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.

On Writing and Purpose

And writing on purpose. 

My writing fore the dinner scene has stalled.  My writing in general is still click-clacking away, but my brain doesn't seem to want to complete the task at hand, which is uber frustrating because I really need to get through it in order to   move forward.

IDK what the trouble is.  Usually i get a bunch of characters together in one plce and sparks fly, things happen, the plot advances in some way.  With this one?  Hardly.  It's like they're all too good at being WASPs to get anything accomplished.  

Plus I have introduced  new character, and usually that's fun for me, but this one is a real effing challenge.  She's super cruel, a real bitter bitch, and she's also bigoted and racist.  All fun things, right?  Turns out that sort of person is harder to write than i originally anticipated.  Picture Lucille Bluth with none of the charm, lol.  

And all these secrets are swirling around in the air and it is getting mighty hard to keep em straight and remember who knows what and who did what to whom and all that banana sandwich. 

Overall I am still enjoying the process. And beginning to feel curiosity about other people's writing processes.  For example, I'm reading the Sookie Stackhouse series, and I'm wondering if the author, Charlaine Harris, writes in sequence, beginning to end, or skips around.  I wonder, too, if she sits down and dreams up a mystery plot first, then a romance plot, then the subplots, or what?  Does she make a big diagram like aaron likes to do?  And did she have a multi-book plan when she started out?  Like JK Rowling?

i read somewhere that Margaret Mitchell wrote all her favorite scenes, all the important ones, the meaty, juicy ones first and then had to sort of force herself to go back and write the filler, the connective tissue.  If you have read Gone With The Wind you might have noticed that this approach shows, as some of that filler is ass-boring.

Right now I have a tenuous plan for the main characters of the Cedar Falls stories that I'm crafting.  But I haven't sat down and made a big flow chart like aaron does.  I also do the margaret mitchell thing-- I write what I want to write when I want to write it.  I write scenes that spring up out of little seedling nuggets.  Sometimes I write to fill a prescription, to accomplish something very specific and necessary to plot advancement-- other times i have just a kernel of an idea or a feeling I want to explore, sometimes just a word or phrase pops into my head and I sit down and let it happen however it happens.  That's when I get surprised.  Surprising things happen.  Isn't that mental?  I wonder if aaron is ever surprised by his characters.  He does so much pre-planning and forethought.

He sat on the couch with me a few days ago and asked me why I liked writing.  Seems like a simple question, right?  But as I tried to unpack my answer I discovered that communicating my feelings about writing was more of a challenge than maybe it should be.

The simple answer would be:  Because it makes me happy.

But then, he prompted, Why?  Why does it make you happy?  Why do you like it?

Well.  I tried to give this fair consideration.  Noone has ever asked me that, not quite like that, and as I didn't go to school for it, haven't spent countless semester hours analyzing this and laboring over it and picking it apart, this felt like virgin territory.  A vast wilderness of unexplored thought and emotion.

Well, says I, I like the characters.  Personal dramas have always grabbed me and turned on the juices.  As a theatre person i groove on Albee and LaBute and even Mamet because of what the people do to, for, with, and at one another.  Character-based plots, or whatever.  Checkov too, i suppose, and to some extent Miller.  

As a kid it's barbies.  Who's ken kissing now?  Wasn't he just about to propose to Midge?  Why is he naked under a handkerchief with Teresa all of a sudden?  Dear oh dear.  The scandal.

Then it's the Sims.  Jesus christ, is it ever the sims.  Creating all these virtual people, setting them up for foibles and fuck-ups, friendships and families and filthy transgressions.  Cedar falls sprang directly from all that.

I've always liked soaps.  And romance novels.  And BBC costume dramas where personal relationships ARE the entire plot.  War and such are the backdrops of these stories, not the catalyst to action.  Oh, sure, we may be at war with france, but what really matters is Did Lord Chesterton look askance at Lady Hartfordshire?  Whatever could that glane have meant?!

I'm always making up stories and i have been since I was a kid.  Only i hardly had the time or energy or patience to sit down and write them out.  hell no.  Usually I just had these characters in my noggin and would play pretend, by myself, and let the plot unfold as it went along.  Sometimes I'd drag my friends into it, like the time I told my dear friend Alison stories about our inevitable and scandal-filled future as the young wives of various members of the band U2.  Maybe I should write some of that shit down, only change the band to a fictional one...

