Yesterday, I wrote about a rich, spoiled young woman, and, naturally, many of my readers came to her aid. Okay, it seems everybody seemed to pile on, and you know, it was my fault.
I am not rich, famous or spoiled. I don't know what it is like when my friends lie to me because they think telling me the truth might end our relationship. I don't know what it means to not really care how much dresses cost. I can't plan to have my picture taken by professional photographers stalking me. It is just foreign to me.
I remember something Jesus said about right people: "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God." Okay, I did not want to look up the actual Bible quote, but you get the gist. Similarly, it is probably easier for us to be decent people – those of us who are not rich and or famous.
I mean, I don't have the money to hire strippers or have friends hanging onto me and my fortune. I don't have people who want what I have.
Like others, I like making fun of people who are in the public eye. I made fun of Britney Spears – can you imagine trying to stay popular by staging "upskirt photos" or kissing Madonna? My brain does not work like that.
I am not saying that these people should not take responsibility for their actions. It just seems like most of us have less of an opportunity to do really bad things.
So today I am taking the day off from making fun of celebrities. This is going to kill me. Deep down inside of me, I sort of like beating up celebs! Bad Leesa, bad Leesa.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Stupid Lindsay Lohan Skit
Lindsay Lohan was recently arrested, and one of the charges, transporting a narcotic into a custody facility, seemed to be a little knit-picky. I mean, I can see a lawyer try to argue out of this charge.
High-Paid Lawyer: Okay, Officer Lampley1, regarding the charge of transporting a narcotic into a custody facility. Did you, or did you not, take Ms. Lohan to the custody facility>
Officer Lampley: Yes, sir. But we were arresting her at the . . . .
High-Paid Lawyer: Please only answer the question asked. So in a sense, you were responsible for her entering the custody facility?
Officer Lampley: Yes, sir. But she was pursuing another car, driving under the . . . .
High-Paid Lawyer: Officer Lampley, please only answer the question asked. You can be held in contempt of court.
Judge: (groggily) Er, that's my job, high paid lawyer guy. I get to bang the gavel.
Officer Lampley: Judge, I can shoot him for you?
Judge: Officer Lampley, we don't shoot lawyers anymore.
High-Paid Lawyer: Officer Lampley, getting back to my questions. Did you ask Ms. Lohan to go to the custody facility with you?
Officer Lampley: Yes.
High-Paid Lawyer: If she did not go with you, you would have pursued her, correct? You would have charged her with resisting arrest?
Officer Lampley: Yes.
High-Paid Lawyer: Did you transport Ms. Lohan to the facility yourself?
Officer Lampley: Yes.
High-Paid Lawyer: Were you similarly charged with transporing the alleged cocaine in Ms. Lohan's alleged pocket.
Officer Lampley: No. But the coke was in her pocket?
High-Paid Lawyer: Have you ever seen Ms. Lohan wear anything with pockets?
1Okay, I have no idea what the name of the officer is, but I like the name Lampley. Not sure why, but I do.
High-Paid Lawyer: Okay, Officer Lampley1, regarding the charge of transporting a narcotic into a custody facility. Did you, or did you not, take Ms. Lohan to the custody facility>
Officer Lampley: Yes, sir. But we were arresting her at the . . . .
High-Paid Lawyer: Please only answer the question asked. So in a sense, you were responsible for her entering the custody facility?
Officer Lampley: Yes, sir. But she was pursuing another car, driving under the . . . .
High-Paid Lawyer: Officer Lampley, please only answer the question asked. You can be held in contempt of court.
Judge: (groggily) Er, that's my job, high paid lawyer guy. I get to bang the gavel.
Officer Lampley: Judge, I can shoot him for you?
Judge: Officer Lampley, we don't shoot lawyers anymore.
High-Paid Lawyer: Officer Lampley, getting back to my questions. Did you ask Ms. Lohan to go to the custody facility with you?
Officer Lampley: Yes.
High-Paid Lawyer: If she did not go with you, you would have pursued her, correct? You would have charged her with resisting arrest?
Officer Lampley: Yes.
High-Paid Lawyer: Did you transport Ms. Lohan to the facility yourself?
Officer Lampley: Yes.
High-Paid Lawyer: Were you similarly charged with transporing the alleged cocaine in Ms. Lohan's alleged pocket.
Officer Lampley: No. But the coke was in her pocket?
High-Paid Lawyer: Have you ever seen Ms. Lohan wear anything with pockets?
1Okay, I have no idea what the name of the officer is, but I like the name Lampley. Not sure why, but I do.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Lack of Integrity in the News
Last night, I heard a story about US Army Major Cockerham, a man, who when assigned to the Army Contracting Agency's Southern Hemisphere Mission Support took about 10 Million dollars in bribes. His wife, also, was implicated in the investigation. Now it took some researching, but I found out that the base pay for such an officer is about $5K/month – then they get all sorts of housing allowances and other stuff (not sure what it is, actually, but it equates to money). In short, this was a couple that was not starving.
In the same NPR news report, they mentioned a sports story. Yeah, when regular news reports on sports, chances are it concerns someone who has done something wrong. And this time, they did not mention Michael Vick. They mentioned some guy (Tim Donaghy, I love Google!), a referee, who threw games for money. Okay, I did not listen to the whole story – after all, it is basketball – but apparently he is a gambler who got behind on some bets. Something like that. Apparently the referees can shave points off of games by blowing their whistles, and he did so. Again, lack of integrity. And for what, money?
And Leesa thinks . . .
And Leesa thinks . . .
And Leesa thinks for her third example of a lack of integrity . . .
I could not think of any – because I am tire this morning (and I did not want to use another sports story) – so I went to Google news. Top Story: an article about Attorney General Gonzales denying Tuesday that he had improperly pressured John Ashcroft to sign an authorization for the National Security Agency’s domestic surveillance program in 2004 when Mr. Ashcroft, the Attorney General at the time, lay in a hospital bed, in pain and on sedatives after surgery. That story is not as sexy as other ones. Point is that it is not hard to find where people have lacked integrity.
You know, a while back (years ago, actually), I was put on medication to help me cope with some emotional issues (that sounds better than an anxiety disorder). Anyway, it was when I was making some bad choices in my life. My therapist told me that it would help with certain drugs in my brain – all of our thoughts are just chemical reactions after all, a scary thought. Anyway, the drug helped with the anxiety attacks, but not until I addressed issues concerning my lack of integrity did I start to get better.
