“Don’t text me for a while because I’m casting my phone to our TV,” I type to my lover.
The last thing my daughter needs is more kindling to add to the fire already fueled by her rage. Hormonal flooding of her amygdala makes our home situation increasingly frustrating for all of us.
She can’t be expected to understand the agreement my husband and I have about me outsourcing sexual needs. And what teen wants to think of her mom as a vixen slut – while the man with Alzheimer’s who is supposed to be her dad drools in a…
Do you remember when we were younger and some adult, crustified to the ripe old age of infinity, would shriek-mumble, “it’s all fun and games until…someone loses an eye?”
Maybe your actions were more angelic and less jump-from-a-roof-into-the-pool. Good on you for surviving to adulthood with fewer scars – both mentally and zigzagging across most of your limbs.
I am almost half a century old. And I was just gifted my first sex toys.
The biggest challenge was actually not the discovery that reading the manual and play-pressing speed buttons are best done before you’re furtively hiding out, mid-usage. …
Are you an egg, a potato, or a coffee bean?
The same boiling water that softens the potato hardens the egg. It’s about what you’re made of, not the circumstances. (Source)
Lucy Dan 蛋小姐 (she/her/她) recently wrote a piece about how the boiling water circumstances of life can either harden you (egg) or soften you (potato). Or, Jon Gordon’s third option of a coffee bean. …
“I hope to hell they can’t see me,” I whisper to the rock that slides between my jewel-free ring finger and fat, calloused thumb. My lucky dandelion-sized apricot agate. It twists and tumbles as my belly kisses the summer soil and my scalp brushes against the tie rod.
“If you can see those firefighters then maybe they’ll glimpse you?” It mumbles back, half of the words swallowed into the heat of my palm. Even from a frontyard away the heat singes sweat across my forehead.
“Maybe. Let’s hope not.” I hold it against my heart and feel both body part…
I drink. Alcohol. If you read my articles you might presume I drink a lot. You would probably envision me stumbling daily to the liquor store with an empty bottle in one hand and my pride and debit card in the other.
Before Covid, I used to make my once-a-year pilgrimage to the wine section and grab two of my favorite bottles of red. And, if I was feeling generous, and physically strong enough to juggle a third bottle, I might even surprise my hubby with Bailey’s to cloud his Saturday morning coffee.
Let me see if I get this right. You want my mouth to suck your cock but not to speak? You want my brain to string together ideas of how to best ride you, Cowboy, but, you don’t want me to ever question, suggest, or ask for anything inside or outside the bedroom?
You’ve knocked on the wrong door, buddy.
I have a Master’s Degree. And I hate to boast but my pussy does too. We are a package deal. Like how I get you – and your doily-knitting, underwear-folding, hates-me-for-stealing-her-baby mother.
“What is THAT?” shrieked the woman, who was training as the new bank teller. Jumping back, the deposit bag flew onto the floor, dumping a trail of coins and bills. The waxy head of a dildo peeked out from the zipper.
“Oh that,” chuckled her co-worker, who was usually the one to retrieve and empty the night deposit bags from local businesses. “It’s just a joke with our ball team.”
Every week after their game, my mom’s baseball team met in the “bunkie” that was about fifty yards from our country home’s back door. As teens, we had no clue…
“Do you ever read back over your old pieces?” I inquire of whatever part of Me, Myself, and I, is listening. “And you just sigh with a fervor that would shake Elvis back to life? I mean, if he was actually dead.”
“Sure.” I whisper back. Pretty sure it’s only Myself that’s paying a wee bit of attention. “And you know you’ve really sunk low with this one though, right, Sweetypoo?”
“Yes. Yes, I have,” I mumble, fingers wriggling brand new cowlicks into my scalp. My digits are Jonesing for the clickety-clack of my laptop – the one that is…
“How do your kids feel about you dating someone so soon after me?” texted my ex.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I responded. Bringing my kids into the conversation released a storm of seething bound to have greater landfall consequences than Katrina.
“It’s just that it’s so soon.”
I had messaged to see how my ex was doing with his move. Contacting a previous lover may not always be the best idea, but this was honestly innocent banter about life in general. The topic of new relationships came up and he revealed that a new pair of breasts was…