Words Words Words

The five sexiest words in the English language:

"I want you inside me."

"Right now!" is entirely optional, but appreciated.

And I say that being a woman, who is much less likely to hear these words than to say them. I'm okay with that. I enjoy saying them.

I wish there were a correspondingly sexy thing for a man to say to me, but "I want to be inside you," while I take it as a compliment in some cases, just isn't the same. It's an imposition rather than an invitation.

You can add a few words, make it, "I want your tongue inside me," and it becomes much more gender- and sexuality-neutral. But wanting someone's tongue inside me isn't the same thing as wanting someone's cock inside me.

There are many different things I have said in the past and will probably continue to say to express my approval of a partner's actions, to signal that I'm open to any and all propositions, to just say, "Hey, nice shoes; wanna fuck?" But, "I want you inside me," is the best one. It's not something I say to just anyone, or in just any situation. It's immediate. It says, "You've got me, any way you want, anywhere you want, just right now please."

And I can't remember the last time I said it to anyone.

Flash Fiction Friday - Magic Box

He made the command word "Tumnus" because he was a cheeky fucker. "Tumnus" he'd say every night as I sat there on the bed, blanket held protectively around me like a lead apron at the dentist's. I guess I was afraid that the magic might spill out somehow.

Night after night, the wardrobe disgorged a plethora of playthings for our lust: blonde, brunette, redhead, all slim and wanton as whores, panting with longing. We used them until dawn, then ushered them, never satisfied, back into the magic box.

But one night, he said "Tumnus" in the low, seductive tone that made me quake, and the same girl, blonde and pale, was standing there as the previous evening.

"I won," she said, the first words any of them had spoken.

---

I wrote this exactly as it is, apart from one minor change of wording. I'm presenting it as an experiment: you can see what happens right as it happens, rather than after I've polished it. It's as close to live writing as I can get. Maybe it illuminates some of my process. All I know is that it worked out to 129 words exactly, used the phrase, and at that point I stopped.

I avoided the clichés in this one, I guess. I was a bit worried about writing it because the woman on the bed has an extremely distracting ass. I don't always go for satin panties, but those are gorgeous, and perfect for her form.

The pat response, if I were going to write more than one, would probably be that the man has come home to find his wife in bed, disrobed, disheveled, and he hears a noise from the wardrobe, opens it, expecting a man, but surprise surprise. Not much point in writing that for me, because the picture already tells that story. I like to take the exercise as something other than simply writing the picture. Not that there's anything wrong with writing the picture; it's like drawing a landscape. Me, I'm crazy and easily bored, so I only draw landscapes that aren't really there. This picture happened to be narrative already, so I wanted to subvert the narrative, I suppose. Or maybe I'm just contrary.

And now for something completely different:

When I was young, my mother read me all the Chronicles of Narnia, starting with The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe rather than in the chronological order some readers seem to fancy. They're fine books. I saw the BBC versions, which everyone criticizes as being low-rent, and enjoyed them immensely. But I avoided the more recent adaptations like the plague for various reasons.

My favorite has always been Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I love a sea story, and exploration and adventure, and I enjoy the hell out of Reepicheep. Plus it has a different feel than the books which precede it; it's all about heading to the endless East, the land of the rising sun. Yes, I know all the Judeo-Christian allegory, but I don't care; I'd like that to be heaven. It reminds me quite a bit of Gandalf's description of what comes after death in The Lord of the Rings.

And yet, while I've seen The Lord of the Rings, I haven't seen the most recent Voyage of the Dawn Treader movie. Part of that is reviews I've read, but part of it is that I don't particularly want a new experience based around that book. I've had my experience with it, and I'm happy with it. That experience didn't involve special effects or big screens, it involved a book and my mother.

I'm not making any decisions here at all; if you liked the new movies, more power to you, and I hope they continue to bring you enjoyment. I'm mostly pondering the somewhat nonsensical nature of experience. Wardrobes and Tumnus just made me think of this.

And now for something more completely different:

Flash Fiction Friday makes me a better writer. I could do it without posting it and it would be less egotistical on my part, but let's not discount the salutary effect praise has on one, although the praise should be tempered with realization that praise will only get you so far. Praise is good for motivation. Practice is good for stamina. And criticism, rough though it may be, is good for cutting away the dead wood. I think Flash Fiction Friday provides a nice balance of all three, and that's why I, as someone with a complete lack of celebrity, endorse it heartily. Flash Fiction Friday: Just Do It!

Pimp My Blog Yo

Ebony Panther has pimped my blog (not in the sense that it sometimes means where you take something frumpy and turn it into something which is either supposed to be fabulous or looks like something Superfly shat out in a moment of desperation, but rather in the sense that he linked to me while saying nice things) so I'm going to pimp him right back.

You'll have to imagine the Batman sound effect.

See, I'm nothing if not circle-jerky. You should go and check out Ebony's blog, because I've followed it practically from the get-go, and even his filler is sexy. And his life is way more exciting than mine. And I don't know that I've ever mentioned him before. So here, I'm mentioning him with capital letters and an exclamation point.