In short, when I worked on the cause of my anxiety – living a life different than my value system – I started to get better. Ouch, what does this have to do with integrity in the news? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. If we all lived like we are suppose to live, this world would be a happier place. Maybe not several million in the bank, but it is probably easier to sleep at night.
In the same NPR news report, they mentioned a sports story. Yeah, when regular news reports on sports, chances are it concerns someone who has done something wrong. And this time, they did not mention Michael Vick. They mentioned some guy (Tim Donaghy, I love Google!), a referee, who threw games for money. Okay, I did not listen to the whole story – after all, it is basketball – but apparently he is a gambler who got behind on some bets. Something like that. Apparently the referees can shave points off of games by blowing their whistles, and he did so. Again, lack of integrity. And for what, money?
And Leesa thinks . . .
And Leesa thinks . . .
And Leesa thinks for her third example of a lack of integrity . . .
I could not think of any – because I am tire this morning (and I did not want to use another sports story) – so I went to Google news. Top Story: an article about Attorney General Gonzales denying Tuesday that he had improperly pressured John Ashcroft to sign an authorization for the National Security Agency’s domestic surveillance program in 2004 when Mr. Ashcroft, the Attorney General at the time, lay in a hospital bed, in pain and on sedatives after surgery. That story is not as sexy as other ones. Point is that it is not hard to find where people have lacked integrity.
You know, a while back (years ago, actually), I was put on medication to help me cope with some emotional issues (that sounds better than an anxiety disorder). Anyway, it was when I was making some bad choices in my life. My therapist told me that it would help with certain drugs in my brain – all of our thoughts are just chemical reactions after all, a scary thought. Anyway, the drug helped with the anxiety attacks, but not until I addressed issues concerning my lack of integrity did I start to get better.
In short, when I worked on the cause of my anxiety – living a life different than my value system – I started to get better. Ouch, what does this have to do with integrity in the news? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. If we all lived like we are suppose to live, this world would be a happier place. Maybe not several million in the bank, but it is probably easier to sleep at night.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Cleaning Up My Email
Today, I am posting a bit late. Sorry, I was sorting out my email.
You see, I have thousands of email messages, and I have not managed them well in the last year or so. Maybe two years.
Now here is how I currently handle email – when email comes in, I read it and respond to it. If I defer response, I mark the message as unread. Therefore, all of my unread email is email I need to take some sort of action on. This is not the best way to handle email.
Personally, I believe that people who know how to manage email well do so much better in business than people who don't. I get email message from Bill Gates and others all of the time – whether it is Bill (he insists on me calling him Bill instead of Mr. Gates) wanting to give me $1,000, or gift certificates from Victoria's Secret, Old Navy, the Gap or others, cars from Honda. Basically, just managing all of the free stuff I get takes time.
Then there are the party messages. Every month, we have a party for all of those having birthday parties. Well, it takes something on the order of 60 messages to coordinate who brings the bean dip, the ice cream, the fruit salad. And then there are the messages about people's ages and so forth. Really adds to the monthly parties.
The next group of messages are self-directed spam. I get messages from several airlines, and they have these opt-out lines at the bottom of the message. The opt-out features don't work.
But seriously, managing email can be so crucial. I believe that those of us who can filter all of the stuff that comes at us, through email, through the web, through the radio and television, can win. We can outshine others.
I have deleted 250 messages this morning, and I am only about 10% through the messages. At 350, I promised myself a shot of whisky. Afterwards, I am sure the rest of the messages will just erase themselves.
You see, I have thousands of email messages, and I have not managed them well in the last year or so. Maybe two years.
Now here is how I currently handle email – when email comes in, I read it and respond to it. If I defer response, I mark the message as unread. Therefore, all of my unread email is email I need to take some sort of action on. This is not the best way to handle email.
Personally, I believe that people who know how to manage email well do so much better in business than people who don't. I get email message from Bill Gates and others all of the time – whether it is Bill (he insists on me calling him Bill instead of Mr. Gates) wanting to give me $1,000, or gift certificates from Victoria's Secret, Old Navy, the Gap or others, cars from Honda. Basically, just managing all of the free stuff I get takes time.
Then there are the party messages. Every month, we have a party for all of those having birthday parties. Well, it takes something on the order of 60 messages to coordinate who brings the bean dip, the ice cream, the fruit salad. And then there are the messages about people's ages and so forth. Really adds to the monthly parties.
The next group of messages are self-directed spam. I get messages from several airlines, and they have these opt-out lines at the bottom of the message. The opt-out features don't work.
But seriously, managing email can be so crucial. I believe that those of us who can filter all of the stuff that comes at us, through email, through the web, through the radio and television, can win. We can outshine others.
I have deleted 250 messages this morning, and I am only about 10% through the messages. At 350, I promised myself a shot of whisky. Afterwards, I am sure the rest of the messages will just erase themselves.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Depressed about Harry Potter
Saturday morning, the UPS delivery man arrived at my door by 9:30 am, and delivered the final Harry Potter book. I left it in its original box and did some shopping.
When I drive, I listen to either old rock-and-roll (and it makes me feel old, knowing the music I listened to as a teenager is now classic rock1) or NPR2. Well, there was some quasi-game show on NPR (Michael Feldman's Whad'Ya Know) and they were talking with someone related to the show. Well, either someone related to the show or someone in the audience. The woman – you can call her bitch – spoiled the first 57 pages of the book. Thanks, bitch.
Anyway, I turned to one of my other pre-sets, because classic Queen will probably not reveal anything concerning Voldemort, Harry Potter or the Ron Weesley/Hermione Granger relationship.
After dinner, I started reading the book. And I continued to read the book after my husband went to sleep.
At about 11 pm, I was looking around the house. Everything was quiet, with the only light casting its glow on my and my book. I peered over my book, and everything was quiet, simply quiet.
When I was growing up, our house was always noisy. Me and my two sibs always seemed to have friends over. In the summertime, we would be out and about fairly early in the morning, and the action did not stop until late in the evening.
Friends frequently had dinner at our house, and afterwards, we would play games, listen to music (loudly, bouncing on the bed when younger, in the driveway talking to friends when a bit older), play cards (of all things), or just chat (while eating). In short, our childhood home was alive with people.
So I am sitting in a comfortable chair, in a house that is larger than the one I grew up in, and I start to cry. It seems that life does not always go the way you plan. My husband and I have no children, no little noise makers messing up the carpet, breaking our stuff. And I want those things.
