The Celebration of 400 — Wicked Wednesday

When Marie Rebelle invites you to participate in the 400th Wicked Wednesday so she can reach her goal of at least 50 links, you can’t turn her down. So even though I haven’t had much inspiration lately I decided to write about one of my recent obsessions.

This commercial. I can’t get it out of my head. It’s gorgeous and stylish and the song is one that has always made me go into a trance.

This is not a comment on popular classic songs selling out for commercials. I have no desire to be on a cruise.

But I fantasize about wearing that green and blue dress with “White Rabbit” playing in the background. I’ve always had a thing for different interpretations of Alice and Wonderland.

And what gets me at the very end, when the woman opens her eyes after her poolside nap and sees the female captain of the ship leaning over her, welcoming her aboard, I always think, “They’ve been fantasizing about banging each other, I just know it.” They caught each other’s eyes while boarding and have been thinking about the other nonstop. I imagine later that night they’ll meet again at the bar or the nightclub (or wherever people go to entertain themselves on cruise ships) and end up in private quarters, living out a different fantasy while the crescendo of the song rolls over them again.

This is the 400th Wicked Wednesday! Can you believe it?
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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.

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February 7 and Wicked Wednesday: Rainbow

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I love rainbow-stripe clothing. It makes me so happy to see those colorful stripes.

That’s the Wicked Wednesday post I started to write to go along with a FebPhotofest picture for today.

But last night Mr. Scott took out a toy we haven’t used in awhile and it reminded me of the time we used it, which happens to be the last time I saw a rainbow, also.

We’d dropped off our daughter for a sleepover with friends and rushed home to have sex before we had to go out ourselves. We were going to a surprise party so we had to leave by a certain time. With that toy, however, Mr. Scott kept me on edge for so long that by the time I finally came, there was no time for a shower. I barely had enough time to throw my clothes on and smooth down my hair a bit.

It was a summer evening. It was sunny between passing thunderstorms. On the drive to the party, down a long, straight highway, one of the largest, brightest rainbows I’d ever seen stretched over the road. It stayed with us for several miles before the next storm caught up to us and made it dissipate.

I knew I looked like I’d just had sex. I wondered if people at the party would smell it on me. I felt sexy and confident. I wanted to say to everyone there, “We are parents and in our forties and we just had great sex.” Instead, however, I brought up the amazing rainbow we’d seen on the drive down. Most others had seen it, too. And I wondered who else had the same pre-party secret as us.

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February Photofest

 

Receiving Head

If anyone, even Mr. Scott, asks “How can I pleasure you?” I’m likely to answer, “Get me a glass of wine and some chocolate chip cookies and leave me alone to watch an episode of West Wing.” A couple years ago I read a blog post by a woman who said she also dreaded those words even though she loved oral sex. (I wish I could remember where I read that!) It made me so happy to know I wasn’t the only woman like this.

This is one area of my sex life where I want someone to take charge (in a trusting, consensual way of course). Grab me and pull me to you. Put your hand in my pants and feel my wetness. Pull my underwear off. I want to lie back and let you do what you have learned through careful research are the things I love. (Mr. Scott seems to really enjoy doing all that research.)

I like a lot of things and it’s tricky to find the right combination sometimes. I know how to get myself off in about five minutes when I need a maintenance orgasm but working this out with someone else, even a long-term partner who knows me well, isn’t always easy.

I love having my clit worked over. Sometimes lightly. Sometimes firm pressure. Sometimes rubbing hard. Wide tongue lapping (although not like a slobbery dog), deliberate tongue tip flickering.

I love having something inside me. Fingers hitting my g-spot. The surprise of a cold, large, stainless steel dildo. A small vibrator delicately inserted. I often close my eyes and don’t know what Mr. Scott is up to until I feel it.

When I need something specific I’ll say so. If something is uncomfortable or for any reason not working I’ll say so.

I know this isn’t exactly a precise road map to my oral pleasure. I don’t have a lot of patience if things aren’t going right but I’ll put a stop to it and suggest trying something else if it’s not working. It takes a lot of patience on my partner’s part and the ability to read me and a willingness to learn about me. But once you figure it out, take charge. Be enthusiastic. Let me relax and enjoy myself. Because once I hit the zone I’m not going to be able to say much, or do anything other than lose myself in the moment, and you’ll be on your own for a bit. Carry on with whatever you’re doing until either orgasm or further instructions.

