Refresh — Sinful Sunday

After a week of recovery on the couch with nothing more than baby wipes and dry shampoo to freshen myself up with, I attempted shaving under my arms at the sink this morning. I feel accomplished. And exhausted and ready for a nap.


See who else is being sinful this week:

Sinful Sunday


Motivation — Wicked Wednesday

It’s a little late, but what can I say? I lost my motivation yesterday. Bed rest can be more exhausting than it seems. There’s a reason I need it. I need healing to be my motivation, which means turning off the laptop and the phone and tv and taking some solid naps.

When I am in running mode, however, and nothing else seems to get me off my couch, seeing photos on Sexy Twitter of other people at the gym or running or working out in some way gives me that little kick of motivation I need  to get out the door or onto the yoga mat myself. Stats from a lunchtime walk? Awesome. A picture in running shorts? I’m in love. The gym locker room? Swoon.

I like being part of a health and fitness community but I’ve never really been able to get into accountability groups where working out and eating healthy is a virtue and deviating from those healthy ideals is a sin. I like the support I get from my fellow deviants on Twitter, those of us who are seeking the balance between working out and eating all the food or drinking all the wine. And celebrating our bodies no matter how they look.

Currently, I’m scrolling past most of the workout photos on my timeline because it hurts right now, not being able to join in. The most liberal estimate has me finishing up PT at the end of March, which seems so far away. I don’t even want to contemplate the timeline if healing takes even longer. So while you’re all running and going to the gym, I’m reminding myself that sitting on the couch is the best thing I can do right now. My endurance is certainly staying in shape every time I need to get up and use my crutches to get to the bathroom. I’m breathing deeply to manage pain until my next schedule pill. I want to eat all the junk food but I’m eating some of the junk food alongside all the healthy foods that are helping my body. I visualize nutrients spreading out into my cells and repairing the damage.

And as I need fewer pain relief medications, my brain becomes less foggy, and more fantasies inspired by everyone’s lovely photos are creeping back into my mind.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Come for Dinner

Mr. Costello challenged me to a smut duel. 300-500 words on a prompt of my choosing. The person with the most likes by noon Eastern Time on Friday wins. So, please read and like, either here or on Twitter. Thanks! (And check his out, too, here:

The prompt is “tacos.”


She liked to make her own corn tortillas. It was meditative, it had rhythm.

“Sure, come over any time. Let yourself in. I’m making tacos.”

Her cheeks flushed at the thought of him, or maybe it was the pan of sizzling oil she stood over.

She rolled the dough into balls. She would press one flat, put it on the hot skillet, press another one, and hold it until the previous one cooked. It kept both her hands full, holding an uncooked tortilla while tending to a cooking one with a spatula.

She was in a sort of trance, press, cook, press, cook, when she heard the front door open slightly. “I’m in here!” she called out.

She glanced at him as he appeared in the kitchen, and smiled. “Hey,” she said quietly, then turned back to the skillet.

He moved behind her. She was very aware of his tall frame hovering over her. “Hey,” he whispered in her ear. He placed his hands on her hips, grasping her tightly. The spatula she held trembled slightly. “Don’t let me stop you,” he whispered.

He thumbs ran up and down her sides while his hands rested on her hips. She closed her eyes and leaned against him for a moment. She smelled burning corn meal and opened her eyes, flipping the tortilla quickly off the skillet.

“Keep working,” he whispered. One of his hands slid into the waistband of her jeans. “Don’t come,” he whispered, and the command made her ache to come suddenly. He slipped one finger under her panties, brushed her clit. She sucked in her breath, staring at the tortilla in the pan.

“You’re wet,” he whispered, as one finger, then two slipped into her.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” she murmured, shakily reaching for another ball of dough. But she stopped before she got to the tortilla press, squeezing the dough involuntarily as he held her tightly against him. She felt his hard cock pressed against her ass. She wanted to abandon dinner-making entirely.

His finger inside her, his thumb brushing her clit. “Not yet,” he whispered. “You’re burning another one.”

She dropped the spatula and turned the burner off. She dropped her hand with the dough in it, leaving a streak across his jeans as she grabbed his thigh.

“Please,” she moaned.

With his free hand he pushed her jeans and panties down, then undid his own belt and jeans. His fingers slid out of her and rested on her clit as his cock slid in. “Not yet,” he whispered, rubbing her clit as he filled her. She she wanted to feel him touch the deep places inside her. Slowly, he moved. A rhythm, meditation.

“Please let me come,” she begged.

He paused before saying, “Yes.”

She screamed. Short, but powerful. She clenched around his cock until she was spent.

“I’ll come later,” he promised, kissing her neck as she leaned on him for support. “You go lie down. I’ll finish making the tacos.”


They post articles about how sexist our president is. And op-eds decrying Harvey Weinstein and Hollywood. They are all about #metoo hashtagging. (These are not bad things! Just wait to see my point.) They are my friends on Facebook (which is why I’m writing this here rather than on my “IRL” blog, because I’m not ready to be that publicly confrontational yet).

When one of my friends shared an article about Colin Firth and his wife, Livia Giuggioli, separating several years ago and she had a romantic involvement with another man during that separation, I shouldn’t have been surprised, although I was, to see all the comments criticizing Giuggioli. They were appalled that any woman lucky enough to be married to Firth would choose to sleep with another man. They have this idea of Firth being a perfect man and since they love the image they have of him, any woman who would deign to think differently must be crazy. The judginess of it all, after everything they’ve posted about sexual assault and misogyny, was more than I could stomach.

I called them out on it. There was no response to my comment but also no new comments on my friend’s post. Did I get through to them or did the conversation naturally lose momentum by the time I’d made my comment?

Ladies, we have to stop doing this. After all the outrage and revelations of sexual assault in the workplace last year, we can’t turn around and judge a woman for choosing to separate from her husband or have an outside romance (with a consenting adult) no matter how dreamy we find the public persona of that man. One person isn’t always the right person for someone else for eternity and everyone has the right to assess their relationships and make decisions about staying with a person or not. Also, these are people we don’t know personally. We know nothing about the reality of their relationship.