I have heard young adults talk about Harry Potter – how they grew up with the book series. Here I am in my mid-thirties3, late at night, reading a kid's book. I would have much rather have been reading Dr. Seus to a cute four-year-old. Now that would be magic!
1It is a sad, twisted world when Wham is considered classic anything.
2 National Public Radio; now I really feel old.
3We are in our mid-thirties until 39.
When I drive, I listen to either old rock-and-roll (and it makes me feel old, knowing the music I listened to as a teenager is now classic rock1) or NPR2. Well, there was some quasi-game show on NPR (Michael Feldman's Whad'Ya Know) and they were talking with someone related to the show. Well, either someone related to the show or someone in the audience. The woman – you can call her bitch – spoiled the first 57 pages of the book. Thanks, bitch.
Anyway, I turned to one of my other pre-sets, because classic Queen will probably not reveal anything concerning Voldemort, Harry Potter or the Ron Weesley/Hermione Granger relationship.
After dinner, I started reading the book. And I continued to read the book after my husband went to sleep.
At about 11 pm, I was looking around the house. Everything was quiet, with the only light casting its glow on my and my book. I peered over my book, and everything was quiet, simply quiet.
When I was growing up, our house was always noisy. Me and my two sibs always seemed to have friends over. In the summertime, we would be out and about fairly early in the morning, and the action did not stop until late in the evening.
Friends frequently had dinner at our house, and afterwards, we would play games, listen to music (loudly, bouncing on the bed when younger, in the driveway talking to friends when a bit older), play cards (of all things), or just chat (while eating). In short, our childhood home was alive with people.
So I am sitting in a comfortable chair, in a house that is larger than the one I grew up in, and I start to cry. It seems that life does not always go the way you plan. My husband and I have no children, no little noise makers messing up the carpet, breaking our stuff. And I want those things.
I have heard young adults talk about Harry Potter – how they grew up with the book series. Here I am in my mid-thirties3, late at night, reading a kid's book. I would have much rather have been reading Dr. Seus to a cute four-year-old. Now that would be magic!
1It is a sad, twisted world when Wham is considered classic anything.
2 National Public Radio; now I really feel old.
3We are in our mid-thirties until 39.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Jeans Ad
When I was a little younger, there was a jeans ad that said something like, "Just a little more room where it counts." Okay, the ad may have been a little bit different – I try and filter out ads.But anyway, the ad basically said there was a bit more fabric in the butt to accommodate real woman's shapes. That does not work on me.
Woman's Jeans Ads
Here is what I want out of a jeans ad. I want some bony-ass supermodel, looking good in jeans, and me thinking I could squeeze into said sexy jeans. Then, when I was in the department store, I would, on a lark, try on skinny-ass sexy jeans and they would fit. You see, the supermodel slash crack-whole wore jeans specially made for the photo-shoot and commercials, but the real jeans had that little extra bit of fabric that would make the jeans fit good on a more typical figure.
Jeans company gets to use sex to sell the jeans, women get to pretend they are supermodels when squeezing into jeans, and men get to compliment women after the women squeeze into said jeans.
Men's Jeans Ads
Men's jeans ads seemed to be different. They focus on men riding horses, being rugged, being real men. Occasionally the ads are sexual in nature, but more often, the jeans play to men's desire to be tough, rugged, he-men. And the sexual ads seem to have hairless, shirt-less men being sexy. Eye candy for sure, but not deeply sexual.
Here is what I would suggest for a real jeans ad.
Jeans Man: "I used to hate wearing jeans. You know, they would be so tight on my rather large package. Now I have found these new jeans with a little extra fabric right where it counts.
Cut to a new scene.
Cute Girl #1: "Hey, Marcy. I hear you are going out with James. What is the story with him? I notice he is wearing Big Bulge Jeans."
Cute Girl #2: "No complaints in the bedroom, if you know what I mean. I went out with him because he had to wear Big Bulge Jeans. If you know what I mean."
Both girls giggle.
Women want to make sure their asses seem smaller, and men want women to know certain aspects of their anatomy actually are larger. Me, I am going to shop for jeans today.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Dog-Fighting Savior
Michael Vick was indited yesterday for a number of things associated with dog fighting. You know that Savannah is sometimes known as "East Atlanta" or it feels that way sometimes. I mean, other than the Sand Gnats (minor league team for the NY Mets), we really don't have professional sports. And, I know, some of you will not even consider our Sand Gnats a professional team. More like an oddity where you can purchase tickets for the price of a movie ticket, drink whiskey from a flask, and make fun of the apposing pitcher. Not that I have ever done such a thing.
Michael Vick is important in Georgia, and well, he was indited for dog fighting. I don't know much about dog fighting (I knew someone who was into cock fighting once, long story, but nonetheless cruel), but it has crashed down on Atlanta pretty hard. Heck, its not like he got stopped in an airport with a water bottle with secrets. We are talking Federal inditement. Big stuff, horrible stuff.
I was talking to my brother, and he had this to say: "It sure is sad when you cannot listen to sports on the radio because the kids can't hear what is being said." I think he means when they describe wetting down dogs and then electrocuting them. You know, the dogs that loose.
If someone was paying me millions of dollars to play a child's game, I am not sure I would immediately think, "Hmmmmmmm. I need to buy some fighting dogs, and sponsor some dog fighting."
Even Packman Jones, a guy on another team who has gotten into trouble a lot in strip clubs – I just don't get it. If I were a millionaire football player, why go into strip clubs and shower strippers with $80K in bills. He was already in Vegas for one of these adventures – isn't prostitution legal there? Not moral or anything, but I am thinking those who frequent strip clubs are not really concerned with morality.
I am a little disappointed with Michael Vick. Last year or the year before, Vick's brother got into trouble and was thrown out of school. What I heard was, "Couldn't Vick take his brother under his wing and be an influence on his life?" Reading the paper this morning, I am wondering if that's sort of what happened.
Tomorrow a lighter subject. I promise.
Michael Vick is important in Georgia, and well, he was indited for dog fighting. I don't know much about dog fighting (I knew someone who was into cock fighting once, long story, but nonetheless cruel), but it has crashed down on Atlanta pretty hard. Heck, its not like he got stopped in an airport with a water bottle with secrets. We are talking Federal inditement. Big stuff, horrible stuff.
