There are times when I like being in between, between the sheets, a lover’s arms, legs, between orgasms, yes, that’s my favourite as long as it’s only a few hours – not days or years – the feeling of satisfaction meets the anticipation of more satisfaction, love is never deeper than in that interregnum, physical love maybe, but there are no doubts, no “What ifs” – he just did and is about to do it again, that is the rawest form of love;
between lovers implies that you are going to find a new love, yet as we all know, that is when the pain is greatest because we don’t know IF we will find that new one – I’ve waited a long time; it seems like forever, for I’ve met my one true love and rejected him, unforgivably and certainly rashly, and I can’t take it back – that love is broken, like my first Barbie with the “growable” hair that “grew” too long, leaving her bald, not even like a fuzzy peach, just hard plastic and an empty hole, empty like my heart, like my brain when I pulled on Barbie’s hair or when I chucked my love, not the feeling of empowerment of when I chucked my husband, he knew that my love for him wasn’t as deep as it should have been, so he found another, a younger model, someone who sweat on him rather than out on a 6 am run,
running has its in betweens, too, you are always in between, between start and finish, between runs, between injuries, between new shoes; they say I should replace them every 300 miles, that’s every couple of months and they still look good, except that they don’t cushion as well as they used to; replacing them regularly keeps me between injuries, like my pulled calf muscle last autumn, that’s my regular ache, as well as the occasional achilles soreness – my running keeps me thin and ready for a wild night in bed, if that ever comes – I last longer, well, I take longer, too, because exercise suppresses my hormones – that’s OK because I love the tussle, the satisfaction of surviving a marathon, having to wash the sheets after a sleepless night, sheets with the sweet smell of love and sweat, a well-earned ecstasy and hyper-relaxation – I run fastest after sex – I don’t know why, I assume it’s the relaxation and possibly an adrenaline high;
I’ve been between jobs, you could say that I’m between marriages, but that assumes (wrongly) that I will marry again, I’m between novels, paralyzed between two that I can’t ever decide which to work on, between poems, this was supposed to be one, but I let my mind unravel, pouring out the first stream for you in a long while, but as soon as I’m done, I’ll be on an island between streams again, in limbo doing in the mambo (just wanted to use that line!), which is better than being in mambo doing the limbo or the samba in a mambo bikini (I’ll post the picture for you, although she isn’t dancing in it) – I like the easy release ties, for when you’d rather swim (or dance?) au naturale, or maybe something else, yes, I’ll take that something else instead, because I want to be back in between, the short in between, the interregnum.
I went from having a weird semi-writer’s block last week to having a complete full-blown lack of inspiration. Did you notice the complete stop (not to mention the period) at the end of that sentence? I was hoping that writing about it would free me up, but so far that hasn’t happened. That it started when I joined The Black Seals is pure coincidence, I hope. I haven’t really posted anything new there, since I was hoping I’d concentrate on my novels once that area is set up. There again, please was meant to be posted there, but I decided to duplicate post both there and here, just so I could get some more reviews. Nobody has reviewed it there yet – sometimes I wonder if people are afraid to review me because I’ve started getting a little more brutal with the reviews I give – all well meaning and nice, but I’ve just become a little less tolerant of poor work. It’s partly to do with the fact that I’ve become disappointed with the quality of the reviews here, and decided to start bringing up the level on my own. Not a single person has noticed that the poem was a chain of haiku! There are a lot of kiddies around here now, and I’m not going to stoop to their level. This is an adult site, so I’m going to treat everyone like an adult.
So this has become a fucking rant. I don’t like swearing, but sometimes that’s what it takes. (I also wanted this to fall distinctly into adult writing. Gotta have the obligatory fuck. It’s all the rage now.)
Sometimes it takes talking about sex. (You knew that was coming, didn’t you?) I was poking around Flickr for some avatar pictures for future work and possibly some inspiration. I thought maybe it was time to find some artistic male bodies. I was so disappointed. Everyone thinks that all we want are muscles and maybe a peek at genital hair. Well, I’m not into muscle, frankly. (I guess that might explain why most of the avatars I post are women. They are meant to represent my main character, which is often some vestige of me.) I’ve decided that I like light, shade, character, and innuendo. Rarely do male nude portraits have any of that. They are all about showing his body. I want to know what is inside, to see character in his eyes, to feel his heart, to touch his soul. So many of them cut off him off at his nose. There is character elsewhere, but I wouldn’t expect to find any in his six-pack.
