It's Always Something

My alarm chimed at Seven AM.

Fuck! I jumped out of bed to turn it off. How rude of me... marcus didn't seem to be disturbed, but now I was awake, aware that I was here, no responsibilities, no demands.

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains at the windows.

I slid back into bed, my knees against the backs of his, my face on his neck. I tried--really tried--to sleep, but no luck. As Jefferson says, I am a farm girl, whose libido answers the cock's call. And the more I think of that line, the more I want marcus's cock in my hand, in my mouth, in my pussy.

He turns to me and says, "hey, beautiful."

And there it is.

The hours of re-acquaintance are over; the time for revisiting what we are is at hand. I kiss his shoulder. He responds by rubbing his head against mine. It's like time has stopped and is waiting for us to do what we need to do to be us--Madeline and Marcus again--and it is good.

marcus rolls on top of me and takes a nipple in his mouth.

It's so nice to be with someone who knows me so well, who knows what will get me wet in two seconds' time. Not long after, he's reaching for a condom.

Now, I am finally enjoying our rhythm; this understanding we have. My body welcomes his like a friend. He puts my knees over his shoulders and his head drops as he watches my hips rising to meet him. I am watching, too.

I pull my legs straight back, elevating my hips and increasing the friction on his cock as my pussy gently closes around it. I reach down to graze his balls, to pull them. He speeds up, taking my breath away.

All of a sudden, he pulls out and steps off the bed. He drags me to the end of it, putting my feet on the floor, my chest flat on the mattress. He holds my hips and fucks me hard, skin smacking skin. I am on my toes, cheek pressed to the bed. My muffled voice is moaning as I lose control of my body and cum hard against his.

I reach back and grab the back of his neck, pulling him onto me. We move together to the top of the bed and kneel, facing the wall. I lean forward and put my right forearm on the wall, ass up, and steady myself with my left hand on the mattress. He is fucking me slowly, deeply as I tighten my pussy around his cock. It is quiet; an occasional sigh from my lips and marcus' steady breathing are the only sounds.

I am getting closer to cumming, and as I do, my body moves down to the mattress. He is banging me from behind: slap, slap, slap...I fucking love that sound.

I cum, my arms outstretched to my sides, legs wide and straight.

marcus pulls out and moves to my right as I lie there, unable to move. I hear the cap of the massage oil click, and then feel his hands on my ass, gliding up to my shoulders and back again.

"Oh, my god, I'm never moving from here," I say.

marcus slides his body along the same path; his breath hits my ear and I feel my clit jump. He moves back down toward my ass and I feel his knees on my cheeks. He is supporting himself with his arms at my sides and slowly moves his knees up either side of my spine until they are straddling my neck, his cock hard against my cheek.

I turn my head up to take it.

"Uh-uh...not yet."


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Say My Name

marcus drove into the city for dinner at Zaytinya, a Mediterranean tapas restaurant designed by a friend of his. (Follow the link, people, I'm serious.) I was starving; I hadn't eaten since morning. The hosts were lovely and, learning that it was my first visit, seated us inside at a table by the window.

We sat together, smiling and telling stories. We sampled several things and marcus told me to check out the bathrooms because the design was very cool. I laughed, because it's exactly like something I'd say to someone.

Sitting in the restaurant, his phone rang.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"
"Do you mind?"
"Of course not!"

marcus took the call and I heard him saying that he was booked up through the weekend. I cocked my head and looked at him inquisitively. He asked the caller to hold.

"What's up, Madeline?"
"Does someone want to book an appointment while I'm here?"
"Yeah, they wanted tomorrow afternoon, but I want to be with you!"
"marcus, if it works out, you should take it! Ninety minutes is the perfect amount of time to sit by myself in a cafe and write. I'll need to do that anyway. You can make us some play money. Go for it."

He made the appointment for the next evening at 5:30. I cracked up. We kissed at the table and walked out. After walking around for a bit we drove to his apartment.

The space was clean and spare. Warm, butter-colored paint and low lighting made the room glow and complimented his modern furniture and tribal art. As promised, an Eames sofa sat in the far corner, opposite it was a silver Bertoia chair. I gasped. I am a complete slut for industrial design.

This is the apartment I would buy: Parquet floor, tall ceilings, simple and elegant. In the center of the space was an olympic queen sized bed with white sheets that looked so inviting. I felt like I was standing in a gallery that happened to be someone's bedroom.

marcus went into the tiny kitchen and mixed our vodka and cranberry juices. We sat on the bed kissing, rubbing and undressing each other.

"You're in luck, baby," I said, "I haven't gotten my period yet."

It was due two days ago, and there was no way I had anything to worry about (Yeah, that's right, I'll say it: I've had no sex with boys for over a month.). I figured a good fuck would open the gates.

marcus kneeled over me, pulled off my jeans and ground himself onto me through our underwear. My hands were in his hair; it was longer now, with soft little curls at the back of his neck. We were quiet, just enjoying the sensations, taking inventory. His skin was so soft and I couldn't stop stroking his forearms, his shoulders, his neck.

