Didja miss me?

Since my last post about an hour ago? Ya, sure, you betcha.

I just checked my e-mail, catching up with people I went to UMKC with; some of whom went on to grad school and some went back home to lay around and feel sorry for themselves. A “bunch of stuff has been going on” and yet it’s much the same. I feel like I’m the only one who grew up since high school.

Someone e-mailed me and asked if I totally forgot Monsieur’s birthday last February; answer is no: I made the boys carrot cake[1] and poured Monsieur[2] a cup of tea. He didn’t want any presents but I found this history of the French and British navies from 1790 to 1830 with a great collection of drawings[3]. I think it’s interesting too and while I found that, I saw a great book on women who disguised themselves as men to fight in the British Navy. Now that’s a part I could play in a movie. I always figured I knew my way around the cox.

I didn’t mention that I also offered him sex, to which he had smiled and said that would not be an appropriate thing at present. Maybe not for him – but my birthday is coming up in May and by golly, I know what I want and it ain’t socks – it sounds like socks but it has a different vowel.

Mostly, said I, I’m caring for and teaching the kids. My days are full of dental appointments and homework, naptimes, snacks, crayons and puppet shows. I do history, math, science, social studies, and civics – in the mornings. Then I do art, music, English grammar and PE in the afternoons. And, of course, it alternates – and the children are self-directed, or they wouldn’t be there. Co-operative schooling is so wonderful – you can kick a kid out for being a problem. In public schools here in the U.S. you’d pretty much have to be convicted of a felony to get kicked out for good. Even then, that’s not always enough. But in my school, the parents run the show. Most parents elsewhere don’t seem to want that kind of responsibility.

K is coming over for a visit, and I told her to remember her camera phone – so with any luck and courage, I’ll see you (or vice versa) on Thursday. No promises. Kiss kiss.

[1] Delicious; I use half the sugar, though.

[2] Also delicious.

[3] OK, shameless plug again: The Encyclopedia of Ships. Because, he’s that kind of geek.

Edit: (6 pm) not only K is coming over, Monsieur’s friend (and drummer and hunk o’ yummy goodness) Tom-Tom, Skip the Gay Rancher, Kimberly, and some piano playing guy named Lloyd are also going to come, too. Monsieur is cooking, thanks be to the goodness, so I will not have to worry about that. There will be music (and laughter and wonderful times); I plan to put on a tight pair of jeans and look my best – also I plan to get K to stay late so we can stay up and dish. Maybe she will tease Monsieur enough so that he will be randy and fuck me! (Dare I yearn? It could happen.)

Business Reply Mail

Recently I got this incredibly brilliant idea from Monsieur. Because I am a “young borrower” meaning I haven’t (yet) defaulted on my student loans or had any late payments, I get about 20 “special offers” per week to incur even more debt at a “Special One-Time Introductory Rate”. I complained about them as if there weren’t much I could do about it except shred the offers and toss them into the recycle bin.

“Why don’t you just send them to them?” Monsieur suggested.

“Because I don’t want the credit cards! I have enough debt as it is,” I protested.

“No,” he said, pouring two cups of tea, “you should shred them first, then stuff them into their Business Reply envelopes. The recipient must then pay the postage on the garbage that they have generated, and then they must pay to have them thrown away. If more people did that, perhaps the marketing geniuses would figure out that people don’t need credit until they ask for it – and even then, probably not.”

Brilliant.

Now, I’m quite sure that sending in my twelve envelopes of shredded confetti per week to Chase, Washington Mutual, and MBNA won’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things, but I do know that putting them into the outgoing letter box and hearing them drop brought a certain serenity to my mind that simply can’t be bought at any price, at any annual percentage rate. And there’s no annual fee!

Long Black Veil

Hajib, by Harriet Jameson Pellizzari

Each kinda alluring in it’s own way…

I notice that Monsieur pays more attention to me when I don’t dress all “skimpy/sexy”. Anyone else ever notice this? When I wear a baby doll or chemise he doesn’t really look at me so much, but in flannel pajamas or a long nightgown, he always gives me a hug or the goodbye kisses last a little longer.

I asked him about that last night. “You don’t like my chemise?”

“Of course, I do,” he said.

“Why don’t you ever touch me when I wear it?”

He told me, in effect, that I was “imagining things.”

I wonder if he thinks I’m too skinny or flat-chested or something. I wonder if I’m really his type. I mean, he gives it to me good and hard when he gives it to me – so I know he likes girls! Maybe it’s my body. Maybe these moles on my tummy turn him off. I don’t know.

I know when he was younger and touring around the world he knew a lot of Muslim women – although he doesn’t say so, I know he was doing them, at least some of them. Maybe I should veil myself by wearing a niqab once in a while.

I think I’m not alone in thinking that the veil is somewhat sexy. Don’t get me wrong; I am not in favor of forcing women or anyone else to completely cover the body. I know there are plenty of people debating this – I’ve talked to Muslim women who find it liberating not to have their face and bodies on display for others. I don’t think I’m all that but I like wearing t-shirts and jeans. Then I some pretty pair of eyes behind a thin dark veil and I think … Hmm. I could look like that – but only in private for Monsieur. Isn’t that a weird thing? The hajib is supposed to, among other things, keep men from staring and to keep women from being stared at but I think I’d be too self-conscious – like people would stare at me.

I doubt that Monsieur would find it all that appealing. I’ll stick with my flannel jammies or long nightgown, I guess.

Or I could just bend over on the bed and wiggle the booty at him. Not much of a booty as far as they go but from what I hear, it’s all in the wiggle.

Aubade

I just looked in my e-mail and saw that the Word of the Day was:

aubade \oh-BAHD\, noun:
A song or poem greeting the dawn; also, a composition suggestive of morning.

How very appropriate.

He knelt down at her feet, until she laid
Her hand upon him, like a naked blade,
And whispered in his ear: “Arise, Sir Knight,
To my heart’s level, O my heart’s delight.”

And there he lingered till the crowing cock,
The Alectryon of the farmyard and the flock,
Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear…
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Emma and Eginhard

I woke up early this morning; Monsieur had been out taking care of the animals and came in to shower and get ready for work. For some reason, even though I was up until 2 AM last night chatting online, I was wide awake when I heard him come in.

When he got out of the shower, I had already slipped out of my jammies and was there to greet him, naked, with a towel.

“Are you going to take a shower?” he asked as I toweled him dry.

“After a bit,” I replied, “right now you’ve got something to attend to.” I smiled sweetly and put my hands on his shoulders. “Down, and kneel, good Sir Knight,” I giggled.

He looked at me, and surrendering to the inevitable, knelt. I put one leg up on the bathroom counter and, I must say, did his duty with a certain gusto that I truly appreciated. What is it about the French tongue?

After a time, or a few times, anyway, I pulled him up, turned around, grasped him firmly by the part of a man’s body that thinks more clearly in such situations, and bent over. He inched his way in and finished me off (again) quickly, then he slid out and I turned around.

“My turn,” I smiled, and knelt and took him. Hands, tongue, lips, all went to work on him with a passion. When I sensed that he was getting close, I held his hips so that he wouldn’t try to pull away. I needed this. He was gasping and started to move his hips, and with his size it was very difficult to keep him in, so I pulled off and held him against my lips and worked him, wetly, with my hands as I laved and kissed. I didn’t wait long, and he was soaking my face, neck and chest within seconds. Just then I heard Littlest Boy singing as he came down the stairs:

Itsy mitzi pyder
Up a wanna pout
Down in the train
And watch a pyder out
Up in a sun
And tried out on a train
And an itsy mitzi pyder
Want up a pout again.
Again! (repeat for 30 minutes)

Compliance

I took a tip from Jill at Introspectre.

Sitting on the couch, arms folded, staring at the TV and watching nothing in particular, one could easily tell I was … miffed. I was grim, with my mouth set in a line. I looked pissed off.

Monsieur was working in the study; he had a pile of work from a client who dumped it on him and insisted that he get this huge project out in a month, and it was something that would normally take a team of specialists at least three months. It has to do with making sure all their data policies were in “compliance”; making sure that customers’ private information stays private, procedures are in place, and all asses are covered. Monsieur had to read policies, fix, re-do, and make sure everything was legal. He was on the phone a lot, and it didn’t help that the lawyer that he is working with is a total bigot who hates all Europeans.

For three days, Monsieur would come home, help with dinner, put the kids to bed, and disappear into that damned office. So, at 10:30 PM last night, I was tired of it. I missed him. He hadn’t spent any time with me and I was turning into a shrew. I resented it, I resented his client, and I wanted to stop the whole cycle before I started to resent Monsieur.

“Another problem you have,” I continued, sliding his glasses off of his face and setting them aside, “is that you talk too much about meaningless B.S.”

