Friday, June 30, 2006

So there.

Heard on the playscape:

Strident Boy:[climbing up the slide] That’s because your parents are illegal aliens.

Bigglest Boy:[swinging upside down from the top of the playscape] My dad was born in California, so he’s not an alien. And my mom came here when she was 3, and she was a citizen.

Strident Boy:[climbing to the playscape roof] Well, still, I bet they are. My grandpa says you can’t name one single illegal alien who’s done anything good for the country.

[Pause while Bigglest Boy considers this]

Middlest Boy:[from under the playscape] Clark Kent is an alien. He came to the US illegally, and he’s now Superman.

Strident Boy knows better than to try and fight Superman.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006


Today Monsieur stood at the bottom of the stairs.
“Boys!” he said, not shouting – but his baritone tends to carry through the rafters.
Three boys immediately appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Come down, please,” he commanded.
They trooped down the stairs without a word.
“I want to give you some instructions. As you know, Peppermint’s mother and brother will be here on Saturday and two of you will be doubling rooms, camping in [Middlest Boy’s] room and they shall sleep in [Littlest Boy’s] room.”
“Can I sleep with Peppermint’s mom?” asked Middlest Boy.
“Certainly not. She will sleep with Peppermint’s brother, and what I want to talk to you about is hygiene and housecleaning. The upstairs bathroom is not fit for women to see, much less to use. I would not subject a farm animal to such conditions. You,” he said, pointing to Bigglest Boy, “will be in charge of scrubbing the bathroom from top to bottom. The other two boys will assist. You,” he said, pointing to Middlest Boy, “will be in charge of cleaning out [Littlest Boy’s] room. The other two boys will assist. You,” he said, pointing to Littlest Boy, “will watch, learn, and help. Is this understood?”
“Yes, Daddy,” they all nodded.
“Another issue that is very important is comportment and hygiene. When guests are here, particularly female guests, there will be no appearing out of your room in a state of undress. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“We can’t go downstairs naked?” Middlest Boy asked.
“You must wear shirt and pants – or shorts – when you can be seen.”
“What about in the bath?” Bigglest Boy asked. “Do we have to have clothes on when we’re still wet?”
“You have bathrobes, each of you, and you will use them.”
They looked disappointed, but nodded.
“Does Peppermint have to wear day clothes all the time, too?” Middlest Boy asked.
“This is Peppermint’s family, and Peppermint will do as she thinks best.”
“I’ll wear day clothes when I’m out of my room, [Middlest Boy], I promise.” I assured him.
“There is the other matter, regarding the bathroom.” Monsieur pointed at the Two Bigglest Boys. “You two older boys have been leaving the toilet in a state that I can only describe as barbaric. From this moment forward, I will check the toilet seat and its surrounding area, and if I find anything disgusting or unclean about it in any way, I will find both of you and both of you will immediately clean the toilet, the floor, the walls and the bain. Thoroughly,” he added. “All television privileges shall be suspended until conditions are met.”
“But I never miss,” said Bigglest Boy.
“I disagree with you,” said Monsieur. “In any event, it will be up to both of you to help each other, and make absolutely certain that the bathroom is always in a condition suitable for a lady. I have been lenient so far with you, but this is important. We will be hosting guests, and you three boys will be gentlemen, in every way, and I will be proud of you. Is everything understood perfectly?”
“Yes!” they all said almost together.
“We begin now,” Monsieur said, producing cleansers, rags, a mop and paper towels. “All boys: Upstairs, first the bathroom, then the bedroom. I shall supervise, and render aid as necessary. But you boys will do the work.”
The boys turned to go upstairs, thundering up like stampeding wildebeests.
I remember something that Monsieur had said to me when I started here:

“A gentleman is not born, he is raised. It is entirely too much effort to try to make a gentleman out of a man. It had to be done when he is a boy. His character must be formed.

“Character isn’t an inherited trait, and the boys will not simply absorb a good character from observing us. They will build it daily by the way they behave, by how they will think, and everything that they will think, every thing that they will do, will build their character. We must fill their minds with joy, love, and wisdom, and let their minds roam free. If we let anger, fear, and hate take possession of their minds, those qualities will become their cages.”

“Wish me luck,” Monsieur said to me.
Bonne chance,” I said, with a giggle. “You know, Mom had a boy, and knows what to expect,” I said to him, smiling. “I’m sure she’s seen plenty of pee.”
Bien, she has seen enough of that for one life, in any case. I am determined that I will raise three gentlemen, and they have no other options in this house.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” I said, and kissed him.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Après le deluge, moi

What an down/up/down day yesterday. First there was a thunderstorm that rolled through the area and took out a bunch of power lines, phone lines, and the DSL connection to everyone who lives on this hill. Monsieur was on the phone with ATT/SBC who insisted on telling him to try turning off the modem and turning it back on again. He had them on speaker phone.
“It’s not the modem, please, I’m telling you,” he pleaded. “There is a switch, that was struck by lightning. It is at the end of our road, on the pole. I can smell the burning plastic. It needs to be replaced.”
“We’re going to have to put you on hold let our line service check that out; meanwhile, please stay on the line.”
A minute later a different service tech was on the line. “It looks like the problem is in the line somewhere.”
“Yes,” Monsieur said patiently. “I think you’ll discover that a pole was struck by lightning.” He gave the tech the pole number, described the equipment that was burned away, and offered to climb up the pole and replace it himself if he could just pick up the replacement part. He sounded to me like he knew what he was talking about.
“We’ll send a service technician by on Monday,” said the tech. “Will someone be there in case we need to come in the house?”
“You don’t need to come in the house,” Monsieur said, “because the pole that was hit is a half mile away.”
“We need to arrange a time that someone will be there; your choices are from 8 AM to noon, from noon to 4 PM, or from 4 PM to 8 PM,” the tech replied.
“Fine,” Monsieur said with a sigh. “Someone will be here from 8 AM to noon.”
So I’m on a dial-up today.
The rain also meant that the horseback riding trip we planned with the boys was canceled. The were bummed – so was I, actually – but there wasn’t anything that could be done. Trail riding down a limestone basin in the rain could be deadly with young kids.
We also had our sitter H come over, so that Monsieur and I could go out to eat. The boys like her, but Bigglest Boy looked her over.
“What’s that thing on your leg?” he asked.
“It’s a tattoo,” she said. “See? It’s a raven. Do you like it?”
“No,” he said, “you should wipe it off.”
“I can’t,” she said. “It won’t come off. It’s permanent.”
“Well, don’t let it get near me,” Bigglest Boy said.
We left and headed to this tiny Irish restaurant way out on a country road, in a house that didn’t even look like it was a restaurant. We had potato soup and split a rack of lamb with bread crumbs stuffing on it, and a bottle of wine. Before I had a second glass, I whispered to him, “Are we going to make love tonight? I need to know before I get too drunk.”
“I don’t know,” he smiled. “I’m rather tired, and I don’t think you would enjoy it as much as if I were fully rested.”
I poured myself another glass, hoping he was wrong anyway. We chatted about things he was working on, some of which are quite amazing. I can’t go into his work for reasons of privacy, but I can tell you that he is working on something that will protect almost every person in the world who has a bank account from being ripped off by fraud artists. It’s really cool.
There was a lull in the conversation, and I said, “Do you think I’m too young for you?”
He considered it seriously. “No. No, I don’t. A few years ago, I would have said yes. I would say that you might be too good for me, but not too young.”
“Too good?” I asked.
“No man should be as fortunate as I have been, with regard to the women whom I have been lucky enough to have accompany me, and to love my children and myself,” he replied, leaning forward and murmuring in his low baritone.
Damn, he’s good, I thought. “Well, I like that answer. You sure you’re tired?”
“Let’s go home now,” he said, “and we shall find out. But I can’t promise anything.”
“Fair enough,” I said and he asked for the check.
We were home within an hour. He got a report from H, and paid her. She wanted a hug from him, and got one. She smiled at me and headed out.
I sat next to Monsieur on the couch and kissed him for a while. He kissed me willingly, but I could sense he wasn’t going to go for it, so I said, “It’s not gonna happen, huh?”
“Are you angry with me?” he asked.
“No. I’m OK,” I assured him. “I’m glad you didn’t lead me on.”
“Do I do that?” he asked.
“Yes, you do, sometimes, and it hurts my feelings sometimes, but I let it hurt my feelings, and I shouldn’t.”
He nodded.
“Do you still feel guilty?” I asked him. “About me being here, after Maggie?”
He thought for a minute. “I think I will overcome that, in time. It’s my problem really, it’s not your fault and I will work it out.”
“If there’s anything I could do,” I said, “please let me help.”
We went to bed but despite the wine, or maybe because of it, I couldn’t sleep. With the DSL out getting in to Lady Ann’s was not going to be fun, so after I checked my e-mail on the dial up, I just took my vibrator into the shower and got a quick one, two, three. I rinsed off and slipped into bed next to him, listening to the rumble of thunder until I fell asleep.