He hadn't shaved his face that day, and my skin stung when he took my nipples into his mouth... When he eased down my panties and put his face between my thighs, a hand under my hips, lifting. His tongue traced my clit, circling and lapping, then sucking and biting. I winced and then sighed.

My feet were on his thighs as he sat between mine. As I got closer to cumming, my ass lifted itself off the mattress and my legs closed around marcus's head. My hips started rocking forward and back, hands in his hair, head lifted to see his eyes and the bridge of his nose as he moved his head perfectly and fit two fingers into my pussy, tightening now with my imminent orgasm.

Five seconds later, with his fingers on my trigger I let loose, grabbing the back of his head and growling, "aw, yeah, fuck!"

As my legs loosened their grip on marcus's skull, he pulled himself up and brought his face to mine. As I licked his lips, his fingers slid out of me and he repositioned himself, his knees on either side of my waist. He opened a condom.

When marcus is intent on fucking, he has a certain expression which I find totally fascinating: His brow furrows, his lips purse and his breath bursts through his nostrils like a bull. It is a face I've seen many times, but I'm often caught wondering whether he's intending to fuck my lights out or holding back tears. It's usually the former.

And it's always very acrobatic. The way he tosses me around always surprises me.

During a lull, I was lying with my face on his chest, my hand stroking the hair on his stomach. I love his stomach: flat, smooth and downy with a sweet belly button that just begs to be kissed. So I kissed it.

I was feeling very good; comfortable and relaxed for the first time in weeks. My life had been crazy lately, with physical and emotional demands being made by family members and friends. I was just so content to have left them at home and come to this place where no one demands anything of me, just--you know--loves me.

"Suck my cock," marcus' voice was deep as he pushed my head toward his dick. I resisted. I didn't want him to tell me what to do. I didn't want to have to please anyone.

"No."

"The longer you wait, the worse your punishment will be later. Suck my dick."

"unh-uh..."

I was trying to enjoy this building of tension, wondering if the next 'no' would be the one to start whatever would follow, but i still really didn't want to be told to suck him off. marcus rolled off the bed and grabbed me under the arms, pulling my body back, my head hanging off the bed. He held my arms down and put his face next to mine.

"Are you going to suck my cock?

I shook my head, tears starting to build in my eyes, seeping out the corners.

With the flats of his fingers he slapped my cheek. It didn't hurt, but my feelings stung. Another slap to my other cheek and I started to cry. I knew the next ones would be harder.

Could I take it? Could I get my head back into the scene? Or was I too overwhelmed with other shit to submit to marcus the way I normally love to do?

My eyes were closed and I felt the backswing of his hand, preparing to come down,

"marcus!!"

He stopped, mid-swing, and lay beside me on the bed, pulling me into his arms, rocking me, "Sweet baby, what's the matter? Did I hurt you?"

I shook my head, "It's just too much... I can't do it...I can't do it tonight."

I was shaking, thinking, 'please just hold me and be sweet to me and let me cry and get it out so we can be what we are and be good to each other and do this again but in a good way--the right way.'

I just breathed into his throat, my arms threaded around to his back.

"Shhhh, I'm sorry, sweetheart, I never want to hurt you," he kissed the tears from my face.

"You did the right thing, Madeline, you know? You said my name."



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Blood Red

In my other life, I write. Lots more than what you read on this blog. I carry a pad, jotting ideas onto napkins or, a la 2nd grade, my hand. Most of what I write is examinations of my life, my world. I tend to write about what I know. These musings sometimes end up on here. Sometimes they stay in my notebook. Sometimes I'll play with an idea just to see what happens. I keep the works-in-progress on my computer and revisit them every so often. But my favorite way to write about an experience is to do it immediately after it happens, or even while it happens, while I'm as close to the moment as I can be.

Two days ago I was sitting in the airport, waiting to board a flight. The night before I'd had an incredibly strange dream. It was so sick, so perverse, so questionable that I'm not even comfortable talking about it here. All I'll say is that it was sexual in nature and I couldn't get it out of my head. I pulled out my notebook and started jotting notes, dream fragments, questions, details.

Someone took the seat two spots to my left. I consciously made certain to obscure his line of sight so he couldn't make out all the perverted things I was writing. My handwriting is clean and girly. Pretty.

As I was writing about stroking a certain cock, the man to my left bent down to open his bag. I looked over and noticed that he was wearing a cassock and collar.

It's one of my oldest fantasies ever since I was a preteen watching "The Thorn Birds" on television. Damn, I wanted to seduce a priest. And not a priest on vacation like Father Ralph- sans collar. Oh, no. I want a full-out man of the cloth. Preferably in a confessional. Am I Catholic? Does it matter?

I found myself adjusting my posture, my legs, checking my cleavage (not too much, but just intriguing enough). At this point, I didn't worry about the priest reading what I'd written. My mind started working overtime and I began writing on a new page my priest fantasy, letting the knowledge that he was so close (young, cute) be my guide.

Sanguis Christi, pretium nostrae salutis...