But I couldn’t; I just sat there, on the couch, watching some stupid re-run, and I finally thought to myself, “What would Jill do?”

Well, that was easy. She’d throw a tantrum.

I turned off the TV, got up, and knocked on the door to the office. Without waiting for an answer, I stuck my head in the door. “Do you need anything?” I asked.

He shook his head without looking up.

“Well, I do,” I said, snappish. I came into the office and took off my T-shirt.

“[Yearning Heart],” he said with a sigh, “really – you know what kind of pressure I’m under.” He looked at me, tenderly, and then he held my hand. “I promise I will spend more time with you, once I get done with this–”

“You’re damn right you will. And you’re going to take…” I looked at the clock “about five minutes right now, and you’re going to take care of another little chore that you keep neglecting.”

“It’s not a chore,” he protested.

“It better not be,” I said, pulling off my pajama bottoms and tossing them aside. “If it is, though, well, that’s your problem. It’s high time you started pulling your own sexual weight around here.”

He looked at me, shook his head and said, “That’s really not an appropriate way to go about–”

“Save it,” I snapped, interrupting him. “Use that mouth for something useful.” I turned off the computer monitor.

“You’re being rude,” he said.

“I won’t argue with you,” I said, gently, and I leaned over him and kissed him. “I’m sorry, love, but it’s come to this.”

“What do you want me to do?” he said, almost helpless.

“I want you … to redeem your coupon.” He blushed. I knelt at his feet. He winced. “Oh, c’mon; is it really that bad?”

“Well, of course not,” he said, “it’s just that–”

“Right, a lot of work to do, not enough time to do it, blah, blah, blah. Your biggest problem is that you kill yourself fulfilling promises that other people make on your behalf.” I unzipped him.

“That’s not true,” he said. “In this instance, the client has until the end of the month to comply with a court order–”

“Another problem you have,” I continued, sliding his glasses off of his face and setting them aside, “is that you talk too much about meaningless B.S. You have another client who will absolutely not take no for an answer. And, it just so happens, Monsieur, that this other client is kneeling between your legs right now. I think even a lawyer might be able to divine the implications of that.” He smiled. I didn’t. I was being bratty, testy, and firm. I tugged his pants down, and felt a rush of triumph when he lifted his hips to help me get them off.

He wasn’t fully hard yet but I knew I could fix that. I licked my lips, getting them nice and wet, and then, holding him in one hand, I lowered my head to his lap.

His hands were on the arms of the chair, so I took them and put them on my head. His fingers gently entwined in my hair and I closed my eyes, feeling him harden.

Bobbing, licking, sucking and kissing until my jaw fairly ached, I could tell he was close. He pulled me off of him and lifted me up. I made a pouty noise, and tried to get him to let me suck him more, but he was insistent. He lifted me up and held me by my hips as he lowered me down to it. I whimpered, feeling him enter me with a sticky, slurpy slish. He was going so slow that I didn’t think that we were even moving for a second; then I felt him shift and he impaled me delightfully.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered in my ear.

“No,” I lied, “but it’ll do.”

He wrapped my legs around himself, lifted me up, and carried me to the wall, where he pinned me against it and ensued to pound me, like the slutty brat that I was acting like.

In five minutes, we were disentangling ourselves, and I wobbled my way to bed. He tucked me in and kissed me, asked me if I was all right. I nodded.

“You don’t need to be so ill-mannered, next time,” he said. “I would have come around to it.”

“I don’t have that sort of patience,” I said, closing my eyes. “If you neglect me that long again, I promise you I will be just as rude.” I held his hand. “Please, Monsieur, for my sake, for your sake, and for the sake of peace in the family, don’t neglect me again.”

“You’re spoiled,” he said.

I agreed. “I need a spanking, too.”

He sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to make me happy,” I replied. “A couple of times a week, or every chance you get.”

And now, for the weather...

Huge, freakish and violent storm Sunday night. Tornadoes were reported all around us here in the Texas Hills between Blanco, Uvalde and Austin. We had some sheet metal blown through our yard, ripping down some fences and tearing the shingles off of the henhouse.

I had no idea it was coming, since I hadn’t seen the news. It was 10:30 PM and I was folding laundry; Monsieur was doing something or another in the basement, when he came into the living room, pulled out the television (normally we keep it facing the wall, to avoid tempting the children) and turned it on.

“Television?” I asked, wondering; he doesn’t watch much.

“Weather,” he said, and finally found a channel with a weather report. The weather radar was a circle of red, yellow and orange with a little amoeba-like glob of purple in one spot. That one spot was the leading edge of a storm, and he pointed it out to me.

“Watch that,” Monsieur said, “and also they will be mentioning some vectors; pay attention to that while I get some rain gear and set up a radio and flashlights. We may lose power, or worse.”

“Victors?” I asked; when he is disturbed his accent is strong and I can’t always follow it.

“Vectors,” he repeated, “the direction and speed the storm is probably going. They will attempt to estimate its direction and the approximate time the storm will strike each town.” He was putting flashlights, a big sheet of plastic, pillows and the big camping pad into a box; then he took the box into the basement.

I looked back at the screen. The weather map was basically a computer monitor, and the weather lady was using a mouse and pointing to that purple amoeba and saying, “this is the area that we’re worried about, this circular motion in the crook of the storm. Our friends out in Fitzhugh, Henly, and Round Mountain had better start finding shelter in the interior of the house, away from windows, with a battery-operated radio and flashlights….”

I swallowed hard, noting that Round Mountain is visible from the upstairs bedroom on a clear day. The night sky was suddenly punctuated in the west with flashes of brilliant lightning.

“This is it,” Monsieur said. “This is when we find out if it will twist or not.”

Jeez and tarnation, I thought, then got dressed and put my shoes on. I went upstairs to check on the boys. I was closing all the windows when I could hear the squall line, roaring through the valley to the west of us and charging up the hill. I looked out the west window and the sky looked like something out of a Tolkien novel. Jeez and tarnation.

Monsieur came upstairs. “I have three pads made up in the basement,” he was saying; then I couldn’t hear him as the house shook from the near miss of a lightning strike. He leaned over and shouted, “Downstairs. Get the baby. Go to the basement.”

I ran downstairs to the bedroom and, carefully picking up the sleeping Littlest Boy, I wrapped him up in the blankets and took him to the basement. I just got him settled and covered without waking him up. Monsieur came in with Middlest Boy under one arm, and Bigglest Boy was stumbling his way down the stairs, carrying his shoes. Monsieur had another flashlight in one hand and a box of supplies.

“What do we do now?” asked Bigglest Boy as Middlest Boy got tucked in.

“We wait here,” said Monsieur, “until the first storm cell passes.” There was some whimpering of protest from Bigglest Boy, which was shot down by a stern look from his daddy.

I held him for a second and said, “This is the safest place, sweetheart. A storm like this could break the windows upstairs; we don’t want you to get cut by broken glass.”

Bigglest Boy pulled away; then he leaned up against me. “What about tornadoes?” he asked.

“They’re very dangerous, too,” I said, somewhat evading the point of his question.

“Is this a tornado, Peppermint[1]?” Bigglest Boy asked, persistent as usual. Monsieur was going through the dirty laundry in the basement.

I held him tighter. “We’ll find out when it’s over, okay? The only way to know is to go outside, and that’s even more dangerous than being upstairs right now.”

“What about the animals? The chickens? Mister Frank[2]?” asked Bigglest Boy.

“They know what to do,” I replied, hoping to sound convincing.

“I’ll get Frank,” said Monsieur, pulling a dirty pair of jeans on and putting on heavy lace-up work boots. “I am going out to pull the van into the garage. Mister Frank will, sans doute, run into the house and hide under the furniture as soon as I will open the door, I would allow.”

I bit my lip, trying not to argue with him[3]. “Be careful,” I said, and then immediately regretted it because it sounded so ridiculously melodramatic.

“Good idea,” he replied, damn him; then the basement door closed and he was gone.

I told Bigglest Boy the story of how I used to play in our storm cellar back in Kansas and get in trouble for it; I didn’t tell him that the storm cellar was where I first kissed a boy. Rather, the boy kissed me. The boy in question practiced a form of kissing that seemed like he was trying to catch flies in my mouth with his tongue. I was repulsed at the time, but didn’t know enough to know he was a clumsy idiot. I really thought that’s what “deep kissing” was at the time.

I heard a “thump” that startled me, but then I realized it was only the garage door closing on the other side of the wall next to us. A few moments later Monsieur was coming down the basement stairs.

“Crisis is over, unless I am very much mistaken,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Bien, it looks like the rotation never really formed. Come, boy, to help me put the shoes and clothes away. Aunt Peppermint will replace the other ones in their beds.”

