And so, the lust of my last several days seems to have a love-lust interest of his own. Of this I'm not sure, of course; but I got a tiny clue yesterday when I overheard something that I was pretending not to be interested in hearing.
Damn!
And so, I kinda hate her. In a purely "I don't really care" sort of way. None of that stops me from daydreaming (or trying to night dream) about him. That beautifully toned, dark and muscular body. Naked, of course; and with a bad-ass tattoo from his reckless youth, or possibly, a sexy-mysterious scar, somewhere prominent or barely visible, but begging to be kissed.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Men and Sex
Sometimes, I wonder just how much attention men actually pay to a woman's body during sex. I know that men don't mind imperfection, any more than women do. I mean, it's not like you're starring in love scene on the big screen, or making a home porno, but still.
How much do men really mind a little back fat, or muffin top, or a little extra meat on the thighs? Do they really notice when our legs aren't freshly shaved? Eh. Probably not.
The point is, we notice it on ourselves, and for me, well...I get a little embarrassed thinking about what he might be thinking. Yeah. Silly, I guess. I just want to feel attractive. I want to feel like I look like somebody whose bones he wants to jump all the time. *Sigh* I miss being in a relationship.
And for those women out there with steady beaus and husbands who have your periodic losses of interest in sex, if it's an appearance/"I need to tidy up" type of issue, I get it. That whole self esteem thing is heavy, and probably drives down the sex drive. But for all else, such as that, "I'm tired," "I got a headache," "the kids are in the next room," (y'all KNOW you can have quiet sex), or "I'm mad at you right now" type of stuff, all the damn time...you bitches make me sick.
How much do men really mind a little back fat, or muffin top, or a little extra meat on the thighs? Do they really notice when our legs aren't freshly shaved? Eh. Probably not.
The point is, we notice it on ourselves, and for me, well...I get a little embarrassed thinking about what he might be thinking. Yeah. Silly, I guess. I just want to feel attractive. I want to feel like I look like somebody whose bones he wants to jump all the time. *Sigh* I miss being in a relationship.
And for those women out there with steady beaus and husbands who have your periodic losses of interest in sex, if it's an appearance/"I need to tidy up" type of issue, I get it. That whole self esteem thing is heavy, and probably drives down the sex drive. But for all else, such as that, "I'm tired," "I got a headache," "the kids are in the next room," (y'all KNOW you can have quiet sex), or "I'm mad at you right now" type of stuff, all the damn time...you bitches make me sick.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
A Few Bars of Thank You
There's this neighbor of mine who shall remain nameless, but the man gives me an itch I can't explain, and I want him to scratch it. It's a like a tingling that sneaked up on me, and I suddenly understood why women become serial masturbators. But that ain't enough for me. It never has been, and it sure wouldn't be now.
I never understood what women get out of masturbating, but the way I feel about him right now, I understand what they're trying to get. He literally gives me the hots in a spot that I want him to fill. Like right now. I. Want. Him.
It's the damnest thing, because I hardly noticed him the first time I saw him, but after I heard him speak, something sparked. Or maybe I'm ovulating and just feeling frisky. He's handsome and well-built, dark features, smooth skin, polite. Somebody I certainly should have noticed before now, but whatever. I notice him now.
Whatever it is, for the last several nights, I've found myself lying in bed, picturing him. First, his smile, then his lips, then his completely naked body, intertwined with mine. Or, at this moment, mine straddling his.
Sometimes, a man's accent is all it takes for me to pay attention. Sometimes, a slow, southern drawl. Other times, a thick and sharp northern turn of phrases. Have mercy, this one is from somewhere in New York, and it's all over him, and just...doing something to me.
I close my eyes and see that smile, however casual it must have been when he first flashed it at me, and I think how he has to know that it's his money maker. His words, whatever the hell he's saying (I'm not really paying attention), make me want to bite my lips. I want to kiss him. Deeply. And then, Lord help me. I want to do some really ungodly things with him.
Even now, I'm picturing him naked, lying on his back, smooth chest, neatly trimmed nether regions, waiting, expecting, welcoming. If I could dictate my dreams, I'd go to bed right now, and just wait to fall asleep.
I feel the need for his hands, strong and firm on my hips, guiding them slowly, or fast, if that's what he likes, as I slide myself, wet and willing, down onto his waiting, expecting, welcoming, beautiful dick. At this point, I don't care if it's lovemaking or fucking. I'll take either one.
His grip on my hips instructs my rhythm, and I follow. I'm aching to feel him throbbing, thrusting; to hear him moaning, to hear myself purring. We match perfectly. Perfectly.
