~ erotica ~
I left my sandals on his back porch. I left the sliding glass door open, my wet foot prints across his wooden floor trailing behind me.
I dropped my shirt at the beginning of the hallway, my skirt at the end. I unhooked my bra and let it dangle at my fingertips as I slowly stepped into his bedroom.
Plush cream carpeting nestled in between my toes. I let my bra land at my feet as I stood on the edge of his bed, a tall wooden four post structure, nice and sturdy. I leaned against the carved and lacquered wood waiting for him.
Even in this Summer scorcher, I still felt his heat just behind me. One delicate fingertip started at my shoulder and trailed down my arm, then across my back, until hooking into my panties.
He knelt down, sliding them off as he descended. I stepped out of the fabric, which he held in his hand, playing with the pink silk.
As he stood, I turned to look at him. His eyes were hungry, starving. Pushing me down onto his bed, I knew he would take his nourishment from my body.
I landed on his down comforter, enveloped in the fabric; my sweat glued my skin to cover. My toes barely touched the ground, my hips half on half off the bed.
He was naked, his manhood hard and ready. But instead of taking me right there, he pushed my legs open and buried his face in my cunt.
I gasped, my hands finding their way to his auburn mane. With my panties still in his hand, he lifted my hips up, drinking all of my pussy in. My breath quickened as I bucked my hips, trying to fuck his face. His nails sunk into my skin as his tongue traversed my lips, my clit. His five o'clock shadow tickled my skin. I moaned and giggled, wanting nothing more than for him to never stop.
And then it started, the build up, the rising up to my ecstasy. Like a wave coming into the shore, the warmth grew in my body, gaining strength and breadth, until finally bursting forth, rippling out from my hips to my limbs, sweet warm pleasure surging throughout my body.
I screamed. I gripped his hair and screamed his name and moaned and cursed and loved each sweet moment of it.
When he stood, I sat up and kissed him, tasting myself on his lips. I lapped up myself from his face, letting myself get lost in his embrace, until breathlessly I panted, "Now, it's my turn."
I took my own advice the other day. I had time to kill during a gig, so I sat and thought about what I wanted from my life. What I wanted from my career. What I wanted in love.
I wrote down two goals for five years from now. I thought about them, let them linger inside me for a while.
And then my Mom got sick. And I visited her every day I could while she was in the hospital.
As I walked through the same doors multiple times, and saw the same people each day, it became clear what I wanted. I don't want to be an EMT. I want to be a doctor.
In a strange twist of fate, during a conversation with one of my mother's other visitors, the woman talked about the son of a friend. He was just turning thirty. He had just finished medical school and was about to start his work in a hospital. As I sat there, listening to this woman chat with my mother, I thought, That could've been me. I could've been a doctor by now.
As I walked through the halls of that hospital, every time I saw someone in a white lab coat, especially in groups, I kept thinking, They could've been my colleagues.
So I made the decision. I'm going for it. I'm going to become a doctor.
I suppose the decision may be both the easiest and hardest part of this process. Now that I've made the decision, named it, said it, breathed life to it, I have to take the first steps, start the journey, the long hard slog to my goal.
Just in doing some basic searching on the interwebs, I know it will be at minimum two years before I can even apply to med school. I have 32 credits of sciences I need to take, not to mention I need double check my English credits still count. I'll need to study for and take the MCATs too. There is just so much to do. It's all very overwhelming.
My life is going to fundamentally change come Fall of this year. I plan to enroll in the local community college for my credits, two lab sciences a semester for the next two years. I would've gone back to my old university, but the cost would've been more than double the price of the community college. Not even a question of what decision I was going to make.
I am scared shitless. Scared I'll not be good enough. Scared that it is too late for me to try. Scared that it will all be for naught. But I have to try. I have to know if I had the goods, if I was meant to be a doctor.
