Savasana hatha vishnu blah blah blah...

Last night I started a yoga class again. I was kind of nervous because the teacher, in regular life, is a little too Yoga Talk for me. She gets all 'Making space within your breath' and 'blah blah blah inner spiral' even outside the studio, so I necessarily thought this would be an over-the-top class.

Turns out: not so much. It was terrific.

I haven't used all those muscle groups in a very long time (without simultaneously having a penis somewhere in me, which has a completely different fuck goal). This morning I felt as though I'd been hit by a truck and only wanted to sleep and sleep in my cozy little coffin of pillows and blankets.

Emotionally, the experience was profound as well. When we warmed up, we kept moving in and out of Child's Pose, which looks like this. As we relaxed further and further into our breathing and calming our minds, I felt this overwhelming swell of sadness. It completely engulfed me and tears fell onto the mat under my face. Stillness had transported me, or quieted me, into myself. And yet, hello, this is a yoga class with other people and although it seemed, prima facie, a supportive environment, outright weeping would have been excessive. I pulled myself together through the next poses, but the next Child's Pose had my eyes leeking again.

Let me also say here: Baby, I can bend. This is not my first class, but it's been at least three years since I've practiced regularly. My faculty for the stretches and my strength at holding poses surprised me, leaving me feeling flexible and powerful at the same time. Groovy, no? At one point I was able to do this. Do you think that was easy? It was not.

When I got home my husband asked about the class. He had been watching a movie, and as I spoke to him, his thumb hovered over the 'play' button on the remote. Clearly, my time was short but I was not deterred. I disclosed all the thick juicy stuff: the emotional conflict, the overwhelming sadness and grief, and the alternating power of my body. He asked what was the male to female ratio. And you know what? I felt so balanced at that moment that I wasn't mad or sad or anything else, but only thought to myself, 'Right. This is the way he is. This is the problem.'

I went upstairs, checked on the boy, and got cozy in bed. The wind and rain gusted at the windows but I was warm and dry. I slept.

HNT: Yank.

Sometimes when I am feeling low, lonely, stupid, hungry. . .whatever, OK? I reach back and grab a handful of my own hair. And I tug. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot. Yes, I even yank.

Because I like it. Because it reminds me of a feral, fierce side of myself. Because I remember what it's like to be ridden, used, taken and that I glory in it. That I like few things better than thwapping and splapping hips, laughing, whooping with the raucus hilarity and fun of it, swapping sweat and licking it, my pussy grasping and sucking, the animal shluppy sound, bucking, flailing, collapsing on the floor.

That's what these photos reminds me of: Never getting enough.




**If you think it's easy to get a good photo of the back of your own head, think again, pal.**

The Commute.

I was sitting and reading on the subway today. A guy got on the train and stood next to me. I didn't bother looking up at him, but then I noticed that his legs seemed kind of long. He was an older guy, very preppy, not my type. But I kept wondering if he was tall, or if it was my skewed perspective.

Then I figured out how to figure it out. I thought of myself on my knees in front of him. Where would my head be relative to his crotch? My head would be lower than usual. He was tall.

I impressed myself with my scientific assessment of the situation. I should have been wearing glasses and carrying a clipboard.

Tuesday's End.

I got nothing for you. I don't feel sexy or thoughtful or clever. I feel mostly tired and peevish. There are places I'd rather be and people I'd rather be with.

Despite how much you would like to hear about it, I'm not in the mood to dwell in it. As a friend and I have lamented, not feeling depressed is a precarious state. All too easily I could swim back down into the depths, sunk by a million annoyances. Today, essentially, was a good day. Let's think of the happy things instead.

This is the most hilarious thing that happened today:

I locked myself and my son out of the house so I had the chance to scale the facade to climb in the window and tumble, all cat-burgler-like, onto the couch. I emerged victorious from the front door, with the keys. My son held his little Thomas lunchbox and laughed and jumped up and down on the lawn.

Goodnight.

Quickie Thoughts.

Today was a scramble-the-brain-through-therapy kind of day, although the weather was gorgeous and I generally felt terrific.

As for the post below this one, check the comments. I had to post anonymously.

Got dinged for a job today, which is really OK.