He could talk dirty to me. Or he doesn't have to say anything. Just keep hurting me with that perfect stroke. Nothing too rough. Yet. But definitely nothing gentle, either. Just enough to make my back ache, and my body hum a few bars of thank you.
And that's just the beginning.
Somewhere in here is a story. Maybe not a big story, but something.
I never understood what women get out of masturbating, but the way I feel about him right now, I understand what they're trying to get. He literally gives me the hots in a spot that I want him to fill. Like right now. I. Want. Him.
It's the damnest thing, because I hardly noticed him the first time I saw him, but after I heard him speak, something sparked. Or maybe I'm ovulating and just feeling frisky. He's handsome and well-built, dark features, smooth skin, polite. Somebody I certainly should have noticed before now, but whatever. I notice him now.
Whatever it is, for the last several nights, I've found myself lying in bed, picturing him. First, his smile, then his lips, then his completely naked body, intertwined with mine. Or, at this moment, mine straddling his.
Sometimes, a man's accent is all it takes for me to pay attention. Sometimes, a slow, southern drawl. Other times, a thick and sharp northern turn of phrases. Have mercy, this one is from somewhere in New York, and it's all over him, and just...doing something to me.
I close my eyes and see that smile, however casual it must have been when he first flashed it at me, and I think how he has to know that it's his money maker. His words, whatever the hell he's saying (I'm not really paying attention), make me want to bite my lips. I want to kiss him. Deeply. And then, Lord help me. I want to do some really ungodly things with him.
Even now, I'm picturing him naked, lying on his back, smooth chest, neatly trimmed nether regions, waiting, expecting, welcoming. If I could dictate my dreams, I'd go to bed right now, and just wait to fall asleep.
I feel the need for his hands, strong and firm on my hips, guiding them slowly, or fast, if that's what he likes, as I slide myself, wet and willing, down onto his waiting, expecting, welcoming, beautiful dick. At this point, I don't care if it's lovemaking or fucking. I'll take either one.
His grip on my hips instructs my rhythm, and I follow. I'm aching to feel him throbbing, thrusting; to hear him moaning, to hear myself purring. We match perfectly. Perfectly.
He could talk dirty to me. Or he doesn't have to say anything. Just keep hurting me with that perfect stroke. Nothing too rough. Yet. But definitely nothing gentle, either. Just enough to make my back ache, and my body hum a few bars of thank you.
And that's just the beginning.
Somewhere in here is a story. Maybe not a big story, but something.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Basic Business No-Brainer
Whatever you're selling, make it as easy as possible for someone to spend their money on you.
As if the buying public weren't already impulsive and impatient enough, the world of e-commerce has made it too easy for potential customers to quickly lose interest or become distracted with other options.
If you're inviting someone to buy your product or service, they shouldn't have to work to find it. If you provide a link, make sure it works. If I can't get to your stuff within one or two clicks after clicking that link, then you've probably lost a sale. Do better.
Either you're ready to sell, or you're not. If you're ready, be ready. If you're not, don't make excuses about it, and then expect people to wait until you've got your shit together.
As if the buying public weren't already impulsive and impatient enough, the world of e-commerce has made it too easy for potential customers to quickly lose interest or become distracted with other options.
If you're inviting someone to buy your product or service, they shouldn't have to work to find it. If you provide a link, make sure it works. If I can't get to your stuff within one or two clicks after clicking that link, then you've probably lost a sale. Do better.
Either you're ready to sell, or you're not. If you're ready, be ready. If you're not, don't make excuses about it, and then expect people to wait until you've got your shit together.
Being in Love
Being in love keeps you in a good mood. Losing love reminds you that you're human. Remembering love makes it all worth it. Appreciating loves makes you willing to work for it. Knowing love almost makes you believe that it's better to have loved and lost, etc., etc.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Woke up from a cold medicine-induced haze around midnight. Turned on the TV, clicked the Guide button, and got enticed by the description, "R.Kelly: Sam Cooke Live." Hmm.
I've long said that R. Kelly got his singing style straight from studying Sam Cooke. Tremendously talented, R. Kelly. Too bad his demons seem to have taken over his spotlight. Absolutely LOVE Sam Cooke. Another tortured soul, brimming over with talent, but gone too soon; and under tragic circumstances.
I turned the channel to that station, only to find one of my favorite Whitney Houston videos from "The Bodyguard" Soundtrack. Dumb TV Guide got it wrong again, but I watched it anyway, instantly nostalgic for my uncomplicated, yet angsty adolescent-to-teen-to-young adult years. To call her voice remarkable would be to grossly understate the experience.