There was one good thing that came out of my conversation with my father yesterday. He casually mentioned that before my sister died she was pursuing a career in medicine. Part of the reason why I didn't go down that road was because of pressure from my mother, whether she realized it or not, to not walk in my father's footsteps, to not pursue medicine because of some odd notion of my place and her place in his life.
I reject my mother's example of humility to others for the sake of I don't know what.
I am smart. Super smart. I am brave, courageous, much more daring than she has ever been. And I am better than a doormat.
I'm going for this, come hell or high water. I'm going to become a doctor, or crash and burn while trying.
I don't want to write this blog. But, because it's me, I kind of have to.
Yesterday I spent some quality time with my younger half-brother and my father.
As always, it was awkward.
My father is emotionally closed off, and my brother and I have learned much the same habit. Often during our dinner, eaten at my father's house with my (it feels odd to even write this) step mother as cook, there were long stretches of silence saved only by the television on in the background.
My (this still feels weird to type) step mother finished her meal before we arrived and did not join us for our supper.
During our entire time in my father's home, the three of us didn't talk much, though I had plenty to divulge. My mother's recent stint in the hospital. (She's home now and adjusting to her new life as a diabetic.) My plans for my future. (More on that in the next blog.) I brought up those topics briefly, but never did they hold the attention of my eighty-three year old father for long.
None of this was new. I've come to accept the limited relationship I have with him, and I endeavor each day to be better than his example.
No, the shitty came in the car ride home.
I love my brother. He is my blood. But, I'm afraid, my brother is also a douche. It pains me to write that, but it's true.
We spent the first two thirds of the car ride with him spouting on about how he needs to put himself out there more in order to find a relationship. However, he would then admit that he doesn't really care about finding a relationship, but he feels like he should care. Also, he owns up to being emotionally closed off and not willing to put in real effort into developing anything if it should even occur. In his mind, it should just be easy, no effort at all to have a relationship.
I realize my brother is a twenty-five year old guy with unrealistic expectations when it comes to relationships in general and interactions with women in particular. Thankfully he knew this to be true as well.
I, being the somewhat wiser older sister, have suggested therapy to my brother to deal with his emotional issues. I tried to not get angry when he again brushed my suggestion aside, stating he didn't trust psychologists, how he knew himself better than they ever would, and how he felt he could fix his own problems without help.
When I pointed out that he had had roughly six years of unsuccessful dating experiences, not to mention a family history he is not dealing with, he still insisted he could do it on his own. I accepted his decision and hoped that would be the end of it.
But he kept talking.
He tangented to another thought: he needs to seek out older women. Why? Because they are more aggressive, being that their biological clock is ticking.
Yes, my brother said that. Yup, it gets worse.
I pointed out to him that an aggressive woman is so because of her personality, not some imaginary biological clock we all have ticking in our brains. I informed him that I found his statement offensive.
And my brother, my twenty-five year old stoner of a brother, didn't agree. In fact, he protested my argument.
I told him his statement upset me.
And then I pivoted to an incident that happened at my job on Sunday. Everyone had just come back from lunch. One of the guys casually remarked to the group how he had gone to "the titty bar" to have lunch. The food was meh. The drinks were meh. And why would he waste money on a dancer he won't ever have when he already had a girlfriend at home who puts out for him.
There were eight people on that crew. I was one of two women. The other woman was not nearby when this conversation happened. I felt... angry and yuck and what-the-fuck.
When I relayed this incident to my brother, he couldn't understand why I was upset. I explained (yes, I had to explain) to him that the conversation was inappropriate. I was at work. My fellow coworkers should talk about work, not their lunch break at the titty bar.
He still didn't get it. He said if I was upset, I should've said something. Trying not to raise my voice, I insisted that I shouldn't have to say anything at all. My coworker should know that talking about strip clubs was not appropriate for work.
And then my brother made me really and truly angry. He had had some experience working with crews while in college. He spoke about how, when you get a group of techs together, especially ones that know each other, it gets really vulgar. Why should I be shocked or upset when I knew this would happen? It wasn't like I worked in an office or anything.
