Le Petit Morte

Sometimes I write things, bedroom things, and fret about whether or not it is realistic, believable, or even humanly possible.

And then my husband goes and validates what I've written about, or even surpasses it.

I am one very lucky woman. 

Suffice it to say that last night was motherfucking out of this world.

Thanks, honey, for making my fiction seem tame :)

Lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove.

Hottest part?  I promised I'd tell you all this-- we had to be silent because eric was asleep in the loft.

 ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !!

YUP.

naughty. 

Probably we should try harder to be appropriate and grown up...

No.  I really would not change last night for anything in the world.

*amazingly contented sigh*

Cutest part?  After all was said and done (and done and done and done--for real), And I finally came back to my senses and was able to think straight and breathe right and calm the fuck down?  We're cuddling and I'm thanking him like a million billion times and he smiles and goes:  "Was that in your book?"  meaning the SHE COMES FIRST book, which he has been eyeing sideways and glaring at from time to time while I read it.

Like he's jealous of this sex book and wanted to prove that he doesn't need a manual or guide to giving me pleasure.  Wild. 

And I can't really argue with facts, now can I?  It was like proving to the professor that you didn't need to study to pass a test. 

I explained to him that I was enjoying reading the book because it makes me feel empowered.  I'm learning so much about my own body and the functions that go into female arousal and all sorts of amazing things about the female capacity for pleasure.  besides, he knows I want to eat pussy, and so if I get the chance I want to be SUPER WELL PREPARED!  Because, I mean, come on!  I fingered a girl once and I was so fucking nervous and terrified that it.. well... it wasn't my best work, and I still carry that shame and regret around with me to this day!!

So next time, if there is a next time, I want to be able to be wonderful and make her feel amazing and well serviced.

So anyway, back to the present; I am a happy camper!  I feel like a goddess more and more, little by little every day.  And last night I fucking touched the stars, I swear, and it was so powerful, so intimate, so transcendent, so intense--- all I can say about my trashy beach fiction is: you ain't got nothin' on us.

;)

K!

whew.

yesterday was my first day of my new afterschool job in Sharon!  It went very well.  people are friendly and helpful.  i get a good vibe from the place.

Today was my second day-- and it was a little different because it was a half day in sharon, so i was there from 12:00 noon till 6pm.  That's a long tome of unstructured play with young children.  A long time.  And guess what?  For the time being I am stuck with the kindergarteners.

Of all the things you could do with me... kindergarted would be just about the last place I belong.  For reals.

i know what you're thinking:  but kindergarteners are sooo cuuuuute!

True story.  In part.  A kindergartener or a few kindergarteners can fairly called cute.

But, cute as they are, they are, to me, a whole separate species apart from humans.

And 20 of the together?  Well, friends, that's a pack of kindergarteners, with pack mentality, infighting, personality conflicts, varying degrees of development, need, patience, ans social skills.

And you know what else?  They tend to smell.  They make bodily functions willy nilly without apology or concern for others.  They tend to be sticky and germy and crusty and tangled and unbuttoned and unzipped and ugh.

But they're cute.  Which is why, I think, they are allowed to survive.  

I think i was sent to kindergarten to learn something about myself and become a better overall educator.  Wish me luck in that endeavor.

Today I played connect 4 with this little fucking cheater and it took all of my inner patience not to get up and walk away.  To stay and try to gently teach her how to play and play to win.  All I wanted was to shake her by her shoulders and say:  "One fucking piece at a time you shitty little cheat!"

So there.  i'm not the maternal warm and cuddly type.  I have to work harder at being patient and nice and constructive with kids.  I do.  But I get a little better every single day.  And I haven't snapped at a kid in a long long time.  So i think I'm maturing nicely, learning to be even keel.

But my inner monologue around these monsters?  Fucking priceless!

Home Alone

Well I had the house to myself this morning, so last night's little problem has been happily corrected.

Which puts me in a MUCH much much better mood :)

However, it ate up alot of my morning!  So now I need to try to get a bunch of undesireable stuff done (i.e. calls to creditors, banks, lenders, etc...)  before i leave for my new job!

All I want to do is savor the relaxation i earned...

Ah well.  C'est la Vie. right?  The afterglow can only last so long.

And here's the other thing that's on my mind, as long as I'm stalling and putting of the business of my business.

I write almost every single day.  honestly.  I write it and I enjoy the process and I dig how it makes me feel, but lately i've begun to wonder, in part, why the hell I'm doing it?  is this a hobby other people have?  I honestly don't expect anything to come of these sordid little scandals, these cute little love stories, the scinitllating secrets.  So why keep going?  I'm not courageous enough to share my stuff with the world, just with a few close friends, so, I ask myself, is there any point at all to it?

I guess it's a creative outlet.  And it is enjoyable for me.  But maybe I should channel all this energy into something more productive?  Or something that has some kind of future?

Meh. 

I really have no conclusions drawn on the matter, just airing my concerns, putting them out there.  And who knows?  Maybe I will finally achieve an ending that ties all these story threads together and will be able to close this chapter of my life and maybe seek to pull it into some kind of order and look into publishing.  Seems a long way off, but we'll see, I guess.

Thirdly;  I'm doing that thing I do when i am in a spiral of self loathing-- I'm pulling away from my freinds and de-volving into a hermit.  Not a good thing.  I've done it before.  Just plain given up on firendships outside of aaron and even avoid family as much as humanly possible, and just try to make the rest of the world disappear. 

I hope I can snap out of that real quick.  It's a lonely, insular place to be.

And it always means loads of regret.

Introitus interruptus.

How many times in your life have you had to stop masturbating mid-way through?  Not funzies.  No good when you don't get off, am i right? 

But such is having a roomate.

Sigh.

HALO REACHaround?

Hope everyone's enjoying their weekend.

I, myself, am having a bit of a struggle with the positive attitude.

But, on a good note, I start my afterschool job in Sharon on monday.  Wish me luck.

I miss my friends alot.  Haven't socialized in a while.

But I also feel like I don't  have a ton to offer to the conversation, you know?

Boring boring boring, this crushing debt, obsession with subpar fiction, and blinding terror at not being settled into a career.  Can't you just see it?  "And anyway, that's me... but how are YOU doing lately?..."

Yeah.

Plus I really like this She Comes First book among other research materials, and no matter how I trey to tell Aaron that I'd like him to also partake in this journey with me he keeps shutting me down, insisting that he's happpy with our sex life.  Well, I'm happy too, but it seems to me that one can always endeavor to grow, you know?  like, oh, I already took an acting class, why do I need any more?  Because there's so much out there to be learned and experimented with and ventured and achieved, that's why.

So that's a point of frustration.  Because the implication is, somehow, that I must not be happy in bed.  He gets a smidge defensive.  Yuck. trying to have candid discussions about sexuality and sex when someone is defensive is about as much fun as slowly pushing an icepic up one's urethra, right?

And the wierd thing is that it goes against his personality to behave that way, you know?  Like, he's the scientist, the adventurer, the curious one, the one who likes to experiment and create and innovate.  (Not that I'm a shlub in those departments or anything, I mean we're sexually compatable with good reason here, afterall!)  So why the resistance?  Am I approaching it wrong? 

I prolly should not have blogged about that.  Shrug.  I'm a little sexually frustrated at present because our houseguest, my darling brotherinlaw, purchased the latest HALO game for x-box, and it has a totally kick-ass level editor, which means my husband has been glued to his gaming chair for countless hours, enthralled by the fabulous new graphics engine and the complete customization capability and blah blah blah.  I managed to lure him away the other night with the promise of anal, and we had a very, very pleasing evening which included worship at the delta, but even though eric is out tonight I can't seem to snap my husband out of the HALO spell.

