The Heart Approaches What It Yearns

Prendre le congé

2007-09-18T21:39:00.000-05:00

Whew.

OK, I’m not going to go back and post-edit like I usually do, second-guessing myself and trying to make sure every sentence makes sense. I’m just going to put this up.

OK, here’s what’s up.

About a week after my last post (yes I know it’s been two months, but there’s a damn good reason and I’m getting to it) Monsieur and I went to dinner, a very lovely romantic one in Austin at a place that looks like a tree house. I got manicotti; ; he had the fish.

After dinner, I didn’t want dessert and he rarely gets it. We went outside and sat under a huge oak tree. Then he handed me this big freaking diamond ring.

“It was my grandmother’s,” he said. He asked me to marry him.

I suddenly had to pee – really badly.

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

“You are,” he replied.

Damn, he’s good.

We talked a lot. Most of what we talked about will remain private, readers. I’m sorry but it has to be that way. One of the things we talked about was this very blog, which I didn’t know he was even aware. But, he was, and he told me it bothered him that I was showing myself to the world, and talking about deeply personal stuff between the two of us, and generally not safeguarding my privacy and respecting our relationship.

I was embarrassed, and as a result I did two things: deleted picture posts, and didn’t add anything else.

Telling my mom that we were engaged created all kinds of grief between her and me about the wedding and how big it should be and what should happen and where it should be done. Also, among the aunts in my family. I didn’t want that, so about ten minutes later we decided to elope. Which we did, about two weeks ago. So now I’m Mrs. Monsieur.

(A very good friend of mine calls this “burying the lede,” and I suspect he hates it when I do this.)

I don’t know if I’m going to continue this blog, given how it’s public and all. I don’t want to make it Blogger ID-only; and taking it down would be the right thing to do. (I’m definitely not putting up any pictures again!) If I do another blog, I’ll do two things: I’ll hide it from the world, and make it “invitation only”.

In any event, I will at least leave it up for a while. Thanks for reading. You know how to get hold of me, unless you aren’t supposed to.

Pushy

2007-07-18T14:00:00.000-05:00

I pushed.

I didn’t really want to, but I guess I had to know. And it wasn’t easy to ask, so for courage, I opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass. Then another. Then I offered one to Monsieur, and then I poured myself another.

I was nervous. Of course, he knew it.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Just – there’s been something on my mind,” I said.

“Tell me,” he said gently.

“Well, I don’t know if you remember, but, well, I wasn’t supposed to bring up us getting married until after the first of December. Of last year,” I added.

He nodded.

“Well.” I took a deep breath, and just said it like I practiced it in the mirror. “I want to be married to you. I’m not going to ask you; I want you to ask me, when you’re ready. Don’t decide right now. Think about it carefully, but I really do want to spend the rest of my life as your wife, looking after you, raising your boys, and being a family.”

He toyed with the stem of his wine glass. “The reason I haven’t brought it up,” he said, slowly, “has most to do with the debt.”

“The bills?” I asked. “You’re worried about bills?”

“Not just that,” he said. “I don’t think we’d have the ability to do a ring and a wedding, and I know you deserve both.”

“How much debt is there?” I asked.

He told me.

“Well, okay so there’s a lot. But we’re handling it now, right?” I asked.

“Yes, we’re doing well, making payments and handling it. But to add to that a wedding, a ring, a honeymoon...”

“Which I never said I wanted,” I replied.

“You don’t want a ring?” he asked.

“Not a big one. Not even a diamond. I’d be perfectly happy with two gold bands. One for me, and one for you. I don’t need a big wedding, and I don’t need a diamond. Maybe a nice dress, one that I could wear out anywhere. Not a bridal dress. Just something nice. That’s all. I’d feel ridiculous if you spent $5000 on it. Do I look like I need a big chunk of Africa on my finger?”

“It always seemed to me that you would want more than that,” he said.

“Of course not. Am I really that high maintenance?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“Okay, I am,” I admitted. “But not in that way.

He was quiet, in an uncomfortable sort of way, and said, “Let me figure out a way. There are more things that we have to agree on, as well.”

“What? It’s because I snore, isn’t it??” I asked.

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, smiling. “Let me figure out a way, and I will let you know.”

“I will need sex tonight, Monsieur,” I added.

“I understand,” he said.

after the flood

2007-07-02T13:10:00.000-05:00

We had DSL out, or intermittently off-and-on, for the last week. There were horrible floods downhill from us, in Marble Falls especially, and other places. Skip and Monsieur were out there; Skip was hauling in debris on a backhoe, and Monsieur coordinating some emergency networks for the locals.

the creek, flooded.

Low-water crossing. When you see a road look like this, turn around, people, and save a rescue worker.

The Little Blanco, just downhill from us a couple miles. It’s usually narrow enough to throw a paper airplane across.

When it was really bad last week, Monsieur was checking the radio and the radar on TV and then had me go upstairs and clean all the bathtubs with bleach, then fill them up with water.

“Is it that bad?” I asked him.

“We may lose water at any minute, not to mention electricity and phone. DSL will be the first to go, on these lines,” he added.

He was right. DSL went down last Thursday, and it didn’t get restored until Monday.

On Saturday, Monsieur was down by the little staging area where people were setting up a Wi-Fi network, and providing equipment, especially batteries, and wireless cards to the coordinators.

It’s a mess: boats in the trees, houses in the river, and concrete culverts down in the creek washed in from who knows where. We’ll be cleaning stuff out of the pastures for months.

On the good side, we’ve had homegrown tomatoes into July. In Texas, which is unheard of.

Also, we’re on voluntary water rationing, which means no high-water use until after 9 pm. Laundry and the dishwasher must wait until evening, and we wash dishes by hand if we need them. That rather interferes with my resolution to have all the day’s laundry done by 5 pm. Also, 5 minute showers are no fun.

“You could shower with me and we could make it ten minutes between the two of us,” I suggested to Monsieur.

“I showered already tonight, as soon as I got home,” he replied.

“Well, at least check to make sure I rinsed all the conditioner out of my hair?” I asked him.

Monsieur gave me that look.

“Pretty please?” I said, batting my eyes.

“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll check on you after the animals are locked down.”

Later, as I was showering, I heard him come into the bathroom. He pulled the curtain back.

“Turn around,” he told me.

I shut off the water and complied.

“Hm,” he said, looking over my hair. Finally, he said, “It looks like you missed a spot,” and then dumped a large plastic cup of ice water over my head.

I screamed, then, dripping wet, I chased him out of the bedroom with a rolled up towel. He moves fast.

Recovery

2007-06-21T08:59:00.000-05:00

We’re home. Everything went great with Monsieur’s procedure. (Read here, here.)

The only bad thing was that we had to wait to get in. He had to be there at 8:30 to get the TEE ultrasound and it didn’t get done. The catheter part was scheduled for 1:30 pm, and it didn’t get started till 4:00 pm.

He was done in an hour, and a little while later the surgeon let me come in to the recovery area and see him.

He was doing fine. The nurses in the recovery room were on their laptops with not a lot to do, and apparently their system kept them from their favorite crossword puzzles. They said Monsieur walked them through hacking around the controls.

He must have been pretty far gone to do that, since he’s all about network security. But it does say something about his recovery time that he could keep it together well enough to show the nurses how to hack the network.

He also looked over at me and whispered, “You know, we should be married.”

I looked over at the nurse, who looked away.

“I know,” I said.

He closed his eyes.

“You know,” the nurse said, “when that anesthesia wears off, they say things that they might mean but might not remember.”

“Oh, you heard that, did you?” I said, with a little grin.

She grinned back. “I don’t hear anything that they say in here, know what I mean?”

He had to be monitored for a while. Since they started so late, that meant an over night stay. I asked him what he needed from the house, cause Grandfather was going to visit with the kids.

“Bring the Linux notebook, okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. But the surgeon said not to bother bringing his computer, as Monsieur needed rest and wouldn’t remember asking me for it anyway.

By the time he was totally awake, the kitchen was closed. I went down and got him a spinach salad (no bacon) somewhere. We watched old movies on TCM, which made me nostalgic for cable or satellite TV. It was nice.

His pulse and BP got checked by the automatic monitor every 30 minutes or so. He had little plastic things taped to his chest with wires coming out of them.

Grandfather and the boys called to say they were better off staying at home if everything is okay, which it was. He talked to all the boys and told the Bigglest Boy that he had telemetry sensors on his chest, just like the astronauts did on Apollo 13.

He tried calling some of the people that work for him at his office, but I had called ahead and told them to watch the caller ID and not to answer if it was him, or from the hospital phone. He needed to be still. Everyone followed my orders and no one answered. He left some voice mails.

He sat back and watched On Dangerous Ground, some Ida Lupino film noir. I nodded off in the reclined chair next to his bed.

Around 2 AM I opened my eyes. He was out of bed, and still, Ida Lupino was on the screen. “Is this still the same movie?” I asked, sleepily.

“No,” he said, “it’s Beware, My Lovely.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“This damnable BP cuff is inflating every 30 minutes, keeping me awake. I turned that off, but the alarm went off. I’m disabling the whole thing so I can get some sleep.”

“Oh,” I said. Then, “Are you sure you should be doing that?”

“If not, they can put it all back,” he said.

I didn’t argue. He switched off various switches, removed the cuff and the little red light clip from his finger, and wrapped it all up neatly into a coil and set it on top of the monitor.

The night nurse came, I guess at about 4 AM to check his vitals, I suppose since he was unhooked from the monitor. She wrapped the cuff around his arm, took his temp, checked his pulse. His eyes stayed closed.

“Pretty low,” she observed. “Ninety over fifty.”

“Normal, for when I am at rest,” he said, his eyes still closed.

“You gonna bury us all, honey,” she said to him, smiling.

“Not an attractive prospect,” he muttered, then turned over as she quietly slipped out the door.

The next morning, he was awake before me. The nurse had come in and told him he may as well eat breakfast, and there were no limits to what he could eat. He ordered an omelet with no cheese, then looked over at me and ordered me some juice and bagel and coffee.

We finished all that when the surgeon came in. He is from Spain, and Monsieur and he chattered in Spanish a bit, then in English, the doctor said that Monsieur would check out in about forty five minutes.

Monsieur got up, removed all of the sensors from his chest, and went into the bathroom.

I listened but didn’t hear any sound.

When he came out, he was started getting everything put into his over night bag. I helped.

“Why is it I never hear you in the bathroom?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he said, getting out his toothbrush.

“I never hear you pee. It’s like, silence. You can always hear guys pee.”

“Oh. Well. I sit down when I do that,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“You sit to pee?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Standing is a filthy habit, and I don’t do it. It splashes everywhere,” he explained, finally.

Hm. I wondered why the seat was never up.

Duplicity

2007-06-15T12:42:00.000-05:00

I did something totally sneaky, duplicitous and behind the back.

No, I didn’t screw the mailman. Ours looks like Mayberry’s Floyd the Barber. A nice enough guy, but not my type.

OK, you know about Monsieur’s little heart flutter. Well, he will go in to the hospital on Tuesday for a transesophageal echocardiography (TEE) and then a radio frequency catheter ablation (Google links all, you sort it out) and his doctor says he’ll likely go home that day. Monsieur says he could easily handle getting a ride there and back all the way into South Austin Hospital. If he ends up staying the night, well, he’ll get a ride the next day or I and the boys could come pick him up later in the van, after school.

The hell he will.

I said someone could watch the kids while I run him in and back. He says it’s not necessary, as I’d have to find both a substitute for school plus a sitter; besides what if he ends up staying the night if the procedure runs long? Better for him to get a ride than have me tie up school, the kids, run the risk of getting stuck in Austin with him, etc.

The hell it is.

So, I went behind his back. I called J with 2 N’s and got her to take the class for the day. I told her what was going on and that I would make it up to her by taking her girls and my boys to the park or to the pool. J said forget about it, but she’d love to have us all over for a backyard barbecue picnic. I love J with 2 N’s.

Next mission – the possible overnight stay. I called the boys’ Grandfather, Maggie’s dad. I told him what was going on and that Monsieur said I should stay home while he went into South Austin Hospital for the day.

Grandfather’s exact words: “The hell you should. What’s he worried about, being a bother?”

“I think he’s worried about child care,” I explained. “It may run to an overnight stay.”

“I’m sorry, I like the guy but he’s a damn mule sometimes. Okay, Beautiful, [he always calls me Beautiful] here’s the plan.”

He would tell Monsieur that he’s visiting his friend in San Antonio the weekend before, and wants to visit with the boys on Tuesday and stay overnight, and leave the next day. He wouldn’t mention any hospital or anything to indicate that he knows what’s going on. Grandfather would be there, though, in case of the overnight stay, and is reasonably responsible enough to handle three boys for 48 hours if need be.

I laughed. “Sure you can handle Bigglest Boy?”

“Hell,” he snorted. “I raised Maggie; she was worse than ten boys and a wet wolverine. I’ll be fine. We’ll play musketeers and spaceships. Easy as pie.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Beautiful, the hardest part will be convincing their dad. You leave it to me. I’ll see you on Monday night. He won’t turn out their grandfather if I just show up.”

“You’re my hero,” I said. ‘I owe you one.”

“Oh, you hush,” he laughed. “I owe you seven ... thousand. Or more. Leave it to Grandfather. That’s what we’re for.”

I could cry.

How can you mend a broken heart?

2007-06-14T00:08:00.000-05:00

I hadn’t mentioned here that there is one thing that I really, truly, and totally hate about Monsieur and about living with him, and it is this:

He does not get sick.

Really, and I mean never. This is frustrating, especially to me. I am beset by allergies, flus, viruses and the occasional heat rash. I get sick like clockwork every November, usually the 1^st or 2^nd week before Thanksgiving. I get the grass allergies in Spring and the mold allergies in December.

Monsieur, the mutant that he is, does not even get chapped lips.

For this, when I get a cold, I despise him and am forced to listen to him walking around and smugly not being sick while he wraps me in blankets, takes the day off to teach my class, and is generally so wonderful I feel like putting the toe of one of my Skechers straight up his genetically perfect ass.

A couple of weeks ago, he decided to do what he called a “cost-benefit analysis” of his life insurance, and consequently my health insurance, and see if he could pay a little bit more for a lot more coverage, and to start planning to use that policy to sock away a bit for the boys’ higher school.

I don’t know why, but I was thrilled. It made me feel like it was more real or something. I swear, once the seduction is complete, the way to keep hold of a woman’s heart is through including her in a regimen of sound financial planning. Try it sometime, guys; open up your portfolio to your lady, name her as a beneficiary, and see if you don’t maybe “get a piece of the rock” or two in exchange for it. If you know what I mean.

And of course, the extra coverage required a health exam. I’d just had mine last year and besides the colds & flus I mentioned above, I don’t have any health problems, so I wasn’t worried. I don’t smoke, I hardly ever drink anymore, and the last illegal drug I ever did was a hit off of a joint five years ago, and it put me to sleep faster than watching “The McLaughlin Report”. Monsieur, of course, chops firewood with a putty knife, lifts 14-point buck deer over his shoulder and can bend iron fireplace pokers with his bare hands, so I didn’t think much more of that, either.

The insurance company had me set an appointment to have a medical exam. The gray haired EMT lady who came to do it was almost apologetic that she had to take my blood and my pee, which I had to provide into a cup and then pour into three little test tubes. I did okay with that. My blood pressure was normal and all. I’d get results back and find out later. I still haven’t actually heard from them about that.

Monsieur had the whole work up at his regular doctor, since he is over 40. I don’t know that he has gone to the “regular doctor” in the whole time I’ve been here. I was actually surprised to hear that he had one. He had to do not only the whole blood/pee ordeal plus full medical exam, which I presume included the prostate (a gloved finger up the booty! you guys are so lucky), but also the doctor had him take an EKG.