But mostly it was just me.  Me in my room talking for all the characters, acting out little melodramas, the stories and plots and high-emotions now lost forever, ephemera in the ether.

But I have always tried to be more proactive.  Tried to write.  My downfall has always been this need for perfection.  This need to be the best.  Exceptional.  To avaod mediocrity at all costs.

While this can lead to some great stuff, and has, what it mostly produces is a paralytic feeling of constipated and thwarted greatness.  Not helpful.

That's why finally the promise.  The vow.  To just fucking write already.  Just write and embrace the imperfect nature of it.  Allow, with grace, the mistakes and the typos and the mediocrity and the general suckiness of it.

A vow to enjoy it above everything else.  it has been the advice I've been giving my student actors for years now.  "Just have fun"  and "The most important thing is to have fun out there!"

Of course it would be nice if you remembered your lines and didn't suck, but have fun!

So I tasked myself with writing every day, but ordered myself to abandon all hope of greatness.  I found liberation in that.  

Since then writing has become a very pleasurable activity.  A beloved hobby.  

I can't even remember, really, what it was like before I started putting my little scenes into the keys on a laptop.  I used to just zone out around the house or at work and play out the little dramas in my head.  Now I feed them into this little machine and there's some lasting record of them.  Wild.

What do I enjoy, why do I like it, why does it make me happy?

*It's a creative outlet, and creative souls need to create or they wither and perish.

*It's a satisfying thing, to write little vignettes or little blog entires.  Kind of cathartic most days.

*It's fun to problem solve;  I need X to happen, so I have to add Y and divide by N or whatever.  (i'm not super with math metaphors.)

*I like the stories.  I re-read them all the time.  Maybe this is narcissitic?  I don't actually care.  I re-read and I look forward to new ones every day.

*It's a challenge, an engaging one but not an overwhelming one.  It excercises my brain, keeps me thinking, keeps me busy, keeps me invested in something when so many aspects of my life are less pleasing.

*It feels good.  Almost always.  It feels awesome to sit down and after an hour or whatever, to have something I've done.  I wonder if this is how people who draw feel?  Blank paper one minute, something you've created the next.  It's a heady feeling.

So there it is.  I seem to have gone off on quite a tangent.  I'm certain there's probably alot more to it than the points i've enumerated, but that's what i've got right now.

Aaron seemed thoughtful and saddened about that discussion.  He says for him, so often, writing is not fun.  That it's alot of work and it is frustrating.  I sympathize, hell I even empathize.  He's holding out for perfection, which is a gumm-up-the-works wrench in the machinery.  His product is, as a result, infinitely better, just as mine used to be when I'd labor over it and stress over it and beat myself up over it.  

But really?  What kind of masochist wants to do that to themselves?  One of the best things /i learned in acting school was to relax into it.  Relax, and breathe, and be alive in the moment.  And mistakes happen.  Fuck it.  Keep breathing, keep moving forward, and, oh yeah, have fun out there.

My dear friend jeff asked me to think about what makes me the happiest, what activity just feels the most right in my life, because whatever it is, that's what my purpose is in life, and that's what I should be focusing on making a living at.  After some joking about going into pron or prostitution because I enjoy sex very much, He asked about acting.

Well.  Well, well, well.  Acting felt good.  Felt right.  I was damned good at it too.  But you know what never felt right or good or even tolerable to me?  Auditioning.  I guess I just want the universe to call me up and offer me fantastic roles in shows.  

So then what?  Teaching?  No.  Flat-out no.  I am generally proud of my teaching abitlity.  Am often pleased and have moments of clarity and enthusiasm and even affection for teaching, but no.  It has never come as naturally to me as, say, acting, and it has never felt quite as rewarding-- well, not in the same way.  Somethimes it can be immeasurably more rewarding because it is a selfless thing, teaching, and that's damned good for the soul.