Oh, and i always love the suggestion that I should feel free to go down on him while he plays.  Oh, cuz that's really similar to what I had in mind for the evening... I mean, sure I've done blowies while he games before, but when a girl says she wants to be tied down and pounded, fellatio just isn't hitting the right spots, know what I mean jelly bean?

And i'd love to see him go down on me while I play the sims or something.  not bloody likely, as the british like to say, am I right? 

I want a pan of brownied and a blender full of mudslides.

And the latest sookie book would be nice... 

Whatevs. 

I guess I'll just continue to educate myself on the fascinating world of human sexology and then sit on the information for eternity.

Wow.  Tubby grumpkins strikes again.  I really need that mudslide...

Eeyore out~

A Picture

These images are intriguing, provocative, illicit, erotic, revelatory, and so much more.  I'll say that they weren't all to my personal taste, but they were all rich and deep and so thought provoking.

So, in honor of the old adage, a picture is worth a thousand words, let me direct you to my new favorite website.

Not Work Safe.  At all.

I hope it tickles your fancy and captures your imagination!

Typos and Harvest Time

lol. I just about cracked up last night when I realized my latest post is apparently titled "Lon" night instead of "Long" night. Ooops.

Typos are hilarious to me. I think because they often conjure up jarring and unexpected mental images for me as I read. So now I'm imagining a black&white, grainy made-for-tv special from the 50's about legendary werewolf actor Lon Chaney Jr (and his dad Lon Chaney sr who was famous for all sorts of movie monsters!). Lon Night. Mwahahahaha. With bats and organ music and lots of dry ice smoke.

The other day I wrote a typo that had me in stitches. I wanted to write "With Candor", but what I actually wrote was "With Condor". So now in the middle of this waspy living room drama scene somebody just suddenly has a Condor on their arm or some shit. Very monty python in its non-sequitor-ness. Or like Laugh-In from the sixties. Absurd and highly funny.

Inexplicable Condor!  Nobody expects the California Condor!!

Ever seen Delirious with John Candy? He's a soap opera writer, who, by some movie twist or other, suddenly lives in the story as well as writes it, and one frantic night he's click-clacking away in a desperate rush toward the climax of the story when he writes that he'd like a cold beer. Only he makes a typo and he writes COLD DEER, so this delivery person brings him a frozen deer carcasse. 

That's how I felt about the Condor in the room. Hilarity.

Anywayz. Happy Autumn to you all! This is my favorite time of the year. I feel magic and creativity swirling around in the air. It fairly sparks with energy and mischief and drama. It is my endeavor to go for a walk every day for a week, starting friday. (or maybe today, we'll see.)

In honor of the Autumn, I made autumn bake last night for dinner (it was fab), and I had the forethought to cut up enough veggies for a whole second baking dish, which facilitated the making of harvest bake SOUP! Just throw the yummy roasted veggies in a pot with heavy cream, some vegetable broth and a little salt and pepper, let em stew for a while and get the cream all flavored, then blend that shit into a bisque (this out as necessary with milk or more broth) and it is one of the yummyest, tastiest soups you shall ever eat. that's what's for dinner this eve. I'mma pick up some cornbread to go with, MmmMmm good. Campbell's can suck my left tit.

The veggies included this time around were: Sweet potato, red bliss potato, butternut squash, turnip, parsnip, and carrot. Perf. And don't forget the rosemary, holy hell, what a little miracle herb.

I also made enough stuffing for ten people. And it was goooooood. Incidentally, it is really tricky to obtain packaged stuffing mix that doesn't include chicken broth, chicken powder, chicken bits or anything chicken-esque. If you're looking, let me recommend Pepperidge Farm-- they have an herb seasoned one that is sans animal byproducts. There is, however, high fructose corn syrup, sigh. You can't have it all, can you?

Alright. No haunted mystery entry today. I know Danielle is way behind so I'mma hold off for a few days on posting more story.

But know that things are really heating up in CF and I can't wait to drop some effing BOMBSHELLS!

Wish me luck subbing today in WeeBee. 4th grade. Love that grade.

Ciao!

Lon Night; Part 5

Awww. I just keep learning things about these characters. They surprise me. sometimes they delight me. Other times they depress me. Still other times they make me slap my forehead or tisk or throw my hands up.

The next installment of the LONG NIGHT dinner party is from Nolan.

I hope you enjoy it to pieces. There's a flashback embedded in there, which isn't the norm, but here it fit.

Enjoy some Nolan. i always do. He's another one i have a real fucking soft spot for.

We'll see...

****************

Nolan couldn’t quite put a finger on just why he was so distracted this evening.  But he was.  Distracted. 

“That’s the third time I’ve had to call your name.”  His wife hissed through clenched teeth as they sat in Jonah’s den that evening, waiting for the big family dinner to get underway. 

“I’m sorry.”  He offered promptly.  There was no excuse, really, he was sitting right next to her.  “What’s up?”

He made himself focus.  He looked her in the eye and gave her his undivided attention.  And winced.  She was looking beautiful, but a bit like a wrathful goddess at present.  He tried his best smile; that usually melted her no matter what her temper.

Not tonight.

“Don’t you try that on me Nolan Delaney—“  She said, boring holes into his eyes with her own.  “Either you snap out of it or I’m getting back in the van and going home.  I’m not interested in dealing with all this on my own tonight.”

He swallowed, feeling appropriately chastised.  He slipped his hand over hers, where it rested on her knee, and squeezed.  “I’m here.  I’m sorry.  I have a lot on my mind.”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her gorgeous eyes skeptically.  “All afternoon I’ve been begging and pleading with you to tell me—“

“So sorry!”  Velvet Delaney half-sang as she whirled into the livingroom, looking flushed and glowing and perfectly put together despite the well-used apron covering her cocktail dress. 

Nolan stood automatically, helping Zahra up as well, and received Velvet’s customary cheek kisses, then reclaimed Zahra’s hand while she received the warm greeting as well.  “Hey Sis.”  Nolan murmured.  “You look enchanting, as always.”

Velvet giggled.  “You charmer!”  She gushed.  “I refuse to believe you can even spare a glance at another woman when your wife looks as ravishing as she does this evening!”  Impulsively she squeezed Zahra again before standing back to verbally admire her sister-in-law’s dress, hair, makeup, and what-not.

Nolan smiled deeply.  His wife was quite ravishing.  “She’s a goddess.”  He replied, and lifted Z’s smooth, dark hand to his lips for a gallant kiss.  She smiled at the gesture, smiled for Velvet’s sake, but Nolan saw in the flashing of her midnight dark eyes that she was still pretty pissed at him. 

“Can I help in the kitchen?”  Zahra offered immediately.  She was always more comfortable in a kitchen.

“No, no, not just now.  I promise I’ll let you know.”  Velvet breathed, throwing her pale green gaze around.  “Lola’s in the kitchen with me, coloring.”  She said with a genuine smile.  “Where are the other beautiful Delaneys?”

Nolan could hear cartoons on low in the den behind him.  “Ajay’s in the den.”

“Keer went with Avalon and Genny.”  His wife finished.

Velvet sighed a very happy sigh.  Nolan had misgivings about her, sure, but there was one thing he was sure of after all these years: she loved her family.  She was a person full of love and good intentions.  He just wasn’t certain good intentions were enough in some instances.

