Friday, July 28, 2006


Well, I haven’t written much.
So you noticed.
I’m busy. Now it’s no longer sufficient to teach the Greek alphabet, we have to actually learn some Greek words. So I’m studying.
There has also been curriculum cleanup and for some reason I can’t connect to the internet sometimes from the school.
But, Monsieur got a car, and now I have the van back. Monsieur transferred the title of the van to me, so I won’t have any trouble if I needed to shop around for another one; I can make whatever decision I need to.
Since the last time I posted, I’ve gotten it from Monsieur once. It was a very quick quickie in the bathroom.
The Three Littlest Boys had sniffles and were tossing and turning a lot. I’d put Very Littlest Boy in the Big Bed as was planning on sleeping upstairs in his bed. Monsieur was in the shower. After getting ready for bed and into my jammie bottoms I opened the shower curtain.
“How hot is it supposed to get tonight? Are you leaving the window open?” I asked him.
“The forecast says 78 F so likely not,” he said.
“OK,” I said, standing there with the shower curtain open.
“Is that all?” he asked after a few moments.
“No,” I said. “[Littlest Boy] is in our bed, so I’m going to sleep upstairs so I’m less likely to catch whatever’s going around. You can sleep with me too, but it’s a twin bed.”
“I think I should sleep downstairs in case he has trouble breathing in the night,” Monsieur said.
“All right,” I said. I stood there, holding the shower curtain open. I watched the water streaming down his chest hairs, making patterns. There was a stream of water pouring through his pubes and dripping off of his heavy, swinging cock’s head. I licked my lips.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, “I hope you don’t think it too crude of me, but do you think you could possibly give me that tonight?”
“I could but you’re very tired, remember. You stayed up quite late the past two nights.”
“When I do that, Monsieur, I think it would be helpful if you could give me sex, because that’s usually why I can’t sleep.”
He closed the shower curtain somewhat abruptly.
I went upstairs, cleaned up the clutter in Littlest Boy’s room and changed the sheets. He came in when I was folding the bedspread.
I smiled at him.
“It’s odd, for me, to feel romantic in the boy’s room,” he said quietly.
I turned out the lights. “You can pretend it’s my room and I’m a college student and you’re my sociology professor and I’m trying to keep up my grade point average – “
He laughed. “None of your roleplay for me, angel, as I am not one of Lady Ann’s Brothel’s patrons, and I think what I have here is fantasy enough.”
I slipped his boxers down.
“No kiss?” he asked.
“Don’t complain,” I said, stroking him and moving to the bed. “You’re a parent in a house with three sick kids, and all this could end at any moment.”
“’All this could end at any moment,’” he laughed. “Don’t use that line on me; that’s the line that I used on Lebanese women in the ‘80s.”
“Did it work?” I asked, kneeling and taking him with my tongue.
“Usually nothing worked, so eventually I resorted to doing nothing.”
“That works with me,” I admitted. “When you do nothing with me it makes me want you like crazy.”
I went back to work on his cock with my tongue. It was hard long ago; I was just seeing how hard I could make it. Pretty darned hard, as it turned out.
I lay back pulling him on top of me, rubbing myself open. He started to kiss his way down to it but I pulled him back up.
“Business at hand,” I said. “Watching that water drip off of you was all the foreplay I needed tonight. Don’t pout,” I added, seeing his face. “If there’s time you can always go back to it. Me first,” I insisted.
He was a good boy, and got over me. I locked my legs around him, rubbing myself wantonly. He slid into me slowly, watching my face. It stretches me still, but when he goes slowly I can only feel warmth. It was good, good, good, and rubbing myself and moving against him and biting my free hand, I brought myself off quicker than it took me to type this paragraph just now. And I type pretty fast, too.
“Do you need more,” he asked me gently.
“More, more, more, more,” I whispered, writhing beneath him.
He complied, but held me down by my wrists. It was dark, very quiet, and I could hear the mattress as he sawed in and out of me. I could hear the squishing and my own involuntary gasps and cries.
“Hush, ma Cherie,” he whispered into my ear, putting a finger on my lips that I sucked. “You don’t want any of the children to awaken.”
I came again, biting his finger. “More,” I said, as he slowed down. “More, more, more, more,” I repeated each time he thrust against my moving hips.
He moved me down, skootching me down until my legs were hanging off of the bed. He put my legs around his back and then, his feet on the floor, started to hammer me, slowly at first, then building speed. Little explosions were going off in my closed eyes. Fireworks, I thought, I’ve heard of it making you see fireworks.
“What do you want?” he whispered into my ear suddenly.
“I want … for you … to …” I said, then stopped.
He stopped moving, and held me tightly. “Tell me,” he insisted.
‘I want you to come on me,” I blurted out.
He looked at me.
“On my breasts,” I continued. “Can you?”
“If I promise to, will you let me suck on you first?” he asked. He started moving again, slowly and building up speed.
I laughed. “You drive … a hard … oo! … a VERY hard … bargain.”
He pulled out of me and I gasped. He moved down between my legs but I needed his cock so I turned him around so he could get at me and I could get at him. He was very wet from me and I had no trouble stoking his wet shaft while I licked and sucked the thick head.
His tongue was so long and warm as it plowed into me. I love the way a tongue can shape shift suddenly, from a broad flat shape, to a long thin one, to a thick and wide bludgeon, then a wedge, then a vibrator. It’s all good.
I stroked it faster then he took it from me and started really pounding it.
“Do you still want it?” he asked.
I lay back on the bed and nodded. “Don’t hold it back, either.”
He shook his head.
I was rubbing myself when the first drop appeared, then it flooded out of him for a long time. He held the base of his cock as he stroked it, then when he let go of the base it really flew out thick. It went down my chest, and it was so warm that it surprised me.
I knelt and took the head in my mouth to suck the last bit of it off. There was still quite a bit but it didn’t just shoot out, I had to work it out of him. Which, I did, greedily.
“Do you feel better?” he asked me.
“I do,” I said. “And so do you, admit it.”
“I do,” he said, and then, “Are you still sleeping up here?”
“Yes,” I said, licking my fingers, “but I bet we can both squeeze up here on this bed; at least for a little while.’
I was exhausted, and as I lay against his chest, my eyes closed. When they opened again, it was morning and Monsieur was outside, watering the chickens.

