Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Occupational Hazard

Occupational Hazard

a play in one act
The Yearning Heart

dramatis personae:

Pati Ent, female, mid twenties, college grad. Intelligent, cute, good-natured.

Doctor Hand, male, late thirties, gynecologist. Charming, professional, gentle. Really good looking, but all business. Think of a straight Graham Chapman who looks like John Corbett.

Nurse Oyl, female, fifties or older. Has seen it all. (Or so she thought.)

Setting: The OB-GYN examining room. As the curtain rises, Pati Ent is having her vitals and stats done by the Nurse; throughout the following, she’ll be weighed and have her temp & BP taken.

Nurse: Looks good. Pressure’s good. You’ve put on three pounds, nothing to worry about. Looks like it’s all muscle anyway. You could kinda stand to put on a few more before you’d have to worry about anything.

Pati: What I’m worried about is my … my PC muscle.

Nurse: [distractedly, filling out the chart] You’ve been doing your Kegels?

Pati: Yes! yes, that’s just it. I first started to exercise them three times a day, and then I moved up to once an hour. Now it seems like … like they’re taking over. They’ll clamp down clench and grip and … and I won’t be able to unclench.

Nurse: [frowning] … hmm, well, it might be nothing, but when Dr. Hand comes in we’ll be sure and tell him about it. OK? [exit]

[Pati slips into the gown and sits on the examining table. Dr. Hand and Nurse enter.]

Doctor: Ms Ent? Hi… I’m Dr. Myron Hand. [reads chart] Ms Oyl says you’ve got a little muscle spasm going on?

Pati: Not really a spasm, more like a Vise-Grip, living in my cooter.

Doctor: Clamps down, eh? Any pain?

Pati: No, actually, it feels kinda good! but I am afraid when it won’t let go.

like a good cowgirl

Doctor: Lay down on the table there. Feet up in the stirrups, like a good cowgirl. Comfy?

[The examining table must be placed, for the sake of the actress’ modesty, so that we see from Pati’s point of view. We can only see the top of Pati’s head, and her knees open with her feet in the stirrups.]

Now, Pati, have you tried the Brazil nut test?

Pati: No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.

Doctor: Yes, trying to hold an object about the size of the common Brazil nut in your vagina, and squeeze it out. [puts on examining gloves] Think you can do that?

Pati: Oh, sure. Never tried it with a Brazil nut before.

Doctor: Well, it’s not necessary to use a Brazil nut [takes cellophane wrapped object from the nurse] but since I have plenty of these sterile surgical Brazil nuts [ripping the package open] we’ll just see how that involuntary spasm presents itself.

Pati: Sure.

[Doctor reaches under Pati’s robe and inserts the nut.]

Doctor: Now, just bear down on that, doing a Kegel, and try to use your muscles to push it out.

[sound: piece of plywood being ripped apart]

Doctor: Great Scott! Incoming! [He grabs the Nurse by the shoulder and forces her to the ground. Brazil nut shell fragments fly out from under Patient’s robe and fly over them, hitting the wall behind them and shattering the wall clock.]

Pati: I’m sorry, Doctor. I can’t control it anymore.

Doctor: [amazed and shaken] That’s … that’s all right, I’ve just never seen such … such tone.

[Pati is embarrassed.]

Doctor: [cont.] You’ve got to learn some control, there, Pati! [takes another surgical Brazil nut and unwraps it.] Now, let’s try it again and this time not quite so hard.

[Reaching under Pati’s gown, he places it and then stands back]

Nurse: [gets out two pairs of safety glasses and hands one to the Doctor] Better wear eye protection, first, Doctor. [These should be heavy-duty, military grade tinted green safety goggles.]

Doctor: Right you are, nurse. [They both don goggles.] Now, Pati, gently is the word here. Just try to slowly bear down, and …

[A cracking noise is heard, then crunching, then with, a loud bang, shell fragments come flying out. The two medical professionals hit the deck again. We hear the sound of nuts being chewed and swallowed. ]

a large shell fragment embedded in the lens of his safety goggles

Doctor: [Now he has a large shell fragment embedded in the lens of his safety goggles. He examines the damage to his room.] Only shells. Do you see that? No nutmeat. That thing has got to be stopped.

Nurse: What are you going to do?

Doctor: [dramatically] I’m … going in. [He opens Pati’s robe and, reaching forward, carefully probes with a gloved finger.]

Nurse: Be careful, doctor.

Doctor: It seems to have relaxed. … hmm… odd, it’s almost as if it ate the Brazil nut. It isn’t possible; there must be more Brazil nut in here -

[Suddenly, his finger is gripped and pulled in. The doctor grimaces in pain.]

Nurse: Pati! Let go! Stop it! You’ll break his finger!

Pati: I’m not doing it!

[a look of terror on the Nurse’s face, as she tries to extricate the doctor’s finger]

Doctor: [screams]

[The Doctor is being pulled in by his hand. His arm disappears within, then quickly he is sucked in with a wet slurp. The highly enhanced sound of a dental vacuum sucking up petroleum jelly would be good here, with appropriate bone-crunching effect.]

Pati: [horrified] Oh my God!