But then what?  I'm loath to name writing.  Because if I did then i'd have to take it more seriously, right?  I'm not prepared to go there.  Hell, I can't even interest people in reading my fiction, other than Danielle-- who enjoys them but I'm convinced slogs through most of them mainly because she is an amazing friend.  Plus, it helps that she just loves to read, reads all the time, and therefore is open and willing to read my stuff and give me feedback and be a creative sounding board.  Wow.  Thanks again, D, you are a great fucking friend and an awesome person.  i love you and can't even hope to measure up to how great and giving you are and always have been to me!

Danielle tangent. lol.

But yeah, so really only danielle reads the fiction, which is fine  (I'm honored, actually!), I'm not actually surprised or hurt really, but can you imagine me trying to take my writing more seriously?  My own husband and partner doesn't take the time to read it, how can I expect a publisher or an agent or THE PUBLIC to be interested?

So it remains a hobby.  A fun, beloved, engaging and satisfying hobby.  And an endeavor too.  To develop and strengthen my creative voice and muscle.  I believe strongly that we all have a voice and we should all be developing it, embracing it, and sharing it.  The internet is the new oral tradition.  I'm proud to have my voice among the din.

In vaudeville i'd have gotten the hook by now.  So, with a piano playoff, lemme say g'night folks, see ya next time!

crazy lazy

I am now addicted to the true blood series.  Yup.  Best of all, aaron is equally addicted.  You know, I tried to get him to let me read the sookie books aloud to him, but nooooooooo.  Now, from episode one, he was like: i love this!!!

ya.  I know.  'swhy i tried to read the books to ya.  doofus.

Anyway.  Nothing too pithy to say today.  I have thoroughly enjoyed this four day weekend.  It was supremely hedonistic.  And selfish.

So we've put off all the errands till today.  So i should get going... sigh. 

The afore mentioned 'research' books from amazon arrived today!!

Woot!

I am very pleased with them already, having skimmed hungrily through after tearing off the packaging. I'll have to let you know more, as i read them fully, but my sample taste had been pleasant, comfortable, exciting, and intruiging thus far!

Here they are-- in case you're interested (i think you should be, wink wink)

&

Sexy fruit imagery, huh?  Yeah.  I'm loving them both.  His and Hers guides to awesomeness.  Thought it would be great to have not only as a writer who is trying to write alot of sex with alot of different kinds of people (when she's only had lots and lots of sex with just the one person, lol), but might be fun as a liberated woman to read and possibly enhance the already very wonderful bedroom activities.  Achieve full potentioal, right?  no harm in keeping an open mind.  One should grow and learn everyday.  Knowledge is power.  Sexy, sexy power. 

yummmm.

I told you I'm reading the kama sutra, too, right?

A trifecta of sexy reading.  Oh, and throw a little sookie in for dessert.  I might be oversexed.

More on sookie and the implications of necrophilia and beastiality later.  oh, but i promise you, that discussion is coming.  How come I'm a creep when i talk about it, but she's just awesome?  Whatevs.  Goes back to every girl's darker psyche and bestial nature.  Oh yeah, and expect said discussion to have a lengthy (pun not initially intended, but after realizing, thoroughly embraced) discussion about foreskin and a sticky discussion 9okay, ick, I intended that one) about menstruation.  So yeah.  gear up for that, dear readers. lol.

But , anyway, YAY Cunnelingus!  He (the author)encourages all men (but I'mma also say women interested in going down to the delta too) to be fluent cunnilinguists, which reminds me of that very Noel Coward-esque punch line about Cunning Linguists.  I asked aaron if there might be a fellatio equivelent of that tongue-in-cheek jokery.  We couldn't think of one.

Scattered

Hey. pretty uneventful wednesday for me.

Had such an awesome day visiting with Danielle and Z yesterday! They really filled up my spiritual jar, you know?

I'm feeling a little scattered today and a little like i'm just waiting for something to break. break good, or break bad, or just shatter, I don't really know, but this definitely feels like that proverbial calm before the storm. Like I'm holding my breath.

I ordered some books on amazon the other day and am antsy for them to arrive. They are for 'research' for cedar falls. hmmmm. what could that mean? you'll have to wait and see.

I made carrot burgers tonight, a first for me, and the endeavor was super successful! i will definitely do carrot burgers again! yum city.