Friday, June 23, 2006

one from Maggie

I have been going through a lot of Maggie recordings, as she left tons of them. There is ragtime, jazz, rock, country and blues. Also classical; oh my word but there is lots of classical, most of it I have no idea what it is.
Claire de Lune
This one I recognize. When Maggie played it at Lady Ann’s Brothel, the girls would get all misty-eyed. Work would come to a halt, and we would all listen, and then when she was done the girls would all jump on the couch. What a great way to rack up those sales and motivate the production floor.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Impertinent Question #1, Answered

This is a continuation of this post, in which I answer some impertinent but important questions. This is #1.

  1. How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it to? Describe the event.
I had just turned 17. I was with my first boyfriend Keith. And he was a cutie boy.
He hand that long-bangs emo thing going, but he wasn’t emo. He was just a nice boy. My dad even liked him. He was Irish Catholic, too. And, naturally, we’d been having lots of oral sex. I was ready for the next thing. I wanted to wait till I was 18, but I knew I couldn’t.
Keith was a virgin too. I think that made him much more attractive to me. Not because he was a nerd, which he was, but because I asked him once, and he said, “no I’m a virgin. I never really had anyone who wanted me that way.”
Shy, awkward. I actually tricked him into asking me out, because he couldn’t. He wanted to ask me, I found out later, but he thought I would have said no, it would ruin the friendship.
In my mind, I had all the friendship I needed. It was high time I started getting some real action.
We’d been doing oral and lots of groping / fingering / stroking / humping, teasing each other and learning how to bring each other off. I learned how to give head with, if not exactly skill, a bit of enthusiasm. Finally one night during a very heavy phone conversation, I decided that I Wanted It.
“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice cracked. That was cute.
“Yes, I am. If we use a condom,” I said.
We agreed on a place, that weekend – his place, while his brother was out and his parents were at work. We set it up for the daytime, so we wouldn’t have to mess with curfews.
I was supposed to be at my summer job that afternoon, but I had called in sick that morning, and didn’t tell my mom or dad. I hurried over to Keith’s house instead.
I don’t remember as much as I would like to. I remember I wanted the lights off and the curtains closed in his room. The radio was on. We kissed for a bit, and then I said, “Let’s get undressed.”
He got out of his clothes pretty fast; I didn’t get the chance to undress him. Maybe he thought I might change my mind if he dawdled.
I got under the covers, then took off my clothes. I was really shy.
He went down on me but he told me he didn’t want me to do the same, “or this may be over with really quick,” he said. He was under the covers, his face between my legs. I looked at the ceiling. There was a crack on the ceiling fixture, I remember. It looked like a spiderweb.
I pulled him up to me by his shoulders. He tried to kiss me but I didn’t like to taste myself. I held his cock in my hand, and rubbed it. He took it from me, and sat up, rolling a condom over it while I looked. I wanted to make sure it was on right.
He got on top of me and started to rub it along my labia. He didn’t know what he was doing, and neither did I, but I held myself as open as I could.
I remember that when he started going in, the song “Dust in the Wind” started playing.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“It might hurt,” I said, clenching my teeth more in anticipation than in real pain. “Just let’s do it.”
He did. He was done long before the song ended. Oh, well.
“Are you OK?” he asked me.
I nodded. “I’m fine,” I said, kissing his sticky cheek.
He looked down. “No blood,” he said.
“Oh, I didn’t expect much,” I said. “Horseback riding takes care of most of that.”
“I didn’t hurt you at all?” he asked.
“No, not a bit,” I said. He seemed disappointed. “OK,” I said, “maybe it hurts a little, but really, I’m OK.”
That was just the beginning that summer. We continued to do it a lot; probably every chance we could find to be alone and near a bed. We even checked into a motel a couple of times. He wasn’t that skilled at first, but as familiarity and enthusiasm increased, he got better.
I realize now that I was a hell of a girlfriend. I hadn’t come off of any abuse experiences, I was very giving in bed, and I didn’t play all the typical teenager attention games. I was willing to just hang out and watch a ball game with him, or go see his team play, or listen to his band “rehearse”.
After a few months, I had been going to classes at the local cow college, and he ended up asking me if we could “take a break”. I was somewhat surprised.
“Is there something wrong?”I asked him. “Is there something I did?”
“Well,” he admitted, “I really want to … um… ask Kendra out.”
“Kendra? Kendra?!? That fake goth chick?”
Kendra was the bad seed of our graduating class. Well, not the bad seed, but the wanna-be-bad seed. Black eye makeup, black lipstick, black everything except chalk-chalk-chalk white skin. She looked like she was a tightly-stretched animal hide over a skeleton frame.
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, she’s really cool. She turns me on, I guess,” he said, finally.
“Well, why?” I said, looking down.
“She just seems … I dunno, real.”
“‘Real’. Oh.” I got up.
“Don’t be mad, [Yearning Heart].” He got up too. He’d had a few beers, and suddenly he seemed cheap, low-rent, shoddy and completely classless in his fake emo clothes and his stupid surplus store combat boots. He reached out as if to hug me.
“I’m not mad,” I lied, moving away. “I think I need … a break … or something, too. No, really, it’s OK. She’s nice. Ask her out,” I added, and started to leave. “I need to go now.”
“Are we still friends?” he called after me as I left.
“Sure,” I said. But I knew we weren’t.

