Sweet Lust Affair, with Photo Proof (Flash Fiction True Story)

It was most definitely lust at first sight. 

I couldn’t look away. She was round and firm, dressed in simple but elegant style in fall colours, awaiting an invitation for a party for two And all the signs were there that she wanted me to take her home: the seductive brown eye catching mine, the smooth roundness of her body, laid back and relaxed behind a clear window deliberately designed to frame the object of my desire, to make my hands clench in anticipation, to have my mouth watering in need. 

I tried to walk away. I knew it was wrong. 

I didn’t need it.

But oh, I wanted it. 

I wanted the satisfaction. I’d never had this before, not completely. Selfishly, I wanted the taste. I had only had a sample of it before, dampening my lips, a hint of it on my tongue, and I wanted more.

I tried to walk away, but my feet took me in a circle — right back to the window, to the temptation, and my will crumbled. 

In my hands, we almost lost control. I couldn’t stop looking at her. She popped her top open on our way to the door, and her sweet fragrance overwhelmed my senses. “Just wait,” I murmured tenderly, uncaring of the state of the people nearby. I covered her back up, carefully. “Our time is coming.”

But not yet, I thought on the way to the car. No, I want the anticipation to build. I want the first moments to curl my toes. 

So I brought her home, and I made supper. Was it the suspense of the wait, the delight of certainty of the decadent pleasure that made my dinner so good? I held myself back from rushing, savouring every mouthful in practice and preparation for my . . . dessert. 

And at the same time, while she waited in the kitchen, perched coyly on my table, I thanked my lucky stars that my son had to be driven to karate as soon as I was done eating. That my daughter was having dinner at a friend’s house. I prayed that my husband would stay asleep where he was napping in the bedroom, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of us being interrupted. 

I wasn’t in the mood to share. 

Took the teen to his class. 

Went into the kitchen.

And she was mine. 

I had her fully in my hands, now, and oh, Gods, I wanted to just open my mouth and lick her clean, bury my face in her depths, consuming her coolness with the heat of my lips. I hungered like a vampire, baring my teeth, hovering over her curves with only a hair’s breadth of will keeping us apart. But it was too coarse, too quick. Our consummation had to be leisurely, slow, and entirely centered. A marathon, not a sprint. I wanted the pleasure to linger, rising and falling, rather than a burst of sensation over too soon.

So I brought her to the love seat, the better to support my feet as I stretched my legs beneath her. I took my time, choosing the perfect crevice into which to sink my tool. She gave gracefully, bending and breaking under the touch of my outstretched silver, opening to me in a delicate burst of fragrance and pale flesh. 

When I finally had her in my mouth, smooth and velvety, she tasted just as I’d imagined, just as I’d hoped. I closed my eyes to appreciate her flavour, rolling it on my tongue. 

And then I did it again. And again.

She’s in the kitchen, even now. Waiting for me to come back to her. I’m waiting for the others to go to bed, to have privacy once more. 

Like I said, I’m not going to share.

Want proof? It’s in our photos. Go ahead and look! I don’t care who knows about it, so long as you don’t come between us. 

Me, and my sweet lust affair.

   
    
    
   

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Bedtime Mosquito Battle — the war continues

*DISCLAIMER / WARNING: This post gets a little graphic, mainly as an expression of my complete and utter hatred for blood-sucking insects. I’m venting about mosquitoes. Read no further if you don’t want to know.

I refuse to admit defeat.

It’s mainly because my daughter vocally protests against her nightly visitors and pleads to sleep on the couch, even though I’ve explained that the damned things won’t randomly decide to leave her alone if she changes rooms. Her room does not belong to the mosquitoes!

But it is a fairly regular frustration. So I’ve decided to outline a basic set of the rules I have developed in the nightly battle against the whiney little scourge.

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How to Kill a Mosquito (esp. at bedtime)

RULE No. 1:No fly swatters. There’s no use swatting at a mosquito. They’re too small and ephemeral, almost fairy-like in their deceptive daintiness, to be caught up by a mere fly swatter.

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No, you have to CRUSH THEM UNDER YOUR PALM AT FULL STRENGTH UNTIL YOU FEEL THEIR MICROSCOPIC BODIES CRUMPLE AND BURST UNDER YOUR SKIN.