“I have to apologize—you may not see Vienna this evening.”  She said in a suddenly low and somber voice.

“Is she ill?”  Nolan asked sharply.

Zahra and Velvet looked at him, then looked at eachother.  “No, no.” Velvet rushed to assure him.  “Broken heart.”

Z looked sympathetic and Velvet nodded sadly.  “Poor thing.  Who was it?”  Z asked in that same low voice.

Nolan refrained from rolling his eyes.  Then he suppressed a smirk.  He’d imagined the twins were made of sterner stuff—had never seen either of them over-emotional or prone to moodiness the way Jonah’s other two girls were.  But.  He supposed, with a small surge of affection, that tough and level-headed as they were, they still carried the DNA of Jonah and Velvet, two of the most romantic, soft-hearted people he’d ever known.

And she was eighteen, right?  He supposed moping up in her room over some idiot boy was par for the course for any girl that age.  Ugh.  He hoped Keer could somehow skip all that teenaged nonsense.  He almost groaned outloud thinking about Lola getting to be that age.  No thanks. 

He’d missed part of the conversation again.  Fuck. 

“—trust a boy in a band.”  His wife was saying.  He nodded along thoughtfully. 

“Excuse me, ladies, Where’s my brother disappeared to?”  Nolan smiled kindly, but he was sure his disinterest in teenaged love-life catastrophes showed all over his face.

Velvet paused, ready to say something or other about the kinds of boys who formed local bands, no doubt, and looked stumped.  “You know, I’m not sure.  He’s not in the kitchen.  Why don’t you go see if you can find him and drag him back to his hosting duties!”  She said with a sweet-as-pie smile.  “Hog tie the man if necessary.”

Nolan laughed but didn’t feel merry.  His brother was one of the other little problems niggling at his mind tonight.  He’d greeted them when they’d first arrived.  He’d looked pleasant and well groomed and perfectly normal, but, something cold just slid right down Nolan’s spine at the sight of him. 

That was troubling.  Because, try as he might, Nolan couldn’t figure that one out at all.  It was the same sort of visceral reaction he used to have bartending, when one of his patrons had a nasty secret of some kind.  Like wife beaters, or gambling addicts who’d just bet the house and lost, or women who were two-timing, or crooked politicians. 

But this was Jonah, for god’s sake.  Whatever gut reaction he’d had to his brother this evening, Nolan was sure it couldn’t be anything sordid or scandalous.  It was Jonah.

Nolan needed a drink. 

He headed to the den first, to check on Ajay.  “Hey buddy.”  He said seriously, eying the cartoon on the tv screen.  It looked awfully graphic in the violence department.  “Whatcha up to?”

“Nuthin.”  His son replied rather guiltily.

“You supposed to be watching this?”  He asked stoically.

He locked eyes with his son for a long moment.  “No.”  The boy mumbled and reached for the remote.

When Ajay wasn’t looking Nolan grinned.  He loved this age—when they knew right from wrong and were still utterly honest about their own misdeeds. Then he cleared his throat.  “I think that’s enough TV for now, huh?  Go see your Aunt.  She’s looking to give you a big hug.”

Ajay laughed a little as he worked on locating the ‘off’ button, then he bounded out of the den with a pretty fetching smile.  If he’d had an aunt like Velvet, Nolan had no doubt he’d have bounded out with the exact same expression.

Suddenly Jonah appeared.  Looking pale and as distracted as Nolan felt this evening.  “Velvet said you were looking for me?”

Nolan smiled an easy smile, though it didn’t feel so easy at present.  “They started talking about teenage relationship problems and I wanted to get the hell out of there.”  He explained,

“Oh.”  Jonah said vaguely.

They stood awkwardly for a moment.

“You okay, Jones?”  Nolan asked as Jonah said “I put the wine in the cellar.”

“Wait, what?”

“The wine.  That you brought.  That’s where I went.  I was.  Putting it away.”

Nolan blinked.  “How come?”

“Why?” Jonah corrected automatically.  Nolan raised an eyebrow and Jonah had the grace to look contrite.  “Sorry.  How come.  Because.”  He stopped.  “Shit.”

Nolan smiled at his brother.  “Unless you had something already chosen, I don’t want to impose—“  Nolan knew for a fact that he wasn’t imposing.  Velvet had called the shop to tell him what she was serving and had asked him to make selections for the evening.

“No, no, no.  I’m an ass.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I.  Christ.”

“Let’s go get it.”  Nolan suggested.  “I wouldn’t mind disappearing for a little bit too.”  He wouldn’t mind dwelling in the wine cellar he’d designed for them either.  And practically stocked himself.

He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as though Jonah blanched.  “Was I gone long?”

Nolan bit the insides of his cheeks.  The old Nolan Delaney creep alarm was going off in his head.  “Jones, what the hell is going on?  You feeling alright?”

Jonah opened his mouth then closed it.  He did that again.  Then he shook his head a shade ruefully.  “It’s a big night.  Velvet’s put a lot of energy into making everything perfect perfect perfect.”  He laughed weakly.  “I guess I’m just on edge.”  He admitted.  “Celia’s here.”

Nolan frowned. He figured she’d be here.  Fuck.  Nolan couldn’t stand the woman.  There were precious few people Nolan Delaney had to really struggle to be polite to.  Celia Calder, Velvet’s mother, was one of those few.

Nolan had resigned himself to this meeting, to what it would entail, but that resignation didn’t seem to make enduring it any better.

“Now I’mma call her in here, son, and you know what you have to do.”  Mack Franchesci, Owner of La Buggia Bella vineyards and five-star restaurant, Nolan’s boss and mentor for going on five years, said solemnly.

“Sir, I don’t think I can do that.”  Nolan said just as solemnly.

Mack looked disappointed and a shade irritated.  “Goddammit Delaney.”  He said, getting up and pacing behind his enormous oak desk in the winery’s finest office.  The one overlooking the spectacular view of the most beautiful vineyard Nolan had ever seen.  The office that had been promised to Nolan, that would have been his in just a few short years.  “I don’t want to have to fire you, boy.”  He was exasperated but he was set on his path.  “And you don’t have to tell me how wrong the old bat is, I know she’s a bitter, mean-spirited old ice-berg, but Goddamit Delaney.”

Nolan waited patiently where he sat, straight backed and somber in one of the chairs positioned in front of Mack’s desk.  He’d said his peace, he’d explained everything to Mack, about his part in the whole Calder-Grey debacle, about his firm but less-than-friendly handling of the wealthy and influential Mrs. Calder, and beyond that he decided to stand his ground.  He wouldn’t grovel.  Even if it meant losing everything he’d been working for and dreaming of since he’d graduated high school.

Mack stopped pacing after a minute or two of conflicted muttering and creative cursing.  “You know,”  he said in a voice that was clearly put-out, “I have plans too, kid.  I have plans to retire in three years and I don’t want to even think about changing that.  I’m too old for all this.  Goddammit.”

Nolan nodded sympathetically, but chose not to comment.

“Marilyn will have my balls in a vise if I have to go to her and tell her we can’t move to Italy for another few years more.  Jesus effing Christ.”  He ran a hand over his very bald dome and blew air through his lips.  “I’m begging you boy, don’t let your pride get in the way of having all this.”

He stared Nolan down.  Nolan stared back, not defiantly, but not defeated either.  It was what it was.

“Sir, I don’t want to give this up either, believe me, but I haven’t done anything wrong, and I can’t stomach pretending otherwise.”

