Keystroke Me.

If I laid you down,

across my keyboard

and typed

what I want to do to you

on your stomach,

would you feel me?

Would you desire my touch,

each and every one of my caresses?

Would you crave my lips,

as they traced your ribs?

Would you imagine my tongue,

dipping into that hollow of your throat?

Would you allow yourself permission

to enjoy the fragrance of me

upon your skin?

Or would you simply

hit Delete?

The Charmin Diaries.

Day 1:  I am so happy to be out of that blasted plastic wrapper.  Yes!  I fit quite nicely on this spinning cylinder and it makes me happy to spin in circles.  Wheeeeeeeeeeee….I am looking forward to my job as a notepad, taking notes for all kinds of important things.  Oh boy!  This is going to be so exciting!

Day 2:  My job is, um, well, it is not quite what I expected and totally does not fit the job description that I was told about by that beauty, Angel Soft, whom I thought found me attractive in my neat white suit.  And I find that I am not as happy to be out of the plastic wrapper as I initially thought I would be…

Day 3:  Okay, if I have to wipe that guy’s ass one more time, I swear I am going to scream.  I am losing weight rapidly.  Wow!  Way less than half of my original size, my future seems quite bleak at this moment.  Dark depression sets in…

Day 4:  Barely enough strength to turn on the spinning cylinder.  One good thing, though, I have grown used to the smell of urine and feces and don’t even care anymore whose ass I’m wiping.  Just wait until I see that bitch Angel Soft again.

Day 5:   I can smell cardboard…

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Money karma?

If anybody out there won the lottery, sold off stock portfolios, has money just lying around with dust on it, please send me some. I was so excited about going on vacation starting this coming weekend and just now the clutch went out in the car, just over two weeks after I paid it off. Please send me good karma, if nothing else, will you, some good thoughts, a prayer, whatever you want to call it. I sure need something.

I put out good karma all the time.  I give away toys at my yard sales to the little kids.  I give rides to people I see waiting at the bus stop or just walking. Where is my good karma when I need it?

*sad face, sad face, sad face*

The Day Kenny Killed Bobo

I remember the day Kenny killed Bobo.  I might not remember it so clearly if he hadn’t made me watch.  Bobo was a black cocker spaniel, old, arthritic, half blind, experiencing hair loss and was sometimes incontinent.  She could no longer get up and down the back steps by herself and it was our responsibility to help lift her behind when she would stop halfway, either up or down.

 One day, while the Old Lady was gone to town, Kenny took one of the Old Man’s neck ties out of his closet and tied it around Bobo’s neck and then lifted her up and tied the other end to the freezer door handle.  I tried to leave the room and he stopped me, hand firm on my shoulder.  “You need to watch this.”

Bobo kicked and struggled and eventually stopped kicking and struggling.  At that point, Kenny untied her, arranged her ‘sleeping’ under the kitchen table and put the Old Man’s neck tie back where he’d found it.  Then he went to find the Old Man.

“Daddy, come quick, I think something’s wrong with Bobo; I started to take her outside to go pee but she’s not moving.”  IF they had been more intelligent, they would have known this was a total lie.  Kenny never did a single chore that he wasn’t practically forced to do and he sure as hell never did one without being told, never ever on a volunteer basis.  But I didn’t tell.  Oh no.  I had been shown what happens to those who are not in his good favor and I had no wish to be hung from the freezer door handle.

We dug a hole and buried Bobo before the Old Lady got back from town.  She took it hard but probably better than had she found poor Bobo herself.  Bobo was at least 13 years old and I was about 9 or 10.  I can still remember Bobo’s eyes.  Strangely I don’t remember looking at Kenny’s eyes.

Zoning Laws…

Let’s not idly ponder this, my love…or should we?
For we both know, no such thing will take place.
You have no intentions of leaving your comfort zone.
It is much too scary out here in the real world.
I am much too much for you, isn’t that a little bit true, my love?
I do think at times you consider it
but you think a little bit more and you un-consider it
…and it’s okay;
I’m not finding fault, trust me,
I just grow restless inside my own skin –
…wanting you crazily like I do.
I literally sit and shake my head
to clear away the cobwebs
that threaten my mornings
and cast shadows over my evenings.
And my dreams of a life with you
slip lazily in and out of my subconscious,
with memories of your sweet bed time kisses
fueling them, burning the insides of my eyelids,
the flames of my desire licking at my heart,
keeping the wounds alive.
I’m just attempting to change the zoning laws,
never quite grasping that it’s your vote I need.

