Saturday, October 29, 2005

I can resist anything but temptation

I couldn’t stay away from it. I gave in to temptation; that’s the only explanation and it’s no excuse. I know it was bad for me; I know it was wrong and I know it will come back to haunt me – if not today, then soon.
I’m weak, I know; I’m only human. It was only a matter of time.
The worst part is that I liked it. It was warm, stimulating, strong; and it made it easier to face the day; god knows I need that, and it looks like I’m too weak to stay away from it for long.
So forgive me, blog: despite everything I forswore, I had coffee.
And it was really, really good.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

The more I get, the more I want

I went out with Monsieur again last night (Saturday) for a short while; H watched the boys again but they were asleep before we left, so she had an easy time of it.
We only went into town to have coffee beverages and talk. While we were out we ran into K; she’s a whole bunch of fun.
She hadn’t actually spoken to Monsieur for any length of time before. She sat with us and drank espresso. I must have been infectiously hyper or something because she and I ended up laughing a lot; almost embarrassing ourselves. She had walked there from work and was looking for a lift home so Monsieur offered her one - such a gentleman - and we flirted with him all the way home.
She brought up the guy who had asked me out at work the other night. “He was cute, [Yearning Heart], I think you should have gone for it.”
“Oh, no, K,” I laughed. “He’s a boy; I like men.” I put my hand on Monsieur’s knee, as if I was emphasizing that point.
“You guys OK, then?” K asked devilishly.
“I think so, ya,” I giggled.
“So you’re finally getting it enough then, [Yearning Heart]?” K laughed.
I looked over at Monsieur; he was silent and his eyes on the road. “I don’t think I can get it enough,” I replied. “But I don’t complain,” I added, and looked over at Monsieur and ran my fingers up his back and through his hair.
“Mmm, maybe I should come over some night and show [D] how a lady should be treated,” K said, teasing.
“I think not, dear,” Monsieur finally broke his silence.
“Are you afraid of a little competition, [D]?” K laughed
“Not a bit,” he answered, “but I think you are acting like a spoiled brat, and before I would permit you to demonstrate any such thing, I should have to treat you like the spoiled child you are behaving.”
Her eyes lit up. “Ooo! spankings!”
“You better be careful, [K],” I warned her, “I hear he spanks very hard.”
“The harder the better,” she said, grinning.
“You don’t know what you are speaking about,” Monsieur said. We came to a stop. “Here is your apartment, dear. Should we walk you up?”
“Oh, I’ll manage; thank you for asking,” she said, reaching for her purse.
We said our goodbyes and she left. I turned to Monsieur as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I’m sorry if she offended you,” I said softly.
“Not a bit; she was flirting with us and I returned it,” he said with a smile.
“Would you have spanked her, really?” I asked.
He laughed. “Very doubtful,” he replied. “I don’t think she has the fortitude to withstand one of my spankings. I think she would be likely to lose interest, and equally likely to be crippling sore the next day.”
I wonder: would he have? would she have? what would I do?
I need more sex.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Helen of Troy