Mack threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes to the heavens and he began muttering in rapid-fire Italian.  He paced and cursed and shook his fists and gesticulated flamboyantly.  Nolan knew enough Italian by now to catch the drift, as if his boss’ inflection, tone, and body language hadn’t been clear enough.

“I can only say how sorry I am that I’ve put you in this position.”  Nolan interrupted after hearing himself referred to as a stupid, ungrateful fool in Italian for the third time.  “I am sorry my actions have reflected poorly on you and your business and I’m sorry that you seem to feel you have no choice in the matter.”  He swallowed.  “But beyond apologizing for being less-than-polite, I don’t feel there’s anything more I can do to appease the woman.”  He sighed and ran a hand through his own hair restlessly.  “She wants my job, and nothing short of that will satisfy her.”

As if on cue the little intercom on Franchesci’s desk buzzed pointedly.  She was here.  And she wasn’t the sort of woman to be kept waiting.  Mack met Nolan’s eyes in a last ditch attempt to persuade the young man to capitulate.

Nolan gave a soft smile and a slight shake of his head.  He wasn’t going to back down.

“This girl, she worth it?  Worth all the trouble?”

Nolan’s lips twisted.  “I’m not the one in love with her Mack.”  He said quietly.  “But you know I’d cut off my own hand if Jonah needed it.”

Mack made a face that indicated he believed Nolan to be a complete idiot.  Then he shrugged and with a heavy sigh punched the intercom button on his desk. 

“Mrs. Calder to see you sir.”  Carla, Mack’s secretary, said in her most professional voice.  Nolan liked Carla.  They’d been on a few dates.  He wondered if she’d still see him even if he wasn’t destined to be the next owner of La Buggia Bella and one of the wealthiest people in Cedar Falls.

“I’ll be right there, thank you Carla.”  Mack said evenly.  He took his finger off the button and shook his head.  “You be nice Delaney, you hear me?”

“Of course, sir.”  Nolan responded promptly. 

“She’s going to try to get a rise out of you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I may not get a chance to talk to you after.”  He said grimly.

Nolan swallowed and nodded.  He stood and extended his hand to his boss.  “It’s been an absolute pleasure working here sir, working for you.”  Nolan cleared his throat to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me.  The opportunity.”  He clamped his mouth shut because he could no longer keep the waver out of his tone.  This place was his life.  Until today it had been his future.  Mack was like family.

But.  He wasn’t family.  He was a business man. Nolan was an employee.  They weren’t bound by anything beyond professional courtesy.  Jonah was family.  And so, one day, would Velvet be too.  This was the way it had to be.

Mack looked like he didn’t want to do it, but he shook Nolan’s hand miserably.  “Goddammit Nolan.”  Mack said roughly and pulled him into a firm, clumsy embrace.  “You’ve been a son to me.”

Nolan received the rough pats on the back and returned them with equal vigor.  Then Mack was adjusting his tie, smoothing the tufts of hair over his ears and clearing his throat as he walked to the door of his office, ready to greet Mrs. Sebastian Calder.  Ready to fire the best employee and apprentice he’d ever had.

Nolan remained standing.  He squared his shoulders, lengthened his spine and took a deep breath.

And he wondered, just as Mack had, if the girl was worth all this.

“Nolan?”  Jonah was peering intently at his brother.  “Where’d you go, just now?”  He asked gently.

Nolan grimaced.  “Sorry.  Just remembering how much I enjoy your mother-in-law’s company.”  Nolan intoned sarcastically. 

“Sorry.”  Jonah said quickly, reacting to Nolan’s suddenly stormy expression.

He shrugged.  “She’s family.  I knew she’d be here.”

Jonah didn’t seem to have anything to say to that assessment.  They stared at one another again.  “The wine.”  Nolan prompted.

“Of course. Yes.  Right.  Sure thing.”  Jonah hurried.  “Let’s go get that wine you brought.  The red will need to breathe, of course.  I’m such an ass.”

Nolan smiled at his brother’s back as he followed him from the den.  Between his wife’s suspicious glares, his brother’s unsettled nervousness, Celia Calder uncensored, and his own distracted moodiness, this evening was shaping up to be one long migraine.

And the honored couple hadn’t even arrived yet.  Quite against his will and better judgment, Nolan’s gut roiled whenever he thought about Maggie and Grey.  Another irritating little puzzle that he’d have to sort through before too long.

This was going to be a long goddamn night.

Long Night; Part 4

I love Maggie.  

As a writer, this is dangerous.  Because I like her so much, I tend to want everything to work out for her, and the scenes with Maggie tend toward almost saccharine sometimes.  I'm doing my very best to avoid that.  

But I just love her to bits.

Enjoy this next vignette about the long night, starring Magdalena!  Woot.

**************

Maggie was not particularly in the mood for another Delaney family dinner.  This one larger than the last.  She had a lot on her mind.  It had been one of the longest weeks of her life.  She had a new name, a new bank account, a new home, a new car, a new family, and a husband.  And tomorrow she was getting married…again. 

She’d asked Grey if he would be available to make the sacrament with her.  He’d gotten very quiet but he’d nodded, asked what time he should be at the chapel, what he should wear, and if he needed to bring anything.  He seemed resigned to the Catholic ceremony that he obviously viewed as redundant.  Well, he had been the one to offer it up as a possibility in the first place.  “We can be married by a priest as well if you’d like Sir.”  He’d said to her father at that painfully awkward wedding day brunch. 

Now it was time to actually do it, and to his credit he hadn’t put up a fuss.  But he’d been pretty taciturn and moody since that discussion.

And now they were arriving at the sliding glass door in the rear of the Delaney mansion once again, looking into the brightly illuminated perfect kitchen, granite surfaces covered with various platters and bowls and dishes for the evening’s festivities, and he’d hardly spoken a word to her in hours.  She was so nervous she’d nearly turned back three or four times on the walk over.

She consoled herself by focusing on the fact that he didn’t seem to have a large family and that this event would likely be very manageable.  Mrs. Delaney would be there, making sure conversations stayed pleasant and flowing.  Mr. Delaney would be there, and his was such a supportive presence.  Plus Grey’s twin sisters had been very pleasant and chatty last time, so they would probably be helpful.  And Ben Sinclair.  Maggie had never met a sweeter young man in her life—(Grey didn’t count because he’d turned out to be quite an ass, proving his sweetness false in the end) he was affable and warm and so very kind.  She’d be glad to see him again.

But Avalon didn’t seem to like her much at all and she was an intimidating sort of girl.  Maggie felt especially shabby and poor beside her polished elegance and refined sensibilities.  And then Grey’s grandmother would be in attendance.  Maggie’d never met Mrs. Calder, nor had Grey said much about her, but the woman had a reputation around Cedar Falls for being miserly, cruel, cold, and very sharp tongued.

And another set of butterflies was dancing in her belly because her boss would be in attendance.  She’d never seen Nolan Delaney in a social context before, and even though he was probably the finest man she’d ever met, she was becoming ridiculously self-conscious around him and dreading seeing him in this family setting.  He’d been somewhat aloof to her at the shop this past week.  She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, because he was as friendly as ever, smiled just as easily as he had before her honeymoon, but something was definitely more distant about him.  And it made her so nervous she thought she might vomit.  And she’d be meeting his family too. 

Grey slid the door open and a rainbow colored blur darted out from the breakfast nook and straight into his front with a delighted squeal of a greeting.

“Ooof!”  Grey grunted at the impact and the blank surprise of being ambushed on entry.  Then his face split into a genuine grin and Maggie was surprised at how her heart flipped in response to the sight of it.  He hadn’t been smiling much lately.