Where does that leave me? Back where I started, looking for character, for inspiration, for hope – hope that I’ll kick this funk.
Maybe I should blame it on my bee-sting. Last week, I got stung while I was running. I had to stop for a barking Scoobie-Doo who had taken far too much interest in me for my safety. Moments after his owner had him under control, I felt a sharp pain in my shin. I assume that it was a bee. If it had been an adder, there would have been fang marks, and I’d probably be in the hospital now. (Yes, there are adders in the wood in which I run.) Anyway, by the time I finished my run (4 miles later), it had swollen, and I was getting pins-and-needles type pain all over my shin. I kept an eye on it for the next 2 days before it was back to normal.
I guess I’m normal now – for me at least – except that the bee has sucked my soul out of me. I want it back.
(reprinted from WritersCafe.org from 2008)
This morning was one of the coldest of the year here. My black Nike tights, the ones that should have been a forgotten item of apparel by now, came out of the drawer again, along with my white Nike thermal top. That’s right, cold is black and white to me and branded discreetly with little Nike wings on my ankles and left breast. That one was hidden under my blue Nike sweatshirt, which is my almost daily companion, hot or cold. In case you are wondering, my shoes are Nike, too. I’m a mobile Nike advert. You can’t see that which isn’t Nike, my underwear, and I’ll leave that to your imagination.
I expected it to be the usual cold 5-mile Tuesday morning slog (Wednesdays and Saturdays are my long days), but this morning I was greeted by a hot air balloon, hovering about 30 ft over the field that I was passing. It couldn’t have been more than 50 yards away from me. I think they had stalled there, as the air was perfectly calm. They must have been freezing their tootsies off! (I’d warmed up by then.) It would have been fitting for the balloon to be branded Nike, but no. Coincidence didn’t run quite that far today. It was a bright red Virgin … you know, Richard Branson, et al. Is he a virgin? One wonders. Maybe he was when he formed his company. He was probably barely out of short pants then. Anyway, it was a surreal sight at 7:15 am on a brutally cold, sunny, frosty morning. Cold seems colder here in the UK than it does elsewhere because it is so damp. It was really only about 25 degrees (F). About a mile further into my run I spied another balloon – no, not Nike either. This one had an ITV logo and had stalled in the next field over by the time I passed it again on my way back. The Virgin had fled to the local glider club’s airstrip about a half mile away.
That bit of excitement was a nice distraction, so I ran well today, but it also got in the way of my intended topic for this week’s missive. I was in the newsagent the other day, and I allowed myself to peruse the top shelf. For those who have never been to the UK, that’s where they keep the men’s mags. I’ve never understood why men are so obsessed with udders so large that women lean forward when they walk. I’ll stick with my lightweight, aerodynamic design. I’m rambling again. What intrigued me was all the talk about improving your sex life, satisfying your lover, punishing your girl (she’ll love it, they say – not me, thank you), 3-ways to prolong your sex, 10 ways to improve your sex, and 5 ways to attract your ideal woman. There was one story that spurred me on to this topic, and I (in my dotage) have completely forgotten the title. I think it was on the April Loaded. Their website is already onto May, and I couldn’t be bothered to trek around to find it again.
Of course, I didn’t read the articles, but they started loads of fantasies spinning around in my head, as such things do. Why this obsession with finding the perfect act, the perfect position, the attractions? It seems so simple to me. The single thing that attracts me to a man is that he is relaxed and self-confident without being too full of himself. He should be attentive to my needs without being overbearing. He should open doors for me, not because I’m a woman, but because it is polite to do so. This type of man cares about his appearance, but not too much. Individual features don’t matter. Applications will be considered; post them in my forum, but be advised that if you have resorted to that, you probably have already disqualified yourself. That means you are desperate.
How do you satisfy me as a lover? Simple:
1. Sex. Be adventurous and unpredictable, but not gross. I prefer being on top of you, but variety is a wonderful thing … and you know what, it doesn’t matter if either of us doesn’t orgasm, it’s the fun of getting there that pleases me. We can always try again, and we will hopefully.