Nurse: [looks in] He’s gone.

Pati: [crying] I’m … I’m so sorry.

Nurse: There is nothing you could have done. [looks back in] [to herself] That thing is not of this world.

Pati: But … but what about Dr. Hand?

Nurse: [Still staring between Pati’s legs] Dr. Hand knew the risks when he majored in gynecology. [Pause] He was, after all, a professional.


Sunday, October 22, 2006


Yes, whatever. So I hung out online a lot this weekend. He knew I did; I was DJing at Lady Ann’s when he popped on PalTalk with a PM and asked how the boys were doing. I called him back on his cell, which was cool, and he kept checking: is all well, did I remember this or that, how’s the money holding out, oh by the way there’s this pre-made dinner he made and it’s in the downstairs fridge.
  • miss you,
  • love you
  • miss you again
  • miss you more
French baritone. Yum. Sounds so good on the phone. His accent gets thicker when he’s all tired and jet-lagged and it’s like a shot of DC current running from my clitoris to the base of my brain and back. And he’s not micro-managing me, he cares.
“I wish you were here,” I said, after a pause.
“I wish you were here, and Grandmother and Grandfather were at home, caring for the kids. I’m more alone in this place than I ever have been anywhere,” he added.
“What would we be doing, if I were there?” I asked him.
A pause. “Wonderful things,” he said, finally.
“When you get home, I will need you.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Inside me,” I continued, whispering.
“I know,” he said, simply, “don’t worry.”
“‘Don’t worry’ like, you understand? Or ‘don’t worry,’ you’ll take care of me?” I persisted.
A pause.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said. “Be good, and be well. Don’t stay up too late on chat, all right?”
“Yes, monsieur,” I said.
“You will need your rest this week,” he added.
“Yes, monsieur, I’m about to log off.” I said goodbye to the chat room and exited.
“You will also need your rest for when I come home,” he added. I could hear the smile in his voice.
“I – yes, monsieur,” I said. I blushed. I sneezed.
Salud,” he said, with a knowing little chuckle.
Merci,” I said, then added, “Merci. De tout.
“For everything?” he asked.
“Yes, monsieur,” I said.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

My man's gone now

My man’s gone now,
Ain’t no use alistenin’
For his tired foot-steps
Climbin’ up de stairs. Ahhhhh, ahhh

Ole Man Sorrow
Come to keep me comp’ny,
Whisperin’ beside me
When I say my prayers. Ahhhhh, ahhh
Ain’t dat I min’ workin’·
Work an’ me is travellers
Journeyin’ togedder
To de promise land.

Monsieur is out of town on business, and I never really grasped how hard he works around here, how much he does.
He left at noon, leaving a few meals in Tupperware that I can pop in the microwave. The house was spotless and the sinks were shiny before he left. I know all Emergency Procedures, and I know whee the Panic Buttons are, in case there’s any trouble I can hit one of six strategically located buttons, and an alarm goes off that would be loud enough for an air raid siren.
Laundry, dishes, Littlest Boy’s first change at 5 AM. Water the chickens, milk the cereal and rotate the laundry again. It’s not hard work, but it’s steady, and he normally does it while I’m swinishly asleep. He typically gets up with reveille, and I stay in bed until 6 or even 7 sometimes, when I wake up to homemade chicken sausage and omelets.
No omelets for me this morning, it was my rubbery scrambled eggs, which no one touched and I don’t blame them. Littlest Boy was up and out of bed like a little jumping bean flavored Pop-Tart™ all night. “Where’s my daddy?” he would cry. He kept forgetting that daddy was away. “Will he come back now?” No, not for some days. I can relate, sweetie; I can’t sleep without your daddy either.
At least he gave me yummy yum before he left. Plenty. I’m once, twice, three times a-laid.
Still, a taste of the bone, right now, would be just what the doctor ordered, what the butler saw, what made the preacher hopping red.

