Wanting Everything Now!

My life of late has evolved from a few steps forward here and there to GET ME THERE RIGHT NOW. Everything is fast, fast, I want, I need, and I must have. The passion side of all of that, that grew like a wild bush we no longer knew how to tame this morning, is still clinging to the moisture of the shower walls. Entire lives were changed during our orgasmic frenzy in our earlier shower together. The house looks different, him, me, the street below our window, the shadow from the neighbors lamppost illuminating our bed covers, the tarnished curtain rods (memo to self; must make a trip to Pier I Imports for new fanciful curtain rod findings), the shimmer - cream stain on the green bathroom rug, the painting hung in the entryway, the BMW car ring sitting placid on the nightstand, the TV remote balancing highhandedly, the bath towels streaked and wet. Fast, so fast, that the lather of soap began to fall from our fingertips, as we tugged each other's secret doors wide open under the warm spray of the showerhead. Then almost bursting in, falling upon the shower walls, drawing each other in and near, and nearer still, in a frenzied passion that could wait no longer. The here, the now, and the I want you, never the thought of later, or tomorrow. With long drawn kisses, he touched, with unsure fingers I played...wanting to stand under the water and feel his breath on the back of my neck, feeling his expansion, then his withering away. I picked up the washcloth gathered at my feet and washed our remnants down the drain, our tarnishing left on the pipes. In an almost surreal and orphaned state of solitude, we both fell onto the bed in operatic crash, towels left damp on the cold beige tiles, as each of us yearned for another cup of coffee. What else do you do in NY, when the thermometer reads negative sixteen degrees?..............you keep warm, any way you can! (you sometimes just need to play, because sex gets the juices going)

Hot Marital Sex Corner

It is always ok to give oral to your husband. It is the warmth and wetness of your mouth that triggers the turn - on in him. To be able to hold it further while he ejaculates gives him an undeniable sensation, rather than him stopping to pull out, then ejaculating. Safe sex is knowing your partner, and as long as you are both absent of any STDS, then there is no medical reason for a women to feel ashamed or squirmish if she swallows some of her husband. This is added reason for monogamy in a marriage, sex is not limited, but more fulfilling. A man will tell you that a blow job gives a more powerful orgasm, and is extremely sexy from his partner. Go for it!

On Being A Woman

I cannot always read the letters I have sprawled in black ink on both sides of the cocktail napkin, in small, delicate cramped handwriting. Words spilled over across a seedy bar where I had used the napkin to wipe down the barstool. I spread the napkin out, thumbtack it to my corkboard, Johnnie Walker Red now stained in the upper right hand corner. Must have been the oversight of the man at the bar, the one feeling up the leg of the dark haired girl, the one whom studied at Oxford, spoke four languages, but with a rare genetic mutation, was still rendered a very sloppy drunk. The stain turned the cocktail napkin to the likes of old parchment paper, variant replicas of my thoughts, of myself, living out in the sprawled words beneath the brown stain. 
A bit of my soul printed so permanently into the black ink, an affection, an affliction, a grief, a loss, a love, a need, a desire, a want, a life without an end point, a failing, perhaps, at times, by my very own complications, the way I was, and now the very boldness in who I now am. The committed parts of a woman not learned in a classroom, the permanent adulthood you cross over into once you allow yourself to let go, to be open to words, thoughts, stained napkins, seedy bars, risks and chances. In short, once you allow yourself to just be, without any expectation of life past midnight on a Saturday night, once, you let go of your past forever, finally hitching to a chance at a future. This dark haired girl I will never be, but, maybe I thought, I could learn from her...so I watched her navigate through the night and the seediness of the bar, and Oxford bred gents.

Running Bare

Nakedly bare, shedding skin by the roadside. Feeling the heat of my animal rise to the occasion, on a cusp of newly chilled dawn air. How unfortunate for those of you still cursed under the slumber of night.  

Harboring in the shadows, gray hand of sky reaching, infusing a sense of grace as I witness the cold unfolding of another January dawn. Inescapably theatrical, in precarious dance, sweat pulls my emotions into a melting on ice of the ground. Soaking up sunshine as if it is something salaciously lewd I cling to.

Small puddles of sweat spread out from each sneaker, as they hug themselves against the cold of the pavement. My flesh now naked, my soul utterly defenseless, in an almost skeptical sideways glance of pretentious thought, dripping wet, a river surrenders to the contours of my body. Magnetic force pulls me toward an embrace with the chill of silent morning air. Another morning run well executed!