I was talking to my brother, and he had this to say: "It sure is sad when you cannot listen to sports on the radio because the kids can't hear what is being said." I think he means when they describe wetting down dogs and then electrocuting them. You know, the dogs that loose.
If someone was paying me millions of dollars to play a child's game, I am not sure I would immediately think, "Hmmmmmmm. I need to buy some fighting dogs, and sponsor some dog fighting."
Even Packman Jones, a guy on another team who has gotten into trouble a lot in strip clubs – I just don't get it. If I were a millionaire football player, why go into strip clubs and shower strippers with $80K in bills. He was already in Vegas for one of these adventures – isn't prostitution legal there? Not moral or anything, but I am thinking those who frequent strip clubs are not really concerned with morality.
I am a little disappointed with Michael Vick. Last year or the year before, Vick's brother got into trouble and was thrown out of school. What I heard was, "Couldn't Vick take his brother under his wing and be an influence on his life?" Reading the paper this morning, I am wondering if that's sort of what happened.
Tomorrow a lighter subject. I promise.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Autos and Fine Print
I took my car into the shop the other day, and the auto mechanic asked me to sign a form so he could do the work. The form had what the problem probably was (handwritten by the mechanic), and I stopped to read the fine print.
And I asked a few questions about the fine print. Basically, people don't want you to read the fine print. Do it anyway. Read it sometimes. It will cause you to ball up, cry and not get your car fixed.
Basically the fine print says that the estimate may be more expensive due to unforeseen events, that if they screw something up, you have to pay them to fix it, and if they fix something and you end up careening into a busload of nuns returning from sabbatical, they are not responsible for the malfunctions they caused. Well, I signed it anyway, partly because I am Catholic, and the nuns I know would not sue a good Catholic girl, and partly because I needed to get my car fixed.
When I was in college, I learned about cars. There was some free weekend classes at the university (tip: call it "the Uni" and people will think you went to college in Europe) where they trained mostly young women about how to take care of cars. I learned how to change the oil, gap the spark plugs, and do various other things that I have since forgotten. The one thing I could not do was change a tire.
Not many of us could change a tire – the tires are a bit on the heavy side, and I could not convince myself that using the jack would not result in my poking a whole into the frame of the car. Anyway, I remember one woman in the class joking that her legs could get the tire changed. And you know, I have had two flat tires on the road and both times they were changed by men stopping to help me in my moment of need. And I did not even need a short skirt – men in Georgia are extremely helpful and chivalrous.
That sort of pisses me off, though, is that I learned how to work on cars – at least how they work, and then they started to put computer chips in cars. Now I know crap about cars.
My point is not that I once knew a little bit about cars – seriously, all I wanted to know was how to make sure the auto mechanic was not taking advantage of me. My point is that sometimes you just have to trust. Read the fine print. Know you are signing your rights away, but do that anyway. Just trust sometimes. In spite of the fine print.
And I asked a few questions about the fine print. Basically, people don't want you to read the fine print. Do it anyway. Read it sometimes. It will cause you to ball up, cry and not get your car fixed.
Basically the fine print says that the estimate may be more expensive due to unforeseen events, that if they screw something up, you have to pay them to fix it, and if they fix something and you end up careening into a busload of nuns returning from sabbatical, they are not responsible for the malfunctions they caused. Well, I signed it anyway, partly because I am Catholic, and the nuns I know would not sue a good Catholic girl, and partly because I needed to get my car fixed.
When I was in college, I learned about cars. There was some free weekend classes at the university (tip: call it "the Uni" and people will think you went to college in Europe) where they trained mostly young women about how to take care of cars. I learned how to change the oil, gap the spark plugs, and do various other things that I have since forgotten. The one thing I could not do was change a tire.
Not many of us could change a tire – the tires are a bit on the heavy side, and I could not convince myself that using the jack would not result in my poking a whole into the frame of the car. Anyway, I remember one woman in the class joking that her legs could get the tire changed. And you know, I have had two flat tires on the road and both times they were changed by men stopping to help me in my moment of need. And I did not even need a short skirt – men in Georgia are extremely helpful and chivalrous.
That sort of pisses me off, though, is that I learned how to work on cars – at least how they work, and then they started to put computer chips in cars. Now I know crap about cars.
My point is not that I once knew a little bit about cars – seriously, all I wanted to know was how to make sure the auto mechanic was not taking advantage of me. My point is that sometimes you just have to trust. Read the fine print. Know you are signing your rights away, but do that anyway. Just trust sometimes. In spite of the fine print.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Contest-Mania
I received a note from I've Got a Theory the other day. You see, she has entered some sort of contest. She has to do some video skits for a cell phone carrier. Anyway, you can vote for her on this hyperlink.
Then there is Christy's Blog Awards. Christy is accepting nominations through the twenty-first. Her blog is hideous, but because I won an award a long time ago, I am on the list.
Oh, when I said hideous, I meant well, not to my liking. I don't really like pink. I mean, I was looking in my closet the other day, and I was surprised to find as much pink as I found. Three blouses, one skirt, some work-out clothes. But I am not really a pink person.
Well, today, I am pooped, so instead of wondering why there are so many different contests on the Internet, I think I will have lunch.
Then there is Christy's Blog Awards. Christy is accepting nominations through the twenty-first. Her blog is hideous, but because I won an award a long time ago, I am on the list.
Oh, when I said hideous, I meant well, not to my liking. I don't really like pink. I mean, I was looking in my closet the other day, and I was surprised to find as much pink as I found. Three blouses, one skirt, some work-out clothes. But I am not really a pink person.
Well, today, I am pooped, so instead of wondering why there are so many different contests on the Internet, I think I will have lunch.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Becoming the Perfect Mate
As I get more experience on this big blue planet, I wonder why more people have not divorced.
I mean, to me, the most important part of marriage is choosing a mate, and women do not help in this aspect of getting married. Let me explain.
I have been told that you should wait at least 6 months before getting married – and the reason seems clear: men cannot deceive for more than 6 months. Okay, men and women cannot keep up an act for more than 6 months.
But you know, as a girl, I was really given the message, "change for your man." While playing house with the boys in the neighborhood, the girls had to shift what they really wanted in order to lure the boys to play house with them. While we wanted our boys to go to the office and come home, completely satisfied with how we made dinner, cleaned the house, and took care of the baby, the boy wanted to go hunting for food, or to defend the house with guns and knives. And as girls, we let them. Not only that, but we praised them for what they brought us (deer, yuck), or had glowing faces when they told us who they shot. In short, we changed ourselves to be the perfect mate.
