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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.
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19 February 2006


Back of My Hand

Why is it that, whenever someone you love goes away, everything suddenly reminds you of them? It fucking sucks.

My music collection was woefully inadequate to weather this kind of suckdom. And just when I thought I’d gotten the musical marcus triggers cleared from my car and iTunes playlists, on came “Somewhere Only We Know” by Keane.

Mother Fuck.

That goddamned song always reminds me of marcus, but not how you might think.

Late last spring, marcus called me from the car. He had the boys with him, and asked me if I had heard it.

“Of course, I love that song!”

“Max just sang it at his school concert today…I never heard it before! It’s amazing!”

That did it. Every time I hear that song I see Max, all of thirteen, standing on a stage, hair falling into his pale eyes, singing this lovely, wistful song in his still-small boy voice.

I can hear that voice, complaining from the back seat of the car as we drove together in October, how he had a ton of homework and didn’t want to go out for dinner, not to this place or that. How he’d lost his cool at times and been pissy to marcus or to his brother, Adam.

I think about our roles as single parents—Jefferson, marcus and me—and I congratulate us for how well (really) we manage to juggle the demands of our kids and our other lives.

And that we’re all—our kids and their parents—trying to make sense of what our lives have become: All these relationships, these transitions between homes, incorporating new people into established routines, the stigma of “broken families.”

The fantasy of the three of us buying a farmhouse and raising our kids together was not so farfetched in my mind. Being a parent is hard. Being a single parent is very hard. It just makes sense to have back up.

Something to rely on.

15 February 2006


Best Day Ever!

Not ten minutes ago I was jerking off in bed after a very lovely full night's sleep, when Miles called out from his room.

"Momma? I . . . I wet myself!"

"Just now?"

"Yes, that's why I woke up!"

"Uh, okay, you know what to do; I'll meet you in the bathroom."

You know, at least I wasn't using the loud vibrator.

I started the bathwater and was transfering the towel from the shower bar to the hook behind the door when he came stumbling in holding his bedsheet, eyes blinking, Spongebob pajamas soaked.

He spoke in his scratchy, still-sleepy voice.

"Happy Birthday, Momma."

Shit. I hadn't even been awake long enough to remember what day it was.

"Oh, sweetheart, thank you!" My eyes started welling.

I hugged him tight, pee and all.

13 February 2006


My Slutty Valentine

I knitted these panties just for you.


I am currently taking suggestions for other designs. I've already started a pair of Pirate Panties, so if you have any other ideas, let me know and if you're sweet to me, I'll model them for you.

08 February 2006


You Always Remember Your First

Break out the champagne, dear readers, Madeline in the Mirror is a year old today.

Incroyable, n'est-ce pas?

I think in the past year I have met the nicest, smartest, hottest people I could ever imagine.

I've begun, continued and ended relationships--a whirlwind to be certain.

Kind of makes a girl wonder what will happen in the next year.

I have more ground to cover and new kinks to explore. Some of them even surprise me.

Sincerement, mes amis: I'm just a hardcore bitch in a French Catholic schoolgirl outfit.

Baisers à tous.

05 February 2006


The Return of Thomas

Jordan and I were chatting not long ago, she from her parents’ place for the holidays. Vacation had been fine, she said, but she was coming up dry in the sex department. She’d gone for a few dates with new people, but no one clicked. Even the purchase of a new vibrator hadn’t been able to adequately sate her appetite for sex.

“Girl, I feel your pain. When do you return?”

“Next week sometime. I wish you were here!”

“Well, we should definitely get together when you’re back in town. I think I’m through with boys around here. Too many conditions, too many unruly emotions. Unless, of course, you’d like to scout out some talent together—now that could be fun.”

“No luck with local boys? Why?”

“Eh, mainly it’s just my own thing...I'm sad about marcus, I’m too busy to make them a priority, which is what they all seem to want. You know, a week ago I was thinking ‘enough of this, I’m through with this game.’ Now I feel like it’d be nice to have a normal, regular fuckbuddy. Remember Thomas?”