Then I logged onto the Internet to find that Whitney Houston just died. Yes. I literally gasped and went numb. It made me very sad.
Out of habit more than anything, I opened a new tab, and logged on to find too much commentary, much of it very mean, most of it self-serving and gratuitous, all of it repetitive, all over Facebook. For the 3rd time in about a week, I thought of deactivating my page, but people keep finding me there; and I actually enjoy being connected. I wish I could find (or Facebook would provide) the feature that allows me to turn off the news feed.
People love to post judgments as if they don't have any of their own demons to battle. Shut up. Others like to get on soapboxes, berating and belittling folks for mourning and contemplating the loss of a super star, as they feign to champion the plight of the military and civil servants who have served and died in the line of duty with little notice or fanfare. Shut. Up. As if celebrities choose to die for the world-wide recognition and with the attention of eclipsing the acknowledgment of the rest of us. Hell, I don't know. Maybe some of them do. There's a more morbid than usual thought, but...*Shrugs* But they ARE celebrities. People know more of them than they do the rest of us. Their lives (and deaths) are news. So, shut up.
And all of these pop up tributes? Ugh. So damn tacky.
Let's all parade around on stage, TV and radio, belting out karaoke-esque covers and spouting endless commentary, and call it a tribute. Yeah, there's an original thought. No one will see straight through that. And what a tragically fortuitous coincidence that the award shows are just around the corner. I can almost see the Oscar and Grammy producers scrambling as I write this.
Her tarnished image and questionable, highly scrutinized lifestyle aside, Whitney Houston's was arguably the greatest voice of a generation. Indeed, a tortured soul, brimming over with talent. There never seems to be enough time, but I'm glad that I was here to witness and truly appreciate her gift. I get chills thinking about the glorious sound of her voice. My goodness.
Okay. Now, I'll shut up, too.
I've long said that R. Kelly got his singing style straight from studying Sam Cooke. Tremendously talented, R. Kelly. Too bad his demons seem to have taken over his spotlight. Absolutely LOVE Sam Cooke. Another tortured soul, brimming over with talent, but gone too soon; and under tragic circumstances.
I turned the channel to that station, only to find one of my favorite Whitney Houston videos from "The Bodyguard" Soundtrack. Dumb TV Guide got it wrong again, but I watched it anyway, instantly nostalgic for my uncomplicated, yet angsty adolescent-to-teen-to-young adult years. To call her voice remarkable would be to grossly understate the experience.
Then I logged onto the Internet to find that Whitney Houston just died. Yes. I literally gasped and went numb. It made me very sad.
Out of habit more than anything, I opened a new tab, and logged on to find too much commentary, much of it very mean, most of it self-serving and gratuitous, all of it repetitive, all over Facebook. For the 3rd time in about a week, I thought of deactivating my page, but people keep finding me there; and I actually enjoy being connected. I wish I could find (or Facebook would provide) the feature that allows me to turn off the news feed.
People love to post judgments as if they don't have any of their own demons to battle. Shut up. Others like to get on soapboxes, berating and belittling folks for mourning and contemplating the loss of a super star, as they feign to champion the plight of the military and civil servants who have served and died in the line of duty with little notice or fanfare. Shut. Up. As if celebrities choose to die for the world-wide recognition and with the attention of eclipsing the acknowledgment of the rest of us. Hell, I don't know. Maybe some of them do. There's a more morbid than usual thought, but...*Shrugs* But they ARE celebrities. People know more of them than they do the rest of us. Their lives (and deaths) are news. So, shut up.
And all of these pop up tributes? Ugh. So damn tacky.
Let's all parade around on stage, TV and radio, belting out karaoke-esque covers and spouting endless commentary, and call it a tribute. Yeah, there's an original thought. No one will see straight through that. And what a tragically fortuitous coincidence that the award shows are just around the corner. I can almost see the Oscar and Grammy producers scrambling as I write this.
Her tarnished image and questionable, highly scrutinized lifestyle aside, Whitney Houston's was arguably the greatest voice of a generation. Indeed, a tortured soul, brimming over with talent. There never seems to be enough time, but I'm glad that I was here to witness and truly appreciate her gift. I get chills thinking about the glorious sound of her voice. My goodness.
Okay. Now, I'll shut up, too.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Season of Overeating
Is it possible to develop an eating disorder in your 40s?
I love to eat. A box of cookies. A can of chips. Leftovers. Jello.
I don't binge and purge or whatever that is. I just eat. Maybe it's the weather. It's probably the weather. Nah. I'm just lazy and unmotivated.
I love to eat. A box of cookies. A can of chips. Leftovers. Jello.