I got some last night.
I spent the evening watching a British special on PBS about Helen of Troy. The narrator, Bettany Hughes, reminded me of Maggie in some way. This was odd, since they looked and sounded nothing like each other; Maggie was Asian, short, kind of round and curvy, and spoke with an American accent. Bettany Hughes is of European descent, slender, speaks with a British accent. It must have been the way Ms. Hughes would arch one eyebrow and talk about Helen’s “powerful image as a sexual icon” and make the Spartan queen’s life sound so romantic and alive. I remember Maggie talking about Katherine in Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew the same way.
By the end of the evening I was so freaking hot I figured I’d be up again in an hour, letting my fingers do the loving and thinking of Monsieur.
But Monsieur finally came to bed, after a long session trouble-shooting for some client of his.[1] I was in my flannel nightie, about as sexy and appealing as Carol Brady on The Brady Bunch, or so I thought.
He lay down next to me and I turned and put my arms around him. He gently held me, and I moved his hands from my back to cup my ass. He squeezed it gently and I wrapped my legs around his thigh, burying my face in his chest and hugging him tightly. I didn’t want to force it on him; but I really wanted him to know I wanted it. He would alternate between squeezing my butt and running his rough fingers in circles over my ass. I flexed and squeezed my thighs on his knee, and he moved his hands up and down my bottom, squeezing it and slipping his hands in my butt crack. I was pressing my face to his chest, feeling my face flush when he turned and placed his mouth at my ear.
“Tell me, my love,” he whispered.
I gasped.
He pulled me to him tighter, and his thigh pressed into my pussy, mashing into my vulva and forcing it to spread and gush in my panties.
“Tell me, ma chère,” he insisted.
“Oh, Monsieur,” I whispered. “I… I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do, my angel. You know what you want; I wish to hear you say it.”
I reached for his waistband but he held my wrists gently but firmly, and then held them over my head. He was then on top of me, and I felt his erection through our layers of night clothes and my head swirled.
“Tell me,” he said, with his lips on my neck and his voice in my ear.
“I… need you, Monsieur,” I said feebly. My strength seemed to be fading. He kissed my neck, my collarbone, biting, kissing, and teasing. He was unshaven and his day-old beard was rough on my tender skin; it felt wonderful.
“What is it that you need, ma belle?”
“I … oh Monsieur, I am so embarrassed.”
“I love you, dear girl; do not be embarrassed.” His hands were moving from my bottom up to my breasts; he cupped them both in his hands and squeezed them, then his thumbs teased both of them roughly in his fingers. It felt exquisite; I arched my back to force them into his hands.
He let go and looked me in the eyes. “Tell me, or I’ll stop.”
“Oh … Monsieur, please no!”
He leaned over and sucked a nipple in between his teeth, as he gently bit it then sucked it out to its full length. I humped my pussy against his knee but he pulled it away. “Oh, Monsieur, I can’t believe I am this way with you?”
“What way is that?” he asked lightly.
“I’m so … so submissive,” I gasped, trying to force my sex back against his thigh. “I’ve never felt this way with anyone else before.”
“If so, then tell me what you want,” he insisted. “I would like to hear it from your pretty lips. You have said such things before; I wish you to know how it drives me wild.” He lifted up my nightie, exposing me to the open air and sending goose bumps up my body. He tugged my panties down and twisted them around my ankles, binding my feet together. “I love these panties,” he said almost to himself. He pulled my nightie off, and then took his t-shirt off and tied my wrists over my head with it. Then he retrieved the tie from his bathrobe and tied my wrists to the headboard.
Oh, shit, I thought. I struggled, testing my arms and my legs against my bonds.
“You’re quite secure,” he said, as he traced his fingers over my body from my thighs to my neck.
I was inflamed. “Please. Please Monsieur,” I begged. “Please take me now. I’ve been waiting for days.”
He smiled. “You’re so very good when you’ve been waiting. I’m considering making you wait after thoroughly teasing you for the night.” He pulled a nipple between his fingers, watched it stretch out, then leaned over and licked it before sucking it into his mouth.
I arched my back, moving my hips up and down and feeling obscenely wanton. “No, please, God, I’ll do anything.”
“Tell me, you sultry, sexy, naughty woman. Tell me what you are longing for.”
“Please please please … fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck the fuck out of me,” I hissed.
He was on top of me, his tall, lean body against me, his mouth kissing down from my neck, across both breasts. I tried to move my hips to position his cock against my gaping slit but he kept it away. He kissed down my belly to my sex, kissing across it and avoided it, lifting me up by my bottom and kissing down my perineum. I spread my legs wantonly. He turned me over, kissing all over my bottom, spreading my cheeks. I felt a wet finger circle around my anus, then his thumbs pressed on that tender ring.
“Where?” he growled.
“Wha…? Unnnhh…” my eyes closed as his thick finger slid into my anus. I never really liked butt play but this was beyond pleasure. My whole body felt like it had turned into molten lead.
“Where shall I fuck you, ma chère?”
“Oh… my god…. Not there, please, no,” I begged.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “you’re way too big. I don’t think it would … it would fit. I’m afraid of it hurting me.”
He pressed the fingers of his other hand against my vulva. I was on my knees, my chest against the bed. He lined his cock up with the entrance of my vagina, and held it there. He parted my labia and slid his thick cock head up and down my slit, teasing it.
“Oh, Monsieur,” I gasped. I tried to back up against it but the bathrobe tie held fast. My arms were stretched out in front of me, and my ass was as high as I could hold it. His knees were between mine, and he forced my legs slightly apart with his thighs. My ankles were still tied together with my twisted panties and kept me from spreading as wide as I wanted.
“Where shall I fuck you?” he asked me again.
“Fuck me … fuck my pussy,” I begged.
He took this as his cue, pulling my labia apart and swirling his cock head around in my hole, coating it with a layer of my wetness. I could feel it running down my slit, down my thighs, and I moaned.
“Yes,” he slowly whispered, and slid his length into me, slowly, deliciously, and I felt him penetrate me, stretching me, pressing and pushing and parting me.
“Ahh,” I gasped happily.
“There?” he whispered, as he slid into me.
“Unnggh,” I said, delirious, and I nodded, burying my face in the mattress as he took me from behind. He held my hips with both hands and pulled me towards him slowly. I moved my hips forward, then arched my back to give him the best angle.
I looked back at him from beneath my hanging breasts. His balls were tightly packed against his body, his thighs, strong and lean. His hands were all over me. I pulled against the knotted bathrobe tie, and he pushed the last of his length into me. I felt his shaft rub roughly against my clit.
“UNNNGH!” I cried. “ahh-AAH, YES!”
“Hush, love, or you will wake the children,” he said, touching my lips with his wet finger. I sucked it, moaning.
His free hand traveled down to my mons, pressing it; then his fingers circled my swollen clit and mashed it, rubbing it in a circle as he began fucking me in a steady rhythm. “Is this what you wanted, love?” he whispered in my ear.
“Yes,” I hissed, “every day. I need it every day.”
“Oh, no,” he disagreed. “You are so much better if you’ve been denied for a few days. Or even,” he added, picking up the pace, “a week…” a deep thrust, “two weeks…” his balls slapping against me, “I wonder if you could stand a month?” He grabbed my shoulders and fucked me, hard, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
My vision went dark as my mind went elsewhere. Sparks seemed to gather and explode in my eyes. I’m seeing fireworks, I thought, amazed. Then my consciousness left me, for a minute? For five minutes? I didn’t know.
When my eyesight returned, he was beside me, untying my wrists and ankles, and then holding me tightly to his chest. My breath was ragged and I was woozy.
“Do you feel better, darling?” he asked me.
“Oh… oh Monsieur, yes. Yes I do,” I assured him, kissing his jawline and then his lips.
“Good,” he sighed. “I do too,” he added. I sighed as well. He paused. “I love you, darling. I hope you know that – sleep well.”
(I did. I slept like a well-fucked rock.)
[1] I haven’t gone into his work details on this blog for reasons of his privacy; it might be too easy to figure out who he is if I did. As it is I’ve probably said enough.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

The Yearning Heart is…

… frantically, crazily, madly, recklessly, heedlessly, almost uncontrollably horny.
I’ll live. No one ever died from this, right?
I visited Lady Ann’s today, and got a lot of really groovy attention from guys but held them at arm’s length. It’s easier during the daytime when I know a freshly awakened toddler could interrupt me at any moment.
Heart's Yearning
All right, I am a romance novel.
I spoke last night to Monsieur about, um, servicing me more often. I feel like a cranky brood mare. Anyway, he allowed that he could be more dutiful that way, and then he got this far-away look and I asked him what was wrong. “It’s Maggie,” he said. “I don’t think that I am completely ready for this, what you want from me.”
“It’s all right,” I assured him, feeling like shit inside. “I don’t think either of us will ever get over that. It was too sudden, too unexpected.”
Someone sent me a link to this book on I am a romance novel.