“Yes, papa.” “Yes, Monsieur.”

I was upstairs putting Middlest Boy back in his bed[4] when I heard the hail coming down. I looked out the window, but could only see a little of it. It was pea-sized and sounded like popcorn kernels were being poured on the roof of the henhouse.

---

Back downstairs, I was getting undressed and was going to rinse off in the shower. The thunder was still rolling in the distance, rather like a dog with relationship issues that didn’t want to lose a barking argument. “And another thing…” it seemed to rumble.

A sudden >Boom< and I damn near leapt right out of my socks. The lights flickered out and came back on. I forwent the shower, slipping naked into bed, waiting for Monsieur so I could plead with him for sex.

^[1] The boys call me by my nickname, Peppermint.

^[2] The cat.

^[3] What is it about dangerous, freakish weather – blizzards, ice storms, pea-soup fog, hail, locust infestations, plagues, tornadoes, or hurricanes – that makes men want to Go Outside and Run Errands?

^[4] Who hadn’t even open his eyes the whole time; that kid could sleep through the bombing of Dresden and wake up at dawn wanting breakfast.

Plus, it's not the size that matters

I have a very difficult time remembering which French nouns are masculine and which are feminine, since I am a native English speaker (well, some would argue that). But some nouns are easy to remember. For example, in French “computer” is masculine; l’ordinateur. This should be obvious to anyone who has ever worked with both of them (thanks to KK for pointing this out) :

1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on.
2. They have a lot of data but still can’t think for themselves.
3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they are the problem.
4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have got a better model.

In the interest of objectivity, I must point out the arguments for “l’ordinateur” being a feminine noun:

1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic.
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else.
3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval.
4. As soon as you commit to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.

Carnal Knowledge

It’s the most wonderful time
Of the year…
There’ll be steaks marinating
And women fellating
And plenty of beer…
It’s the hap- happiest time
Of the year!

SXSW Film + Music + Media + Throat Lozenge Industrial Festival is in town, and traffic is a bitch. When I was downtown the other night, there was your typical Schizophrenic-Sounding Raving Lunatic on the corner, raving at random passersby….

Schizo Guy: Yo, you from here? Fuck no, you ain’t. Foreigners, ‘n’ shit. Where you from? Colombia?

Girl: Laredo. What the fuck? [walks faster]

Schizo: Rodéo? Where’s that, Vancouver? Bad-dad? Who’s yo’ Vice President? Yo, girl, where you from?

Me: Kansas.

Schizo: No shit? Straight up, my momma from Kansas.

Me: Is that right?

Schizo: I don’t shit a homegirl. All dese is foreigners, where dey comin’ from?

Me: [walking] I’m not sure.

Schizo: Not me neither – I tell you dis, dey Vice President ain’t shit. We gots a Vice President, you fuck up, he shoot you in da face. Know’m sayin’? Right in da motha-fuckin’ face. Like havin’ a Corleone in tha house, yo.

Me: Word.

Schizo: Right. In. Tha. Motha. Fuckin. [makes a pistol with his hand] Face.

Me: Well, we better watch out.

Schizo: True dat. We better not cry, we better not pout, and I’m sayin’ why – fuckin’ Vice President is comin’ to town, and mothafucka shoot you right in tha face.

---

The KC Strip. If you want some serious carnal knowledge, wait tables in a Kansas City steak house. You’ll know all you need to know about meat.

I was in town at the local meat counter today, and I suddenly had this unnatural craving for a KC Strip steak … and I normally am not much of an eater of anything. I got two of them, since the boys are really not much into steak either. I didn’t know if Monsieur was; I didn’t care. Two steaks, about 8 oz. each, and well marbled. I don’t know that much about cooking steak, but I figured Monsieur would know, since he’s a guy, has lived in Texas for more than ten years. How hard could it be? How much is it to ask to cook a girl a KC Strip?

When I got home I found out it was Steak and Blowjob Day: March 14. The holiest night of the year! and me with this sore throat.

Damn, damn, damn.

Well, I made a little card that said:

“Happy Steak and Blowjob Day! This Coupon Good for ONE Free Blowjob from – ”

signed it, and put it in an envelope. Then, after we put the kids to bed, I mentioned to Monsieur how hungry I was, which he knew was somewhat unusual for me since I don’t get that hungry much. “Can you cook the steaks now?”

“How do you like it?”

“Medium rare – just to the pink.”

Mmm. Ya, I know that Yankees say it’s really a New York Strip steak. Well, whatever. It’s also a porterhouse without the loin and the bone. I can maybe down 2/3 of an 8 oz. steak on a good night. It was a good night. I even had a little wine with it; some of Monsieur’s brother’s home vintage, from Gascony. It was strong. It made me brave enough to give him the envelope with the card in it.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“Um, for the occasion,” I blushed, smiling. He opened it. Then he blushed.

Guys who blush are hot. I made him promise to redeem it, as the offer expires in 14 days.

Sick Day

(Warning: do not read further if you have not ever cared for children. It’s not good.)

I have three sick boys and I am not feeling too well myself after wiping three butts (four, counting mine). Middlest Boy had the Mother of All Poops all over the downstairs bathroom. While cleaning up Middlest Boy I went upstairs to find clothes for him and discovered Bigglest Boy sitting on the toilet and throwing up into the bathtub. Uggh. Monsieur is holding Littlest Boy in the rocking chair now, Middlest Boy is (mercifully) engrossed in the TV and Bigglest Boy fell asleep on the couch.

Dear goodness, I just felt the beginnings of a sore throat. Make it stop.

I want my mommy.

The Google Fun

I didn’t get a lot of hits on this blog when it was on Live Journal, and I hardly got any before that when it was on the UMKC web servers, but now I get maybe a hundred hits a week or so. I’m glad, since I like the nice intimacy of it, and when I don’t have time to update I don’t worry about whether people wonder where I am – almost everyone who has conversed with me can contact me by e-mail or something if they’re really worried about me. I like seeing how people connect to me in what’s called a “referral report” in my web hit counter. Most people seem to find me via another blog that’s linked to me, like the BlogRoll at Venting Housewife, Desireous or the links from Introspectre. But sometimes, I get a hit from someone who has found me via Google, MSN, Technorati or other search engines – and I actually get to see what they were searching for. For example, this week’s search page referrals:

• pumping my crotch
• my heart yearns for his love
• “bedtime is at 8”
• love & yearning
• roximoon
• hung like Louisiana Purchase

Love, nannying, sex, big cocks. It’s what shapes your world – it’s what brought you here. Welcome.

Catching Up

OK, it’s been a while, but not my longest absence from this journal. I tend to move away from it when I’m busy, and come back when I have a minute to breathe. I’ll catch you up, dear bloggites.

the One-Room Schoolhouse

My student teaching is going pretty good. I have a handle on most of the classes and study sets, and I can almost, ok, I can deal with the kids in a big group all together, all ages. It’s basically a one-room schoolhouse, like you would have seen on Dr. Quinn, Frontier Quack or whatever that dumb show with Jane Seymour was called. (Yes, I watched it every week. Shut up; I was like, 13 years old.) The teaching methods aren’t much more modern than what you’d see on Dr. Quinn, either. But, they work. We get great results. It really helps that all the kids are totally brilliant. The main difference that I can see is that nobody gets their mouths washed out with soap, and no paddlings[1]. Oh, and they’re not all white kids.

I also finally quit that stupid DE job, and now I do follow-up surveys for a “residential service” company[2]. I don’t have to ask any questions; all I need to do is enter the answers in a grid and also log the ones that don’t want to respond. It pays ok, thanks. I’ll look forward to starting to teach, full-time, this summer.

Birthday season has come and is almost gone. Littlest Boy got a pull-toy, Middlest Boy got a new sword (!) and Bigglest Boy got a science kit.

Middlest Boy discovered – or reacquainted himself – with the pain of love. The Valentine’s card he gave to the girl who is a year and a half older was received, but there was none in return. I don’t think the poor girl even considered the idea that she’d get one, and certainly not one from someone in kindergarten.

Bigglest Boy has started getting into fights – which scares me. It’s always at the park, it’s always kids he knows, and it’s almost always – at least as far as I can tell – his fault. I don’t know what to do about it, since often I’m not on the scene; I’m off coaching the soccer team. Bigglest Boy would be perfectly capable of defending himself – except that he won’t. He antagonizes these other kids with clever insinuations and nonsense, and won’t even put up his hands when one of them punches him in the jaw. I don’t understand why he’s doing it – and after it’s all over, and everything is cleaned up and we have gone home, I will put the suggestion that we go to another park. He doesn’t like that idea. “But… all my friends are there!” With friends like these…. Anyway, I don’t know what to do. Monsieur is concerned but not terribly; I did some rough-and-tumble play in my tomboy youth but if I ever had been punched in the face, I would have run all the way home, crying. I don’t think getting beaten up is getting through to him.