I was very happy he was about to get out of my car. My brother couldn't understand how misogynistic he comments were, couldn't understand why I was upset, couldn't understand why I wouldn't just accept the conversation from my coworkers as normal.
My brother is swimming in privilege. I wanted to bash his head up against my car window. Instead I rose my voice, saying it wasn't okay. It wasn't okay that my coworker talked about strippers at work or in that way, belittling those women so. It wasn't okay that I should just expect "boys to be boys". And, worst of all, it wasn't okay that he, my brother, was saying this to me.
I love my brother and want nothing but the best for him. But my brother is an asshole. My brother is a misogynist. And I don't know if he will ever change.
Before my brother got out of my car, I explained his comments, his thinking, his shittiness was an example of why there is a NOW, why there are sexual harassment statues, and is part of the reason why I am a feminist.
And yeah, it's also part of the reason why I made an important decision for my life recently.
~ a story ~
The melody of the creek behind the deputy's home filled the forest with liquid music. The water was down a small stony slope. You could see the twist and turns of the stream from the deputy's back porch, and almost cool air occasionally drifted up towards his home as I waited for him to change his clothes.
He reappeared a minute later dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a worn college t-shirt, his alma mater he explained, before leading me down to his favorite spot in town, so he claimed.
My sandals gathered the occasional pebble as I followed him, holding his hand was we descended. When we approached the creek, he sat me on an almost perfect spot, a large rock mostly flat and big enough for two.
"I bet you bring all the girls here."
"You bet I do. It's about the only romantic place in this town."
I slipped off my sandals, shook out the small stones, and set the shoes aside before easing my toes into the cooler than expected water. I let out a small moan at the relief.
The Sun would soon set; a warm glow bathed the early evening sky. I let down my hair, tossing it side-to-side shaking loose my strands and slipping my hair tie on my wrist. Relaxed, finally, from my day, I looked over at the deputy sitting within arm's reach of me.
He had the naughtiest of grins on his face, the sweetness in his eyes from before overshadowed by his almost sinister glee.
"You are thinking about something filthy, aren't you?"
"I've never had much of a poker face. Lost a lot of money in college because of it."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Not thinking, just observing. You never re-buttoned your shirt."
Looking down, I saw his delightful view. Were I not wearing a bra, my nipples would've been exposed when I tossed my hair about. As still, the lace a top my bra, as well as the first inch of the cups, protruded from my shirt.
If I were embarrassed, I may have covered up. But I was hot, and he was hotter, and I suspected I wouldn't be wearing my clothes much longer. I smiled at the sight, and then smiled at him. Both of us were delighted at the small development.
Then, out of nowhere, the deputy stood, reached down, and pulled off his shirt, muscular arms, chest, and abs revealed. He tossed his shirt aside before undoing his pants.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting undressed, obviously." His pants were down by his knees as he pulled off both the fabric and his shoes in two good jerks.
"And why are you getting undressed?"
"I'm going for a swim." He turned around, pulled off his boxers, and tossed them aside as well. He turned his head, huge smile on his face, as he watched me stare at his ass.
"That...That water isn't deep enough to swim in."
"Really? That's your answer?" He walked forward to the center of the creek, the water coming up to his knees, and then sat down in the middle of the small current.
"If I can float, it's swimming."
"Oh, please. You're ass is practically sitting in the stream."
"My ass, eh? Wouldn't you like to know."
I had to give him points for brashness. And the water was cool. And the heat lingered even as the evening drew near. What the hell, I thought.
Still clothed, though my thin shirt and skirt only barely counted, I stepped out into the creek, eventually standing above the very attractive man floating in two feet of water.
"You were just trying to get me naked. Nice try, though."
"No, I wasn't trying to get you naked."
"Really?" I knelt down beside him, getting my face closer to his. "Then what were you trying to do?"
"This."
With one great sweep of his arm, he splashed water on me, half wetting my shirt, skirt, and hair. I shrieked before breaking out in an uncontrollable laugh. My hands found his chest, leaning against his firm body, my heaving frame nowhere near its overjoyed end.