Monday, October 10, 2005


monogamy, by jb daniel, 2004
monogamy, by jb daniel, 2004
Faithful readers of this journal may remember that I am also a sometime “working girl” at this online brothel called Lady Ann’s. It might not also have been mentioned that I occasionally fooled around with cybersex before and after that. OK, by the time Lady Ann’s came around, it was more than “occasionally”; I did it at least a couple times a week – enough to be named “Girl of the Week” a few times. I had rules, though: no cams, no meeting offline, and no attachments. This isn’t a dating service; this is just for fun, and if anyone ever gets hurt, we stop.
I did it recently, since I just don’t get enough sex. But after last Tuesday, I started to feel guilty about it.
It’s different now, coming to Monsieur’s bed with sticky fingers and swollen pubes. I know he didn’t mind it when Maggie did it, and she even told me it spiced up their sex life. I just can’t stop feeling like it’s something I shouldn’t do. I look at him the next morning over breakfast, and I feel like he knows what I’ve been doing.
So, I told my cyber-buddies that I am going to stay monogamous, online and offline.
I have some pretty deep relationships; I have a dear, close friend who knew Maggie from Ann’s and we got pretty close, especially over the months since Maggie passed away. I guess we found comfort in each other’s arms. She’s female; I never had a relationship like that with a girl before, but it’s very intense. I’m going to miss the intimacy. It sounds silly since it’s all totally online but we all know the power of words between people, or we wouldn’t be reading online journals!
I told her that we could be friends still but that I had to stay monogamous. At first she was hurt; later she told me it was all right and that she understood. I hope she does. I hope she reads this and knows that I love her but I don’t want to risk the relationship that I’m starting. Relationships are hard enough without all the odd jealousies and insecurities that could happen if I get into trouble.
Anyone else – what do you think? Have you ever had this problem? Am I doing the right thing? If I am or not, please say so.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

My Inbox

I got the internet version of “drunk dialed” in the form of a lovely e-mail the other day from my ex-boyfriend:
----- Original Message -----
From: [SH] <emailm@sk.ed>
To: [the Yearning Heart]
Sent: Wednesday, October 05, 2005 8:21 AM
Subject: hey
Hey, [Yearning Heart]
How’s that new boyfriend of yours enjoying your used pussy?
— [SH]

Oh, nice to hear from you, [SH]!
He likes it fine, once he gets past the used part.
— The Yearning Heart
Geez, what a douche. He walked straight into that one; I had to laugh out loud.

Chicken Judgment

Three chickens hadn’t been making their numbers in the egg quota
Three chickens hadn’t been making their numbers in the egg quota
Monsieur decided the fate of three chickens. Since he keeps chickens, this will involve a bit of violence. I will never get used to it, I don’t think. I was raised on a farm and I know all about where meat comes from and what happens to animals and all, but still… I can’t quite get used to the fact that it’s gotta happen so often.
Three chickens hadn’t been making their numbers in the egg quota, so they started getting some additional shelled corn and fewer soybeans in the feed for the past month. They didn’t seem to know what was up; they just started putting on the pounds. Monsieur usually does the chicken feeding and egg gathering, but once in a while I do it. In case you were wondering, chickens stink.
One chicken was already dispatched earlier this week, and cooked in a pinapple and honey glaze. The next one will go for tomorrow’s dinner. #3’s execution date has not been set.
For every chicken we off, we usually purchase five new chicks from the chick hatchery. They’re adorable, but I can’t get too attached. We set them up in a little warm box heated by a 25-watt light bulb and filled with sawdust and dried leaves. Chicks need to be fed five times a day or more. One or two usually will die from natural causes and another will get offed by a feral dog or a coyote.
Monsieur treats coyotes with the same respect that he treats all thieves: none at all. I discovered this recently one night when he heard a suspicious noise in the back yard; he snatched a saber down from the wall and ran outside, his footsteps silent. He came back in and replaced the sword and I gave him a questioning look. “Damned coyotes,” he said.
“Why don’t you have a gun?” I asked.
“I hate guns,” he replied. “They are without honor; they require less skill and I would have to lock them away from the children. By the time I could get a rifle unlocked, have it loaded and run outside, the coyote would have had dinner and then would be carrying away his breakfast. Besides,” he added, “an intruder can use a gun against you.”
“He could use a sword against you just as easily,” I argued.
He chuckled. “Unlikely,” he said. “He would have to be well-versed in swordplay. I know of few 21st-century house burglars with such esoteric knowledge.”

Thursday, October 06, 2005

those details

It’s kinda hard getting used to the idea that I’m really Monsieur’s. His attitude towards me has changed, especially when we’re alone. He smiles more, and he gives me little kindnesses. Today he was very sweet and attentive.
The boys are the same: no change there. Bigglest Boy is struggling with doing his homework. Middlest Boy is struggling with reading. Littlest Boy is trying to sleep through the night without intervention.
They have so much energy! They wear me out. The bigger two go to a cooperative school, and they come home every afternoon at 3:00 PM ready to rock and roll. I try to keep them busy with plenty of running-through-the-woods time, and also take care of their snacks and reading materials. Twice a week it’s soccer practice, and I run them like coyotes.