Friday, July 21, 2006


I watched Monsieur as he almost slid off of the roof. He was up there, cleaning the gutters, and saw this large hunk of rotting wood at the top of the roof. He tied himself off to something and was inching along when his foot went right through an invisibly rotten part, and it broke and he started sliding right down the roof. I watched, thinking, there he goes. I think he’s going to land on that concrete, head first. He surely won’t survive that. What is this sensation? Oh, it’s my heart beating in my throat, I’ve heard of that.
He caught himself by his emergency harness and hung there upside-down against the roof. My hand was on my mouth both to keep from screaming, but also to prevent my shouting out stupid suggestions like “Be careful!” or “Don’t fall!”
He was, and he didn’t. He pulled on the rope and then swung around until he was hanging off the side of the roof. I brought the huge aluminum ladder around to that side of the house and leaned it up against the eaves. He lowered himself to the ladder and climbed down.
“You OK?” I asked.
“Yes, fine,” was all he said, then he went in, got some wood scraps and went back out again, climbed back up and replaced the wood trim that was rotten.
Oh, and he made it rain yesterday; it’s a ritual.
First, he waters the lawn at noon, which is ridiculous out here because it evaporates so fast.
Then he washes his car, and then he gets out the wax and sets it out on the driveway, open so it will get soft.
Then he goes inside. When he comes out, it’s usually raining and the wax is ruined.
So, we got about 45 minutes of rain yesterday. I laughed till I heard the thunder and then I said, “Wait, did you see that coming in on your Doppler radar you got on your laptop?”
“Do not mock the car wax gods,” he said, “as they will turn on you.”
Good idea, I thought. Watch out for those roofing gods, too.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Cleaning out some old files

I found this handwritten on a sheet of graph paper in Maggie’s file cabinet. I have no idea what it is.