Well, it showed he had this irregular rhythm. Specifically (and I heard this a few times) he has an “atrial flutter”.

Monsieur says it’s not a big deal and a lot of people go their whole lives with that sort of thing and it doesn’t affect them and often, like Monsieur, they show absolutely no symptoms at all.

His doctor referred him to a cardiologist, and the cardiologist had a specialist look at him, and he had to wear a little monitor for a day with wires taped to his chest, to record his heartbeat and see if it was a regular thing or just a freak thing.

Nope, said the little monitor, it’s a regular thing.

So, he went back and the cardio surgeon says that the best thing is to try a (I’m looking at this report to make sure I am spelling it right) “radiofrequency catheter ablation” on him, and see if that fixes it right up.

I’m okay, I really am. Mostly. Then I get this panicky feeling, like, what if it doesn’t fix it right up? Before they do that they’re going to do a bunch of ultrasound tests to see if he has a clot somewhere that’s causing it. What if there is? Well, depends on where it is, but likely they’d do a different kind of catheter procedure, yadda blah blah yadda.

It makes me see things in front of my eyes and not any of them are any good. If something were to happen to him what would happen to the boys? I mean, I’d be their guardian; we’d signed that stuff with the lawyer a while back and I am their guardian in case something like that should happen.

But that’s just not right. I’ve seen heart patients down at the gym and recently, at the cardio’s office. Those guys are either old, really old, and they can’t get up out of their chairs without a walker. Or they’re clinically and morbidly obese, and can’t get up out of their chairs without a forklift and a bit of petroleum jelly to unwedge them from between the arms.

Monsieur mows an acre of lawn with a reel mower. The old-fashioned kind. Not because he’s an environmentalist so much, but for the exercise, he says. He doesn’t have a leaf blower; he sweeps the driveway (which is about a quarter mile long) with a push broom. For The Exercise. Most people cut firewood with a chainsaw around here, but he uses a hand saw and an axe. Like, a full cord of cedar wood. A full cord of wood is about the size of a travel trailer. Monsieur cuts that much. By hand. Again, (say it with me) For The Exercise.

His procudures are scheduled for next Tuesday.

It’s not fair. Let me explain my reasoning:

Guys with his abs aren’t supposed to schedule procedures at the best cardio facility in central Texas at the age of 44. Guys with his abs are supposed to go like his grandfather did, until they’re 98, full throttle, after a full life of fighting the Kaiser and the Nazis, the Communist Chinese and Singapore Pirates and the freaking Green Goblin, building a family and raising them right and seeing them all go off and do the same, and putting in a full day of work Every God Damned Day until their kids make them go home and give it a rest, because they’ve earned it after securing the safety of the Free World, the blessings of liberty and the welfare of their loved ones.

Monsieur isn’t worried, and I shouldn’t be either, he says. Well, that’s easy for him to say, because he’s a fucking super hero. I’m just an ordinary mortal, and I will worry every minute until Monsieur’s done with this thing and three doctors say he’s all better and his hitherto fluttery heart is not being all emo and fluttery, and instead is beating like Danny Carey’s bass drum (from Tool – that’s a band, for you old and/or country guys), and just to make double sure, I will require that he cut down a forty foot cedar tree with one cut from his big Japanese saber. Then I might stop worrying.

the hardest, part ii

2007-06-12T06:03:00.000-05:00

You remember last time:

He took me in his arms and picked me up, putting me over his shoulder and carrying me to the bedroom.

I was completely undressed and Monsieur still fully dressed. He even had on his shoes and tie. I kept pulling at his clothes, trying to unbutton or undress him. He would push my hands away, reaching for me. It became comical – we were actually wrestling over his clothing. I giggled and he pressed his advantage; finally he took my two hands in his and, taking his bathrobe from the hook on the closet door, he pulled the robe tie off and lashed my wrists together. He pulled the tie taught, stretching my arms over my head. I held my breath. My eyes were looking up at him, and he tied my wrists to the headboard.

I pulled at the bathrobe tie. It held.

“Shit,” I said. I looked up at him.

Monsieur got off the bed, leisurely. I tried to flip around to get up and get to the knot that held me down, but he growled, “Oh, will you, now?” and pulled my legs down. He took his necktie and tied my left ankle to the foot board, pulling it taught enough to straighten my leg as well.

“I might rip that,” I warned him, pulling at the necktie around my leg.

He removed his belt. “That would be most unfortunate,” he said, with a chuckle. He slapped the end of the belt against his palm.

“Oh, god, no,” I gulped, knowing that belt could sting. I didn’t want him to be angry at me for ripping his necktie. I held still.

“Fair enough,” he said. Yet, I still wanted a spank or two.

One leg was free and I moved it around to attempt to leverage the other one. I still thought I might undo the knot on my wrists. His back was turned and he was unbuttoning his shirt, fussing with the collar. I was flipped over and wriggling to the headboard with my free leg pushing me towards it.

Monsieur turned around and, seeing my escape attempt, pulled me down by my leg and tied my other ankle to the foot board – this time with the tie to my bathrobe – stretching me out face down with my arms tied up over my head and both my legs stretched out.

“Shit,” I said again.

Monsieur opened the closet door to put his belt away, then stepped into the closet.

When he came back, he held my new vibrator in his hand.

I turned and stared at it. I had no idea he knew I had it, as I keep all of my toys hidden away, under my winter clothes, in a box that’s wrapped up in a bag. Especially this one, since it looks so … indulgent.

It had been a gift from a blog reader, who will stay anonymous, and who remembered that my birthday was in May. The reader had looked over my wish list, saw the vibrator I picked out, and sent it to me. It had come with a note,

Dear Yearning Heart,
You’ve turned me on so much I just thought I’d return the favor, with much appreciation.

I loved it, the gift of it and the thought behind it. I even wrote a short review for Amazon for it. But of course I never mentioned the gift, or even the vibrator, to Monsieur. And now he held it in his hand, and I was tied to his bed.

He pulled me up to my knees, which stretched my arms out. My wrists were starting to hurt, but I didn’t care.

He felt at me, very gently touching my swollen vulva, pressing his hand against it. It burned, and the cold air hit my wetness as he opened me up. He looked at the vibrator, which has a set of controls, and turned on the vibrating part to a low setting. He touched it to me.

Normally when it’s on its lowest setting, I can barely feel it. But when he touched it to me it was as if I had been shot out of a catapult. I came suddenly, biting the pillow to stop from screaming, and feeling that I looked ridiculous, I was so embarrassed, I blushed bright red. Then I sneezed.

“Salud,” he said.

“Merci,” I replied.

He shoved the toy into me.

My legs pulled at the restraints and I tried so hard to push back against it, but I was well bound to the headboard, and quite at his mercy. He didn’t show very much. My body was out of my own control, and when he put it inside me, he turned it on high. He made the probe part turn on, and the little beads went around and around, and the probe twirled up and down, spiraling into me. Occasionally he would push it into me, which brought the little rabbit up to my clitoris. Then he would pull it out … and it would barely be inside me, hardly touching me at all.

In ten minutes I was almost out of breath. My entire sex was so swollen I could barely handle it being touched.

He turned the toy off, and set it on the night stand.

Standing up, he began to undo his shirt and and remove his shoes. He put his shirt and socks carefully in the laundry hamper. He folded his pants neatly and considered them. “I could wear those again, I should think,” he said to himself.

I pulled at the bathrobe tie that held my wrists. It held fast.

He opened the closet door, found a hanger and hung up his trousers. He retrieved my vibrator from the nightstand and set it on the counter by the bathroom vanity. Then, he finally slipped off his boxer shorts.

He was magnificently hard, and It pointed at me, curved up like a boomerang. I could see his pulse in It, the flare of Its head, and my mouth felt dry. I licked my lips.

He leaned over me, brushed the hair from my face and kissed me softly. I responded hungrily.

“You know,” he whispered into my ear, “I just might take you now.”

“Um, okay” I croaked weakly.

He leaned over me to lower the lamp, and I pulled my leg mightily on the necktie, and it finally ripped away from the foot board. I could then move up to the knotted bathrobe tie that held my wrists and bite at it, pulling it apart with my teeth. He watched as I did this, amused at me, but I worked quickly and got my wrists free from their restraint.

“Nicely done,” he said, admiringly.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said softly, pushing him back and attacking his cock with my mouth. Up and down the shaft my mouth went, but in trying to suck the head in I soon found that it wouldn’t fit at all in its state.

He turned me over, face down, untying the other bathrobe tie that was still on one ankle, and he lifted my butt up and held me by the hips, and It slid into me so slowly and so precisely, like a glacier moving. He held me by my hips, partly for leverage, and partly to keep me from impaling myself on It all at once.

I could hear myself slish as he went in, and I was so sensitive and swollen from before, that it’s tight down there. Very tight; so tight it hurt. Then, as he had It in as much as he could go, he held It there. He held me by my hips, preventing me from moving. He reached under me and found my right nipple, and as he held It buried inside me, he pulled on that nipple with two fingers, stretching it out, not using his thumb, just holding it between his middle and ring finger, letting it pop out between them lazily. He did this three or four times, letting the nipple pop out. He then pulled It out halfway, and positioned his hips so that we were only making contact at one point.

I let go with my hands, and reached down between us to feel that point where we joined. It felt so stretched. I started moving back, then forward, and he held It there for me to use like a toy, and I moved against it and let go totally and buried my face in the pillow and writhed and pushed back, until I felt something bump inside, and I knew there was no more to go, I couldn’t go any further, and I rubbed myself and moved my hips, sort of shimmying my ass up and down, totally being selfish, thinking, well if he’s not even going to try to get himself off, fuck it.

It started to feel like it might be getting sore down there, like it was getting dry or something, and I said, “Something’s hurting.”

He held his hand on the base of my back, and began to withdraw it.

“Noooo!” I cried like the brat that I am, but he got behind me and put his tongue in there, and OHHHH it was so good, like water on a hot griddle.

I came again, very hard, and I thought I may have accidentally wet the bed, but I was too far gone to care.

“Are you done?” he said.

“NO!” I said sharply, then, more gently, “I mean. Not if you’re not!”

I turned over and pulled him to me, and my arms went around him, and my legs went around him, and then I reached between us and put It back where It belonged. It felt so good. The hot sensation was gone and it was just perfect.

He finally took me and he let go, as I buried my face in his chest, watching his stomach muscles clench and flex, as I whispered to him encouragingly, “Take it … take it … you’re so good, so good, so wonderfully good... can I be yours? Let me be all yours,” and he looked at me and said, “you’re mine,” and I rubbed myself and whispered hoarsely ‘vraiment? Encore?’ and he said, ‘toujours’ and I came again as he put my legs over his shoulders and just let go as I had my hand around the base of It; I could feel the pulse of his orgasm bubble up through It and into me, and I thought to myself, whatever happens, I am not going to forget this. Not ever.

the hardest part

2007-06-10T16:01:00.000-05:00

We were watching something on TV. No, he wasn’t. I was watching something. A pretty awful yet funny movie.

About ¾ of the way through, Monsieur’s arm was around my shoulder, and I’m thinking, just do it. Just take it. Don’t make me ask for it. Don’t ask if it’s okay. Just take it. Did he just take it? He did not.

Monsieur was on my left side. His arm was around me, his hand resting on my right shoulder. I took his hand from my shoulder and moved it to my right breast.

I held it there. His hand didn’t move. I pressed his hand into the firm flesh of my breast. He held it there, and it didn’t move. The movie ended. Just before I got pu to turn off the TV and give up on him, Monsieur flicked my nipple ever so slightly. I froze. I stayed put.

His hand didn’t move. Was that flick an accident? A test? No. It was him, torturing me again. I sighed.

His thumb flicked over my nipple again. I sighed and arched my back. He took his hand away.

Put it back! I screamed in my mind, Put it somewhere!

A few minutes later, he reached across me, in front of me, with his left hand, and gripped my right nipple between his thumb and middle finger. His right hand went around the breast, holding it firmly. He pulled my nipple through my nightshirt. He really pulled on it, stretching it out. I closed my eyes, and just as I was about to tell him to stop, he let it go. Someone on television was singing in some language I didn't recognize.

“What language is that?” I gasped.

“Portuguese,” he replied. “I believe he’s Brazilian, by the accent.”

He twisted my nipple. I gasped, wincing from the pain.

“Did that hurt?” he asked, concerned.

I nodded. “Yes, well, but... “

He took his hand away, apologizing. I put it back. My nipple was throbbing.

He lifted my nightshirt, looked at it a second, then leaned over and licked a circle around it. The tender, light, gentle touch of his tongue burned into me, after the rough treatment he had given in only a minute before. I squeezed my thighs together, and felt how aroused I was.

He licked circles around the nipple, not touching it directly with his tongue or lips, but sucked the areola into his mouth gently. My hands went to his head and pushed his face into my breast. I wanted to scream, but I knew if I had, one of the children upstairs might have awakened. I knew that he wouldn’t do anything if any of the children are awake, so I bit my finger to keep myself from screaming.

He’s going to take me, I thought. Then prayed. Please, please, let it happen.

He continued to suck, then stop, then bite, then stop. Over and over again; just on the one breast. The other one, untouched, was so hard that it looked purple.

“So,” I managed to say, “you like the right one okay, then?”

“Indeed,” he said, looking at me, his eyes a-twinkle.

“There’s the other one,” I said, looking at it, then looking at him.

“Well,” he said, “of course there is.”

“Hint hint,” I suggested.

He did not take that as a hint. Instead he grabbed the crotch of my panties and pulled them off, down to my ankles. My legs opened.

He looked at me, and smiled. He has dimples, and I wanted to lick them. He looked directly at me and licked his fingers, then slid three of them into me at once.

My eyes fluttered and my cheeks flushed. I sneezed.

“Bless you,” he said, and curled his fingers inside me.

“Ohhhh,” I said, trying to keep quiet on the couch. I bit my thumb, then sucked it.

His fingers were inside me, curling and wiggling and I don’t know what he was doing. I came gently. It was a soft, sudden, bubbling sort of orgasm and it made me contract on his hand. He leaned over and sucked just the nipple of my hitherto ignored left breast. It hit me harder, and I came suddenly, my thighs locked on his arm.

“You’re going to take me, aren’t you?” I asked.

“I am taking you,” he said, evenly.

Damn him. I reached for his pants but he pushed my hands away. I know his ways by now, and expected that.

He sucked the left nipple into his mouth, then as it stretched from the suction he began to bite it. Hard. It hurt, at first unbearably, then this warmth spread from my crotch to my chest.

He tortured me like that, for about twenty minutes. I wouldn’t have known except by the digital clock on the video recorder. My shirt was off and my panties were in a wad on the floor. He was still fully clothed, in a shirt and tie. Even his shoes were still on. Every once in a while I would attempt to undress him, and every time I tried he would push my hands away and torture me some more.

Finally he stopped. “You’re being too loud,” he said. “You might wake the boys.”

“I’m being loud?” I asked. He nodded. I realized I’d been begging him to take me, to fuck me, to let me get him naked.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You’ve got to learn control, dear,” he said, kindly.

“I’m trying,” I said.

He took me in his arms and picked me up, putting me over his shoulder and carrying me to the bedroom.

And tarnation!, now I have to stop, as he and the boys are back from the park.

To Be Continued… here.

This evening

2007-06-01T13:12:00.000-05:00

I'm going on a date tonight! With Monsieur! and you're not! Neener, neener, neener! Sitter will be here at 6. We're going to see Pirates at a dinner cinema in Austin. Don't wait up.

