Shocker

So. My first love called me out of the blue the other day.

We'd been e-mailing each other for some time after he Googled me and was actually able to track me down. (Through Google! Ridiculous!) I hadn't heard from him in years. I went to visit him once in San Diego after he divorced his first wife. I don't remember why or what happened. I frankly didn't remember having visited until he reminded me (which is a bit embarrassing - I was quite a distance away at the time, so you'd think I'd remember this what with there having been a flight and all). All I remembered (after his prompting) was his dog and his favorite hangout Sparky's. No, wait. I also remember that he appeared to have been adopted as a mascot by a group of convivial Latinas.

I have a picture of me at the airport. I look confused. At that time, I frequently was.

Anyway, I digress. He had Googled me after a conversation with a colleague about their first true loves. Shortly thereafter I was in receipt of an e-mail from him that had been forwarded from my office.

After the initial shock, I e-mailed back (of course, I live for the pain!) and we've been sporadically and generally happily e-corresponding ever since.

As long as we stick to the superficial, we tend to be okay. Any deeper, and all the old unresolved and unrequited feelings and emotions threaten to sweep us up, engulf and mire us, swallow and regurgitate us.

I don't want to be naked and cold. (Or regurgitated, really. Ew.)

Superficial it is, then.

So, tra-la-la, e-mail style. I'm more flaky than he is so any pauses were my own making (or flaking).

Then he called, out of left field.

Why was this a surprise? Well, I thought he was floating about the Persian Gulf as that's where he was last time he mentioned a location (which was not that long ago). But, his deployment is over, and he is back safely stateside, which makes me happy.
That he called me fairly shortly after his return also makes me happy.... Those dress choker whites do something for me; it's shameful. We are both married to others, and he has children. He sent me a picture of a picture, and they are little cuties. I would expect nothing less.

It's odd, really. The inexpected fondness that arises when thinking of the family that your love (because I still do and always will on some level love him) has with another. Odder still for me that it arises in conjunction with that lost urge to be a part of him again.

Hm. I wonder what _his_ take is on it all.

At any rate, Welcome Home Navy Davey.* I'm glad you're safe.

(* any names in this blog have been changed for any of several possible reasons, i.e. in this case: poetic license.)

Lemons to Lemonade

There really aren't a whole lot of good things to say about condoms.

They tend to interrupt the continuity of hot moments. They can be finicky. They smell funny (not ha-ha funny, either). They taste funnier (by which I just mean "bad"). In a practical application of Murphy's Law, they are usually the wrong size, leaving the poor gent's member looking either like an over-stuffed sausage ready to blast forth from the casing, or like a boy dressed up in daddy's clothes. For the less lucky (or "more selective" perhaps, if we are to give them the benefit of the doubt) of the opposite sex, the old trusted friend that has left an indelible gaping "O" watermark on the wallet is produced with a flourish! Only to learn that it expired... 6 months ago.

A noble quest is to find the beauty in all things - the prince in every toad, if you will.

So, what is there to appreciate about the condom? (Aside from the obvious)

When the condom is produced, I know I'm going to get fucked.

The sound of the foil wrapper being torn is auditory foreplay. I know that in short order, my legs spread, pussy throbbing and drooling in anticipation of you, my desire to be filled will be fulfilled.

And what's not to love about that?

PSA

While I do not endorse war at any time, I do support humans. This site lets you pick a card that will be printed out with the message of your choosing to be sent to a soldier. I only wish the recipient was not nation-specific. At any rate, there are some nice choices for those of us who are not political or adherents to organized religion, which is nice.

Pressure

I learned this evening that I've been mentioned over at the Fabulous Mercurial Girl Blog by the equally (of course) fabulous Ms. Mercurial herself. I'm honored!

I suppose this means that I'll have to at least *consider* writing posts that make sense to people besides myself.
Hm, isn't my blog supposed to be all about me though?
...Quandary. ;-D

Tricky

I redid my blog's template, because I think there may have been a bug in my old template. A bug with a virus or some other nasty thing. I suspect hang-around-on-my-blog-for-1hr.+-person.
Every time I ran Ad-Aware (http://www.lavasoftusa.com/software/adaware) I was getting something with the word "Trojan" in it, and I do not mean good times! Trojan.

The week has been... uncomfy. Too much work, and not enough connection with the man. I'm becoming disillusioned with this marriage, and I'm not very motivated to fix that. For which I feel pretty guilty.
The scientist is, as it turns out, fairly persistent in a gnatty kind of way.
I, in a random act of the universe, happened upon the blog of an actor I used to fuck before I moved away.
My best friend is asking me if I am putting off the inevitable. I'm not sure if he means abandoning this marriage or resigning myself to it.
*sigh*

Science and Art Collide

I decided to cut the scientist loose. I haven’t talked to him since I broke our meeting last week. At first I felt guilty for not calling, then I thought, you know, what an asshole. I’m busier by far, and you’re talking about how our plans will be convenient for you. And you’re trying to send me on a guilt trip about not spending large blocks of time with you, when you have known from the outset that that's not possible. Fucking you might have been fun, but I’m not interested in giving you a freebie gfe before your cross-country move. Thanks for the ticket to Guiltsville, but I’ve already been! Several times! So, um, I’ll pass!
Sometimes, though, I think about that picture. Dark hands spreading white flesh, dimpling into the skin, and it makes me shiver. I delight in the chiaroscuro of it all. And I am tempted to call.

