Yield.

Tonight I'm cleaning up this empty house and packing up the last carload of stuff. Tomorrow I'll put the airbed in the car and go to work.

So this computer will be off-line for a little while until I figure out a new connection.

Rearrange your sock drawer.
Read a book.
Buy a new lamp.

See you soon.

Save Your Liver; Skip This Post

If you're the guy who says he isn't reading this blog anymore, then stop now. The following will make you slightly anxious and queasy.

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You've been warned.

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OK then. Are you sure?

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I thought that tonight I might not sleep alone. I thought there might be someone to curl up behind me.

There was also the smart, responsible choice of sleeping alone. And that's what I'm stuck with.

I told him that I would ask him only once not to go. Please stay. He kept to the agreement we made, and moved toward the door. I didn't ask him again. He left.

Ooooh and I'm pissed. I'm hurt. I'm lonely. It's not what I want. Really really really. I wanted skin and sweaty temples and all the stuff that I seem to so keen on writing about but have sworn against in my emotional chaos. The pop of a hand on my ass. Jesus, I want that. A body pressed full-on against mine.

We had a full discussion. We both agreed. But I forfeit. I give up. I want take-backs, when it doesn't matter what I said before.

Tomorrow I'll wake up glad that my life is less complicated. I'll be relieved that this isn't something I need to worry about. I'll teach, and eat take-out, and pack my stuff.

But oh my god oh my god how I want that thing tonight.

Smackdown.

I mean, really. Who can write about sex when she's a working single-parent who's moving in five days while simultaneously selling another house? Come on.

Well OK.

Something funny happened. I was out with my friends on Saturday night at the bar we all know well. The bartenders know my name and face, and with whom I will show up. So we were outside while the boys smoked. For some reason the bartender and I made a crack back and forth about something and the next thing I know, he smacked my ass.

!!!!!!!!!

Now, this is a big guy, maybe 250. He's got a big palm.

And I'm a sturdy girl who likes a smack.

Sounds perfect, right? Maybe a little hot?

"Yeah, baby, you think you can have this?"
"Get on the bed."
"Ooo playing tough guy."
"Shush. Now get on there." Shove. Smack.
"Oh!"
"Yeah, that's right. Take it."

Ha. Not so much.

He hit me so hard I fell across a table and had to catch the railing to keep from falling down. He walked back into the bar. We were all laughing so hard I almost fell over again. Hilarious.

**Thankfully, he hit the side of my hip so it didn't actually hurt as much as it could have.

Voyeur.

When I was younger, I used to imagine being watched. It's happening again. I'll brush my teeth, wash my face, check the mirror, pad to my bedroom, and get undressed. The whole time, I'll imagine that someone is wordlessly watching me, noticing every little movement and fine detail. They watch, and they love every motion. The way I use my hands turns them on. My face, clean and nude in the mirror, looks beautiful. Simple gestures are a turn-on. I'm not pretending or posturing, just doing my normal routine and in it, someone finds me fascinating and gorgeous.

I can't tell why I do this. Does it dispel loneliness? Is it a gesture of kindness toward myself, to see beauty in even the mundane parts of my life? Is it a pathetic longing? What is this need? To be merely watched? Or to be seen?

The News

The last few days have been nutty. I've had family visiting, a work project to finish, music to play. The week looked hectic, but the family left early so I had tonight alone with the boy. Tomorrow night's plans have changed, so I'll have that time too. Maybe it's not so nuts and I'll get some packing done.

For in 10 days, we move.

That's right. We're out of this house. Make ready the escape pods. We flee this old spacestation for a new world!
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A few nice things happened today. A co-worker gave me a bottle of top-shelf liquor! I was offered almost $20k over the asking price for the former house!
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Been thinking about playwords. You know, the words you say but don't mean when things are hot and fast:
No.
Stop.
I shouldn't.
I can't.
and my favorite:
Don't you dare.
That one has particularly pleasant associations. Oh, the things he dared.

If You Could See What I See

Nevermind the photos. This is what it's really like:

I pull the oxford cloth shirt off, and straighten the cuffs from how I wore them rolled up all day. Search the closet for an empty hanger and put the shirt away. Take off the faded cords and toss them in the laundry. Slip off the socks one by one. Run my hands down my black crew neck. Wonder what it would look like to someone else, maybe clingy? Pull it off over my head. Stand in my black bra and black underpants. Remember what it was like to be seen like this. Try to feel beautiful, to admire myself. Is my ass supposed to be the width of my chest or my shoulders? Cock head side to side to consider the view in the mirror on top of my bureau. Choose a pajama top from the drawer, then close the drawer. When the top is on, notice my nipples showing through the white fabric.

Remember. Remember what it's like to be seen.

Sit down and write this.

Friend:Boy and Friend:Girl.

Tonight is supposed to be my accomplishment night. I'm to pay bills, and pick up the house, and blah blah blah. So far I have read Entertainment Weekly and listened to the Dixie Chicks. You can't imagine my fatigue and sore-throatiness. So don't even try. You're trying, aren't you? Fucker. Fuck. You.

My friend is out on a date tonight with a girl he really likes. Let's send good vibes his way, folks. Just think of him as WryGirl's friend:boy.

You know, a lot of people ask me about this guy. Isn't there a thing between us? No? Whynot? He sounds like a great guy, WryGirl. He's single and a great guy, right?