I arrived home feeling frazzled, annoyed, and dispirited by the idea of whipping up another gourmet concoction. Absolutely refusing to bow to the internal pressure of stopping at the grocery store at rush hour meant scrounging from the refrigerator. That is not my forte. I refused, also, to judge it as a lesser choice. How often do I say 'Not good enough!'? Pretty often. Miracle of miracles, however, I re-framed the whole thing. Forty-five minutes later, witness a gorgeous red and yellow pepper, parmesan, cheddar, and lemon zest fritatta. Add rosemary toast and beer. Bang! Shazam! I spanked that dinner hard.

Interesting little scene yesterday: I got home and found that my computer's history was chock-full o'whores. The husband got surfing and forgot to clear the history or log out of his profile. Here's a nifty dilemna because I am many things but a hypocrite is not one of them. But hey, who wants all these whore pages and what's worse air-brushed plastic lesbian pages. No, no gentle reader, not the good, real stuff. These was those fakey shots of bubble-gum bimbos in cheerleader outfits with plastic tits touching tongues: 'Eeeek! We're kinky!' I was more upset by his lack of taste. The end result is that I simply asked him to porn up his computer, not mine, and certainly always to clear the history because our boy uses my computer. We definitely don't want him seeing that stuff. Tacky!

That's the Monday. Some strikes, some gutterballs.

Sometimes When You're Home Alone You Just Have To Try To Get The Pink Rabbit In Your Ass, or Cum, Trying.

Yeah, title pretty much says it all.

Status Report

Last night I tucked myself into bed and felt so snug and warm and content that I slept like a rock. All chaos aside, at least I am sleeping well.

The truth of the matter is that I've been busy in the real world, which is terrifically gratifying. Just now I caught up with my to-do list (dubious invention, that) and saw that not only could I cross of specific items, but I also saw that I had moved forward in the general categories of 'friends,' 'jobs,' and 'exercise.' By last night, however, I was itchy all over to get back to some writing, to roughly massage the creative muscle that's lay slack for the past few days.

Sex has been on my mind a lot less, probably because I'm not having any, and I can't figure out if that's good or bad. It certainly cuts down on my not-getting-hot-monkey-fucking angst, but I worry that I will be complacent in letting it go from my life. How sad would that be? So sad. So very very sad. But at this point it would take so fucking much to get it back, namely having my own money and space and time and privacy (so, separation, basically), and finding someone that I would even want to have sex with, taking that risk, and then seeing if it can be hot monkey sex. I mean, that is a lot of fucking work (nyuk nyuk) for basically a lazy girl.

And let's not be coy here - how many smart, funny, available, attractive hot monkey fucking people can there be? Oh I know I know all you are saying 'Me! I'm one! I can do the hot monkey fucking!' Come on. We all know it isn't that objective. Just because you and your Sally get the hot monkey fucking going doesn't mean that you get the hot monkey fucking going with just anyone. Add that to the problem, then, that not only would I have to do all that other work, but then it may not even be worth it! I finally get myself all single and stable (no simple feat) and naked with someone (and, by the way, not exhausted already from all that work) and then it doesn't work? Oh sweet Jesus in a treetop I can't even imagine the crushingness of that.

See? It would be so much easier to just forfeit on the notion in general.

Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha. Right.

Like that could happen.

Not Nothing.

When I wake in the morning, there's something I often think about. Nothing important, exciting, lusty, or urgent. It's just a small thing.

I think about the hair being swept away from my neck and a kiss to the bare skin below my ear. The sound as someone inhales the sleepy mottled scent of me.

OK, I take back the 'nothing important' part. Feels pretty fucking important after all.

A Little Quality Time with Me.

Last night my husband was out of the house and my son fell asleep at the dinner table. I had the house to myself, finally, after a weekend full of family and houseguests.

I decided to take that long-delayed shower. I stood naked in front of the tub for a moment. Then I thought "If I'm going to masturbate, and I am, shouldn't I do that first?" I walked into the bedroom and turned on the bedside light. I got my box of toys from the closet and lay down on the bed. The curtains were open. I got up to shut them. I lay down again and thought for a moment.

I have time. I have privacy. Let's make this one last. Let's really enjoy it.