Monday, October 16, 2006


Yes, we talked. I talked at first, and Monsieur listened, as that’s his way. For someone who can make idle conversation in seven languages, he’s remarkably taciturn when it comes to his feelings; me, I can speak only one language well, and just try to shut me up in that one.
Monsieur talked about the pending lawsuit that he’s facing, and how he feels betrayed by the people he worked for. Basically he is being sued because the company who is suing him didn’t do what he told them that they should do. They are being fined by their state regulatory agency, for not following the law, and so they’re suing him almost out of reflex. It’s a nuisance to them, but it’s his livelihood, his home, everything he’s worked for that he has to fight. Monsieur is worried that, if he ends up losing his home and land, he’ll have to move into town into some rent house or apartment, crowding his kids all in a smaller place, living under the eyes of neighbors. He is afraid I’d feel crowded and without the lovely house and huge backyard, his kids would be unhappy, and that I’d just up and leave. He knows I’m kind of needy, and thinks I should have things that I don’t have here, and that I would rather be in graduate school and dating younger men, working in theatre and having fun.
And he has to go out of town and be away for almost a week, which is bothering him, because he hates where he has to go, but he’ll do it because if he doesn’t take this job, he won’t be able to finance his defense lawyer.
I was hurt by the suggestion that I’m so needy and would be happier with things and with someone else, and the idea that I’d just leave him because of a change in address. But to my credit I shut up and I listened. At some point, I just held him. He was quiet, and he sighed in such a way I thought it was a sob. I hoped, prayed, wished, he would cry it all out.
I’ve never really seen him cry, even through all this, even after Maggie died, I never saw him really cry. His eyes got red sometimes, his face went from this ashen gray to a bright pink, but no sounds, no weeping, nothing. Me, I cried all the time. I cried when we went through Maggie’s clothes, to give them away. I cried when I had gathered up her mascara and lipstick, when I had found the one shade she showed me and said, “I call this Cock Sucking Red, you should borrow it sometime,” with a wink. I cried months later when I had found a Jamie Cullum T-shirt wadded up under the upstairs bathroom sink, that smelled of her sweat and that cheesy almond oil she used on her skin. I had closed the bathroom door so the boys wouldn’t walk in on me, held it in front of my face and cried.
Monsieur talked to me about a lot of things, about Iraq and Fiji and West Africa and some of the horrible and wonderful things he’s seen and been through. He talked about being young, in France and being thought of as American because he was born in California. As a result, he styled himself as an authority on all things American to the other kids. They couldn’t play cowboys or gangsters without him; since he had been born in America, only he knew how they really wore their hats, how they really drove their cars, how they really shot their guns. He became the technical advisor for playing anything that had an American theme, from cops and robbers to rock and roll.
I listened to the story of how his whole life, he never really felt like he belonged in what they told him was his own country, and never felt at home in America either. He speaks French with an accent, and he speaks English with an accent. No matter where he went, he was marked a foreigner, a stranger in a strange land, slow of speech and slow of tongue. He wandered across Europe, playing American pop songs for Germans, playing Irish folk songs for Hungarians, playing anything for anyone.
He casually mentioned some girl’s name I hadn’t heard, someone who had let him sleep in a spare storage shed when he was down and out, and I asked him about her. I wasn’t trying to pry, I just said, “tell me about her.”
At first he rather shied from that, but I asked him gentle questions, why she let him stay, what did she do? What was her story? She was married to a man who drove a semi-truck from Scotland to Turkey, and who was gone most of the time. I asked him if he had slept with her, and he said he had. I asked if he had loved her, and he said, “I tried very hard not to, but men are weak that way. Most women can decide for themselves whether to fall for the men with whom they have affairs of the heart; men are not able to differentiate as easily and that is their failing.”
There were many affairs, he said, but no girlfriends. He did not manage to date women, to have a girlfriend, or to hold a full time job. He joined the army almost out of distraction, thinking he needed to learn skills and come out with “knowledge under the fingers”. He ended up in Mechanized Infantry, and though he was very highly regarded, came to hate it as he was deployed to Kuwait, then to West Africa and Fiji. His team’s job was to be the first to go into an area and make sure it was secure.
“How did you know when it was secure?” I asked him.
“When they stopped shooting us. When everyone who could fire a weapon or plant an explosive was either captured or dead. When the construction battalion people could come in, and rebuild the bridges that were destroyed, and set up communications.”
I didn’t reply. I held him.
“I finished my time, and left, less sure of myself than I was when I went in. The sound of a round being discharged, gives me a feeling of untold grief.”
“Is that why you don’t let your boys have toy guns?” I asked. “Is that why you don’t keep a gun in your house, even against wolves and coyotes?”
“Partially. I don’t want my boys to have romantic notions about firearms. Also, such weapons are terribly imprecise. Let them discover this when they are older; should they become interested in such things.”
“Some people would describe you as a pacifist,” I whispered.
“Some people like easy labels,” he replied. “Besides, I know of few combat veterans worth their weight who would truly enjoy the sound of gunfire, or who would not like to see war’s end.”
We talked until late at night, me in his arm laying my head on his chest. I listened to his deep baritone, not saying much of anything, just listening. He would pause and I would think he was asleep. Then he would start again, speaking so softly and so distractedly that it was almost like listening to the ocean. A wave of murmurs, and then a pause, a few breaths, repeating at odd intervals for hours. His chest was a seashell against my ear, making each word resonate; we were on top of the blankets because he was so warm I needed nothing but his voice around me. My hair cascaded across his chest and onto the blanket around him. I wanted to shield him from the world.
There was a long pause, and he said, “When we met you, that time, at my sisters’ house, and you were her roommate…” he paused.
“Yes,” I said.
“I felt so ashamed, of how I wanted to see you again,” he said almost inaudibly.
“I know.”
“I felt myself becoming what I was, someone who not respect the marriage, someone who would seduce a girl, and I was ashamed. Even when Maggie would talk about you as a good friend, I was not receptive to that. I did not want her to be close to you. I did not want you to be near her.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know at the time.”