Supplemental Superheroes Guild: “If you need us, well, we'll try to stop by.”
Adequate Man
Mylar Man
The Goggle Lord
Mr. Velcro
The Sidekick Kid
The Phantom Egg Master
Cotton Man
The Clown
The Scarlet Wench
Dr. Speed
The Gay Pimpernel
The Stroller
Nembutal the Mystic
The Incredible Lunk
The Shyster
Sgt. Nick Gore (Nicole?)
Mr. Tripod
The Intimidator
Chat Man
The Laughing Priest
Belt Man
The Furnisher
The Lunatic Bitch
Lunch Man
Thrush Girl
Cable Boy
The Waitress
The Snoop
The Babysitter
The Owl Doctor
The Folkster
The Limper
The Dozer
The Paisley Ninja
Blind Man
Disco Queen
Pork Pie
Mr. United States
The Caped Cardinal
Grackle, The Boy Anomaly
The Pusher
The Corpse
Sump Dweller
Routine Boy
The Flea
The Loser
Mr. Simmer
Goose Man
Black Guy
Insurance Man
The Bladder King
The Green Cloak
Dr. Timeshare
The Borrower
The Puzzler
Punk Buster
The Sash
The Leaning Man
Captain Pauper
The Liniment Master
Dr. Spooky
The Spackler
Bundt King
The Gardener

Thanks for the Mammaries

Slow easy lazy day. The AC was fixed 1st thing on Monday and my heat rash has almost totally disappeared. The Two Bigglest Boys are out with their daddy running errands and I am home with Littlest Boy who finally went down for his nap, after rage, rage, raging against the ebbing of his own consciousness. I have never known a kid to fight a nap like he does.
When he was a baby (OK, last year) right after his Mama passed away, I had the worst time with him at night. I would spend entire evenings in the rocking chair, holding him, singing to him, crying with him. But he was used to nursing down, and of course his nursing was taken away very abruptly. I didn’t mention this back then but, back when I slept in his room, and he slept with his daddy, he would sometimes wake up and get out of bed to wander the house at night, looking for his Mama. I’d find him and put him back in the Big Bed with his daddy. Once or twice I got in with him, too. It was comforting to me, but after he would fall asleep he would root around in my chest looking for the milk. He’d be sound asleep, but I’d wake up with him tugging my shirt up looking to nurse.
Of course when he found my itty bitties he’d realize someone switched something out, and since he didn’t get any he’d wake up and bawl.
Once, when he did that, I was exhausted, resentful yet sympathetic towards him, and thought to myself, well, I could just let him suck, right? As long as Monsieur didn’t find out? Just this once? Lifting my shirt up, pointing a nipple to him, thinking, maybe he’ll just start sucking and fall asleep. I mean, who would it hurt?
I found out in jiffy time. Who it would hurt was me. Oh. My. God. It was like a vise clamp, with tiny baby teeth. Oh. My. God. I thought, only for a minute, only for a minute, it will hurt only for a minute then he’ll fall asleep and Oh. My. God. How do moms do this? How did Maggie do this? He’s tearing the skin, I just know he is, he’s locked on like a little bear trap, shit-fuck-hes- ripping-my-nipple-off stopstopowowowowowstop STOP!!!! My mind screamed and I made a noise, and ripped the little tit limpet right off of me. I looked down, expecting to see a raw open wound. It was beet red but not bleeding, much to my surprise.
He wailed, and Monsieur woke up, surprised to find me in his bed. Back then Monsieur and I didn’t sleep together and he was keeping me at two arms’ length. I don’t remember what I told him when he saw me there, but I probably made some excuse about neither of us being able to sleep. He picked up Littlest Boy in his arms and, thanking me, gently told me to go back up and get in my own bed.
It was a few months before Littlest Boy would sleep through the night without waking up wanting Mama. As for myself, I still wake up wanting his Mama sometimes.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Language Barrier

At the giant grocery store in town, I met up with a woman who lives in the same holler as we do. She asked me how I was getting along so far.
“So far, pretty well, thank you,” I said.
“He’s Frainch, ain’t he?”
“He is.”

I am 43% Dixie. Barely in Yankeedom.

Find out how much of a cracker YOU are.