But nine-year-old boys are different than men. Well, sort of.
In college, I watched shoot-em-up movies during dates, went to football games, and even went to a roller-derby. Really. Traveling roller-derby. I did this to be the perfect date, the perfect mate.
Problem is that the boys turned men I was dating did not get an accurate gauge of me ten years down the line, when I would be less enthusiastic about being the perfect mate. I am far from perfect, but part of the reason I married the man I did was because I did not have to differ too much from who I am in order to be the perfect mate.
I have a friend going through a divorce. We spent much of the weekend crying together, packing her things. For her, the decision was easy. She finally took enough hitting and threatening to decide to leave. She finally pressed charges. She was the perfect mate, too, the perfect punching bag. Until she decided enough is enough. I know my life and hers are far different. I cannot imagine what took her to her current place, and I am awed by her courage to change things.
I mean, to me, the most important part of marriage is choosing a mate, and women do not help in this aspect of getting married. Let me explain.
I have been told that you should wait at least 6 months before getting married – and the reason seems clear: men cannot deceive for more than 6 months. Okay, men and women cannot keep up an act for more than 6 months.
But you know, as a girl, I was really given the message, "change for your man." While playing house with the boys in the neighborhood, the girls had to shift what they really wanted in order to lure the boys to play house with them. While we wanted our boys to go to the office and come home, completely satisfied with how we made dinner, cleaned the house, and took care of the baby, the boy wanted to go hunting for food, or to defend the house with guns and knives. And as girls, we let them. Not only that, but we praised them for what they brought us (deer, yuck), or had glowing faces when they told us who they shot. In short, we changed ourselves to be the perfect mate.
But nine-year-old boys are different than men. Well, sort of.
In college, I watched shoot-em-up movies during dates, went to football games, and even went to a roller-derby. Really. Traveling roller-derby. I did this to be the perfect date, the perfect mate.
Problem is that the boys turned men I was dating did not get an accurate gauge of me ten years down the line, when I would be less enthusiastic about being the perfect mate. I am far from perfect, but part of the reason I married the man I did was because I did not have to differ too much from who I am in order to be the perfect mate.
I have a friend going through a divorce. We spent much of the weekend crying together, packing her things. For her, the decision was easy. She finally took enough hitting and threatening to decide to leave. She finally pressed charges. She was the perfect mate, too, the perfect punching bag. Until she decided enough is enough. I know my life and hers are far different. I cannot imagine what took her to her current place, and I am awed by her courage to change things.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Paraskavedekatriaphobia
When I was growing up, I thought "triskaidekaphobia" was the fear of Friday the 13th. I was wrong, of course, as triskaidekaphobia is the fear of the number 13. Paraskavedekatriaphobia is the fear of Friday the thirteenth.
Twelve is considered to be a lucky number, a very lucky number. For the religious-minded, think of the twelve apostles. For those who are JRR Tolkien fans, when Bilbo Baggins is selected to accompany the dwarves on their journey, it is explained that the dwarves want him along not only because he is to be their "burglar" but also because there are thirteen dwarves, an unlucky number. Oh, I thought it had something to do with twelve. Well, anyway, Tolkien was more into the number 15 than twelve.
So today is Friday the 13th, and although I don't really believe that today will be less lucky than any other day, I do think about luck.
Have you noticed that some people seem to be luckier than others? But is this luck something real, or is it just some statistical function – there are always "outliers", and rare things happen. So perhaps outliers explain the lucky ones.
Don't ask me how, but guess who hit the big time
Don't look now but guess whose back in town
It's so easy don't even have to try
Your the winner you can take the prize
It's a dream come true which one will it be
It's a dream come true we'll just wait and see
Only the lucky one's get to steal the show
Only the lucky one's really get to know
Only the lucky, Only the lucky one's get Lucky
I think it is sort of sad that I remember Loverboy songs.
Well, I am a tad schizo today. Perhaps I should put "Working for the Weekend" on today.
Twelve is considered to be a lucky number, a very lucky number. For the religious-minded, think of the twelve apostles. For those who are JRR Tolkien fans, when Bilbo Baggins is selected to accompany the dwarves on their journey, it is explained that the dwarves want him along not only because he is to be their "burglar" but also because there are thirteen dwarves, an unlucky number. Oh, I thought it had something to do with twelve. Well, anyway, Tolkien was more into the number 15 than twelve.
So today is Friday the 13th, and although I don't really believe that today will be less lucky than any other day, I do think about luck.
Have you noticed that some people seem to be luckier than others? But is this luck something real, or is it just some statistical function – there are always "outliers", and rare things happen. So perhaps outliers explain the lucky ones.
Don't ask me how, but guess who hit the big time
Don't look now but guess whose back in town
It's so easy don't even have to try
Your the winner you can take the prize
It's a dream come true which one will it be
It's a dream come true we'll just wait and see
Only the lucky one's get to steal the show
Only the lucky one's really get to know
Only the lucky, Only the lucky one's get Lucky
I think it is sort of sad that I remember Loverboy songs.
Well, I am a tad schizo today. Perhaps I should put "Working for the Weekend" on today.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
I love Thursdays
I think Thursday is the nicest day of the week. I am not sure why, but it is.
Friday
Friday seems rushed. I mean, by Friday, we are already looking at the weekend. And when you are at work on a Friday, everybody asks what you are doing for the weekend.
"Jessica has a ballet recital."
"Jeff is going camping with friends."
"Deb is going to hit the bars."
There is always pressure to do cool things on the weekend. And as a childless aging hottie, I have to be doing something fabulous. Frankly, I don't like the pressure.
Wednesday
Wednesday is known as hump day. It is known as that because it is in the middle of the week. When I first heard of the day, I thought it was when people had sex. That would make it a better day. Being sandwiched in the middle of the week doesn't make it special to me.
Tuesday
For bloggers, Tuesday may be TMI Tuesday. I don't want too much information. Braless Tuesday was a hit for a while. An interesting day, but not something that really tickles my fancy.
Monday
The beginning of the week sucks. We can all agree on that.
So here I am loving Thursday. Funny thing is that I used to like days of the week when television shows were on. But that's when there were only three or four networks.
Friday
Friday seems rushed. I mean, by Friday, we are already looking at the weekend. And when you are at work on a Friday, everybody asks what you are doing for the weekend.
"Jessica has a ballet recital."