The Cloud

I discovered through channels (read: I was told about it by someone) wordle.net, which is a complete and utter waste of time but ridiculously entertaining nonetheless. It makes word clouds, like everyone and his brother already has, but it makes them very attractively. I plugged the blog in and after a bit of tinkering it spit out the following (which is better in the larger version that can be viewed by clicking thereupon).

Never being one to leave well enough alone I took all the Flash Fiction Friday pieces I've ever written and plugged them in, achieving a second, equally-exciting result, hereunder:

Honestly, I expected them to be more... not-work-safe, perhaps? I figured there would be some words not suitable for polite company writ large. But while there are one or two lurking therein (I've used three wonderful and horribly-underutilized adverbs of location so far) it's hardly the rampaging cock-cunt-fest I was anticipating. In either case; I'm not sure I'm all that surprised about the Flash Fiction, since I don't write terribly graphic things constantly, but my blog seems like it ought to be a bit more frank and adult.

No matter. Hie thee thither (four, and let that be a lesson to those who believe that English doesn't have a dative) and make your own word cloud all pretty-like. Or just gape in wonderment at mine. The choice is yours.

In closing, in the interest of skewing my ratings a bit, cocks dripping cum all over hot dripping cunts while pussies are eaten by lustful virgin minxes. All together now, if possible in an Australian accent: "Vagina vagina vagina!"

And okay, I know, "thereupon" doesn't really mean what I'm making it mean. It's okay; I'm a professional.

Bad Neighborhoods

Yesterday I awoke bright and early with every expectation of a good day. I had to work, but it was light, and I was leaving early to go out to dinner with my family. Hooray.

Only my tires were slashed. Yep. One tire I'd believe was merely an accident, or a slow leak, or something. But two totally flat tires, both of which were working just fine the day before, and tire-slash-itude is the only explanation. I suppose "slash" may not be the term of art, since they aren't exactly slashed open, but punctured certainly.

So I didn't go anywhere, and by not going anywhere there were hurt feelings and fighting and everything just crashed, burned, had its ashes ground up, put into an urn in the shape of a toilet, and was shit on by a succession of hobos who'd just eaten rat stew. Then it was left to bake in the sun all day, was buried in a shallow grave in the desert, and finally was exhumed by archaeologists who classified it as an artifact from a shittier borough of Babylon and shipped it to a museum in New Jersey where it was accidentally dropped by a man named Steve, who concealed his error by altering the packing slip to indicate that it had never been shipped, then dumped the shards into the bay. Whereupon it was eaten by a whale which got indigestion and died, its body washing ashore on a deserted atoll to be consumed by seagulls and crabs, which as we know will eat anything. Not that I'm bitter.

Oh yeah, and I should point out that I live in a smallish town on a quiet street, not in Compton, so it's not like this is the latest in a crime spree or expected by me in any way. Tire-slashing doesn't happen 'round these parts. I bet it was douchebag drunken college students. They puke on my car sometimes too. I wish I had some mace, just so I could spray them with it when they piss me off. If they try keying my car though, joke's on them because I don't give a shit; my paint is already so scratched it doesn't matter any more. Ha ha, fuckers! Ha! Ha!

I don't usually go into the drama, but this was a bit better than most.

So today, in a borrowed car and only too happy to get out of the house, I went to work, where I was forced to sit and feel so incredibly horny I couldn't stand it while various unavailable people cavorted about trying on sexy clothes. To be honest, the clothes weren't even that sexy, but I was seriously wetting myself. I haven't had a cock in two days, and I don't care about anyone else, that's a long time for me. A long, long time.

There are peasant-style blouses involved. I don't know what it is about a peasant neckline, but with the right pair of breasts, it's sexier than topless, in my humble opinion, which at the moment is colored by raging hormones. The gal who wears this peasant blouse is younger than me but already married with children. I sneak looks down her cleavage as often as I can. It's not a baggy blouse; it's fairly form-fitting. It would look so good as it rose up over her belly, then over her pert young breasts, then over her head and off. It would look terrific on the floor, shall we say.

And then there's the lady who is older than I am but must spend all her free time working out or something because she is gorgeous. She wears these track pants all the time, completely obvious pantie lines from behind. I hate to see her leave, but I love watching her go. Sometimes there's no line, and I wonder if she's being naughty or just wearing a thong. I've never had the guts to ask her. She, too, is married and completely unavailable from everything I've heard.

I was doing a bit of harmless flirting with one of the guys in the play too; he's middle-aged and very sexy (I had written "but still" but I realized that many middle-aged men are extremely sexy, despite what they might think). He said, "I'm old enough to be your father," which is just not true at all, but I let him say it anyway because hell, I'm feeling old and anything I can do to feel younger is fine by me. But he, too, is married. He claims he needs to get back into shape; I think his shape is just fine, thank you. I would do him. I'd let his wife watch. Or join in. I've never met her, but at this point she could be anyone and I'd still let her join in. But he feels fatherly toward me, which is just a turn-on to me, but to him it seems to be the opposite. And anyway, married, and I just don't have the balls to go after married men these days. But I'd do him and his wife and a trained pony and the Swedish women's synchronized swimming team all together in a hot tub filled with Cool Whip. Bring it on!