2. Sex. I want to see you, to touch you, to be touched by you, and to be seen by you; that’ll start my ticker going. Talk to me, but keep it clean, and don’t distract me from what you are doing, and I won’t be offended if you tell me what you want. I may just do the same. Let your tongue do some of the talking and the walking, too.
3. Sex. A little moisture doesn’t hurt anybody – saliva, the other stuff, food products.
4. Sex. If you are interested, let me know. I don’t care if you are obvious, but if I’m not in the mood (when am I not in the mood?!), I’ll tell you. Don’t be afraid to initiate contact, and I won’t be either.
5. Sex. Touch me. Have I said that before? Touch me as often as you want, wherever you want, but don’t embarrass me in public.
6. More sex. I think I don’t need to go any further. You probably have the idea by now. Oh yes, don’t forget to kiss me. I want your tongue in my mouth (as well as the other places), and I want to taste you.
Damn, do I want it now! Where are you?! (You can find me in the shower.)
The things that swirl around in my head – lap-dancing, today – I wouldn’t be your ordinary erotic dancer, four-inch heels would have me gasping for air in the stratosphere, and you’d be staring at my kneecaps as I strutted around you in your chair, a standard desk chair, it swivels like my hips, and has no arms – they’d get in the way – so as I strut, I trace my fingertips along your shoulder-blades, maybe they are a little cold today, like the weather, and my nails don’t dig because I keep them short, but I’ve painted them glittery burgundy in your honor, along with my toenails – yes, I’m barefoot – I’m told I’m good with them, maybe you’ll find out someday, but not today, as I pass around behind you; my fingers, they’ve found your top button and I couldn’t resist, two, three, and my hand is down your shirt – it’s getting warmer now – like my breasts that dangle tantalizingly close to the back of your head, brushing against your hair – do you feel me, I certainly feel you and give your chest a playful squeeze – alright, both hands, and now you can definitely feel my two pillows caressing your neck
what am I wearing you ask, not much, but as I said, I’m not your ordinary lap dancer, and my bra selection is limited mostly to running wear, since I spend so much time pounding the pavement, but a sports bra makes me nice and firm, nothing to bounce around, and bikini briefs – no thongs in my wardrobe – and have you noticed that I almost always wear dark colors underneath, burgundy today to match my nails and my hair, which I had done this morning – I’d indulge you with it, but it’s too short for anything particularly sensual now – oops – I’ve accidentally untucked your shirt, and unbuttoned it – sometimes I’m just on autopilot – I strut around in front of you; do you like my nice firm tummy, it pulses for your delectation, but maybe you don’t notice, since you are nuzzling between my breasts,
take a nice sniff, no artificial scents on me, I’m allergic to them, just normal body smells, sweat, pheromones, yes, I’m hot with them today – I thought about doing a striptease for you, but there is no teasing here, I’m serious, pulsing with the music – OK, maybe the bra can come off, I find them too confining, so off it goes and around your head – there, we bounce a little, just for you – and what do lap-dancers do – yes, I’m so there pulsing up against you, with you between my legs – I lower myself onto you – I need this as much as you do – there is so little fabric between us, and I can feel you pulsing with me as the music speeds up – have you ever had a belly-dancer on your lap – every muscle finely controlled for your visual enjoyment, but how about up against you for your tactile pleasure, jiggling my pillows in your face as my firm lithe body throbs around you ever quicker, firm – yes, we both are (snickers) – and I course my fingers through your hair because I’m getting carried away, I have a runner’s endurance and could go all night if you wanted me to, but maybe now’s the time for you to stick your tenner in my – well, the bra is gone, so I guess it will have to go in my panties, right there in front – go for it – I don’t mind it getting a little damp, not if it is earned through my pleasure and perhaps yours – put it in nice and deep, so it won’t fall out – yes, right there – no I won’t stop, not till I’m damn well ready, and I won’t mind if you put your arms around me, just don’t get any ideas – this is a business transaction – another tenner? – fifty and it’s a deal, go ahead, slip it in, nice and, ahhhhh, deep
I dress for comfort, not for looks, and I feel most comfortable in my running gear. I run almost every day regardless of the weather. My day-glow jacket comes off first; it’s the tight-fitting kind. I hate hearing the swish-swish of the loose ones, and it’s day-glow because I get up early, before the sun rises in the winter. I don’t want to get hit by cars, obviously. If I can help it, I’d rather not wear it at all. I prefer to run as lightly as possible, so if it’s over 40 out there, I’m in a t-shirt. I wear those hi-tech wicking shirts that draw the sweat away from my body, keeping me feeling dry while looking like I’m a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest, even before I run. The leave little to the imagination, especially when I wear my white one, like today. My running bra shows right through it, and after my run, my nipples are always quite prominent. That’s why I usually run in patterned shirts, if I’m not wearing the jacket.