Sitting up from his float, his hands gripping my arms, he brought his lips to mine and kissed me in the middle of his creek, quieting my giggles, the sound around us again only of the slow moving water. My hands found his back, tracing the lines of muscle over bone, and then slowly making their way down to his ass. I felt the smile on his lips when I gripped his cheeks.
I broke our embrace, my mouth moving to his ear.
"Okay, lover boy, lets move this to your bed, cause I don't want to fuck on rocks, and you have neighbors."
"Not within five miles, and I do have a condom in my jeans pocket, but no, I don't want gravel embedded in my knees again."
I sat back, a wide smile on my face.
"I was right. How many girls have fallen for your floating trick?"
"Most just start making out with me on the rock. Incredibly uncomfortable."
"I bet."
I stood up and started back towards his house, grabbing my sandals, and throwing "Race yah" over my shoulder, before scurrying up the small hill, dripping as I moved. He hooted and fumbled his things as he followed me.
~ a story ~
I heard the Sheriff's voice before I saw him. A boisterous baritone boomed through the summer heat, seeming to carry through the humidity in the air.
Next came the clack-clack of his boots on the wooden porch as he ascended to his domain. Sure enough, the picture in my mind was complete when he entered, a cowboy hat atop his head.
He had indeed brought a friend, a gentleman with only one arm who carried a chicken in his only hand. He wore overalls with no shirt, dirty worn boots, but no hat himself. He looked to be the Sheriff's age, and the two talked taking no notice of me as I sat in my seat patiently.
Just as the deputy had foretold, the two men walked into the break room, shutting the door behind them, but their conversation still loud enough for me to hear.
As the farmer told the harrowing tale of his grandson trying to capture the chicken in his hand, a game apparently the two men had played when they were young, I waited. And waited. They laughed and howled, and I waited some more.
When finally their conversation had ended, the Sheriff opened the break room door, slapped his friend on the back, and assured the farmer he'd be by for dinner Sunday evening, and would be sure his wife baked the farmer's favorite pie for the occasion.
As the farmer exited, the Sheriff finally took notice of the pretty lady sitting in the chair by his desk. He sauntered, yes sauntered, to his chair, sat down, and put up his feet.
"Good afternoon, Miss."
"Good afternoon, Sheriff."
"What brings you to our quaint little town this balmy afternoon?"
"A rather unfortunate circumstance, Sir."
"Really?"
"Yes, Sir. A month ago, on a beautiful July night, taking in your fresh Bell County air with the top down on my car, I unfortunately made the mistake of not paying enough attention to my odometer."
"Ah, yes. Seems to be a problem among your generation."
"Unfortunately, Sir. For that I do greatly apologize."
"Where were you heading that evening?"
"Up north. I was on vacation, visiting a few college friends who live up and down the coast. That evening I was heading to see my friend Erica. She lives about a hundred miles from here, near the state line. I'd left my friend Jackie that afternoon in hopes that I'd make it to Erica's not too late."
"I suppose my traffic stop ended that goal?"
"Oh no, Sir. I was to her place before midnight, which was all I wanted. There was no inconvenience at all. If anything, I'm glad you brought my error to my attention."
"So, Miss..."
"Caroline."
"Miss Caroline. What do you do?"
"It's kind of boring, Sir. I work in a museum in DC."
"Washington, DC?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, my oh my, you are a far way from home."
"Yes, Sir."
"What do you do at the museum?"
"A few things. Cataloging artifacts. Answering researchers questions or steering them to the person who can. My favorite part, though, are the tours. Once in a while I get to guide school groups around the museum. The looks on the kids' faces are amazing."
"Well, now, that sounds like a lot of fun. How long was your schooling to do that?"
"A long time, Sir."
"And, I suppose, you had no fun during."
"Not much, Sir. My friends Jacki and Erica were my roommates. Everyone made fun of us because you never saw us doing anything except studying, either by ourselves or together."