“Old habits,” he said, and did not finish the sentence. Then he began again, “Of the two of us, she would have said that she was the more likely to sleep with someone else, and before I had met you, I would have agreed. She could not contain herself very well. But, with you, I was the more tempted, and the guilt is more burning when we met you because you were still very much a child.”
“I was nineteen, past the age of consent,” I said, somewhat defensively.
“But not past the age when you could have been objective,” he said quickly. “For a married man in my mid thirties, married to a woman like Maggie, to look at a girl of nineteen, it is criminal.”
“You can’t help how you feel,” I said. “I wanted you and Maggie. I flirted with you and Maggie. I tempted both of you. I knew what I wanted. I shouldn’t have done it. I didn’t know it was causing you such conflict. I was not ...” I looked for the word.
“You were not yet grown up, for one,” he said.
“No, I guess I wasn’t.”
He paused, breathing somewhat deeply, and I thought he might let go and finally cry.
“Yet you were so alive, so full of joy. And you were ... you are ... so beautiful. So beautiful.” He held me tighter under his arm, and my arms went around him. I held him tight.
“You have no idea,” I said, finally, “how much I need you to tell me that.”
He rolled over me and kissed me. His mouth was warm, and his lips were searching mine, and he moved against my body and kissed me like he meant it. Most guys kiss me like they’re trying to turn me on, because they want something. Which is okay. When Monsieur kisses me like he kissed me, it was like I was the center of the universe, and he wanted nothing more. He kissed me like I belonged. He kissed me like he loves me. My arms went around him, he was my darling, he was my everything.
“I’m sorry that – ” I began, between kisses.
“Hush, ma belle douce,” he whispered and kissed me.
“But I’ve been so bad,” I protested.
“Still yourself,” he said, “you were never bad.”
“But, I just wanted to ... I mean, I was only thinking of myself,” I said, through tears.
“You have every right to ask for what you want,” he said, “and not to apologize.” He kissed me.
My tears were streaming down my face, but I didn’t talk. I didn’t deserve him. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop crying.
“You are sad?” he said, finally. He pulled away and looked into my eyes.
“No. Yes. I don’t know,” I admitted. “I feel guilty.”
“Yes, as do I, but that is only because you have a good heart. I see who you are. We see the good in you. The boys see your intent. They are loved. We are loved.” He kissed me. “And so, you are loved.”
My arms and my legs went around him and I held him as close to me as I could.
“How can you stay with me,” he asked, “if I don’t take care of you properly?”
“How can you think you don’t? I get all I need, if not all I want.” I closed my eyes as tears streamed from them. I kissed his cheeks, and they were wet. I don’t know if they were wet from my tears, or from his.
He sat up in bed, and, turning around to make sure that the door was shut tightly, he lifted my nightgown, grasped the gusset of my panties in one hand and pulled. I lifted my hips, sniffing my tears, and my panties were pulled down and off of me. He leaned back down and kissed my neck, my collarbone, my shoulders. My nipples crinkled and my heart leaped in my ribs. I pressed against him, realizing I hadn’t showered all day and I hadn’t shaved my legs, or down there, since Wednesday. I was a bit fuzzy. I hoped he didn’t mind. He didn’t seem to. He pressed against me, and I felt him against my vulva. His cock.
I wanted to tell him that it was all right. He kissed my breasts and my voice didn’t come. I wanted to tell him that we didn’t have to do anything. He sucked and nibbled my nipples. I gasped, instead of saying that if he felt sad or afraid it was all right.
But all I could manage to say was, “Don’t.” I didn’t mean to say that, because he stopped.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and started to move off of me.
“No! ‘don’t STOP’, I meant,” I said, and, holding him by either side of his head, I put his lips back on me where they belong.
He kissed his way down, teasing my navel, then bit my tummy, gently. He started to move down and I said, “I’m, um, not shaved. Sorry,” I added. “I haven’t been very – ”
“Don’t be foolish, you’re beautiful, from your toes to the top of your head,” I heard him say, his voice muffled in my mons, the smooth baritone wafting up from between my legs, blending with my scent. His lips found my stubble, and despite my self-consciousness, I pulled his face tighter to me, half hoping that he wouldn’t be able to tell so much how stubbly I was.
“Besides,” he added after a while, “I haven’t shaved today either.” His mouth stayed closed as he kissed me there. I was swollen and I could feel the pulse in my sex, under his insistent lips. He held his lips to my labia, not opening them, just holding his face against it, while my nails went up and down his neck, and my fingers entwined in his hair. He kissed it again. I loved it, despite the heavy friction of his stubble against mine. Or maybe because of it.
His tongue emerged, licking the outside all over, running over the stubble on my labia. He licked me open then licked me shut. I wanted his tongue inside, his fingers, his cock. I ached to be penetrated but he lick, lick, licked it instead. I was slishy wet, running down his face, pooling up under me. Still he licked, up and down, all the way to my butt. I was afraid I wasn’t clean but he insisted, his face burying itself in my bottom, kissing, sucking, even biting me. My head spun and I felt like I was floating on clouds.
I writhed, bit my lips, tried to move but he was holding me down. I wanted to cry out but my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I finally managed to say the single word, “Stop,” and he stopped instantly.
“Nooo,” I protested, finally, gasping. “Don’t stop; I meant stop... stop teasing me.”
He looked up at me. “I am not teasing,” he said. “Not in the sense that I think; usually teasing is more of a sense of not allowing you to have your hopes satisfied –”
I mashed his face back down into my pussy. “Shut UP!” I screamed. “Suck. Lick ... there. My clit, and inside, I need to be fucked, fuck it, fuck me, fuck my OH GOD yes,” I cried, this as his tongue plunged into me, filling me with its warm prehensile girth, spreading me, making me delirious.
“I need to suck you,” I said. He held his tongue inside me and shook his head. I looked down, into his eyes. “I need you in my mouth,” I said.
He pulled his face from me, looked up and said, “Not tonight.”
I was crying. “Please. Don’t just ... please don’t just eat me; I must be fucked.”
He moved over me. He held my hands up over my head, and holding me by his wrists, he positioned his cock, thick and bobbing, between my legs. I captured it with my thighs, squeezing it hard and trying to work it in my pussy using only my quadriceps. I looked up at him, defiantly.
“You better fuck me,” I said. “Oh, sweet godamighty, if you don’t fuck me you are going to have one angry girl in your bed – ”
He held one finger to my lips. “Hush, sweetheart, you’re should not talk so,” he whispered.
I kissed the finger, then sucked it, writhing, moving against his cock. “Now,” I insisted. “I’m past ready.”
“Impatience is very becoming on you,” he smiled.
“I wish you’d be coming on me,” I said, smartly.
He didn’t say anything to that, but let go of my hands. He held his cock against my swollen pussy lips and was still. It felt like a warm, wet, iron bar. I moved against it, pushing down, reaching down to spread myself, enveloping it, opening up, moving against its immovable head, until it slowly filled me with