OK, by request, a brief detail of Tuesday night’s love fest is in order. I can’t remember details too specific because I usually need to write things down right after they happen:
You remember last time, I’m sure. Monsieur had me in his arms.
I kissed him, and asked if he wanted to take me either upstairs, in the master bed, or right here on the kitchen table.
He said that I was incorrigible. “So spank me, if I’m so bad,” I said.
“I might, if you are every bad, and you think it might help,” he said.
I stood up and tugged him up to his feet. We settled on the couch in the living room, and I undid my blouse, letting it fall open.
It was a fun, liberating feeling to know that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I liked feeling like I belonged. I sat next to him and kissed him. He was passionate, but patient. For a long time, we only kissed, and he held me. I wanted more, but he seemed to want me to set the pace.
That was only slightly irritating.
He kisses really well. His hands were on my shoulders and in my hair, his tongue and lips were teasing me. I moved to his lap and he held me there. My legs were astride his waist, and it all felt good.
I tried to tease him, too.
My hands were running up and down his chest. I moaned softly as his lips played with mine. My nails ran over his neck and through his hair. He was so patient, so calm, but I needed to know he was enjoying. My hands went to his pajamas and I felt along his inseam. Geez, he was rock freaking hard. Feeling that, thick & stiff, I was like a shark who was tasting blood in the water. I felt myself go into a frenzy; my mouth watered and my lips pursed almost involuntarily. I had an urgent need to suck his cock.
I slipped my blouse off, my shorts, too, and knelt at his feet, rubbing my lips over the bulge in his trousers. I looked up and he was smiling at me, but silent – usually when I was doing that to a guy I got begging, pleading, gasps and groans. He was still silent – but I could feel his pulse through his pants. Kneeling, dressed only in my underwear, I unzipped him and unbuttoned his shirt. He helped by standing and slipping his shirt off; I almost frantically got his pants down and off, kneeling in front of him. I smiled up at him and started licking his cock, holding It in one hand.
I’ve always prided myself on my tongue technique.
My tongue ran around his cock head in slow, easy circles; my hand, not able to fully circle the base, stroked and cupped. I smiled, feeling warm all over.
I got him to sit on the couch and I sucked the head of his cock into my lips. His hand played with my hair, keeping it off of my face. I stretched my lips as far as they could go, willing my throat to open, but it wouldn’t do. I couldn’t get half of It in, and I really tried.
He reached up behind him to turn off the lamp by the couch...

“He reached up behind him to turn off the lamp by the couch…”

He pulled me up to kiss my face and neck, and he murmured something in French. He reached up behind him to turn off the lamp by the couch; I sat on his lap as he teased my skin with his lips, his tongue and his teeth. He kissed my collarbone and down my chest. He left a ring of sugar-kisses around each nipple, and stroked my dewy slit as he turned my body around to kiss down my belly. He was on top of me, kissing me, down my belly, across my panty-clad vulva, past it, teasing it, shaming it to move on to my legs. His hands were around me and pulled my hips to line his face up with my pussy. His cock pointed down towards my face. I smiled and took It in my hands, licking and stroking. Right in the middle of a long and delicious lick on his cock, he pulled my panties off, his mouth pressed into my slit and opened it, and his thick tongue slid into me.
His hands were around me and pulled my hips to line his face up with my pussy.

“His hands were around me and pulled my hips to line his face up with my pussy.”

I gasped. It was as though he had poured fire into me. His tongue moved in circles, figure-eights, spiraling in and slowly withdrawing to tease my clit. He took his time. He opened me up for his face and then pressed his open mouth to me, flicking and sucking in slow, easy delicious movements. I forgot all about his cock and arched my back, lifting my hips, spreading myself open and giving it to him. My clitoris pulsed with wonderful sensations; he rubbed his tongue over it briefly and I cried out, then I realized my mouth was empty and sucked his thick cock head back into it. I could feel myself melting.
“Monsieur,” I gasped. “Oh… oh, Monsieur.” I felt heat rising from my pussy to my chest, and looked down and say the flush spreading over me from my belly up to my neck. My freckles disappeared, I was so red. He reached for my breasts, I arched my back, he toyed with my hardened rubbery nipples…
…and I came, drenching his face as I moaned.
“Fuck, oh fuck, oh … fuck me. Fuck me ‘till I cry,” I begged.
He finished me off, licking his lips then he picked me up, turned me over and pulled me up to kiss him on his face. His tongue teased mine then plunged into my mouth; I sucked it greedily, tasting every bit of myself on his tongue.
“I want you so badly, Monsieur,” I told him.
He smiled. “I’m right here,” he murmured, patiently. He held my waist and I positioned his erection against my slit. Having practiced a few times, I willed myself to relax; imagined my vulva opening like a flower, clenching it, then relaxing it, then I got up on my feet and squatted, pushed Its tip inside me, and lowered my hips to meet his. It bored Its way up, deep, thick, burning hot; I lowered myself slowly but steadily, taking him all in
My eyes blurred then cleared. I looked down at where were joined. My pussy stretched around the base of his cock, the tissue straining but with no sensation of pain; certainly nothing I couldn’t handle.
I let my legs stretch out in front of me and began to rock on him.
Words fail me when I try to describe the feeling of being completely full like this. I could feel every nerve down there. I could feel myself gushing on it; I could feel the roundness of the head of his cock as It pressed Its way into me, spreading me open, deeper than anyone has ever been. I could feel the vein under the shaft, the pulse running through; I bet if I had enough sense in my head I could have counted his pulse. But my consciousness began to leave me, and my mind gave way as my body assumed control and I rocked back and forth on him, arching my back, squeezing my breasts, stealing one hand down to rub myself.
I enjoyed myself.
I remember at some point he turned me over, whispering in my ear that he needed to take me selfishly, and for me to give myself to him. I nodded, tears in my eyes, as I bent over the couch and spread my legs. I hugged a pillow in the dark as he took me, gently at first, then with a passion that was almost cruel. My mind swam and my eyes went dark again. I could sense him starting to come and I held on to the couch, begging him to fuck me hard, harder, make it hurt me.
His hands held on to my ass, pulling my cheeks apart and he buried It in me … then he paused. I knew what was building up inside of him and he held he close for a moment, then quietly roared, gasped, and leaned over and bit my neck as I felt a quick convulsion run though his body, then that delicious *splash!!* inside me, and he resumed pounding me, our body slapping together as he almost cried and held on, hammering into me and hissing through his teeth, biting his lip, biting my neck, pulling my hair and then hugging me to him, his hands on my shoulders, then around my waist … then he slowed to a gentle rhythm, his balls loose now, his body like an engine slowly winding down, his liquid running down my legs so warm and loving.

“Do you feel better, Monsieur?” I whispered, giggling.
Óc, ouais,” he said, lapsing into his Gascogne patois.
“We need to do that a lot,” I said. “Two or three times a week.”
“It would be my death, ma chère,” he protested, still breathing hard.
“But a good way to die, Monsieur,” I said, helpfully. I clenched and he finally slid out of me; I got up, turned around, and he took me in his arms and held me tight.


Half-Nekkid Thursday HNTbutton Enjoy.
(thanks for the inspiration, AW. You’re beautiful.)