Hot Marital Sex Corner

you can be softer and pink, and still equipped with a set of handcuffs.......

The first time we used handcuffs was to be a bit submissive, a bit over the edge, a bit of fantasy.........afterwards, we were still the same two people we were as beforehand, only, each with a secret smirk on our faces in front of family members.

Liven up your bedroom ladies... when the moon is swimming naked, life becomes, just a bit unpredictable.... as lips move, and bodies sway you turn through the night in circles, rules become none, the world keeps turning, and you and your husband become bodies of one and angels of passion.

Go for it!!

Hot Marital Sex Corner

this is a complete outfit! garter and string of pearls

ok, maybe you can add this as well....but nothing else, other than your heels!

Sometimes a string of pearls, and high heels, IS a complete outfit!!! I think it is all in the matter of how you view clothing, as necessary, or inconsequential. Remember, primary instinct of a male, is animalistic and visual, always....(and your husband is no more morally funded than any other male on that one)...

Choose a Partner Wisely

this tassle,  just because,  it gives the wall added color

You know when you get together with friends, have a few drinks, and reminisce on all the occurrences in your life up to that point in time? Well my story...my story generally blows most people out of the water. Now, I know there are many who have more dramatic tales than mine. The stuff that accumulates in some people's lives no Hollywood screenwriter could ever have come up with.

However, what I think makes mine a good one (story that is) is that I came out, alive, and by all accounts, a well - adjusted, fully functioning, professional member of society. ( I could have been F*****up) It could easily have gone another way. I had hoped to live a life I was proud of, happiest in. When I found that it was not, I found the courage to start all over again. It was the blowing on a dandelion that was destroyed with one wish that everything would get better that started me on a better track, a solo journey.

Feeling deep sobs coming from a hormonal emotional place as I said goodbye that day for the last time, to what was, my married life. The only life I had ever known there was in marriage. I now toast to the half a decade it took to find myself, a period of life, gone, a period now, just beginning. My heart will always be mending, and life does march on.

It's like I close my eyes, hold my breath, and commit to being brave long enough until I've gone too far, to ever turn back.... life gives me goose bumps, and, has at times, given an ache to the pit of my stomach. I opted for the courage to start life all over again, and I will draw on that same courage again, if ever I should need to.

 Put your hand against your heart, and remember, who you choose for a partner, always matters; it can even destroy, or better change your life. Who you choose, always matters.........amid the harshness of absolute candor. Obey your innermost mechanism, the one thats pulls in your gut....I am very thankful for second chances, and second husbands!

Speckled by Rum Balls

 I lie in contempt with my head and arms across my desk, and it is barely half past noon on a Friday. The crease between my brows deepens, as my cheeks look fiery red. A tired glazed - over look is beginning to appear in my eyes. Here I awoke this morning to finish up a blog piece about the passion that burns like fire within me, a spider web of flame that traps me, hugging me tight in a warmth that reaches the center of my being. 

Instead, the warmth and fuzzy feeling that is illuminating me, me thinks, is my sister's rum balls. Looking out past the curtains of my window, a pair of porcelain blue birds sit on an opposing windowsill in deepest conversation; drawing wings back as if ready to fly. I try to focus on the silence of my undressing, and the sound of the pulsating warm water soon to be against my flesh as I step into the shower.

 A collective hush now falls over the birds, staring disapprovingly at my rawness; they fly away billowing in the breeze that initially stirred them. Pulsing rapturously with each breath, as the water trickles through my fingertips, listening to the tempestuous wind as it whips against the eaves and overhangs. Silence floats through my bathroom like a ghost as I feel them whirling around the inside of my head. 

 I grab for a towel, and further reach for the black leggings that accentuate the curvature of my body. I then pull down over my head the black top that pulls so nicely with these particular leggings. I reach for a glass or two of cucumber mint water which I hope will balance out the toxins I just ingested from the rum balls. 

Little suckers sneak up on you quickly, (once you start downing them like jellybeans) Never make that mistake again!!!!! (I package up the remains of the jar, for an offering to be left on my neighbor's doorsteps). Hemingway liked his scotch, to the point that it drove him to drink; perhaps my sister’s Christmas Rum Balls were never within his arms reach. 

**I will devotedly resist temptation to ever breach the jar of those damn rum balls ever again, as I get back to the business of blogging and articles. Friday’s always seem to stir a bit of “hunger” within me.