His held thumb against my clit, his half-lidded eyes on me, and did not move.
I writhed against him more, lifting my hips, then my legs and locking them around his back He was motionless. I looked up at him, breathing through my teeth, trying to get him to move by stimulating him and gripping him with my Kegels, but he was as motionless as a lump of granite. A very sexy, well-defined, tall, dark, and hot lump of granite.
My hands went to pinch his nipples, then I bent forward to kiss him. He kissed me as gently as could be, his lips touched me like butterfly wings, like the eyelashes of an angel, which was as bad as his motionless body to me right then. I grabbed him by the back of his head, and pressed my lips tight to his, sucking his tongue. I felt a pulse in his cock, and he rubbed his thumb against my clitoris, lazily, not as fast as I wanted but very hard. Thump. Pause. Thump. Pause. He pinched it, rolling in his fingers, and I came, my vision going black as I cried. When I could see again, his hand was over my mouth and he was moving in and out of me, slowly, deliberately.
“Yes, angel,” he said, letting go of my mouth.
I don’t know what I said. I cried. I gasped, calling his name, calling for JesusMaryMoses and probably my Mommy, too, for all I know. I came again and held him, crying, crying, crying out. He watched me, and then a surge went through him and then into me. He filled me up, completely, holding me close to him as it pooled inside me and ran down my legs, down my crack, onto the sheet.
“Oh!” I cried, voicelessly.
“You are all right?” he asked me.
I nodded, unable to speak. He held me there, until I fell asleep with him still inside me.
When I woke up, it was morning, a sheet was over me, and my legs were apart. I was weak as a newborn lamb. I was unable to see straight, make a fist or walk properly. I staggered to the bathroom, not remembering anything right, and I sat on the toilet, unable to pee for many minutes, until everything relaxed.