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Something to Talk About

This morning (OK I know it’s “tomorrow” now, I mean yesterday morning, the morning of the Great Cross Pipe Adventure), Monsieur told me that he had something “important” to talk about later, when he got home from work. I was wondering what it might be, but I mostly kept it to myself, and only mused about it with my friend DB. Monsieur didn’t sound too ominous; I didn’t think I was in trouble or anything.
Dinner came and went, apple pie was devoured by all (Middlest Boy ate only the crust; Littlest Boy ate only the filling – they are a pair), supper things put away and boys hosed off and sent to bed with only minimal fussing and a story for each one.[1] Monsieur had just received a case of wine from his brother back in Gascogne and opened a bottle doubtfully.
“[Jean-Marc] has strange inclinations,” Monsieur said as he inspected the cork. “He is known to be somewhat … creative in his blends.”
“Perhaps he is ahead of his time,” I suggested.
“Perhaps,” Monsieur allowed. “I, however, suspect he is insane. But there is no genius without the touch of madness, as Goethe observed. Goethe would know,” he added, under his breath.
Monsieur sat down next to me with two burgundy glasses and poured a drop into one. He held it up and peered through it, then carefully held it to his nose. He shrugged and poured himself a full glass and then gestured an offer to me.
“Just a little,” I said, and he poured a half glass in mine. “I don’t want to fall asleep. I may have forgotten how to drink, or maybe wine just hits me harder than I expect.”
“The other night, you did not know how much you had until you were out in the weeds,” he laughed. I sipped my wine and smiled as I gazed up at him, knowing that he would  come to the point in his own time.
“You mentioned the other day, you will need to have your eyes examined again, for your prescription for contact lenses,” he said, finally, looking at his hands.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s about that time. I think every two years or so.”
“More often, if there is trouble,” he said. “And then there are dental visits, twice a year,” he continued, “plus regular checkups that women need.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” I said, “I can set all that up, I think. I need to find a good dentist and a gynecologist—”
“Plus a regular general practitioner, I should think,” he added.
“I’m in pretty good health,” I said.
“Of that I do not doubt! Yet I would feel better if you would have a set of regular medical people that you trusted.”
“I can take care of all that, I think,” I repeated. “I can get recommendations and so forth.”
“My point is, and I don’t know how to put this delicately, that I think you should …” Monsieur paused, “be added to my family medical coverage.”
“But I can pay for doctor’s visits myself, I’m sure,” I protested.
“And I am sure that you can’t, [Yearning Heart]. Have you an idea of the cost of one visit, in this country of the most backward health care coverage? How much is it to have your eyes examined?”
I admitted that I didn’t know.
“For a vision exam, contact lens prescriptions, two dental visits, and a gynecologist visit,” he said, “you would be liable for between $750 and $1000 depending on certain variables.”
I had no idea. I nodded. “I always had university health insurance for all that,” I said. “Missouri state dental plan and on-campus health care.”
“Of course,” he said. “You don’t have that now, but with my insurance, it would be covered for a $50 per visit co-payment – for the dental exam, nothing at all.”
“Don’t you have to pay for it?” I asked.
“Not additionally. A family plan covers everyone in my family.”
“But I’m not in your family,” I protested. “Can you just put me on your plan?”
“My plan covers domestic partners,” he said, and looked directly at me.
Domestic. Partners. “I thought that meant … like gay couples,” I said.
“Couples living together,” he said. “Under the same roof,” he added. “Long-term.”
“Long-term,” I repeated. “So…”
“So, you could be added as my domestic partner.”
I took a sip of wine, trying not to tremble, and looked at the table as I asked, “Do you want me as your ‘domestic partner’?”
“To tell you the truth,” he said, setting his wine glass down, “I despise that term. In honesty, I want you as … well, as someone to care for me, as well as my home, and my children; my… my lover. I simply had not, until now, presumed.”
My heart felt like it would burst, but I simply whispered, “Why not?”
“[Yearning Heart], I am middle-aged man, and you—”
I got up and threw my arms around him. I kissed his head and looked down at him. “You big French idiot,” I giggled.
“What?” he protested.
“Middle-aged. You be careful,” I whispered, “or I’ll fuck you to death.”
“Ah yes, that was something else,” he said. “I need to ask you about guardianship – should something happen to me, I would want the children’s custody arrangements handled without delay or complication.”
“Oh, you would, would you?” I wanted to laugh at him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why do people think that the French are so romantic?”
“It is beyond me,” he replied. “In my opinion, the women are as romantic as scavenger fish, and the men obsessed with work.”
“Yet, in their proper, correct way,” I whispered, “they make the rest of the world want to fuck their brains out.”
“Not I,” he laughed, taking me in his arms. “I have always been partial to American women. They are so much more appreciative.”[2]

[1] Story Choices - Littlest Boy: Bob the Builder in Wendy’s Big Game; Middlest Boy: George Shrinks; Biggest Boy: a selection from Apollo 13 Astronaut Jim Lovell’s biography Lost Moon

[2] Yes, I accepted his offer. Yes, we fucked. Oh, did you want details? Beg me for them in your comment below.

Monday, October 03, 2005

In Which the Yearning Heart Discovers What a Cross Pipe Is

Give it up for the girl who knows her way around the pipes! Ya hey! I fixed a clog in the kitchen sink drain. OK, so I was making an apple pie*. And so, dumb me, I clogged the sink up with the peels. So I did what any red-blooded American girl with stick-to-it-iveness and gumption would do. I rolled up my sleeves, spit on my hands, and called Monsieur. And it went a little something like this:

YH: Hi. I messed something up.

M: What happened?

YH: The sink won’t drain, and when I run the garbage disposal it just spits water out of it. [Wailing] What did I do?

M: Hmm… what did you put into the garbage disposal right before that?

YH: Apple peels.

M: Apple peels? How many?

YH: Well, ok I peeled two pounds of apples to make an apple pie. And I put the peels in the garbage disposal.

M: All at once?

YH: [Pause.] Yeah.

M: [Sigh] I see. Well, the cross-pipe is probably clogged. I’ll fix it when I get home if you can wait.