I pulled out the purple vibe, slowly unscrewed the cap and dropped the batteries in one by one. They clunked inside. I screwed the top back on. I turned it on low and pressed it to my clit. I could see myself down in the full-length mirror on the wall opposite the bed, but not well.

I got up.

I picked up the hand mirror from my dresser and got back on the bed. I held it between my legs and pulled myself apart with my other hand. How, I wondered, had I gotten to be 34 without ever having done this?

But I still couldn't see enough.

I put the mirror down and went to the dresser. I got the standing mirror and walked back around to the bedside. I propped the mirror against the headboard so the legs were anchored but the mirror could swivel down. Now I lay down with my legs at the head of the bed. The light was better too.

I spread my legs and pulled myself apart again. Studying myself with my fingers and my eyes, I was riveted. It was stranger, more foreign than I thought it would be, this part of my body that I knew intimately but had never seen.

But I still couldn't see easily enough.

I got up and went to the medicine cabinet and got out the fine scissors. When I lay back in bed, I carefully began to trim the hair.

Now I saw. Now, with my legs parted I could see my face, my cunt, and my own face as I looked at myself.

I got the vibes.

I watched myself as I slid each one, in its turn, over the bare pinkness, the ruffles of flesh, and into the dark recesses. Fascinated by the mere sight, I played the pink vibe so that I could watch the head tip slide with amazing ease into me, my lips almost swallowing it like my mouth on his cock, and the almost succulent pop as I pulled it out. I teased myself and watched my face as I did it.

Finally I let myself have it. I gave in to my lust for my own body. And when I came, hard, I wondered I couldn't see my own head blow open, or the starry flashbulb burst, or the purple-red-yellow pussyquake. It was just me.

But I am one hot lay.

Lost Girls and Reason #11,397

The quick answers: Lost Girls is fantastickal. I borrowed it from a friend. Said friend is connection to circle of people who know about such things. The best parts are the most taboo.

Reason #11,397 for my imminent divorce is that my husband read eight pages and said 'This isn't for me,' and put it away.

HNT: My New Pastime.

HNT Delay

Folks, HNT will be late, maybe not until tomorrow. I posted this earlier this week and that might make you happy for a while.

Eye of the Beholder (Yeah, Me)

Last night was the anniversary dinner with the husband.

It took me 45 minutes to figure out what to wear. The debate was between two outfits. I put on the first dress, jacket, shoes. I looked professional but solidly good. But not Bang Pow good. So I put on the second dress and shoes. Definitely hotter, tighter, low neck. But I felt fat. All hips.

Now, I wasn't getting dressed up for anyone else. I was doing it because I wanted to look good for me (hey these days I'm the best lay I know).

But I just felt fat and flabby and stretch-marked and pale.

I don't always feels this way. Now, it seems, the stress and difficulty of life have sapped my self-confidence a bit. I tried those two dresses on for 45 minutes.

Finally I put the first outfit back on and left the house. I felt like nothing special. As I drove, however, I talked myself up. "Look," I said, "you are still the same person, same body, same face no matter who you are getting to have dinner with. It's stupid to feel beautiful with one person and ugly with another. It's the same face." In fact, it's very pretty face. And I'm not particularly hippy or fat or flabby; I vascillate between sizes 6 and 8.

But my perception just seems so skewed. I genuinely felt ugly yesterday. I guess what I keep trying to learn that no one else is going to make me feel beautiful if I don't feel it myself. But how to do that?

A Word to the Wise.

Ok so say you're all set up with your two vibes, the demure purple one and Big Pink Rabbit. You're humming merrily along with the purple one and using the other one Luddite-fashion as a dildo. The fantasy vascillates between getting felt down in the back of driver's ed class, and getting felt down in the back of your parent's car as you motor along (yes, a brother/sister scenerio that is so taboo that it turns the corner from sick all the way back to hot). Anyway, you think Hey let's do some ass play. This means (usually) taking the purple vibe off the clit and moving it to the backyard, then turning on the Big Pink so that the rabbit ears work the now-deprived clit. Ha ha, la la, merrily we go along.

Except.