“He’s a right nice fellow. [pronounced ‘rat nass fella’. I’ll attempt to reproduce her accent from here on.] He he’ped us rise up a fayunce whan ars blowed dahn from thet flud – thet wuz prolly afore yore tahm.”
“Your fence?” I asked, just to make sure I was hearing her correctly.
“Yep, ar bob-wahr fayunce. We dun’t aksed him tew, he jes’ shown up and pitched on in. Steady fella. Wukked all affanoon inta th’evenin’.”
“He’s very helpful,” I said.
“Yew speak any Frainch yusself?” she asked.
“A bit,” I replied, “though I can’t really keep up if two native speakers are talking to each other.”
“Yew like Bottled-air?” she asked.
“Bottled air?”
“Yep, mah folks lef’ me some book o’ his’n, Ah dunno mebbe y’all’d like t’take it. Ah cain’t read a bit own’t.”
I racked my brain. Bottled air … bottled air … What could this woman be talking about?
“What’s it called?” I asked. “The book?”
Flahrs o’ Evil, I thaink, in Ainglish.”
“Baudelaire!” I cried, in realization. “The Flowers of Evil!”
“Wail, shore! Whut’d yew thaink Ah sayd?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I laughed. “But sure, I’d love to have a copy of it in French.”

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Hot and Cold

Well! Wonders will never cease.
There I was thinking, there’s no way I’m getting any this week. Last night I was perfectly happy to sit and watch my British comedies, while Monsieur tucked in the Two Bigglest Boys, and adjusted the window AC upstairs so that they would get the maximum effect.
Our AC is out at least until Monday when we hope to get a repair tech all the way out here. Meanwhile I’m covered in a thin sheen of sweat. It would look like a healthy glow if I weren’t panting for breath during the heat of the day. At night, I try to move as little as possible.
I had stuffed an icepack into a pillow and was leaning back against that, trying not to feel like a wimp. I watched the end of my favorite Judi Dench sitcom while Monsieur cleaned the kitchen. I was about to go to bed when he came in to the room.
“It’s hard for me to admit I am not accustomed to the heat,” he said, half to himself.
“Why should you be accustomed to it, if you have spent most of your time in air conditioning?” I asked.
“Well, in Africa, and in the Middle East, I spent most of my time without it, and I don’t think it was nearly as trying as this.” He paused, then said, “I’m going to take a shower.”
“All right,” I said, my eyes on the TV.
“Would you care to join me?” he asked.
I looked up at him. He didn’t smile but there was a twinkle in his eyes. I liked it there. I smiled. “All right,” I said.
We stripped out of our sticky wet clothes and stood in the master bathroom. He turned the water on, not freezing cold but not as hot as I usually take it. “Too cold?” he asked me.
“I don’t think I’d mind if it were,” I said, parting the shower curtain and slipping in to the tub.
We soaped each other and rinsed each other off. I got a chance to really look at his body in the bright bathroom lights. I was finished cleaning his chest and stomach when I found a little scar on his abdomen, on the right side. It looked years old. I touched it. “How’d that happen?” I asked.
“Someone took a shot at me,” he said evenly.
“Someone shot you?” I asked, not believing that someone would have a reason to.
“Yes,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate.
“When was it?” I asked. “In Kuwait?”
He laughed a little. “No, actually, this was in Houston, and I was very much interested in someone who turned out to be someone else’s wife. She neglected to mention her husband,” he added, turning me around so he could clean my back.
These were very deep waters, indeed. I wanted to find out more but the circumstances of it made asking a little difficult. I knew from experience that Monsieur did not volunteer a lot of information about the parts of his life which he found embarrassing, so I let it drop. Besides, his hands on my back, the cool water, and being naked with him were starting to feel good. I figured I’d ask later.
He had moved down to my bottom and was soaping it and rinsing it off. He had me part my legs and then he cleaned my thighs and calves, down to my feet. I turned around and he scrubbed my chest, stomach, rinsing the soap off of me with the detachable shower head.
His cock was bobbing and the water ran off the tip, flowing down and making it look like he was leaking. It looked good, so I knelt on a washcloth, swept my wet hair back, and took it in my mouth.
I ran my tongue all over the head then popped it out and licked it all over. The water ran down my hair and back as I licked and bobbed my head. Once he was completely hard it was impossible to put him in my mouth at all so I contented myself with licking it. I couldn’t take it anymore though, so I kissed it and stood up, smiling.
His eyes burned into mine. He turned me around, facing the shower head which was now back on its holder, and told me to put one foot on the edge of the tub. This lifted one leg and parted my vulva, and he ran the tip of his cock over my labia until I gasped. I was very wet and pushed back against him, trying to capture him inside me.
He reached between us, finding my labia and parting them, then rubbing the thick head of his cock up and down my slit until it was coated with me. He asked me, “Are you ready?” and I nodded, facing the other way. Then he slid that thick head in, and I gasped again, pushing back as firmly as I could.
It burrowed in, spreading me, filling me, and bringing a warmth up from my thighs to my face. I’m sure I flushed pink despite the cool water. I reached forward, bracing myself on the tile, and moved up and down, back and forth on his magnificent cock.
I wanted to touch myself but I was afraid if I removed my hands from the wall I would fall forward, and spoil the moment. I tried leaning over more to get my clitoris to rub against his moving shaft but I couldn’t do it and still maintain my balance. I think he sensed that I needed more, and he reached between us to feel where we were joined, then ran his fingers up, up, up to my clitoris, not touching it directly, but holding my labia together between his fingers and letting it rub against his closed fingers and my slippery lips.
“I can’t hold out,” he confessed in a whisper.
“Don’t wait, just … I mean, I need you to come for me,” I moaned back at him.
He reached forward, holding my hair in one hand. I loved that; I wanted so badly for him to pull it. With his other hand, though, he did something that really blew me away. He adjusted the shower head so that it was hitting me on my upturned ass, and he turned the hot water off, so instead of cool water it felt almost ice cold.
“Aaagh!” I screamed, clenching on his cock.
“Yes, mon ange, that’s it,” he gasped.
“No!” I screamed. “COLD! I …”
He grasped me, embracing me around my abdomen and forcing me to an upright position. The icy water hit me right in the chest, and I came so hard, making ridiculous noises like, “GANGH!!” and “Nuhhhhh!” and my nipples crinkling up with the cold and the arousal.
He gasped too, and I could feel him swell and pulse, then cover me inside with his warm wet load, filling me to overfull and more. I thrust back against him, oblivious to that frigid spray of water, greedily fucking him. His arms held me close and I rubbed myself once, twice, three, four times, then came again in his arms.
I must have blacked out, as my eyes were swimming, but when they focused again he was wrapping a towel around me and I was sitting in the tub, the water was shut off.
“That was … hot. And cold,” I said, smiling dreamily.
“Indeed it was,” he agreed, “and we needed that.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” I whispered to him.
He helped me to my feet, and I moaned weakly. “Thank you,” he said.
We went to bed, me much cooler on my skin – but much warmer in my heart.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