YH: Is it something I can do?

M: To be sure, you could. You will need the plumbing wrench, the one I use to fix the deer fence, and a Philips head screwdriver. First, disable the garbage disposal with the switch in the cabinet. Put a bucket under the drain to catch the dirty water when you take the drain apart. The clog is probably in the cross pipe – that is the pipe that comes from the garbage disposal on the left and goes to the sink drain on the right. Remove the screws to the cross pipe flange with the Philips head screwdriver, then carefully pull out the cross pipe from the drain.

YH: [Writing it all down] OK, then what?

M: Then, you find something to poke the peels out of the cross pipe into the rubbish can. Then, you put it all back together in the reverse order; replace cross pipe on right, then on left, then re-attach the flange. If you find something does not fit, please don’t force it; I will fix it when I get home tonight.

YH: But I wanted to make dinner by myself tonight!! The sink is full and I wanted the kitchen to be clean when you got home!

M: Well, I think you will have to have the patience to allow for what happens, darling. If you do not unclog the sink, it is not the end of the world.

YH: [Sigh] All right. But I’m gonna try it.

M: Very well. Call me if you have any questions. Goodbye, chère.

[20 minutes of fiddling under the sink pass. Then, a triumphant squeal is heard. I call Monsieur back.]

20 minutes of fiddling under the sink
20 minutes of fiddling under the sink…

YH: I did it!

M: But, of course you did! Well done!

YH: [proudly] I’ll see you when you get home.

M: Did I understand you to say that you made an apple pie?

YH: Yes! [proudly] And my first one!

M: Delightful! I shall see you tonight.

* ya, that is NOT a misprint, I made an apple pie. I asked my mom for the recipe. (Ask me nicely and I’ll post the recipe, too.) Someone nearby has an apple orchard and dropped off a half bushel of apples, thinking we had pigs to feed or something. Well, we’ve got hungry boys. Close enough.

Today's cartoon

Q: What do you do when you got a dog with three balls?
A: Walk him, and pitch to the cat.

44 impertinent questions

  1. Alias First name?
    the Yearning Heart. OK, I know it sounds like it’s the name of a three-masted frigate.
  2. Were you named after anyone?
    My real name, yes. I was named after an aunt, who was named after a saint.
  3. Do you wish on stars?
    No, I wish on wishbones.
  4. When did you last cry?
    Yesterday. Sunday, October 2, 2005. I needed sex.
  5. What is your favorite lunchmeat?
  6. What is your birth date?
    May 21.
  7. What’s your most embarrassing CD?
    Oh, gosh, so many. I still own an Boys II Men CD, and *blush* I play it when I do housework.
  8. If you were another person, would you be friends with you?
    Oh hell, yeah, if I could put up with my moods.
  9. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
    Um, DUH!
  10. What are your nicknames?
  11. Would you bungee jump?
    No. I’d skydive, though. Weird, huh?
  12. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?
    Depends. I have a pair of VERY old sneakers that have double-knots so tight I can’t undo them, but they slip right off. My work sneakers, though, I have to untie.
  13. Do you think that you are strong?
    I have a strong will, and a strong heart. I’m also brave enough to cut your nuts off.
  14. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
    Double mocha chunk. I can only handle a spoonful at a serving.
  15. Shoe Size?
    7 ½
  16. Red or pink?
  17. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
    My temper.
  18. Who do you miss most?
  19. What color pants and shoes are you wearing?
    Blue shorts, white sneakers.
  20. What are you listening to right now?
    Touch & Go
  21. What did you eat for breakfast?
    A sip of coffee and a slice of plain toast.
  22. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
    Vivid red.
  23. What is the weather like right now?
    Hot and muggy.
  24. Last person you talked to on the phone?
    My mom.
  25. The first things you notice about the opposite sex?
    Voice. Then eyes, hands, fingers.
  26. Do you like the person who sent this to you?
    I got it from Trick. I kinda like her, but I need to get to know her better to be sure.
  27. Favorite Drink?
    Glenlivet, neat. I don’t drink much anymore.
  28. Hair Color?
    Red. Auburn, actually.
  29. Do you wear contacts?
  30. Favorite Food?
    Lobster, or whatever Monsieur made for dinner.
  31. Last Movie You Watched?
    In the theater, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The last one I watched on video was The Aviator.
  32. Favorite Day Of The Year?
  33. Scary Movies Or Happy Endings?
    Happy Endings
  34. Summer Or Winter?
    Up north, summer. In Texas, I’m hoping for a cool, breezy winter.
  35. Hugs or Kisses?
    Kisses. Hugs aren’t bad, either.
  36. What Is Your Favorite Dessert?
    Chocolate intemperance, but only ½ serving.
  37. Living Arrangements?
    I live with Monsieur. I still don’t know where I stand. Am I a Live-In Girlfriend, or a Nanny With Benefits?
  38. What Books Are You Reading?
  39. What’s On Your Mouse Pad?
    It’s not my mousepad, it has the Linux penguin.
  40. What Did You Watch Last Night on TV?
    a British sitcom – As Time Goes By, (guilty pleasure).
  41. Favorite Smells?
    Pot roast, fresh basil, Monsieur’s cock.
  42. Favorite junk food?
    Don’t really have one. Chocolate, but not too much at a time.
  43. Rolling Stones or Beatles?
    Beatles – they knew when to break up.
  44. What’s the farthest you’ve been from home?
    Where’s home I wonder? …New York City, no matter where home is.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Which Rock Chick Are You?

I can live with that.
Which Rock Chick Are You?

A date

The babysitter arrived right on time, I was reading my online news and blogs while Monsieur was putting the children in their pajamas. Littlest Boy was asleep already, as I had worn him out with water play, chasing me, giggling, fingerpainting, building forts, and more water play.
I wore my little red dress and sapphire earrings that Scott gave me for my birthday, feeling a little smug that I had dumped him but had enough sense of myself to not toss out everything he ever gave me. [D] was in a gorgeous gray suit and tie, and he smelled nice too. “What is that you’re wearing,” I asked him, “eau de Cologne?”
“No, it is only shaving soap, in the scent of, as you say, Bay Rum.”
It smelled better than any Bay Rum I’d ever smelled before, and I told him so.
“Ah, well, it is French and I received it from my sister as a Christmas gift,” he explained.
Yum, thought I.