Quite Tired

All this lust can wear a girl out.
With the energy I spent fantasizing about doing bad things to the dusky-hued boy at the carwash I could surely have gotten some honest work done.
OK, it's possible that there was more to the fantasy than just carwash Romeo...
Let's just say that in between carwash guy, oil change guy, bakery boy, and the guy in the restaurant, fantasy me is quite the slut.
Apparently I'm in the mood for a good servicing of my own, and monetary tipping is not on the bill.
I'm finding it hard to get things done.
Now, where's my fan?
"Cabana boy!"

What Dies Is Reborn

We meet in a beachfront boutique hotel in Santa Monica. It is still light out. The room is decorated in shades of white and the gauze curtains allow overcast light to filter through from the balcony. The setting is surreal, moody. Very Truffaut.
He has set out a picnic for us. There are cheeses, breads, olives, and cured meats from a nearby gourmet deli. There is no wine, which is not so surprising. He spends his days and most nights with wine, tasting it, writing it, explaining it.
This evening he has brought lambic, a fruity malt beer traditionally brewed by Belgian monastics. The bottles look more like splits of wine than typical beer bottles. Underneath the bottlecap is a cork.
He spends the meal explaining the history and brewing process to me. I learn about the different flavors and we try several of those: raspberry, strawberry, banana.
I savor the food and drink offering. I become intoxicated by the potency of the drink and the unassuming man who becomes larger than life when engrossed in his passion with wine and spirits.

Dinner over, I extend my gratitude for the meal and the lesson. I drink in his clean smell, run my tongue down his throat and chest. He strokes my face, my hair. He leads me to the bed and stands before me there. I teasingly feign demureness, but allow him to unfasten my top, push up my skirt, sit me down. His pants are undone, and my hand finds his hard but velvet-smooth cock. I gently squeeze and feel him throb within my grasp. My eyes dilate as I pull him toward me and take him into my mouth. I look up at him, savoring his taste, intoxicated by his scent. I run my hands the length of his body. He is smaller-framed, muscular, wiry. I shudder with my desire to devour him completely. His head lolls back, guttural noises forming deep in his throat. He holds me by the hair at the nape of my neck. He shudders slightly.

He gently pushes me to prone, and slowly pushes himself into me. My cunt throbs and spasms as he fills me, leaving me gasping. He moves methodically, intentionally. His eyes are closed; he is humming a tune I don’t know. Then, my ears fill with the familiar buzz and roar of climax and I let out a long low wail and beg him to not stop, pleaseplease, don’t stop. He looks ethereal, fucking me from on high, glowing almost beatifically. Wave after wave of orgasm overtakes me. He continues with his rhythm through my quaking and shuddering, not missing a beat for several minutes. I feel dizzy and transcendent when he finally pulls out and with a moan releases his hot stream across my breasts and face. I feel reborn; I’ve been baptized.

Rumi

"Do not build much, for I intend to have you in ruins. If you build two hundred houses in a manner that the bees do; I shall make you as homeless as a fly. If you are the mount Qaf in stability. I shall make you whirl like a millstone."

Did I mention that I really like Rumi?

Secret Decoder Ring

"Am I ever going to be able to see you for more than a couple of hours? I mean, is that feasible?"

trans.: "Am I going to get to fuck you, or what?"

Fear

I see you first. Immediately my stomach drops, and I feel short of breath. I’m here with new friends. I’m trying to make some friends… The fear that you’ll sell me out creates a torrent of panic buzzing around my head.

Then, I realize that you are surrounded by your family. Your youngest runs up to you, into my line of sight, and startles me out of my internal horror film. Your wife is adjusting your daughter’s clothing, bending in close to her, whispering things into her little angel face. My tunnel vision relaxes, and I am able to breathe.

You will not sell me out today.

The scene lasts only seconds and it is abundantly clear to me now why bull riders think that 8 seconds is quite a run.

I continue walking with my new friends, head up, feeling confident again. As we approach you, you look up and I recognize in your eyes that same panic, that deer-in-the-headlights freeze.

I half-smile in your direction as I pass, detached, as I would any other stranger in any other public space.

In my periphery, I notice you exhale strongly and turn your attention back to the boy.

Rumi is My New Passion.

Expect many quotes.

This one seems apt for this journal, for this me:

The soul which cannot endure fire and smoke won't find the Secret.
- Diwan, Ode 887

Still Waters?

I flip through the catalog for Uniworld, dreaming of a river cruise. I’d be happy on any of the offered trips. (As destinations go, I’m not picky, although if the trip is going to last for more than, say, three or four days, indoor plumbing is a must.) This service seems unique, somewhat off the beaten path. Usually when I think of cruises I picture a floating circus and immigrant workers being exploited with the goal of my satisfaction and pleasure.
While I can’t attest for the working conditions at Uniworld, the boats themselves (yes, boats – they do not look like ships) convey none of that sense of overwhelmed-ness. On the contrary, they appear intimate, private. The shared glance between lovers in a crowded room.
Yes, the environment looks lovely, and the food looks divine.
But what of the passengers? A growing sense of dismay creeps over me as I notice that almost to a person, the women look like clones of each other, extending across the lifespan.
Short sensible hair. Loafers. Wardrobe from Chicos (or, for the more adventurous, perhaps Anthropologie). Blank, and most assuredly fake smiles. Did I mention loafers?
I wonder what kinds of things these women think about. Is there passion? Lust? (for the man, or even life itself?) Is the Perfect Storm raging about behind the façade of Lake Placid, as is the case for me?
I wonder how out of place I would feel in this lovely intimate environment surrounded by women with whom on the surface anyway, it would appear as if we would have nothing to talk about, no common ground.
I think I would order room service a lot, and explore, and flirt with the staff. Always have a Plan B. Try to ensure that it includes some measure of spontaneity.