I don't binge and purge or whatever that is. I just eat. Maybe it's the weather. It's probably the weather. Nah. I'm just lazy and unmotivated.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Shit That Makes Me Want to Shoot People in the Head
No, this is not PTSD. Not a cry for help. I'm just rummaging through some venting tidbits that need to work themselves out of my head. Read again: VENTING. Not encouraging any already crazy fuckers with no coping skills and no social skills to cross the line into bodily harm of others.
I figured that since I shouldn't name my blog something like "Shit That Makes Me Want to Shoot People...," then I ought to at least make it the title of my first post. "Today's Truth" just felt too vanilla.
I'm thinking about things that bother the shit out of me. Liars. Slow Internet connections. Generation X-ers who think it's cute, clever, or enlightened to text full conversations like teenagers. Grow your grown ass up. Rude, disrespectful people. People who don't know the difference between self-esteem and self-entitlement. Get a clue. The world doesn't owe you shit. People who keep me waiting, especially when I'm spending my money. Websites that play music. I hate looking all over the damn page just to find the pause or stop button. Uggh. Unprofessional. Amateurish. Annoying as fuck.
I hate overused word pairs, especially trials and tribulations. Suddenly, everybody's Job or Jesus Christ. Can someone please write about your freakin' hardships without acting like you just carried a cross to Cavalry?
Did a mysterious storm swoop down and destroy all of your property and kill all of your kids? Do you have sores covering every inch of your body? I didn't think so.
But even if you could cite personal hardships of biblical proportions, it is overdone. Over. Done. So are tragedy and triumph. Body and soul. Vitamins and minerals. Umm...sick and tired.
I'm sane, but not normal. I'm kind, but impatient. I'm sure that I'm too considerate of others who don't give a shit about me. I hate telling people no, but I will. When I do, I have guilt issues that depress me for hours, sometimes days. I really wish people wouldn't cross boundaries, physical, emotional, professional boundaries. I work too hard.
I've loved the wrong people too much for my own good. Been made a fool for a few good times. I have great scars and grotesque open wounds, only visible when I put them on the screen. I've too many missing pieces, but otherwise, I'm perfect.
*Sigh* Of course, I don't really want to shoot anybody in the head. That feeling has managed to go away since returning home from Afghanistan. But I sure would like to pistol whip the fuck out of a few folks. That feeling manages to linger on (and on) a bit longer.
Yeah, yeah. My unwillingness to forgive is dragging me to hell. Got it. It doesn't change today's truth. Maybe tomorrow's truth will be different. Hmmh.
I figured that since I shouldn't name my blog something like "Shit That Makes Me Want to Shoot People...," then I ought to at least make it the title of my first post. "Today's Truth" just felt too vanilla.
I'm thinking about things that bother the shit out of me. Liars. Slow Internet connections. Generation X-ers who think it's cute, clever, or enlightened to text full conversations like teenagers. Grow your grown ass up. Rude, disrespectful people. People who don't know the difference between self-esteem and self-entitlement. Get a clue. The world doesn't owe you shit. People who keep me waiting, especially when I'm spending my money. Websites that play music. I hate looking all over the damn page just to find the pause or stop button. Uggh. Unprofessional. Amateurish. Annoying as fuck.
I hate overused word pairs, especially trials and tribulations. Suddenly, everybody's Job or Jesus Christ. Can someone please write about your freakin' hardships without acting like you just carried a cross to Cavalry?
Did a mysterious storm swoop down and destroy all of your property and kill all of your kids? Do you have sores covering every inch of your body? I didn't think so.
But even if you could cite personal hardships of biblical proportions, it is overdone. Over. Done. So are tragedy and triumph. Body and soul. Vitamins and minerals. Umm...sick and tired.
I'm sane, but not normal. I'm kind, but impatient. I'm sure that I'm too considerate of others who don't give a shit about me. I hate telling people no, but I will. When I do, I have guilt issues that depress me for hours, sometimes days. I really wish people wouldn't cross boundaries, physical, emotional, professional boundaries. I work too hard.
I've loved the wrong people too much for my own good. Been made a fool for a few good times. I have great scars and grotesque open wounds, only visible when I put them on the screen. I've too many missing pieces, but otherwise, I'm perfect.
*Sigh* Of course, I don't really want to shoot anybody in the head. That feeling has managed to go away since returning home from Afghanistan. But I sure would like to pistol whip the fuck out of a few folks. That feeling manages to linger on (and on) a bit longer.
Yeah, yeah. My unwillingness to forgive is dragging me to hell. Got it. It doesn't change today's truth. Maybe tomorrow's truth will be different. Hmmh.
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