Hot Marital Sex Corner

Three words....collar and leash......very primal...to be lead around like an animal, your husband, or yourself. Give directives and directions as to what you command the person to do, it is very sexy, and a bit doggidty dirty....so step outside your comfort zone and Catholic School Girl box!

Brandishing of a Middle Finger

The only functional portion of communication was the holding up of a middle finger, a hundred words, and every letter of the alphabet having now passed from lips...and my divorced papers were finally signed!!! The ugliest sights and sounds often happen in divorce proceedings, as if we are somehow predestined to turn into raving lunatics at the split of assets, (or a grill cheese sandwich for that matter), "No, I made the grill cheese sandwich, so I want it'" would absolutely have fallen from my lips...or the jar of creamy smooth peanut butter I would have claimed only I ever ate," he is a big fat liar, he always ate the crunchy kind, only," as the judge rolled eyes, thus exerting a strong pointed finger of shame in my direction. 

If our grown children could have been cut into individual cube size pieces I would have wanted the bigger size cubes. Divorce is one of those matters that just warrants irreversible bashing and mudslinging, as he claims you are the biggest F****** B&&&& going, and he never liked your mother anyway. Now, my divorce had merits all it's own, as it circumvented around domestic violence, in particular, my domesticity, and his violence. He would shower vulgarity like raindrops on a doorstep. He would brandish a vice like grip just to keep me standing still, for, yes, more of his vulgarity. 

I think, for me, it was the harsh reality of all those things (and then some) that was creeping along my skin, cascading down the front of me leaving it's oils on everywhere it touched that had me so easily distracted, reconstructing all the wasted years I had spent in the weeds, not growing, that turned me into an adrenaline crazed " no I want that" type of female at the proceedings. Really, all I wanted was to walk away and out with 'me', and my stuff, nothing else ever mattered at the time.... and, yet, somehow, it still did.

 Vindication became paramount, and it just, kept on flowing from every pore of my being. My denial was as good as any Clinton’s " I did not have sex with Monica,” ever was. This man destroyed my life, and now, he was going to pay for it. I was not giving up any damn jar of peanut butter, or stock account! 

The prick of a tear fell on my hand, just as quickly; I wiped it away, choosing to never again participate in my massacre of emotion. I waited a few minutes, turned back to shuffling of my papers, and walked out of that life door, as my hands turned numb, and I felt the strength ebbing from my body. Questions nibbled at my emotions, and then I closed the coffin to that part of life, and he was gone..............attorneys were paid, and life moved on. I kept the jar of peanut butter ( and the stock accounts, which were actually mine anyway)
He went right, and I turned left....no more ever needed to be spoken.

Newly Divorced and that Infamous Barstool

I can always tell at the bar by how stiffly they sit, the ones who are very uncomfortable with, well, sitting alone at a bar. Slowly, piece - by - piece, they begin to crumble, slump into their drink of choice, often attempting to flush their awkwardness away in one gulp. I am sitting on the side - of - my - bar - stool, willing to let most of them in, to conversation. Curling my legs around the arm legs of my bar - stool, directly talking to the olives in my drink, " I can do this." I take in a deep breath, with it, the spice of the calamari goes deeply further down, and then deeper still, until the nuances of it warms my internal cavity, dropping the cold of the air conditioning down to the floor. There's my wallet, my cell phone, and my car keys, sitting placidly on the bar, nothing holds much connotation about my life to other bar suitors. One can surmise from what I display, that, I have some cash, drive a car, and have a phone number, nothing that would make vodka needing to fill a missing limb, or a void hole. My olives sway like weeping willows on the toothpick; I wipe the condensation from my glass, and politely ask for a second napkin. The uncomfortable ones sit more erect now, with their napkins crumbled tight between their fingertips. Their drinks do not hold four olives, the olive branch that gives to mine, the much - needed salt of life. The branch I fiddle with, and stir about the glass. The others are timid, awkward, caving into themselves the moment eye contact is made, and the sound of the music pauses long enough to let in the conversations around them. Laminating the fabric of emotion in thick sheets of plastic is the lack of confidence presented when at a bar, and sitting alone. This is the night I have set aside, to get past all of that. To allow my confidence to rise with the air temperature, to be newly divorced and single. This is the night I have set aside to rise above, to let confidence finally breach holes in the awkwardness of being alone, newly divorced, and immensely straighforwardly once again, single...as all things shall pass, this night did also, and I moved on.