Aaron has the next two days off of work for the jewish holiday.

I already miss Jeff and hope he is doing well in NY.

i am tremendously excited for D's new endeavors, and am rooting for her!

Eric and his GF are so on-again-off-again it is driving me batty. It has literally been alternating between 'together' and 'broken up' every single time I talk to him. Like a fucking light switch. I'm exhausted with it!

When i sit in a certain space in the apartment I can smell clove cigarettes, which is pleasing but perplexing, as there is really no logical explanation for this phenomenon.

told you i was scattered. I'mma go read sookie.

I'm pretty fucking hooked. I am pleased to say that I'm still writing, though, despite being addicted to reading the stackhouse series. I am pleased about this. I had expected to stop writing. yay that I can do both.

maybe i am more than a recreational writer after all? We'll see.

Long Night; Part 2

Hope everyone had a great long weekend!  

So it has been a while, but it's time to get back on the cedar falls wagon, so here we go kiddies.  As the incomparable Bette Davis as Margot Channing famously said: 

"Fasten your seatbelts; It's going to be a bumpy night!"

Please see the first installment of this evening's festivities, if you haven't already. 

I'm trying my damndedst to keep them short as hell, since there are so many fucking people present at this damned dinner party! sheesh.

Anyway,  Enjoy!

Oh yeah, this is present day..

Heart!   Thanks again for reading ;)

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

It had been close to a month since Jonah had made the worst mistake of his life.  Not yet a month, and already he felt easily a half-decade older than his years.  Every day since that terrible weekend was draining him, stretching him thin, torturing him and testing him at every turn.

And besides Viola, there was Grey’s drastic new situation.  His son had gotten married—to a girl he barely knew, and they’d moved into the guest cottage.  And Avalon was swinging into high gear with all the wedding planning for her own nuptials with Ben.  And it was the twins’ senior year of high school, and he was being considered for a promotion, and everything together seemed to be conspiring to overwhelm him and undo him.

Tonight Velvet had decided they’d have a large extended family dinner so that Maggie could get to know the whole family.  Jonah was beginning to feel like there would never be another free weekend in his life.  The week before had been the small family gathering in honor of Grey’s sudden marriage, the weekend before that had been that Calder charity ball (where Viola had worn that skin-tight black strapless thing), and the weekend before that, well, that had been the weekend he’d descended into hell. 

Now they were having people over again.  Entertaining again.  And all he wanted was to lock himself in his room and sleep for hours.  Well.  That wasn’t really all he wanted to do.  But that was what he knew he should do.

They were expecting Nolan and his family, Caleb and Gideon, Ben of course, but probably also Grace with Holden, and he couldn’t forget: his mother in law.  Jonah rolled his eyes and sighed as he buttoned his freshly ironed shirt in the mirror.  He really couldn’t stand that woman on a good day, and wondered how he was going to endure her in his current mood.

“You look good.  I like that shirt.”

Jonah froze in the act of buttoning his left cuff and met his youngest daughter’s eyes in the mirror.  She stood in his now wide open bedroom door, leaning against the jamb, her legs crossed casually at the ankles, her arms folded across her middle and a sly smirk on her face.

“Thank you.”  He responded, a little stiffly.  Very slowly he resumed buttoning, but his eyes stayed on her.

“How do I look?”  She asked, and pushed off the door frame to do a slow spin for him.

He licked the inside of his teeth and prayed for patience. 

“Very nice.”  He replied in a carefully neutral tone.

She finished her spin with a sassy hair flip and leaned into one hip, arms akimbo.  “Very nice?”  She challenged.  “That’s all?”

He turned as he completed his task and stared her down.  He kept his eyes focused only on her face.  “You look lovely.”  He responded, still more tepid.

She smirked and sauntered into the room.  He blinked rapidly as she approached but made not a move.  He felt a bit like prey in a clever predator’s sights. 

With a too-provocative sway in her hips she stalked toward him and as she got closer he could see better that she was wearing dark eye shadow and liner, and she’d used some blush to bring out the height of her cheekbones, and she wore a soft, tantalizing shade of glossy lip color. 

