Thursday, April 26, 2007


Monsieur’s grandfather passed away.
He was 98 years old. When he was born in that little village in Gascogne (Gascony), there were no paved roads leading in or out of town. World War I was still five years away, and everyone in his family lived within walking distance of each other.
He fought for his country and for the world in six different conflicts, for three different countries. He also converted the family business from a manufacturer of horse tackle to a global security information consultant firm. He never officially retired; instead he would “advise and consult” with Monsieur’s father by phone from his home. He went from writing with a fountain pen to faxes and e-mails. He was active up until about three weeks ago, when he felt “tired” and went to bed. After that, he only got up to go vote in the Presidential election, and then went back to bed. He died yesterday (Wednesday). We just found out a couple of hours ago.
Bigglest Boy remembers meeting him, but to the boy, the old guy was just an old guy. Middlest Boy was just a baby, and Littlest Boy had not even been born. Middlest Boy rather idolizes both his grand-père and his grand-grand-père - “You know, they both fought the GERMANS.” Like, with their bare hands and a burning tree branch, they held off Panzer divisions or something.
Turns out the old guy was a bit of a spy and resistance fighter in a small way, keeping tabs on equipment that the Germans and Vichy were moving around. His son, Monsieur’s dad, was helping move little notes back and forth, doing what he could too, as he ran deliveries, cigarettes and prescriptions, first on foot and later on bicycle.
The elder was a fun guy, from what I heard, and had a million stories and opinions, and tried to make the most out of every day.
Monsieur’s father arranged to purchase airplane tickets for, the note said, “[Monsieur] (and family), and [Monsieur’s sister Mademoiselle].” I’d thought he would be going with the boys and I would stay home. But Monsieur said that I was specifically invited, and that I must go, if I’m willing. I’ve got my passport.
I’ve got no decent shoes to wear, since my last good pair disintegrated. But, I hear they sell shoes in France.
We’ll be gone just till next Wednesday at the latest.