Excuse the Ring


PHONE rings

Yearning Heart: Hello?

Kim B (v.o.): Oh hi! This is Kim.

Yearning Heart: Hello, Kim.

Kim B (v.o.): How are you guys doing?

Yearning Heart: We’re very good! And how are you?

Kim B (v.o.): Good, thanks. Can I talk to [Monsieur]?

Yearning Heart: Sure, hang on. Monsieur?!

MONSIEUR comes downstairs to the phone

Yearning Heart: (whispers) It’s Kim.

Monsieur:(frowning slightly) (to phone) Yes? (pause) Yes, how are you? (listens) Yes, well enough. (pause) Yes, can I ask you, is this important? We are having family time. (pause) Yes, very good, thank you. (He hangs up)

Yearning Heart: (comes around the corner from where she was listening) You know, you could have talked to her.

Monsieur:Indeed. To what end?

Yearning Heart: (grinning) You’d really rather hear me read Laura Ingalls Wilder to the kids?

Monsieur:I find you charming and captivating as a reader. Particularly as the voice of Pa. (He turns and goes back upstairs.)

Yearning Heart: (whispers to phone triumphantly) DE-NIED!

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Sunday, he took me.

It wasn’t even my idea; Monsieur and I put the boys to bed, and he simply said, “Would you like to go to bed now?” (That emphasis on the “now” part is where I call your attention.)
Would I!? I tried not to dance but I think I skipped a little as I went to the bedroom, slipped off my clothes and hopped into the shower. I had been hot since the last thunderstorm on Friday, and I could not cool off. I rinsed my body till it was cool again, then I slipped in under the sheets.
Monsieur was sweet. He held me and kissed me, and he kisses so well. He kissed his way down my belly, and when I reached for him, he was like a rock. I am not one to let good meat spoil, so before he could get too involved with my nether bits I sat up, pushed him onto his back, and climbed on.
“You were certainly ready,” he smiled as I undulated over him, my eyes rolling back as I sank onto him.
“I have been, yes,” I said softly, and there was no more talking as I filled myself of him, greedily. I’m such a selfish brat. I always have to go first.
When I was done he turned me over, and I closed my eyes dreamily while I opened myself up and gave myself to him. He held me very close, and kept almost perfectly still. When I reached down between us to feel how hard he was, and how thick, it somehow set him off. He gasped and I could feel him come. He soaked me, thoroughly. I was amazed, quite pleasantly, at the volume of it.
“You needed that!” I giggled, and he smiled through his bliss. I went off to pee, and he got up and got clean.
When I got back, Monsieur was laying in bed, still naked, and semi hard. I took that as an invitation and got between his legs and just licked it, gently, all over. I was afraid he would stop me; often he gets reluctant afterwards, or maybe guilt or something, but he usually won’t give me a second go. This time he was all for it, and when my jaw got tired of trying to suck him, I pulled off of it, my lips swollen and puffy, and he turned me over and plowed me slowly, from behind.
Older guys rock, especially the second round. OK, I actually don’t really have any way to know how other guys are. Monsieur, I can say, rocks me. He is so patient, and he can go as slowly as I want, but he can also sense when I need him to pound me. Try to get a 20 year old to do that. It ain’t happening. Monsieur was slow at first, teasing me with it; then he reached between us and rubbed me while holding perfectly still. That drove me totally over the edge, and I was soon slamming back against him, clenching the sheets in my hands and crying loud enough to wake the chickens outside.
There was more, about an hour more, but my memory fails me. I should have written all this stuff down immediately afterwards, but after that last clench-and-withdrawal, sleep took me quickly.
The next day I felt like I was floating.
After the boys were upstairs tonight, he reminded me that tomorrow we meet with his attorney on Riverside to finalize and sign the guardianship stuff. That means I can authorize anything concerning the boys. I don’t know why this somehow makes what I am doing that much more legitimate, but it does. It means he’s not just fucking his nanny. It means that his girlfriend takes care of and teaches his kids. And I’m his girlfriend.
In your face, Fran Drescher.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Fifteen Impertinent Questions, Ten Answers

  1. How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it to? Describe the event.
    I will visit this question soon
  2. What is the strangest place you’ve had sex?
    It was in an office building’s parking garage, during office hours. I didn’t work at that office building. Neither did my Not-Quite-Boyfriend. It was after some matinée performance. Was it Light/Damage? Didn’t matter. It was a Thursday, I think.
    My not-quite-boyfriend at the time, I will call Incubee. Partially because he would knock on my window late at night. I would let him in, and he would then ravish me until dawn, then wash up and leave, as quietly as he came. An Incubus. Also, he wasn’t quite my boyfriend. Not-Quite-Boyfriend. NQB. “Incubee”.
    Incubee and I went to someone’s house afterward the matinée, and he began to blaze up with the other people there.
    I don’t mind pot so much. I mean, being around it. I used to do cocktail waitressing, and I would rather be around stoned people than drunks. I have never seen two people so stoned that they had to get into a fight. I’ve seen people that drunk; hell, I’ve been that drunk.
    They offered it to me, the way polite stoners will do. I wasn’t into it so much. It usually just makes me sleepy. Being around it this time was starting to make my head start going on and on, like I kept imagining all these scenarios, all these little stories in my head. Most of them were erotic. Someone put some music on, some kind of grinding, trancy shit. I was getting horny, but I knew my roommate was home and awake. Incubee’s house wasn’t any good, either.
    I found him, talking to some hippie-looking chick and her friend. I slipped my arm through his, tried to pull him away. Finally I whispered into his ear, “I need you. Inside me.”
    He perked up at that.
    I whispered to him again, “Where can we go?”
    He took me to his van, kissed me a few times, then pulled out into traffic. Eventually we found our way into a parking garage. “I’ve skateboarded here a few times. No one ever goes higher than the fifth floor. It’s usually empty.”
    We drove up to the 7th floor and I immediately took off my top and bra, and leaned over him to unzip his pants. His was not too long, not too thick. I remember once thinking how huge he was. Hey, I was 19. He was maybe the third cock I’d ever seen. At the time, at that moment on that afternoon, I bet I thought it was the most beautiful one in the world.
    He settled back. I felt so wanton. I went over it gently, very gently. Tongue, lips. When I finally took it in my mouth, he gasped and arched his back. I did him for a while, then when his hands went to my head I knew I better get him in me because this boy did not last.
    I got on the floor and slipped my jeans off. He knelt, put a condom on, (I was on the pill but I didn’t know this guy like that, also I don’t think he was too selective) then he covered me with his body and slipped in me. I wanted to touch myself while he did it, I’m sure, but back then I felt dirty doing that. So I held onto him and kissed him.
    He came quickly. I didn’t, but he didn’t notice or ask. He just held me for a minute, then got up and slipped out of the van. I guess he threw the condom in a trash can. I remember thinking,Gawd, I hope he doesn’t just throw it on the pavement. He got in the driver’s seat and I was pulling my clothes on.
    “That was different. Did you like that?” he asked.
    “Sure,” I nodded. Thanks for asking, I thought.
    “Are you hungry now?” he asked.
    I was. We went to an A&W.
  3. Who would you consider “switching teams” for?
    Oh, she knows who she is. And she reads this, so it’d be embarrassing to say.
  4. Oral: Do you prefer to give or receive?
    I used to like just giving but lately what I’ve been receiving from Monsieur has been so good that I think I have changed preferences to that.
  5. One night stands - What’s the protocol? Stay the night or get the hell outta there?
    Wait till he’s asleep. Be sure you gave him the number to your disposable phone.
  6. Favourite body part/parts of the opposite sex?
    Ah, you have touched on something. The one I find most attractive? That one part is the mind, but not to look at. Or the voice - the actor’s instrument. That’s a body part, right?
    For looking: Wrists. Throat/chest juncture. Back of knees. Shoulders. Collarbone.
  7. Quickie or long and slow?
    now, that depends:


    Once Monsieur was down in the basement, doing something or another. I think he might have been checking our supplies. It was not late. Bigglest Boy was in bed but not asleep.
    I heard him coming up the stairs to the kitchen, so I stood in the doorway and blocked his way.
    “You’re going to have to go through me,” I said, teasing.
    “Through you, indeed?” he said, with a slight smile. Then he reached into my jammies, covered my whole vulva in his hand and started massaging it. My eyes went glassy, my head started swimming, my eyelids fluttered, but I held onto the door jamb and stayed in the way.
    He turned the hand in my pants, so that his fingers were pointing up. He slipped a finger inside me, and I gasped. He took my nipple in one hand and pulled it, then added a finger to the one inside me. I was in agony. I gasped then I begged him, “please, please... oh, please....”
    He picked me up and put me on top of the washing machine, slipping my jammies off and spreading me. He clamped his mouth over my clitoris and slid three fingers into me. His tongue teased me lightly as I thrashed around on his hand.
    When I was done, he helped me down off of the washer. I was trembling so he put my jammies back on me. He helped me to bed, and held me till I fell asleep.

    Long & Slow

    For my birthday, Monsieur was going to take me out to some fancy dinner, but instead I said, “oh the heck with it! I’m not that hungry, and we have a babysitter – can we just get some deli sandwiches, a cheap motel room, and just ...”
    Well, he’s not one to deny a lady on her birthday, so we did, and before too long we found ourselves at the fabulous Sands Motel once again. It was delicious. I know I dull that word through overuse, but it was simply delicious. Long, slow, tender, sweet. For three hours: not all at once, either. 30 minutes, a break for food, another hour, a break for a hot shower. Another long, slow, delirious hour. (See? He can do it. He really can. When it’s time, I guess. It just has to be the right time, and when I have to wait for weeks I just get irritated with waiting.
    Quickie or Long & Slow? I guess the answer is, I don’t care. Either one. When I finally get him, all of him, the him that I want, it’s as though my floodgates are opened. I can live on a Quickie every couple days, and then a Long & Slow once or twice a month. Unfortunately I don’t even get subsistence rations right now. I’m not complaining! I’m not.
    Yes, I am. Stop it, Peppermint.
  8. Noisy or quiet?
    I have to bite the pillows or I’d wake up the animals outside
  9. Ideal amount of sex per week?

    Can I Get Enough?

    I whine and pout, I pout, whine, pout then mope then whine some more. I then retreat to the shower, ostentatiously, with my Faithful Vibrator. I take man after man upstairs at Lady Ann’s. I have decided that I don’t want to complain about it anymore. I am convinced it won’t help.
  10. What’s your number one sexual turn off?
    I will visit this question soon
  11. Number one arousal trigger?
    I will visit this question soon
  12. What constitutes bad sex?
  13. Remember the best sex you ever had. What made it special?
    Not knowing whether I’d get it, then getting it. Patience. Love.
  14. Define sexy?
    I will visit this question soon
  15. Celebrity you would love to shag right now?
    I will visit this question soon

where I've been

I got this from O272.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Yet another visit

I’ve been talking to my mom and she had hinted about visiting over the summer. She works for a school district, and though summer is not a totally empty time for her, it’s still the best time for her to take a vacation. I suggested the July 4th week, so that she’d get the holiday too and then use some vacation time along with it.
“Are you sure it’s OK with Monsieur?” she asked.
“I’ll check with him – but you know, Mom, I’m allowed visitors. I’m not Tess of the D’Urbervilles here, you know.”
Later I checked with Monsieur and he seemed very enthusiastic. “Yes,” he said, “I look forward to it. Shall I invite her myself?”
Negotiations have been going back and forth between my mom and her work, and my brother’s job which may or may not start by then, but this is what we know as the facts on the ground now stand at this moment*: My mom, and possibly my brother, will be coming down for a week beginning on the 1st of July.

*An actual phrase I overheard on FOXNews.

I am, um, pleased. Yes….
Yes. I am. I am pleased.
Who wouldn’t be pleased? My mom’s fine.
Isn’t she? Sure, she is. She’s groovy.
And my brother. I just hope he doesn’t bring weed.
This will be fun. Won’t it? Sure, it will. Yup, yup, yup.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006



No, you silly man. “Enough?” he asked me.
I could’t catch my breath. We were in our favorite cheap motel. It was two AM, a few days after my birthday. I nodded my head, yes, enough, and he tried to withdraw from me. I shook my head vigorously and pulled him closer to me. I held him there, keeping him inside me.
“Why can’t we do that more?” I pouted, weeks later (this morning) the morning right after he used his tongue in delightful ways until I had to bite the pillow. “Can’t I have you inside me?”
He didn’t say anything.
“You are stingy and mean!”I pouted.
He didn’t say anything.
“Why can’t I have your cock?!”
“So that you’ll enjoy it, when I do give it to you,” he replied.
“But if I get more I’ll enjoy more!” I whined.
“It’s quite simple,” he explained. “By conserving this energy, by re-channeling it, we can use this energy in our own way. It preserves you, if you will exercise the discipline. You are getting as much as you really need. Once a month, or so.”
So, the reason I’m not getting enough is that I’m getting the exact amount I need but not as much as I want? “I don’t fucking WANT to exercise any discipline! Will you at least do me? When I need it? Like tonight? I know you didn’t come last night.” I looked at him.
He looked away, tried to change the subject smoothly, but I just had to keep asking.
“I know I’ve asked you this, but is there something about me?”
No, he says, he’s just like this, he thinks I’m beautiful and very sexy, which is what he always says, and that should have been fine.
“Do you think you’re getting away with something?” I asked him. “When you’re with me? Like, you’re doing something bad?”
“Something bad?” He looked uncomfortable. “Like what”
“Like you’re doing it,” I said, grinning with emphasis, “with your baby sitter, who is like, nineteen,” I ran my hands over his chest. “And oo! your wife is so jealous but she’s kinda hot for her, too? It’s OK, you can have fantasies.”
“Don’t be … don’t be crude,” he said, hoarsely, almost like a whisper. He got out of the bed, and looked out the window.
“I’m … really sorry,” I said. “But that’s it, isn’t it? You were attracted to me when you first saw me just like I was?”
He nodded.
I continued. Why did I have to keep going? “And I was like, twenty, and I had just moved in with [your sister]? I was only twenty, and you felt that, like I did….”
“No,” he said. “That’s not quite right. You were only nineteen.” He turned around. “You were nineteen, beautiful.”
“Maggie hated me when she met me.”
“Maggie did not, but she thought you were immature. She was very demanding of young people. She liked you, instantly. She just didn’t like your effect on me. She enjoyed my effect on you, though.”
“I loved her, Monsieur. I always felt like she was this ideal of excellence, a role model. But we had our fights. Over meaningless stuff, but also over you. She didn’t like me to talk to you.”
“Maggie didn’t mind unless you and I were to speak to each other alone, or on the phone, If she were to be present for the conversation, she didn’t mind at all.”
“Do you feel like you’re cheating on her still, being here with me?”
“That’s ridiculous,“ he said, and turned away again.
That’s as close as I got. I finally got him to come back to bed, regretting opening up that whole door.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

