It was like walking by a perfumed woman.

One minute it was there: real, wonderful, delicious in its lingering scent. Like a garden around the corner in full bloom.

And then, as if swept away on a breeze, it was long past me and the space between us convinced him he was wrong: it was nothing to pursue or look forward to with me.

He had decided he would cancel our date tonight and any further engagements.

The Magical Sub was not so magical after all.

And I was right.

I choked on tears in the car when I got the first warning text at 12:30 expressing his reservations. I was headed to the grocery store to buy supplies. I sat in the parking lot instead and replied, calmly and warmly. Four hours later he finally confirmed he’d had a change of heart.

No matter, really.

I’d driven straight home and crawled under my covers in my workout clothes and cried off and on into my pink velvet pillow shams for the rest of the afternoon.

The house was a mess and there was no food. I’d gone to no trouble. Fuck him. Fuck it.

I didn’t respond to his last text apologizing and saying he felt like an asshole. Well, yeah. You should. Not going to argue with you; I’m going to walk away with my head held high, tyvm.

Prior to this afternoon he’d excitedly asked me about my rope skills and sent drooling emojis about seeing me again. There were lots of warm smiles and exclamations from him.

I guess the bright cold winter air sobered him up.

I can’t quite understand why I even keep trying, to be honest. Such a waste of my everything.

FUCK OFF. xx

My last Sinful Sunday of the year. Click below for everyone else!

Sinful Sunday

I am a Super Mom.

Picture first, then all the words.

Peter is a ray of sunshine in my cloudy, lonely, busy, lovely, exhausting, fun and complicated life.  Each week we send a few texts; sexy, funny, flirty.  We narrow down a time to meet and we make it happen.  In my office on rare occasions, but mostly in my little apartment with dozing animals and late afternoon sunshine as our backdrop where I get to see the green of his eyes.

Yesterday he darkened my doorway with a smile and a sweet kiss hello.  I gave him a Topo Chico and he sat on a kitchen bar stool while I wedged myself between his knees and we talked forever like we always do and I melted against him.

“I like this height thing,” I said and dipped my head just a smidge to kiss his soft lips.

I’m barely taller standing than he is sitting.  We laughed into each other’s smiles and ran our hands along each other’s arms and chests.  He cupped my breasts and moaned, pulled my “Super Mom” shirt up and over my head.  My bare breasts bounced between us and I arched my back.  He knew what to do.

I held his dark head to my breast and leaned into his wet, suckling mouth, pulled back and tore his work shirt off and matched up our nipples and wriggled a little.

He stood up and towered over me.

“Well there goes that height equity,” I quipped.

He took my hand and I led him back to my room.

Eyeing my bed I laughed, “But we’ll be equal again in a minute.”

Naked and astride his narrow hips I stuffed him inside of me and rocked and rolled on him with abandon.  He grabbed the hams of my ass and massaged them against his shaft until we both lost our shit entirely. Moaning and groaning, cussing and thrusting.

His beautiful face focused on mine as I sought release atop him, careful to leave no marks on him with my clutching, pawing hands.  He tasted salty and sweet as he gritted against his own pleasure, my green-eyed beast of a man.

Once, twice, three times I lost myself in his breath and deep, wet kisses with him buried entirely inside of me.  I grabbed my Hitachi and pressed it against my mound as he twitched and gently bucked against me.  I came like a banshee that time and collapsed on top of him as he finally let go and came with me, dumping all his delicious jizz into my hungry little body.

“Fuuuuck,” we said, and laughed and panted together conspiratorially.

We talked and giggled some more until I noticed the beautiful late afternoon light filtering in through my window.

“Can I take some pics of you for the blog?  The lighting is so good right now.”

He said yes and I fluttered around him adjusting sheets and clicking my phone and pressing my body against his and clicking some more.  I felt shy and awkward, but really didn’t want to lose the light or the opportunity.

I mentioned writing something about this moment and he said he’d want to read it.  I admitted to having already written about him.  “Oooh, I want to read!” he said as he buried his face in my breasts.

I held him close and laughed.  The truth is I’m nervous to have him read me, but am willing.  He didn’t press and I didn’t offer more.

I clicked the camera a few more times – click click click – before we showered and washed away all remnants of our sex with the little green and white stripped bar of soap a girlfriend brought me from New Zealand.

“Does she ever leave town?”  I asked.  He knew what I meant.