A Wednesday Word from Hot Marital Sex Corner

depending on your  perspective, bet you this either scares the begebees out of ya, or puts a huge smile on your face

A little fetishism here and there ladies notches up the excitement, rather than bleaching it out. Remember, sex is lawless by nature, no rules, no government regulations, no boundaries.........buy the vibrator (jack rabbit is best) and turn it on, for you and for him. Your husband is a visual creature by nature, make the act flawless in execution, by trying it out alone first, get yourself comfortable in the idea and use of it, than totally surprise him. Let's go ladies!!!

Sons get Married (and never come home the same)

Suddenly feeling fragile, possibly on the verge of tears, my world closed in around me frame every side, as I read the Rehearsal Dinner Speech I had prepared for the eve of my son's wedding. I appeared calm and composed, but my hands were trembling, looking incessantly at the room full of faces all now watching me. Feeling slightly protected by the silence that had now fallen over the room, I began to read my own scribbled handwriting, stained with droplets of champagne.

The end of my speech as I read it >>

'Thank you for allowing me to be your mother, as much as I have always taught you, you have always been teaching me, how to be a better parent, a better parent then I would have otherwise have been, without the blue eyed little boy making me laugh, AND CRY, and thus forcing me to accept life on terms that may not have always been easy for me. You taught me that the gifts in life do not sit in a bank account, but rather, they sit in the eyes of a child whom lays their life in your hands, unconditionally. I could not be more proud of you, or ever love you more deeply, than I always have. Thank you for being my son."

The impossible decision I then made, as to let him go, the footsteps were loud and rhythmic as the door to his childhood then became closed. I felt a beautiful gift, and yet, tears plucked at my heart, as I layered old memories around me, and watched as my son entered manhood. I walked from the restaurant back to my hotel, kicked off my sandals, and lay on the sofa, the fullness of my heart drew upon me like lead. I shut my eyes, finally awakening to the melancholy of his wedding day, childhood now having been put away in a box, and sealed with love. I went for a run, took a shower, got dressed. I cried, I wiped my tears, blew my nose, and drove myself to the church on time.

 That day, I just know, something broke within me. Life changes, no matter how we try to stand in its path. Children grow, and leave you, and your job of nurturing them is now done. They become someone's wife, or someone's husband, and all you can hope for is to get noticed, as you stand in the background, and now, watch their life from a distance.

Life often gets complicated, no matter how hard we try to avoid turbulent waters, in a final burden of fate, there becomes, no wisdom!

Rain Soaked Run this AM

It has been awhile since I have run in the morning rain. I had almost forgotten the feel of the drops; the combined feel of their cold against my body heat, suspending me mid air as I howl down the hill, soaked to my bones.

A Word from the Hot Marital Sex Corner

If you can add only one thing to the bedroom, make it a pair of sexy bedroom heels....spend the time and the money to get the most perfect pair....wear them ALONE, or with just panties, or with one of his ties and buttoned down sport shirts (left completely unbuttoned, of course)........heels feel sexy and fun ( so do it for you, not just him)

Morning Run (and my Threads of Life)

  A drip of sweat nestles in the gully between my breasts in a secret meeting with my nipples, breath unzips from the center of my chest, as the pulsating of my heart presses outward from my innermost flesh. Sacrificing thought to adrenaline rushed stupor, as the intoxication creeps into both my sneakers. The music of my breath is the only rhythm that plays in the background, as sweat drips down in dance across my breastbone. 

Birds with elephant ears grab hold of my whispers, as chosen secrets spill in silent confession. The drone of air dissolves in the gentle splashing of water that cascades down my flesh. My sophisticated drip-by-drip irrigation system efficiently delivering water to all my roots, as leftover spills from my pores. My feet meander the path, as sullen dark cloud bursts form in the distance. In a gesture of polite refusal, I wipe away a body drip hanging closest to my lips. Much of my thought negotiated in purest silence this morning, as a rush of cold air brushes my face as I run a dirt road, leading me into a three mile trail of stone houses and the smell of wood burning chimneys. A horse behind a white post fence, in hesitation, gives me a complicated stare.........I stare back, and he releases. Wandering down the back of my thigh, an intrusive sympathetic shudder of morning chill. I pull on a thread, which unravels my glove. Threads are a peculiar (yet very necessary) part of me.

 The threads that hang from my scarves, the threads that I rip from the hem of my skirt, the thread that holds my fingers in place to type on my keyboard, the thread that runs the length of my body to my feet that holds my heart, the thread I need to yank on each time I need to pick my heart up off the ground again, yes, threads, my threads of life. 