I’m a-Doun

I’m a-Doun For Lack O’ Johnnie

I’m a-doun, doun, doun,
I’m doun for lack o’ Johnnie;
I’m a-doun, doun, doun,
I’m doun for lack o’ Johnnie.
Not nearly enough lovin’ has been coming my way. I mentioned the one from last week before that visit from Mom and Bro but that’s been it.
Gin Johnnie kent I was na weel,
I’m sure he would come to me;
But o, gin he’s forsaken me,
Och hone! what will come o’ me!
It’s bloody stinking hot; our AC compressor blew yesterday and we are down to one window unit of available breathable oxygen.
I’m a-doun, doun, doun,
I’m doun for lack o’ Johnnie;
I’m a-doun, doun, doun,
I’m doun for lack o’ Johnnie.
I’m a wimp. Pioneer women lived in the harshest conditions in this very spot for a hundred years. I can last till it is repaired on Monday.
But since I can barely move right now, we’re gong to go to the school and turn on the window unit full blast.
I sit upon an auld feal sunk,
I spin and greet for Johnnie;
I don’t expect any hot monkey love this weekend. It’s hot enough already.
Maybe I can catch him in the shower; I’ve been hungry to go down on him.
But gin he’s gi’en me the begunk,
Och hone! What will come o’ me!

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Independence Day

From Saturday evening until yesterday morning, my mom was in town with my brother, who was waiting for some construction job to start up in Lawrence.
Monsieur knew something was up; I thought it was PMS but he knew that I was upset that they would be around on the weekend which is the time we usually have for loving, if I’m to get any that week. Which, I don’t always.
And he knew. When the kids were in bed, he called me into the kitchen.

Monsieur: You’re tired?