“Hey munchkin!”  He said, stooping down and lifting the colorfully garbed little creature from where it was wrapped around his leg, and tossing it into the cold winter night above his head.

It giggled exuberantly.  “Greyyyyyyyyy!”

Maggie remembered Lola Delaney.  She was the only member of Nolan’s family that she’d had the privilege of meeting so far, since he often picked her up from kindergarten and took her with him to work while his wife ferried the other children from school to soccer or instrument practice or other such activities.

“Hi Lola.”  Maggie said after Grey had finished tickling her breathless.  “Aren’t you cold out here without your coat?”

“Hi Maggie!”  Lola grinned.  “How come you’re here at my Uncle Jonah’s?”

Grey took the hint about the coat and carried Lola through the door and set her down on the kitchen floor once more.  Maggie followed and slid the door closed behind them.

“Can I take your coat?”  He asked Maggie as he shrugged out of his own.  The kitchen was quite warm, especially compared to the brisk air outside, and she was glad to doff the peacoat she’d borrowed from Viola.  She still hadn’t gone out to purchase a new one of her own.  She could only take so many new things at a time.  This week was: new last name; maybe next week would be new clothes.

But once she’d shed the coat she began to wish she’d at least gone out and picked up a few nicer garments.  The plain black dress she was wearing suddenly felt very frumpy as she stood in the glorious Delaney kitchen.  She’d bought it for her great-aunt Flora’s funeral the previous winter so it was conservative and simple and not especially flattering; and if it felt shabby in the kitchen she imagined it would feel like a trash bag when she stepped into that breathtaking dining room of theirs.

“Are you here to see Daddy?”  Lola pressed, then spun in place to show off the pretty billowing of her floor length peasant style skirt. 

Maggie laughed.  “Maybe I’m here to see you!”  She deflected, her eyes catching the stack of coloring books and the box of crayons over on the table in the breakfast nook.  “What are you coloring?  Can I see?”

Lola brightened and bounced off toward the nook with glee.  “I have four different ones.”  She explained.  “There’s one that’s princesses—it has every princess and all the dresses and some of the princes too.”  Maggie trailed after the girl and tilted her head to follow along as Lola flipped through a coloring book of Disney princesses.

“I’ll go hang these up.”  Grey said, uninterested in the coloring books, and evidently uninterested in sticking by her side this evening. 

Maggie nodded.  She’d have to learn to fend for herself in Delaney country sometime or other.  Afterall, she was Maggie Delaney now, wasn’t she?  She had every right to be here, standing in this kitchen, interacting with her boss’ daughter, unaccompanied by an escort.

Why did she still feel like such an imposter?

“Plus I have this one, there’s almost no room left in this one ‘uhcause I had it since I was little.”

Maggie repressed the urge to laugh.  If this girl got any littler she might just disappear.  She was a peanut.

“You’ve done a great job with that one.”  Maggie told her earnestly, looking at the wild scribbles on every page.

Lola tossed it away from herself and grabbed up the next one.  “This one is all the gods and goddesses.”  She informed Maggie.  “Nobody else in my kindergarten even has this one.  This is from India.”

“Wow.”  Maggie breathed, looking at all the magical creatures and figures on the pages.

“Yeah.  My Daddajee and Didima are from India.”  The girl turned her midnight black eyes up to Maggie and seemed to be waiting for her response.

Maggie wasn’t quite sure what the girl had just said, but she’d have guessed maybe she was referring to her grandparents.  “Wow.”  Maggie repeated, allowing her awe to color her tone.  “I’ve never been to India, have you?”

Lola looked pleased that Maggie was suitably impressed.  “No, not yet, but Dadajee and Didi tell me all the stories.  My Mummy has been lots of times and my Uncle Sanjay too.”

Maggie smiled.  “Has your Daddy been?”  It was wild to see this side of Nolan Delaney’s life.

Lola nodded vigorously.  “They went for a wedding present.  We’re all gunna go soon I think.”

Maggie raised her eyebrows and murmured about how exciting that sounded.  Then Lola moved on to show off her ‘most favoritest’ coloring book, this one featuring unicorns and mermaids and other very little-girl targeted illustrations.  She informed Maggie that her Daddy had promised her a unicorn for her birthday.

Her lips twisted into a small smile remembering the day her own father had explained to her that Unicorns had been too foolish to get on Noah’s Ark before the flood.  She’d cried for hours before reconciling the loss of such a marvelous creature.  Then she’d asked her Papa for a pony instead.  He’d agreed to think about it.

The kitchen door swung inward and Maggie saw the little girl scowl before turning herself to see a very elegant older woman breeze into the room.

She smiled at the woman, though she felt rattled to her bones at the prospect of meeting Grey’s grandmother without him at her side.  The woman wore a heart-stopping diamond necklace and dizzying diamond teardrops at her ears, as well as a diamond tennis bracelet and several more gaudy rings than were strictly necessary.  Her suit was of unmistakable quality, though Maggie didn’t know the first thing about brands and wouldn’t have been able to tell if it was Chanel or Yves St. Laurent or what.  It was knit and looked almost as if it might be armored—steel gray with ice blue threading.  She was slim and rigid, not too tall, but she looked formidable despite her slight frame.

The woman did not return the smile.  She raised an imperious eyebrow as she glanced over Maggie from head to toe.  Then she called over Maggie’s shoulder to Lola.

“That mother of yours is looking for you child.  Best get yourself out of the way and see what it is she wants.”

Maggie’s eyes widened.  The woman’s voice was just as chilly as her outward appearance would suggest, and there didn’t seem to be a drip of friendliness or warmth in her words.  Not even when speaking to a five year old.  Maggie swallowed hard as she felt Lola rising from her seat to obey the less than polite dismissal.

“She’s not in the way over here.”  Maggie assured the woman.

“Don’t be absurd, children ought not to be underfoot in the kitchen while food is being prepared.”

Maggie couldn’t imagine disagreeing with that sentiment more.  Her happiest memories of her mother were all set in their little family kitchen or in the kitchen at the restaurant.  Helping her mother prepare meals or bake desserts was part of the fabric of her understanding of family, of hearth and home.

Lola sidled up to Maggie’s leg, hesitant and unsure.

“Why don’t you go see what your Mummy wants and then maybe you can come back and color, ok?”  Maggie said in a kind, friendly voice.

Lola looked disappointed but she nodded and then scooted toward the kitchen door, swinging in a wide arc to keep as far away from the older woman as possible.

“Do you also nanny?”  The woman asked Maggie.

Maggie wished her brain didn’t feel so sluggish.  Also nanny?  “No, but I have a lot of young cousins.”  She answered with a smile.

The woman made a small snort.  “I could have guessed that much.”

Maggie felt her cheeks flush.  She opened her mouth to make a more formal introduction when the woman waved a dismissive hand and gestured to the various platters laid out on the kitchen island.

“I’m not sure which ones she wants to go out first, my guess is the pâté, so grab up a tray and get out there—we’re only waiting on the queer uncle, so I imagine it’s time to start.”   She turned on her expensive heel and pushed the kitchen door open, but paused.

“I’m so relieved you speak English, that will make everything easier.”  But she didn’t sound relieved, she sounded condescending and harassed.

Then she was gone.  Maggie stared at the gently swinging door and wondered what in heaven had just happened.  Her eyes fell to the covered trays on the counter.  She hoped she could figure out which one was the pâté.  She’d never even seen pâté before.  She thought maybe it was soft, though she couldn’t pull on any solid piece of learning to back that notion up. 