History Exam (English Colonies in America)

2007-05-30T00:46:00.000-05:00

All of these answers are from the same student.

Short answer

(Write your answers in complete sentences.)

5. When did the Pilgrims arrive in Massachusetts?

The Pilgrims arrived in Mass. after they crossed the Atlantic Ocean, and got off their ship Mayflower. Once all were ashore, they all arrived.

8. What was the Mayflower Compact?

The Mayflower Compact was a deal the Pilgrims made with each other to work together and not run off and they wuld [sic] be English and not just people living in the woods with no goverment [sic].

11. How did the local people react to the arrival of the English colonists?

Mostly the local people died. Some didn’t, though, and they shot at the English because the other English captured or killed their people before. And some didn’t shoot at them but wanted to know who they were.

I counted all questions as correct. I need to learn how to write better questions.

Dear Maggie

2007-05-25T11:22:00.000-05:00

It’s raining. Rain, rain, rain. I’m home with Littlest Boy, who is now watching Curious George and graciously allowing me to not play Princess Leia to his Luke Skywalker. I get tired of being rescued all the time. So the rain pours down, forming into rivulets and then into streams and the cattle out in the south pasture are complaining about it. I’m thinking about you.

Has it been two years since you’ve been gone? Two years, about a thousand diapers, a few hundred meals.

Your boys, as frustrating as they are, are still the joy of my life.

Bigglest Boy is struggling with dealing with people, those closest to him. He’s still more comfortable with books than with people. I don’t expect that to change but one thing that is changing is that he’s learning to talk instead of yell.

He’s also learning that people love him. Last weekend Littlest Boy was playing with his Jack-in-the-box. He would crank it one way, and the music would play and the puppet would pop out. Then he would turn it around, crank it the wrong way and nothing would happen.

This offended Bigglest Boy’s sense of order, and as I came into the room I heard Bigglest Boy say, “That’s WRONG!” and then thumped Littlest Boy on the head. Littlest Boy burst into tears. I immediately separated Bigglest Boy, put him upstairs in his room, then I went downstairs and checked on Littlest Boy, kissed his head, dried his tears, and told him he could turn the crank any way he wanted.

I then went upstairs to talk to Bigglest Boy.

“Do you know why your little brother is crying?” I asked him.

“Because I thumped him on the head,” he answered.

“Right. Do you know where that hurts?” I asked.

“Um,” he paused, knowing my method by now, “well, on his head...”

“Not enough to make him cry. He’s hurting inside, because his big brother, who he loves very much and who he thinks is the greatest boy in the world, just yelled at him and hit him on the head. So yes, his head hurt for a second, but his heart hurts even worse. He thinks you are disappointed in him, and that he did something wrong.”

Long silence; I stood there with my hands folded.

“Do you know what you should do now?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Then I’ll tell you. Go straight downstairs, apologize to him, and ask him if he’s okay.”

I expected an argument. His eyes narrowed, and Maggie, when they do that he looks EXACTLY like you. I expected an I won’t or you can’t make me or something.

“Now [Littlest Boy] doesn’t know if he can play with you anymore,” I continued. “He’s afraid you’ll hit him again.”

Bigglest Boy stared at the floor.

“And he’ll probably stay afraid until you tell him you’re sorry and you act like you’re his big brother again. He loves you.”

Bigglest Boy rolled his eyes, but he got up and went downstairs, went straight to Littlest Boy and said, “I’m sorry.” He meant it, too, I think, which is a first.

I don’t know if I handled it like you would have, Maggie, but I handled it.

Middlest Boy is driving me nuts with the food thing. He won’t eat anything I cook except for plain pasta, or plain potatoes. If he doesn’t like anything that’s for dinner, he happily eats bread and water. He eats everything his daddy makes, though. I’m trying not to let it hurt my feelings, reminding myself that I am the grown-up and he is the child.

I had a birthday on Monday. I’m 26 and I feel like I’ve grown up more in the last two years than I did in the previous ten.

I’m getting by, and we’re doing okay. Still, I’d give anything for you to be here right now.

Dawn

2007-05-09T10:44:00.000-05:00

It was just daylight, and I was standing at the window in my scruffy old nightgown, looking out to see if it was rainy or not. I stretched, and Monsieur said softly, behind me, “My word.”

I turned around and he was just looking at me. “What?” I asked.

He smiled. “You look like … a vision,” he said. “You’re so beautiful.”

I needed that. I’m still tingling.

Back

2007-05-03T11:54:00.000-05:00

I’m back.

I’m totally drained.

“How was your trip?” my mom asked.

“It was a car and an airport and a wait and a plane and an airport and a wait and a plane, and an airport and a wait and a train and a train and a car, “I said. “And a funeral. Then, the same thing in reverse.”

The boys were pretty good on the flights over. Bigglest Boy nearly had a fit just from being stuck on planes for 12 hours, but one of the attendants on the long international flight recognized it and let him sneak up to 1st class and then let him sit in the attendants’ station and played Yahtzee with him for a little while.

In France, we were staying at his brother’s house, which is this converted old stone monstrosity of a house. When we got there, the boys said, “This is a house? It looks like a castle.”

Then they played pirates and castles with their uncle and aunt.

Monsieur’s grandfather’s funeral was quiet and very well attended. I actually borrowed a dress from a cousin, who was tall and elegant and had really gorgeous clothes. I got to wear a lovely black thing with a lovely black hat. I felt like Lauren Bacall.

There must have been five hundred people in that little church. There was a wake later, that was a bit more private as it only had eighty people or so. I gathered they were only family and close friends rather than business people.

Monsieur’s family is very wonderful. They’re all good-looking. There seems to be two types in the family – tall, dark, and gorgeous; and medium, blond, and gorgeous. And lots of both. The language barrier didn’t affect me one bit since everyone said, “Oh, you’re the American!” as soon as I opened my mouth, and everything was in English from then on.

There was much food and all of it was good; some of it was even identifiable.

There was something brown on a plate which Monsieur didn’t touch but I ate with bread things.

“What’s this?” I asked him, shoveling it into my mouth.

“Pork liver,” he said, and turned away to help Littlest Boy to a plate of fruit.

I looked at my plate, then shrugged, and ate another bite.

“You’re with our American boy, aren’t you?” said someone behind me.

I turned and recognized one of Monsieur’s grand-uncles. I introduced myself in French but he answered in English.

“You know,” said the old man, confiding in me, “[Monsieur’s grandfather] didn’t like to admit to having favorite grandchildren. But, I think his favorite was [Monsieur].”

“Do you really?” I said, smiling.

“I do. But he would never say so, so don’t you tell him. But, it is true. And if you have to pick one man in this family to be the favorite, it would be that one. So, don’t let him go.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said with a wink.

“Good. He is my favorite nephew, too.”

Grand-père

2007-04-26T16:27:00.000-05:00

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.

All-nighter

2007-04-19T07:23:00.000-05:00

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.

Slowly.

Agonizingly.

Deliciously.

In one

smooth

stroke.

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.

Yum.

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.

mist

2007-04-17T16:50:00.000-05:00

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.

I'll just put them all here

2007-03-26T15:42:00.000-05:00

I truly have not had a moment to finish a single post in three weeks. Here are the posts I've begun since then, unproofed and unedited, not even spell-checked, for those three or four of you who might still be reading.

Thursday was another gold star day.

When I was in middle school, I thought that all the guys who wore famous football player t-shirts wanted people to mistake them for the actual famous football player. I then thought the girls who wore the t-shirts wanted people to mistake them for the famous football player’s girlfriend.

Littlest Boy (3 yo) is tired of being the baby, and is beginning to push back on his brothers. Really hard.

The sole split on the left one of my nice dress shoes. These are my favorite shoes and the worst thing is I hardly ever wear them. I can’t justify getting new shoes because I really never dress up anymore. I can’t justify the money, and it makes me sad, somehow.

Middlest boy (6 yo) is becoming the snitch. Sometimes it’s a good thing: “[Littlest Boy] locked himself in the closet and he’s pooping himself,” sometimes it’s kind of tiresome: “[Bigglest Boy] (9 yo) called me a ‘bleeding polyp’. I think that’s a bad word.”

We are sick with allergies. Fine, OK – I am sick with allergies, and the Two Bigglest Boys are tired of me and my wimpy self. Littlest Boy has sniffles and swears he’s fine. He says he hopes I get better, every time he hears me talk.

Bigglest Boy: Pepper? [E] (bossy 8 yo girl in school) says you and Daddy are ‘getting it on’. What does that mean?

Yearning Heart: Uh... Um...

Bigglest Boy: Does she mean you’re doing sex?

Yearning Heart: I think she does.

Bigglest Boy: [E]’s such a chancre, sometimes.

Yearning Heart: Well, we all have a lot of growing up to do.

Breakthroughs

2007-03-02T13:08:00.000-06:00

Tuesday, Bigglest Boy was, to put it mildly, having a bad day. He could not tie his shoes – not that he was incapable of it, or forgot how – he just didn’t want them to be tied. It bothered him. One loop would always be bigger than the other, or the ends would not match, or they touched the floor when he walked, or they made too much noise.

His shoelaces made too much noise.

I took a deep breath, choosing my battles carefully, and allowed him to go shoeless all day. He walked around in his socks, even in school. The other kids didn’t say anything; I think they are now sufficiently cowed by his withering intellect and no don’t challenge him the way kids do when confronted with his odd or abnormal behavior. He can be quite overpowering when challenged.

The next day, after school, he wanted to do “a science experiment.”

“I need some charcoal,” he announced, as we were at the kitchen table doing artwork.

“Okay,” I said. “There are some charcoal pencils in the art supply box. Do you want to do charcoal drawings?”

“No,” he replied. “I need some charcoal that I can make into a powder. Also some potassium nitrate. Do we have any?”

“Potassium nitrate … h’m … I’m gonna say ‘no’. What is potassium nitrate?”

“Well, its common name is saltpeter, or niter. We might have some in the shed,” he suggested.

“Wait a minute – what do you need this for?”

“I want to make some solid propellant for my rocket,” he explained. “I think I can adapt this formula for it but I need to start with the basic formula first and then alter it to try to get it to burn at a higher temperature.”

“No burning, [Bigglest Boy]. You know the rules. What is the formula?”

He showed me the formula. It was entitled “Formula for Gunpowder”.

“Um,” I said, “I think that, without talking to your daddy, the answer is no.”

“No what?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“No, you may not manufacture, possess, or store gunpowder, nitroglycerin, plastic explosives, gasoline, kerosene, or any other highly flammable or explosive chemicals or compounds.”

“I’m not going to blow anything up!” he cried. “I’m just going to make a fuel cartridge for my rocket!”

I took a deep breath, and said, “[Bigglest Boy], you can have a pressurized water rocket, and you do have one. You can do experiments with it if I’m watching, or if your daddy’s watching. But you may not make any fuels, or anything else, than could burn or explode. My answer is no, and I am very certain that your daddy will say the same thing.”

He looked at me. He turned around and by the way his shoulders hunched up I was prepared for an emotional eruption. He turned around again and faced me.

“I’m very, very angry at you,” he said.

“I understand,” I said. “It’s okay if you’re angry. But you still can’t have gunpowder or anything else unsafe. It’s not because I think you’re going to start a fire or blow anyone up. It’s just that I don’t know that much about gunpowder, but I do know it’s pretty tricky stuff, and I don’t know how to work with it and keep everyone safe. My job is to keep you, and your brothers, safe.”

He didn’t say anything, but looked at his formula. I went back to pastel coloring on my art paper.

“Well,” he said, after a while, “I’ll just have to do something else.”

“All right,” I said.

Later when I was checking on him, he was reading about Skylab. “Are you still angry at me?” I asked him.

He shook his head.

“I’m very proud of you,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because even though you got angry, you kept your temper and just told me you were angry without losing control. I know how hard that is for you and I think you did a great job. I’ll even tell your daddy that you did that. I bet he’ll be proud of you, too.”

“Can I make some solid fuel now?”

“No, sir. But you can talk to your daddy about solid fuel,” I suggested. “He may be able to explain how it’s made, better than I could, anyway, and why it’s so dangerous for young scientists to work with.”

“Okay.” He looked at his Skylab schematic, and then said to me, “I am going to make a rocket, you know. A real one, not a water rocket. And I’m going to put it into sub-orbital trajectory.” He seemed to be challenging me to say “no”.

“You know what?” I said. “I think you will, too. But, you’re going to do it with the cooperation of the federal and local authorities. And those authorities include me. Is that a deal?”

“Yes,” he said vaguely, without looking up from his book.

“Hey, [Bigglest Boy], guess what?” I said.

“What?”

“Chicken butt!”

He tried to keep a straight face, but laughed in spite of himself.

“Guess what else?” I asked.

“What?”

“I love you.”

He didn’t reply, but looked down at his book. Then he smiled.

Sick Bed

2007-02-23T17:00:00.001-06:00

I had the WORST case of flu I’ve ever had this last couple weeks. I am just getting over it.

Of course, I got it from the school kids. E gave it to me, I gave it to Bigglest Boy, then Littlest Boy. Middlest Boy only got sniffles. Monsieur, damn him, didn’t get anything. He never gets sick. I was hating on him so badly last week, laying in bed, coughing up my lungs between runs for the bathroom. He was all chipper and concerned at the same time. I asked him why he never even got a hangnail, and he said, “Don’t you remember? I had a strained back just two weeks ago!”

Oh, right, I thought, I stand corrected.

Monsieur’s maternal grandfather is still alive at age 96. His maternal grandmother probably would have lived as long, but died from complications from a car accident that she was in at age 84.

“Why don’t you ever get sick?” I asked him.

“I’m not sure that I know,” he replied. “I eat well and I work on my feet every day or so.”

“How would you define ‘eating well’?” I asked.

“Well, about food choices, it’s pretty simple: Eat food. Don’t eat very much food. And don’t eat very much of your food as milk.”

“What do you mean by ‘eat food’?” I asked. “Everyone eats food.”

“Food,” he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down, “means things close to how they were when growing. Don’t cook the vegetables too much. Don’t refine the grains and sugars too much. For example, white flour and polished rice are not really food. They may taste good, but they’re not food. Not any more.”

“I pretty much eat what you eat,” I pointed out.

“Yes, you do, and you exercise often and you stay active,” he agreed.

“So why do I get sick and you don’t?” I whined.

“I honestly cannot tell you,” he admitted.

I grumbled, turning over and putting my face into the pillow.

Quote of the Week

2007-02-22T03:59:00.000-06:00

Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths theater. -Gail Godwin

Do I?

2007-02-08T00:54:00.000-06:00

When we got home today the boys, who had been so good I thought they might have been abducted and replaced by alien doubles, so as to better study our life forms. They were so good that they were allowed the supreme privilege of watching a movie on a school night, and I had checked out Bedknobs and Broomsticks from the city library. I love that movie, not just because it has a pre-Murder She Wrote Angela Lansbury doing musical numbers as only she could do (didja know she did musical theatre? well, I did).

Middlest Boy didn’t want that to be the movie. “It’s a grown-up movie,” he complained. “It’s going to be scary. I don’t want to see anything scary.”

“It’s not scary,” I assured him. “Look – it’s got a magical island of cartoon animals, and they play soccer. You like soccer.”

He was convinced, finally, and he watched it along with the other two boys.

Treguna… makoides… trecorum… satis dee. I really did want to watch it, actually, but right at about the time that the Wermacht invaded Pepperidge Eye I nodded off.

“Pepper, hush!” Middlest Boy said, startling me.

“Wha-huh?” I snapped awake, wiping the drool from my mouth.

“You were snoring,” he said. “And you were wrong. It is scary. There’s ghosts!”