Saturday, October 14, 2006


I was getting nervous, and here’s why. Monsieur has to go out of town next weekend. He’ll be gone a week from yesterday (next Friday) until the following Tuesday. He has been bent out of shape, not so much as anyone would notice but I’m getting used to his odd ways and I can tell when something is bothering him. I asked him before if I had said something wrong, if I had done anything, but it’s not me, he assures me. I tried to believe him. So night before last I cornered him, and let into him.
He’s had the coin for a week now, and hasn’t redeemed it. What’s up? I asked him, don’t we have a deal? Are you mad at me? Did I say something wrong? do I smell bad? All I got was one syllable answers.
After pressing I find out that he’s being sued. It’s work-related, and he told me he did not want me to worry and that it’s an occupational hazard of his job. He said he gets sued every other year or so, and usually it’s nothing, it’s a very common occurrence and usually comes from a company or firm trying to cover its own ass. This time it might be a tough case, though. He’s got a good lawyer, not his regular family and business lawyer, but a specialist who deals with this sort of thing. It will likely cost him a pile of money that he doesn’t have.
“When did you find out?” I asked him.
“Initially, about a month ago,” he replied. “On Monday, I found out that they may have a difficult case, and it could go badly.”
Of course, I felt slighted, for no reason at all. My immediate reaction was, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”
“I probably should have.”
“‘Probably’?!?” I wanted to punch him. I let into him. I felt slighted, like I didn’t deserve to know. “When were you going to tell me? Were you going to tell me? This is the kind of thing I need to know. I deserve to know. You can be secretive and mysterious with everyone else, but I refuse to let you keep this kind of thing from me. Are we in this together? I need to know that. Why do I have to pry things out of you?”
He tried to answer each question but I was not letting him finish. He sighed, and his eyes were looking down as he admitted he didn’t want me to worry, blah blah blah.
“I’m ALREADY worried, damn it. I need to know what I should be worried about!” He stared at something on the floor. “Jeez, I keep thinking it’s me, or you’re not into me, or I’m doing something wrong. You need to talk to me, like, well, like I’m somebody, and not your damned babysitter.”
“It may go very badly. I may end up losing my business, everything – and I don’t know if you would care to stay with me if I have nothing.”
“Monsieur, listen to me. First of all, for such a brilliant guy, you’re an idiot. Look at me.”
He looked at me.
“I’m. Not. Going. Anywhere. OK? I mean, I would if you were going to throw me out. Are you planning on throwing me out?” I asked him.
He didn’t say anything for a little too long, and I said, “Look, fine, I can go. I can stay with friends, or my daddy. I don’t have a car now, so I’d need to take the bus up to Wichita – ”
“Please, don’t be dramatic,” he said, “and please, stay. I am rather … confused by this, and I confess I don’t know what will happen. But whatever happens, please stay.”
I felt like such a bitch. My ire was raised, and I couldn’t calm down. To my credit, I counted to ten, and said, “Are you still going on that business trip?”
“I am not in a position to turn down work, right now,” he said.
“All right, then.” I sat there. I wanted him to put his arms around me, but I couldn’t ask him to. I wanted him to kiss me and let his heart pour out to me, but I wasn’t about to ask him to. I want him to be crazy in love with me, but I can’t make him. I sat there.
He sat there, for a while, and then said, “Will you try and get a good night’s sleep, tonight?”
“I suppose,” I said, “if I can.”
“You’ve been up late every night this week. On the computer,” he added, pointedly.
“Yes,” I said.
You’ve been whoring in the damn chat room, he didn’t say.
I wouldn’t be whoring in the damn chat room if you would fucking notice me, I didn’t say.
I went to bed, my face to the wall.
It ate at me all day, all night yesterday. I stopped into Lady Ann’s just now, hoping to get a little attention from a random patron. I sat there for about five minutes, not flirting and talking about nothing.
Then I considered what it would look like if the shoe were on the other foot. Supposing the man were in the chat room every night, pretending to have sex with a half dozen of girls a night, because his own, real life girlfriend was ignoring him in bed. And suppose the real life girlfriend knew all about it, and knew all about what he was doing, and let him because she didn’t know what else to do.
I felt like such a bitch. I left Lady Ann’s, I didn’t say goodbye.
He was about to go to work, and I stopped him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You work hard. I work hard. I love you,” I added.
“I love, adore, cherish you. I can’t show it the way you need me to,” he said. His eyes were red.
“I don’t care. It’s OK, I’m sorry,” I said.
“You have said or done nothing for which you need apologize
“I don’t care. I’m really, really sorry –“ I began.
“I’m sorry too,” he said.
“ – and I love you –”
“I love you, too–”
“And let’s not stay up late tonight. Let’s go to bed, and just talk. We don’t have to … to do anything,” I added.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’m very, very sure.”

Friday, October 13, 2006

Doing My Part for the Effort

I sure am getting a lot of hits from the government and related providers these days. Someone at Halliburton checks on me at least every week; also, I get a whole lot of hits from the military and from the Dept. of Justice.

I love it.

I rather wish someone would name a bomber after me, or put my ass up on the side of a tank or a jet or something. I’d feel like I was Betty Grable.

[waves] Hi, guys!

Thursday, October 05, 2006

First BJ

On 10/03/06, a Dear Reader <emailma@sk.ed> wrote:

Did you do oral before you went "all the way"? What was it like your first time?