"Jeff is going camping with friends."
"Deb is going to hit the bars."
There is always pressure to do cool things on the weekend. And as a childless aging hottie, I have to be doing something fabulous. Frankly, I don't like the pressure.
Wednesday
Wednesday is known as hump day. It is known as that because it is in the middle of the week. When I first heard of the day, I thought it was when people had sex. That would make it a better day. Being sandwiched in the middle of the week doesn't make it special to me.
Tuesday
For bloggers, Tuesday may be TMI Tuesday. I don't want too much information. Braless Tuesday was a hit for a while. An interesting day, but not something that really tickles my fancy.
Monday
The beginning of the week sucks. We can all agree on that.
So here I am loving Thursday. Funny thing is that I used to like days of the week when television shows were on. But that's when there were only three or four networks.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Stubbing a Toe
I was at a convenience store the other day, and one guy was limping around. He had a very noticeable limp. To make polite conversation, I asked the guy if he hurt his leg. Turns out, he hurt his toe.
And I got to thinking – hurting a toe (not breaking it, even) can severely impact the way you walk, the way you move.
That got me thinking that little things can really have a huge impact on one's life.
And I got to thinking – hurting a toe (not breaking it, even) can severely impact the way you walk, the way you move.
That got me thinking that little things can really have a huge impact on one's life.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Getting Greener
Last weekend, there were a series of Live Earth concerts, to benefit Mother Earth. I heard that the events were "green", meaning I think, the organizers paid someone for carbon offsets to help balance the hydrocarbons that spewed in the air for the organizers who had to take planes to the event.
Here is what I don't understand – carbon offsets. I mean, I understand wanting to plant trees. I have planted quite a few myself. But when people do the calculations for these offsets, are they talking about the entire life of the tree? I mean, if you plant a tree that will last 100 years, it will not be able to offset everything the first year (the reason for purchasing the tree).
And how will a bunch of concerts benefit "global warming." Yeah, let's hold an even where we make people drive in their cars for an hour to get there, where we have to consume large amounts of beer, chips, and other items, where we might purchase a t-shirt of the event (so we can tell the kids years from now). I mean, all of this seems, well, consumer-oriented. And it is this consumption of natural resources that is part of the problem.
I remember the three R's in school: reduce, reuse, recycle. Well, we are all about recycling. That is something that most of us do. I have recycle bins, and I get hubbie to drive to the recycling spot. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, I know, because the SUV is spewing CO2 into the atmosphere. But really, I have been working on the reduce – that is the R that has the most power. And I do reuse (I have not bought a garbage bag in years). But after having concerts on all 7 continents, I am not sure Mother Earth dropped any appreciatable amount. And people who don't really care about global warming, probably will not be swayed by knowing that there were a series of concerts held last weekend.
So after all of this, I am not sure Al Gore et al really understands how to make an impact. Well, I am sure he and his 10-000 sq ft home does make an impact on the environment, but I am not so sure it is a positive one. Or Occidental Petroleum's oil drilling in economically sensitive areas (he has hundreds of thousands of dollars in their stock). Or his interest in a company that does strip mining.
I guess it is better that we listen to Live Earth concerts than to follow the environmentalist Al Gore.
Here is what I don't understand – carbon offsets. I mean, I understand wanting to plant trees. I have planted quite a few myself. But when people do the calculations for these offsets, are they talking about the entire life of the tree? I mean, if you plant a tree that will last 100 years, it will not be able to offset everything the first year (the reason for purchasing the tree).
And how will a bunch of concerts benefit "global warming." Yeah, let's hold an even where we make people drive in their cars for an hour to get there, where we have to consume large amounts of beer, chips, and other items, where we might purchase a t-shirt of the event (so we can tell the kids years from now). I mean, all of this seems, well, consumer-oriented. And it is this consumption of natural resources that is part of the problem.
I remember the three R's in school: reduce, reuse, recycle. Well, we are all about recycling. That is something that most of us do. I have recycle bins, and I get hubbie to drive to the recycling spot. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, I know, because the SUV is spewing CO2 into the atmosphere. But really, I have been working on the reduce – that is the R that has the most power. And I do reuse (I have not bought a garbage bag in years). But after having concerts on all 7 continents, I am not sure Mother Earth dropped any appreciatable amount. And people who don't really care about global warming, probably will not be swayed by knowing that there were a series of concerts held last weekend.
So after all of this, I am not sure Al Gore et al really understands how to make an impact. Well, I am sure he and his 10-000 sq ft home does make an impact on the environment, but I am not so sure it is a positive one. Or Occidental Petroleum's oil drilling in economically sensitive areas (he has hundreds of thousands of dollars in their stock). Or his interest in a company that does strip mining.
I guess it is better that we listen to Live Earth concerts than to follow the environmentalist Al Gore.
Monday, July 09, 2007
I'm Back
I received a comment from ScarletB the other day, and I just read it: "I've just discovered your blog and I sat here reading and reading...you have a really great style of writing - open and completely natural..thanks for sharing this.."
Wow, what a sweet comment from someone who just read my blog. I have been in a funk lately, and that comment helped.
Speaking of being in a funk, last Wednesday was Independence Day. And having a holiday in the middle of the week sort of sucks. I mean, it seemed like the beginning of the week lasted one week, and the end of the week lasted another week, so instead of being off one day, it felt like I worked two weeks in order to get one day off.
You know, if we called "the Forth of July" Independence Day more often, perhaps we could move the celebration from one day to a more convenient day. I mean, when the founding fathers decided to declare independence from England, they did not say "let's do this on the forth."
I looked at a perpetual calendar (this one), and the Forth of July was on a Thursday. First Thursday of the month. Seems to me that celebrating Independence Day on a Thursday each year would be better. I mean, it would take out the Wednesday celebration (which really sucks, see above). Plus, it would take out the Saturday and Sunday celebrations, and some people don't get the day off if the holiday falls on the weekend.
I mean, I can imagine George Washington and Ben Franklin chatting, and Washington finally saying to everyone, "Okay, we need to decide if we should declare independence." If we make the decision today, we get a three day weekend.
Me, I just want more three day weekends. It seems to be the American way.
Wow, what a sweet comment from someone who just read my blog. I have been in a funk lately, and that comment helped.
Speaking of being in a funk, last Wednesday was Independence Day. And having a holiday in the middle of the week sort of sucks. I mean, it seemed like the beginning of the week lasted one week, and the end of the week lasted another week, so instead of being off one day, it felt like I worked two weeks in order to get one day off.