“Ghosts?” I looked at the TV. Armored knights without bodies were routing the Germans as disembodied bagpipes played on the crest of a hill. I held Middlest Boy in my lap. “Do I really snore?” I asked him quietly.

“Yes!” all three boys said in unison.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll be quiet now.”

The Viking and Highlander costumes resisted the German beachhead, and the Empire was safe.

After helping to put the children to bed, I asked Monsieur, “Do I ever snore?”

He looked cornered.

“Seriously, I just want to know,” I assured him.

“I – cannot remember any instance of you ever doing so,” he managed to say.

Happy birthday, Maggie

2007-01-29T11:39:00.000-06:00

You have made three fantastic boys. They learn little details so quickly that it’s a challenge for me to keep up with them. They have all come to learn that I’m not perfect or even as smart as they are; like you did, they have intolerance for people who aren’t as smart as they are.

Well, with me, they are learning patience. That’s something you had trouble with. They are also learning about achievement and disappointment, about this wonderful and terrible world, and (with me as a caregiver), they are learning about how authority isn’t always perfect, but it’s in charge.

With Bigglest Boy’s 9^th birthday last week, he is in his last year of single digits. Next year, he’ll be a tween. I may cry when that happens. He got an Erector Set for his birthday, but not the motorized one that he wanted. He has already figured out how to modify an old electric toothbrush to use as a motor, and has attached it to gears to slow it down so it won’t completely shred whatever it is he’s inventing.

Littlest Boy also had a birthday – his 3^rd – and he, I am both sad and pleased to say, thinks he is no longer a baby. Except he still needs to be held and rocked to sleep. I guess I do, too, sometimes.

Middlest Boy is the little man. He sometimes gets me to tie a bandanna around his head, so he can wear one like his daddy does, when he has to do dirty work like mop the floor or paint. It’s funny to see them out by the creek, hacking brush, both with bandannas on. He looks so much like his daddy now, except when he is angry or frustrated, and then his eyes flash and his teeth grind and, well, he looks like you, I’m afraid. Terrible and beautiful.

(Click to view larger)
Above, a scrap of Maggie’s music, which rather shocked me when I found it last summer – the song that this blog is named after: Paul Simon’s “How the Heart Approaches What it Yearns.” Boy, that freaked me out so much when I found it, then as I dug further I realized she arranged about a hundred of his songs. For fun, for a diversion. The way you and I would do a crossword puzzle.

I don’t know what to do with all these notes and sheet music that you wrote, but I promise I won’t throw them out. Girlfriend, did you ever hear of “filing”? There are three big file boxes of this stuff, and as I go through them, finding songs you arranged, notes and outlines that you wrote, and crazy hilarious little snippets of t-shirt ideas or bumper stickers, or bad parodies of Dostoevsky or Robert Louis Stevenson novels, I wonder if you ever slept. There’s enough stuff in these boxes to make twenty movies. And that doesn’t begin to go into the music that you recorded.

I have often thought that you knew what was going to happen and you knew that you only had so much time and so many things to do that you just would go and go and not ever stop until you’d pass out. You have written long manuscripts on the history of the way people think. There are what look like chemical formulas. There are scraps, little bits of this and that. I remember watching TV with you, a Will & Grace rerun, while we giggled and snarked. The whole time you were arranging some piece of music, writing notes and scratching them out, and also you were throwing a piece of wadded up paper for the cat to play with. Oh, and you kept an eye on tomorrow’s dinner in the oven. I have a hard enough time just clearing my head enough so that I can watch TV, but you were doing four – or five – things at once and that was when you were relaxing.

feeling my molly bloom

2007-01-20T01:51:00.000-06:00

I only have a few minutes to get this in. sorry no time for spellcheck or good proofreading / editing or anything.

Tonight Monsieur when out to some musician’s get together; I stayed home as it was just for musicians, serious songwriter’s workshop thing. When he got back he showered and got in bed, and I spooned right up against him. He draped his arms around me in a certain way and I knew he wanted me. I moved against him trying not to be too eager but it’s been a week, as usual, since the last time, and I hadn’t had time to pleasure myself in days. I was rarin’ to go; I was a total wildcat, I had to bite my hand to keep quiet. I cooed and wiggled and played with myself and totally abandoned all to the feeling. I was getting close when he let out this sort of sigh/hiss sound and then gasped.

He started to apologize and I said, “shhh… For what?” and then I realized he came! It has been weeks, I don’t know how long since he’d done that, at least with me. He apologized and I told him he didn’t have a thing to apologize about.

With him softening inside me, his eyes burning into mine I kissed him and then he kissed me back, and I clenched on it and he sort of got up supporting himself on his arms so that we were only connecting in that one spot and he just held it there and I needed the movement but he held still so I started to masturbate and I really got into it! it was fun – carefree – and I got to giggling and being silly, not worrying about his orgasms, my adequacy or inadequacy, anything – and finally I stopped giggling and I dunno how, I just had a nice juicy one while he held me, and told me he wanted me to stay with him, for ever and forever, while I clenched my eyes to hold the tears and clenched my pussy, and finally let the tears (and him) slide out of me, and my heart was yearning like mad and “yes...” I said, “yes I will... yes.”

note: edited for spelling, and a link to tell you non-liberal arts majors what the hell the title of this post means.

Ideas that get away are quick, clever and unlikely to be captured alive.

2007-01-17T22:47:00.000-06:00

Littlest Boy: Pepper?

Yearning Heart: Yes, Littlest Boy?

Littlest Boy: I had an undea.

Yearning Heart: What‘s an undea, sweetie?

Littlest Boy: It‘s an idea, but I forgot it. So, it got unrased. So, it‘s an undea.

Three Feet High and Rising

2007-01-15T13:13:00.000-06:00

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:

(click to view larger)
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.

(click to view larger)
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.

(click to view larger)
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.

(click to view larger)
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.

Xmas Haul

2007-01-02T16:15:00.001-06:00

Well, the holidays are over and boy am I glad. It’s exhausting when three young boys are involved.

This year, we started a new concept for the holidays. For one thing, when the children made a Christmas list, it wasn’t about what they wanted to get, it was a list of things to give and people to give them to.

I got five great CD’s, a bunch of lovely books on classical art and classical music, about which I know nothing, but I need to learn it if I want to be in this family. Which, I do.

The other development has been that Monsieur asked me if I had a passport, and since I don’t, he paid for my application for one. I asked him if that meant we were traveling anywhere, and he said, “It is just in case I do need to travel, this time I would like for you and the boys to come along.”

Well, I thought, I can do that. I went to Kinko’s and had the photos made, and I still had an extra copy of my birth certificate. So, I gathered that all together and went to the post office one day, and I turned in the application and affirmed that I was an American. We’ll see if the State Department thinks I’m too dangerous to move freely.

Coming Home

2006-12-24T02:21:00.000-06:00

“Hi,” said the owl with his head so white,
“Another day and a lonesome night,
I thought I heard a pretty girl say,
She’ll court all night and sleep all day.”

We were singing that in the van as we rounded the corner Saturday night, headed for home. Monsieur was at home, making something yummy for dinner and I knew what it would be. It was his delicious beef and lamb and venison stew, and before you say it, yes, that’s little baby calf and woolly fluffy lamb and Bambi, dammit. I loves me a big bowlful of Disney.

We rounded the corner, as I was saying, and though the temperature was over 35° F there was a little patch of ice that my rear wheel slid across and cause my back end to fishtail and slide. I overcompensated, like a greenhorn inexperienced driver, and ended up spinning around the other way, facing the wrong direction with my van’s tail end in the drainage ditch, stuck. I spun my wheels only for a second, and then got out to make sure I was truly stuck. I checked all three kids, then turned off the ignition and called Monsieur.

“Can your Volvo bio-diesel station wagon pull a Dodge minivan out of a ditch?” I asked. We were only two minutes by car from the front door, on the loop road. However, it would have been a forty-five minute walk on a muddy road with three small boys.

“Not likely,” he said. “P equals MV squared, I always say. In times of great inclinations such as this, I recommend a man who could pull a train.”

In ten minutes, Skip the Gay Rancher, our friend and neighbor showed up on his Ford 846 tractor with a tow bar and chain. Monsieur was riding on the tow bar. He hopped off and helped Skip to hook the chain around the axle of the minivan. The boys stood by in the sleet and watched. They could not be convinced to sit in the warm van during such an adventure. They watched, all their faces the image of seriousness.

We were towed out in a moment, and we thanked Mr. Skip and invited him to dinner with us, which he refused in a good-natured way. But he did promise to stop by for Christmas Day.

All of use piled into the van. Monsieur took the wheel after I asked him to, not trusting my luck. He drove us home while we finished singing our song:

“Hi,” said the jaybird sittin’ in a tree,
“When I was a young man I had three.
Two got sassy and took to flight,
And the one that’s left don’t treat me right.”

It was dark, darker than I thought it should be and then I remembered, one of the longer nights of the year had already begun and it was only 5:20 in the afternoon. No, it was in the evening. The sun had gone down behind Blue Hill. I thought to myself how different the rain in Texas was, so much colder that the snow in Kansas at this time. In a week’s time, the Texas rain would give way and the cold weather would be gone. I was getting used to it, the winter that didn’t come and the cold snaps that did. I had my gloves on. I hugged my knees to my chest and thought of home. I looked up and the house was covered from the eaves to the shrubbery in white, purple, red, blue and green Christmas lights. I know I had stopped calling Kansas home but I still called it “back home,” as in, “I probably won’t be going ‘back home’ this year.” Now, Kansas is “my parent’s place” and all I could think last night was, “It’s great to finally be back home after a long day.”

“Oh, my goodness,” was all I could say.

Through the rain it looked like a postcard. The lights twinkled and glimmered in a shimmered, watercolor effect. The kitchen light was on, and there was a fire burning outside in the fire pit. It smelled of burning pine needles and cedar logs, and of chestnuts.

When we got inside the air was heavy with the smell of ragout and rising bread dough, and of brandy cooking in something sweet.

“Yum,” I said.

“Mmm,” agreed the Littlest Two of the Three Boys.

“I need to put the rolls into the oven,” Monsieur said. The Bigglest Boy went to go wash his hands immediately, as he was expected to participate in all bread making. That is his kitchen lesson this month. Normally he would have kneaded and rolled out the bread, but we had been late doing Yule shopping, plus we had been stuck in icy mud coming home.

“I want rolls,” added Littlest Boy.

“You get dinner, with rolls and green salad and bean-beans, as soon as it’s ready,” assured his daddy, pointing him out the kitchen door and giving his little bottom a gentle but firm shove.

“And zert,” continued Littlest Boy.

“For dessert, there will be Papa Noël cake,” Monsieur said.

“Mmm,” said the Two Littlest Boys in unison. I led them away to wash up.

After dinner I sneaked out to haul in my gifts to Monsieur as he washed up the boys, hiding them in my underwear drawer wrapped in a newspaper. I then pulled out the gifts to the boys, carefully hiding them under the Big Bed.

This year, we’re doing two things a little differently. Instead of making Christmas lists of what we’d like to get, we make Christmas lists of what we’re going to give. Also, instead of spending the day playing, we’re going to Monsieur’s church and volunteering with a food bank, sorting some canned and boxed food. So I’m taking some joy in what I’m giving this year.

We went downtown to the Dell Community Center for latkes, klezmer, dreidels and gelt. We brought our Round Mountain Menorah to light, and I met a lot of people Monsieur hadn’t seen in years.

For some reason, Monsieur wants us all to have our passports in order and ready for a trip at any time. He says that work may end up causing him to take an assignment overseas, but he doesn’t know where or for how long. Last time he was out of town for work, he was gone for two weeks; we got fussy and missed him terribly. If it should come to that, he wants us to be a long, all of us. I’m cool with that. Also, I’ve never been anywhere except Florida and New York City, and I wouldn’t mind seeing some of the world, should it happen.

Meanwhile, we’re holed up, the rain tap-taps the windows, I’m in my plaid flannels, the Bigglest Boy is wrapped up in three blankets and thinks I don’t know that he’s reading the Discovery flight reports under his blanket with a flashlight. I’m going to go and gently remind him he’s not going to be able to get up on time if he stays up reading.

I’m then going to ask for one good thing from Monsieur, the one thing I always want, that one thing that can make me sleep more soundly than warm cocoa with a shot of cognac.

Have yourself a Merry little Christmas.

armistice day

2006-12-18T16:50:00.000-06:00

This post began as a reply to Agony, but it deserves its own post.

We’re looking only at the therapy because we really don’t wanna play with meds right now. Monsieur has vetoed that, and he’s the daddy, I’m just the … well, I have veto power about some things too, but I’m gonna go with his instincts on this one. We really, really don’t know much of the long term effects of these meds, is his argument, and there’s a very good chance that he’s going to have to get along without them, should he decide to be an American and play the Great American Health Care Crap Shoot Lottery. He may someday wind up on no insurance and dependent - even hooked - on meds that are $200 a month in a crap economy. Then he’d not have the means to deal without; no experience with reality on the terrible, ugly level and how to find that happy place.

I’m putting what he said in my own words, as I didn’t write it down when he said it, but that’s the gist of it.

To all of you, thanks. Bigglest Boy and I’ve been talking and he’s OK with me. A little. Sometimes. He agreed to call a truce because we both have decided to live in this house; him because he was born there, me because I just think that it is my destiny.

I hope it’s a truce, and not a cease-fire.

Agony

2006-12-01T20:34:00.000-06:00

Bigglest Boy has been going to therapy. You might remember that he has had major issues. He’s such a good student and all, but I know a lot of kids, growing up, who were good students but had terrible behavior. I’m trying to be understanding but the rage & destruction really scares me. I don’t know what to do with him sometimes; I send him to his room but lately he’s been so scary that I’m afraid to do that. I’m afraid… I’m afraid to even say what he might do when he’s full of that loathing.

Yesterday, after a bad day at school when he was separated from everyone else for the entire day. When we went home the Two Littlest Boys were allowed to paint and make designs and decorations and Bigglest Boy had to sit in the kitchen and read. Bigglest Boy had to bathe before dinner, which he hates doing, and an outburst at dinner meant he had to be separated from the table and he had to eat with his daddy in another room. I can’t control him and I think the only thing that keeps him in line when his daddy is around is a realization that there’s someone else in the house who is stronger than he is.

Bigglest Boy is now much, much stronger than I am. He is eight years old, he is almost five feet tall and weighs about 98 lbs. However, he can throw a large, solid oak glider rocker that looks like this all the way across a living room. When he did that, it missed me by maybe half a foot. It scared me. It caused me to think that the other kids aren’t safe from his anger. When he is away from other kids and he is sent to his room, I try to talk to him but all he could do was cry. And it wasn’t a child’s cry, it was the serious, self-loathing cry of someone ten years older.

“I wish I were dead.” “Why don’t you just put me in jail?” And finally he came out and said, “I really just hate you.”

“Why do you hate me?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I just wish you weren’t here, and I was in jail,” he sobbed.

“Why do you wish you were in jail?”

“I wish you were in jail, too,” he said, through his sniffles and tears.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you’re bad. Because you make me angry. Because you killed my mother.”

I couldn’t even take a breath when he said that. Did he really think that?

“Why did you say that?” I asked. I tried to stop from crying but it just started pouring out. I was so furious at him, while I tried to remember that he’s just a little boy. He’s eight years old.

“Because you hated her,” he said, and he turned and pressed his face into his pillow, and punched the pillow as hard as he could.

“I never, ever hated your mother,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I loved her more than any friend I ever had.”

He sat up, turning around slowly and looking at me like I was poison. “More than Daddy?”

I thought about it, and said finally. “Yes. Well… I don’t know. A lot. I don’t know. Well, about the same, if not more than your daddy.”