RULE No. 2: Move slowly. Very often, the slight structure of the mosquito allows it to glide on the drafts of air you make when you’re trying to SMASH IT AGAINST THE WALL WITH THE HEEL OF YOUR HAND TO SMOOSH IT INTO A PANCAKE.

So you end up waving helplessly at a damned near invisible thing, and if you’re visible to someone who doesn’t know the score, looking kind of stupid.

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And then you lose track of it as it wisps away into the shadows, mocking you before it returns to dive-bombing your ears with its shrill, incoherent battle-cry.

WHY DO THEY ALWAYS GO FOR THE EARS???

Move slowly. Keep your eye on the target.

RULE No. 3: Become one with the mosquito. Yes, you heard me. You read that correctly. Understand the mosquito’s wants and needs. It wants blood. It wants to pierce your sweet, sweet flesh and pull draughts of your tasty, hot plasma into its gullet to nurture its demon seeds. (Demon’s seeds? Daemon seeds?)

So use that understanding. Call to the mosquito and let it scent your breath — they are attracted to our exhaled breath, after all. Hold out your palm and invite it to land and feast upon you. Be the bait, with all of the patience of the zen master.

And then . . . when it appears, tantalizingly within reach, wait. Remember that even the fastest strike can be foiled by the air currents between the fingers, giving the fucking bastard an escape route right through your digits when you least expect it.

No. Be calm. Only strike when you can see its shadow perfectly within your palm.

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RULE No. 4: Kill it until it is DEAD. Obvious, of course. But what you MAY NOT REALIZE is that the mosquito is resilient and bendy. It compresses into the crevices of your hand, flattening against the pills of a blanket, using the minuscule gaps between the weave of cloth to save itself from the untimely end it so richly deserves. There is little worse than believing you have triumphed by snatching the little prick in mid-air and putting paid to it between your fingers and the heel of your hand, only to have it tra-la-la away when you open your hand again.

I swear, you can hear them laughing at times like that.

So when you KNOW it’s in your grasp, and you can feel its little wings grinding, forget the grossness and don’t be squeamish. Do what must be done. TEAR IT TO PIECES. MANGLE ITS BEADY LITTLE CORPSE, RENDING IT LIMB FROM LIMB AND SHOVING THAT PROBOSCIS WHERE THE SUN DON’T SHINE WHILE IT’S BLINDED BY SHARPENED FRAGMENTS OF ITS OWN WINGS.

RULE No. 5: Wash your hands. It’s basic hygiene, especially if you’ve killed one right after a fresh feed and the evidence of the bloodbath is all over your opposable thumb and what it’s attached to. Bloody fingerprints are unsightly on the walls, so better wash those too. In fact, just jet-wash the whole damned place, sprinkle it with salt and fresh herbs or holy water or whatever jingles your jangle, and declare the house cleared of the vermin scum.

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And remember to plug any holes to the outside where the little jerks might be getting in. That helps, too.

Victory dances are allowed, as are triumphant sharings of the proof of the deed with family and friends. Bragging rights are permitted, of course. It’s important to keep up morale when you’re under siege.

Aaand that’s about it! Except that you’ll likely have to repeat the whole sequence every time you or your child or your significant other is irritated by those tiny assholes. So load up on whatever is going to keep you awake until the job is done.

Speaking of . . . my daughter hasn’t come downstairs to complain that there is a mosquito in her room for a good hour, now, and my son announced about 20 minutes ago that he’d killed one in his room. Dare I hope that we’re good for the night?

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Ode to the Procrastinating Student

Guzzle the coffee, chug a can of energy,

the deadline is just hours away!

Stay awake through the night, alone in the dark,

while your family dreams of summer days.

What happened to promises of time better spent?

Calendars marked and alarms put to use,

spreading out tasks in workable chunks,

to avoid the last minute push, as you do.

Eyes bleary and sore, neck tight and cracking,

fingers numb and wrists ache while you work;

your shoulders get knots, you can’t feel your bum,

no extension from your teacher, the jerk.

The word count is your focus, not spelling or grammar;

she probably won’t even read this, you think.

If I make the font larger, and increase the space —

please don’t let me run out of printer ink!

I’ve been where you are, dear procrastinator,

writing on essays until the light of early dawn.

I know the pressure and the rush of success,

and the pain when you save but your work is gone.

Beware the computer crash: save often, use the Cloud,

and next time, do your work ahead of sched.