You know, if we called "the Forth of July" Independence Day more often, perhaps we could move the celebration from one day to a more convenient day. I mean, when the founding fathers decided to declare independence from England, they did not say "let's do this on the forth."
I looked at a perpetual calendar (this one), and the Forth of July was on a Thursday. First Thursday of the month. Seems to me that celebrating Independence Day on a Thursday each year would be better. I mean, it would take out the Wednesday celebration (which really sucks, see above). Plus, it would take out the Saturday and Sunday celebrations, and some people don't get the day off if the holiday falls on the weekend.
I mean, I can imagine George Washington and Ben Franklin chatting, and Washington finally saying to everyone, "Okay, we need to decide if we should declare independence." If we make the decision today, we get a three day weekend.
Me, I just want more three day weekends. It seems to be the American way.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Tired
You know, I have not posted since June 28. No good reason for it either. I preach and practice that you should post on a frequency that does not keep your readers guessing. Being predictable is important. Oh, and writing something worth reading probably ought to be a consideration as well.
I wish I could say that I was on some European cruise. But I wasn't. I am busy, and I at first did not have time to write. And then I did not write and the world did not stop. I don't know if I am going to stop blogging, but you know, I don't enjoy this as much any more.
I am tired and I don't know what I want. I will not write tomorrow, and I may write Monday. Hope your Independence Day celebration was a blast – that you were able to use high-powered explosives to commemorate the US defeating the British 231 years ago.
I wish I could say that I was on some European cruise. But I wasn't. I am busy, and I at first did not have time to write. And then I did not write and the world did not stop. I don't know if I am going to stop blogging, but you know, I don't enjoy this as much any more.
I am tired and I don't know what I want. I will not write tomorrow, and I may write Monday. Hope your Independence Day celebration was a blast – that you were able to use high-powered explosives to commemorate the US defeating the British 231 years ago.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
My Wednesday Appointment
A long time ago, someone asked me to write an erotic story that involves an issue I have trouble with. I think he was just being an ass, or seeing if I could do it. Well, here is the story – it is disturbing to me, mostly because it involves a subject I would not normally chose on my own.
Every Wednesday, I have lunch with Rob.
When I say we have lunch, I mean I leave my administrative job, travel to his house, and he fucks my brains out. Match made in heaven, right? Wrong. Rob is really into anal sex, and well, I have OCD, and I don't want anyone near my butt hole. It is just too unsanitary. Those without OCD really can't understand this.
Each and every visit, it is the same. He asks me if he can fuck me up the ass, and I always make an excuse. Well, the guy is hot, and he lives fairly near where I work, so there are advantages to this. After the third or forth excuse, I told him that I would allow him to fuck me up the ass only when I pooped beforehand. I told him it was because it would seem more sanitary.
So every time, it was the same. He would ask his question, I would smile, and let him know that I had not pooped yet, that I was sorry, but it wasn't going to happen. Because we only had an hour, he quickly groped me, there were clothes flying off, and then some hot normal sex.
I was satisfied.
Anyway, Wednesday comes. I leave work, saying I have to run an errand at lunch, and rush towards my Wednesday appointment.
I get to Rob's house five minutes early, and I pause. I always wonder who else he sees during the day. We are both married, and I think having a committed extramarital affair seems ironic. Besides, he knows I fuck around, and I don't ask about him. I just don't want to know.
I timidly knock on the door, and he opens it almost immediately. I rush past him, and his strong hand grabs my ass.
"I want your ass, today," Rob states.
"Sorry, hun, but I have not pooped since this morning, and you know, I just don't want to do it with some poop in my colon."
I hear a bath being drawn as I answer.
"I want us to take a bath today," Rob counters.
No pawing, no immediate sex. A bath. At once my mind wonders if Rob is getting soft, if I am turning into a girlfriend. I don't want to be a married man's girlfriend. Fuck toy is what I signed up for. Holy crap, I don't want this to happen.
We kiss tenderly as he unwraps me, taking care to place my dress on one of his wife's hangers. He knows I need to look well-made after the bath and whatever. The bra and panties are placed in a ball in the corner of the rather large bathroom.
The tub, a wonderful whirlpool tub, is finally full of bubbly water. Funny, is that I think he should not be placing bubble bath in the water – it clogs up the jets, and the fragrance will be different on me than the fragrance I came to the appointment with.
I slid into the tub, and then Rob entered the tub. He lightly touched my breasts, and I felt safe, like a girlfriend. Crap.
His finger hit the whirlpool button, and the jets came to life. Oh, the powerful jets, twelve of them, started massaging our bodies.
"I want you to do something for me," Rob stated. His words were powerful.
"Sure, sweetie," I answered, trying to lighten the mood.
"I want you to read this book," Rob pulled a hardback copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover from a hiding place, "while you let the jets work on you."
He turned the book to Chapter 9, and, as ordered, I started to read.
Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford. What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost, it seemed to her, she had married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.
While reading, he positioned me on my knees, leaning on the side of the tub, reading. At first, he positioned a jet at me, and it shot water in the direction of my pussy. The water was warm and wonderful.
He told me to stay in that exact position, and he was going to go get something and come back. I was to stop at the end Chapter 10.
I think Rob left to have DH Lawrence's words act upon me. As I continued to read, I noticed that the jets were not really targeted on my pussy; the jets were forcing water against my anus.
Being OCD, I did not mind. Having an extra-clean asshole was nice, comforting. After a few minutes, however, the constant pounding of water against my anus was a bit uncomfortable. Still I sat and read, wanting to please Rob.
Rob joined me nearly fifteen minutes later, but because I was reading, I did not notice how much time had elapsed. His reappearance re-awoke my senses. By that time, my ass hurt a little bit, and I made a joke about it to Rob.
Rob entered the tub again and chucked.
"Sweetie," he reassured me, "the reason your ass hurts is that gas has gotten in your ass. You probably need to fart."
He kissed me and placed a hand to support my left breast, having his pointer finger trace the curve of my breast.
"Ladies don't pass gas in front of men," I giggled, and Rob had me turn over, him wanting to touch my ass.
His finger traced my back, and I felt so safe, so comfortable.
He kissed my back again and again, and said, "Fart for me, please. It will make your bottom feel better."
"No," I responded.
And he kissed my earlobe, sucking on the lobe and tonguing my ear. It completely drives me crazy, and Rob knows my weakness.