Next to come off are my shoes. Again, they are hi-tech, but I’ve never liked wearing shoes of any kind. If I could run barefoot without tearing up my feet and destroying my ankles, I would. At least the shoe liners are unobtrusive. In the winter I wear black lycra tights; taking them off is like peeling a ripe banana, revealing my stilts … well … legs. You would like them – they are long runners legs with soft skin and firm muscles, and well-tanned. Maybe they are too long, but they get me where I need to go, and quickly. Removing my t-shirt, you’ll find my running bra – black today because of the white shirt. It keeps my breasts from bouncing around when I run. You may find them rather disappointing – more like mangoes than melons. Serious runners are usually small-breasted, since distance running suppresses your hormones. Underneath the bra, they are still nice and firm – pretty good for someone on the wrong side of 40. My nipples are small and dark pink. My tummy is still flat, too, an advantage of decades of a strict running regime, and I have a nice glaze of sweat all over. That leaves my panties; they aren’t the bikini style I normally wear during the day. They are fuller, so they don’t slide down and don’t show through the lycra – dark blue today, just for a little splash of colour. Underneath? Well, I won’t describe that. You know what’s there. Well, as you can see, I’m a natural redhead. Keep you tongue in your mouths! I’m ready to take my shower now.
It’s your turn.
It’s that time again, I’ve been working too hard and have been struggling without internet this week, or partly without at least, and my computer guru was out of town, I HATE DIAL-UP, and it hates me, all the sites that I frequent are really heavy on the graphics and that makes them slow, slow, slow, the way I like my sex, oops, did I slip that in again, I told you I had it on the brain, anyway, this one isn’t going to be a case of verbal masturbation, I was disappointed with the feedback about my last stream of consciousness extravaganza, I think that most people didn’t know the music or people I was discussing and, well, it just didn’t do it for them, but it did it for me, this is almost like a drug, just pouring out whatever is in my head, not stopping, not allowing the thoughts to settle before sprinting on, for it’s a sprint, can’t look back, it’s a runner’s high, the best kind, like you are floating above the ground, you are too tired to go on, but you keep running, going faster, you’re tired, but you know that soon you’ll pass the threshold, the second wind, it’s almost like a freak orgasm, you don’t know until after you’ve had it, you are concentrating so hard and then suddenly you are wet, wet not like sweat and it feels good you pass your second wind/orgasm and you wonder why you even considered stopping, you pick up the pace and the world seems to rush by you’re focused in the zone you are running your best split your best time and you push on faster and faster you consider another mile another lap you feel strong invincible you push harder your mind races you forget that you are running or were ever tired that problem you had it’s gone solved you are so focused maybe you remember last night’s sex wonderful I always come back to that I always want to come back to that it’s what keeps me going going through the day through my run even when I have no internet no man no time I’m still focused but not on running only one more mile then I can shower because whatever raw thoughts come to my head explode into being in the shower with the water dripping soap dripping shampoo wet and squidgy slick slippery like sex I’m back there again I never left I never leave I never want to leave the water runs and runs and my stories coalesce my brain is still running even as my body relaxes I’m wet oh so wet in the shower and it’s a warm comfy feeling and I never want it to end the ideas keep coming like adrenalin until I have a whole chapter bursting in my head, but I don’t have time, no time to write, working too much, too hard, I have to reconcile myself to pretending that I’ve been writing and the ideas go south where it’s warm without me, and I turn the water off, it’s over, I’ve crashed down, I’m spent, no sex for me today