My Marilyn Story

One year, I found a photo of Marilyn Monroe, not one that you saw all the time, but a less popular one, and I bought it, hung it on my living room wall.  Everyone that came over always said the same thing – Oh, that’s so pretty!  So, you like Marilyn, huh?

Yep, yep, I like Marilyn.

That year, for Christmas, I got 13 (thirteen!) big framed pictures of Marilyn from my friends and family.  By the time I hung them all, it looked like a freaking SHRINE to Marilyn in my living room.  Thirteen framed photos and/or art plus a plate and an ashtray.

So, after that, people would come over, and say, WOW, YOU LIKE MARILYN, HUH?

If they said that they liked a particular picture, I would take it down, and give it to them…by the end of the year, I had made 12 people happy, and I was back down to one Marilyn, and not even the one I started with!  And that is the one that I still have today.

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And that – is my Marilyn story.

Red Light Special

I love the sexiness of this video and the song.A few years ago, I had this song sang to me at a little bar that was having karaoke.  I was completely surprised.  I was there with my girlfriend when her friend got up to sing.  Angie brought a chair up to the dance floor and motioned for me to sit in it.  I had no idea what she was going to do.  When she started singing this song, I was so blown away.  Not only did she nail it, she was dancing in front of me, just like it was just for me, and I was just grinning like a fool.  Thankfully my girlfriend was not a jealous person; she was applauding and catcalling, just like everyone else in the place.  Angie got a standing ovation and I got a ton of pats on the back during my walk back to my table.  Nice night, good memory.

Lie To Me.

Lie to me.

Tell me you hate the leather.

Tell me you hate the smell,

and the feel of it against your skin.

Tell me you hate pulling against the cuffs,

and the strain in the wooden headboard as you struggle.

Lie to me!

Tell me you don’t love my hair,

trailing between your legs,

teasing your thighs.

Tell me you’re not trying desperately

to see under the blindfold.

Tell me you’re not trying to imagine

just where my tongue will go next.

Lie to me!

Tell me you wish I would stop.

Tell me you don’t want me

to lick you there,

or there,

or there.

Tell me how my breath

on the back of your knees

doesn’t turn you on.

Tell you don’t want to feel my fingers

on your nipples,

pinching,

pulling,

harder

and then,

yes,

just

a little bit

harder.

Lie to me!

Tell me you didn’t just catch

your breath in your throat.

Lie to me!

Tell me how my teeth

on your neck

doesn’t make you wetter.

Lie to me!

Tell me my kisses are too wet.

Tell me my touches are all wrong.

Tell me you don’t secretly enjoy

my tongue in your ears,

my tongue circling your clit,

my tongue licking across your ass.

Tell me you don’t want me more now

than you did two minutes ago!

Tell me you’re not thinking about me,

about making love to me.

Tell me you don’t want me,

in your mouth,

under your hands,

between your teeth.

Tell me you don’t want me to fuck you,

hard,

right now.

Lie to me!

Tell me you don’t want to cum in my mouth.

Tell me you don’t want me to lick your wetness,

the wetness I created!

Tell me that you don’t want me to pull

that wetness up,

up,

up,

up and over your clit,

again and again,

until you cum for me.

Tell me you don’t want me

to touch you just like that!

Lie to me

as you scream my name.

Spelling Counts.

SPELLING COUNTS.
So, for a while now, I’ve noticed this cookbook on my roomie’s kitchen shelf, 1001 Cockatiels.  And yes, I thought it was odd that she would cook a bird that can sing that well, but you know, that’s her private life, right?  She doesn’t ask about my cookbook, Intercourses.  Hey, don’t judge.

Well, this morning while I’m waiting on the microwave to ding, I became curious about how you would or could cook such a bird since I noticed the neighbors have one just sitting on their porch in a cage (apparently it’s common place to eat them in North Carolina and people keep them fresh and handy).

So I pulled the cookbook down, opened it up, and it’s all recipes involving liquor.  My first thought is, Damn, you get the bird drunk first?  Seems kinda harsh – I mean, a party that ends in death?  I would just say, “No thanks, I’m busy that night.”

Then I realized the book title was 1001 Cocktails.  Vaaaaastly different.  Huge sigh of relief.  Turns out, she isn’t a weirdo after all, only a heavy drinker!  As the reality of my mistake dawns on me, I think to myself, I wonder how long before the neighbors notice that bird has gotten awfully quiet out there?

(Occasionally I think I’m funny but mostly I just amuse myself.  My roomie did actually have that book and for the longest time, I DID think it said Cockatiels. 😛 )