She lifted a few lids and settled on one that looked like grayish mousse on slices of baguette, garnished with what looked to be chives and maybe fig.  She lifted it with a sigh.  How on earth was Mrs. Delaney even related to that aging icicle?

She had a feeling it was going to be a very long evening.

Dear Writer's Block,

Fuck You.

Most Sincerely,

Beth

Potent Potables.

Maybe I'll go back to school and learn to be a sommelier. Oh. I'll probably have to eat meat to do that, to know which wines are best with foods... well... I just heart the wine business so much!

I have even begun to honestly enjoy reds. Wowza, right?

i miss working at the palace. Kinda wish I had an entrepreneurial spirit-- I mighta made a helluva good little shop owner.

The other thought bouncing around my noggin is maybe going to bartending school. $300.00 investment and I could be licensed and awesomesauce.

I am restless. And have not found my professional niche. I'm trying to be open without being scattered, trying to allow the universe to give me cues and guide me to the next step.

It is a challenge to remain calm and have faith.

Five Minutes

Hey All.

Taking a small departure from the LONG NIGHT dinner scenes to bring you this.  I enjoyed writing this one alot.  It lends us some insight into a newer character, which I think will be important as we move forward in the dinner storyline and beyond, so I figured: no time like the present.  and as far as timeline goes, it is pretty neutral.  All you have to know is that it is present day.  Sometime before Avalon's Wedding, definitely (Avalon's wedding is a big game changer, so I like to use it as a timeline marker).

Enjoy!

**********************

Grace Sinclair had maybe five full minutes after her husband came to achieve her own orgasm.  It felt like a desperate race.  She knew he would roll them over and she’d have to ride him as furiously as possible while he remained tumescent—which, if she was lucky, would last just long enough for her to come.

Usually, though, it did not last quite long enough.  Most times she could feel him losing his hardness inside of her, which certainly didn’t help catapult her toward climax.  And his fervent urging of ‘c’mon baby, I’m losing it’ didn’t inspire passion either.

So nine times out of ten she’d throw her head back, pant real hard, clench up all her muscles and fake it with a final moan or gasp or high-pitched whine.

Then he’d smile, proud of himself, ask her: “Did you come?”, and believe her when she’d lie by nodding and murmuring ‘mmmhmm’ or some other evasive confirmation.  And in her head she’d calculate when she’d be alone in the house next so that she could trot out the old vibrator and give herself the orgasm she so desperately needed.

She faked it because early on in their relationship he’d taken his failure to bring her to climax as a sign that perhaps they weren’t right for eachother.  He used to get surly and defensive and it had obviously been a real blow to his sense of manhood or pride or self-worth.

And she loved him.  And wanted to be with him.  So she’d started faking.  Pretending that they’d discovered the secrets that got her off.  But of course they had not, and she had set herself up for a lifetime of sneaking masturbation and sexual frustration.  She had to be content with quickies where only he got off.  Learn to enjoy their intimacy as having him inside her for a while and be satisfied with that.

And she’d gotten really good at faking it.  Sometimes she thought perhaps she should have gone into acting—maybe she’d have earned an Oscar with her apparently natural skill.

The worst part about the faking wasn’t the lack of orgasm; it was the deception.  She’d long ago come to terms with it, accepted it as a necessary white lie designed to preserve the harmony of their union, but she never thought she’d be that kind of wife.  The kind who lied to her husband and faked her sexual gratification on a regular basis.

And she hated the inevitable train of thought that would follow as they lay in bed together, as she listened to the soft sound of his almost instantaneous snoring, and she forced her blood to slow, her arousal to recede—unfulfilled, and all her muscles tense and tingling, yearning for release.  Because the train of thought always brought her back to the only man who’d consistently been able to make her come.  And she didn’t want to think about him like that, not anymore.  It was no use thinking those things—it only made her resent her husband, and his wife, and she refused to be that person.

And then, inevitably, she’d find herself wondering about the other women her husband fooled around with.  Did they, too, have to fake it?  Or was he able to bring them the pleasure that proved so elusive in their marriage bed?  It killed her to think that maybe it was just her, maybe he was dynamite in bed with other people and maybe they really were just incompatible sexually.

“C’mon baby—“  Holden breathed, his voice ragged and urgent.

Grace bit down on her lower lip and tried to focus, tried to concentrate on that tenuous itch deep inside her, tried to make the itch catch so she could ride it to completion.  It was proving to be frustratingly evasive.  One moment the tickle would intensify, so close to initiating the build up, and then, for no apparent reason it would pull back and the build would collapse. 

She growled in frustration, though her husband interpreted it as aggressive arousal, and she leaned forward enough to shove her nipple in his mouth.  He took it obediently and nibbled and sucked and she closed her eyes to focus on the sensations it caused.

She moved her hips and wished he would stop trying to help with his own mis-timed pelvic thrusts.  And she knew if it was going to happen then she had to break one of her own private rules. 

“That’s it, c’mon baby, that’s a good girl—“  He muttered against her tit and she frowned, the tickle receding again at the sound of his voice.

She shifted her weight and shoved the other nipple in his mouth, wishing she could just tell him to shut up and lie still for a minute. 

He sucked urgently on her breast and squeezed her ass cheeks firmly, and Grace took a deep breath, ground herself down on him and pictured another man.  With her eyes squeezed shut she focused on the sound of her breathing, on the feel of his hands, on the sweet tugging on her nipple and she imagined she was getting away with a torrid affair. 

Her blood began to boil at the shame and scandal of it, and it was working.  She thought to herself guilty little things like ‘nobody needs to know’, and she could feel her release mounting.  When he moaned against her she imagined it was not Holden moaning and she heard herself moaning in response.  She thought to herself ‘we need to hurry before my husband gets home’ and her breathing became honest-to-goodness panting.  She was close.

She dug her fingernails into his shoulder and his scalp and imagined it was another man, a lover, and she was coming, finally, coming hard, shuddering with wave after wave of tingling, tickling, blissful release.  And not a moment too soon either, because she could feel him shrinking within her.

She collapsed onto his chest and enjoyed feeling their slick skin pressed together, cherished his arms around her even as he slipped out of her.  “I love you.”  She told him, feeling guilty about her private betrayal, but not so guilty that she wouldn’t do it again if it meant achieving an orgasm like that.

“Did you come?”  He asked her, his tone suspicious.

She rolled her eyes.  He was always suspicious of her veracity whenever she had a real orgasm.  He was so used to the fake ones.

“Holy God yes.”  She responded, her voice catching in her throat, her breathing irregular, her heartrate jumping all over the map.

“Really?”  he asked, sounding terribly vulnerable.  “I don’t want you to fake it just to please me—“

She laughed shortly and sighed heavily, sounding shaky and weak.  “It was amazing.”  She told him, and slid to cuddle against his side.  She gathered his hand in hers, kissed it, then brought it down, between her other lips and placed his middle finger on her clit, which was jumping erratically and pulsing so powerfully she thought she might just have an aftershock orgasm without any outside stimulus at all.

“Feel that?”  She asked in a whisper.

He was quiet for a moment.  “That pulsing?”

She nodded.

“Yeah.”  She could hear the smile in his voice.

“You did that.”  She told him.  Though really, he'd had had very little at all to do with it.

He made a pleased sound in his throat and withdrew his hand from her sex in order to squeeze her affectionately.  He kissed her slick forehead, murmured some sweet loving thing or other and then drifted off to sleep within minutes.