The bubbles were so fragrant, the water so warm, my anus having a bit of pressure, most likely from that darned gas.
And then I farted.
The gas smelled awful, aided no doubt by the constant bubbling. Goodness, I hope this did not turn Rob on.
Rob reached for some lube, and I started to protest, and then it hit me. I did not pass gas in the whirlpool. Flecks of poop were bubbling to the surface. Instead of a bit of gas in my butt, I am sure I had a great deal of water in my colon. The whirlpool acted as an enima, and I had just shat in the whirlpool.
He lubed me fast, and started fucking me hard in the ass. He was not gentle, but the fragrance, the knowledge of me pooping in the tub, everything, just made me submit.
Afterward, I took a shower to get the smell off of me. From that day onward, I would take an enema to work on Wednesdays. And before meeting Rob, I would go to the bathroom, squeeze the salt water in my butt, and shit for my Rob. Lesson learned.
Every Wednesday, I have lunch with Rob.
When I say we have lunch, I mean I leave my administrative job, travel to his house, and he fucks my brains out. Match made in heaven, right? Wrong. Rob is really into anal sex, and well, I have OCD, and I don't want anyone near my butt hole. It is just too unsanitary. Those without OCD really can't understand this.
Each and every visit, it is the same. He asks me if he can fuck me up the ass, and I always make an excuse. Well, the guy is hot, and he lives fairly near where I work, so there are advantages to this. After the third or forth excuse, I told him that I would allow him to fuck me up the ass only when I pooped beforehand. I told him it was because it would seem more sanitary.
So every time, it was the same. He would ask his question, I would smile, and let him know that I had not pooped yet, that I was sorry, but it wasn't going to happen. Because we only had an hour, he quickly groped me, there were clothes flying off, and then some hot normal sex.
I was satisfied.
Anyway, Wednesday comes. I leave work, saying I have to run an errand at lunch, and rush towards my Wednesday appointment.
I get to Rob's house five minutes early, and I pause. I always wonder who else he sees during the day. We are both married, and I think having a committed extramarital affair seems ironic. Besides, he knows I fuck around, and I don't ask about him. I just don't want to know.
I timidly knock on the door, and he opens it almost immediately. I rush past him, and his strong hand grabs my ass.
"I want your ass, today," Rob states.
"Sorry, hun, but I have not pooped since this morning, and you know, I just don't want to do it with some poop in my colon."
I hear a bath being drawn as I answer.
"I want us to take a bath today," Rob counters.
No pawing, no immediate sex. A bath. At once my mind wonders if Rob is getting soft, if I am turning into a girlfriend. I don't want to be a married man's girlfriend. Fuck toy is what I signed up for. Holy crap, I don't want this to happen.
We kiss tenderly as he unwraps me, taking care to place my dress on one of his wife's hangers. He knows I need to look well-made after the bath and whatever. The bra and panties are placed in a ball in the corner of the rather large bathroom.
The tub, a wonderful whirlpool tub, is finally full of bubbly water. Funny, is that I think he should not be placing bubble bath in the water – it clogs up the jets, and the fragrance will be different on me than the fragrance I came to the appointment with.
I slid into the tub, and then Rob entered the tub. He lightly touched my breasts, and I felt safe, like a girlfriend. Crap.
His finger hit the whirlpool button, and the jets came to life. Oh, the powerful jets, twelve of them, started massaging our bodies.
"I want you to do something for me," Rob stated. His words were powerful.
"Sure, sweetie," I answered, trying to lighten the mood.
"I want you to read this book," Rob pulled a hardback copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover from a hiding place, "while you let the jets work on you."
He turned the book to Chapter 9, and, as ordered, I started to read.
Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford. What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost, it seemed to her, she had married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.
While reading, he positioned me on my knees, leaning on the side of the tub, reading. At first, he positioned a jet at me, and it shot water in the direction of my pussy. The water was warm and wonderful.
He told me to stay in that exact position, and he was going to go get something and come back. I was to stop at the end Chapter 10.
I think Rob left to have DH Lawrence's words act upon me. As I continued to read, I noticed that the jets were not really targeted on my pussy; the jets were forcing water against my anus.
Being OCD, I did not mind. Having an extra-clean asshole was nice, comforting. After a few minutes, however, the constant pounding of water against my anus was a bit uncomfortable. Still I sat and read, wanting to please Rob.
Rob joined me nearly fifteen minutes later, but because I was reading, I did not notice how much time had elapsed. His reappearance re-awoke my senses. By that time, my ass hurt a little bit, and I made a joke about it to Rob.
Rob entered the tub again and chucked.
"Sweetie," he reassured me, "the reason your ass hurts is that gas has gotten in your ass. You probably need to fart."
He kissed me and placed a hand to support my left breast, having his pointer finger trace the curve of my breast.
"Ladies don't pass gas in front of men," I giggled, and Rob had me turn over, him wanting to touch my ass.
His finger traced my back, and I felt so safe, so comfortable.
He kissed my back again and again, and said, "Fart for me, please. It will make your bottom feel better."
"No," I responded.
And he kissed my earlobe, sucking on the lobe and tonguing my ear. It completely drives me crazy, and Rob knows my weakness.
The bubbles were so fragrant, the water so warm, my anus having a bit of pressure, most likely from that darned gas.
And then I farted.
The gas smelled awful, aided no doubt by the constant bubbling. Goodness, I hope this did not turn Rob on.
Rob reached for some lube, and I started to protest, and then it hit me. I did not pass gas in the whirlpool. Flecks of poop were bubbling to the surface. Instead of a bit of gas in my butt, I am sure I had a great deal of water in my colon. The whirlpool acted as an enima, and I had just shat in the whirlpool.
He lubed me fast, and started fucking me hard in the ass. He was not gentle, but the fragrance, the knowledge of me pooping in the tub, everything, just made me submit.
Afterward, I took a shower to get the smell off of me. From that day onward, I would take an enema to work on Wednesdays. And before meeting Rob, I would go to the bathroom, squeeze the salt water in my butt, and shit for my Rob. Lesson learned.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
3. My Stories. Yeah, I have a few erotic stories here. I know, they are not all that good, but they were fun to write. Don't read them if this offends you (and they represent less than 1% of the content here). These stories have elements of truth and fantasy, some more true than others. Complain about something that is a bit more substantive if you must complain. I have lots of faults.