Meanwhile, Monsieur is quite wonderful to me.

I’ll try not to disappear so much from now on.

[1] If you want that kind of action, get a ticket for Gitmo.

[2] (Actually, they’re general contractors: Because we greatly value your feedback, we would appreciate it if you would take a few minutes of your time to complete our follow-up survey. We thank you in advance for your honest appraisal of the way we ruined your home improvement project.)

St. V. : date part 2

I hope everyone had a happy St. V Day![1]

I think that I promised I’d update this stuff more often; gosh it gets hard to do when I’m working on this teaching assistant stuff and the data entry / medical processing job. I get home around 3:00 PM and usually go straight outside, to the back yard and I run the boys around like they’re racehorses. Then it’s inside for dinner preparation[2] while the boys watch Zoom or a NASA documentary.[3] Then Monsieur comes home and we eat and go over homework and reading assignments and then they go to bed all by 8:00 or 8:30, and I get to processing claims for the medical industry. If I’m lucky, I am off the computer at about 11:00 PM every night, and by then I feel drained.

So there has not been a lot of time for extraneous projects, including this little journal, nor is there a lot of time for yum-yum. I justify my existence by remembering, like a few weeks ago, when we went out on that lovely evening...

Harp glissando

Dissolve to:

Exterior car – night

We took my car into town, and talked about nothing much the whole way. Monsieur suggested a movie or a nightclub and I said, “I don’t care; either would be good.”

We went to a live music club on Congress Avenue; it looked somewhat crowded for a school night but we parked and walked up the street to the door, my arm in his. There was a bit of a line, but not too long. Still …

“Monsieur?” I whispered in his ear.

“Yes, dear?”

“Do you think, I mean, would it be all right …” I began.

“Tell me,” he urged gently.

I slipped my hand into his hip pocket. “Can we just … go somewhere … and have sex?” I blushed.

He looked at me, and smiling gently, took my arm again and walked me back to the car.

“It’s all right, isn’t it?” I asked him. “We could just park somewhere, out it the woods or something?”

“Well, perhaps not,” he replied. “I don’t think I could take you out into the woods as if you were some slut off the street.”

“Oh, sure you could,” I purred, my hand finding his thigh, tracing my finger up to where I could see the outline of his magnificence in his pants.

“Naughty girl,” he chided, removing my hand. “Don’t distract me when I am trying to change lanes.”

I chuckled. He loved it, and I knew it.

We were on the highway that led back out of town and towards home. He pulled into a Sands Motel. A huge, cheesy neon sign flashed “Vacancy” with a buzzing sound that corresponded to the almost audible “Zzzt! Zzzt! Zzzt!” my clitoris was making. He stopped and jumped out to check in, leaving the car running. I checked my face in the passenger visor mirror.

When he came back, he hopped into the car and said, “I hope this is acceptable?”

“Perfect,” I smiled. “You’re such a gentleman.”

He blushed and smiled back, looking away from me as he maneuvered into a parking space.

The room was cheap, worn, and very Texas. A horrid painting of a fish leaping from a creek dominated a décor which included colors like avocado green, orange and ... brown? Who the hell knows? Shag carpet, plastic lampshades, and a big ugly mirror over a particle-board chest of drawers were other amenities, plus a Quasar TV set from the 1980’s.

It was perfect. I lowered the lights and turned the A/C off.

“I feel like we’re having an affair,” I said, giggling.

“Aren’t we?” he said with a half-smile that made me burn for him.

I slipped my dress off over my head, standing in front of him in my panties, bra, and sandals. He murmured something in French, which I took as a compliment.

“I really need to learn more French,” I said, kicking off my sandals and kneeling on the bed.

“I think that you understand more than you allow me to know,” he said, joining me.

I unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off of him, kissing his chest and pushing him down on his back. “Oh, Monsieur, you truly have no idea how much I want this.”

His hands were on my hips and I knelt over him and undid his pants, slipping those off of him, too. His boxers had a delicious-looking bulge that I wanted to explore further, but I did not want to seem like a greedy slut[4]. Instead of diving on it immediately I kissed his lips, straddling his chest.

His hands cupped my breasts and undid my bra, then roamed over my chest and held my hips as we kissed. I ground my crotch on his, and I could feel myself getting warmer, wetter, and wanting more.

“I want you so badly, Monsieur,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Monsieur’, you know,” he said, pulling my panties off.

“I know, but, well, I like to,” I said, breathless at his touch down there.

Taking his emboldened fingers as my cue, I pulled his boxers off and knelt over him, my thighs spread, stroking him, rubbing the fleshy head against my sex and moaning in my throat at the sensation. I held myself open for him, trying to push him in but, as it often happens, it didn’t go in.

He gently moved my crotch over his face and, holding me open with his fingers, slid his tongue into me and started driving me insane with his licking – gentle at first, then strong, intense.

I moaned, a little louder, and enthusiastically. I turned around and planted it back on that fantastic mouth, then leaned over and took his stiffening cock into my own mouth, trying to take it all and not even getting close to taking the head. My eyes started to tear and my mouth started to water, but it had its effect, and my poor neglected pussy began to relax, opening to his ministrations and soaking his nose, lips, chin, and especially that magic tongue.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could, drooling on him and sucking, licking, and drenching him with saliva, then when it was fully wet I started to stroke him. He responded by getting even thicker, then pumping his hips up and down and writhing deliciously. Oh, that man.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I got off of him, turned around, bent over and showed him my spread legs, my back arched, my face on the cheap bedspread, wantonly exposing myself.

“Please,” I begged.

He touched it, stroking me with his fingers; my labia felt heavy, drenched; my clit was thick and swollen. I moaned.

He held his cock there as I pushed back against it. I impaled myself on it, feeling its thickness and welcoming the sensation. He held it there, not moving, as I backed up on it. My hands pushed against the cheap headboard, pushing back, back against him. I lowered my face to the pillows, and then began to move my ass up and down slowly, gasping as I forced more of him in, in, in.

Reaching beneath me I fingered my pussy, feeling the stretched tissues where we were joined, then his heavy swinging balls, then rubbing all over my clit. My head was spinning and I moved against him, fucking him, enjoying it. His hands were on my back, then on my hips, holding me steady. He still didn’t move but kept that cock right there for me to fuck. I hooked my legs behind his, clamped down on him, and rubbed myself until I came.

He barely moved until the end, when I was coming hard and he pushed my shoulders down, pinning me and fucking me deep. I don’t know how long I was crying in delicious agony but I remember him turning my over on my back to take his pleasure of me. His lips found my breasts, one, then the other, as he plowed up, up, up inside me. My pussy was a burning ring fitting around the base of his cock when he took my legs, put them around his waist and rode me, his voice gasping in my ear, his cock spilling into me, my heart so full of joy I thought it would burst.

“Yes,” I said to him, laughing and crying as his seed cooled the fire inside me, “yes, good, yes, that’s it … yes, love, yes, more … yes, Monsieur.”[5]

[1] Well, I know Kellie didn’t so much and I send her my condolences. Here’s hoping she either gets past it or over it. It sucks to be in a house with someone you can’t stand.

[2] I now know how to make eleven – count ‘em! E-L-E-V-E-N different dinners. OK, three of them are variations of spaghetti, but whatever. The boys eat every bite.

[3] Really! The two Bigglest Boys are age 8 and 4, and they can tell you every flight director and astronaut that the U.S. manned space program ever had. Neither one of them know who Kobe Bryant is.

[4] Which, I am.

[5] Ibid. Yum.

In the Garden

Belle-Mère and Mademoiselle left this morning. It was a very good visit. Monsieur and I even got a free date, when “the ladies” watched the boys and we went out to dinner. More on that later – I have a lot of catching up to do in this blog; I doubt I’ll ever be really caught up.

Last Sunday was Maggie’s birthday. She would have been thirty years old. We celebrated by pulling up the dead plants in her garden, and remembering her in our quiet ways. I wrote Maggie a letter, which I have in my nightstand.

While the boys played I sat with Mademoiselle and Belle-Mère. Monsieur sat off by himself, watching the boys from under some juniper trees.

“He’s doing very well,” Belle-Mère said to me.

“”Ya, he’s sad a lot, though,” I replied.

“It’s to be expected,” said. Mademoiselle “We were more worried about him, going deep into a depression and he would not be able to get out of it.”

“We have you and his children to thank for that,” Belle-Mère smiled at me.

“You know,” Mademoiselle added, “when [his brother M] got divorced, and went into a deep well of sadness, well, it never really went away. He hasn’t been the same for years.”