"How's your social life now?"
"More of the same. Jackie and Erica both went back home and started jobs and families, but I've been locked away in my museum. I love it, though. I always have so much work to do, so many new things to learn and pass on to others."
"Well, we can't have a scientist like you stuck in this town one moment longer than necessary. Here, let me find that original fine."
The Sheriff opened a drawer and rifled through a few files.
"Ah ha," he exclaimed, pulling the fine out with flourish, fanning it like one used to with Polaroid pictures.
Reaching into another drawer, he pulled out a stamp and ink pad. First rocking the stamp on the pad, then dabbing it on the same surface, he slammed the stamp onto the fine with authority. Putting away the stamp and ink pad, he wrote something on the fine.
"Okay, Miss. Do you have your check book?"
"Yes, Sir."
"It's just a fifty dollar fine for going a little over the speed limit plus the processing fee. How's that?"
"Oh, thank you, Sir. Thank you so much."
"My deputy will handle the rest. You have a good day. I am off to spend time with the Misses."
"Thank you again, Sir. And you have a wonderful evening."
His boots clack-clacked as he walked out of the office, the screen door slamming behind him.
"Good job," said the deputy as he left his desk and walked towards my seat.
"Thanks for the advice." I stood up, check in hand, happy my ordeal was over.
"No sweat." He approached and stood close, too close to me for just a helpful public servant. I smiled, despite myself.
"The same joke, twice in row? Hmm, you need some practice." He reached out and took my payment, extending a finger to trace along the back side of my hand.
"You want to teach me?"
Was the heat in my body from the day's temperature or having this man so near it? Either way, I didn't care.
"Indeed. I think you have much to learn. Is there somewhere we could go?"
"I know just where to take you."
~ a story ~
I was surprised my phone's GPS found the small building, one of only a half dozen on their Main St, a packed dirty path with probably more trees than people than inhabited this middle-of-nowhere town.
I parked out front, and stepped into the sticky heat of the August afternoon.
My 3pm summons to the Bell County Sheriff's office was tucked into my purse. One speeding ticket one month previous during a warm July evening brought me back to this state, even though I lived hundreds of miles away. I didn't want any points on my record or to pay the ridiculous fine the Sheriff gave me that evening, so here I was.
My shirt and skirt stuck to my skin from the immediate layer of sweat my body produced as soon as I exited my car. How anyone worked, let alone lived, in this heat was beyond me.
Stepping up onto the wooden porch of the Sheriff's office had more of a home feel than an official legal building. It even looked like a home, with its big windows, mailbox screwed to the outside wall right next to the door, and a porch swing on the far side of the stoop. I guess things were just different in Bell County.
The front door was wide open, a screen door shielding the inside. The most notable feature was the abundance of fans. Stepping back, I saw there were no air conditioning units in the aforementioned windows. I resigned myself to swimming in the thick heat and sticky sweat for the rest of my afternoon.
Pushing the screen door open, I walked inside. Just to my left sat a small table with a book opened and a small plaque next to it. "Please sign in." was etched in cursive calligraphy, the golden metal forming the words tarnished with age. I penned my name and the time, 2:50pm.
To the right of the entrance was an old wooden desk, large, lacquered, heavy, the one thing that had probably stayed constant with this office since its inception. Behind said monument on the wall was a yellowed map of the county, complete with the main interstate cutting through just inside the west border. I could pinpoint almost to the foot where I was pulled over.
In front of the desk were two chairs, also wooden but with a leather seat cushion and back. I sat in one and began waiting.
"3pm?"
I hadn't seen his desk when I walked in. Beside the sign-in table was a partition which had obstructed my view. He sat in the corner, desk shielded from the window and anyone who walked in, but at a perfect view to see anyone who ventured inside.
"Yes, 3pm."
He gave me a smile, his teeth white and straight, his eyes kind.
"I guess Jethro has his afternoon entertainment then."