So pent up. Not sure why I'm writing this. I could be masturbating, violently, over and over again until I'm raw and chafed, until I literally cannot cum again, until all of the water in my body has been converted into pussy juice and spilled on the floor, until all the neurons in my brain are firing at the same time and I've burned "orgasm" out of my vocabulary completely, until friction welds my hand to my nethers in a freakish homage to Johnny Tremaine (oh yeah, I went there). That sounded like a good idea earlier, but now I'm just tired and annoyed and horny. I don't want to do it myself. I want someone else to do it, damn it. Is that so much to ask?

Flash Fiction Friday - Night

I am the night, rich and dark and full of promise, hidden in the shadows and yet full of light. I am bathed in moonglow like the essence of rarest perfume, smelling of magic and humid longing. I am the dim but essential longing of spirits trying to be free.

Take me indoors. Turn on all the lights. Bed me in the white-hot shine of human hubris, driving away the shades of past nocturnal predators, when you were naked and alone. I am polluted by your argon-yellow haze, the sickly gleam of false candles.

Drag me away from the sky. Wash away the feral scents. Make me yours. I will flee you at dawn. The sun cannot touch me. We are old friends, but she is the day and I am the night.

---

I found her there in the boll of the tree looking skyward, the starlight glinting coldly from her ebony skin, rich and dark, as her eyes were with twinkling astral fire glinting in them. "I'm from one of them," she said. "But I've forgotten which. It was so long ago."

We made love in the grass, the dusky alien and I; I felt like Captain Kirk, she no doubt felt some foreign emotion, perhaps the urge to lay her eggs in my sternum. Her genital opening was similar to the earth-girls I'd had in the past; perhaps she'd forgotten how to engage the vaginal mandibles.

In the end, once I'd provided her with a genetic specimen, I left her there, looking up, perhaps waiting for the mother-ship that would never come. Sad and funny in equal parts. What else can one expect of life on other planets?

---

We made the oil, rich and dark, and massaged it into her skin until she gleamed all over like chocolate, the supple tones of her flesh enhanced by the shades of nightfall. I couldn't resist running my tongue over her pert breast, shining in the moonlight, chilled and bittersweet.

The shaman said the ointment must go everywhere, but it seemed almost blasphemous. Finally I waved my helpers away, took the oil in my hands, and worked it into the creamy skin until my fingers were slipping in and out of her tightness.

I feared failure until she sighed and sat up, her eyes narrowed as if even the dim light of midnight was too much for them.

"Lie back," I whispered. "You've been dead all day. Rest." The servants went running for mulled wine, but I stayed by her side, faithful handmaiden to my lady, my fingers still inside her slowly-warming body, bringing her to joy.

---

A trio this week, because I was procrastinating and then suddenly was struck in the pants with inspiration. Other than all being at night based on the same picture, I can't draw a connection between them.

Sadly, the only thing the first will make anyone think of, myself included, is Batman. But that's okay, because before Batman became a joke for saying, "I am the night," it was pretty badass. Perhaps I was going for something a bit more mythical than literal here, or maybe just complaining about light pollution. Or maybe it's the opposite of the story I wrote a long time ago about the woman who is in some way related to the sun. It's not about vampires or werewolves in any specific sense; I think night is a deeper thing than just vampires and werewolves. Plus they've been done to death.

I don't know where the second came from. It just sort of happened. It wasn't funny enough to make a joke, but there's a bit of wistful humor. The picture seemed like something which could have come out of Star Trek if Star Trek had been way cooler than it was. That woman could definitely be a priestess of the brass brassiere, which is what my family always calls the alien women Captain Kirk goes for.

And the last one was the toughest. It wound up being way, way over the limit, and I almost left it that way, but I decided that there's no point in limiting yourself halfway and then wimping out, so I cut brutally. I was sad to see some of the more florid prose go, but I don't think it died on the editing table. Borderline necrophilia, or devotion to duty, or magic, or all three plus other stuff. I know that's how I'd like to be awakened from the dead. Hell, that's how I like to be awakened period.

Flash Fiction Friday is the goddamned Batman.

Random Goings On

I saw Pam today. Oh wow. It doesn't seem like it had been that long since I saw her last, but in the intervening days (weeks actually, I guess) she's gone from slightly pleasingly plump to full-on sexy preggo beast. Every pregnancy is different, but she's definitely showing more than a little. I wouldn't be able to swear I knew when conception occurred; she might be ready to drop any day now for the look of it.

But the thing I really like about it is that she isn't fat at all (yeah, I'm shallow; I don't love her so I'm not required to be anything else). She's stayed roughly the same shape everywhere except her middle. She was never severely thin, but she's stayed pretty much the same, except her belly is enormous (and incredibly sexy for whatever twisted mental reason I find pregnant bellies sexy) and her breasts have gotten larger (which, of course, makes me jealous except that they'll start sagging soon if she's not careful). Her ass is, if anything, looking better than it did before; she claims that having to hold up more weight is the key to a toned butt, and who am I to argue. Her hips have filled out a little too, but in a funny way that just preserves the curves; her belly has gotten bigger, so bigger hips to compensate seems to just accent the belly more.