It was enough that he was there, occasionally leaning toward my chair to speak to someone in the row of seats behind us. The hairs on my neck were raised and my clit was begging to be ground into something hard. Preferably his knee.

We sat nowhere near each other on the flight. I read my book, keeping my glances at the curt lesbian sitting next to me to a minimum. The man two rows up in the aisle seat was munching on his third tiny bag of pretzels. I watched his ears move as he chewed.

I looked out the window once I'd finished reading Part I of my book. There was the brightest red spot on the window which I mistook for the reflection of something inside the plane. I looked closer, turning off the overhead reading light to minimize glare. I think I gasped.

It was the moon.

The fucking moon was blood-red as it rose. It was so gorgeous; a waning gibbous, full only two days ago. I could feel its pull.

For the last six months I've been on a full-moon cycle with my period. Meaning, I bleed on the full moon and ovulate on the new moon. Before then it was the opposite. That actually worked out much better for me, because the full moon always affects my libido. I'm just so horny when the moon is full.

As the plane descended, I squeeze my legs together, thinking about how tough it was for us to find a weekend free of children and responsibilities, wherein we could just relax and let go. This was the only weekend between the end of September and the end of December. Blood or no blood, I intended to make it work. Goddamned bloody moon. And that priest didn't help matters any...

I'm waiting at the baggage carousel. Out of the corner of my eye I see a figure moving quickly to jump over the metal railing which separates the baggage claim area from the exit. As I look up, my breath catches in my throat. That fucking smile.

I clap my hands, laugh fiendishly and throw my arms around him. We kiss in the middle of Baggage Claim 9, my fellow travelers looking on. He hugs me close. I wink over his shoulder to the guy who'd been flirting with me a minute earlier. He blushes and looks away.

The belt starts moving and my bag is the first to appear. I take it off, pull up the handle and we walk out to the garage. We kiss again, before he starts the car.

"I can't believe you're here, Maddie. I'm so happy."
"Baby, I'm here for the next five days. Get used to it!"

Marcus smiles and puts the car into gear.

Sex Ed, Kinda

Miles started Kindergarten this year.

In August, I attended an informational meeting for parents at the school. The teacher, Mrs. Houston, introduced this year's crop of parents to the new face of Kindergarten.

When I was in Kindergarten, I remember precious little other than art, storytime, snack and recess. Kindergarten was mostly about socialization skills, counting and learning the alphabet.

In 1977 most kids weren't in full-day daycare programs. We were home with our moms or grandmothers, but for that three-hour break in the day. We needed the social time. We needed the chance to be slightly independent, away from our families in preparation for the rigors of full time public education.

Now, though, a majority of kids go to daycare or preschool at least half time. Pre-academic skills are stressed, kids learn to write their names, add, solve problems and have a ton of social skills.

So Kindergarten had to adapt. Today's kids are too smart for the rinky-dink operation we called KG. It was time to bring out the big guns.

So there we were: thirty of us, aged 22 to 50, sitting like giants on tiny chairs pushed up to little round tables, passing packets around (take one, pass it on..) and filling out information sheets with the No. 2 pencils from the cups in the center of the tables.

I looked around and got a feeling for my cohort. There were the ones who most resembled me: 30s, educated, working people, a little frayed around the edges but clearly involved parents.

Then there were those on the outside edges: the minimally involved parents and the demanding, smothering ones. The ones who don't read to their kids and the ones who've been training them with flashcards since they were six months old.

Mrs. Houston reviewed the school year curriculum and my jaw dropped when I learned that Miles would have homework twice a week, and that he would be writing and illustrating his own stories by the end of the fall quarter. "The children each keep a portfolio of their best work, and they each get to sit in the Author's Chair and discuss their stories," she said.

I could barely breathe. Stories? "Author's Chair?" This is so amazing to me, and I wonder why more of the other parents aren't as stunned as I am. How excited I am to read his first story.

There is a parenting book I like very much called The Blessing of a Skinned Knee. One of the points the author makes is that, as parents, we naturally think of our children as brilliant. Statistically, it is impossible for each child to be a genius. And why would we want that, anyway?

One of the most powerful realizations I've made in the last two years is that it's important to allow my kids to be average. That they don't have to do anything extraordinary to make me proud of them.

They may excel in something, they may not. But to have stratospheric expectations of children is unfair, I think. I expect my kids to be responsible for their chores at home. I expect them to be polite and respectful and kind. I expect them to help others.

Pretty basic stuff.

Sometimes I forget that they are learning real things in Kindergarten and preschool; not just those basic social graces.

Last week, from his perch on the toilet, Miles shouted out to me, "Momma, did you know that when someone chooses not to vote, it is called 'abstaining?'"

Huh?!

"Oh, well, that's right, honey! Did you and your class vote on something today at school?"

"Yes. We voted on what to have for snack. I voted pretzels. But some kids abstained."

I am impressed and almost giddy that he is absorbing these things, this language I love. Then, as it so often does, my brain picks apart his statement and finds the double meaning.

I silently crack up when I think of my five year-old discussing abstinence.


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