He looked away.

“A lot,” I repeated. “I loved your mama a lot.”

He lay face down again and cried. I asked him if he wanted anything, and he shrugged, not facing me. I tried to touch him gently on his shoulder, but he moved away quickly.

“I should take your shoes off, if you’re going to lay on the bed,” I said softly.

He didn’t argue, so I slipped his shoes and socks off. He flexed his feet, which made his toes creak and crack like an old man’s. I squeezed his feet, one in each hand, and he sighed. I took that sigh as an okay, and kept rubbing his feet, which felt like bags of rocks; they were so knotted and tense. I had been squeezing and rubbing his feet for about five minutes when Monsieur stuck his head in the door. I looked up and smiled at him, and kept rubbing Bigglest Boy’s feet. Monsieur smiled back, and closed the door.

Bigglest Boy had stopped sniffling. When my hands got tired, I stopped and I said gently, “Feel okay?”

He nodded into his pillow.

“Still hate me?” I asked softly.

“I don’t know,” he said.

I took that as a positive sign, and told him he could come back downstairs with us when he was ready.

Your Correspondent Returns

2006-11-25T11:24:00.000-06:00

I am back from the grazing-, oil- and cotton-leases of Corn Hole, KS, and am home in the grazing-, oil- and cotton-leases of Hill Country, TX.

Yes, we visited The Sod. We stayed at the Pee and Em’s, and my daddy even allowed Monsieur and me to sleep in the same room. Not like there was any chance that Monsieur’d give me any loving, what with my penchant for Rather Loud Noises during the physical act of love.

Monsieur survived Midwestern hospitality with great aplomb. He successfully won the approbation of My Seven Aunts by remembering all of their children’s names flawlessly, and also won the approval of My Five Uncles because he is able to talk about Big 12 Football despite the handicap of being born a foreigner – and a French one, at that.

“He’s all right,” said The Uncles, each in his own way, which is as close as this taciturn bunch gets to hoisting Monsieur up on their collective shoulders and giving him a victory parade.

“Let me know when you’re tired of him,” whispered my very-married Aunt Louise, with a wink.

The boys were spoiled with breakfast cereals and presents, cable TV and all of my old Disney videos. They didn’t let it spoil them much; in fact, Bigglest Boy was heard to tell Littlest Boy, “I think we’ve watched enough TV today, don’t you?”

At some point when Monsieur and the boys got corralled into going to fetch groceries with Daddy, Mom sat me down and, while we snapped some green beans, she asked me if I will always be “doing your teaching and whatever else it is you’re doing with the kids.”

I just said that I didn’t have any immediate plans to change.

“I’m just checking to make sure you are happy,” she said, “and you don’t miss being just a student without the responsibilities of a classroom or houseful of kids.”

I don’t remember what I said to that, but it was something along the lines of, “I’m fine, very satisfied with what I’m doing, and I find it very rewarding,” – which I do, actually.

She talked about her teaching years for a bit, and how she stopped when she got pregnant, and then she said, “Are you still using birth control? You can tell me it’s none of my business if you want.”

I blushed beet-red, and bit my lip to avoid sneezing. “No, I went off that a couple years ago,” I said. “But he um, he uses birth control.”

“Well, that’s good.” She looked around and then whispered to me, “I never could get your daddy to use those things.”

“No, Mom, I mean, he’s had a vasectomy.”

“Oh!” my mom said, startled. “Is it … is it permanent?”

“Pretty permanent, as far as those things go,” I said, trying to reassure her.

“So … so if you wanted to have kids, he’d need to have surgery?”

“Probably. But I don’t want to have kids,” I reminded her.

“Right,” she said. She poked through the beans, making sure she hadn’t missed any.

“We’re not even married…” I continued.

She looked up at me from over her bifocals. “Not yet, anyway.”

On the street where I live

2006-11-18T16:43:00.000-06:00

Meta: here are all the posts I’ve begun and have had to end abruptly. Sorry for the incoherent format. Wait, no I’m not; it’s a blog.

I think this time of year is why people live in Texas, because it’s chilly at night and nice and warm in the afternoon, sort of like a mild spring day in the Midwest. There’s been rain so the creek’s been running. Even though the road up Blue Hill is twisty-turny and has had huge ruts in it – not anymore, the grader has come and smoothed it out, here’s a picture of last year’s flood crossing.

Here’s a picture of the view above Monsieur’s car.

It’s really beautiful here; here are some flowers which bloom in November.

Ranching, a bit of oil, and cotton are where the money is here, because it’s so dry but when those rains come this winter we should be ready. Skip the Gay Rancher says it’s likely to be a wet winter.

Wet winters can be good, if the rain and other wet come all spread out, instead of all at once. Any rancher will tell you that he’s really just a grass farmer, and the ones up here are wary of feedlot ranching. They like to feed them on grass and some clover and hard feed. Their poop goes right back into the food chain, and they, in a sense, eat it the next spring.

"> Monsieur, like most land owners out here, leases a bit of his small acreage out to cattle and other stock grazing. It’s very good for the land, especially if the stock is rotated out with alfalfa.

Those trees you see in this picture are called cedar trees. They’re not like the cedars you see up in the American Northwest; they’re not much good for anything except fence posts, mulch and firewood. Thousands of years ago most of them would have been trampled or eaten by herds of bison before they had ever gotten much higher than your knees. Cattle don’t eat cedar saplings though. They do fertilize them, and the rest of our back yard.

The main reason I haven’t posted in so long is that I didn’t want to turn this into a mommy (or stepmommy) blog.

I've been getting immersed in teaching and childcare over the last month. Middlest Boy at 5½ is turning into this whiny, negative little poop. It’s hard for him, because his older brother tends to get all the attention (mostly negative, for things like throwing tantrums – and rocking chairs).

I’m trying like crazy also to get a couple more kids to get their multiplication tables memorized. I think it’s just one of those things that they’re going to have trouble with.

But this isn’t a teacher blog either.

So, I’ll go on about my love life, which is really extraordinary. OK, to me, anyway.

Extraordinary is such a Monsieur sort of word; it’s something he would say.

Monsieur is a really extraordinary daddy. He’s also an extraordinary musician, well a performer anyway. I’ve known better guitar players but he tends to look at songs like I look at scenes and you don’t go for technical perfection in diction or virtuosity, you go for the feeling – which is why he complimented Maggie so well on stage.

I didn’t do very well while Monsieur was gone. I don’t mean with the kids; I expected one of them to act out in some way because Daddy was out. I didn’t expect a rocking chair to come sailing at me, though.

This tree is a reminder that it is just turning fall here in Texas, where we are still here and doing very well. I will try to post a bit more soon.

Daddy's home, I'm still here

2006-11-07T16:27:00.000-06:00

Yes, I’m still here.

Monsieur came back on schedule, after being away on business. I missed him, awfully. I was glad to see him and I told him so. I even let him relax and catch up on his sleep, as he was pretty badly jet-lagged. I waited a whole day before I pounced on him, like a cat in heat.

I also surprised him, I think. I had, at some point, resolved to be able to give him a decent BJ, instead of the licking/stroking I’d been managing. While he was gone, I got out my biggest toy and practiced sucking it.

Anyone spying on me with a hidden camera late at night that week would have been rewarded with the sight of a redhead, lying on her back or her side, trying to get her mouth around a huge black dildo.

It helped, a bit. When I got the chance, while Monsieur was going down on me, I turned around under him and sucked his cock right into my mouth. Somehow I managed to relax and let it happen. I dropped my tongue into the floor of my mouth and just let him work it in. I didn’t ever get it into my throat, but I bobbed my head and sucked it without chewing it up too badly. He was surprised.

“That was impressive,” he allowed, when he turned me around to take me.

“I’ve been practicing,” I said, and he bit the back of my neck very wonderfully before plunging into me.

I’ve been pretty well buried by my school teaching, and also with handling and wrangling the boys. I’ve got a two-year-old who climbs everything: bookcases, curtains, bare walls. I heard a noise the other morning and got out of bed to check on it; Monsieur was outside but this noise came from the living room area. I went in there to find Littlest Boy hanging from a chandelier. He had piled up boxes on top of chairs and climbed them, then reached up and grabbed hold. The sound I had heard was cause by his swinging feet kicking the boxes out from under him. He was hanging there, giggling like it was the greatest fun and as if he wasn’t suspended eight feet over a tile floor, about to plummet to a certain head injury.

“Littlest Boy,” I said, holding onto his feet, “you don’t hang from the ceiling fixtures. That’s dangerous.”

“But I wanna go upsy-down!” he protested.

I did not argue with him, as he is only two, but I could not actually pry his fingers loose until I got up on a chair and worked each finger away from its vise grip on the chandelier.

“You’re not to climb in the house,” I reinforced. “When we go to the creek or to the park, I will help you climb trees, the playscapes, the rock quarry, the thirty-three floors of the Frost Bank Tower…”

“I wanna go outside,” he said.

Monsieur came in to see the piled-up furniture and boxes, and figured out the whole scheme immediately. He apologized, and took Littlest Boy outside with him to help in the garden.

Middlest Boy had a wonderful Halloween. He dressed up as the Green Arrow and Littlest Boy dressed as a little leopard. I was Bo Peep, and took them to the circle of neighbors who gather in the fork in the road and we had Trick or Treat, then we set up our own little stand and gave away the candy that we didn’t want.

Bigglest Boy was not especially happy when his daddy was away for that week. One night he threw a tantrum, a fit, and finally a rocking chair. I had been trying to confine him to his room, just so he could cool down, but he wasn’t accepting my authority and he picked up a glider rocker, lifted it over his head, and threw it across the living room, where it broke. It had missed me by about a foot.

I managed to confine him to his room after that.

I think he was more surprised that he could actually pick up and throw a glider rocker than anything.

Still, I was furious.

“That was your mama’s chair!” I cried. “Your mama’s rocker! Your grandfather bought that for you, when you were a baby!”

I cried for a while, with the other two boys gathering around me and trying to calm me down. I felt as though I wasn’t doing a good job, and that he would eventually end up more and more distant from me, no matter what I did.

Bigglest Boy calmed down immediately, and quietly went up to his room when he was sent there.

I didn’t tell his father, until he had come back home. When I did, I was rather frightened on Bigglest Boy’s behalf.

“Don’t be angry,” I begged him. “I’ve already yelled at him enough.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but this is quite inexcusable. I need to punish him in a way that is fitting for what he has done. Don’t forget,” he added as he went upstairs, “that he threw a chair, and that he threw it at you, and his younger brothers could also have been hurt. We do not harm women, and we do not harm children.”

Bigglest Boy has been restricted from all television since then, for a month, and must perform community service, gathering trash with his father on the roadside every weekend and every night for 50 hours.

Thanks to all who have written me, wondering if I'm OK and we're OK and if I've fallen off the planet or something. I'm fine, I promise. We're fine. Everything is very, very good.

Occupational Hazard

2006-10-24T08:59:00.000-05:00

Occupational Hazard

a play in one act
by
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.

FIN

Connection

2006-10-22T11:17:00.000-05:00

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.

Plus:

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.

Yum.

“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.

My man's gone now

2006-10-21T07:23:00.000-05:00

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.

Secure

2006-10-16T08:15:00.000-05:00

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

One.
Smooth.
Stroke.

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.

Security

2006-10-14T10:51:00.000-05:00

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.”

Doing My Part for the Effort

2006-10-13T08:53:00.000-05:00

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!

First BJ

2006-10-05T07:00:00.000-05:00

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 5^th 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 4^th 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.

“Next?”

“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.

Visits

2006-10-01T11:01:00.000-05:00

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.

Template change

2006-09-19T12:41:00.000-05:00

While I'm trying to figure out the Beta Blogger, I had to apply one of their new "Dynamic Templates." I don't like it either. I'll jack with it later.

EDIT: jacked with it, still hating it.

EDIT 2006-09-28: Jacked with it some more, figuring it out. This ain't your mama's HTML.

Oh, To Be His Snake's Woman Partner

2006-09-19T11:13:00.000-05:00

This was in my Lady Ann’s Brothel message box this morning:

After I/she/you came to know Your advertisement’s details
nPerish come I train you that be honored builder we progress so that by the official demand of the marriage languid be created my snake’s woman partner
Languid prepared for is a question or which an inquiry you should know him
With the pure of a greeting
emailm@sk.ed
Or
otheremailm@sk.ed
On Jehu or He/they makes my correspondence strong if you don’t decree the connection across the position
I hope for the answer spoliation or an obligation

I now have to run this through my Magic Comprehensive Syntax Analyzer, and see if I can extract anything coherent out of it in any way whatsoever.

If you do find this and you are the original author, you speak in strange whispers, friend. Please be aware that I prefer standard English or broken French for all further communications.

Out of my head

2006-09-11T18:06:00.000-05:00

I’ve been getting into this, sort of roleplay lately. I guess you’d call it roleplay.

Have you ever closed your eyes and pretend it’s someone else?

I sometimes close my eyes and pretend that I’m someone else, a very different woman in a different place, and Monsieur is giving to me while I’m bent over a park bench.

It feels good.

...that sweetie who rang up my fast food...

While he plunges in and out of me, I’ll suck my thumb and pretend I’m sucking that sweetie who rang up my fast food that afternoon.

While Monsieur fucks me.

He grips my ass with both hands, making a noise of growling low and then my breath gets ragged and oh sweet gods it hurts and I bite my hand and pretend it’s some sweet chica tenderly kissing my lips, to take away the pain/pleasure of Monsieur’s insistent cock.

While Monsieur fucks me.

In my head, the chica is making a running commentary, “She’s really starting to get red, Monsieur … I don’t think she will be able to handle it … bite her a little, Monsieur, maybe that’ll help … does it hurt, Yearning Heart? It should hurt a little at first, that way you know he’s really inside of you….”

While Monsieur fucks me.

Where does she come from? How does she intrude into my thoughts like this? I don’t know, but she is in my hand as it moves to one of my nipples, squeezes it and plays with it, making it erect, swollen, tender; she makes me suck my finger until it’s wet and then she takes my wet thumb and index finger, moves it down to my hungry, naughty clitoris and holds it prisoner in her/my hand. Her green eyes flash as contact is made with my very liquid center. She smiles. “She’s going to come,” I hear her say matter-of-factly to Monsieur.

While Monsieur fucks me.

“Unghodddddd…” I cry.

Monsieur grabs my ass, pulls my hips to him and then holds me there. I’d rather he would move, because he’s just buried inside me. It feels like I’ll split open.

While Monsieur fucks me.

“Please, Monsieur,” I cry.

“Oh, you do please Monsieur,” he whispers in my ear. I can feel the whiskers on his chin against the back of my neck. “You please Monsieur so, so much.” He holds me there. I can’t take it. My mouth is locked agape, no sound emerges, and I feel his cock swell, still unmoving, and he holds me tight against him. I can’t take it. I want to plead, beg, tell him it’s too much, but I can’t talk, I can’t move, I’m impaled, imprisoned, can’t move….

I feel a pulse going through the shaft inside me and finally I feel him fill me with a gush. As it pours into me, he slowly pulls out a little, giving me some breathing room, and it leaks out of me. I imagine we are on the stage in my old high school, my graduating class, all my old teachers are watching and some whispering to themselves, “I told you she’d be a hot fuck.”

While Monsieur fucks me.

He gasps, so quietly I barely notice, my heart pounding in my ears. My chica kisses my cheek and says, “you’ll be fine, darling.” I close my eyes as the last of my orgasm bubbles through me. Monsieur’s hands are so warm, and they envelope me and slide over my body, still bent over. My eyes come back into focus and we are in the bedroom; I am bent over the bed and holding the sheets so hard I have pulled them half off the bed.