I'm gushing about this, because I love preggos and I'm also envious of her pregnancy a little, biological-clock-wise. I didn't get to do more than give her a hug and a surreptitious kiss, which I'm pleased to report that she returned without awkwardness, although it wasn't really sexual. I had no time to do anything else; we just checked in, then both had to run off and do other things. They haven't set any kind of date for matrimonial dealings of any sort, although I get the feeling that she'd like to get married and maybe Kirk wouldn't. The baby is doing well and the pregnancy is fine and there's not a whole lot more to say, except I told her I really wanted to see her some time when we had more time, and she seemed amenable to that, if I ever find a time when we can meet up.

And I saw Perry. You newcomers may not know who he is; he's got a tag and you can check out the first post about him for some of the skinny, and then the rest of them if you want more. We just ran into each other in the store, oddly enough. He made it clear he would love to see me again. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I mean, he's a fine lay, and he gives wonderful head, but I am not at all interested in becoming anything more than a fuckbuddy to him, and I think he's looking for girlfriend material. Not my type for that at all, I'm afraid, even were I looking for a boyfriend. He didn't mention Sveta either, which carried all sorts of connotations; usually, if she and I share someone, they want to see both of us again. Perry only wants to see me again. We'll see. Probably nothing will come of it at all. I'll let you know if that changes. He seems a bit sad if he can't get anyone but me. Or maybe I'm just the greatest. Down ego, down! Bad ego!

And lastly, I am once again trapped in unavailable hottie Hell at work. Several very attractive women, mostly older than I am which is saying something since I usually go for younger women, and all of them totally taken. I got lucky with Kate; most married women really are taken where I work. But you never know.

Anyway, I'm spending all my free time looking at hotness. Catching pantie-lines under tight pants. Bra straps through thin shirts, or even when a neckline swoops too low. Glimpses of tummies when arms are raised and shirts are just a little too short. As yet, no upskirt action, but that's only a matter of time, I guess. And none of it available. And me with very little outlet for releasing these pent-up tensions. Is it any wonder I was all over Pam, or that I'm seriously thinking of calling up Perry, or seeing if Kate's free for an evening, or even just going out looking for some friendly and available person to help me get off? No, it's no wonder at all. My brother is dating some floozy (I'm not judging, not at all), my sisters are either practically married or constantly getting some, my father, bless him, is only one man, and my sweetie is away probably getting plowed by a senior (college, not AARP, although I wouldn't care if it were the latter) even as we speak.

And I haven't had anal in what seems like forever. Probably only been a week, but don't tell my ass that; she'll attack you.

Speaking of Magic

And speaking of sex, and humor. I actually saw this when it was new and relevant and meant to post it then, but since I don't simply repost amusing videos and all, I didn't, and then I forgot. But thinking of magic and funny and so forth, and also because Advizor brought up SNL and reminded me, by God I'm going to do it.

And if you can't see embedded youTube videos, the address is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQlIhraqL7o Sing along!

Flash Fiction Friday - Pit Stop

The garage was like a radiator without coolant: dry as bone and hot enough to fry an egg. From the tinny speakers of the old beat-up radio came the crackling sound of a lonesome cowboy, or at least singing like one. Earl didn't know or care. It was too hot to think.

The dusty winds blew the shining red mirage into view, and he gaped as he saw the impeccable finish, chrome like a mirror, and ruby-studded hubcaps. "Howdy," she said, slipping a toned leg over the door and sliding out without bothering to open it. "Been tickin' somethin' awful; I wonder if you'd give her a good tune-up 'fore I'm Mexico-bound. Could be worth your while." She smiled, all shining teeth.

Earl made no move to rise as the sultry figure popped the hood and bent over, pointing at something he couldn't see. Her twang went on about the engine while Earl stayed put in his folding chair, gazing at the shapely flesh before him.

Finally, he could take no more. "Lady, I got to tell you something," he said, and she turned to him with a look in her eye that said she wanted to hear it, was dying to hear it. "I ain't the mechanic."

---

Cars don't inspire me. I wouldn't know the make of this particular car if it ran me over. And that ass is extremely distracting. So only one this week. And I've also got very little in the way of post-game wrap-up either. Except to say that, no offense to PB, but the phrases are sometimes hard to work in without being extremely corny or extremely inventive, and this week I was neither.

As promised, no list this week because you can see it over at PB's place, since thank goodness he's back and I'm no longer obligated in any way to be anything more than a mooch. You can be a mooch just like me. Flash Fiction Friday has all the advantages of taking advantage, while being able to convince yourself that you're doing something for the children. No, wait, that's not true at all. You're not doing it for the children. Get those children out of here. I'm trying to work.

Magic

I'm at a low ebb, so I'm just going to ramble a bit, saying things I probably don't mean or may mean right now but reserve the right to change my mind about later.

I know why people want to recapture their youth, or at least one reason, a good reason. As you get older, the magic goes out of things. In my case, I'm thinking about sex. Not that I don't enjoy sex, or that it hasn't perhaps even gotten better as I've grown up, or that there's anything so terribly wrong about the magic going out of things. It's a natural part of getting older.