“Oh, the one from last winter?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about him lately. He was totally cool with my weird schedule and didn’t freak out if I had to cancel for some reason. And he lives far enough away that I didn’t feel like I had to see him all the time. We got together for sex or a movie or sleeping and it was nice.”

“What happened with him, again?”

“He started seeing someone exclusively, I was glad for him and that was that. I haven’t heard from him since August.”

“Girl, you should email him, just to say hi.”

“Heh. I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe…I dunno.”

We signed off and my Yahoo Mail icon was showing new mail. I rarely use that account, so I clicked and opened the link.

Oh. My. Dog.

Thomas had beaten me to the punch. It was a short email. Very nice: How are you, Happy New Year, that sort of thing.

I had no idea what his personal situation was, but I was determined to find out. First, though, I had to call Jordan.


"Girl, you will NOT believe what I just got in my inbox!”

I told her about the email.

“Wow, that is spooky…are you writing back?”

“Yep, I’m gonna ascertain the situation. I’ll be in touch.”

“Good Luck!”

I wrote Thomas back and we exchanged a few emails before I suggested we stop the nonsense and chat.

Apparently he’d recently broken up with his girlfriend, but we didn’t talk about details.

Thomas knew about Jefferson. He didn’t know about marcus. He didn’t know the extent of my relationship with Jefferson. Just as well, I reasoned; if this was going nowhere, why complicate matters?

Thomas and I both know we are not “it.” There are too many differences in our personalities and lifestyles to make a real relationship work. He’s a Scorpio, I’m Aquarius. He is totally immersed in his job and needs to be, I have a hard time thinking of my work as “work,” and I enjoy having a flexible schedule. His life revolves around work, the gym and his dog, Grace (as in Princess).

This is actually not a bad setup for me, since I require very little tending to. We made a date for the following Saturday. We IMmed several times in the interim. Thomas confessed to being very nervous about seeing each other again.

Jefferson and I were speaking on the phone Wednesday. The conversation turned to plans for the weekend. I told him about Thomas and our date. And, how, when Thomas and I have an evening date it is usually a sleepover date. He lives about 45 minutes from me by car, and I prefer to go to his place.

As it turned out, Jefferson had a sleepover date that night as well. We chatted as we made final preparations—he was hosting, I was traveling. We signed off, wishing each other a pleasant night and promised to swap tales of intrigue the next day.

I smiled, thinking of him on the drive over.

Thomas had the garage door open. I pulled in, changed out of my driving shoes and into the red slingbacks I love.

He greeted me at the door, taking my coat, offering me a drink. (No kiss? No hug? Boy, he really is nervous.)

I spotted Princess Grace on the couch. A year ago she would have stepped down to greet me; now she stayed where she was, the arthritis in her hips too painful to bother. I went over and said hello as Thomas got my water.

We sat on the couch, I commented on the different arrangement of furniture. “Underworld” was on the TV, and I sort of got into it, confessing a weakness for vampire movies from a young age.

Gradually our bodies moved closer together, a finger grazed a shoulder, a knee, on its way to a glass.

“Your hair is longer, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I like it long,” he held a handful in his fist and pushed my head forward, smelling and kissing my neck.

I kept my hands to myself, knowing how he liked to have control at first, letting him explore my body with his hands and lips. His lips hesitated in front of mine. Like, “Is this still okay? Can we still do this?”

Sweet kisses, hesitant and earnest. His cock pressed up against my thigh.

“Are you still nervous?” I asked.



He stood, taking off his shirt and unbuckling his pants. I helped him off with the trousers and felt his hard-on through the boxers. My hands skimmed the skin of his shaved thighs (This is new; when did he start shaving?), up to his stomach and chest, also shaved; seems he’s started shaving everything.

He bent down to kiss me, his tongue probing my mouth, his hand moving between my legs, still covered in jeans.

