Scintillectually Yours

vi.sualize.us

Last week I was looking for feedback on a few projects I had going and I couldn’t find a single soul in my department. I kept returning to my office, which, inexplicably, has been placed within a completely different department and is sparsely populated with people who have never bothered to introduce themselves to me (nor I to them, truth be told). I would drum my fingers, check my e-mail, pop onto Facebook, drum my fingers, go to the bathroom, and then return to my department only to find it as empty as Deadman’s Gulch in the middle of a long, hot, dry summer. Nursing a migraine and realizing that I wasn’t actually going to get paid to do nothing (I work on an hourly contract basis), I sent out a blanket e-mail and left around 4 p.m.

The next day I was checking webmail from home and found a link to pictures from a co-worker’s baby shower the day before. Ah-hah! Mystery solved. Everyone—I mean, EVERYONE—had been attending the baby shower for a woman that I work very closely with. Everyone, that is, except me. Okay, so I’ve only been working there for 5 weeks, but you’d think someone would at least have the decency to inform me of the event, even if I wasn’t invited. I wasted an entire afternoon trying to be productive while everyone else was hogging down blue icing-covered sheet cake and oohing and aahing over onesies.

I’m not saying I wished to be invited. Baby showers (unless they are yours) are generally duller than dirt. What the event in question did though, was alert me to the fact that I am truly an outsider at work. I come in, I go to my office, I work. If I have questions or need feedback, I will track down the appropriate people and get the answers I need. I eat lunch at my desk while I work (because frankly, this single mom with a part-time hourly job can’t afford to be running off to kibbitz over salads at the local café). While I consider myself to be accessible and friendly, I don’t generally meander around looking for someone to chat with. I don’t share details of my personal life. I have to be accountable, on paper, for every hour that I am there, and so…I work.

I think I noticed the real change when I finally dropped the feminine pronoun in an email responding to a polite query about “my friend’s surgery.” This came from the preggo. (Should I have prefaced this entire blog with the fact that I now live in the deep South, my coworkers are all heterosexual and married, and my boss lists his one interest on his Facebook page as The Bible?) The following day, I rounded the corner and found the two women that I work with most closely huddled together in preggo’s cubicle. As soon as they saw me they pulled apart and both shut their mouths abruptly and looked at me as if I’d caught them feeling each other up. Um, yeah, talking about me much? I smiled, asked my question, kept smiling, and left. To work.

This happens a lot. These two seem to have very little to do other than socialize with each other. Clearly, I am not of their ilk. They regard me as some strange, exotic creature that emerges from her cage periodically to stalk the halls in search of prey. At 45 years of age, I am having high school déjà vu all over again. I am reminded of the time I overheard three coworkers in the office next to mine (when I was a very young designer working in a high-end publishing firm in Manhattan) discussing what a dork I was and laughing about how there was no way they wanted me at my boss’s wedding. She invited me anyway and yes, it was a miserable experience as my girlfriend and I stood in a corner with our plates as we’d somehow been left off the seating list. Joke’s on us, right?

So now I am biding my time. I’m feeling several things. Primarily, I’m feeling annoyed. I came here to do a job and I do it well. However, I’ve gotten some really odd feedback from my boss and I am getting the strange sense that I’m being gaslighted. I feel as though my days are numbered. Today I got an e-mail telling me that I was still in an “exploratory period where we are evaluating your skills and style and where and who you may or may not connect with the best.” Um…excuse me? When I took on this job, this guy was over-the-moon regarding my skill set, background, and ability to work autonomously. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m walking on broken glass and it fucking hurts, man!

So, what the hell is it? Am I that much of an odd bird that they simply don’t know how to relate to me? I would expect that, given my appearance (and all evidence exhibited by my past experiences in business and elsewhere) everyone assumed I was straight. Discovering that I’m a dyke probably gave them serious fuel for their frequent coffee klatches and water cooler discussions. Am I also threatening to them? I’m the prodigal daughter, having worked high-profile positions in New York and Boston for 23 years, returned home to steal away their precious little positions? Girls! I don’t WANT your job! I get to work when I want, where I want, and for how much I want! Trust me, I do not want to step on your toes, I don’t want to be your best friend, and I couldn’t care less about trying to fit in.

It all boils down to this: Why can’t women simply work alongside one another without the cattiness and backbiting that happens in business? This is why I prefer to freelance from home—I loathe office politics. Homey don’t play ‘dat game. Let me be part of the team as far as helping you do your job to the best of your abilities and get paid for an honest day’s work. I’m not going to rat you out for your constant chatter, but be kind if I haven’t actually crossed you. Because seriously? You don’t want to cross me. That will be the day that I decide to whip out my poison tongue and use it in ways that are not pleasurable to you in the least. And after that? I may well have to move on to something else. Like selling adult novelties at the local sex shop.

Not actually a bad idea at all, really. Not at all.

“O fairest flower, no sooner blown but blasted,

Soft silken primrose fading timelessly.”

~John Milton

*CLICK*

Don’t forget to visit Osbasso for more HNT goodness!

The excitement and anticipation surrounding us was palpable. My senses felt overwhelmed as I clutched your hand and took in the scenery around us. Throngs of men and women in costume—everyone masked—waited impatiently for the castle doors to open and the events of the night to commence. I felt as though we were in Venice rather than the small Southern town barely 20 minutes from home.