Understand that I'm not talking "magic" in the sense that many people mean, where it's just another word for "spark" or "elan" or "verve" or whatever word it is you use to describe a satisfying thing, one which is exciting. I'm talking about the magic of novelty, the magic of the unknown. I'm talking about the way that children can legitimately believe in things which we as adults can't. The storytelling ability of children is amazing, and if you're very lucky as an adult you'll be able to retain some small amount of that essence and tell stories to your own children which make them grow up magically.

When I was young, sex was magical. It was new, it was fun, it was playful, and it was something which could be explored. There are many positive things to be said for knowing what you're doing, for having a mature knowledge of something so you don't have to fumble around in the dark. But there is still magic in early sex, or perhaps there should be.

I can never have another "first time" again. I can have first times with new people, and I can try new things (yes, even I have many things left to try, which is all for the good). And I'm really, really happy with my first time; it was wonderful, and I wish everyone could have as great an introduction to the subject. Most people don't unfortunately, but that just means that those people can have a "first good time," the first time they had sex where it actually was having sex and not just fumbling in the dark and being miserable. And you can have many different kinds of first times. But I can still never go back to that very first time, any more than I can travel through time and tell my past self not to go to Seti Alpha 5 (okay, geek test. Who failed it?).

And I'm not sure I'd want to. It was fine the first time, and while I'd be okay with living it over again, just exactly the same way, that would basically be vicarious pleasure through my younger self. Hell, I can get a modicum of that by remembering it fondly.

But I remember my brother and I used to do crazy shit all the time, because we didn't know any better. Hell, the first time he stuck it in my ass, we didn't mean to. It was fumbling and awkward and magical, and it wasn't all that pleasurable when compared to things we've done since. But there was magic there, the unknown, the undiscovered.

I remember the feeling I used to get in the pit of my stomach every time someone asked me if I wanted to have sex. This was way after I'd been sexual long enough that the act itself was nothing new to me. But when I was finally out in the world, fucking people outside of the house, and I'd get asked, it made my stomach feel a certain way. There was a moment of nerves, or anticipation, or something. I don't get that feeling any more. Sex is no longer magical in that way, and there's really nothing I can do to recapture that feeling, and again, I'm not totally sure I want to.

I love sex. I enjoy the hell out of orgasms. But I know that. I used to believe more than know. And while I still believe, it's in a mature, adult way, the way I believe in Santa Claus (and don't say anything; I may not believe in him the way kids do, but I believe in the idea) or the spark of the divine in everyone, or what have you. Nothing wrong with that, and it makes my enjoyment that much greater to believe as well as know.

But occasionally I think back to myself when I was young and dumb and full of cum (you know I had to say it) and miss her, just a little. I don't want to go back; I didn't love my childhood in many ways, and I've always been precocious. But if I could recapture my youth in some small way, I'd enjoy having the magic back, just for a moment, right before the next time someone asks me if I'd like to make love. That, "Really? Me? Now?" feeling. It felt lucky.

Panties on the Brain

Reading The trouble with Victoria over on Lola's blog (although written by Mischievous Little Vixen) got me thinking about panties again, because I rarely need an excuse to think about panties. Seriously, I love the hell out of panties, wearing them or watching them or seeing other people take them on and off. I'm not completely sure why it is either; I don't care that much about clothes in general, but I'll buy panties to beat the band. Which is why the post struck a chord with me (go read it) before I realized something: I am not a Victoria's Secret addict at all.

I've been in there, sure. Even recently. But I rarely buy anything from them. It's the cost more than anything else, and while they may or may not be higher quality (I'm not sure they are, really) and they may or may not be more exciting (I think the name is what makes them exciting to a lot of people, like Frederick's of Hollywood, which is pretty shitty actually), they aren't enough to justify the price.

And they sell things other than underwear there now. It used to be going into Victoria's Secret was the closest thing to going into a sex shop you could get without going into a sex shop. Maybe it's that I can actually go into sex shops now, or maybe it's just that they've lost the allure.

But by the opposite token (and I reserve the right to be completely illogical here because I'm a girl and you can't do anything about it) it's like going into a store which only has exactly what you're looking for. There's no challenge to getting panties at Victoria's Secret. You go in and you're basically obligated to come out with panties. At least I am.

So I've bought bras there, because they have very nice bras. And panties there, because they matched, or because they were on sale. But I really like shopping for panties at places which don't specialize. I like finding exciting undies in department stores (because I've got to go there for some other reason, usually). Or even a big Wal-Mart-type store. There's the thrill of the chase there.

Now, I said all this because I just saw a pair of panties from Victoria's Secret that I really want to buy, and if I'm somewhere where there is a Victoria's Secret soon, I'm going in to see if they're on sale. Damn it. You can't stop me.

Finally, a Work Story

I'm classifying this as a recollection simply because, although it was only a few months ago, it feels like years. This was during my period (not that kind) of intense work-itude, and I promised and promised to tell the story but just never had the impetus. Now, as I'm trying to keep certain things off my mind, I'll recall it for you.