The first thing we did was have dinner – he took us straight to this beautiful little place in downtown Austin, Continental-style fine dining. He told me that he had “always wanted to try it,” but then I thought it odd that everyone seemed to know him.
“Good evening, [Mr. D],” the host said, smiling, “and how are your children?” This last with a not-unfriendly eye on me.
“My boys are splendid,” Monsieur replied. “May I present to you the young lady who has agreed to care for them, Ms. [Yearning Heart]. [Yearning Heart], my dear friend Marcel.”
“Delighted to meet you,” said the host with a slight bow. “I have a great admiration for young people who work with children.”
“Charmed,” I replied, and I was.
They briefly spoke to each other in low voices, in French. I didn’t catch very much of it. I was an A student in French for years, but classroom reading and conversation drill is no substitute for being immersed in the language for any length of time.
'This is lovely...'
“This is lovely,” I said as we sat down and Marcel handed us our menus.
“This is lovely,” I said as we sat down and Marcel handed us our menus.
“Yes, it is. I have a friend who is wine steward here, and he worked in a café where [Maggie] and I played on occasion. He recommended this restaurant highly. It opened last year, and has won a few local critical awards.
I was impressed. I looked at him as he read over the menu. Then I remembered I hadn’t eaten all day. The menu, in French, was very impressive, too.
“I know that Marcel makes a wonderful salmon, with capers and rosemary,” Monsieur ventured.
“That sounds amazing,” I said, “I’d love it.”
“As for me, I think the seared sea scallops and porcini risotto. After this are you amenable to hear some friends of mine play at the cabaret down at the Hotel Historic?”
I was on the verge of devouring him, but instead, I said, “Yes, Monsieur, that would be very nice.”
He looked over the top of his menu at me and smiled. “Now my dear, I think you know me well enough to dispense with the honorific when you talk to me.”
“All right, [D],” I agreed, “but honestly I like to call you that,”
“Hello, [D],” our waitress was at the table.
“Ah, good evening, Melanie,” Monsieur looked up and smiled. “I’m glad you are working tonight.”
“How are you getting along? Is this [Yearning Heart]?” She smiled at me. She had long blonde hair which was in a braid on her shoulder. “I’m Melanie; I used to baby-sit for them. [D] got me my first restaurant job over at the Belgian.”
“I’m delighted to meet you,” I said, wondering to myself if Monsieur knew everyone in the world.
“Melanie,” Monsieur said, “you know perfectly well I only gave you a reference. You earned your way into that job.”
“I’m glad you’re around,” Melanie said to me. “I’m glad you’re helping out, I mean, if you don’t mind my saying so. I heard a little about it, you know, from people, and I think what you’re doing is really wonderful.”
“Thank you,” I said, a little flattered again.
Monsieur ordered for us, and also ordered a sparkling wine. I hadn’t had much to drink in months, but as it arrived I decided to go for it, since I figured, “I don’t have to look after kids tonight, I should live a little.”
Dinner was wonderful. He talked about when he was young and where he traveled instead of going to university, his regrets about not finishing his degree, Africa, the Middle East, France, China. I talked about acting, literature and that led to history. He has a vast knowledge of the history of technology, of military tactics and of human ignorance. We were finishing our bottle when he looked at the time.
“We should go soon,” he said. “Susie will be playing with some guests tonight from New Orleans. Usually the [Navarres] are late, but since there are only two of them playing tonight, I can’t be certain.”
“The [Navarres]? The [Navarre] Brothers are playing tonight?” I was amazed.
He held a finger to his lips. “They are not the actual act. They are joining Susie [W.], who is doing a jazz act at the Hotel Historic, sort of as surprise guests. It’s rather a secret, so keep your voice down,” he smiled.
“Well, I’m ready,” I said, finishing the wine.

Monsieur paid the tab and we left. The town was alive with night life and it felt good to be on Monsieur’s arm as we walked along the main street in Austin over to a large and beautiful old hotel. We entered and he threaded us through the lobby to the elevator. A cabaret was on the third floor.
We walked in and I felt somewhat underdressed. Ladies in elegant evening wear, men in tuxes and pinstripes. The hostess knew Monsieur, (naturally, I thought to myself by this time) and seated us two rows back from the grand piano.
Susie [W.] was singing what I found out was a Cole Porter song. I had been learning the names of jazz standards, just going through [Maggie’s] record collection, and her sheet music at home. I felt self-conscious because of my naughty little dress which was more suited to a dance club than a cabaret, but Monsieur seemed perfectly all right with me. I leaned against him in my seat and enjoyed the show.
Three or four songs into the act, Susie was chatting with her audience, talking about some benefit for the latest hurricane victims, and then she said, “Another old friend of mine is in the audience tonight; we used to rehearse together in a different band. I was hoping perhaps I could get him to come up and play a little jazz with me! Would you do that, [D]?”
A spotlight fell on our table and there was some polite applause. Monsieur shook his head, and called up to her, “But I am not here to perform! I am with a lady tonight!”
“One song? You won’t mind would you dear?” Susie said to me. I blushed but stifled the inevitable sneeze.
“Go ahead,” I said to Monsieur, “I never get to hear you play.”
Monsieur gave in, shrugged, and made his way up to the little stage. The guitar player, standing, smiled at him and hand Monsieur his guitar, with which Monsieur sat down and plucked tentatively. He loosened his tie, leaned back, and started a little intro. Then Susie started singing at it was something that sounded familiar, but I hadn’t heard it before. I found out later that it was a Steely Dan song, called “Pearl of the Quarter”:
On the water down in New Orleans
My baby’s the Pearl of the Quarter
She’s a charmer like you’ve never seen
Singing, “Voulez, voulez, voulez-vous?
I was charmed. There was a sax solo, then Monsieur played a guitar solo – very subdued and restrained, but I’m no judge and then Susie and the piano player did a little trade-off back and forth with the “voulez-vous” theme. Very nicely done, I thought.
Monsieur sat down to polite applause; these people hadn’t come to hear him play but he had done well. I held onto his arm tightly.
Susie introduced her next surprise guests; the two [Navarres] came onstage to accompanying whoops and a standing ovation.
As soon as the first backbeat began, the women got up to dance, dragging the men up or going by themselves, The wait staff hurried to pull the empty tables back to create a dance floor.
I looked over at Monsieur.
“Would you care to dance?” he asked.
“Well, I can’t dance for long,” I said. ‘My toe is a little sore.”
we danced to the Creole rhythms
…we danced to the Creole rhythms…
“Good thing that you did not wear high heels then,” he replied. He took me by my arm and we danced to the Creole rhythms of the [Navarres]. Susie sang about Mardi Gras, Bourbon Street and voodoo. I was feeling possessed by a benevolent magic goddess of sex and spirituality.
We danced for what seemed like hours, taking breaks to drink water and more wine. I was feeling light-headed but I wasn’t paying attention.