Except if you've raided the vibrator battery stash because you didn't have enough for the flashlights you took on your camping trip last weekend. Said batteries are somewhere else, probably duds because your toddler child played flashlight tag for two hours. So you can't get Big Pink going and the clit will get nothing. And not like it, I can tell you that.

So what will you do? Aaah. Ok. Maybe we'll just keep the purple guy where it is on the clit, and turn ol' Pink around backwards so that the rabbit ears do the ass play. Right ok, why wouldn't that work?

Uh, hello. Like, those are pointed rabbit ears, shitneck. That does not work. Ow. Ow ow ow. Stop now.

Oh for fuck's sake, use your wet finger. See how easy that is? So simple it's genius.

Let that be a lesson to you, my friend.

Hard.

A classic moment is always in the making around here. It's when my son pulls uncomfortably at the front of his diaper and says 'Make the pink go away!' Of course he means an erection. If he happens to be naked, he pulls at his penis, trying to pull the foreskin over the top and hide the it.

I kindly tell him 'Honey, sometimes it does that. It's supposed to.'

He doesn't buy it.

The pink, the pink. O spare him from the pink.

Cheering News

I'll confess that today is a day of some contemplation, though I'm trying to avoid it. It's too fraught with emotion and confusion; I want to have a good, up day.

Unlike many of you and most of the country, I'm not talking about the September 11.

I'm talking about my September 11.

Today is my wedding anniversary.

We were married on a gorgeous Saturday more than five years ago.

Now look.

I'm trying not to be depressed by the state of things, by the death of optimism in our relationship, or by the almost assured difficulties ahead. The only factor that seems worth celebrating is our determination and tenacity. Many couples would have broken up soon before. Many couples would have walked away during this last year. Maybe we should have. At least, however, I am sticking to the work. If things end, I know that I will have laid the groundwork for our future co-parenting, and maybe healing some of my thousands-of-therapy-dollars issues.

Onward. Here is some cheering news: Laundry day, so even though it's just housework and errands today, behold the no-pantyline look of the thong.

Latest Fantasy.

Everything always seems better, your outlook brighter, after a boat ride.

So let's hit the water. Call it a vacation, or an escape, or whatever. We'll just go.

The Queen Mary II would be grand, wouldn't it? But we don't have to go so far. I'll be happy as long as there are deck chairs, a comfortable cabin with a full-sized bed, and a staff. The deck chairs will be for lounging, reading, and the 4pm cocktail laced with rum and pineapple. The bed will be for, well, you know. Romping. Constant hijinks. Lubricious fun. And the staff will be for servicing us for all else. Room service breakfast with croissants and vats of coffee. Lunches on the deck. Dinners of filet mignon and shellfish, tableside Caesar salad, pie. Changing the sheets. Replenishing the fizzy water.

And all we have to do is ride the waves. I'll scold you into putting on suntan lotion. You'll snap a towel at my ass. We'll sleep naked and entwined, not worrying about getting home or rushing to the next thing. Where we are is all there is. It's what's happening now.

HNT: Foot Fetish

The only thing to notice here is the new toe ring. That is what I'm showing you. Can you see that it is wiggly? It is wiggly.

**I have either very lovely feet, or I am a terrific photographer. Either way, it is a super happy number one fun fun fun fuck me feeling. Today I love my feet!**

If I Were Your Girl...

...you'd not dare to cheat on me. Yes, so what I'm a hypocrite. Or was. Whatever.

And do you know why this is? Because I'm nobody's fallback girl. I'm not the consolation prize. If you're with me, you're one lucky bastard and we both know it. I'm not the Fuck Buddy. If I'm yours, then you're mine. If you get to fuck me, then no one else gets to fuck me, but then again, no one else gets to fuck you.

You can wake me in the middle of the night. You can call me to you during your lunch hour. You can push my head down into your lap as we drive to Best Buy. Whatever. But you cannot, or will not, have so much as lunch with another girl that I don't know.

But if you do get a chicken Caesar salad with the hot coffee shop girl, here's what will happen:

I'll go to lunch too. Only it will be with an old lover. And I'll tell you exactly when and where it's going to be, probably in a hotel restaurant. We'll sit nice and close. I'll laugh and toss my hair and flirt flirt flirt. Then I'll have that old lover write you a note. And that note will say in detail what that lover is going to get to do to me if you ever cheat on me again.