I blinked. “I didn’t know.”

Belle-Mère got up to help one of the boys.

“It’s true,” Mademoiselle went on. “[M] has never quite been the same, and we were somewhat worried that, well, when you moved in it only propped [Monsieur] up, and when you moved on, it would destroy him.”

“Do you really think I’m going to move on so soon?” I asked.

“I did,” she admitted. “All right, I don’t think that now. I really don’t know what your plans are.”

“I’m staying,” I said, “as long as he lets me.”

“I just remember you in college, you know, and how driven you were to act, and to be a performer.”

“I know; and how I dated a dozen guys,” I smiled.

“Well, that worried me a little too,” she replied. “But mostly I didn’t want you to miss out on anything you wanted, and I didn’t want you to realize, suddenly, that you have a life, too.”

“I know – but that’s why I’m staying. I feel like this idea I had to pursue acting was a mirage, and this is real. I feel like I have a purpose now.”

“I’m glad,” she said, and she smiled, too.

Act 1, Scene 4

Monsieur’s mom and sister arrived for about a week. They got in late Saturday night (and woke up the whole house, since we have a very loud watch-chicken.) Sunday, mostly, Monsieur took his sister into town to help her pick out something or another.

I spent a lot of time with Belle-Mère, just sitting outside and letting the kids play (the weather was gorgeous; a fine spring day [78° F. in January!] in the Texas hills) and she offered to make lunch and I offered to help. My mom, had she been there, would have dropped dead to see me actually chopping onions with a chef’s knife.

We talked about Monsieur’s father, about how she was living in the US in the 1960’s during Vietnam while her husband was working for the US military in Southeast Asia; which led us to talking about the riots last year in France.

Interior, kitchen, late afternoon. They are peeling vegetables.

Belle-Mère: …. Fortunately we were spared the worst of the riots, in our little village.

Yearning Heart: Ya, I read about it online in the NY Times, and the English Le Figaro.

Belle-Mère: You read the newspaper on the computer? My daughter reads hers on her mobile telephone. I don’t understand. What’s wrong with reading the paper?

Yearning Heart: Well, I can read online for free.

Belle-Mère: Phone news is probably worse than television news. I didn’t want to get my news from the moving pictures; I don’t want to get my news from my typewriter or my telephone. I read the magazines on paper, while I drink my coffee.

Yearning Heart:

T minus 24:00 to Mademoiselle D

• Floors: check
• Counters: check
• Clutter: gone
• Laundry: in control
• Face: reasonably clear of blemishes
• Underwear: clean
• Hair: washed. (I’ll braid it.)
• 3 dressy outfits: clean and ready-to-wear
• Boys: bathed
• Boys’ bedrooms: tidied
• Chickens: fed
• Groceries: stocked

Why am I so nervous? Because: I face the unknown, with no tech or dress rehearsal.

Belle-Mère and Mademoiselle D (Monsieur’s mother and his sister) come this weekend, and I have no idea what Mademoiselle told Belle-Mère about me.

The last time I spoke with Mademoiselle, it was on the telephone last June. She told me I had no business being here while Monsieur is still going through major upheaval and grief.

“I’ll leave when he asks me to,” I told her simply.

“And why should [Monsieur] do that,” she asked me “with a woman there to do,” and then a pause, “his bidding.”

“If you are so worried about him and the boys, why aren’t you down here helping him yourself?” I asked, trying to keep the challenging tone out of my voice.

“You know I can’t leave my work,” she said. “I know it would be hard for him, but he needs time to sort things out for himself. They all do.”

“I’ll leave when he asks me to,” I repeated. “I promise you that.”

She asked me if I was in love with Monsieur.

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“Are you sleeping with him?”

That caught me off guard. “No,” I said. (I hadn’t, at that time.) “But, I won’t tell you that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. If I do end up in his bed, I promise you that it will be my choice, his problem, and none of your business.”[1]

“All right then,” she said, and that conversation was over.

So now the Ice Queen is coming with her mom and I have no idea what’s going to happen. I’m sure it will all be fine.

Ha. Ha, hah, hahahaha.[2]

[1] Adapted from The Goodbye Girl, by Neil Simon. Used without permission.

[2] Sarcastic, fateful laughter.

A dozen considerations

I saw two pictures of Monsieur’s mother; of course she’s gorgeous. One looks to be from just after World War II, with her and her husband, Monsieur’s father; the second must have been when they were living in California. It’s a picture of Monsieur, age about 18 months, standing at a marina at his mother’s knee.

She looks elegant and beautiful. I might post one of her pictures here, if I get Monsieur’s OK. Maybe severely cropped, so you can see the eyes. She looks like Liz Talyor circa Butterfield 8 or Jackie Kennedy, about 1961.

---

Monsieur is so sweet to me. He knows how insecure I am here and he goes out of his way to reassure me with a dozen little considerations a day. Not only does he cook, do housework, and take care of the children – well of course he does – but he does my laundry. I have never met a guy who does other people’s laundry, least of all mine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad do laundry.

OK, it’s not just the laundry. He left me a note to tell me that he set up the VCR to record Coldplay on Austin City Limits, and then Commander-in-Chief. He fixed that annoying whistling noise coming through my car’s windshield. He showed me how to dice vegetables easily so that my wrist doesn’t get all tired. He seems to go out of his way to tell me that he believes in me, and that what I’m doing is worthwhile, appreciated, needed, and valuable.

And … [gasps] He took me to church! His church! And I wore red, which my mom would frown on for church – but then Monsieur’s church is one my mom would consider a “sect”. (It’s Unitarian, and actually very nice people.) A red dress is what I wore, with matching red tights, to church, on a shadowy Sunday.

It just makes me realize that there are three kinds of males that I have dealt with: boys, guys, and men. Up to now I’ve dated boys, and after that I was in relationships with guys. Now I’m with a man. Someone who takes care of a family and is confident in what he does.

I like it.

Anxiety Attack

I woke up just now realizing that Monsieur’s mother will be here in less than a week. For some reason this gave me such an anxiety attack. His mother, and his sister will be here. I know D doesn’t think I should be here. What will she tell his mom? I tossed and turned till 2 AM then just got up.

I stared at a bottle of cognac in the cupboard for ten minutes, thinking a shot of that would settle me and make me sleep. But I closed the cupboard door.

I have been running so fast and hard, trying to immerse myself in the education of these kids and caring for these three – no, four – guys. I am learning to cook, which is something my mom always wanted me to do, but I never would. I guess I’m learning to grow up.

After the last boy goes to bed I’m usually next. I now realize why people with kids don’t have sex so much – although I want to! But right now there’s nothing better than to be asleep in bed, then to wake up and roll over and find him there.

I don’t know what D will be like when they get here. D is Monsieur’s sister. Wait, D is also Monsieur’s initial too, so I guess I should call his sister Mademoiselle. Now, there’s something I would never do in real life.

Then as I go to post this I find that Venting Housewife’s blog has been hacked; I’m so angry.

top 10

This week’s top ten countdown:

10 hours of data entry

9 lesson plans

8 stiff inches

7 loads of laundry

6 stubbed toes (2 mine)

5 busy bees

4 pounds of oranges

3 sleeping boys

2 sticky lovers

1 yearning heart

Tomorrow’s Schedule:

Wake up. Dress me and boys, feed same. Go, dogs, go! Teach, soothe, wipe, play, feed. Eat, work, sleep. See me run. Run, run, run.

The question was raised by Obesio here why Monsieur “doesn’t simply support you in the way that you clearly deserve”?

Well, it’s because I got through school with a massive debt, and I need to make student loan and consumer debt payments on it.

Monsieur’s a kind man, and a generous man – but not a wealthy man. He makes a living and can feed his boys, so far. But Maggie left behind a huge consumer debt, which he is bound to pay off. Her life insurance basically covered her medical costs and her funeral arrangements.

I asked him about helping me with my debt, of course, not knowing what his financial situation was. We sat down and went through our financial burden and what it would take to cover our household plus servicing our collective debt.

It would take more than he makes.

I don’t want to burden him any more than I already have, so I decided to work for a living, like I always have ever since I was 17.

Maybe later, if it’s possible, we’ll figure out a way for me to work from home.

Fact of life: “mommy jobs” just don’t pay well. Mommy jobs are jobs that moms do for free: cook, clean, serve food, care for children, teach. There’s others, but I can’t think of them. I’m so tired.

DE

I had an interview for a data entry job on Monday. Ugh.

3 hrs./2 days a week + 4hrs./3 days a week = 20 hrs. × $12.00/hr. = ugh.

But I can do it until I’m OK to teach, then the co-op will give me $300/wk.