You've got to be a football hero

I was reminded of this story when I was talking to my friend Melanie on the phone. Apparently she only met Maggie once, and she never forgot it. I had to write down this whole story from Melanie, since I was there and couldn’t remember all that Maggie had said.
Anyway, one time she and Monsieur were visiting us. SH was there, and a few of his friends, and I had some friends of mine over as well. Melanie, for one. My friends were all “artistes”, and SH’s friends were mostly bartender and jock types that worked in the sports bar where I worked. Somehow Maggie got into a football conversation with one of SH’s friends (I’ll call him John T because that was his name and I can’t stand him) and John T mentioned his favorite team was the Lions.
“Oh, they’re my sworn enemy,” Maggie said. “You see, I’m a Bears fan.”
“Aw, now, I thought you were smart,” said John T. “The Bears suck. What do you know about football?”
“Probably not much,” she said to him boldly, “but I’d bet I know more than you do.”
There was a bit of immoderate laughter at that, then John T challenged her, “I bet I can come up with two football questions you can’t answer before you could come up with two that I can’t answer.”
“I’ll take some of that action. Is this a drinking game?” Maggie asked.
“No – ten bucks on it?”
“NFL rulebook?” Maggie asked.
“Sure,” John T said, “whatever.”
“Done and done,” Maggie said, then they touched palms. “You first.”
John T smiled, then said, “When is a forward pass illegal?”
“Oh shit,” said Maggie, “there’s lot’s of times it’s illegal. Past the line of scrimmage – or when there isn’t a line of scrimmage on the play.”
“There’s always a line of scrimmage,” said John T.
“Or, if it’s a pass thrown by someone who isn’t an eligible receiver on the down,” Maggie continued. “Or if –”
“OK, OK … you know that rule,” John T admitted. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Well, you led me to my first question – when is there NOT a line of scrimmage?”
“Um, there’s always a line of scrimmage.”
“No, there’s not,” said Maggie. “Not on a kickoff.”
He looked around and one or two guys said, “She’s right.” “Yup, that’s not considered a “‘play from scrimmage.’” “You’re down one, John.”
“All right,” said John T, warming up. “OK, let’s say you call a one-seven pass, gun, in the huddle – but when you go to the line the defense shows blitz. What do you do?”
“Is it a Nickel D?’ asked Maggie.
John T looked at his friends, who all shrugged at him. “Doesn’t matter,” he bluffed. “The middle linebacker is coming for your throat. What do you do?”
“The hell it doesn’t matter,” Maggie replied. “If they’re showing blitz on a nickel, you dump it to the tight end, who should move open to the strong side on a blitz. If it’s not a Nickel D, then the tight end should be moving across the flat in a post pattern. Flip it to him if he’s open. If not, roll weak side, look for your two wides. If they’re not open, dump it to the sideline.”
John T, looked at his friends, who grinned at him. “I think it’s the lady’s turn to ask now,” SH said. “She’s up one; if you can’t answer this one, you lose.”
“OK,” Maggie smiled, “one more question: Can the ref call a penalty on,” and here, Maggie paused, “the coin toss?” Maggie smiled, rather like how I imagined a very lovely cartoon crocodile might.
“The coin toss?” John T looked like couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Can the ref call a penalty on the coin toss? Well, why the hell would he? It’s a trick question – the game hasn’t started yet, so I’m gonna say no.”
I didn’t remember the question; Mel had to remind me what Maggie had asked. But I remembered that smile.
“15 yard penalty,” Maggie said, calmly, “and you lose the option of the coin toss, if your team’s captains don’t appear for the coin toss. NFL rules.”
There was a pause, then a cheer and a round of applause. John T just smiled and shook his head.
“I can break a twenty,” Maggie prompted John T, who remembered the wager and went for his wallet. “Did you have any more questions?” she asked him, smiling.
“Um… well, just one,” he said, taking out a ten dollar bill and putting it on the table. “Do you have a sister, who might be single?”

"Are you a good mom, or a bad mom?"

My friend M from high school has two little kids. We chatted and she said she would never have believed that I, of all people, would be on the phone with her talking about how to get boys to take off their clothes and get into the bath, or how to get poop stains out of rayon.
“You’re a good mom,” she said.
“I’m not a mom at all!” I laughed, and we both laughed at that.
“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” she said, laughing.
“I’m not a witch, I’m not a witch!”
“Hey, remember, it didn’t matter to the Munchkins whether Dorothy thought she was a witch or not,” M pointed out to me. “Her house landed on the bad witch, so Dorothy must have been a good witch. Even if she wasn’t a witch at all.”
“Well, what does that prove?” I wondered.
“Well, in the last ten minutes, while we’ve been talking, you’ve said both ‘Take that outside!’ and ‘You heard me!’ plus you’ve put one boy in time-out. Not only do you sound like a mom, you sound like a good one.”
Your quiz results make you a
Zen Mom
How do you do it? Even when explosions are all around, you are able to take a deep cleansing breath and chant your mantra “this too shall pass.” You are a calming influence on your kids in a hectic world.

Take this free personality test by Clicking Here>> or going to

Monday, June 12, 2006

Girl Time

There are no other girls for a radius of five miles. I am the only one. Unless you count the chickens.
This overwhelming testosterone level would not be tolerable, even for a tomboy like me, without a few concessions to my gender. First of all, everyone is a gentleman. That’s not a compliment to them as much as it is a rule:
“You will be a gentleman,” Monsieur frequently warns a boy, “or I will know the reason why not.”
It’s very difficult to remember to be a gentleman when you are only five, I told Monsieur.
“It is more difficult to make a gentleman out of a man of fifty years, if he has never been required to be a gentleman at the age of five,” he replied.
Yet, with all of his attempts to corral them, they still have a hard time not banging doors, not running in the house, and not coming downstairs without a full complement of shirt, underwear, and pants.
They do close the back door now, and they do close the toilet completely after each use. I was not the one who trained them to do that.
One morning Middlest Boy let the cat in, fed him, and then went upstairs to pee. He found a raccoon drinking from the toilet, and screamed for his daddy.
Monsieur took a look at the raccoon, then told me to keep the kids in the downstairs bedroom until he said it was safe to come out. He then took a cloth bag and a mop, got the raccoon into the bag, and took it outside to put it into a dog crate. “It’s safe now,” he called, coming into the living room.
The boys filed out slowly. “Where’s the raccoon?” Middlest Boy asked. Bigglest Boy went up to his room to hide from the wildlife.
“He is in the dog cage,” Monsieur replied. The boys went out to observe the prisoner.
“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.
“I will call Animal Control,” he replied.
From that day forward, all of the boys keep the toilet seat closed. All doors are closed at all times. Middlest Boy checks the locks, too, and makes sure that we are always sealed in tightly.