Closer and closer she advanced, until he felt a light sweat break out on the back of his neck, under his crisp collar, and he weighed his options for extricating himself from her without too much fuss.  He glanced at the wide open door and the dark hallway beyond.  Had the twins already dressed and gone downstairs to help their mother?  Or were they still up here?  Might one of them bounce out of their room at any moment and pop in to check on him?

Viola was smiling at him.  Using as bait that smile that was half coy and half knowing, and he felt an unwanted heat slip down from his collar, down his front and across his chest. 

She leaned in very close to where he stood and he locked up,every muscle stiff and rigid, and she giggled naughtily. 

Then she was lifting something between them.  “You’ll be able to see me better with these.”  She teased him.  His glasses.  She’d leaned in close to grab them from where he’d left them to rest atop his bureau. 

He let out a breath with an audible ‘whoosh’.  “Thank you.”  He said and held out his hand expectantly.

But his daughter shook her head a fraction, pursed her lips into a half-pout, half-smirk and slowly unfolded the arms of his glasses as if it were a highly erotic act.

Jonah frowned at her but she licked her lips provocatively and took another step into his space.  He had no room to back up—he was already at the bureau—but he lifted his hands to stop her from getting too close.

She chuckled low in her throat and reached up, up, her tiny self going on tiptoes to reach, and she slipped his glasses onto his face slowly and carefully, and with a purr of satisfaction.

“There.”  She said, smug and sweet.  “Now how do I look?”

She looked amazing.  Perfect.  Gorgeous.  The short little dress she’d chosen accented every curve and plane she possessed in a sensual, rather than overtly sexual way.  It was mature, but still fresh and young.  The dark navy color looked sophisticated on her, and it made the violet of her eyes seem more bright and vibrant.  She looked wholesome and somehow perfectly fuckable.  Goddamit. 

“You look lovely.”  He breathed, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of hearing his honest reaction.  Her makeup was perfect too—more than he’d like his fifteen year old daughter to be wearing, but not at all excessive.  The smoky eyes were practically hypnotizing him and the mouth—

“Just lovely?”  She asked, forming that adorable mouth into a playful pout.

He shook his head once, weakly, and his palms itched to slip onto her waist, to pull her toward him.  He felt his head dipping down, inching slowly toward her upturned face.  Between those wide, innocent eyes and the pretty pout he was mesmerized.

He swallowed and licked his lips.  “That dress is very flattering.”  He answered, meaning it to sound innocuous, paternal, but when he heard himself he realized it sounded more desperate and eager than anything.

She smiled up at him and parted her lips invitingly.

And the doorbell sounded, causing them both to jump, the spell broken, the moment vanished.

He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.  Jesus Christ. 

He realized this was going to be another very long evening.

Labor Day

Whoa.  Missed a couple weekend days there, didn't I?

Well, for once it isn't because of bad things.  This weekend has been pretty lovely, actually.  Relaxed, chill, time spent with dear ones.  I'v had fun reading, writing, playing games, watching tv shows, keeping the house tidy, and soaking up the last remnants of summer.

The writing is going well but it is less focused than I'd like.  What I'd like is to start going in a linear diection.  My creative juices take issue with that plan.  And since I'm just trying this writing thing out, since I'm just a passenger on the journey and apparently not the captain, i go where the impulse takes me for fear i'll alienate the impulse forever.

I don't know.

One of my very best friends is moving away in two days and I feel a great sense of loss.  But at the same time I feel joyful and hopeful for him.  I wish him the very best and know his purpose in life just isn't located on the south shore of Massachusetts.  So my heart is heavy, but it is full of good will and best wishes for him.

And who knows?  Maybe I'll finally visit NYC again.  We'll see.

I'd also kinda like to move to india.  I'll let you know how that goes.

Everybody's working for the weekend?

Whew!  i just made it inside to the cool, dry safety of my apartment before the full force of Earl oped the skies and rained down upon us here in weebee.

Hey, i just read this fabulous excerpt from Kristen Chenoweth's book, and you know how I love updated and re-tooled fairytale type lieterature?  I think you'll love this as much as i did.  adorable, refreshing, and spot-on!  It's at another blog here!