Sometime after midnight, I looked at his watch as if through a haze. “We should start heading back,” I said.
“We have plenty of time,” Monsieur replied.
“No, I mean, I have to work tomorrow,” I then stood on my toes and whispered in his ear, “and I will want some time with you, alone; perhaps we could maybe find a quiet country road where we could … run out of gas?” I winked at him, feeling flushed.
He smiled and said, “All right.” He got the waitress’s attention and paid off our tab, then waving to Susie and nodding to the drummer, we made our way out to the street.
I wanted to fuck him then and there, but I behaved myself until we got to the van. Then when our doors were locked, I leaned over him and kissed him for the first time that night, parting his lips with my tongue and melting into his mouth.
Mon dieux,” he said when I finally pulled away.
“Let’s get out of here,” I replied a little too urgently.
It’s a long way home from downtown Austin to his little ranch out in the country. I looked out the window and saw stars like a sea of iridescence, then my eyesight swam before me and that’s the last I remember.

I woke up in my little shelf bra and my tiny panties that I had worn under my dress. I was in my old bed upstairs, in a dark room. Monsieur was not with me. My mouth was dry and I had that slightly hung-over feeling, not headachy but feeling stretched rather thin.
I stumbled downstairs. As I awakened, I became acutely aware of how horny I was. I saw the kitchen clock as I passed by. 5:30 AM. Geez, I must have been out like a light. Damn that wine.
Monsieur was asleep in bed. Littlest Boy was curled up next to him. I gently picked up Littlest Boy and moved him to his own bed. I crawled in bed next to Monsieur and pressed my body to him. He was warm. His body smelled good, slightly athletic but not overpoweringly sweaty. The Bay Rum scent had faded but still made me a little crazy for him. My head went under the covers as I sought his cock.
Rubbing it through his underwear, I cupped it then pressed my mouth on it. It was not hard but I thought I could fix that. I lowered his waistband.
He made a sleepy noise, then turned to his side, away from me.
Hmm, I thought. I climbed over him to the other side. This should wake him up, I thought. I tugged his underwear down and took his cock into my hand, licking the tip of it.
“[Yearning], not now… please,” he murmured. I looked up at him. His eyes were open. He pulled me up into his arms.
“Are you sure?” I whispered. “I really … really need it.”
“I am exhausted,” he said. “I’m sorry. If only you had not fallen asleep last night.”
“I’m sorry! I’m not used to drinking,” I protested. “Can’t I just have a little one now and then later we can take care of you? Like later tonight?”
“Darling,” he said, holding me tight and whispering, “let’s wait. It will be better if we do.”
Damn, I thought. Damn that wine, damn that man. “Do you promise?” I whispered. God, I sound so pathetic, I thought.
“I know it would be better,” he whispered.
“Do you promise to take me tonight?” I gently pleaded.
“I won’t promise, but I will do all that I can to make it happen,” he whispered, kissing my hair.
“I need it, Monsieur,” I almost cried. “Please remember that.”
“I know, [Yearning], and I will do my best.”
See that you do, I thought, and spent a sleepless morning in his arms, as he held me as he slept.

Saturday, October 01, 2005


I had to make early dinner tonight.
Shake ‘n’ Bake Chicken Bites – but I make my own. It’s my mom’s recipe.
Just put come cornmeal, flour, salt and pepper in a bag, then put cut-up boneless chicken in a scrambled egg and a little cream. Put the chicken in the bag, shake it up, and put it in the over on a cookie sheet. Kids eat ‘em up.


The whole cooking thing is a big deal for me because, even though I was raised in the country on a farm, I didn’t want to learn to cook.
“But what if you’ll want to feed yourself?” my mom would say, the practical one.
“I’ll have a microwave,” I’d say. “I’m going to live in the city, you know. You can get all kinds of food there, you know,” I’d say.
“Well, knowing how to cook is an important skill for anyone to know,” my mom would say, with a far away look. “Your daddy is a great cook; he won me over, not just with his big heart and great kissing, but also with pot roasts when we were first going out.”
Around here, Monsieur plans meals and cooks four meals on the weekend, makes grocery lists and asks me what I don’t like to eat. My daddy thought I’d be living on pâté, frog’s legs and snails. I haven’t seen the latter two, and the closest thing I’ve seen to pâté while I have been here is meat loaf, which he calls “terrine de bœuf”.
Monsieur is out doing yard work. We live on about ten acres on the top of a hill, and he is clearing brush and maneuvering fence posts in preparation for what passes for fall around here. It was 108° F. for the high last week, this week has been more merciful with highs in the 80’s. Typical central Texas fall, they say. Ugh. They had lows of 67° F. in Kansas City this week. Apparently in Texas they don’t have seasons, they have spells.
Tonight I am going out with Monsieur, and he has asked me not to call him Monsieur in front of other people in public while we do. It’s going to be hard to remember.
I sincerely hope I get lucky. Maybe if we’re done early we can go somewhere down one of these lonely country roads, and park. And he’ll take me, on the hood of his car. (A girl can dream, right?)
I’ll let ya know. [*Wink*].