I was listening to Louder than Bombs this morning while I took a break from writing this post to have breakfast. When this song came on it made me smile, bringing my mind back to this topic. I really do like to stretch out and wait.

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See You at the Park

“I’ll be at the southwest corner of the park at a quarter past two this afternoon,” I told him and then hung up before he replied.

By ten past, I’m in my usual spot, sitting on the ground. I admired my legs, stretched out before me, long and tan after the summer of running. The grass smelled sweet and the sun was warm. It was a perfect afternoon to be in the park.

I look up at 2:15. I spot him running along the path in my direction. He’s wearing my favorite t-shirt. I smile. He looks straight ahead.

He’s running fast today, breathing hard. He must have started late. I love that he worked hard to be here on time for me. I watch his leg muscles slide under his skin, pushing him along.

He stops at a bench about five feet away from me, leaning over the back and panting. He looks around, avoiding eye contact with me. He stands up straight and tall and slowly pulls the t-shirt over his head. I watch his arms, his torso, stretched out in front of me.

He drops the t-shirt over the back of the bench. He rests there for another minute then continues running down the path, not as quickly now.

I sit absolutely still until he’s out of sight around the corner then I scramble to my feet and rush to the bench. I pick up the shirt in both hands and lift it to my face, breathing in deeply. I love the smell of him. Sweat and shampoo and whatever it is that makes him smell like him.

I throw the shirt over one shoulder and decide to stroll home slowly, making him wait for me to join him there, taking my time enjoying his scent.

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Sculpture Garden

It’s in the middle of the city but I don’t think many people pay it any mind. Tourists seem to not know it exists. It’s a little too far out of the way for most office workers to visit for lunch.

I’ve kept it my secret but I fantasize about meeting you there, in the sculpture garden. I frequently go out of my way to pass it because of the thrill I get thinking of a rendezvous.

In warm weather the shadows are cool and inviting. In rain a black umbrella in a dark corner wouldn’t be noticed by the few passersby rushing by.

The smooth features of the one sculpture that always stops me in my tracks reminds me of a fleshy jumble of limbs.

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For months I passed by at street level, peeking, until one day I had the courage to descend the steps into the garden proper. Like approaching a crush I’d been too timid to talk to.

Over time I felt welcomed. I began exploring other parts of the garden, meeting its other inhabitants. They drew me back time and time again.

My heart raced when I discovered it. A parting in the ivy appears when you look at Rodin’s “Crouching Woman” from a certain angle, revealing a slight path behind the ivy, a secret welcome for lovers. As if the sculptures had been pointing me toward it, once I’d learn to look at them properly.

I think of sneaking in early, at sunrise. Or at dusk. Darkness would be safest. But I also want to be daring,  at that time of morning after the first wave of tourists has walked by and before any workers break for lunch. In the sun. In the heat of the day. We’ll be looking at “Crouching Lady” one moment, pretending to admire it hand-in-hand as we wait for the garden to clear of anyone else, then we’ll slip away behind the ivy.

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Wicked Wednesday: Strangers and Cake

The prompt for this week’s Wicked Wednesday is strangers on a train. My first thought upon seeing the prompt, however, was of some notes I jotted down several years ago inspired by a cable-car ride up the Untersberg in Salzburg. I had fun revisiting those notes.

She was riding the cable car to the top of Untersberg. She traveled alone but the car was full with a tour group of senior citizens. Their guide was a young man who spoke English with a hint of an accent. He also spoke perfect-sounding German. He wasn’t much taller than she, with a shock of white-blond hair. Black-rimmed glasses. Gray sweater with blue striped collar shirt peeking out. Jeans. Black walking shoes. Very studious looking. Distractingly cute.

She didn’t know that much about the area so she tried to eavesdrop on what he told the group. She inched closer to listen. He stopped talking to allow the group some time to admire the mountain view.

Caught up in the view herself, she flinched when she heard a low voice close to her. “You didn’t pay for the tour.” She hadn’t noticed he’d moved next to her. His eyes sparkled blue. He was smiling.

“It’s a small, enclosed space,” she said. “I couldn’t help over hearing.”

“Still,” he said. “I think you owe me something.” She couldn’t believe he was coming on so strongly and in front of all the senior citizens. His smile was genuine, though, lighting up his eyes.

“What did you have in mind?” She turned to face him directly. Her cheeks burned. She was never this forward but she was on vacation and trying new things.