It slides out of me and leaves me gaping open. I’m deliciously sore, chafed. There is a mewing sound and I realize it’s me. He takes me in his arms and I curl up, closing my eyes. He places the gold coin in my hand and closes his hand over mine, and I wonder where all these images come from; why I think such naughty things, who have I become, and why do I become a completely different person.

While Monsieur fucks me.

More Rules of Engagement

2006-09-07T11:58:00.000-05:00

This was my post that I started last week, and never finished. It ended up being a conversation with Monsieur instead.

My dad irons more than Monsieur boinks me and I need boinking. Well, no, my dad doesn’t iron that much; still. I need boinking. And not him going down on me until I get off a couple times and he says, that’s it. Then he holds me until I fall asleep. He needs to take me; that other business is like, not it. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but, he’s gotta give it up. I do a lot for him. C’mon, this is just, what? 30 minutes, twice a week? Is that asking a lot? I ask you.

Is it any better now? Well. From the outside looking in, it’s the same. From where I’m sitting, it’s better. I hope it’s better. Anyway, Monsieur either is trying to be better or he figured out a really good way to hold me at arm’s length again.

I’m easily conned, maybe. Maybe not. I still have Lady Ann’s.

In other developments … a woman who knows Monsieur and is probably hopelessly in love with him has found this blog, and thinks that I’m less than desirable stepmom and girlfriend material for this family. To her, I say, welcome, but please leave the hate comments outside. You’re perfectly welcome to comment, but please do so in a way that is constructive and not cutting. This is why I have removed your comment below.

Mariko, if you think I’m afraid that you’re going to call Monsieur and tell him what an awful woman I am, well, I suggest to you that you should give it a try. I’m not going to live my life in fear of him finding out who I am and what I do; besides, you know how smart he is and please be sure that he is perfectly aware of what I do in chat rooms. He also knows how much I love his children. What are you offering him? Wouldn’t he have accepted your offer instead of mine, more than a year ago?

I’m sorry it didn’t work out between you two exactly the way you wanted it, but that does not give you permission to come into my space and trash me and act the juvenile bitch.

I apologize to the rest of you readers, but I have no other way to talk to this woman but on this page. [Smiles] Let’s just move on, shall we?

Redeemed

2006-09-04T10:48:00.000-05:00

Well, I gave Monsieur the coin the other day, and he redeemed it last night. I wish I had time to go into it but it’s really busy here right now. It was good, I will say, and also … well this is kind of odd but there was this feeling of power I got afterwards that is hard to describe. I was stretched out on the bed, afterglowing, and Monsieur got up to use the bathroom. My back was arching, I was stretching and feeling wonderful. He came and stood over me and dropped the golden Sacajawea coin on my belly. It was as though he was paying me for it, in gold. I felt like a temple courtesan or something. It turned me on.

Under our rules of engagement, I have to hold the coin for 1 week before I redeem it again. Just knowing I’ll be able to, that there are rules, and that there is a framework for me asking for sex without actually asking for sex, makes me feel good. He’s wondeful.

Out of the Wilderness

2006-09-02T14:17:00.000-05:00

I don’t know what made me so brave; maybe something got knocked into place when that fat kid punched me in the face the other day.

I sat down last night with Monsieur and just laid it out straight. He’s a good man, the best boyfriend I’ve ever had in my life, he’s a great dad, a good teacher, and I have little or nothing to complain about. Except.

I’m not getting enough sex. Oh, boo-hoo, how bad can that be, you ask. Well, it can get kind of bad. It makes me feel unattractive and I find myself looking at other couples wistfully as they kiss in the produce section. I know they just got it good the night before, and possibly again that morning. I’m envious. I don’t like it. I am worth it. I’m worth having.

I’m still keeping myself up. I ride my bike down to the highway and back every other morning. I do my crunches faithfully, twice a day, twenty reps each time. I do my Kegels four times a day, twenty reps each time. I bathe every day, I wash my hair every other night, I brush it faithfully. I check in the mirror. I look all right.

I pointed all this out to Monsieur, and I kept my temper down. I didn’t cry, like I thought I would. I didn’t accuse him of anything. I told him how much I loved him and how much I appreciate him.

It’s just, well, seeing him come out of the shower every night and the water dripping down his chest and legs, seeing him drying his body off – c’mon, I’m human. If you deprive me of that body, I’m going to resent it.

He had, at one time, agreed to be more attentive to that need and not to let me get so deprived, but he has not been doing the duty lately. So, I told him. I tried to use terms like, “I want,” “I need,” “I must have,” “I don’t want,” and so forth. I didn’t accuse him of anything. I tried my best to keep myself calm and my voice level.

The main thing I stuck to, my main point, was that I don’t want to ask for it all the time, every time, and risk rejection. I want him to just take me. Once a week, minimum. If he were to do that, I might feel more comfortable about asking for it other times. I don’t know if I’m a product of social conditioning or what, but I like it when the man is The Man and I am The Woman. I don’t like being thought of as a sex object all the time, but for twenty minutes or so, once a week, or twice a week even, would be a nice change of pace, and I’ll let him know if I get tired of it.

I think he took it very well.

After about a half an hour of give and take, he seemed to have an idea. He went into his room, opened his dresser drawer, and came back with a small gold coin, which he put in my hand.

a small gold coin, which he put in my hand.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Actually, it’s a Sacajawea dollar,” he said. “But, I want you to hang on to that. When you want me to ‘just take you,’ as you say, you give it to me. After I take you, I will give it back, for you to use the next time.”

I looked at it in my palm, then I looked at him. “You can’t just … ” I trailed off.

He sighed. “Apparently not. I think, like I said, I have this foolish, subconscious belief that I am taking advantage of you. Also I am trying to get myself over the idea that you are the same teenager that you were when I met you. And also, well … ” he began, then he looked away.

“You still feel like you’re cheating on Maggie?” I asked.

He looked at me. His eyes are so brown. And last night, at that moment, they were so liquid and so deep, they looked like melted bittersweet chocolate drops.

“I am not very good at getting over some things, some ideas,” he said. “I, like you, am a product of years of conditioning, too.”

We talked for an hour or more. It was good. I hung on to Sacajawea, and put her in my pocket. Perhaps she’ll help to lead me out of this wilderness, and maybe she’ll do a little translating between my language and his.

Well, I am Irish, you know.

2006-08-30T17:58:00.000-05:00

I am officially freaked the freak out.

Today was perfectly gorgeous, what with that Arctic cold front that blew through yesterday and plunged our temperatures down from 100+ ° F. to a bone-chilling 93°. (That’s about 38 C down to 34 C for you metricians.) Naturally, since we hadn’t been able to be in sunlight for the last 6 weeks, I decided to take the boys to the city, to a park on the southwest side, and let them romp & play.

It was all good for about 45 minutes. There were a number of elementary age kids playing and a few older ones sitting around looking tragically criminal. I was helping Littlest Boy in his climbing adventures; really just spotting him for my own peace of mind as the little lemur can climb up a brick wall if I let him.

Bigglest Boy was about 50 yards away climbing a tree, and Middlest Boy was chatting up some little girl (and that kid’s got some game, if I’m any judge of 5-year-olds) and all seemed peaceful.

I was just getting Littlest Boy off of the playscape when I heard something and turned to see five or six of the older kids around Bigglest Boy. One of them, who looked about 16 and quite chunky, turned and punched Bigglest Boy right smack in the face. I yelled “Hey!” as Bigglest Boy went down, screaming and holding his hands over his face. The other kids swarmed over him, looking for all the world like a pack of jackals. I left Littlest Boy, yelling at Middlest Boy to stay with his little brother, and covered the 50 yards to Bigglest Boy in about 5 seconds.

“Get off of him!” I said, pulling on the kid who punched him.

“Fuck you, bitch,” he said, not turning his head around to look at me.

Something red, like a curtain of rage, went over my vision. “Fuck me?” I said, with a little laugh. “I don’t think so. Fuck you!” I took a running leap, and jumped on him, grabbing him by the ears, face, hair, and I think a bit of his nose, twisting his head around and shoving his body into the dirt.

I took a few punches from him, and he probably outweighed me by a good fifty pounds or more, but between my momentum and my hands in the soft fleshy parts of his face, I got him off of Bigglest Boy and pulled him away.

A few moms and a dad came running and got both of us separated and to our feet. Bigglest Boy was screaming with his hands over his eyes. I let them know what I saw; the punk’s nose was bleeding and I had a slight cut on my lip. I got Bigglest Boy out of the way and didn’t really look back to see what damage I might have done.

I was gathering up kids and our supplies when a mom cornered me.

“You hit my kid?” she asked.

“He punched my kid. In the eyes – ” I started.

“That don’t make no difference. You hit my kid and I press charges.”

“Bring it,” I said. “No, wait, let me help.” I dug out my cell phone. “Here. I’ll dial the police for you. You tell them what happened, in your own words. Don’t leave anything out,” I added.

“I don’t need no police,” she said, “you just stay the fuck away from my kid.”

I looked at her. “I bet you don’t,” I said, my voice low. “If a 160 lb teenage kid hits my kid in the eye, I will chew through you, your family, and six cops just to stop him. Not only is your kid bigger and meaner than mine, he’s stupid as you if he thinks I’m scared of either one of you.”

“He ain’t no teenage, he only eleven,” she argued.

“Well, then he’s fat, too.” I turned and immediately got everyone into the van. I was seething. I called Monsieur and he set up for us to meet at the pedi’s office.

Turns out that kid, the eleven-year-old, is on probation. He isn’t allowed in the parks without his mom being there, and she wasn’t even anywhere near him when he punched Bigglest Boy. I should have called the cops.

Bigglest Boy has a patch on his eye and we’ll have to put this anti-biotic cream goo into it twice a day. It’s agony for him, he can’t see or even open the eye because it’s so sensitive to light, but the doctor says he should be okay in a couple of days.

I’m still furious.

I don’t think Bigglest Boy knew what I was capable of. Actually, I don’t think I knew, either. But the kids sure are responsive and obedient tonight.

I have bruises on my arm where someone grabbed me, a cut on my lip and I’m sore as hell. And I am freaking.

Curriculum, fall term

2006-08-30T00:05:00.000-05:00

We’ve finally finished with blocking out this stuff on the calendar. Here is our term this fall, like you care:

Daily

Penmanship
Phonics
Spelling
Math
History & Literature*

Weekly

Art
History readings co-related with a timeline or century book and map
Handicrafts
Music Appreciation, including folksongs
Nature Study
An artist and a composer each term

*Well, history is literature, right?:

A Child’s History of the World: Virgil Hillyer ch 47, ch 49-53 (1000 CE) Charlemagne, Vikings, Peter the Hermit; 800-1100 CE
A Wonder Book: Nathaniel Hawthorne
Abraham Lincoln: Ingri D’Aulaire
Along Came A Dog: Meindert De Jong
An Island Story: ch 22-32 (1066-1189, Harold II Henry II)
Brighty of the Grand Canyon: Marguerite Henry
The Burgess Animal Book for Children: Thornton Burgess
Chanticleer and the Fox: Barbara Cooney
The Story of Doctor Dolittle: Hugh Lofting
The Door in the Wall: Marguerite De Angeli
Farmer Boy: Laura Ingalls Wilder
Five Children and It: Edith Nesbit
Five Little Peppers and How They Grew: Margaret Sidney
Hans Christian Andersen: fairy tales
Heidi: Joanna Spyri
Bible: King James Version
The Little Duke: Charlotte Yonge
Little House on the Prairie: Laura Ingalls Wilder
Travels: Marco Polo
Mary Poppins: P.L. Travers
Mr. Popper’s Penguins: Richard Atwater
Otto of the Silver Hand: Howard Pyle
Parables from Nature: Margaret Gatty
Pied Piper of Hamlin: Robert Browning
Pilgrim’s Progress Book 1 (Christian’s Journey): John Bunyan
Poetry: Walter De La Mare
Tales from Shakespeare: Charles and Mary Lamb
This Country of Ours: ch. 1 (Vikings)
Understood Betsy: Dorothy Canfield Fisher

Thanks to J-with-2-N’s and Monsieur, I think it’s a wrap. These kids are going to get an education that will stay with them. So will I. And, not a standardized fill-in-the-bubble-with-a-#2-pencil test in sight until they are 15 years old.

What's a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Blog Like This?

2006-08-29T17:40:00.000-05:00

On 8/17/06, a Dear Reader <emailma@sk.ed> wrote:

I have been enjoying your writing lately, you really have been writing some hot stuff. It seems to me that you really know what a guy likes sexually. The shower stuff in particular really turned me on. I have to admit that I was thinking about it the other night during a “solo session.” So tell me, how did such a nice young girl like you figure out what turns us on? My guess is that you must have really good insight to the depraved male mind.

That’s a great question. I have no idea what the answer is. I think it comes from not ever being really, truly hurt by a guy, like some people I know. I like men. As a group, I don’t think they’re really any more “depraved” than I am. (Individually, I have met some sickos.) Most of them are very sweet. I have met some real jerks, but I know that it’s because of them that the rest of you guys get a bad rep. Women meet so many jerks because the jerks are out there trying to meet us. Many of the nice guys are guys we’d never meet, partly because they’re so nice that they never would dream of imposing themselves on us, and partly because there are some females out there who are real jerks, too, and these women have made nice guys especially shy.

Oh right, the original question: How do I know what turns you men on?

The answer is: I don’t! I do what turns me on. For example: I know guys like getting enthusiastic head – but that’s not what makes me enthusiastic about giving it. I’m enthusiastic about it because I like it, and I like the feeling of power over a man. Also, I try to have an open mind. There’s some things I won’t do – but usually because I’ve tried it before and I didn’t like it. I don’t think to myself “gross!” when a guy who likes me wants me to do something I would normally find a little weird. I think to myself, “Well, how much grosser is that than cunnilingus, when you get right down to it?”

I’ve had a few guys who were total zeros in bed, and they were usually selfish and in a hurry to get me there. It’s funny, because they would have this desperate sort of “forced tranquility” about them. The MBA candidate, the Finance/Accounting grad school guy, and the military guy who was rebounding from a bad breakup were the worst. It was so disappointing to find out that, contrary to what I’d read, all the Republicans I’d been with were so lame. No conscience, no give and take, and clumsy wooing. Of course, being a theatre student, it’s hard to attract a representative sample. Hell, it was hard enough to meet a straight guy who wasn’t already hooked up.

The Texas School Book Crisis

2006-08-29T00:29:00.000-05:00

I’ve been too busy to write. I spent a bunch of time gathering materials for art, music, and so forth. J-with-2-N’s is priceless help at this, and we spent a few hours tonight and Saturday trying to accomplish this.

I can’t help but think that these kids are incredibly fortunate to have a school run by the parents – parents who really are involved and who really do care about how their kids are taught.

I get comments from quite a few people who say, “A co-op! That’s a great idea to counter all this godless humanism that they’d get in public schools! What denominational is it?”

Once I was even lucky enough to have a book handy - religions of the world, which I opened to a really beautiful painting of a satyr. “Yes, religious instruction is very important to us,” I said.

“That’s the devil!” said my conversant. I thought she was about to shrink back and hold up a garland of garlic cloves.

“No,” I reassured her, smiling, “not the devil. Just a poorly-paid, humble assistant.”

Bruce's German Name

2006-08-21T02:32:00.000-05:00

OK. So. OK.

Yes. I had too much to drink. But. I was – are you listening? This is important. I was in town at Special K’s, and you know what? It was her boyfriend’s birthday! Can you believe it? I couldn’t either! I said, “Hey, Special K! When did you get a boyfriend?”

“Oh, a long time ago,” Special K said.

“Did I know about him?” I asked.