The adrenaline’s addicting, the bragging is fun,

but you’re better off using your head.

Remember that kid relaxing, playing games ’cause he’s done?

That could have been you, had you tried!

Instead you’re hunched over, losing sleep, stressing out,

and tomorrow you’re going to be fried.

I appreciate the effort, you’re doing your best,

believe me, I’ll pore over your every sentence.

Think of your teacher with her piles of assignments,

and know that I’m stretching my own patience.

When the sun is hot and the sky is blue,

the last thing we want is to be staring at pages.

We have that in common, pupil of mine,

because summer comes to school in stages.

Denial: there’s lots of time to finish up!

Anger: what happened to the rest of the year?

Bargaining: can’t I have until the very last day?

Depression: this desk will never get clear . . .

Acceptance: I’ve got to get moving and finish the job

or repeat the damned class next semester.

The good news for you, kid, is when you pass, you’re gone,

while I’m still going to be here.

So stay awake and complete what should already be done,

hand the work in, then hit the beach.

Take the break that you’ve earned, even if it’s last-minute,

celebrate the goal that you’ve reached.

Another Poem: Song of the Cricket Wrangler

Poor little crickets,

in your box you sing;

You’re doomed to be eaten

Within a week, I think.

Poor little crickets,

I feel a little guilt

You only want to eat and mate

But you’re my dragon’s kill.

Hop, little crickets,

enjoy your life of ease.

You are Gladiators

But there’s nowhere you can flee.

Scramble, little crickets,

find a place to hide.

The dragon waits to find you

and crunch your tasty sides.

Life’s a circle, little crickets

And your place in it is clear.

You’ll nourish my little dragon,

who puffs up her beard.

You are bred for death, little crickets,

like rats and mice for snakes.

Sadly my pretty beardie

likes a raw insect steak.

I see you, saucy cricket,

crawling on her head.

Your insolence is noted,

in moments you’ll be dead.

But your song, little crickets,

it’s gentle and it’s sweet.

Sometimes it makes me sad

that you’re what my pet must eat.

Surviving the Long Weekend Hangover

The Long Weekend Hangover. That’s what I’ve decided to call it — not that headache and nausea and everything that might come from drinking too much at the beginning of a long weekend, or in the middle of it, or for the more courageous and iron-stomached of us, the end. No, I think the Long Weekend Hangover is that period of time in the day AFTER the weekend ends, when you’re back to work and you walk in to resume the routine and are just sort of . . . arrested-developmen-gob-sad-walk

And, like having a real, alcohol-induced hangover, you’re sorely tempted to call in sick to avoid the pain of dealing with life.

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Yeah. I think you know what I’m talking about. For the most part, it’s purely psychological, with maybe some physical thrown in if you were particularly active (or more physically active than normal), or if you were like me and tried to make up for lost time by losing sleep on the extra day(s) off.

I noticed it among my students today. Rather than being hyper and glad to see each other, which is often the case after a holiday or maybe a shorter long weekend, or even a snow day, they were subdued. For a while, some of the individuals who struggle to focus were engaged in doing work, because they simply hadn’t the energy for shenanigans.

My response — especially after my wonderful colleague brought me coffee, which I had not had enough time to purchase on my way to work (thanks, Monica!) — was to deal with the Long Weekend Hangover by becoming hyper.

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Caffeine and adrenaline, folks. It got me through to 3:30, carrying me through three classes, prep period, lunchtime errands (although I will admit to feeling a bit sick at 11:30 before I got food in me), buying crickets after work, returning movies, and picking up dinner at Subway before I crashed. And like my students, even though I was superficially hyper, I had no real energy for shenanigans, enabling me to get work done.

It’s curious. I was once told by a practicum teacher that she felt I was performing better and relating more to my students while I was slow and methodical due to exhaustion. I remember staring at her in disbelief. So the key to being more effective (I thought to myself at the time — I may have spoken it aloud, though) was to be completely exhausted? Drained and at the point of curling into a ball to sleep under a desk?

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I could make this happen. I should make this happen.

Maybe she had a point. I know I get excited about things and when I get excited, I tend to speak really quickly. I’ve gotten much better at pacing my speech and instructions over thirteen-plus years of teaching (at least, I hope so — mostly positive reviews from parents and students, so there’s that), and during a Long Weekend Hangover, we’re all just a little more slower and methodical because we’re just coping. Plodding along.