It wasn’t so much an interview as a meeting to make sure I pass all qualifications (I am currently breathing, I can spell “SSN” and I can alphabetize without humming the ABC song. I know the difference between “imminent” and “eminent”, which is more than I can say for the White House.

Here is an excerpt from my interview / run-through:

“In this situation, you see a set of invoice templates and you can see … [click] … where you can override the rule for a statement.”

ME: “So, the statement is the 2^nd invoice?”

HR: “Oh no. Invoices are individual invoices. A statement is always a full statement.”

ME: “Oh. OK, I got it.”

HR: “Moving on …”

Notice. Ho-hum.

I handed in my notice, and it was accepted without too much fanfare or regret.

“Thanks,” said shift manager. “We’ll let you know if this policy changes. Sorry about that.”

I talked to K who also has to quit, due to school. It seems that the owners want to clean out the schedule and get rid of anyone who can’t “commit to the restaurant”, which means no more part-timers or people trying to “pick up extra money”. They don’t want students or people with day jobs.

I think that leaves about 6 wait people, to run the place, and it’s a sizable restaurant of about 10-14 tables that is open for lunch, dinner and weekend breakfast.

Good luck, says I.

Now I don’t want to get another waiting job. I’m looking into doing freelance copy editing work, medical transcribing, anything. I don’t have much experience with anything like that. Do you think I could use this blog as a writing portfolio?

Ha. Ha, ha.

If you detected desperate, sarcastic laughter in that last sentence, you are very astute.

Monsieur says that he will cover my debts, but that it would be a hardship. I don’t want to be a burden to him that way, but he says that the effort that I put in simply can’t be replaced for any amount of money. He also says that he doesn’t want to lose me.

I don’t want to lose me either.

I talked to my friend MT, who says I should try working at a strip club once or twice a week.

Ha. Ha, ha. (More sarcastic desperation.) Thanks, dork. I’ll give it some thought, after I stop laughing.

Meanwhile since I can’t buy myself anything nice, I left my Amazon wish list on my profile, and also I’ll link to it here, in case there’s a millionaire out there who wants to make a poor underemployed hard-working redhead with a big yearning heart happy.

Maggie's Walls

I sit here in Maggie’s walls, spilling my tears, spilling my ink, baring my soul, and the blog page counter turns, and sleep escapes me.
Sleep is my chance to let go, but tonight I would give it to the Littlest Boy, as he knows he’s in his mama’s walls but not his mama’s arms and his mama is only a memory, so
we steal to the rocker, a winter of discontent
folding into each other, the familiar panic
and then the reassurances, mine for him and his for me.
I’ve grown used to his smells:
the warm smell of his baby sweat, the sour smell he gets
just before he gets the sniffles;
I know it’s crazy but I can smell anxiety
almost before it hits his heart.
His fear feeds my love for him, and hour by hour the rocker
creaks as I hold him, his hands demand me,
grasping my new bathrobe in his tiny but incredible hands.
His face pressed to my chest, so young yet so old,
like a tiny little man, face wrinkled and intense
he tenuously clutches sleep, his reach exceeding his grasp.
“Shh-shh-shh-shhhhhhh ... hush now,”
and I contemplate his wise old eyebrows, and I see a new bruise
I hadn’t seen before
check a scrape to make sure it’s now healed
the ghost of skinned knees past,
the spectre of the bruises yet to come...
I cry for his lost mama, and for my lost girlhood,
and for the memory of my empty arms.

Working Tuesday

J-with-2-N’s is going to watch the kids at her place while I go in and work on Tuesday, and then I plan to turn in my 2 weeks’ notice.
My hope is that either:

1. they will be so upset at the thought of losing me that they will give me a Special Dispensation on the “one weekday shift” rule, or
2. the General Manager will suggest that I keep my job by performing sexual services on his ugly fat body, while I record the request using my cell phone’s memo recording feature, and then sue his greasy pink ass for sexual harassment.

Either way, everyone’s a winner.

The Ball Drops

Speaking of kissing…

Monsieur and I stayed up late on New Year’s Eve, talking. The kids tried to stay up to watch the calendar change but they all were asleep by 11:00 PM. We sat in the quiet living room, listening to the radio as it played weird jazz. His brother, as is his custom every year, sent him a case of his own wine from France, which his brother bottles himself, with, Monsieur says, “mixed results”. We opened one and it was quite good but I only had a sip. And we talked about us.

He wanted to know about how I’d been feeling out the whole thing and I admitted that although I loved living here and loved him and the boys, I needed more. Not just hugs, tenderness, affection and kisses … I admitted I needed more sex. I thought he would be upset or angry so I watched his eyes carefully as this came out, and I tried to be gentle about it.

“I can sometimes withdraw when I am troubled. You know,” he revealed, “I’ve been going to grief counseling.”

“No,” I said. “You didn’t mention it.”

“Yes, and of course they generally do not recommend one to start a relationship so soon after a major life crisis, such as the death of a spouse.”

“I see.” My eyes were on my lap.

He took my hands in his. “I have reason to believe, for certain people, that grief counseling is of little value after a certain point.”

“Do you now?” I smiled.

“I am of the type that naturally avoids profoundly traumatic emotion, you see. And, after a few sessions I have given it a lot of thought.”

“Tell me your thoughts,” I said, as he held my hands.

“First, I am given to believe that for me, the emotional and spiritual support that friends who care can provide might be far more useful than therapy.”

“I’m certainly willing to provide you with that, Monsieur.” I placed my hands on his shoulders. “You know that I love you, right?”

“I believe it to be true,” he said, smiling, “since I can think of no other reason why you would stay here and work so hard, simply to help the children and care for them.”

“Well, of course,” I admitted, “I love the boys as well. But as for you, I love you deeply.”

“You are not dissatisfied with me?” he asked, his eyes so softly looking into mine. My god the man has the most liquid brown bedroom eyes I have ever seen.

“Oh no! Well, I mean,” I continued, “I am very demanding … after the lights go out.”

“I have been plagued,” he said, “by guilt about that recently.”

“I understand,” I said, feeling guilty myself, about being so needy.

“I need to stop that guilt,” he said. “I was hoping that the counseling would help with that, but of course they are seeking what they call ‘closure’ and try to help me through this pre-defined path of grief.”

I held his hands, listening.

“I don’t think there is only one path to it. I am not normally given to distress, emotionally or physically. I have been denying myself the ability to go past this trauma, simply because I have been thinking that I should be faithful to Maggie’s memory, and so forth.” He had a sip of wine. I didn’t know what to say, so I listened.

“Maggie would not want me to be unhappy, depressed, isolated, alone,” he said, staring into his wine glass.

“I agree, Monsieur.”

“Maggie would want me to live.”

I took the wine glass from his hands and placed it on the coffee table. I held him in my arms and then I kissed him. He held me, tightly, caressing me. I kept kissing him, not forcing it but not pulling away either.

It felt good.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally said, after a few moments. “Of course it is the sort of thing that may be personal, so please don’t tell me more than you feel you should.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Who is John?”

“John?” I asked.

“His telephone number is on your dresser upstairs – on a note. It says, ‘You’re beautiful, call me, John.’”

“Oh. Right.” Damn. “Some guy, came in with some people to the restaurant, gave me that with his tip. I guess I overdid it on the friendly banter, and he may have thought I was interested.”

“Are you, then?” Monsieur asked.

Blush. “No! I mean, flattered, yes … I … I guess I was, I mean I wasn’t going to call him.”

“But you kept his number? You were tempted?”

“Please! I just forgot to throw it away!” I felt cornered. I stood up.

“It’s not a bit of my business, and I won’t ask,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I think I have made some mistakes with you, and have moved too quickly –”

“Mistakes?” I could feel my blood rising.

“ – But I don’t want that to place the rest of our relationship in jeopardy.”

“First of all, the biggest mistake you could make would be to think I would call some guy who gave me his phone number, when I am only here to take care of you.” I felt my face getting hot.

“I didn’t mean–”

“Second biggest mistake is that I’m a very low maintenance sort of girl in almost every way, except … at bedtime.”

He laughed a little. “I agree,” he said. “I’m sorry if it seemed as though I wasn’t trusting, but I was afraid we were drifting apart.”

I sat back down, next to him. “I’ll forgive you, on one condition. Just drift a little closer.” I kissed him, my mouth hungry.

For a long time.

My hands were all over his body and when I could feel his heart beating in his chest, I knew that he was ready and I started lowering his pants.

“I’m not used to asking for it,” I whispered. “Usually the guy asks me, but you’re not like other guys.”

“I can try to be,” he whispered.

“No, just be yourself. I like that.”

