Friday, November 26, 2010


I was whispering in your ear, I was telling you that I thought it was unnecessary that you shower this very instance. But you were not concerned with me.

You had melded into a fine business man, suits and ties, matching socks and a huge sense of monetary accomplishment.

Our years of struggling through college had brought us here, to the land of excess, a neighborhood of shallow personalities and luxury sedans. Even I had one now, you took away my El Camino as a surprise, putting a Jag in the shadow it used to occupy. I tried to show my appreciation, but I cried in the shower that night. You loved me. You loved me so much that you must have never really listened to the way I talked about that car, us ALWAYS having THAT car. But still, I remained hopeful for us, hopeful possessions or stature would not change what we had.

Your attention was wavering. I would get on my hands and knees to please you every night if you would have had it, and when I did, I got nothing in return. One time, if I remember correctly, you moved my head over to watch the game seconds after you released yourself on my bared chest.

I wandered to the bedroom and started to pleasure myself...


...and I cursed your name with every pulsing release.

I missed digging through the couch cushions, pulling out every pocket in every coat and finally diving under the mats of that Chevy looking for enough change to make a midnight run to Taco Hell.

Do you remember when the cans in our pantry did not have to line up perfectly? Now you scream at me about the fucking towels not matching. Is that even a subject that SHOULD cause an argument?

But it did, with you in control.

You said I started taking too long in the grocery store, you called and berated me as I stood in the corn aisle one night. When I got home, you pointed out that I had bought the wrong corn and threw the can at me.

"Were you with someone that caused this lapse of intelligence, or are you just THAT stupid?", you quarried.


Tonight I whispered to you, please don't shower yet, let me taste you,,, NOW!

You had been working in the yard because our lawn boy was out of town, far be it from you not to look perfectly in control. Your hands were dirty, sweat caressing your face, I was longing for that man, the one who was impetuous, to be back with me. I had hoped for your once calloused and strong hand to graze my ribcage and push me to the cold tile floor, forcing yourself inside me to the sounds of my pleasured gasps and frantic hands grasping your ass when you moved away to take a breath.

Instead, you push me to the door, laughing at my failed advances. I was a whore because I wanted it dirty, after all, we weren't teenagers anymore.

"Let's shower together then"


But, I agree with you now, so be it, take your shower.

I won't be there when you get out.

I will be with someone that DOES cause lapses of my intelligence,,,

over and over again.....

It is the smartest thing I could have EVER done.

And maybe,, if you are lucky,,

I'll share her with you...


...Probably not!

Monday, November 22, 2010

Flasher Story

November 22, 1940

Green Mills Jazz Lounge, New Orleans

The drinks I had tonight were a potent mix of the finest of spirits. The ice cubes in my glass, sparkled like diamonds and clinked together as I made a solitary toast, time after time, to me. You hadn't noticed my hand lingering around under the linen table cloth pleasuring myself, lost in the boredom of your lengthy monotoned prose. With each laugh shared in the company of your law firm partners and their cloned lady friends, I glared deep into your eyes knowing, you wouldn't have me for me, you wanted someone else. I would have to change this hunger, curb this passion, to fit into your regimented existence. Maybe as a bottled blonde with pin curled hair and ruby red lips uttering your praises, maybe then you could accept me. Truth is, every time I stepped into my custom 1940 Thunderbird and ran my fingers down the black paint and chromed lines, I knew why I stayed. I was a kept woman, crying out for passion, fulfilling your every sexual whim so that I could wear these gems and buy the things most only dreamt of. A quick blow job in the coat room assured me your benevolence for the night. Your penetrating stare as I shared a story not previously approved by you, cuts me right back down to size again.

I leave the table, feeling lost, but finding him to compensate your lack of care for my satisfaction. A brick alley wall scratches my skin as he dives himself deeper into me and caresses my breasts adoringly. He has no name, only a purpose, keeping me sane through another night that you thought you owned.

A sultry jazz plays in the background as I lick his lips and taste my own sweetness. The combination of his dance like movements and forceful delivery drives me over the edge. Blood runs down my back and stains the fine silk dress you bought for me, but the fur you gave me will hide that from your view. Afterwards, I lay in the ladies lounge, catching my breath, watching the smoke rings caress the ceiling, preparing to walk back to a table of transparent fools.

"Were you cold dear, why do you have your coat?" you questioned, when I returned to your side for the evening.

"Seems I'm always cold these days, love" I say, smiling at the irony.

His guests did not smell the undeniable sweetness of sex that lingered around me, and he thought it was his, just as he thinks I am.

Maybe he's the one who is being kept.

I am a FLASHER!!!

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Sunday, November 7, 2010


Crying Woman Pictures, Images and Photos

I stand in a darkened room, unclothed, feeling exposed, robe at my feet. All I hear is the humming of the heater and the stream of a hot shower behind me. The warmth of the air mixes with the moisture and softly falls down from the sky. I am angry at you, you had no right to let people do the things that they have done to you, keeping you captive. You had no business accepting less then the best and expecting to be treated as you have treated others. Your scars remind me of each painful cut, deeper than skin, wider than can ever be measured, still bleeding, refusing to clot. You coddle your heart, hiding it from the light it needs to survive, withholding the energy that might keep it beating strongly, now it weeps and labors to survive.

You question your right to still breathe.

Slowly the mirror fogs until the shape that fueled my anger is hidden.

All that is left is me, lost in the steam again, happy to be hidden once more.