I knew my first real boyfriend since fourth grade. Regular readers will remember him as the first guy I slept with. I will always call him Keith in this blog because when he is holding a guitar he looks like Keith Richards from behind. The resemblance fades when you walk around to see him from the front, when he starts to look like Matthew McConaughey with hat hair. He was a real sweetie in school, but he was kind of geeky and shy and girls picked on him a lot. As a result he wasn’t very good with girls. We were close friends from the moment after I tackled him in 5th grade flag football during PE and my team got penalized for it.
“Where did you learn to tackle like that?” he asked.
“I have an older brother and three other male cousins,” I said. “It’s the only way I can get seconds at dinner.”
We were friends up through high school. He didn’t even know how ask me out on our first official “date”, so I tricked him into it.
We were walking home from somewhere; it was getting cold and he let me wear his coat over my sweater. It was 1995, October, I think, and the wind blew from the north pretty hard. This was in central Kansas, where when the wind blows directly out of the north in the fall, it comes straight in off of the Arctic Circle with nothing to stop it except for the occasional farm house and some barbed-wire fence. I was 14 years old. He was 16. I kept re-applying that cheap lipstick I used to wear all the time to avoid chapping my lips. He was in a Tool t-shirt. He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and shivered every time the wind blew. He looked like such a dork that he was irresistible. At this time, he hadn’t even kissed me yet. Such a dork.
“I was, um, gonna, well, I don’t know if this is the right way to um, you know…” he began.
Poor guy, I felt so bad for him
“C’mon, doofus, it’s just me,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Nothin’” he said.
We walked on.
“Well, look, if you want, you can asked me down at Braum’s. I’m hungry and broke, and there’s nothing to eat at my house. You got both a driver’s license and twenty bucks. Run me over there in your dad’s old truck, buy me a burger and ask me there. You can swing a burger.”
“‘Kay.” he said.
After we were at Braum’s and I ate my Junior Burger and most of his fries, I asked him what he wanted to say to me earlier.
“Oh, nothin’,” he said.
“No, really,” I said, “what did you need to know?”
“I don’t remember,” he mumbled.
I punched him in the arm. “Bullshit,” I teased him. “You were going to ask me out, weren’t you?”
“No!” he said. “You’re only 14.”
“Don’t lie to me, dorkus,” I said. “I’ve known you since 4th freaking grade. You can’t take a punch and you can’t lie. So don’t try.”
“Well, whatever,” he said.
“Where are we going out next?” I asked him.
“Ya, next. This was our first date, you know.” I wiped my lips with a napkin.
“Is this a date?” he asked me.
“Sure, it’s a date,” I said.
“Do you kiss on the first date?” he asked.
“Nope, not if it’s just a burger at Braum’s,” I said.
“I bet if I took you to Larkspur’s I’d get a blowjob,” he said, chuckling.
I waited till he smugly took a big swig out of his root beer, then I punched him in the arm, sending crushed ice into his face and down his shirt.
So, I tricked him into asking me out, because he didn’t know a good way to do it himself. He also didn’t know a good way to break up with me when he wanted to see someone else. He still feels bad about it, and often mentions it on the rare occasion I run into him if I go back home. Good, I think. He should feel bad.
But while I was still a high school girl, I played with him, making out, teasing, etc.
Eventually I’d get to seen him naked. A few times, after intense make out sessions, he was so turned on he couldn’t stand it anymore. Usually what he did was to excuse himself, go to the bathroom, and come back all flushed with his hair messed up. I knew what he’d been doing in there, and I wanted to see what it looked like. So once after he and I had been heavily humping each other, and he said something about “going to the bathroom,” I said, “I want to see you pee.”
“I’m um, well, you can come with me but if you do I might not be able to pee,” he said.
“Why?” I asked sweetly. “Are you going to jack it off instead?”
He looked mortified.
“If you do, can I watch?” I asked.
His eyes lit up, and he and I went to the bathroom, where I sat on the toilet lid, he lowered his pants and went for it. I enjoyed watching his face, and seeing his hand go so fast, and our eyes met when he came. It was very intense, and made for a nice little stroke-off for me later when I was alone. Because, I wasn’t about to do that in front of him. I’m a good girl.
One thing he taught me was that, if girls don’t know anything about what turns a guy on, guys know even less about how to ask for what they want. I realized that when I was 16 and I found a porn picture on his computer.
“Hey, what’s this?” I asked him.
“Oh, that, uh, that’s, uh… ” he stammered.
“It’s a blowjob, is what it is,” I said, smiling.
“Uh, well, someone sent that to me, I think,” he said, turning red.
“Oh, quit lying.” I looked at it. She looked like she liked doing that. It looked sexy. “I’m gonna close it, if you don’t mind,” I said quietly.
He didn’t say anything, so I closed the file and went back to doing what I was doing before.
We didn’t mention it. But later, when we were on the phone, flirting and turning each other on, I said that I’d like to learn how to do it. To him. Like, tomorrow.
We made plans. I was scared to death. I was a nice girl, and nice girls didn’t even do that to their husbands. But I also knew what boys liked. And I also thought to myself, it looks like fun. All day, and all night, for days, I thought about having him in my mouth. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
One afternoon we had free time. It was a teacher service day, so a school holiday. My mom worked for the district, and wasn’t going to be home for another three hours. I seized the opportunity and called him, told him to meet me at his folks’ barn, in the old feed loft.
It was stuffy in there. There wasn’t any feed in there, since I don’t think they had any livestock. There was an old horse blanket, and a few bales of hay.
I was suddenly very nervous. So was he, I am pretty sure. I made some noise like “uh, well, here we are.”
“If you don’t want to, it’s OK – ” he began.
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to. It just feels … I dunno, weird, to be here. I wish it weren’t so hot in here,” I said as I looked around.
He saw the loft vent fan switch, and went over and turned it on. A breeze began to blow through the loft, and cooled us off. He smiled at me.
“OK,” I admitted. “I’m nervous.”
“Let’s not do this,” he said. “Maybe we could just, I dunno, treat this like it’s our own place.”
“Our own place?” I repeated.
“Sure,” he said. “You know, we never really have a chance to be alone together. There’s always people around. This is nice.”
He went on, talking about nothing for a long time, telling me jokes, and not calling attention to me or my body. He didn’t try to kiss me. He made me laugh. His voice broke a couple of times, though. I could tell he was nervous, too, and when I realized that, it was like the ice melted.
I threw my arms around him at some point, and kissed him, hard. It surprised him, but after a minute he forgot his self-consciousness and started putting his hands on me. All over me, his hands went, trying to get me out of my pants or get up my shirt. After a few minutes of that I got on his lap to keep kissing him. I could feel how hard he was, and at some point I wiggled on it and smiled and said something like, “Is that for me?”
“Is what for you?” he asked.
I wiggled again.
“Oh … yes. I mean, yes, that’s for you. If , um, if you want it.”
I wiggled again. “Let’s see it,” I said, “and maybe I will.”
He stood up and slipped his pants down to his knees. I looked at his lap. It looked … well, like it was just a part of his body. Skin. Wrinkles, veins, pores. Hair. It looked perfectly normal.
“That doesn’t look so bad,” I said, half to myself.
He kind of rubbed it, and I wanted to touch it. I reached over and he moved his hand away.
It was smooth, and felt like, well, like skin. I looked up at him, and his eyes were completely glazed. I ran my finger up and down its length. He gasped, and his eyes rolled back a little.
I had no idea what to do so I just leaned over and took it in my hand and pointed it in my mouth. I licked it a few times, and sucked its tip like a Popsicle.
“Ungh,” was his response.
I kept going till my jaw hurt. Looking back, I was awful, resting my head on his lap, not giving it consistent suction, ignoring the rest of him, and not pacing myself. My mouth was sore and snot was starting to run down my nose, I felt like my hair was all tangled and I just felt gross. Hey, I was 16 years old, remember.
“I have to stop,” I finally said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK,” he said. “But I can’t stop.”
“I know,” I said.
I leaned back and he kind of licked his hand and then his hand went to his cock. He started to rub it, his hand a blur. I thought he would hurt himself, he was going so hard. Still, watching it turned me on, the way his stomach muscles tightened and flexed, and then suddenly something appeared on the tip of his cock, and then flooded out onto the floor of the feed loft. He moaned.
“Wow,” I said, impressed at the quantity.
He didn’t say much, but wiped his hand on the horse blanket. “Sorry,” he said, “I just can’t go then stop like that.”
I nodded, saving the information for future reference. I wished I could rub one out really quick, but didn’t want to do it in front of him. I waited till I got home, got into the shower and rubbed myself raw for a good twenty minutes.