I got his pants off, his cock thick and red, swollen and erect, curving up like it was straining to reach me. I lowered my head and licked it. His breath made a noise like a tire deflating. I opened wide and sucked on the head, drooling wantonly, stroking him with my hand, trying to remember all the pointers I recently got from Desireous and Introspectre, VH and my other personal idols when it comes to cock pleasing.

His hands wandered over my body, one hand finding its way to my bottom. He pulled the waistband of my pajamas down and fondled me as I sucked.

He moaned. His fingers pulled my panties aside and slipped in past my rubbery wet labia – thick, strong, insistent fingers. I moaned, my mouth full of him, my pussy full of him; I looked up at him. I let his cock pop out of my mouth.

“Do you like that?” I smiled, stroking him.

“Oh you know that I do. I am quite ready,” he whispered.

“Ready to come in my mouth?” I asked, my eyes sparkling.

“I … I don’t know if … if I can …”

“Let’s try this, then.” I got up on the couch. “Stand up,” I said. He obeyed. I love how a man with a hard-on will do almost anything. I lay down on my back, hung my head off the edge, and pulled his cock to me, licking it then sucking it in.

He moaned again. I pulled it out. “Now, you’re gonna have to fuck my mouth, and don’t be such a gentleman for once. I really, really want this. All right?”

“All right, chère.”

I put his hands on my head, so giving him permission to really use my mouth to please him. My hands teased his swinging balls, stroked his shaft, and after only a few minutes of his cock head stretching my mouth, jaw and lips … I felt a pulse along the shaft, his scrotum tight against his body, then a gasp and something French from his lips … then another gasp and something hot, thick, and oh, so rich filling my mouth as he fucked it. Triumph.

I pulled off, stroking him and trying to get it all. There was a lot. I don’t think the poor man had had an ejaculation since the last one he had with me, a month before. It covered my face deliciously, my hair, the floor …

I sat up, wiping my face with my shirt, licking my lips.

He fell to his knees and began to tongue me as I licked the last of him from my fingers. My legs went up and open, resting on his shoulders as he licked and sucked, then when I was totally flowing I started playing with his cock with my feet. I felt it harden then he picked my legs up, spread them wide and slid his tongue deep inside me and fucked me with his face till I came, hard, biting my hand to keep from waking the kids. My head was spinning.

I remember that he got up on his knees and was teasing my entrance with his freshly hardened cock.

“Please, Monsieur,” I whispered.

“Please what, my love?”

“Please, will you take me?” I begged.

“Take you where, mon ange?” he smiled.

I was pulling him, humping, trying to get him inside me. “OH! You’re so mean to me, why?”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled, “it’s just that I really like the look on your face when I finally give you,” and then he held me open and slid into me, “this.”

“Oh!”

It burrowed into me, what I’d been missing, dreaming of, hoping for, into me, making me blind with pleasure, filling me up and burying inside me in…

One.

Smooth.

Stroke.

He kissed me, our faces sticky with each other, and he hooked his elbows under my knees and lifted my legs up as his cock filled me. Oh, it was so thick. In my delirium I remembered to try bringing my knees to my chest like Cardman described. I was sitting on the edge of the couch, and his kneeling in front of me was the perfect angle. Monsieur could then pull all the way out and slowly slide all the way in, from the crown to the base, with each stroke. Yum. I came in three or four strokes, and he could keep going for I don’t know how long before it welled up and soaked me.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, kissing me through my happy tears. I looked at the clock. It was 12:45 AM.

Belle-Mère

Jesus Joseph Mary.

Pardon the blaspheming, but I just found out Monsieur’s mother is visiting KC, and they’re both going to get into his sister’s car and drive down here to Texas to see the family.

Jesus Joseph Mary. I’m not prone to performance anxiety or panic attacks but I think I can feel my pulse in my hair. Oh god's teeth and blood, I hope she likes me.

Monsieur’s sister, you may recall, was my roommate, time out of mind. I got aong with her great back then, but she was against my moving in here to help with the children and I don’t know if either of them knows about Monsieur and me.

I haven’t met his mother before. She lives in France. They’ll all be here around birthday time for Littlest and Bigglest Boys, the 3rd week of January.

Jesus Joseph Mary.

So Much For THAT Job

Well, today [Sunday] at work I saw the new-posted schedule, and apparently all wait staff now have to work one weekday shift per week, “see your Shift Manager to iron out any conflicts.” I’m scheduled for Tuesday. Of course I can’t come in on Tuesday or any other weekday, and since they don’t make exceptions, I told my shift manager that I couldn’t do it weekdays between 8 and 5, and I thought that was understood when I was hired.

“I’m sorry [Yearning Heart],” she explained, “but that’s the new policy. Everyone has to make adjustments; we’re having a hard time getting people who are willing to work weekdays.”

“I’m sorry too, [SM],” I explained, “but I teach during the weekday. I can only work nights and weekends; the reason why I live here is to care for the children.”

“Well, hon, that’s just not going to be good enough.”

“I see. Well, I can’t work where I’m not going to be good enough,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, but thinking about that huge student loan and my massive credit card debt; why did I ever go into debt?

So either today was my last day there, or I have to find day care on Tuesdays. Which, way out here in the country, would present a problem. I’m screwed, and not even kissed.*

*Actually I got kissed last night - but it’s time to clean house and gather laundry, so maybe tonight I’ll share all about that.

Xmas Haul

From Monsieur, I got stuff that I didn’t know I said I wanted but must have muttered it under my breath, because I did want it:

---

Jewels!

• a purple – no, royal crimson – bathrobe
• pajamas
• a pearl necklace (oh grow UP!! I mean jewelry) and another of emerald – my birthstone

From the boys:

• Parachutes CD, Coldplay – oh, quit laughing at me. I like Coldplay.
• Yellow Submarine, the movie – I mentioned once that I had never seen it, and of course the Two Bigglest Boys were shocked, dumbfounded, and wondered how I could call myself a civilized human being with such an obvious gap in my education.

From my mom & dad:

• The Joy of Cooking
• The Sedgwick County Ag Extension Cookbook
  (I think they’re just trying to help)
• T-shirts, skirts, gift certificate for shoes

Still no yum-yum yet. I got a phone number with my tip the other day at work, from a cutie guy, kinda looked like John Corbett from Sex and the City / My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Only cuter. The phone number sits in a pile of scrap paper on a dresser upstairs. Yearn, yearn, yearn.

John Corbett, not the guy who gave me his number.

---

In other news … Monsieur apologized for being a pooh-pooh head (see earlier post), although he didn’t actually say it that way.

“[Yearning Heart], I am sorry I was so abrupt with you the other night.”

I acted as if I didn’t remember. “The other night?”

“You remember, of course you do. The children were not ready for bed, and were becoming rowdy and misbehaved.”

“Oh yes, well. As to that, I understand your anger, Monsieur.”

“I am glad that you so understand. My temper has been short of late, and I am truly contrite.”

“I accept, Monsieur, and I will try to be more firm with the children, and I hope that you will tell me when something is not to your liking. But please, in the future, do not do it in front of the boys?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“I love you, Monsieur, and I hope that if you ever have the need to punish me you shall do it in private, in the proper way.”

“‘In the proper way’?”

“Yes, Monsieur.” I unbuckled his belt, sliding it off of his pants and removing it. I handed it to him, then turned around, bent over with my hands on my knees and pointed my bottom at him.[1] “The proper way,” I repeated.

He made a noise in his throat. “I have no wish to hurt you,” he whispered softly.

“I know, Monsieur. One or two won’t hurt; they may clear the air between us and possibly make our lives much easier.”

“I don’t spank my children; why would you think I would spank you?”

“Just one, Monsieur, and not on my bare bottom. Please. You’ll feel better, and so will I.”

He did, and not as hard as he could have.

(Ouch.)

He put his belt back on, and asked me if I felt better.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

[1] Thanks to Amber, for the suggestion.

In Trouble Again

Hope your holidays were fun. Ours were, too. I guess I got spoiled by mine. I’ll enumerate all my loot later. But first….

Sometimes I wish he would just spank me and be done with it.

Tuesday night I was trying to get all three boys cleaned, dried, brushed, and pajamaed by bedtime, and they were goofy and gabbly. Then Littlest Boy unceremoniously filled his diaper, so in order to keep the peace I had the two bigger boys separate and stay in their rooms on their beds while I took Littlest Boy and changed him. While I was doing that, Monsieur went upstairs and found the two bigger boys in various degrees of readiness for bed, five minutes before bedtime. They got scolded, and when I came upstairs, so did I.

I could have defended myself better, I could have said that I was trying to keep the mayhem down to a minimum while Littlest Boy was being changed, but I just lowered my eyes and apologized.

“You can not let them take advantage of you like that,” Monsieur said.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” I said softly.