"Excuse me?"
"Jethro, that's the Sheriff's first name. You should probably call him Sheriff Douglass, though. He likes it when people refer to him by his title. Let me guess, traffic stop on the interstate?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Yeah, that's the Sheriff's deal."
The gentleman stood up from his desk and walked towards me.
"Deputy Johnson," he said, placing his hand over his heart. "May I offer you some coffee?"
"In this heat?"
"Jethro doesn't like to drink water, but the coffee is cool. Tastes horrible, but it's better than nothing."
As drops of sweat tickled my skin trailing down my back, I could see his point.
"Then I guess I'll take it."
He walked into another room, what looked like the break room, and returned with a cup that was indeed cool to the touch. The coffee tasted awful, but it was a small respite from the heat. I gave him a smile with my, "Thank you."
"No sweat," he replied.
We both huffed at his pun. He stepped away, as if walking back to his desk, but then stopped, turned, and stood next to me again.
"Let me give you some advice. Jethro pulls over people and gives them tickets because he, like most people in this town, are bored. We have very little to fill up our days.
"He'll come in here shortly. He's always exactly on time. Maybe he'll bring a friend. They'll talk for a while, probably in the break room with the refrigerator open for some cool air. Then his friend will leave.
"And Jethro will come back out, sit at his desk, probably put up his feet, and start talking to you. Be polite. Sweet. Sirs and thank yous. Yes Sheriffs. No Sheriffs. My apologies, Sir. He'll keep you anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, depending on the conversation. If he likes you, and you want him to like you, the ticket, fine and points both, will go away and you can be on with your day."
In my shock, all I could manage was a "Um...Thank you."
"Oh, and..."
The deputy knelt down, resting an arm on my chair, bringing his face close to mine. "Open your blouse a little, just another button. Can't hurt."
He gave a quick glance down, and then returned my gaze, an even wider smile on his face, before rising and returning to his desk.
With his body gone, I could still smell faint wisps of his scent: sawdust and sweat.
Normally, one could've been offended by the deputy's offhand comment. One could've protested, or called him a misogynist. One could have.
But there was something about him, something in his kind manner and easy grin, his velvety voice and the fact that he gave me advice at all, that made me like him.
No, more than like him. I wanted him.
And, frankly, he was right. Almost as much as I wanted to speak to the deputy without his clothes on, I also wanted to be out of this town as soon as possible, preferably not owing $300 or saddled with a point on my license. If showing a hint of cleavage would do that, I wasn't going to pass it up.
So, I did this thing.
And by "thing", I mean "podcast".
And by "did this", I mean "started a".
For those of you most loyal of blog readers, you may remember some time ago that I started a podcast and only created two entries. THIS IS NOT THAT!
However, having gone through the process of starting another podcast, there remains the option of me re-starting my previous effort, which I feel may well be a great new venture for me. But I digress...
There have been a few times in the course of my blog entries where I have cited Graydancer's Love Life Practice blog. I love reading his work and find it to be a comfort in my life. So much so that, in fact, I began recording myself reading his blog entries aloud back in August.
It just so happened that one time I recorded a blog reading while he was in the room. And then came the idea: "You should start a podcast." And I did my usual brush off of anything incredibly great and new that will totally be awesome for me but require some work and change in my life... until finally caving in this January to the simple fact that Gray was right as per usual. (Don't tell him I said that.)
Thus, Poetic Reads Gray was born. I launched it this past Friday on Gray's birthday, a quasi-gift to a more-than-just-a friend. I hope you will take the time to listen to his words as interpreted through my voice, and maybe even venture over to his blog to join the conversation or look at his nifty photos and links (even if there is no porn).
And thus my incremental takeover of the interwebs continues. Now I have an active blog, an active podcast, an inactive blog, an inactive podcast, a blog a use as a placeholder/organization tool, and my Twitter/Fet/FourSq/Tumblr feeds.
Yup, the internets are taking over. Run while you still can, or be like me an join the mass infection.