I've mentioned that I like to keep my work life and sex life fairly separate, but that I don't think that a fling with an actor violates that code. It's one of the fringe benefits of being in theatre, actually; many actors are easy, and getting a little something on the side alleviates the boredom and makes up in some small way for the fact that many actors are also egotistical divas without a shred of concern for anyone but themselves. No, actually, that's not fair at all. I get along fine with most actors, and have acted myself in the past. But on occasion one must put up with actors who are tedious in the extreme, and while they give the vast majority of nice actors a bad name, I view fucking actors as being karmic retribution for my annoyance. Plus, actors are fun to fuck, and they get the whole "show romance" thing for the most part, so they don't expect things to go much past a short-term fling. Not that this is always true either. And actors are pretty sometimes.

Anyway, the show I was working on was a beast (well, a series of beasts) but included some very alluring women, all of whom, unfortunately, were completely off the market, which was an oddity. I had a severe lust-crush on one of them, and then found out that she was older than I am and married with children. Oy. Not that it never happens, but she was out of circulation.

So I took to hanging out with one of the younger male actors and ogling the unattainable women. Don't ask me how that happened; I guess I was just in the right place at the right time, and made some comment and he'd heard rumors or maybe just assumed I was a lesbian. So we were having a good time, being mildly sexually-harassing in word but not in deed, not being sexual, just being appreciative of the form. I confess that I appreciated his form a bit too, although he never noticed that, as will be seen.

I didn't go out with the actors though; I was too busy. But during rehearsals and such, I had plenty of time to hang out with him, and we struck up a sort of comradeship in arms, as it were. At a certain point he made a comment about wishing there were available women around, and I said something equally flippant along the lines of, "What am I, chopped liver?" To which he said, "But I'm not your type."

The long and the short of it is that he thought I was a lesbian, hardcore, no eyes for anything but women. When I disabused the poor dear of that notion by putting my hand on his crotch and giving it a playful squeeze, his jaw dropped. I couldn't really do anything else; backstage is dark, but people would have noticed. Still, I whispered in his ear that if he was really as hard up as he seemed like, I could make it all better at a later time.

I was tired, sore, bitchy, and pretty much didn't give a shit any more. I wanted to go home, to sleep, to not ever have to go to work again. But the idea of getting a little loving kept me going that evening, and even though afterward there was no chance of not having to do a bunch of work, he promised to come early the next night.

There's a catwalk running around the stage which is hidden from view in places, and it was to there that I took him the next night, mostly because I had to be there anyway and if anyone wanted us they'd have to climb a ladder to get there. I try never to wear skirts to go up ladders, but that evening I wore one, and once we got up there, making every attempt to keep quiet, my hands were in his pants from the word go, and he was hard as a rock. I let him feel me up under the skirt for a while as we made out, then shooed him away for a moment to pull off my panties and hang them on the wall (yeah, I'm classy like that) and got him on his back on the floor of the catwalk, unzipped his pants, and started sucking his cock through the fly.

It was awkward and messy, like surreptitious work sex should be, but we enjoyed ourselves. After I got him ready orally, I slipped on a condom and then just squatted over him with my skirt hanging down and eased him up into me, then tried hard not to make any noise as he started pulling me down by my hips while thrusting up into me. I have no idea how experienced he is, but it was enjoyable. Eventually the zipper and pants annoyed both of us, so he pulled them down to his knees, his bare ass on the catwalk, and I got back on top of him and we started again.

I was just about to get off (stress, exhaustion, and the position were hampering my usual orgasmic tendencies), and I think he was getting pretty close too, when I heard someone on stage calling my name. I shouted out, "Just a sec," and hopped off him, then motioned for him to stay put, although I saw him scrambling to get himself partially back together. So I went over to the part of the railing where people can see you and looked down, and there was one of my bosses (it's complicated) asking me to do something. I have no idea how disheveled I looked, but I don't think he could see up my skirt and my shirt was still on. Anyway, I'd been looking fairly disheveled every day.

I finished what I had to do and then went back to my actor buddy, who was sitting up looking sheepish until I pulled my shirt over my head and said softly, "I'm still hornier than hell, and if you don't finish up we're both going to be space-cases for the rest of the evening. There I was in my bra standing over him, and I know he could see up my skirt, so he pulled his pants back down, and I had to re-energize him and put the condom back on properly while he slipped his hand up my skirt again and pressed into my pussy, making me even wetter until I couldn't stand it any more and just had to fuck him.

I rode him again; there didn't seem to be any hope of anything else. I came once fairly quickly from the excitement of the risk, I think, more than anything else. Eventually he slowed and wanted me to suck him over the edge, and I obliged. He tasted like candy canes, just a hint, when he came. Or maybe that was just pre-Christmas talking.

We stood up and I helped him dust his ass off a little (that was amusing) and then he finished adjusting himself and climbed down the ladder to get ready for the show. I pulled my shirt back on, as it was fairly cold, and wished he'd played with my tits more. Then I got my panties back on with difficulty over my big honking boots and got ready for work.

I'd never christened the catwalk before. I'd done it in catwalks in other buildings, but never this one. So that was nice. It wasn't great sex, but it was something to remark on.