Omg.  Today was only the second day of school in B-rock and guess what?  i snagged a sub job!  Woot.  English. Easy Peasy.  I actually had a super day.  I was perky and in good humor, witty, wry, and well balanced.  And I did it without caffeine folks-- a minor miracle!

I had one senior clas and two freshman classes.  At one point a freshman said to me:  "Subs are different here than in junior high man."

"Really, how's that?"

"Cuz they just hand us worksheets and then watch us the whole time."

"Watch you?"  I respond, smiling and bemused.  "Watch you do what?"

"just sit there!  they juss tell us to siddown and do the worksheets."  then he added:  "You actually know stuff."

I was tickled.  I had been a particularly engaging sub.  he wouldn't always get the same experience, but how was i going to break that cynnical bit of news to him on his second day ever of high school?  And then i thought to myself:  Jesus christ, I'd better know stuff-- I've got an expensive fucking master's degree, a good head on my shoulders and something like 6 years of subbing experience in addition to all my private teaching credentials and my student teaching.  could I, in good conscience, have handed out the worksheet withour further comment, sat and read my sookie book, and sent miscreants out for talking?  yes.  but, i didn't.  I did my level best to teach.

Plus!  I saw tons of my former students (from student teaching last year) and plenty o'drama club kids!  it was all in all a very lovely day.

I know they won't all be so nice, but goddammit, thanks universe, for giving me this one.  It felt like a great way to earn my keep.

On the houseguest front:  erg.  trouble in paradise.  He and his girlfriend are on the outs.  Long distance does not seem to be something they are ready or equipped to handle.  They have broken up.  several times in as many days.  It is rocky and unpleasant and I have to sya I dislike being on the guy's side of the ordeal.  i'm much more comfortable with women and dealing with girl emotions and girl logic and girl perspectives.  Guys?  yikesaroni.  eeek sandwich, some of this stuff.  christ.  some might sneak into Cedar Falls in disguise!

Speaking of-- i am still writing strong and loving the process.  so much is happening!  i am trying to spread out my posts so that danielle can try to catch up!  But I am so fucking jazzed about story developments I can hardly stand it!

Plus I'm reading sookie, which is super fun!  addicting like crack!  Makes me wish we could have supes up in CF!  Lol.  Think Grey is more like a Vampire or a Werewolf? 

Lemme get going.  i wanna unwind a bit, maybe peep my soap, take some midol, chillax and embrace the weekend!

here's an amusing little THX, THX, THX of my own creation:

Dear "Aunt Flo",

I've never liked that stodgy old name they've saddled you with, but it seemed like the most appropriate euphemism with which to address a thank you note!  Thanks ever so much for being patient, and respectful, and considerate enough to wait until i got home to spring yourself on me.  Today was evidently your day to arrive and you had every right to barge in on me anytime throughout my very first day back at work, but you/  You were an absolute angel to wait until I could give you my undivided and unembarrassed attention.  You aren't always so fucking awesome, so i wanted to give you a hearty thanks and a heart-felt shout-out!  Um.  You go girl!

Cheers,  Beth

 

Grumblecakes

The sex last night was great-- I think we're really cherishing the nights of privacy-- treating each like it may be the last-- and it is producing some exhilarating results.

So today is official back-to-school in Brockton.  This time last year I was beginning my journey as a student teacher, wrapping up my journey toward my master's degree.  I'm feeling more than a little bereft about the unemployment.  But strangely?  most days I feel hopeful.  Could be more like delusional, but, we'll see.  Will be applying for another freshly posted jobby today.

Know what I'm sick of though?  Inside hires.  frustrating beyond words.

I'm supposed to see my friend Jeff today, who I haven't seen in FOREVER!  So, will let you know about that!

Oh, and here's the grumbles:  Hey Sookie (or sookie's author, ms. Harris) WTF?  I read a whole goddamn book and the most I get is some warm kisses and a finger up inside you?  C'mon ladies, let's get our collective act together and get some steamy supernatural fucking in there, shall we?  I have an irritating suspicion that the next one will be just as much of a cock tease too, since right away Bill is out of the country and nothing is resolved, which means the weepy wench will be CONFLICTED and CONFUSED and thus likely to start to get carried away but not truly let loose and screw.