Sunday, October 01, 2006


It’s been two weeks since I last posted anything meaningful. Not that my ass isn’t meaningful. We’ve been busy. I’m so busy I’m not even going to spell check this before posting it, a first for me.
Two weekends ago Maggie’s parents came from Houston to visit. They are very cool. Her mom is a great dancer. She was born in Yennan (sp?), China, and moved to Taiwan. Her dad is from Korea. He’s a jazz musician and plays saxophone, piano, and probably a million other things. He also learned English by watching American TV and collects old comedy stuff, like old National Lampoon magazines, Saturday Night Life scripts, and other harmless stuff.
When I first came here to stay, I don’t think Grandmother wanted me to stay here. At first I thought she thought I would be bad for the children, but later I came to find out that she was afraid she would lose her grandkids. Since that hasn’t happened, and Monsieur makes his boys talk to their grandparents once a week and write them letters and send them cards and so forth, they’ve stayed in touch and will always know who their grandparents are.
I think Grandfather was a lot more understanding about my staying here and was always trying to charm me and get me to laugh. He tells the worst jokes I have ever heard, and yet I laugh anyway. He’s like a Mel Brooks movie, only Korean. He tells these corny old vaudeville jokes and keeps the boys giggling. When they left the boys definitely felt his absence, and told each other “knock knock” jokes to make up for it.
I had met them at Maggie’s funeral, and also last year some time we took a trip to Houston so that the boys could visit their grandparents and also NASA Space Center. Back then I don’t think Grandmother said three sentences to me the whole time. I wasn’t sleeping with Monsieur, at least not openly, and she treated me like I was the hired help, which I suppose I was. Grandfather was more open and warm. “Good to see you again, beautiful,” he said to me.
Now Grandmother much more willing to confide in me a bit, usually to complain about Grandfather and his eccentricities. Mostly good-natured complaining, I think. Once she asked me if there were anything I wished I had. “Just Maggie,” I said, and she nodded. “She was our music,” she told me. She misses Maggie something awful. They both do.
Also, they brought Grandmother’s parents for a short while, from California somewheres. When the Great-Grands came, they all stayed in a hotel in Johnson City but while it was just Grandparents they stayed with us in Littlest Boy’s room. I learned how to say “thank you” in Chinese (xie xie but I never did pronounce it right).
Also, also, also, the other sign that Grandmother had thoroughly warmed up to me – she and Grandfather recommended that Monsieur and I spend the evening out by ourselves, which we did – the WHOLE night. Monsieur booked a room at the InterContinental Stephen F. Austin Hotel (Google it!), which is awesome.
We had a huge suite way up high, a view of downtown, and a huge bathtub, which we made good use of. He brought a bunch of music on his laptop, which he set up in the corner and had running all night. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful he made me feel with it all, and after dinner, when the music was on and the wine was poured, he didn’t talk about kids or work or money or really, anything that would take his attention from me.
But for now, I gotta run to church, and the rest is a story for another time when I have thirty minutes to type it out, and another thirty minutes alone that I can just work out the tensions that retelling such a story might cause.
Anyway, xie xie to Grandmother and Grandfather for watching the kids all night, and letting us have an entire night off.