“Coffee later? I’m free after I finish this tour.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know the city well?”

“Well enough to not care how touristy it is, but I want a piece of cake from that place on Mozartplatz.”

He frowned.

“I bet you have to take tour groups there all the time.” She smiled.

“Yes.”

“I’m only here a few days so I’m going back for some cake.”

“How’s this?” he countered. “You buy me a coffee while you eat your cake at an over-priced tourist café, then I decide where to take you for dinner for some real local food. Including cake.”

“You already want to make dinner plans with me?”

“Yes, if you’re only here a few days I have no time to waste.”

“How do you know you like me enough for dinner?”

He shrugged. “I don’t but I’m willing to take the chance. It’s just dinner.”

“And cake.”

“And cake.”

The cable car was docking at the top so he had to turn his attention back to the group. She waited in the back to let the group off first. As she stepped off, he maneuvered through the crowd back to her.

“Kurt,” he said, extending his hand.

“Allie,” she said, shaking it. “Have fun with your friends.” She nodded at the group.

“I’ll meet you at that café as soon as I’m done here.”

Allie hiked across the snow pack beyond the group. She watched Kurt from afar, speaking easily with them, smiling when the women flirted with him, nodding patiently at everyone’s exclamations over the view, answering questions, gently herding them away from getting too close to the edge. He was friendly and forward, good qualities in a tour guide. But he knew absolutely nothing about her. She didn’t believe she was breathtakingly gorgeous enough for guys to hit on her like that.

She wondered how often he used his tour guide job to pick up women traveling through town. The glasses were a nice touch, she thought, attracting a certain type of girl. Attracting her.

The group eventually shuffled through the snow back to the cable car, Kurt making sure everyone boarded safely.

Allie waited for the following cable car. She pulled a book out of her backpack but she couldn’t concentrate on reading. He was coming on very strong and she usually didn’t like that. But something about him seemed genuinely sweet.

Try new things, she reminded herself. I’ll spend an hour with him, eating cake.

“You have a little cream on your face,” Kurt said. “May I?”

Allie looked up from her half-eaten cake and nodded. Kurt’s eyes sparkled, holding her attention. He raised his hand to her face. His thumb pressed to her lips. Impulse took over Allie. She licked his thumb and drew it into her mouth. She sucked the cream off, then released his thumb.

They hastily stood up, dropped some euro on the table, and rushed out the door.

“My hotel is three blocks away,” Allie said, flustered.

“My office is two,” Kurt replied efficiently. They crossed two streets against the lights and crashed into a locked door in an alcove. Allie pushed against Kurt and kissed him deeply while he fumbled with keys from his pocket.

In the dim office Allie saw a couch and rushed for it. She heard the click of the door locking, then Kurt grabbed her from behind. They tumbled onto the couch together.

There was no time for slow, romantic overtures. Allie sat on top of Kurt and pulled her t-shirt over her head then reached for his sweater. He reached around her to unclasp her bra.

“Put your glasses back on,” she said when he’d removed them to take his sweater off.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled, then grabbed her tight to flip them over together. They tugged at each other’s jeans.

Naked chest to naked chest, denim-clad legs tangled, Kurt held Allie tight and kissed her hard.

“I’ve never fucked someone I just met,” Allie whispered.

“Still time to change your mind,” Kurt whispered back.

“I want to do it,” she assured him. “I’m ready when you are.”

“You taste like sweet cream,” he replied, kissing her again and sliding into her. She moaned and bit his lip gently.

Later, Allie awoke from a light doze. Kurt’s body on hers warmed her. She touched his naked back. It was cool from the sweat. He mumbled something in German before fully waking.

“What was that?” she asked.

He raised his head slightly and adjusted his glasses.

“Does this mean you’ll have dinner with me?”

“Well, I never did get to finish my cake.”

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Wicked Wednesday: Recollection

Last week I had a painful dental procedure done. It got me thinking about the various dentists I’ve been to and how some of them make me feel more relaxed than others. Going to the dentist is one of those necessities of modern life. For some of us it’s a necessary evil and because I move around a lot I rarely have the chance to settle in with a favorite dentist for the long term. I have a lot of anxiety around dental visits and need just the right person to calm me..

Last week’s dentist was quick and efficient but not necessarily relaxing, except for the relief that came from realizing that it was done in about an hour after they’d told me it would take ninety minutes.