And after the show that night, he waited around for me and I said, "Fuck it, I need a break," so we found a secluded spot in the building, when most everyone else had gone, and got to it more properly this time. That's the nice thing about being trusted in the building by myself, and knowing all the hiding places. The sex was fairly mundane, with me on my back and him over me, thrusting with his hips into mine. We didn't do much kissing and he didn't do much more than thrust, but it was still satisfactory enough to get me off again, and this time he pulled out without saying anything, pulled off the condom, and sprayed my belly with cum, before apologizing for making a mess.

I had hoped we might make a regular thing of it, but we never found the time after that. We still got to ogle the gals, but something was a bit different after that; he tried to put his hand down the back of my pants in full view of people and I had to stop him. I don't think he wanted to look any more; he wanted the full package.

I wound up not getting any more from him, which was too bad because I could have used the relief. He probably could have too. There was no real awkward goodbye though; the last time I saw him, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and said I hoped we'd see each other again soon, and he said similar things. Like I said, actors usually get it. Not always, of course, but if I'm lucky.

So that was pretty much the only nice thing to happen to me at work in three months or so. I know I shouldn't complain. And I'm not really. I just won't list all the not-nice things that happened. Why dwell on the negatives?

And if anyone is working with me and would like to institute a policy of hourly sex-breaks during the course of the day for morale and stress-relief purposes, I am behind that policy 100%.

I'm Viral

No, this is not my announcement that I've got some horrible flesh-eating disease. To the best of my knowledge, anyway. I just wanted to let anyone who cared know that I've got a guest post over on Lola's blog, and thus I am in two places at once, which is all it takes to go viral these days. Her blog is worth visiting even if I'm not writing for it, but she asked me a while ago to fill in for her while she's on vacation (and I'm dying of envy there) so fill I have. It's one of the only times I get to fill, rather than be filled.

Flash Fiction Friday - Struggle

On the road back to town, the rain came, and she was drenched to the skin, but this was less a testament to the intensity of the cloudburst and more to the stark nakedness of the subject. That would teach her not to think things couldn't get any worse. Her clothes were gone, the rain had come, and there was nothing for it but to walk back to civilization in her present sorry state.

She soldiered on, bedraggled and despairing, droplets of cold wetness slamming into her skin, no hope for rescue, just inevitable chilled humiliation. Then her foot slipped on a stone and she found herself prone in the mud, the deluge pelting down around her. The soiled water oozed into every crevice of her being, and she almost lost it right there.

Instead, she laughed at herself gently, then rolled over, lying back in the muck, staring up at the gray sky. She made no move to sit up, to stand, to get out of the filthy ditch in which she lay. Not giving in, not taking it, just resting for a moment on the road, waiting for the rain to wash her clean.

Then she shivered and stood and continued.

---

A parable, if you will. Or perhaps a metaphor. The two things aren't mutually exclusive; in fact, it's possible that they are intertwined inextricably, that all parables must be metaphors, that parables are actually a subset of metaphors even. I'm not sure I totally agree with that idea, but there it is: this is probably one or the other if not both. A metaphor for struggle or a parable about life, but then what parables aren't about life?

I actually began with a totally different thought, all about how April showers bring May flowers, and thus this woman must either be named May or after a flower of some kind. It could have worked; I wasn't planning on making it a joke, but rather a story of a different kind.

But I've done the sex in the rain thing. I thought, as I began this, that maybe this would wind up with sex in the rain, that whoever had stolen her clothes would return and ravish her (there were mythological angles to my thought, perhaps unsurprisingly) or perhaps that both she and a partner had been similarly denuded and would walk back to town, cheerfully naked in the rain, and have a bit of fun.

Didn't happen that way, as you can obviously see from the story. It could have been the pensive way she's looking up in the picture; it could have been the character taking over, making me admire her effort in the face of adversity; it could even have simply been that I feel like this parable is about me all too often, and one of these days I'm going to wind up face down in the metaphorical mud yet again, only I won't handle it this well. I don't know. Whatever the reason, aside from some minor tweaking of words, this was basically how it came out. I had to work the last line a bit; at first it was shorter, then I had some extra words so I made it longer, and then it was too long, had too much stuff in it, so I pared it down again. The duplicate "ands" were a conscious choice, and leaving it spare works for me.

I very much hope, what with PB getting back next week, that more people will join in at Flash Fiction Friday, because it's a new year and a perfect time to start something fun and easy and yet at the same time good for you. Make it a resolution if you believe in resolutions. Make it a date if you have someone to join you. Make it a habit if you've got too many bad ones. Give it a try.

And here are the people I know have participated this week. If you did and you're not on this list, let me know.

• Of course, PB: http://insatiabear.blogspot.com/
• Advizor: http://advizortoall.blogspot.com/
• Curvacious Dee: http://curvaceousdee.com/
• France: http://theworldbegins.blogspot.com/
• Katia: http://katiaswritings.blogspot.com/
• Oversexed Librarian: http://oversexedlibrarian.blogspot.com/
• Rozewolf: http://wordwytch.wordpress.com/
• Scintellectual: http://scintillectual.com/
• William: http://thetrainingofmylovelyslut.blogspot.com/

I have no plans to make a list next week because PB will be back to doing it and hopefully people will be back to telling him they're doing it and stopping this horrible scavenger hunt where I feel bad because there's probably someone I missed whose submission was really good but I either didn't know or got tired of hunting. It's the devil's work, it is. Okay, complaining over. I've visited all of the other ones I could find, and the hunt was worth it. A larger list than I expected, given the relative paucity of the past few weeks.