I guess we shall see.  And I do enjoy the books for more than the sex, especially because she doesn't really get too specific or anything, so if you are looking for romance novelesque build and release these ain't the novels to grab, but really?  Just the finger?  and the the external ejaculation?  sigh.  whatevs.  Tease.

It just made me want to write crazy filth for Cedar Falls, but of course I'm in the middle of trying to complete yet another dinner scene.  sheesh.  Maybe I'll just take a little detour and go off on a sensual tangent...

maybe about cunnilingus?  Still can't stop thinking about that...

Grumblecakes!

Paranoia Pie

Morning!

Today is the day Aaron went back to work for realsies.  So, morning toast, OJ, a light lunch packed and all that jazz.  Eric spent the night out at a friends so we could talk at our regular volume and everything, which was nice.  And walk around in undies or whatever too.

And simultaneous rousing out of a dead sleep for some spontaneous kinky sex in the wee hours of the morning?  That was ok too!  (I love just waking up and going at it--, like, were we dreaming about foreplay together?  Afterward, after I'd been assuming he'd woken up in the mood and then started, you know, getting me in the mood until, He goes something like:  "How'd that happen?"  or "What happened?"-- sounding as surprised-but pleased- as I was.  So I asked him: "I don't know, you tell me!"  Awesome stuff, half-asleep advances, awesome and naughty and just lovely in their magical unpredictability!)

I do not know if I ever want kids man.  I really value my privacy, like, a ton. 


He's still being a little bizarre though.  And i can't quite get at it.  I'm beginning to wonder if I'm the one who's being abnorml.  I sometimes flex this tendency I have to start looking for trouble when things are going really well for us.  Like i'm suspicious of too much wonderful happiness.  I used to do it all the time in high school.  I was a real drama queen. 

But this doesn't feel like that.  It reall does not.  But I'm trying to relax, trust that everything will work itself through if i am patient and open and receptive.

Plus it doesn't help my paranoia when I spend hours talking to Eric about his relationship woes.  About how they fight, they don't trust eachother enough, about how she looks great naked but how he's super bored in bed because her tastes and preferences are so bland.  Eeek.  I try to give the best possible advice, try to remind him that the relationship is young and it will have growing pains, but secretly I'm thinking: (good god, get it together ion the bedroom or you're in for years of unhappiness and discontent!)

I just deleted a whole bunch of extraneous info because it just isn't my info to give! lol.

but yeah, so now I'm paranoid that secretly Aaron is bored with our sex life, that he's harboring all these secret unhappy, unpleasant feelings and isn't communicating with me.  Which is ridiculous for so many reasons.  but hey, we all do this right?  or am I just completely neurotic?  We all start to wonder, when we see other people's unhappiness or dysfunction, that maybe we're not as happy or functional as we thought, right??

Because I've seen enough lifetime movies to know that if you see another couple's problems and say "Boy am i glad that's not US, boy am I glad that you and i are so perfectly perfect McPerfect!"  Well then, my firend, that's when you find out your paragon of a husband, who looks just like the pastor from seventh heaven, is having a torrid affair with the felicity girl before she cut off all her hair off.  Or you find out that your teenaged daughter julia styles wants to and has had sex with her father, or that's when you find out your husband has been having affairs for years or maybe that he's on the down low, or that maybe not only does he have kinky sex with strangers, but he gets off on muredering them while he's at it, because he is a sociopathic serial murderer.

So yeah.  I', always a little leary of expressing how perfect or wonderful aaron and I are together, because I guess i'm always waiting for that proverbial other shoe to drop out of the sky and smack me in the face for being a gullible, blind, ignorant, delusional little idiot.

I maybe shouldn't watch so many lifetime movies.

Oh christ, and writing Cedar Falls and reading post secrets doesn't help a thing! lol.

Because we really are as close as two people can be.  I think he's really just preoccupied with school starting back up.  I believe he'll settle back into the routine and relax.  He might also relax when i'm actually bringiong in some money, because that kind of stress ain't easy either. am i right?

Alright.  Gotta run.  I'm halfway through Sookie book 3, Club Dead, and it is super steamy and i'mma go read some more before I go accomplishing other tasks.

Love,