Still, even though they are apprentice gentlemen, they are still boys. Sometimes, I need a break from all this boyness. Last weekend I went to my friend K’s house, and spent all of Sunday watching TV and talking about boys. We did our hair and nails, and we watched girly shows on cable. She watched some of her weekend soaps.
It was good, especially since Monsieur does not have cable TV:
“I should pay over $700 a year to watch these insufferable cretins and their insipid entertainment? I think not – for that amount of money, do you realize what an incredible library of videos I could accumulate?”
“But Discovery, National Geographic, the History Channel?”
“I have much of that here,” he said, opening the locked video bookcase and taking out titles. “Here are hours of “Biography”, of National Geographic including the kids’ specials narrated by Dudley Moore, here is classic Jacques Cousteau from the 1970s, here is the Apollo space program almost in its entirety....”
So K and I watched cable for hours. We ordered pizza. We did a few quizzes in the women’s magazines. I hadn’t done a Cosmo quiz in years.
Apparently I’m adventurous, shy, studious, intense, laid-back, and a “Zen mom.” Go figure.
Also, I’m average for getting sex, if I were a married mom. I get sex from Monsieur about once a month, and apparently that’s about average for couples who are married and have more than one small child in the house. Hmmpf. Well. I’ve never enjoyed being “average”, I guess. Maybe I’ll stop complaining about it.
Talking about sex brought up favorite sexual positions, some of which I actually wrote down:
  • On my side: I keep my top leg bent, he straddles my bottom leg and holds my top leg on his shoulder. I’ve done this one. De-e-e-p penetration.
  • The Booty Grip: From behind, he should be inside me and my legs should be straight. Once he’s in, I have to close my legs and cross my ankles. “He has to stay close or he pops out!” K says. Sounds intense.
  • The square dance: I sit on him, with him inside and my hands and knees on either side of him. Then, I should move my body in four directions: forward, backward, left, right. “You’ll feel every inch on every spot inside of you,” K assured me.
  • Using his thigh: I’m on top but turned to one side, holding onto his bent knee. I can rub back and forth on his inner thigh as I go. I’ve done this too. Very good.
By the time the Tony’s were on I just wanted to race home and jump on Monsieur, but I watched them anyway.
Still, it was good to just hang out and be girly, and let their daddy take care of the kids for 30 hours.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

"The sandwiches were stale, too."

I have not posted a dumb joke in so long:

A beautiful young aspiring actress was so depressed over her failed Broadway acting career that she decided to end her life by throwing herself into the ocean. But just before she could throw herself from the docks, a handsome young sailor stopped her.
“You have so much to live for,” said the sailor. “Look, I’m off to Europe tomorrow and I can stow you away on my ship. I’ll take care of you, bring you food every day, and keep you happy.”
With nothing to lose, combined with the fact that she had always wanted to go to Europe, the woman accepted. That night the sailor brought her aboard and hid her in a lifeboat. From then on, every night he would bring her three sandwiches and make love to her until dawn.
Three weeks later she was discovered by the captain during a routine inspection.
“What are you doing here?” asked the captain.
“I have an arrangement with one of the sailors,” she replied. “He brings me food and I get a free trip to Europe.”
“I see,” the captain says.
“Plus,” she adds, “he’s screwing me.”
“He certainly is,” replied the captain. “This is the Staten Island Ferry.”

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


Some of you, my dear bloggites, have stated that they don’t really care for the intimate details about my sex life, and that it’s demeaning for them to read about, and/or that I might want to reconsider. Some have stated that they love them, and read about them with great enthusiasm. Most don’t say anything whatsoever, so I’m asking my dear bloggites using this highly unscientific poll:
Do you want the intimate details?
You betcha! The juicier, the better!
Not really, but I don't mind. I just skip them.
No. Disgusting. I'd rather read a wet newspaper.
Will you please show me your cooter?

Sunday, June 04, 2006

You really want to hear? Don’t get me started!