“Naw, I don’t take him out.”

So, since her boyfriend was working, I took Special K out and got her drunk, then I drove her back to her place, she introduced me to her boyfriend, who finally got out of work. On his birthday. Isn’t that sad?

“Hullo, K’s Boyfriend,” I said.

“Hi, my name’s actually [something German sounding].”

“Isn’t that interesting?” Peals of immoderate laughter emerged from me and Special K. “You know, I’ve heard so much about you! Do you mind if I call you Bruce?”

More immoderate laughter; I think Special K decided I had far too much to drink and they took me home.

On the doorstep, I think I told Monsieur that I loved him, and asked him did he know she had a boyfriend? Because I didn’t. “Who knew?” I asked. Not Monsieur. I think I did a few lines from my favorite Kate Hepburn movies, too, which isn’t pretty.

OK so here is the thing I really noticed. You know, some people are cool, and some people know cool and think they’re cool, but they’re not cool. It doesn’t matter what Monsieur knows, because he is what he will always be. He’s gonna learn more and all, but it won’t matter because of who he is.

Special K is cool; she knows a lot of hip underground things, majored in garage bands in college, lived among all that all her life. I’ll say some thing sometimes that’s just painfully obvious to someone like her and she’ll make this “Um, hello! Duh? Who does not know that?” observation.

Monsieur wouldn’t say that; he’d let me talk and then he’d bring it out and then observe something else and there’s give and take – even though he’s a million semesters ahead of me in terms of book knowledge.

Plus! Plus! When I come home staggering between two of my ne’er-do-well friends, is there an argument? Or a fight, or sarcastuc reamerks? Nope, says I. He just takes me by my arm and puts me to bed. But first, he lets me do my Kate Hepburn impression, smiling at me indulgently.

“‘But Monsieur,’” I said, “‘There is a leopard on your roof and it’s my leopard and I have to get it and to get it I have to sing.’”

“So, you’re not going to, um, stop her?” says Bruce.

“’Oh Dexter, I’ll be yar now; I promise I’ll be yar,’” I say.

“I can get a bucket of cold water,” suggests Special K.

“No,” says Monsieur, “actually, I like this part. If we are lucky, she may segue into The Wind and the Lion.”

Have you ever noticed what a funny word that is? if you type it six times: Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur Monsieur.

Anyway, it’s many hours later. I woke up to pee, and I thought maybe if I wrote this down, I’d remember Bruce’s real German-sounding name.

It didn’t work.

Oratio Mentha piperita

2006-08-19T10:35:00.000-05:00

I know we haven’t talked in a while, and I’m sorry. I have a hard time talking to you sometimes. I know all that stuff had to happen and you did your best. And, if it had to happen, I suppose there’s no good time, so it just happened. Somewhere there’s some good in it. I’m here, aren’t I?

[smiles hopefully]

Well. Anyway.

I can’t get hold of you any other way. It doesn’t seem like you’re picking up. I know you have a lot going on with your projects and everything’s always a crisis. I can just hear you saying, “Look, sister, they’re ALL emergencies, they’re all action items.” But, I know you read this blog and I know you’re been reading it since a long time ago – since I was in college. I know you avoid the hit counters because you’re clever that way, but it seems like whenever I hint for what I want here, or even outright ask for something, you seem to read it and make it happen one way or another.

I remember I asked you to give me the answer to the bonus question in that stupid algebra class in 2^nd semester. Do you remember that? Heh. Boy, I do. I’ll never forget it:

A flower pot slips off a window ledge that is 4 meters above a bug sitting below. How much time does the bug have left before it is squashed? G = 9.8 m/s²

I was sitting there, knowing I’d blown that stupid quadratic, and I just was staring at that problem, and you said, “0.90 seconds,” just as plain as anything. I thought the whole class heard you. I worked the problem out backwards from that, and you were right. Well, of course you were right. But I had to show my work.

I, um, need you to do something for me. Ya, I know, I only call you when I want something. But really, it’s not for me, but for the Bigglest Boy. Can you just talk to him? The way you do. I think he might be open to it now. He’s really, really in a lot of pain and I just don’t think I’m going to have the strength to watch him go through what he’s going through. Please. For me.

That’s all I really want.

Oh, and can you help toilet train Littlest Boy?

Ya, that’s all.

Oh wait – what’s with this weather you’ve been sending us? Did you forget how to make it less than 100 degrees outside? Christ on a cr – oh. Sorry. I know you don’t like that. But it’s hot! Can you send us a little thunderstorm? I don’t mean a deluge, no forty-days-and-forty-nights stuff. Two hours, a nice downdraft with a cool rain, and you can go back to what you were doing, confusing the astronomers out there in the Oort Cloud, or planting fake fossils, or whatever you do.

Am I getting snarky? I’m sorry. I’m such an irreverent little brat. Come to think of it, never mind the weather; and Monsieur and I can probably toilet train Littlest Boy. I was just complaining, and I have no right to. But really, about Bigglest Boy, I meant that. When you have time, I mean. I know you have kids, too.

Best friends,

Pepper

Dark Passage

2006-08-17T15:52:00.000-05:00

I was scrubbing crayon marks off of the kitchen table later last night, when I looked up and saw Monsieur there. “I’m sorry, about the other night,” Monsieur said to me.

“Sorry? About what?” I said, continuing to scrub.

“My cowardly retreat from you when you did nothing but very generously offer me – what you generously offered.”

My stomach did a flip-flop, so I concentrated on a tiny purple mark and scrubbed furiously. “It’s … well, it’s all right,” I said, trying to convince myself. “You’re allowed to want what you want, and not want what you don’t want. It’s not a deal breaker. I’m OK.”

“Well, just because I don’t take you up on your offer, doesn’t mean I don’t find the offer appealing,” he said.

I looked up at him, then continued scrubbing a crayon mark that had vanished long before. “Not appealing enough to take me up on it,” I said, somewhat accusingly.

“I think the table is clean now,” he said, taking my hand and removing the green scouring pad. “You need to get in the shower.”

“I just took a shower. Do I smell?” I asked. My heart was pounding.

“I didn’t say you needed a shower. I said you needed to get in the shower. [Littlest Boy] is in our bed,” he added as he was leading me towards the bedroom door, “so … try to keep your voice down.”

“Um. Oh. All right,” I whispered.

He opened the bedroom door. Of course, it was pitch black in there, as the curtains and blinds were closed. There was no night light, because Littlest Boy tends to wake up if there is any ambient light in the room he’s in. I am completely blind in the dark, and Monsieur knew it. He led me into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Are we going to leave the bathroom light off, too?” I asked.

“Shh,” he whispered, then put a finger on my lips. He put his lips to where they were touching my ear. “He’s sleeping very lightly,” Monsieur whispered. “He’s awakened three times already, and I don’t think you want me to be interrupted.” He lifted up my shirt and slid it off of me, and lowered my shorts. I started to unbutton his shirt but he pulled my hands away, held them over my head and kissed me. I arched my back, kissing him hard and pressing against him. He hadn’t shaved; his beard was rough but his lips were soft and the contrast was very much appreciated.

I tried to pull my hands free to touch him but he held them firmly, so I gave up and yielded to him. He kissed my neck, my shoulders, my chest. I longed to get him naked, but he had his own ideas and I was content to just follow his lead.

He let go of my hands and turned me around. He slipped my panties off and ran his warm, strong hand over my butt. He pressed his lips to my ear and said, “Get in the tub and hold the towel bar.”

I obeyed. He put my hands against the wall, and put my foot on the edge of the tub, so that I was standing on one foot but using the other one for balance. “Hold on,” he whispered. I nodded. He knelt behind me and began to cover my bottom with kisses. The coarseness of his unshaven face felt like the green scouring pad. He exhaled and held my ass in his hands and then spread my bottom, and then pressed his lips to me.

My labia parted slowly with the pressure, and his tongue emerged, making gentle flicks and licks to the edge of my labia. He went in slow circles; his tongue felt like a paintbrush doing a stipple effect to the canvas of my vulva. I gripped the towel bar tighter, and looked over my shoulder. I could hardly see a thing. It was pitch black and I strained to see his face between my ass cheeks. I could make out the shape of his head. In the blackness I heard him inhale through his nose, hold his breath to lick me, and then breathe out again.

I felt him touch me with his hand. I bit my lip as I felt his mouth pull away, his tongue replaced by one finger snaking its way in between my labia. I gasped, then as another finger joined the first my eyes closed and I cried out.

He stopped, then got up and left. I made a whimpering sound, then heard it almost repeated from the bedroom. Littlest Boy was stirring, and his daddy patted him down and held him for a minute, while I caught my breath in the bathroom.

Monsieur returned to the tub. I pressed my lips to his ear. “Is he all right?” I asked, barely letting breath escape my lips.

Monsieur pressed his lips to my ear and replied, “Yes, he’s sleeping very lightly. I suspect it’s his allergy. Do you want to continue?”

“Desperately,” I said, a little too loudly.

He held a finger to my lips. I kissed it. He pressed his lips to my ear. “You must be able to control yourself.” I nodded. I knelt, dropped his shorts and took him into my mouth as fast as I could. I worked the thick knob of his cock with my tongue until he was as hardened as pink steel. I reached to the floor behind me, picked up my panties and stuffed most of them in my mouth. I then stood, turned around, and, sufficiently gagged, took hold of the towel bar again.

He lifted my leg, spreading me, and ran the tip of his cock along my slit. I moaned into my bunched up panties, pushing back against him a little too hard. It wasn’t easy to get into me this time, as I was so swollen that it was almost too much to get me to distend around his thickness. It took some time. The oxen are slow, I thought, but the Earth is patient. I breathed, imagining my vagina opening up and relaxing. He knelt and plunged his tongue into me from behind, causing me to cry out once and again. I was grateful to be gagged by my panties. I didn’t want anything to interrupt us. I wanted only for the room to move. It was so delightful, after waiting for almost a month, to have him ministering to the pleasure which I so fervently desired.

He replaced his tongue with two fingers, which slid slickly into me. He stood up and pressed his wet swollen lips to my ear.

“Clench,” he whispered. My kegels complied without any further instruction from my conscious brain. He moved his fingers, first in, then turning them over and bending them slightly, and withdrew them almost completely. I tried to say “No,” before he left me aching to be filled, but my mouth was stuffed with my panties.

He pressed is lips against my ear again. “Good girl,” he barely whispered. With that, I felt my wetness pooling up within me and when he positioned his cock against me once again, he only had to tilt my hips up before he popped in and brought his body to line up with me. He held my hips and pulled me back to him. I leaned forward and he began to move. I moaned and he held his hand over my stuffed mouth and, using this and his hand on my hips for leverage, started to fuck me.

It was slow at first, but he quickly built up speed. I wanted to let go of the towel bar but it was the only thing keeping me from falling forward. I wanted to touch myself. I had to climax; it was building up almost painfully. I couldn’t even beg him. I gripped the bar tightly, thinking to myself, if only I could let go long enough to ding the bean.

He let go of my hips and curled his body over my back. Keeping his left hand over my mouth, pressing the panties further in, he reached in front of me and bore two of his fingers into my clit, making slow, lazy circles. I moaned, and he held his hand tighter to suppress the noise I made. He pulled up on the skin of my mons and resumed rubbing, not fast, not hard, but deliberately; and my climax hit me so hard my knees went weak. He held me up with one hand around my waist, pounding me like a hammer. I was delirious. My orgasm bubbled up and I heard a noise in my ears like a waterfall; I let go, roaring through the panties, through his hand, through the walls and up into space. I had no thought, my mind was empty; I had become my orgasm and my only thought was, Now. Then there was no thought.

He had stopped, and I came back into my body. I was breathing hard and looked around. Everything was pitch dark, so dark I could see the blood circulating in my eyes, and for a moment I thought oh God, he’s fucked me blind. Then I remembered that the lights were off. He stood up straight, his cock shifted inside me and I closed my eyes.

He pressed his lips to my ear. “If I remove it, will you be quiet?”

I didn’t know if he meant my panties or his cock, but I nodded anyway.

First he pulled out of me, then he removed my panties from my mouth. I had chewed them pretty hard, and they were ruined. He opened them up to see that my teeth had ground them until there were little holes in the crotch. He tossed them into the trash.

I was breathing hard. He held me tightly, and as I hugged him I whispered as quietly as I could and gasping as little as possible, “Are you finished?”

He nodded, but I reached out and stroked him and could tell by the way it felt that he hadn’t.

“Do you want me to … to take care of you?” I whispered.

He shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Soon enough,” he whispered quietly. I wondered what that meant, then I decided not to be so selfish and to be grateful for what I’d received.

Curriculum Change

2006-08-17T15:49:00.000-05:00

The co-operative school parents met Monday evening and decided that our Greek course of study should be canceled until further notice.

I felt rather bad about it at the time, as if I had let everyone down. When J-with-two-N’s called me last night about something unrelated, I started to apologize about it.

“Why are you even worried about it?” she asked. “It’s not about you. It’s about the students. They weren’t applying themselves to it; once you got past the Greek alphabet they didn’t really get into it. Greek was taking away from other studies. It took up too much of your time, of the parents’ time, of the kids’ time. We didn’t want it to take away from things like, oh, I dunno, long division and multiplying fractions.”

“Well, I guess I wasn’t into it, either,” I said. “I’m just not … I don’t know …”

“You’re not into learning languages like [Maggie] was. It’s okay,” she whispered, “I’m not either!”

“You’re not disappointed?” I asked.

She laughed. “Honey, I’m relieved. Now I don’t have to learn Greek.”

“What about Hebrew, Arabic and Russian? They said they’d look into this later.”

“Ugh. Well, it’s valuable, you know, I agree – but honestly if they need to learn this stuff, one of the parents who has a working knowledge of these languages would be a better choice to explore it. If it was going to be something that we did want but you couldn’t do, well, then one of us has to pitch in. Like [Monsieur]. He’s the one who can read in Russian and Hebrew, and speak Arabic and French and Spanish. Besides, that’s what a co-op is, sweetheart. We are all the faculty. Don’t feel bad.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Of course I’m sure. Didn’t you talk to [Monsieur] about this?”

“Well, I didn’t know what to say to him,” I admitted.

She sighed. “Look. I’ve known him for about ten years, okay? I don’t know how close you two are, but it seems like he loves you deeply. He’s, well, he’s not like any guy I’ve ever met and that’s putting it pretty mildly. He might not be the easiest guy for you to talk to about this stuff but … well… these students, [E (her daughter)], [Bigglest Boy], [Littlest Boy], all of them, they’re your students. They’re our students. They wouldn’t be there if we didn’t want them. You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want you.”

“I know. Yes. I know. Thanks,” I was saying to all of this.

“No, wait a second while I finish before you thank me – what I mean is, we wanted you long before [Maggie] left us.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, [E’s dad and a few other parents] and I went to [Maggie] and said, ‘We love her! Can she come work for us till she has to go to grad school?’”

“Really?” I asked. “You didn’t. Did you?”

“We did. Really. [Maggie] didn’t tell you?”

“Nope.”

I then had go and break up a sword fight between The Two Littlest Boys and send them into the garage, where they could wale away on each other without worrying about a wild swing breaking a window or a table lamp.

I felt a lot better about Greek being canceled.

Incendiary Attacks

2006-08-16T18:53:00.000-05:00

If it is not advantageous, do not move. If objectives cannot be attained, do not employ the army. Unless endangered do not engage in warfare. The ruler cannot mobilize the army out of personal anger. The general cannot engage in battle because of personal frustration. When it is advantageous, move; when not advantageous, stop. Anger can revert to happiness, annoyance can revert to joy, but a vanquished state cannot be revived, the dead cannot be brought back to life.
–“Incendiary Attacks,” Sun-tzu’s the Art of War.