“She’ll be visiting her sister’s new baby in January for a whole weekend,” he answered.  “Would you like to have an overnight??”

“Fuck yeah, I would,” I said and pulled his face down to mine for a kiss.

I gathered the socks for him the dog had squirreled away while we were busy and  finished our tryst with more smiling kisses on my tip toes.  Time with Peter is at once long-lasting and quick and I wished I wasn’t saying goodbye.

“Bye, gorgeous,” I called to him just before he rounded the corner to the stairs.

“Bye, sexy,” he called back.

I locked the door and finished getting dressed then scurried off to an event for Pey, filled to the brim with Peter.  Just like a good Super Mom should.

 

Ed. Note: Pic posted with Peter’s permission.

Sinful Sunday

This is gonna hurt.

I spent yesterday on the water with friends and slathered a generic brand of SPF 30 Sport sunblock on me.  Twice.

I think I may sue.

I look like a piebald.

 

 

Sinful Sunday

Want to join in on writing Every Damn Day in June?:



I’ve been braless for four days.

Dammit. That sunblock was shit.

Sinful Sunday


Dawn in London.

By my little kitchen-bed.
Heart fuller than it should be, as full as I need it to be.

Sinful Sunday

It’s heart-shaped.

My loneliness, that is.

February Photofest

Erotic.

Stuck.

Your cock choked and purple at attention in my warm hand, beautifully bound with a wide, golden ribbon, wrapped with a bow.  Your gift to me.

How I yearn for its obedience and your loss of control which I catch on the wind as you set it free.  I collect it like so many wild flowers on a morning walk, my pile of power a sumptuous, heady fragrance.

I look back over my shoulder at you, wriggle down on your hips, clasp your throbbing meat in my hands and slowly milk you.  Long, friendly strokes, light slaps, a tug on your bulbous scrotum.

Your cries caress my ears, your semen spurts dutifully into my hands, my smile curves upon my lips. The leather around your wrists groans with the strain of your body arching into its ecstasy. Just like I wanted you to.

Mm.

I hope to continue my travels along the lanky lines of your body, the pale valleys and cut ridges, the tender spots of your emotional domain.

I’ll miss you while you’re gone.

Sinful Sunday
February Photofest

I have a boyfriend.

Kind of.

His name is Faisal.

He’s got four legs and a tail and actually “he” is three.

Three four-legged, furry, needy, loving, demanding, individual, pains in the ass who are always happy to see me. Even the cats.

They cuddle around me on cold nights and stretch long and lean like pelts laid out in the warm summer heat.

They give about as good as they get, which is to say a lot and nothing.

I feed and care for them, provide them with my body on which to lay and adventures for the dog and loving indifference for the cats.  They in turn withhold any longstanding urge to murder me and lick my face off.

I cannot imagine my life without them and their ceaseless demands for care and attention.

Sometimes I think they are the only things on the planet who care where I am and if I am alive because who else is going to feed them?

But more importantly, how else will they center their universe without me as their sun?

Shut up. I know there are a lot more suns than just me, but let me bask in this idea that to them I am integral to their happiness.

If only I knew a Faisal on two legs.

I’m never actually alone.

 

Sinful Sunday

The pursuit of happiness.

This expert from Walt Whitman’s I Sing the Body Electric seems fitting today.
This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.
This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.
Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them,
She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active,
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in Nature,
As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty,
See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.
Febraury Photofest
Sinful Sunday

I am too still.

I have spent the bulk of the weekend in my pajamas save for the 6 hours I spent drinking last night with girlfriends.  Two women 5 and 10 years my junior; jaded and burnt out on men and overly sensitive about making sure we all kept our expenses the same.

My Old Fashioned drinks burned and smoked down my throat as their magic addled my brain.  Then the sadness crept in.

I hadn’t wanted to go out in the first place; I’d offered to see Rex, but I didn’t hear from him and so I’d made other plans, naturally.

Tina chatted up a beautiful man who somehow epitomized Brooklyn New York and her friend, Sina, cozied up with a handsome and grizzly older fellow.  I spent my time trying to give them each space.

I awoke on Tina’s couch alone and with an aching back.  This back ache is a symbol of my stillness, my general paralysis, and I hate it.  I need to move more, sweat more.  All this sedentary bullshit is literally breaking me.

Good thing tomorrow is a new day and I can start anew.  Thank god for the never-ending turning of our world.

My general state of being.

 

 

Febraury Photofest
Sinful Sunday