I was glad to be here, glad to have this outlet, this familiar thing. I kissed him back, my hands working to free his cock from its cotton broadcloth covering.

As I slid the waistband down he sighed, his cock bobbing in front of me.

God, I missed sucking that cock.

I looked up at him, his hand on my head, staring at my face as I stuck out my tongue and purposefully licked around the head of his cock.

I started suckling, tongue swirling around and finally swallowed his cock, working down and up, holding onto his hips and bringing them forward to fuck my face. He was hesitant; I wanted more.

I opened my mouth as his cock slid back toward my throat, my tongue working independently, flicking all around the underside of his cock, his moans and sighs encouraging me to do more.

“Awww, fuck...FUCK!”

I stopped and looked at him.

“Madeline, why am I completely naked and you still have all your clothes on?”

I shrugged and continued.

He sighed, a hand on my head, his torso leaning back to watch his dick disappear into my mouth.

“I love the way you suck my cock.”

It’s such a simple thing, really, to compliment a girl on the way she gives head. Notice he didn’t say, “This is the best blowjob ever!” Compliments like that are pretty shallow, effusive and based in endorphin surges, pure and simple.

But that was just about perfect. That got me to my cocksucking zen.

Knowing that what I’m doing is the epitome of niceness for a person is just so--well, nice. And yes, it makes me want to do more. If he’d let me, I’d have sucked his cock all night.

He pulled out of my mouth, pulling me up to standing.

He started undressing me, piece by piece.

His fingers ran down to my nipples, stopping for a moment and continuing on until they reached the grand prize.

My cunt was so wet, more from anticipation than from actual horniness/turned-oned-ness. I was remembering how we used to fuck; me bent over the back of the sofa or shoved up against the kitchen sink, panties pushed to the side, soaking wet. I wanted more of that.

He had one hand over my pussy, almost protectively, and the other wrapped around to my ass. He could pick me up if he wanted. He flipped me around and I assumed my kneeling position on the couch, bent over and facing the rear cushions.

He knelt down and licked my pussy, hesitant at first, and then ardently. His palm rested on the small of my back as his tongue lapped and swirled around my clit and labia and ass.

“God, fuck me…” I moaned.

“Yeah? You want me to fuck that tight, pink, beautiful pussy of yours? You want me to fuck it now? Fuck it hard? The way you like it?”

I had reached down with my left fingers and was working my clit. I barely managed a nod.

I didn’t hear the tearing of foil; I just felt him move into position behind me.

“Where’s the condom?” I asked, turning around.

“Well, I have some upstairs,” he said, “would you like to go upstairs?”

“Uh, yes!”

Fuck! What the fuck was he doing? Was his girlfriend that trusting that she let him bareback her? Well, I was not. No way was that dick getting in me without a barrier. I shook my head in disbelief. Fucker.

We walked upstairs, as he said, “I have a couple gifts for you up here.”

Gifts? Nice!

We walked into his bedroom. Everything was exactly the same. He led me to the dresser and put a finger on the panties I’d left there last March. He held them out to me and I took his wrist in my hands, bringing them to my face. The faintest trace of me lingered.

I pushed his hand away and raised up on my tiptoes to kiss him. He tossed the panties aside and reached his hand down to the dresser.

Something was being dragged up my thigh. Firm but yielding. Tickling yet arousing. Leather. The collar.

Thomas had bought the collar months ago when we were still going strong. Before I’d met Jefferson or marcus or anyone else. He really didn’t know what a collar means for a true bdsm-er; he didn’t want me to be his slave, wasn’t comfortable being totally dominant, he just liked the idea of me wearing it while he spanked me with a hairbrush.

I was game. It is a thin black strap with several small silver D-rings around it. I’m sure he’s never thought of hooking Grace’s leash into one of them and dragging me around the house by my neck.

I’m sure he’s never considered how I might like that.

He fastened it around my neck, commenting on how great that looked.

He led me to the side of the bed closest to the windows, bending me in half, spreading my legs with his hands.