Gosh, what a week.

No yum-yum. I figured that I was throwing myself at him to much, so I tried a completely different tack this time; I spent a week acting as if I didn’t really want sex at all. Nope, not me. Sex? I think not. Ew. Who likes sex? Not the Yearning Heart. Icky. I’m just not like that. I mean, sure, it’s OK for Some People, but I can do without it. See me over here? I’m acting demure and somewhat bored as Monsieur comes out of the shower. I barely even look at the steam rising off of his deliciously wet, lean, well-developed torso; his strong, well-defined legs standing slightly akimbo from beneath a towel that is wrapped around his waist; that towel covering a thick, yummy cock – a towel set off by a proud bulge that suggestes a high-caliber specimen of tempting man-flesh….

Sorry. I was just … just daydreaming. I’m fine. I’m not really interested. I can do without it.

(Psst. It’s called “acting”. And even though I’d have an easier time playing Tommy Chong in the Broadway version of That 70’s Show – the Musical, I figured I could pull off playing a sexless girl for a week. Well, we’ll see how far I got by last [Tuesday] night.)

Bigglest Boy is continuing to act out, in really odd ways. His daddy is worried about him; I’m trying not to lose patience with him.

When he gets in trouble and I put him in a corner he says things like, “Just cut off my foot and I’ll never do it again,” or “Why don’t you call the police and send me to jail?”

He’s eight freaking years old!

I was afraid at first that Monsieur thought it was all just me and not being strict enough with the kids, but after talking to Monsieur last night, I got a nice reassurance that he thinks I’m doing all right.

Yearning Heart: I just get the feeling that you think this is happening because I’m not holding up my end, taking care of him, and he is rebelling against me because he thinks I’m weak.

Monsieur: No. First, of all the things you are, weak is not one of them. I have spent time with him, I have observed him carefully with you and without you, when he is in groups of children and when he is with adults. He is showing symptoms of depression, symptoms of bipolar tendencies, sensory and social disorders. These are things from which Maggie suffered, from which his grandmother on one side suffers, his grandfather on the other side also. The family tendency to this sort of thing is there. He might misbehave with you, but you are a solid foundation and a good role model for him. He needs to know that we are here to take care of him, and that I will always love him, and what is expected of him from me and from society.

Yearning Heart: I love him. I really do. It makes no sense because I’m not his mother; I can’t just tell him “I’m your mother and I’ll always love you.”

Monsieur: You tell him that you love him, yes?

Yearning Heart: Yes.

Monsieur: In time he will know how permanent that might be. Until then, demonstrate love, as you do.

Yearning Heart: You think he wonders why I stay here?

Monsieur: [sighs] He has asked me why you stay here, and I confess I can’t come up with an answer other than you love us.

Yearning Heart: You know that I love you, right?

[a beat]

All of you.

Monsieur: It… amazes me. In trying to explain it, to a boy of eight years of age….

Yearning Heart: Do you really know, deep down there [pointing to his chest], that I’m here to stay as long as you’ll have me? Do you know how permanent that is, how forever it will be?

Monsieur: I am beginning to understand it.

[a long pause]

Yearning Heart: What about you? How are you holding up?

Monsieur: I? [considers it] I am holding up.

Yearning Heart: Are you sure?

Monsieur: I think so.

Yearning Heart: Well, if you should need anything … I mean I know you don’t talk about things, but you know I’d listen, or hold it together if you want to go away for a few days. Or go have your own Sunday off.

[Note: I’ve been taking Sunday afternoons off to go hang out in town with my friend Special K.]

Monsieur: Well, thank you; I –

Yearning Heart: Or a back rub? My hands aren’t as strong as yours, but I’m sure I could.

Monsieur: I’m sure you would –

Yearning Heart: I could model amusing underwear for you, you know, for entertainment purposes only.

Monsieur: [laughs] Well, that’s quite generous –

Yearning Heart: I’m always good for a quick blowjob in the shower.

Monsieur: [blushing most attractively] Yes, I think I see where this is leading.

Yearning Heart: Or whatever. I’m here.

Monsieur: [getting up from the couch, moving away] I understand.

Yearning Heart: I’m only saying.

Monsieur: [over his shoulder] Indeed. Well, I am going to check on the boys and head to bed… [exits]

Yearning Heart: [whispers, to herself] Damn.

the Last 4 Impertinent Questions

2006-08-08T11:28:00.000-05:00

This is a continuation of this post, in which I answer some impertinent but important questions. I answered #1 here. I am actually just getting to this. Such is my life.

What’s your number one sexual turn off?

There are so many – but most are simply personal turn-offs. I really believe that the way someone treats peripheral people can be a turn-off or a turn-on. For example, the way a guy treats a wait person or some other sort of servant is a big window into his personality. If he’s rude, peremptory, or condescending to the waitress, he’s not going to get anywhere with me.

Another of my turnoffs is bad hygiene. I can’t stand the smell of old body odor. Fresh body odor isn’t so bad, but that old-dog smell is awful – the smell of someone who hasn’t bathed in days.

Smoking is another. I can’t tell you how many times I would see a really cute, sexy -looking guy (or girl) hanging out somewhere and think, what a cutie! only to have the cutie light up and start smoking. It totally ruins it for me, and I just keep going. The smell of tobacco makes me want to throw up. I worked in cocktail bars where it was permitted, and I would go home and wash my hair in shampoo, lemon juice, and then conditioner just to get the smell out. For some reason, the smell of pot doesn’t make me so nauseated.

Another turn-off in the past was someone who would rush things. I was with a guy once, on a blind date. It was my first semester away from home, and I was trying to be sophisticated and cool. I was with this guy at a pretty nice place, and it was all going well, and then he mentioned his parents’ lake house on the Lake of the Ozarks. “It’s quiet in the winter there,” he said. “A great place to be alone, and an even better place for a naughty weekend.” Well, that shut it down for me. I didn’t need to hear that from him at that moment. It made me wonder how many other freshman girls he lured to his parents’ lake house.

Number one arousal trigger?

Gosh, it’s not so much a trigger as it is a fuse that will eventually burn down and explode. If I’m in a relationship and if it’s going well, then I will want it within 3 days.

I used to think just paying attention to me, being funny, and having a nice smile was all I needed. Then I met Monsieur, and then I realized that I really like grown-up men. When Maggie and Monsieur and her whole brood visited me, the contrast between Monsieur and my then-boyfriend SH was really remarkable. Monsieur was a grown-up, and he didn’t really look that much older that SH – in fact he was 8 years older. But such a contrast!

SH is a guy who never wants more than to work in a bar, have season KU basketball tickets, have a hot girlfriend, and chase women on the side.

Everything Monsieur wants is tied up in his children. He has turned down work in Europe and elsewhere in the United States because Texas is one of the few places that he can run his children’s school. He doesn’t have to send his kids to the mediocre school systems and their filthy, dangerous campuses, and he doesn’t have to pay some church or private school a ridiculous amount of money to offer his children something better. He and Maggie decided to do it themselves, and to do it better. Every decision he has made from where we live to where he works, all the way down to what kind of lawn mower to buy is hinged on how it will affect his family. But when he turns his attention towards me, I get every fiber of his being focused on me. That turns me on.

Define sexy?

It’s easier to say what it isn’t than what it is – at least when I talk about men. I used to think it was all body and pretty eyes, but it isn’t. Monsieur has gorgeous eyes, and a very nice body, but that’s not what attracted me to him. I think at first it was his voice, and then it was his love for Maggie that I liked. I think I fell for them first when they were playing music in Mademoiselle’s living room. Maggie was on the piano and Monsieur was on guitar, and he sang some song, I don’t know what, but it sounded so smooth, so confident, and so polished that I was hooked immediately. Monsieur would play off of Maggie, with only a nod or a gesture to point the music in the direction it needed to go. It melded so perfectly, so smoothly, that I wondered why they weren’t doing this act on Jay Leno or something. Monsieur had finished his guitar part, and nodded to Maggie, who was looking over her shoulder. He must have made some musical joke or something, because she smiled and bit her lip, and then he winked at her, and she winked back at him, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and went into her solo part. I blushed. I sneezed. I was hooked. It was sexy.

Celebrity you would love to shag right now?

With no strings, no recriminations and no lingering side effects? H’m.

Edit: 08/09/2006 deacon_bluez
Olivier Martinez
Chris Martin

Can I bring a celebrity back from the grave? If so:

Gregory Peck, about the time of Gentleman’s Agreement since I just saw it for the first time the other day
Stewart Granger around the time of Scaramouche

I can’t think of any more right now.

Literary Devices

2006-08-04T10:56:00.000-05:00

I’d been having two problems with the Two Bigglest Boys lately. I don’t like to complain here about them but it sort of relates, as this is a story of my journey from point A to … well, wherever this torpedo takes me, I’m hanging on and I’ll blog it, regardless.

The first problem is that Middlest Boy is becoming a whiny little grumpypants. He’s five and a half. I hope to nip that bud. Lately I’m ignoring it, trying to keep from choosing sides and not allowing any bullying by anybody. Bigglest Boy uses his superior intellect a lot, and not always for the forces of good, and Middlest Boy adores him and idolizes him, so it crushes him emotionally when Bigglest Boy won’t ply with him and is feeling antisocial in general.

The Two Bigglest Boys have not been minding me. That has started with the Bigglest Boy being openly disrespectful, a trend whose bud his father thought nipped but still comes back from time to time. Lately he’s been bad, and Middlest Boy has picked up on it.

When Bigglest Boy was doing it at home it wasn’t so disruptive but when he does it in school I have to come down on him so I did.

He’s been resisting me in very subtle, sly ways. He’s been throwing his socks and underwear on the floor right next to the clothing hamper. He’s been waking up at 2 in the morning to “check the hen yard” as he says, but that gets him in trouble with his daddy who tells him to let the cat out. It’s the cat’s job to deal with front-line chicken security.

Bigglest Boy is 8 years old, very knowledgeable about science and a real challenge. He has been diagnosed with a behavioral and learning disorder that gives him some cognitive awareness issues. He’s also incredibly good looking, which is hard because those issues leave him awkward and shy and not very outgoing. He doesn’t warm up to people immediately and so when people are drawn to him because of his beautiful eyes with thick lashes, he tends to be rather blunt. We’ve been trying to work on that, and he has made great strides but lately it seems as though he’s much nicer to perfect strangers than he is to me.

Lately we had an exchange that sort of cleared some air, We were reading something in school and a character said something that used the expression “You’ll be the death of me.” Bigglest Boy asked why he said that, and I said, “He’s using hyperbole. You know – exaggerating for emphasis or dramatic effect.”

He was quiet while the discussion went on between Show-Off Girl and Boy Cool about the Greek root words ὑπερ- and βαλλειν (hyper- bollein etc. “throwing too far,” correct my elementary Greek in your comments and don’t start laughing at me when this school takes on Russian, Hebrew and Arabic – help.) while Bigglest Boy was brooding away.

Later that night after I finally won the argument about turning off the light, he asked me, “When that guy said, ‘he’ll be the death of me,’ did he know that the other guy was going to end up making the ship sink and killing the first guy?”

“Well,” I explained “That’s an example of foreshadowing, and writers use that to build theme (θέμα: théma) and make the story exciting.

“Mama said that to me.”

“Your mama said you’d be the death of her?” I asked. Thinking back, I said, “She said the same thing to me, a few times. When people say it to each other it’s an expression.”

“I know,” he said.

“They don’t mean anything by it,” I said. “What killed your mama is something that just happens, not very often, and when it does happen it’s terrible.”

“You don’t think she got mad at me for something and it made that blood vessel explode?” he asked. “She got mad at me, the night before –” he began.

“Nope,” I said simply. “Didn’t happen that way. I remember. She came home with a headache. She was already sick. You were being noisy and jumping on the furniture. She got mad at you for that and she was especially sharp with you, probably because she was having a very bad headache. But her getting mad at you didn’t kill your mama. She already had that thing before she came home.”

“What about when she said that you made her crazy?” he asked.

“She said that?” I asked.

He nodded. “You called and she talked to you and then she told daddy it was you and she said, ‘I don’t know, she makes me crazy.’”

I laughed. “Just another expression.”

He was sketching in his sketchbook, and it was way after “lights out”. I was indulging him these minutes while we talked.

“What are you drawing?” I asked him.

“Solid-fuel booster assembly,” he said, the way I would have said, “space ship” as a kid.

“Cool,” I said. “Lights out, Rocket Scientist. We lift off at zero seven thirty.”

2006-07-28T10:20:00.000-05:00

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.

Precipitation

2006-07-21T12:14:00.000-05:00

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.

Cleaning out some old files

2006-07-15T12:35:00.000-05:00

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

Libra

The Clown

The Scarlet Wench

Shades

Dr. Speed

The Gay Pimpernel

The Stroller

Nembutal the Mystic

The Incredible Lunk

The Shyster

Sgt. Nick Gore (Nicole?)

Mr. Tripod

Zinc

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

Thudman

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

Zenmaster

The Borrower

The Puzzler

Punk Buster

Twister

The Sash

The Leaning Man

Captain Pauper

The Liniment Master

Dr. Spooky

The Spackler

Bundt King

The Gardener

Ducksplitter

Thanks for the Mammaries

2006-07-15T12:05:00.000-05:00

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.

Language Barrier

2006-07-13T21:25:00.000-05:00

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.”

Hot and Cold

2006-07-09T11:22:00.000-05:00

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.

I’m a-Doun

2006-07-08T14:29:00.000-05:00

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!

Independence Day

2006-07-05T13:12:00.001-05:00

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 3^rd 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.

So there.

2006-06-30T06:31:00.000-05:00

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.

Character

2006-06-28T03:04:00.000-05:00

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.

Après le deluge, moi

2006-06-25T10:38:00.000-05:00

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.

one from Maggie

2006-06-23T01:30:00.000-05:00

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.

Impertinent Question #1, Answered

2006-06-22T17:54:00.000-05:00

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

2006-06-22T03:00:00.000-05:00

[INT HOME – NIGHT]

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!

Sunday, he took me.

2006-06-20T03:03:00.000-05:00

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.

Fifteen Impertinent Questions, Ten Answers

2006-06-18T07:20:00.000-05:00

How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it to? Describe the event.
I will visit this question soon
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 7^th 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.
Who would you consider “switching teams” for?
Oh, she knows who she is. And she reads this, so it’d be embarrassing to say.
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.
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.
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.
Quickie or long and slow?
now, that depends:

Quickie

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.
Noisy or quiet?
I have to bite the pillows or I’d wake up the animals outside
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.
What’s your number one sexual turn off?
I will visit this question soon
Number one arousal trigger?
I will visit this question soon
What constitutes bad sex?
Disinterest
Remember the best sex you ever had. What made it special?
Not knowing whether I’d get it, then getting it. Patience. Love.
Define sexy?
I will visit this question soon
Celebrity you would love to shag right now?
I will visit this question soon

where I've been

2006-06-18T06:00:00.000-05:00

You can create your own visited states map, here, or check out these Google Hacks.

I got this from O272.

Yet another visit

2006-06-16T00:58:00.000-05:00

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 4^th 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 1^st 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.

badmoonrising

2006-06-14T07:22:00.000-05:00

Enough?

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.

You've got to be a football hero

2006-06-13T15:21:00.000-05:00

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?"

2006-06-13T00:36:00.000-05:00

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 www.areyouaslackermom.com

Girl Time

2006-06-12T13:43:00.000-05:00

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.

"The sandwiches were stale, too."

2006-06-10T09:40:00.000-05:00

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.”

Poll

2006-06-06T23:20:00.000-05:00

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?

Pollhost.com