Checking my mail box tells me I seem to have left one or two of my readers a bit disappointed regarding a recent post:
You can NOT just leave us hanging like that!
— C. G.
Details! Details!
— M. P.
Oh gosh, OK. I hate leaving anyone unsatisfied. If you insist on hearing the boring details [smiles coyly]:
He carried me to the bed, kicking my shoes out of his way, which I had left in the middle of the floor. For some reason I couldn’t stop giggling.
Setting me down on the bed, he removed his shirt and paused, I think, for effect. I looked up at him, slipping my pajamas off and smiling. Naked, I turned over, got on my knees, lowered my face to the pillow, and presented him with my bottom.
He ran his hands over it, delicately at first, then firmly, squeezing and holding my cheeks in his hands. I parted my legs slightly.
“Are you going to spank me?” I asked, whispering.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he replied, gently. “I really am not the sort who spanks, you see.”
I don’t really know why but I was both disappointed and relieved at the same time.
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked him.
“I am also not the sort who talks so much,” he said, and then he lay down behind me on his stomach, parted my bottom and started to lick me in long, slow, sensuous licks, starting from my clitoris and going up through my slit and across my anus. It was delicious. I closed my eyes and held on to the pillow.
His tongue pointed and screwed itself against my clitoris, drilling into it and running along its swollen length. I moaned. His hands held my bottom up and his mouth opened wide, his tongue running up to my slit, parting it and sliding into me. I bit my pillow. His tongue was thick and very warm, and so soft yet so insistent. It parted my folds and slid into me, slowly, finding ridges and folds that I didn’t know that I had. I let out a long, slow breath of air. Once I was totally and completely relaxed he traced one finger along my slit and then pushed it in my pussy, and I could hear it; it was wet, slishing and sloshing back and forth. He withdrew it and tasted it, and then slid two fingers into me and started kissing my anus.
I turned beet red and wanted to scream. It was so embarrassing to be kissed there, but it felt so good I couldn’t stop him. I hid my face in the pillow and surrendered to his lips. Those lips… they sucked it, pulled it, then opened it and his tongue entered it, hotly. It was soft, yet firm and a wave of pleasure consumed me until my body was enflamed and my legs started to tremble. I made a small crying noise and he stopped.
“I am hurting you?” he asked softly.
“NO!!” I screamed, then more gently I continued, “I mean… no, I’m fine, it’s fine; it’s just that… are you sure you want to do this? You don’t mind?”
I could hear him smiling as he replied, “My dear lady, I don’t do anything I don’t want. Not here. Not with you.”
“Well, OK then,” I said, “if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“Has no one done this to you before?” he asked, tracing the ring of my anus with his finger.
“Well,” I admitted, “yes, but … well, he wasn’t as slow and sure of himself as you are. I think he was in a rush to get inside me.”
“Inside your bottom?” he asked.
“Yes, I let him … I let him do that. He enjoyed it; I guess I let him do it.”
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Are you enjoying this?” he asked.
“Yes.” I lifted my bottom higher and opened my legs more. “As long as you don’t think … that I’m a slut or something.”
“Hardly,” he said. His finger entered my bottom again and I groaned softly.
“Monsieur,” I said, turning around, “I need … I need very badly to suck you while you do that.” I helped him remove his pants.
He was quite erect, and I held it happily in my greedy hand as my mouth lowered over it. I sucked it happily, and he turned me onto my side so he could continue with his mouth on me.
When his mouth found my anus again, the palm of his hand pressed on to my vulva, spreading it and mashing it. His fingers stroked my clitoris as his palm spread my slit wider. I moaned around his cock, licking it, sucking it, loving it as much as I could. His tongue buried into my ass, driving me wild, and it all became a blur of pleasure – tongue, fingers, and cock. It was delicious.
Then he backed off, and began to gently strum my clitoris very slowly, running his thumb up, then down its length. I felt my vulva, beating with my heart, and I became intensely aware of how engorged my clitoris was. His attention to my bottom had ceased, and I could feel the cool air against my wetness as he flicked his thumb up … down … up … down, and my hips were moving to try to increase the pressure against his hand. But he held me off.
I had pulled my mouth off his cock by then, and was holding it in my fist tightly as I gasped. “More,” I begged, “please.”
“More what?” he asked, teasing me.
“Unghh…” I opened my legs wider and tried desperately to get more of his fingers, but he was holding them tantalizingly away so that they only brushed against my sex very slightly.
“More what, love?” he insisted.
I grabbed his hand with both of mine and was prepared to shove the whole thing inside me at that point, but he took hold of my wrists and pinned them up over my head, pushing me to my back; then Monsieur began kissing me. I responded hungrily. His tongue brushed my lips then plunged into my mouth, teasing my tongue, dancing with it, but then he pulled away and circled my breast with sugar kisses, still holding me by my wrists. It was pure torture, and I arched my back and humped against him wantonly.
“Please,” I begged again.
“What do you want?” Monsieur asked, letting go of my wrists. I reached for his cock but he took one nipple in his fingers and pulled it, gently at first, then insistently. This single contact between our bodies seemed electric, and I felt a charge go through my body as my nipple became engorged with blood.
“Aagh!” I cried, gutturally, gripping the sheets in both hands and twisting them up, almost ripping them from the bed. I felt lewd, shameless, my legs open and the wetness from my slit coating my thighs and pooling on the linens.
He held the nipple like a firm clamp, not actually hurting it – but not treating it like fine porcelain either. “What do you want?”
“I want you!” I cried. “I want you to take me, to take me now! Please, Monsieur,” I begged again, “you’ve got to fuck my pussy!”
“Lustful girl,” he smiled. He held his body over me, covering me with his body. He took my wrists in his hands again, pinning me down. This prevented me from reaching between us and shoving his thick, wonderful cock into me like I desperately needed. His chest hairs gently teased my breasts and my head was spinning. He undulated over me, his body moving in slow rhythm and I moved with him. I tried to position my body so that he would slip into me, but he held his hips away. His cock was teasing the lips of my pussy, or it was sliding up, slishing down, and glissading my slit. When his glans came in contact with my clitoris, I was almost in tears.
“I’m yours!” I said hoarsely.
“Are you, indeed?” he said, half to himself, then he held his cock in one hand, and moved his hips just so, spreading me, entering me, slipping his way past my pulsing labia and tunneling into me. My hands stopping gripping the sheets and my arms went around his ass, pulling him in. It was filling me, and my eyes closed tightly while I bit my lower lip.
He paused to ask, “I am not hurting you?” and I shook my head, made a few incoherently formed syllables, then pulled him into me in One. Smooth. Stroke.
Tears were streaming down my face as I came. I bit my lips to avoid crying out but it was no use. A long, low moan escaped my mouth through my clenched teeth. My head was spinning and my body moved with him almost involuntarily. My hands squeezed his ass and pulled him closer to me, and I writhed against his body to increase the contact of my clit on his shaft.
“Forgive me; I cannot last,” he whispered to me, and I nodded assent and held him close. I felt him swell up, his back arched, and he closed his eyes and filled me with his soothing seed. I trembled and he shuddered. I gasped and cried out his name, waves of pleasure rippling through my body.
He lay on me, resting his weight on his elbows like a gentleman should, and I held his head against my chest.
“Do you feel better?” I asked him.
“I feel wonderful,” he said, and when he looked up at me I could see tears on his face as well.
“Are you all right?” I asked, looking at him closely. “What’s wrong?”
“Release,” he said in a whisper. “Emotion. I am fine.”
“Can we do this more often?” I asked him as gently as I could.
“[Yearning Heart],” he sighed, “I promise you – I do what I can. Besides,” he added, “isn’t it the sweeter in its rarity?”
I wiped his tears away, kissing him. He wiped mine away as well. I held him against me and we murmured to each other, reassuring each other until there were no more words.

Saturday, June 03, 2006


Monsieur: Can you come into [the law offices of Firefly, Shyster and Firefly] tomorrow?
Yearning Heart: I suppose so, what’s up?
Monsieur: We have the guardianship agreement to work out, and papers to sign if all is agreeable.
Yearning Heart: [smiles] I can. If you are sure that’s what we should do.
Monsieur: Good.
Yearning Heart: I’m sorry, for last night.
Monsieur: For what are you apologizing?
Yearning Heart: I should not have mentioned marriage. I’m sorry. You looked like I stabbed you when I said that.
Monsieur: I’m sorry for my reaction. Don’t apologize for my reaction. You have no other way to suggest that other than to suggest it. But, it was not especially good timing for me, which I admit to you. But that is not your fault.
Yearning Heart: I love you, and I really want to help you raise these boys.
Monsieur: I am aware of it, I believe you, too. I want it to be a good fit for you, too. Marriage, everything. I want you to feel complete with what you are doing.
Yearning Heart: I do. I am complete, as long as I’m here with you and your boys.
Monsieur: Bien, I will make an agreement with you? That we do not talk of marrying for … H’m … six months? When will that make it?
Yearning Heart: December 2nd? At … let’s see … bedtime?
Monsieur: [laughing] Yes, all right. It’s a date.
Yearning Heart: All right. And the rest of it? Everything else stays the same?
Monsieur: The rest of it? What do you mean?
Yearning Heart: I mean, do I get to still live here and you still like me and all?
Monsieur: Yes, of course! I really can not do very well without you. [pause] I think that is what worries me the most of all.
Yearning Heart: Well, I’m not worried about that. I’m staying and you can’t get rid of me. [smiles] May we still have sex?
Monsieur: Nothing has changed, I promise.
Yearning Heart: I mean, right now?
Monsieur: [sighs] [Yearning Heart], you are persistent.
Yearning Heart: Yes, and you love me for it.
Monsieur: I do love you. [kisses her]
Yearning Heart: Encore? [kisses him hungrily]
Monsieur: Toujours. [kisses her]
Yearning Heart: [clinging to him after he breaks the kiss] How about now?
Monsieur: Now, what?
Yearning Heart: Sex. You. Me. Yum. How about now? N. [unbuttoning his shirt buttons with each letter] O. W. N is for ‘Naughtygirl’, O is for ‘Orgasm’, and W is for ‘What the Hell are You Waiting For?’
Monsieur: [hugs her tightly, then picks her up and tosses her lightly over his shoulder - she screams, then covers her mouth] You are a very naughty girl, you know.
Yearning Heart: [giggling from over his shoulder] Yes, I know. I need a spanking.
Monsieur: I will give you what you need, have no care.
Yearning Heart: [giggles] Yum!