For one, it would, on his part, complicate his relationship with a mutual friend. On my part, it would completely fuck up my relationship to that same friend.

For two, I just really love being friends with this guy, and he feels the same. We're really really good at being friends, the kind who bring each other chicken soup and dust you off after too much stupidity. I already know the things that would drive me nuts if I had any connection to him beyond friendship. People think "Well, we love each other so much as friends, shouldn't we try to be boyfriend/girlfriend?"

No.

Don't be dumb.

That's What.

Whatever you're thinking, I've got it covered.

Guess What?

Guess What 5

Guess What 4

decisions, decisions . . .hmmmmm

Guess What. . .3

Me Think Maker!

Well hot damn, I've been tagged with a Thinking Blogger award. Or two, as I've just found out.

Lenore of Enchanted Palms says: WryGirl's journey through marriage/separation/starting over. She manages in so few words to convey so much. Great reading that illustrates that so often, just life itself is the most compelling story.

And J UnderCovers says: WryGirl at Dirty Prom Queen holds a special spot on my blogroll because it was her blog that first drew me in and started me blogging. She's been busy lately and not posting as much, but in fits and spurts over the last year, she's given us amazing insightful peeks into the difficult times she's gone through. It's not all downer material though, and when she's funny, she's wicked funny.

I'm pretty amazed and grateful that you guys are still reading, still tuning in, and still finding something to respond to when this has been a particularly dark, hectic time around here. Really, I should publish some outrageous photo of my nipples, but oh well, sorry too bad for you. Suck it.

The rules of the Thinking Blogger meme go like this:


"Should you choose to participate, please make sure you pass this list of rules to the blogs you are tagging. I thought it would be appropriate to include them with the meme. The participation rules are simple:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,

2. Link to this post here for the origin of the meme.

3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog)."

OK so who hasn't been tagged yet? Of course I'd say AlwaysArousedGirl, Secret Brain, Figleaf, Chelsea Girl, Shay, Gadfly, Storm. Oh wait, Storm always makes me hot. Is there an award for that? Um, OK has anyone said PostSecret?

Next time, more photos. No nipples, sorry. Against the rules of the house.

Guess What? 3

Guess What I'm Up To? 2

Guess What I'm Up To?

Oh Come Now.

The most recent news is that I don't get any action, even in my dreams.

Yesterday I treated myself with a manicure and a haircut before going for my Swedish massage. My 90-minute Swedish massage. My free 90-minute Swedish massage. I've had massages before, and even a bad massage is pretty fucking great. And this was a very good one.

First of all, it's amazing to me that within ten minutes of meeting me, a stranger gladly starts touching all different parts of my body. Nevermind it being weird for me, which it was for a moment. But for her to just jump into intimacy and contact -- I don't know why but I found it impressive and touching. haha no pun intended.

The gal was tender but strong, with a supple touch. Even as she worked my muscles with one hand, the other hand seemed to caress me, to stroke me. It was healing in a few ways. And I'm sorry, but is there anything better than having your feet rubbed? If my eyes could have rolled farther back in my head . . .

Later on I went to a bar hoping to sit at said bar and order some garlic rosemary fries and some pizza, but fuck it was a whole happy hour scene. I scammed a chair from two guys and chatted with them for a while. Firefighters and paramedics. Their nurse friends turned up too. I decided to bail to get some real food, and said goodbye.

Then went to a favorite neighborhood gourmet biker bar and pulled up a barstool. The guys on my left talked bikes. The girl on my right wept as her date sat and listened. Probably she wanted a baby and he isn't ready. Something simple, I'm sure. I ate lots of steak. Finally a new couple took the weepy couple's place and we talked movies.

And on to my dream: my bookclub decided to have a lesbian orgy. I brought my vibrators but didn't know how to jump into the action, so I just wandered around feeling rejected and aimless.

Hunh. Wonder what that means?

Proof Positive.

So I had this bet with a friend that I wouldn't get hit on by April 1.

I slapped the shit out of that bitch bet.

My friend is incredulous and baffled, and somewhat skeptical, it seems.

But then we went out last night.

We went to a club for a show, and hit the bar for a beer before the opening act. Three of us, two guys and me. The bartender asked B. what he wanted, and got it. The bartender asked D. what he wanted, and got it. Then the bartender walked away and helped another customer, completely ignoring me. Both of my friends were stunned. "What the fuck was that?"

To which I smugly replied, "See? Invisible."

Go Girl.

My cousin is getting into colleges these days. She was accepted at her first choice, and her long-shot, Harvard. Now she has a hell of a choice, but she's pretty excited.

I mean, who wouldn't be?

Well, me. As I talked longer and longer with my uncle about her situation and how thrilled she is, I felt myself sinking lower and lower into self-pity and envy. I want that back, the thrill of the future, the unmitigated happiness. I was severely jealous of a seventeen-year old tomboy. My life is hard. Hers is happy. I'm sad. She's happy. I'm confused. Hard! It's hard!

Then I remembered: this is a girl who spent her entire teenagerdom witnessing and tending her mother's multi-year battle with terminal cancer. My cousin, before the age of 16, held her mother's hand and watched her die. This is a girl who takes honors and AP courses. She works hard. Her life has been hard.

So who's going to begrudge her some joy? Not me. I'll gladly slump along for a while if the universe will finally give this girl her due.