The long thread that attaches me to someone else, somewhere else, some time and place I have yet to be. The threads that run through my soul, wrapping around my thin waist, tidying up the loose ends of things complicated. It is these threads that make me feel guilty, that make me smell innocence, make me feel whole, make me feel lost and desperate, make me feel love, make me believe in hope and forever, make me sing to a song which I just know will bring me to tears, (but I sing along anyway, just because the tears feel good) as some tangible thread of my life gets pulled along, and I find a tree to tie it on, on a silent deserted path, up a dirt road, where stone houses and fire burning chimneys are all my sneakers are after. I stop to listen, and it is then, that I again learn how to breathe, holding onto all of my threads, as I tie them to the tree, and carve my initials into the bark.

Candid Corners of my Life

I guess there comes a point in our lives when we realize 

that everything we own tells our story !

I bring rocks inside, THAT is how much they pull me in

Mask from Westport Ct Playhouse now hangs ornamental on my wall

Books, because I love them

wine, tea and yoga....some of my passions

risky wall art in my bathroom

 colored glass bottles and other "stuff"in my antique medicine cabinet

 these, for added elegance and color to an outfit in a pinch

just the best cracked huge vase ever

pearls and chunk jewelry, pile it on

items around my living room, pieces of me

my legs, and a very vintage dress of lace.....just because I can.....

* Sunday's Advice (for more Hot Marital Sex)
***Wear a damn sexy pair of heels with an additional string of pearls for a complete outfit, and NOTHING else!

Add This to Life's Bullshit (Winter is my Punishment)

flowers from my husband that I have kept alive now for two weeks, simply by  daily stem cutting and fresh water

Wish I could sound off that warm brandy and warm covers both indulge and sooth me, but, alas, it would not be true, as I so favor the warmth of the sun on my skin, and the helpless, hapless, romanticism of long summer nights and beach breezes. If I could only jar that tonic for the duration of winter, life would be ever so perfect. 

I think the summer was invented to curate my own particular private universe, and that the winter was created just to teach me a lesson, one god awful lesson, about what, I haven't quite figured out yet, but something horrible I am sure. 
(Maybe it is for that horrendous childhood act of stuffing my peas into the grates of the kitchen radiator and then saying that I ate them all, I hated those damn peas even touching my plate, never mind haplessly falling into my mouth. They were GROSS!)

 (Maybe winter is punishment for telling my ex husband, NO, his extra marital affair is not working for me. Her firebird was not all that COOL either by the way. Nor the smell of alcohol on her breath every time she opened her mouth to tell me she was JUST a friend. Just a friend my ass! 

Maybe winter is the punishment that catholic priest warned me about when he found out I practiced yoga (a forbidden Hindu based practice by the catholic church apparently...who knew?), or maybe it is for the chastity I was told to live in, rather than my soon to be husband, but not quite there yet, second husband's bed at the time. My answer to the question of whether or not I was having premarital sex, at 51, was, hell yes, and actually, the best I have ever had in fact.

Maybe winter is for not answering the emails in my inbox, and, in fact, quickly moving most of them to my trash file. Maybe it is for my narcissistically mother walking out of my life, after all, you can not possibly blame her for that, she is too perfect, so it must have been my fault. 

Maybe it is for getting my college degree, but failing short to ever even begin to go for that Masters.

 Maybe it is for not being so accepting any longer of other people's bullshit. 

Maybe it is for the day I walked into an Episcopalian church because I needed a change from all that damn Catholicism hypocrisy or the day I did a ceremonial dance on the inking of my divorce papers, thus releasing me from the chokeholds of a very angry man.)

Maybe winter is for all of the reasons above, and summer is the real tease, with it’s short burst of tan lines and flipflops.

Hot Marital Sex

 Why do we care so much about what other's think? Could the coming of age of the feminist movement have turned an entire female population into dauntingly boring sexual partners for our partners and husbands?  The complaint of being "utterly insulted" as a constant barrage of sexual exhortations are thrown at us in the form of sex shops, vibrators, oils, gels, creams, panties (made entirely of candy), condoms made with friction, heck, even the bowl of fruits and vegetables which sits on our kitchen counters for that matter might even be fair game.