But despite the unexpected side benefit of increased productivity, which may only be linked to that caffeine- and adrenaline-induced rush, the Long Weekend Hangover is gross and unhealthy. I don’t like it. You don’t like it. I wish there were a better way to deal with the switch back to “normalcy”, a healthier transition than what we normally do. I know I’m very fortunate to have both the Friday and the Monday off, but I wonder whether I’d be better off going back to work on the Monday instead. I certainly tried to use the Monday here at home to get work done, but I found it extremely difficult and more stressful than helpful, because at home, I’m in the parent and spouse role. And yeah, I guess I could have gone into the workplace. I chose to stay in my house instead. Lesson learned?

Anyway, I hope you survived your Long Weekend Hangover, if you had one. If you didn’t, I salute you. For the rest of us, just keep sharing the chocolate.

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Just a silly / fun assumption poem

Billy walks casually down the street,

Cindy’s soft hand in his, perfectly fits.

He strides over puddles, avoiding wet feet,

And thawing lumps of slushy dog

“Mitts!”

Cries his true love, letting go his grip,

To blow on her hands and rub them fast.

“It’s too cold for the pool; not even a dip

in the hot tub will warm up my

“Pass

if you want,” Billy tells Cindy,

“I’m tired of being bored in this muck!

Too warm for a ski and too cold for my bike,

Unless we go back to your place and

“Tuck

your shirt in,” she laughs, “Not happening.

My parents are home and they’ll pick

on us both. How about instead I watch you swim,

whistling at the size of your

“Ticks

me off that you won’t come in the water,

you’ve already got your swimsuit and stuff.”

Billy shakes his head. “We’re almost there!

And you even went to the spa and waxed your

“Tough

cookies,” Cindy tosses. “I’ll swim when it’s hot,

Right now I’m just not feeling the best.”

They dodge a snow heap and Billy curses a lot,

mourning ’cause he won’t get to see her

“‘Fess

up,” Cindy warns him. “I know what you’re up to —

I can see your face getting red.

Swimsuits in springtime are just an excuse

to get me back into bed!”

—————

Addendum: I’ve never written one of these before! Much more challenging than I’d anticipated. Sonnets might be easier. Still, kind of fun and a nice stress-reliever. Happy Tuesday — hope you enjoyed!

And now, TWO poems for your reading pleasure!

An Ode to the Rain

Drip drip drip — do you hear the rain?

Gentle patter of raindrops on the blanket of snow;

Thin curtains of water stream from ice-covered eaves;

What were once fragile crystals turn to globules sinking low.

Drip drip drip — today, the wind changed;

Warm breezes blowing kisses from southern climes,

Scented with green growing things and the promise of life,

Shaking loose the clumps of snow from the spreading pines.

Drip drip drip — not over yet; the forecast includes flurries,

A mixed bag of precipitation that’s chill and wet;

But the rain — oh, the rain — a sign of things to come,

It’s a shift in the pattern, though real change is weeks yet.

——————————————————————-

Hidden Gifts

The snow fell feathery-light and settled into heavy mounds,

Drifting and piling on the whims of moving Arctic air.

Each day, she forged a path in a deepening canyon of white,

Though the cold pained her feet, numbed her toes, frosted everywhere.

She did her business in the snow, keeping to the clock,

Trotting back and forth as quickly as she could;

Some days were harder and the work didn’t come

Until she was so desperate she thought she’d explode.

No chain ’round her neck, for she couldn’t go far,

The wintry landscape her only real prison, and puzzle.

The world limited to a maze of dug-out paths and trails,

Icing her whiskers and freezing her muzzle.

And then . . . days of warmth return, shrinking the snow;

Her beaten path becoming a haven of solid ground,

As the field around her softens into morass and mud,

Treacherous to even the most experienced hound.

And as it melts, the fruits of her business reappear,

The labour of each day in each week of long months;

Her pieced contribution to the cycle of life that starts with the bugs,

She checks each deposit to see what changes have come.

The work of a winter unveiled in the spring,

No seeds are these from which flowers will grow . . .

Neither great brown beans nor wooden logs has she made,

Thawing and gelling in the slushy snow.

She watches where she steps, sees with dispassion

As the humans curse and check their boots,

In the springtime air, they ought to know as they venture

To avoid stepping into the piles of her poop.