I noticed that the shroud which normally sectioned off the end of his open closet had been removed. And hanging there on the dowel in plain view were a dozen or so skirts and girly frocks. Some velvety, some cottony, some satiny. Mostly purples and blues and greens. Lots of floral patterns. And all of them a size 16 or bigger. Funny, I hadn't realized that we were the same size. Our bodies were shaped so differently.

I smiled up at him and said, you look beautiful princess.

He smiled back and said simply, thank you.

He crawled over, climbed on top of me and kissed me. I had on a short linen house dress which he pushed above my waist while he pulled my panties down to my ankles. He hoisted his skirt up to his hips where it draped across his hard cock. Without a word he entered me. As he fucked me I could feel the folds of cotton, soft and comforting, brushing against my skin. There was no foreplay or lead up... just pure desire and a sweet fast fuck on a warm summer evening.

Friday, June 03, 2005

Golden Haired Wild Child

Lately I've taken to looking up Webster's online word-of-the-day with the same relish and anticipation you would reserve for breaking open the fortune cookie at the end of a good meal at your favorite Chinese restaurant. And, as with the fortune cookie, I can't help but find meaning and portent in the message.

Today's word is:

cat's-paw\KATS-PAW\noun
1: light air that ruffles the surface of the water in irregular patches during a calm
2: one used by another as a tool: dupe
3: a hitch knot formed with two eyes for attaching a line to a hook

Isn't that wonderful? And apropos. You see I can't help but feel bad about this whole Spanky thing. As if I had unwittingly made him my cat's-paw. But I've been nothing but honest with him from jump street about everything. The thing is we just want different things and no matter what I tell him, he wants something from me that I can't give him. And vice versa.

Actually, the truth of the matter is we want many of the same things. That's what makes this so crappy. I just don't want them with him. Though I've tried to convince myself otherwise. If only I could fall for him. He's such a sweet heart. He's freaky weird the way I like. Laid back and open to life. He's alternative and can roll with my odd girl ways. All in all he's a total honey. But he just don't make me purr.

Here's the thing. I'm 39 years old, childless and single for the most part. I may be a late bloomer, but I finally know what I want. I want a family. I want a home. I want the domestic life that comes with all that. As kinky and care free as I am, what I really crave is the sweetness of falling asleep in the arms of my lover each night and waking up to his (or her) bad breath, bed head and stupid sleepy self each morning. The delusions of my younger days are gone. I no longer imagine that my Prince or Princess will be charming at all times. I expect a few warts here and there. An evil step sister or two. But the bottom line is my hero(ine) will have to satisfy my curious pussy as well as my heart and mind.

So, there you have it.

So, you all are probably wondering if I let him fuck me last night. And the answer is, of course I did. But I'll spare you the details. The only bit worth mentioning is that our fucking took place under a black light. He looked like a crazed chief from some psychotropic worshipping African tribe. And apparently I looked like some golden haired wild child with iridescent skin. The rest was just business as usual.

Oh, by the way, my challenge of the day is this: use all three definitions of cat's-paw in one sentence. Like this:

Her eyes squinched shut as he wove her braids into a cat's-paw and, ever so carefully, attached her, his very own cat's-paw, to the wench and slowly hoisted her above the water where she dangled in the cat's-paw until her tears summoned the hungry sharks.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Ne Plus Ultra... NOT!

So, tonight is the make up date with Spanky. I don't have high hopes. He worked a long day and my mind is elsewhere. I doubt it will rise to be the ne plus ultra.

Ha! Look at me working in Webster's word of the day!

ne plus ultra • \nay-plus-UL-truh\ • noun
1 : the highest point capable of being attained: acme
2 : the most profound degree of a quality or state

As for me, well, I got inseminated this morning. I've been meaning to tell you all about it but the time just never seemed right. I still need to catch you all up on the other loose ends... but this one just seemed too much to keep quiet about about.

Spanky must have some kinda cosmic connection to my inseminations since my first (and only) one occurred the morning after the first night we slept together. I'll tell you all about it but right now I need to go find a clean pair of thongs.