She retrieved the discreet towel she kept tucked away in her night stand for such occasions and pressed it to her tingling, throbbing sex.

And Grace Sinclair lay awake, despite her relaxation and rare satisfaction, and she thought about the man she’d pictured in order to get herself off.

And she wondered when, exactly, she’d given up hope that her husband would ever learn to satisfy her the way she knew was possible, and when she’d decided to resign herself to a largely unfulfilled sexual life. 

And she hoped coming tonight would help blunt some of the envy she always felt whenever she lunched with Velvet and had to endure her latest stories about how wonderful the Delaneys’ sex life still was after all these years.

And she chastised herself for wishing the best man she knew would slip up and maybe be just a little less perfect once in a while.  Because, after all, it wasn’t right to want to fuck your best friend’s husband. 

With a sigh Grace rolled over and fell into a fretful sleep.

cunnilingus

Learn to love her lady blossom, lol.

Ok.

Bold title for an entry.

Now I'm feeling some pressure to deliver!

I've had it on my mind ALOT lately since I purchased this incredible book, which really ought to be a fucking handbook for every straight guy or lesbian, or any bi gal looking to know what she's doing when she gets the opportunity:



But here's what's up with going down:

I'm concerned about our culture, the american one. Probably the fault of the puritans.

Because, where is the cunnilingus?

Living with a 21 year old young man as of late had opened my eyes up to alot of stuff. Gotten me thinking in new ways.

See, I've only had the one sex partner. And he is down with going down. He always has been.

But I guess a huge majority of fellas out there would rather not. Would rather avoid it or make it a special occasion sort of thing. I wonder many things about this. Is it a maturity thing? Do they get more into giving oral as they mature? Is a 28 year old or a 38 year old or a 48 year old increasingly likely to worship at the delta? (or is it the opposite? like, if they didn't do iot when they were young and wild in college are they less and less likely to embrace it as they age? can't teach an old dog new cunnilingus?)

Or is it a personality thing? Are most men raised to feel like it's ok to neglect the nether kiss? It would seem so.And all their peers reinforce this common belief.  Validate it.

I asked, yesterday, about this phenomenon. Since I am continually inundated with overheard stories about how guys get head all the time, how girls go down there, give blowies as a natural consequence of making out or whatnot. But i never hear about guys engaging in makeout sessions with the other pair of lips.

And I wonder, why the fuck not?

So I ask: "Cunnilingus versus Fellatio; the latter happens way more than the former, am i right?"

after some puzzled 'huh?'s, and after rephrasing it, I get the honest response.

And it is this. "Oh, hell yeah. head happens way more than, well, the other kind of head. eating out."

Hmm. Why?

Shrugs and 'i dunno's

fellatio, it would seem, is a much more commonplace sexual act in the dating scene, the hook-up scene, than is cunnilingus.

Too much work?

Smells and cleanliness were discussed. (But, I argue that we should all be clean and healthy if we want people's mouths on our genitals-- because sure vaginas are more fragrant than penises, but is there anything in this world like a rank pair of balls? c'mon guys. Don't be complaining about lady parts when guy parts can be equally unappealing to the nostrils.)

Then aesthetic appeal was discussed. Like if a girl has a 'jacked up pussy'. Really? How ugly can a vagina be? What are the standards on that? What's the rubric for roast beef curtains?

Oh yes, and then of course we discussed the landscaping. Bare, barely there, bushy, unkepmt, overgrown. Oh my, oh my, there was just so much to discuss about body hair. About nature versus modern expectations. i'll let the lovely Ms. Demi Moore illustrate a bygone aesthetic, shall i?

Ever seen Demi Moore's vagina?  Well you still haven't!  (bad-ump-bump, chsssssh)

It seems to me that men have this pussy on the pedestal complex. Like there are some vaginas WORTH going down on, and others that aren't up to snuff. As if girls didn't already have enough to be self conscious of. now we have to be concerned that our labia aren't of pleasing proportion? Or that the color might be off-putting? That we might be too strongly scented or that the flavor could be less tasty than other girls? jesus fucking christ.

We should not have to Vajazzle our 'precious ladies' to drum up your interest, for fuck's sake.

We're women, not fairies.   

(And we're women, not little girls, so while a full wax is fun and lovely, please don't expect it always, demand it as essential, or shun a woman who has more of a natural sitch going on.  I'm not talking Demi up there, i mean Kudos to ole Bruce Willis for finding the forrest through the trees on that one.  I bet Bruce Willis gives great head.  And maybe the au natural look appealed to him?  i mean she's a gorgeous lady, and if that's the way she was made... but anyway.  Pubic hair, like eyebrows, go through alot of fashion changes over the decades.)

And this isn't new, or anything. This kind of shame and embarrassment and paranoia has been propagated and carefully cultivated for quite some time now.


Maybe we'll do a 'know when to douche' storyline on Mad Men this season?

Our sex is evil. Any pleasure we feel should be minimal or secondary to the male (for instance, giving head to a man can be an entire and complete sex act in and of itself. Beginning middle and end. done. But oral sex given from a man to a woman is most often viewed as foreplay that must most usually culminate in his achieving orgasm as well. Really? Did you make sure to get her off after she swallowed your cum in the backseat of your car? No. I thought not. Why the double standards???) Oh, and for god's sake,keep it hidden. There is so much neurosis and stigma tied up in that organ, it is amazing to me.

The most disturbing part of this, to me, as a woman, is hearing again and again that girls are ok with the inequity. That they often encourage it by saying things like: 'Oh oral is ok and everything, but i'd rather fuck.' Or "i like getting head but i'd rather give it."

Whoa. Back that train up. Are they serious? It makes me wonder if they've ever had good cunnilingus. I can't help but conclude that no, they have not, because I have never, never, never heard a man say anything remotely similar. H:ave you? Has a man that you know ever been like: "Nah, no thanks on the oral tonight, i'd rather just fuck or go down on you until you come and call it a night..."

No matter how fucking god-like perfect the guy is, he's very very very unlikely to turn down an offered blowjob. because oral sex feels fantastic. No shame in that. It feels dynamite. It should!

So when girls are saying things like "meh" about receiving cunnilingus, it smacks mighty suspicious to me. I am left to believe that they don't know what good oral should feel like or that they cannot relax enough or embrace their own sexuality enough to enjoy the art of cunnilingus.

Which is one of the saddest, most heart breaking things I can imagine for a woman.

We need to teach our girls confidence in their bodies, every single inch of their bodies. Teach them to embrace their femininity, their sexuality, their inner goddess, their very nature. It makes me ache to think about how many people out there are living a partially-realized sex life.

Not to sound like the vagina monologues or anything.  But yeah.  Maybe we should all read that play or see it once in our lives.  c'mon ladies, embrace your c-words!

And any man who is perpetuating the ridiculous notion that somehow paying tribute with his tongue between his partner's legs is some extraordinary treat, some big chore, or somehow less than completely deserved and expected of him as a mature sexual partner? Those men should be made to attend a seminar or something before they're allowed to engage in further sexual activity. Smarten up guys. You want to be considered a good lover? You want to be good in bed? acquaint yourself with the act of eating-out asap, do some tongue exercises and get on your knees.

Why is it that in order to be beddable a woman is expected to go down on you, to be good at giving head, and to be considered supremely beddable we have to want to whip it out and suck it and go to town, (all great characteristics of a good lover, don't get me wrong) but for some reason a male lover is not held to the same standard? They are neither expected to perform oral (at least not as early on in the relationship as the woman is expected to do so), nor are they expected to be able to produce an orgasm via cunnilingus.