Friday, June 02, 2006


OK, OK, I’m an idiot, I know. I’m going to try to salvage this somehow. (See below for me whining about it earlier.) Maggie said life is like juggling, and when you drop something you should make it look like part of the act.


No HNT yesterday, as I never got around to borrowing a camera. I was up late with my first official visit to the ER. Bigglest Boy was spinning and spinning in the mud after school, and fell and landed on his hand in such a way that it bent and hyper-extended down and either sprained his wrist (most likely) or broke it.
We were at the school. I heard them playing outside while I was inside, chatting with a friend and waiting for Monsieur to come and pick us up after work. I heard them get into the garden area which is now pretty much a mud pit and just as I was running outside to get them out of the mud, he spun around on his toes, fell over and screamed. He got up holding his arm in a real unnatural position and my heart leapt into my throat.
“It just hurts!” was all he could say. His elbow seemed OK but I didn’t want him to move. I called Monsieur immediately.
“Get him to sit at a desk and hold it still, if you can,” he told me. “I will call to get you a ride to the county hospital.”
A hew minutes later a pickup truck showed up carrying J, who thank the goodness was at home and came immediately with her little girl, E. Since she was a teacher before, everyone knew her. Also E’s still in the school.
J tossed me her keys and said, “Take him; I’ll stay here with the other guys till we know more.”
I made grateful noises while I got Bigglest Boy together and headed out.
Bigglest Boy was petrified, understandably, since most of what he knows about hospitals was that his mom went to one right before she died. “I am NOT going to have an MRI,” he announced to the intake nurse.
“Darling,you’ll do what your Mama tells you,” she said.
“She’s NOT my Mama!” he cried. The nurse asked me what my status was.
“I … I’m his guardian,” I fibbed. Well, I kind of am, anyway.
“Here’s a different release form for you to fill out, then,” she said, and I did, signing and affirming things that I’m not sure if I had a legal right to do.
The exam and X-rays were an ordeal. He is as stubborn as his father, and as difficult a patient as his mother. He wanted to know the exact amount of radiation that they would be using for each X-ray exposure. In kilowatts. The radiologist looked at me. “He’s a scientist,” I explained. “He’s been studying radiation.”
The radiologist was extremely patient, and she explained to him where the radiation was going to emit, how long it would come out, and she even looked up exactly how many kilowatts would come out on each shot. She showed him the lead apron that would protect the rest of his body, just in case. “It’s perfectly safe,” she said. “I do X-rays for dozens of boys and girls a day, and I have never hurt a single one.” But when we got ready for it, the radiologist wanted me to stand behind the barrier, “for safety.”
“If it’s so safe then how come Peppermint can’t be here next to me?” he wailed. “Is it safe, or not?”
The radiologist looked at me, and I said, “I can stand here, if it’s allowed.”
“You’ll have to put on a lead apron, too, then,” she sighed, and got it out for me. Which I didn’t mind.
We got three exposures and were sent out to wait. We got to see them come out of the film developer and look at his bones.
“Is there a break?” he asked her.
“I don’t see one,” she said, “but I’ll give these to your doctor and he’ll look at them and tell you.”
The ER physician didn’t see one either. “But there could be a hairline fracture that won’t show up on film, so I’m going to recommend a splint and sling, and a visit to an orthopedic surgeon tomorrow to make sure.”
By then it was already almost 5 o’clock and Monsieur had already gathered up everyone from the school, dropped J and E off at their home, and brought the Two Littlest Boys back home. I called him and gave him a report. He was mostly worried about Bigglest Boy’s state of mind, his anxiety level.
“He’s incredibly agitated,” I said. “I really can’t get him to do anything. He’s a very difficult patient.”
When I got to check out, I had our insurance provider cards and paid with my VISA card. One hundred dollars, with co-pay. “My daddy will pay you back,” said Bigglest Boy, sniffling.
“I’m not worried about it,” I smiled. “I know he will.”
After Bigglest Boy was finally put to bed, at about eleven, Monsieur came downstairs and hugged me. “Thank you for taking care of my boy,” he whispered.
“It’s my job,” I said simply, then told him about the whole legal guardian waiver I had to sign. I wasn’t comfortable with it, and told him so.
“Well, it turned out all right,” he said, “but I can see where it could have gone badly.”
“I don’t ever want there to be hard feelings about how I handle anything in an emergency,” I said.
“I am not worried about how you handle emergencies,” he said.
“Well, thank you for your confidence, but I also don’t want anyone to give me trouble because I’m not their legal guardian. This is a pretty small county, you know, and everyone knows everyone. We’re just lucky that we didn’t know anyone at the hospital who could have caused us any snags about guardianship and rights and responsibility.”
“Yes,” was all he said for a while. Then, eventually he added, “Let me talk to someone, and perhaps we can get some kind of legal status for you, if that would be acceptable.”
“I just don’t want to have to lie and then sign my name to it,” I said.
“I do not blame you for that.”
“I’d be willing to adopt them, if that is the easiest way,” I said.
He looked at me. “Are you quite certain?”
I nodded. “Quite certain.”
“We will find out the best way to do this, I promise. And I will include you with any discussion that will lead to any decision.”
We were sitting at the kitchen table. I held his hand. “I really think that would be good; and don’t worry. I really am here to stay,” I said.
He held my hands in his. “I am glad. Let us cover the legal matters, then move deliberately towards a better status for you.”
“Can we get married?” I burst out, then I saw his face and I immediately regretted it. “I mean – oh gosh I’m sorry. I mean, later?”
He looked cornered. “Give me some more time, on that idea.”
“Is it a good idea?” I asked.
“On the surface, yes, for me, a very good idea.” He looked at me. “I want it to be advantageous to you, as well. I still have an idea of you going to finish your MFA, even if you don’t. In any case, we have had a very emotional day, and I think it would be best if we would go to bed.”
“All right, fair enough,” I said. “I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, standing up.
I smiled at him. “Can we, maybe, go to bed and stay awake a little while longer?”
“Not tonight, chère,” he said. “I have had a very emotional day.”
Like I haven’t? I thought, but smiled and held him, then we went to bed.