Thursday, April 19, 2007


I stayed up way too late last night.
First, trying to sort out this new curriculum, getting the right kids on the right track and making sure that no one falls through any cracks. That’s a job, I’ll tell you. Not a day goes by when I don’t feel bad for how bad I acted up in school, because for the most part, my teachers were pretty hard working, and sincere. They really tried, and they had more than a few kids who were real teaching challenges. It was (back then) a pretty small rural school district. I sometimes want to call each one of my old middle school and high school teachers (except Coach Diamond, the bitch) and apologize. I bet most of them are still listed in the book – the ones who didn’t drop dead within a few years from sheer exasperation.
Next, online. I worked at Lady Ann’s last night. I think I’m addicted. I don’t know. Whatever it is, I can’t stay away from it. Anonymous sex, one after the other, and it’s all perfectly safe, if you don’t count the loss of sleep from staying up all night. For a change of pace, I tried sitting on my purple vibrator and just kept it touching me, roleplaying the perfect whore. Well, I was far from perfect; sometimes the tremors would keep me from typing for half a minute, but I tried to give as good as I got. I finally had to go to bed, and I was soaked by the time I shut the computer off.
I took a shower so I wouldn’t come to bed reeking of solo sex. Monsieur is a very light sleeper, and he woke up after I had laid my head on the pillow.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
“I’m fine,” I said, my eyes closing.
“It’s 3 AM,” he whispered. “Is your stomach hurting?” (I’d had cramps a few nights before that woke me up, but I think it was because of the fast food I ate too fast, when I should have waited for dinner.)
“No, I was just reading,” I said.
He hugged me close to him, holding me in his arms. I felt like such an unfaithful person.
He was breathing long and slow. I thought he went right back to sleep. I curled by back up into him, pressing close, tried to relax.
“Is something bothering you?” he asked finally. “Something on your mind?”
Sex, I didn’t say. Cock, I didn’t say. Fuck me, you idiot would have sounded somewhat unfair.
“I’m just out of sorts, I guess,” I said finally.
His hand slid from around my waist and went down to the elastic drawstring of my pajama bottoms. They were tied in a bow, and he pulled on the loose end for a few seconds to try to untie them.
“Actually,” I whispered, helpfully, “they don’t need to be untied to come off.”
He pulled them off and I started to turn over, but he kept holding me in place with one arm. Sliding my bottoms down, he teased me with his free hand and then slipped his hand in my panties from behind.
I moaned softly, trying to encourage him.
He took his damn time. I could feel myself building up, swelling and softening and turning all buttery. The hand around my waist moved up, held my right breast firmly, then his fingers spread so that the nipple was between two fingers, then he pressed his fingers in and held my nipple between his middle and ring finger, just holding it, then he pulled my nipple out, slowly, distending it and gently twisting it.
I bit my lip but I couldn’t keep from sneezing. That broke down some kind of wall, and he quickly turned me face down and lifted up my hips until I was on my knees. He was behind me and I could feel his cock tapping against my panties, pressing them into me slightly.
“Those can come off too,” I whispered the suggestion, but his hands were all over me and he didn’t say anything. I pressed against him. I was trying to will his cock into me, to push past my panties. I reached back to pull my panties down but he pushed my hand away gently. He kept teasing me, as he does, not really being cruel, but certainly not in any hurry.
I arched my back and pressed back against him. I wiggled and moved and spread myself wantonly, wanting him inside me so badly that I almost couldn’t bear it. I made guttural sounds and generally behaved in a way that embarrasses me to think about.
Finally he pulled my panties to one side and ran his fingers up and down my labia. I nearly screamed at the touch but instead buried my face in the pillow and lifted my bottom up higher. He gently touched me from the back to the front, and I squirmed. I knew better than to follow my instinct, which was telling me to just turn around and pounce on him. I knew he’d do what he usually does; he would pull back and lose enthusiasm. But if I just held myself there and was patient, I knew he would enter me and fill me.
Which, he did.
In one
I was blind with lust. I chewed a corner of the pillow, bit my finger, breathed in and out in ragged gasps, and still he kept pushing his way in. I reached back behind me and held myself open, then felt where we joined at the stretched ring of my labia. It was as snug as a tractor tire on a rim. I didn’t think I’d be able to move. It seemed like he was even bigger than he’d ever been. He was certainly hard, and I felt the curve of him, arcing into me, all the way in.
There was still more to go when he started to pull out.
“No...” I begged. His hands were on my hair, and he stroked it.
“Steady, now, love,” he whispered.
He started to move and I don’t think I was capable of rational thought at that point. My entire consciousness was reduced to my pulse, which I could feel in my ears and in my vulva, and my electrified synapses. Every touch seemed to have current flowing through it. I was a switch that had no “off” and his moving in and out, his hands – sometimes on my hair and occasionally on my breasts – kept turning me on, on, on.
‘I can’t last,” he said, clenching his teeth.
“Please, please don’t try,” I asked him.
He reached under me where we joined, his hands moving slowly up from the junction to press against my mons, then he ran his fingers in slow circles over my clitoris until I came almost from desperation. Still, he moved in and out.
“Where?” he asked suddenly.
“Where you want,” I said.
His thumb went in my bottom, suddenly.
I came again.
He withdrew his thumb, then pulled his cock out of me slowly, and I gasped, then collapsed face first into the sheets. I was exhausted.
He turned me over, then began stroking himself. I got up on my knees and pushed his hands away.
“You can touch it anytime. This is my turn,” I said.
I stroked him, getting him wet with my saliva first, then I lowered my mouth to it. I sucked the head a little, then ran my tongue around the rim. I could tell by his breathing, even as measured as it was ,that he was close, so I opened wide, stuck out my tongue, and dived down on it.
It was halfway in when I felt it spasm, swell, and then release.
It filled my mouth with warmth, too much to handle, and I just backed off, pointed it down to my chest and let it soak me.
He held me, kissing me tenderly, and telling me how wonderful I was.
“You should do that more,” I advised him.
“No,” he said. “I like for us to stay just a little unsatisfied. Most of the time.”
“I need more, most of the time.” I said.
“It is when you are at your best. Though you shouldn’t lose sleep over it,” he added.
I thought about my evening at Lady Ann’s and felt guilty. “If you see me up too late, that’s most likely the reason,” I said to him.
He held me for a few minutes, and then got up. The bed felt suddenly too cold and too large.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To feed the animals and start the day,” he said. “It’s 5:30 in the morning.”
I looked at the clock. Damn, I thought, I haven’t pulled an all-nighter in years.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007


We’ve had freezing to chilly temps up here on Blue Hill and lots of fog, rain and drizzle.
While taking the boys home the other day, the van would not go out of low gear (second gear? like I’d know) which worried Monsieur. He ended up taking it to a (Johnson City) mechanic, then another transmission mechanic in Austin.
When he got home, he had a pinched look on his face, like someone was pinching his forehead with pliers. The estimate for a transmission rebuild: $1400-$1900 depending on how bad it is.
“Ouch,” I said, and I meant it.
“I’m going to call the bank,” he said, and headed for the den.
I said, “I’ve got $186.26 in the bank. I was going to spend that on meaningless bills and student loan payments, but if it could help–”
“No,” he smiled. “I’ll figure it out.”
I wished I could help. I mean, I know I contribute pretty deeply, and I know it’s his job to worry about the money but I wished I could do something.