Yearning Heart: Yes, I did a pile of laundry and we all did the marketing, which is exhausting with three boys, and Bigglest Boy is probably not going to sleep tonight because he’s nervous about meeting my mom. So, he’ll keep me up a lot.

Monsieur: I think he’ll probably come down here in about twenty minutes.

Yearning Heart: Probably.

Monsieur: And you’re tense.

Yearning Heart: It’s my period coming.

Monsieur: It’s not your period coming, it’s your mother coming.

Yearning Heart: Maybe a little, ya.

Monsieur: And you’re worried that we won’t have a moment of real privacy when they are in the house.

Yearning Heart: I … guess I didn’t count on any … intimacy … for another week or so.

Monsieur: Are you … opposed to a quick one in the bathroom?

Yearning Heart: [eyes lighting up] With you?

Monsieur: Indeed, with me, I should think so. I mean, I suppose you could go by yourself, or with your little friend, but I think it’s always more fun to share moments like that.

Yearning Heart: [smiles]

[He takes me into the master bathroom, runs the water for noise, and unbuttons his shirt.]

Yearning Heart: [stripping my t-shirt and jeans off]I hope you don’t want much foreplay.

Monsieur: [sighs philosophically] Right now I am yours, to command.

Yearning Heart: I wish!

He takes me leaning against the wall. I am done in three minutes so I go another round. He is not actually done, but he holds me to him by my hips while I bend over the sink, watching him in the mirror. I writhe against his hardness and rub myself off selfishly, until I think I hear a noise in the living room. I slip off of him with a slish and get into my robe to check on Bigglest Boy, but Monsieur shakes his head.

Monsieur: I’ll go. [He cleans himself off, and slips into his pajamas and a t-shirt] You still are flushed and breathing hard.

Yearning Heart: [trying to catch my breath] Right … [mumbling, to his exiting back] … like you’re not.

Mom and Bro were good, for the most part, except when Bro was outside on the west hill trying to smoke pot, and Monsieur went out there to tell him that particular hill overlooks the house of a county sheriff’s deputy’s house, and maybe he might want to try the path leading south to the creek bed.
Also Mom got a little miffed that she couldn’t cook her Famous Pork Loin in Monsieur’s house.

Mom: You’re sure he’s not Jewish?

Yearning Heart: No, Mom, he’s just stubborn. Like how Daddy won’t eat Korean food.

Mom: Well, that’s because he’s convinced it’s all dog.

But he charmed her, and when she showed him a picture of me sneezing into my 3rd birthday cake from her old pocketbook collection, he got out the most adorable picture of him and his brother and his mom at some harbor somewhere, and showed it to her.
He also assured her that he did indeed celebrate Independence Day as well as anyone, but without the firing of automatic weapons into the air that is common among Texans as it is among the Arab states. “I don’t know why they do that,” he said. “It might be the cattle and oil money that they share, but perhaps not.”
And although I promised not to, I did slip once and called him “Monsieur” in front of my mom, but only once.
Talking to my mom is like being in a Robert Altman film.

Mom: Do you have those dried seeds for your fall garden? Be sure and send …

Yearning Heart: Yes, Mom.

Mom: your measurements to your Aunt Nasal. You sure you …

Yearning Heart: Yes, Mom.

Mom: like it here? I’m proud …

Yearning Heart: Yes, Mom.

Mom: of you, in a way. I’m going to …

Yearning Heart: Thanks, Mom.

Mom: call you when we get to Wichita. Call your …

Yearning Heart: OK, Mom.

Mom: daddy for me. Oh, and can you …

Yearning Heart: I will, Mom.

Mom: e-mail your cousin Cornhusk and give him your e-mail address? Take care, …

Yearning Heart: I sure can, Mom.

Mom: honey…

Yearning Heart: OK, Mom.

Mom: I love you….

Yearning Heart: I love you too, Mom.

Mom: Did you double wrap that blackberry cobbler? It’ll freezer-burn …

Yearning Heart: I did, Mom.

Mom: if you don’t double wrap it. Good.

[Monsieur comes out of the house, carrying Mom’s clean laundry in her laundry basket.]

Monsieur: Don’t forget your laundry.

Mom: Well, thanks! I was just about to come back in for that.

[A beat, then:]

Mom: Take care of her.

Monsieur: Yes, Mom.

Mom: [smiles] Good.