One dentist I’ve had makes me feel more relaxed than any other. I could never exactly put my finger on why or how. He speaks gently. But deliberately. He’s awkward with small talk, but I can tell he makes notes to familiarize himself to make it seem like he’s remembering what I told him last visit. He’s cold in his brevity but warm in his tone.

I was discussing this with a friend who said he’d had a dentist experience that made him feel submissive even though he’s not submissive. Something in this particular dentist had sparked that feeling in him. And I think it’s the same with me and my dentist. He puts me in a trance of some sort. I want to please him by being a good patient. I trust him to do whatever he needs. To my teeth.

Dental erotica is definitely not my thing. Dentists and zombies are my top two turn-offs. But the trust I place in my dentist to handle a sensitive part of my body is similar to the trust of a lover.

 

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Wicked Wednesday: One Man

I’m a week late with the One Man prompt…

I dreamed I was being nosed by a dog in my sleep, so realistically I believed it was happening. As I drifted toward consciousness I remembered we don’t have a dog. Or a cat. Or children, or anything else that might take it upon itself to wake me up. I opened my eyes just enough to make out his shape from the light of the street lamp outside the window. He stood over the bed, nudging my forehead and cheek with the end of his hard cock.

“Blow me before I leave for work?” It was a soft request. Not a demand. Almost pleading. Hopeful.

I rolled over and checked the clock.

“Come back in twenty minutes.” I closed my eyes and pulled the puffy down comforter over my head.

“In twenty minutes I’ll barely have time to catch my bus.” He sounded slightly more pleading now. But perhaps that was effect of his voice being muffled through the comforter.

“That’s your problem,” I mumbled, near dozing again.

I did want to give him a blow job. I love giving him blow jobs. Sometimes I comply fully, right away, and give him what he asks for. Sometimes I make him wait for it until the very last minute. Sometimes I really do fall back to sleep and he doesn’t get anything until he gets home in the evening.

Footsteps tread lightly but steadily. He paced, the discomfort of the hard on making him anxious. After a few minutes, his weight sank the far corner of the bed with a faint whine of the springs. Lightly his hand touched my ankle through the comforter, then withdrew after a moment.

I pulled the cover down just enough to peep at the clock.

“You’re awake?”

“I am,” I replied but I didn’t remove the comforter any further.

He sighed. “I have to go soon.”

“I know.”

He waited with impatient sighs and his foot tapping against the leg of the bed.

“Come here,” I finally directed him. I rolled over onto my stomach, propped on my elbows, facing the side of the bed. He presented himself, hard cock level with my face having escaped from his jeans. He wore my favorite striped sweater of his, too. He really did know how to make me happy.

I eased his cock into my mouth. He moaned with relief and pushed forward, wanting more. We didn’t have time for frivolity. He fucked my my lips, my tongue, the back of my throat. I imagined him fucking my pussy. I was going to be wet all day, waiting for him to return home that evening.

His release shot through me like a shockwave. I swallowed hungrily. I didn’t want him to leave now.

“I really have to leave now.” He carefully hid his cock behind the buttonfly of his jeans before leaning down to kiss me deeply. He pulled the comforter back over me.

“Be ready for my turn when you get home.”

I’d be the one pacing impatiently all day.

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Choices

I chose not to have a threesome one time. I was casually dating a guy and on a hot summer afternoon he and his roommate appeared at my door. He said something along the lines of, “We were bored and thought a threesome would be fun.” I said, “No.” We had never discussed a threesome before. I didn’t like his roommate very much. In general I’m not against them, it just wasn’t a good idea that day.

He got mad and called me some names, then they left. I closed the door to my apartment and on that chapter of my life – we only saw each other once or twice after that. I pretty much forgot about that afternoon.

Lately, though, I’ve been wrestling with thoughts of if I was lucky or not that afternoon. So many women would have been coerced or bullied into sex, or outright assaulted or raped, after initially saying “No” to that situation. And the only thing that happened to me was two guys got frustrated and left my home. They may have been rude about it, but they didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do.

Considering today’s climate, I feel lucky. But I shouldn’t feel that way. All women should expect that if they say “No” to sex, the worst that happens is hurt feelings. All women should be able to expect their male acquaintances to be decent people.

The Stanford case has paralyzed me with anger. I’ve had trouble discussing it with people. I wonder, though, if mainstream opinions are finally catching on to the issue of rape and how it’s discussed. I hope so.

I shouldn’t be lucky. What happened to me should be the norm.

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