Isn't being creative and fun in the bedroom in actuality an overextending of the already relationship you have in intimacy with your husband, or otherwise partner? Behind the bedroom door there is no such thing as misbehavior between two consenting adults. As I am a firm believer in monogamy, any act of sexual play only intensifies the intimacy in a relationship. In sex, there is no guilt ridden eye contact with your 1950's cultured mother, or the sister whom closes her legs at the mere mention of intercourse, or with the neighbor whom sees you as the pretty conservative girl next door. If windows do not line up in your neighborhood with the house next door, then prance around nude, even more so, if they do align up, prance around even more...the thrill of it is naughty.

Something is incredibly sexy in being "naughty," in crossing over to the path of shockingly forbidden. Dirty play is the best kind of play with a husband or wife, and knowing that your spouse will do anything that is asked of them, keeps the relationship alive, sparkly and fun...the intimacy of that is incredible. Your mother never has to know that you own a set of knee pads, a vibrator, a crotch less pair of panties, handcuffs, diamond studded leash, duct tape, pasties, or that you make a scheduled extra run to the grocery store once a week for that perfect banana or cucumber. (There are two reasons we grow fruits and vegetables in this country, although I will leave one reason up to your imagination) Ever wonder why all the 'GOOD' bananas are gone? Because your clean-cut neighbor's wife bought them all up...because she turns into a dirty girl every other Thursday night. (It is not because she makes extra delicious banana bread)

Think we all rose in the spirit of Good Catholic Girls, and in such rising, grew dormant and boring. Ever wonder why Halloween costumes can be bought online all year long? Yes girlfriends, it is because even though you are an accountant, secretary, Wall Street banker, or stay at home mom, you may want to be, shall we say, a "NURSE", a "French Maid” a "Parochial School Teacher" or a "Librarian"(yes, sorry to my Irish Catholic mom, but god will forgive me mom, I am all grown up now). It took me a long time to come out of the 'box', the conservative good girl box, but now wife-gone wild works for me.

 I think I can speak with a certain degree of certainty when I say that my husband and I have one of the best extremely passionate and intimate relationships with one another that a couple can have. We visit lingerie shops, sex shops, and even stroll through the fruits and vegetable aisle at the local supermarket together. 

We share, we trust, we respect, we precipitate each other's wants and needs. Neither one of us ever has to think about what we may be missing, because we are willing to try anything the other suggests. Think that growing up in such a vastly undernourished sexual atmosphere, and the full drawn lines in the sand of the Catholic Church has stunted a generation of woman, of wives, who just want the go - ahead, to give head, wear heels and a garter, impress their man in their ability with a vibrator, or offer up a jar of honey, a can of whip cream, a banana, an afternoon in an elevator, dinner served in only an apron (and heels), an interlude where you must bring your own set of handcuffs and blindfold.......

You are not your mother's daughter, now you are your husband's wife.........go for it girl.......let 2014 be the year you step out of your box, and into bedroom heels...armed and dangerous!  Let 2014 be the year you explore your sexual fantasies without thinking you are being judged!

Let 2014 be the year you take ownership of your womanhood, your right to feel sexy, feminine, unembarassed, and adored!

Go for it girl, send the kids to grandma's!

Place of Contentment ( my keyboard)

It is my writing, which takes me to this place I find myself today, separate from the bitter cold and snow here in New York, a place other than home, from beneath a cloud of unknowing to copious amounts of light, from opening to closure, recognizing the therapeutic balm incensed in my keyboard. I find myself wanting to stay here the minute I arrive. Stay here, seated and perched at my computer, where my keyboard takes me anywhere I wish to wander.

     Here, I fly to Paris, sip wine in Tuscany, attend mass in Rome, skinny dip on the French Riviera, wrap myself in a torrid love affair in Spain, allowing the music of the sin to sweep through me. Nebulous silence of love, sheets lingering with the forbidden scent of human skin, exuding happiness he leans over hungrily, in a wave of boldness just to get closer to the hunger of my mouth, to my unabashed feminine scent. Like a drowning man I pull him closer to me, until he melts, pressing into me, passion searing through flesh until it scorches my palm, my hand resting on the dampness of his back to ease my fire. 

Yes, it is my writing that brings me to these far away places, enchanting mid life escapades, chance meeting with total strangers. It is my writing that breathes warmth into me on this rather brisk January morning. Apprehension plucks at my fingertips....

(I think I have writer's cramp. If there is such a cause to be called, then I absolutely have it! My fingers churn in twisted spasm as words spill faster than my stemmed fingertips can type. I file my life neatly away back into the pages of my journal......until this blessed curse of spasm releases from my fingertips)