Laggy

I haven't been a good blogger this week. Part of it is the vacation routine, not worrying so much about time or day of the week or things like that. Part of it is that Sveta has to head back this weekend, so I've been trying to pack as much Sveta time in as possible. Part of it is my general lack of motivation, coupled with what may or may not be sickness or period or something else fun and exciting coming up.

I woke up this morning with a hangover, which would be remarkable even if I had been drinking last night, since I don't get hangovers all that often, unless I get really, really blitzed (and I haven't been that drunk in quite some time, I'm fairly proud to say). But since I haven't had anything alcoholic in a week (at least) I can't blame overindulgence. Perhaps dehydration from the total lack of atmospheric humidity in my house. We have old heaters that dry out the air something terrible, and it's very dry anyway. My nose bleeds all the time. Yeah, I'm sure you wanted to know that.

Anyway, I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. I have another gig, hopefully a lot less stressful this time, one with some fun people and the possibility of backstage shenanigans. Being around people usually helps my sex drive in any case, so since Sveta won't be here, I'll have plenty of pent-up lust to inspire writing. I'm trying to put a positive spin on Sveta not being here, of course, but I know she has to go back, and I'll make the best of it.

This weekend, it's possible that there will occur something worth reporting beyond the usual stuff, and if so, hopefully I'll be up to reporting it. If not, I'll think of something to do.

Tomorrow, Flash Fiction Friday, which I haven't even written yet but am going to get on as soon as I hit the Publish button down there.

Lunchtime

I went out to lunch with Sveta today. There's a new restaurant in town I'd never been to, so I decided, what with the new year and all, that I would take her out to make up for the fact that we didn't go to the party last night.

I know everyone was hoping we would; it would undoubtedly have made for some exciting reading. But since Mike wasn't here and I wasn't really feeling like partying, we actually made a very early night of it. Sveta told her parents she was doing New Year's at a friend's house, and they were only too happy to get rid of her (and I really hate them for that, I really do). So she came over, and my parents and she and I all watched something amusing and then watched the ball drop, and by that point Sveta and I were both so tired we almost fell asleep waiting for it. After a "Happy New Year!" to all, everyone trooped off to respective sleeping arrangements, and she and I cuddled up and fell asleep almost immediately.

So anyway, to make up for not going to the party (although Kate has promised a rain check if we can swing it before Sveta has to go back) I took her out to this new place. Expensive, even at lunch time. But it's okay; it wasn't too much money, just more than I'd ordinarily spend on lunch.

We were both sitting on the same side of the table, with our backs to the wall, and since I eat so much faster than she does, I had the opportunity to start snaking my hand up her skirt. At first, I was just kidding, but after she batted me away and blushed, I liked the idea, so I kept up the pressure until I was completely up her skirt under the table and feeling around in her panties. It wasn't the least awkward thing I've ever done; the angle isn't quite right, really, when you're sitting side by side but around a circular table. But I was working her up anyway.

Eventually, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I'm going to scoot in a little." We were sitting right side by side then, looking quite the couple I'm sure. That would have been pleasant enough for me; we rarely go out and be all couple-y. But when she shifted herself in, she hiked her skirt up in the back and sat on my hand. Someone from behind would have seen exactly what was going on, but since we were with our backs to the wall, we were home free. Plus, it's one of those bistro-type places with dividers between seating, quite intimate (although I'm sure that wasn't intended to be put to this use) so there was even less chance of discovery.

She shifted around a little so I could get my hand down the back of her panties, and then she sat on it. I'd never tried that in a restaurant; the chair was a bit hard, but I was able to feel the warmth and softness of her buttocks and reach my finger up and dip into her honey pot at will. It was a different angle at fingering, but hey, vive la difference.

She kept eating while I started teasing, but I noticed she ate faster, until finally she ground her ass back on the chair, which almost broke my wrist, and made it clear that I had to stop or things were going to get messy (my fingers were starting to lose circulation anyway, but I didn't let on at the time). She left a spot on the chair when she got up, which I surreptitiously wiped up (because I may be a deviant, but I'm not that much of a deviant.

We practically ran home, ripped clothes off, and I was able to bring her to a monster O, all teeth-clenching, hip-bucking, moaning-my-name delicious. She gushed like a champion; it wasn't porno-grade (again, I've heard that those are all faked anyway) but it was drenching, and it was wonderful.

She's pacing around like a bitch in heat right now (not literally, but she's definitely jonesing) waiting for Dad to come home so she can get a little of the old man's ministrations. Me, I'm very satisfied. I got off epically after I finished with her. I may have gushed a bit myself (probably not, but I was certainly wet enough).

Anyway, that was lunch. Dinner, I hope, will be tasty too.