See? No escalation. I'm not going to fuck anyone. No no no. But you'll learn. If I'm yours, then you're mine.

School Mommy.

Mommy gets ready to meet the teachers and the other parents. She blow-dries her hair. She eats a good breakfast. She puts on a sensible skirt, a button-down shirt, and tall rubber boots (it's raining). She puts on make-up. Mommy looks good for a mommy.

But then I take off my shirt and my bra. I put on a push-up bra. I put my blouse back on.

That's more like it. There I am.

Monday, Monday.

I came very close to bailing this weekend. It felt like three bad days that I just didn't have the stamina for. There are times when I think that three months of hard, nose-to-the-grindstone, no-bullshit work is possible. Three months, what's that? Easy. Then there are the days when I can't face the options before me. Sunday morning was one of those. I did not want to get out of bed. I did not want to spend the day with my family. I wanted another life. I cried with the frustration and exhaustion of it. My husband and I talked it through, and we revised the plan. The day was salvaged, allowing for a few moments of near nervous freak-out, of course.

Today was a museum, carousel, ice cream day. I had the chance to back out, but thought it better that I participate and try to have some fun together. It kind of worked. Vaguely.

The worst feeling of all was just now, when I tried to excuse myself for a few minutes. My son screamed 'No No!' and clung to me. Fuck, man, I'm not a parasite. I'm barely allowed time to pee by myself. Get this kid off of me! What a perfect example of my daily frustrations: I have marginal autonomy. To do what I want. To go where I want. To be with whom I want. And when I am self-determined, I have to justify it within an inch of my life.

Things will change, I tell myself. The boy will go to school soon. I'll find some meaningful work. By the end of November, somehow, we will have reconciled the state of our marriage one way or another. If I don't lose my mind first.

And the past weekend can't be all bad, seeing as I've discovered the not-insignificant fun of watching myself masturbate.

Weekend So Far

A lot of truthiness around here today. Nothing apocalyptic. I just feel sad and sorry for the state of things and my contribution to them. What happened to all the anger I feel? To the selfish righteousness? I guess this is what happens when you try to deal with each other honestly, really listening to one another. It isn't about emotion, at least for now.

More later.

*update*
It's Sunday morning. I've spent the last hour job-searching on-line. It's an alternately hopeful and bleak exercise. I went to bed in my clothes just out of laziness; I have yet to remove yesterday's mascara. I'd like nothing more than to drink tea, read, and laze around today with no one in my face. The husband and son are due back from breakfast any time, and we have some bbq to go to at noon. I feel in the mood to sit under a tree and contemplate, so going to a party of strangers is not my idea of how to spend the day.

Specifically, I need to think about what is coming, what is meant by our conversation of yesterday. Soon, I think, I'll be asked to make some dramatic choices on behalf of our marriage. It's only what I suspect; it hasn't happened yet. But I think I can see where we're headed, and I don't think I'll be willing to do it, to do as he asks. What kind of person will I be?

Isn't that always the question? What kind of person will I be? What will I be for? Who will I be for?

*update*
Am I the only person who can't wait for the weekend to be over so I don't have to spend all this time with these people? I think most humans look forward to Saturdays and Sundays. I dread them. A three-day weekend, like this one, just about kills me. Something tells me this isn't the way it's supposed to be...

Rant: to someone who won't read this.

You invited your friends over. You planned the menu and went grocery shopping. I made the dip and stuffed the dates and laid the tablecloth and did all the cleaning while taking care of our son. I lit candles and chilled the wine. It was an exhausting day.

Late tonight I took your hand and walked you around the block. I led you to the bathroom. I waited for you to finish vomiting and then I gave you a glass of water, reminding you not to drink too much. I turned on the hall light because the bathroom light would have been too bright. I led you to bed. I took off your pants, put your wallet on the dresser, plugged your phone into the charger. When I'm done writing this I'll go downstairs and tidy the kitchen: the bottles and the dishes will all be clean when our son gets up. The patio and the porch and the dining room and the living room are already done. I made sure of it.

Thanks asshole. I hope you had fun. Now will you admit that you have a drinking problem?