“Bedtime is at 8:00 for a reason,” he continued.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Get their teeth cleaned and then lights are to be out.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

I did, and Monsieur helped. The boys were cooperative from then on; I suspect that there was a certain amount of guilt on their part that I was in trouble. I tucked everyone in, turned out lights, and went into my old room to undress to shower. I wasn’t going to go downstairs again for the rest of the night – I was mortified and resentful.

Grumble. Maybe the semen had backed up into his brain and it makes him grumpy, I thought.

Whatever. I slept upstairs.

TagOla

I have been TAGGED by that hottie, Venting Housewife.

The first player of this game starts with the topic. Five weird habits of yourself, – and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Don’t forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says “You are tagged” (assuming they take comments) and tell them to read yours.

This is difficult, mostly because I don't even know 5 people who haven't been tagged with this already. I just checked – and EVERYone I know who takes comments has already been tagged.

But here goes.

1. I can’t walk in front of a mirror without looking at it and checking myself out. If no one is around, I’ll stick my tongue out at myself.
2. When I brush my teeth, I have to recite Shakespeare in my head to time myself to make sure that I brush for a full 5 minutes. Usually I do Macbeth:
   She should have died hereafter
   There would have been a time for such a word
   Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
   Creeps in this petty pace from day to day….
   Oh, you know the rest, and if you don’t, well, you probably went to public school in the US.[1]
3. I can only eat – at one sitting – about as much food as I can hold between my thumb and forefinger. That means about a half cup. I can’t eat more, and now I know better, so I don’t even try. I am not malnourished, and my mom took me to a doctor, who said if more people would do like I do, she’d go out of business.
4. I absolutely, positively, have to have an orgasm every 48 hours.[2] If I don’t, then there will be hell to pay.
5. Whenever I blush, I sneeze. That’s weird, I know – sometimes I suppress that by biting my lower lip to kill the sneeze reflex, but I still get the physical need to sneeze when my face gets red from embarrassment. If anyone has any idea why that happens, please comment.

There, that wasn’t so difficult. But, I can’t tag anyone else, for reasons mentioned above. Sorry, VH.

[1] OK, so did I. But I paid attention in English class, especially if it was Shakespeare.

[2] Since I was about 16 years of age, this is true. This is a bigger burden on me than you might think.

Rabbit Test

Someone very dear to me made the comment recently that she hoped I wasn’t pregnant.

I thought, well, now that’s impossible. I’ve only been with Monsieur in the last 10 months and he’s been fixed. So it can’t be.

A month later: nausea (again) and other weird flu-like symptoms. What’s more, I’m late by a week. So, I do what any good, sensible girl does: I panic and freak out. Quietly. Then, I go to the drug store and pick up a home rabbit test.

The rabbit lived. Whew!

I so don’t want to be pregnant. Ever. I think I’m afraid of what it would do to me, my body, my peace of mind and my life. I used to tell people (boyfriends, my mom) that I didn’t think I was capable of taking care of children. Well, now that I’ve dived face-first into this life, I now know that I could, if I had to, take care of children, Because, well, I do, and I have to. I probably couldn’t take care of them all by myself, but with a husband working, I could do it. After all, that’s what I’m doing now.

So why am I afraid of birthing children? Apart from my slim tiny boyish hips, and all? I’m scared of pain. That’s all it is – I’m a wimp.

Now I know that all of you are chuckling to yourselves thinking, “Well, now someday Ms. Yearning Heart is gonna find herself knocked up and she’ll know for herself whether or not she could go through with it.” And I suppose that is a possibility. It’s also equally possible that I am a lesbian[1]. Or perhaps I am Larry King[2]. This is all possible.

I told Monsieur that I was worried about the pregnancy thing and he comforted me. It felt good, but what I wanted to hear was what would happen if I were to get pregnant. So, like a communicative person, who I hope that I am, I just asked him.

“If I were to get pregnant, what would we do?”

“You would make whatever decision you need to make, and I would support those decisions,” Monsieur replied.

“Suppose I decide to have the baby?” I asked.

“Then you would have the baby and I would support both of you.”

“Suppose I would want the baby to have a daddy?” I asked.

“The baby would have a daddy, if you would be so gracious as to consent for me to acknowledge the paternity,” he replied.

“Suppose … I would want to be married to the daddy?” I asked in a whisper.

“I can only hope for that,” he replied.

“You mean, you’d marry me if I got pregnant?” I didn’t expect that – I don’t know why not.

“You are a very eligible young woman, and I don’t think I would find anyone better for me or for my children,[3]” he answered.

I looked up at him, trying to be calm, but I started to tremble and he held me tighter.[4] It would have been perfect had he nailed me right then and there, but he didn’t – even when I tried to get him to, he asked me to wait a bit.

OK, blogmates … what does that mean exactly? Am I somehow leading up to Connubia with this guy? Is that what I want?[5]

[1] I’m not. OK… I had a crush on Maggie. But she was the first one, and while I wouldn’t have kicked her or Cate Blanchett out of bed, I’m all about the cock.

[2] I’m not. OK… I liking asking people impertinent questions. But I do not own a single pair of suspenders.

[3] Are you taking notes, guys? That is the correct answer!

[4] Yearn, yearn, yearn.

[5] My heart yearns, even as my brain screams “Now hold on just a New York minute here!”

The Heart Surfaces

Yes, I’ve been missing. Yes there’s a good reason.

There is a teacher who teaches the boys – along with ten other kids – in a cooperative school. The way it works is that one of each set of kids’ parent either helps pay a teacher or arranges to teach for a certain period out of a year, usually six months.

Up until last May it was Maggie teaching here in her house, right here in this room where I’m typing. Then Maggie passed away.

J-with-two-N’s and M were trading it off, but M got hired in a new job and J is not likely to be around after next summer. So they asked me to “help out.”

Oh, my god, thought me. You have got to be kidding.

I wanted to shriek and throw up my hands, “I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout learnin’ no babies!” in my best Butterfly McQueen voice (where’s my theatre classmate Gay Trey when I need him most?) but I just said, “Well, sure! But I gotta be able to bring Littlest Boy too.” Since day care is not an option for us due to Monsieur’s strict prohibition.

So, I have been playing the most challenging role of my acting career – knowledgeable elementary school teacher-in-training.

The kids like seeing Littlest Boy again, especially since he can talk now. And man, these questions the kids ask.

As an example:

• Do your eyes grow?
  Answer: yes but only a little bit.
• Why don’t spiders stick to their own webs?
  Answer: they walk very carefully on them. Some spiderweb is not sticky, and when the spiders have to walk on sticky threads, they have special hairs on their feet that push the sticky threads away when they let go of them.
• What happens if you drill a hole into a light bulb while the light bulb is turned on?
  Answer: I don’t know! Let’s ask a scientist, and we’ll find out!

These are all tough questions.

Meanwhile, I’ve been wobbling along as best as I can.

My waiting job is exhausting me. I don’t think I can hold out much longer at it, but I haven’t found anything that I could do that won’t conflict with my child care / teaching duties. As it is I have to cut school short, and get to work at 5 pm on Thursdays and Fridays.

Monsieur is trying to get the co-op to agree to pay me when I am handling the entire class all by myself. I feel as though I am not qualified to be paid as a teacher of any kind but Monsieur thinks I should be. I don’t yet know how it all works or even if it will all work out. I’m hoping for the best.

Monsieur is also warming up to me, a bit. I can see that he is trying to cope. I don’t get my lovin’ as frequently as I want but it averages to about once a week. I’ve made a few inquiries in the blogosphere and apparently that’s not too bad. I guess I should live with it, but I’ll still try to melt him down as often as I can.

The best I can do is to keep him happy.

“Dude - we got a substitute!”

So much to say and I know I’ll never get it all in.

So I had this interesting part to play this last couple of weeks – elementary school teacher. I have been busy with this, filling in at Monsieur’s boys’ cooperative school as a substitute while the regular teachers go on vacation.

Dear Mom and All of My Schoolteachers:

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was such a disrespectful, ill-tempered brat. I’ll try to do better.

— the Yearning Heart

Whew.

I’m glad to get that off my chest. These kids are wonderful, intelligent and very challenging. I’ll be glad when the other teachers get back next Monday.

It turns out that the camp cramps I had were a real virus, too so I was out for a few days there. Uggh.

Oh, two things I wanted to really note:

1. Monsieur was really kind about introducing me to everyone at the campout. I really am starting to feel like I belong.
2. I lost Monsieur’s Pentax digital camera. It was in my camping bag that I might have ransacked looking for Immodium™ at some point during that awful night. I must have left it out on the ground. Anyone could have seen it and taken it. I feel really stupid. What should I do? Should I offer to replace it? It’s not a cheap camera.