Three Feet High and Rising

Happy MLK's Birthday.

No school today – partly because of the holiday, in which federal, state and bank employees get to stay home and celebrate their black heritage. Also because of the weather, as Canada decided to invade the Plains with 4 – 6 inches of “wintry mix” which froze immediately and downed power lines, trees, and random motorists.

Here’s a picture of the flood-level Blanco River, not far from us:

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the flood-level Blanco River

Water accumulated very quickly in the area, partly because the drought made the ground so bone-hard and impermeable that the water just sat on top of the fields, not soaking in. The water tried to run off but the rising creeks and rivers backed up the runoff, so the water just sat there.

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the water just sat there

Then the cold front really kicked in, dropping the temps today from its usual highs of 60° F to about 24° F. From our neighborhood clear up to the Arctic Circle, an ever-thicker blanket of ice is covering everything.

Instead of salting the roads here, they simply stay home, since it won’t last but a day or so. Monsieur is working with Skip the Gay Rancher right now, making sure that the private road is clear to the ranch road. Skip’s tractor is pretty well suited for hauling or towing.

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an ice-covered tree

I just heard from Monsieur a few minutes ago – he’s still in Skip’s tractor, and it would seem that there is more than one truck that can’t make it up the slippery frozen caliche road. So, Monsieur is a snow-plow operator, a search and rescue worker, and a taxi driver today.

The ground under the chicken coop is freezing over with a layer of ice, so I have moved the chickens from the yard to the basement, and they’re not happy about it. They are pecking and fussing like, well, like old hens. The rooster is trying to argue his way out of his imprisonment. The cat has been locked in Bigglest Boy’s room. Bigglest Boy is up there with him, trying to convince him that it’s not a punishment, and that we didn’t inflict this storm on him out of spite. The Two Littlest Boys are coloring with crayons. Middlest Boy’s drawing is of Hoth, the Ice Planet. There are a couple of ATAT walkers, delivering the mail, and Luke Skywalker driving a John Deere tractor. Littlest Boy is calling his drawing “Brown,” which is a very apt description.

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the chicken coop is freezing over with a layer of ice

Where have I been?

Well, I’ve been here. I’ve been busy and all, but that’s not really why I’ve been reluctant to post lately. I think it mostly has to do with the fact that Cat, with whom I went to high school, found my blog.

Hi, Cat!

Even though she PROMISED not to tell the whole world about it, and give away my secrets, I still feel very funny about it. I know that it’s not as if my dad found it, but still I feel funny talking about my feelings to the whole world now. Even though they’re very valid feelings, and nothing to be ashamed of, I have lost that sense of privacy/anonymity that I once had here. I know, with all the detail that I supply, it was bound to happen someday, right? And what was I to do once it did happen? Shut it down? Move it? Or pretend it never was discovered and keep going?

It’s not as though I’m really thinking clearly about all of it.

There’s this … other thing that’s been bothering me.

I’ve been getting the loving from Monsieur about once a week. It’s been very nice, and I really had nothing to complain about, but sometimes he was just getting me off and not getting himself off. I would not have noticed for quite a while but once recently, I guess it was after Thanksgiving. I’d had this mind-blowing orgasm and he stopped, slowing down deliciously first. I was going to flip over and ride him to try and get him off, too. Fair play, right? I mean, it’s his turn and all.

So there I was, cowgirling away with my thighs on either side of his waist. He was rubbing, pinching, teasing and caressing me, but I took his hands in mine and I leaned over him and whispered, “Don’t worry about me, darling. I’m done. Just go for it.”

That’s when Monsieur stopped. “I think I’m done as well,” he said, taking me in his arms and kissing me.

“Did you come?” I blurted out, surprised.

“Well...” he began, and trailed off. “I’m fine,” he said, smiling. He started to get up but I held him down.

“You don’t want to get off?” I asked him. “Or do you need me to do something else?”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I don’t need more.”

So, I’ve sort of noticed that he doesn’t always get off. I guess I’ve been somewhat oblivious to the fact that the wet spot is usually all me, and none of him.

It didn’t bother me at first, but the next time we made love, I noticed it. Then the next time, then the next. No stain, no gain.

I don’t know why, but it bothered me. I was spending all this energy trying to get him to make love to me once a week, and once I started getting that, I guess something in me made me check to see if all was as it should be.

The next time, I said, “You didn’t come.”

“No,” he said, “but I’m all right.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think I am. I need this, too, sweetheart.”

“You need this, too?” he asked me.

“Yes, I do.” I was being firm, but gentle. “I really do. Now, if you can’t for some reason – if there’s something I’m not doing right, or something, please tell me.”

“Perhaps,” he said gently, “now is not the right time.” He kissed me, and tried to reassure me that it was him, not me, and he was fine with what we had. He loved me, he would take care of me, and so on.

I don’t want to nag him about it. I won’t nag him about it. It’s his body. It’s his choice, and he says he’s fine.

It’s not fine. I want that load. It’s mine, dammit. I earned it. Why does that seem so unreasonable? I feel like such a brat sometimes.

I guess … it’s how men feel if they didn’t get the girl off. Once, twice, it’s not a big deal but if it becomes a pattern I guess it just weighs on me. Sigh.