WTF?

Seriously.  One of the leading reasons why men break up with girls is lack of willingness on her part to give blowjobs.  I haven't seen any such statistic for women. 
"Oh, Stacy, Joe was so sweet, why'd you two break up?"  

"Oh, he was really nice, and smart and handsome and everything, but you know what Maxine?  he just never went down town."  

"Never?!  Oh that's too bad.  In that case, Stace, you made the right decision."

I certainly knew the rules in highschool. When i was young and beginning this journey of sexual awakening, the rule was very clear-- a girl had to give head WELL BEFORE a guy would ever even entertain going down on her. And yeah, where I'm from? Some guys just flat-out refused. like "Oh, i don't do that." Oh. You don't? But you expect her to do it for you? Of course. Naturally. Heh? I shake my head and just can't wrap my mind around it.

So yeah, I went down on Aaron before he went down on me. But I was also a virgin, and when you're a virgin you tend to keep that region under wraps until you're ready to lose the viginity. right? So that was all me. He certainly went downtown pretty much asap after the big event. He was eager to do it. not simply willing, not just fulfilling an obligation. He was ready, as lovers should be, to explore every inch, give every thing he could, to contribute to our mutual enjoyment of the act of lovemaking.

So, forgive me if I feel so damned boggled by this mysterious lack of cunnilingus. The astonishing dearth of eating pussy.

And this just leads me to whole other disturbing areas of thought, such as faked orgasms and guys coming without regard to her pleasure, and sticking to a few standard positions, and lack of exploration, and reticence and body issues and ugh! All that stuff that's hanging round our necks in large part due to a patriarchal and punishing religious order.

Sick.

I wish I'd become a sexologist instead of a drama teacher, i'll tell you that much.

More on cunnilingus some other time maybe.

happy eating folks.

Long Night; Part 3

 Hope you're digging the Long Night vignettes.  Here's the next morsel-- a Grey one.  Bon apetite!

*************************

Another dinner.  For him and Maggie.  Grey wasn’t enthusiastic.

But his mother was so very excited about it, and he supposed the rest of the family should get to do the meet and greet with the woman he’d married, so he braced himself for another excruciating evening of playing pretend.

Grey could hardly fathom that it had only been a week since the welcome home dinner.  It felt like a month; so much had happened, his life had changed so radically, and existing with a wife for a roommate was proving to be bizarre, complicated, and very straining on the senses and the nerves.  And it was a bit like some grim box of assorted chocolates—he couldn’t accurately predict whether a day would pass smoothly or if they would argue and blow up at one another.  And, he had to admit, he was just as much at fault for the arguments as she was.  Maybe more so.

Because for some reason, whenever he was around her he had the frustrating tendency to throw rational thought--and manners--out the window.  He would pick fights with her over the most absurd bullshit.  Shit he didn’t even really care about would suddenly warrant a huge debate, and when it was all over he would inevitably shake his head and wonder ‘where the hell did that come from?!’

Other times he was patient and polite and considerate.  These were the good days.  Because, with the exception of sometimes being crabby from the nausea or the aches and pains of her changing body, Maggie was generally a pleasant person, and relatively easy to get along with.  So as long as he played nice, she played nice too, and then they could get through an evening almost enjoyably. 

It was weird.

The biggest problem with living with Maggie was not her fault, really.  But it was driving him out of his skin.

He wanted her.  He wanted her so badly it was becoming a serious concern.  It made him tense and irritable and confused and defensive.  Which was probably why he tended to fly off the handle for no apparent reason from time to time.  He recognized this peculiarity and tried to curb the compulsion, tried to keep both his libido and his temper in check, but the strain and the effort involved was making him feel years older than his age.

And it was really fucking tough to treat her as a roommate when he kept thinking about her sexually.  It made stupid little activities like sitting on the couch and watching tv, or chatting over breakfast, or making dinner with her, or just studying in the same room at the same time, enormously draining. 

Luckily for him she worked a lot and he kept himself busy out of the house as much as possible, so their time alone together was fairly limited.  She had the new car now, too, so he could feel free and relaxed while driving again, which was a comfort. 

And Christ.  Buying the car?  And doing the name-change and the bank account and all that?  That really felt like the longest day of his life so far, with the exception of the day they’d married.  The next day while she was at school he’d dug that damned sweater out of the hamper and hid it.  If he had to endure seeing her looking that perfectly fuckable again, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself.

And though the morning of that Monday had been rocky, and there had been a great deal of unresolved tension, he found that spending the day with her hadn’t been the hell he’d anticipated.  She was smart and patient and practical, she’d asked informed questions about the cars they looked at, made valid points about size and function and longevity, and forget about the various government offices—she’d been a peach.  He’d probably have been thrown out of those places had she not been there to smooth over his rudeness and keep the processes moving along when his temper got the better of him.

Hell.  Half of him was beginning to like the girl.

But the other half was nowhere near ready to forgive her, let alone begin to entertain the notion of liking her or even tolerating her.  Because every inconvenience, every unpleasantness, every change to his routine and his habits and his lifestyle was her fucking fault.  It was all her doing.  It was because of her that he was living in his parents’ backyard, no longer living with his best friend, was no longer able to date and fuck and all that; It was because of her that he was becoming surly and abrupt and frowning more often than smiling.

He didn’t like the married Grey Delaney. 

And every time he thought about the little reason for their arrangement he felt ill.  He couldn’t do what Vaughan Grey had suggested as a solution.  He just couldn’t.  Still, sometimes he wondered if maybe she might yet miscarry.  But he usually pushed that thought away, shame prickling on the nape of his neck, and for whatever reason the image of his mother floating into his mind.

He didn’t want to be a father.  At all.  But he wasn’t about to harm his wife or wish harm to befall her.  She’d ruined his life but she wasn’t evil.  He could think of a lot of other girls he’d dated that would be making his life a living hell right now if they’d had the balls to do what Maggie had done to him.  Jesus Christ.  He’d dodged some bullets. 

A lot of the girls he’d fucked were so annoying or petty or airheaded or bitchy or just so goddamn loathsome that it had been a real chore to be in their presence for anything other than the sex, when they’d finally shut the fuck up.  He’d never especially minded hanging out with Maggie back when they were dating.  Of course, after he introduced her to sex they spent more time in the bedroom than engrossed in conversation—but it hadn’t been because he just wanted to shut her up like it usually was with other girls…

“Hey, where’re you going?” 

Maggie’s voice brought him back from whatever stream of thought he was wallowing in.  He looked up.  Shit.  He’d walked right on past the back gate where she stood, looking concerned and quite chilly in the bitter winter night air.

“Thought maybe we ought to go ‘round front this time.”  He lied smoothly.

“Oh.”  She said.  “You mother said she’d leave the back unlocked for us.”  She smiled wanly.

Grey hesitated.  “Ok.  Sure.”  He backtracked toward her and opened the gate for them.

“Because of last time—“  Maggie explained weakly.

“Yeah.”  Grey replied.  He wasn’t feeling chatty.

She’d already picked up on that vibe and was limiting her conversation noticeably.

Grey thought about plastering on a smile and schmoozing with his aunts and uncles and his frigid old bitch of a grandmother and he ground his teeth together.   No.  He was definitely not feeling chatty.  He’d be doing enough small talk and pleasantries this evening without having to politely blather on to make his legally wedded wife more comfortable on their walk over. 

They proceeded the rest of the way to the back patio in silence.

It was going to be yet another long ass fucking night.