My ass was rubbed, and then smacked. When he stopped for a moment I turned my head back to look at him as he rolled the condom onto his cock.

Good boy.

I tried not to get angry at the earlier infraction. He had, after all, just ended his exclusive relationship; maybe they had given up condoms. Maybe he had just forgotten.

Right now my ass was radiating heat, my pussy was slick and I wanted his covered dick in it.

He grabbed my hip with one hand and used the other to guide his cock inside.

I inhaled and pushed back.

We fucked for an hour, he pounding into me very mechanically, me requesting more lube several times since I was two days from getting my period and thus, not as wet as usual. He shied away from kissing me immediately after his dick was in my mouth.

That annoyed me.

Once while he was fucking me I wanted to straighten my legs. He was unsure of how to make this new position work and faltered in his rhythm.

When I got close to cumming and made encouraging sounds, wanting him to keep doing the exact same thing because i am millimeters from cumming, he sped right up and changed the whole dynamic.

My mojo was two seconds from jumping out the window.

I licked my fingers and reached down, telling him to just stay inside me, just like that, and began swirling them around my clit.

His hips started moving, like he was about to sprint to the finish line.

“Stop…don’t move. Just watch.”

I raised my hips up, his dick inside me, my knees pressing forward. I came, giggling and gasping.

His face turned.

“What is that? What’s so funny?”

“Thomas, you don’t remember that I laugh when I cum? Darlin’, this is a good thing!”

We finished up, my pussy sore and very tender from being banged, not the least of which was the beard burn I had from his thighs and cock. I don’t know when he last shaved, and I’d never had sex with someone who was completely shaven, but it hurt.

It poked.

My skin is very sensitive and I had little red bumps on my inner thighs and all around my pussy.

We lay there talking, but not talking about the fairly mediocre sex we’d just had. He seemed like he wanted to start up again. I wasn’t sure my kitty could take it.

I suggested we watch Saturday Night Live. It was the first show of the new year and Scarlett Johansson was hosting. I never watch tv. He thought it was cute that I wanted to and turned the set on in the bedroom. We got under the covers and turned out the lights.

In ten minutes he was asleep, his body jerking randomly as his breathing slowed.

I stayed up and watched, picking apart the evening.

If you’ve read the archives you know that Thomas and I have had very good sex in the past. I sat and pondered the disappointing effort this evening.

Was I just put off by his allover shave? Was it because I was premenstrual? Had he been so out of practice and fucking one person that he’d left creativity and imagination behind?

Or was it me and my expectations for sex? Am I too demanding when it comes to getting off? Is it too much to expect great sex every time?

Who the fuck knows, my memory could have been clouded. But I think it wasn’t that, since I’ve documented sex with Thomas, and it was pretty fucking hot.

I sat there, listening to Thomas and Grace snoring softly and contemplated just getting up and driving home. Then I felt so guilty for having thought that. We always sleep over and he makes me breakfast in the morning…shame on me!

I wondered if this was what I got for being the way I am in terms of sex: I’d rather have none at all than have substandard shagging.

I came to the (possibly mistaken) conclusion that Thomas was feeling alone and unloved and wanted to be with someone and not have to worry about consequences. So he called on me knowing that I wouldn’t judge him or ask him to commit to anything beyond that evening. I decided that was alright. I’d always appreciated our ability to do that.

My annoyance at the less-than-stellar fucking faded and I felt a little protective of him.

I also came to the (increasingly obvious) conclusion that I am one lucky bitch. When it comes to sexual standards it just happens that I’ve got a gold one. That bar just keeps getting raised and now it’s my new project to realize my capacity for being with someone who doesn’t quite measure up.

I am proud of the balance I've achieved in my life. I am glad to have learned from my mistakes and have tried to ensure that, while I’ll make new ones, I won’t repeat the old.

It helps that Miles and Jack are small and still dependent on me for everything. It keeps me grounded and prevents me from completely chucking caution to the wind. I’ll have time for that.
In about fifteen years.