I looked over at you and you grinned widely at me. Your features, sharp and delicate (so like Cary Elwes), stood out in stark contrast to your black bandana. Your black shirt was open at the neck and I barely suppressed an urge to lean over and run my tongue from collarbone to ear. My darling Dread Pirate Roberts. You looked every bit the part tonight. Sadly, I hadn’t time to find an appropriate medieval gown—but, then again, Princess Buttercup I am not. I opted for a black corset tied tightly over a voluminous Victorian-era skirt that tied up in tiers, exposing thigh high fishnets and gray ankle boots. I adjusted my top hat and felt the layers of tulle ribbon settle themselves upon my bare back.

There was a murmur from the crowd and we began jostling forward as the large, heavy door swung open, revealing tantalizing colored lights within. The Castle Carnivale. So many years I’d wanted to attend. You put your arm around my waist protectively and ushered me along. Once we entered the high-ceilinged foyer, I couldn’t decide where to go first. The options presented to us were dizzying. There were so many performers booked in so many rooms. I wanted to take it all in. I wanted to be part of the magic.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, “Please?” You understood that I was indecisive and needed you to be in control of the night ahead. You nodded and moved close to my ear, “As you wish.”

You led me to the first room, filled wall to wall with people. There was no music—just a steady, rhythmic drumming. I could feel heat from the platform set in a far corner but couldn’t see over the elaborate hats and headdresses. You deftly maneuvered us to the front and there were two men and woman, nude save for absolutely breathtaking body paint. One of the men was swallowing a flaming sword. The woman was dipping torches in some kind of flammable liquid, lighting them with a torch, and passing them to the second man who knelt on the floor touching each one to his tongue to put out the flame. His movements were rapid—their synchronization complete.

The next room was a burlesque performance and I delighted in the often bawdy revelry. We moved from there to the pole dancer. As far as I could tell, she was wearing string—strategically placed to showcase her head-to-toe tattoos. Tiger stripes. Pantera Blacksmith. I’d seen her in Boston and had photos taken with her. She was pure artistry wound up in a tight little muscular package of athletic grace and agility. I took the time to say hello in between shows and was surprised she’d remembered me. Perhaps it was the same corset that tipped her off, or she was just being gracious.

The exotic sights and sounds were getting to me. I could feel the heat building in my groin as we moved from room to room. The drinks were flowing and everyone seemed to be affected by the intense sexuality emanating from the performers and party-goers alike. We grabbed a couple of waters and headed to one of the dance bars—a DJ spinning the kind of erotic techno that makes you want to strip down and have sex in the middle of the room. You pulled me into a darkened corner and wrapped your arms around my waist so that we could both watch the dancers. I felt you hard against me and realized for the first time all night that you had packed. My breath came just a little faster in my throat and you chuckled. Your own breath tickling the back of my neck and sending shivers down my spine.

I backed up further into you. Nestling my ass against your crotch. A crowd was gathering in front of us as a professional dance troupe took the floor. Everyone’s back to us, I turned into you. My hat and your mask made kissing virtually impossible. But your cool gray eyes glinted with mischief and lust. I could feel my body flush with desire and I knew that I didn’t want to wait to go fuck in the car. I hoisted one leg over your hip and draped my arms around your shoulders. Our eyes locked and you let one hand trail across the top of my breasts, spilling out of the tightly bound corset. My head dropped back for one second and then I stared back at you again, licking my lips ever so slightly. The music, as loud as it was, seemed to fade into the background as you ran both hands down my sides and then slipped one hand between my legs.

I gasped and reached for you. The skirt I wore concealed our bodies well although anyone paying attention could clearly see that my body was gyrating of its own accord. Our private performance may well have been the subject of discussion but I didn’t care enough to notice whether anyone was watching. As you slipped your hand inside my hot pink ruffled panties, I slid your zipper down and pulled your cock out. Reaching down, I slid my hand between yours and my incredibly wet cunt. I came away with instant lubrication for this hot and steamy handjob. You moaned and broke eye contact so that you could watch my hand move from base to tip and back again. My other hand held firm to the back of your neck and I dug my fingernails in deep as you drove several fingers hard into my pussy. We picked up the rhythm of the bass beat and our hands moved together upon each other. Our breathing heavy, our moans loud but not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

This was our show. Our time. As we so often do, we came together—staring each other down. My eyes closed first and my head fell back again, my hat toppling to the floor as I cried out my orgasm and bloodied the back of your neck with my nails. I felt a tap on my shoulder and quickly whipped around, protecting your exposed cock as you pulled yourself together. A young woman, scantily clad in feathers and satin, was offering my hat to me. “I believe this belongs to you?” she smirked. I blushed deeply, still breathless and contracting. I couldn’t find my voice and nodded my thanks as I put it back on, pulling it low over one mascara-smeared eye.

I turned back to find you grinning like the Cheshire cat, “I need to fuck you. Now.”

I wasn’t arguing. I wanted you inside me desperately but, after assessing the looks on our nearest neighbors’ faces, I decided we’d better find another room. We took off in search of the perfect place in this Castle Carnevale. Somewhere loud, crowded, filled with hot and sweaty bodies—average folks who, for one night of the year, let loose their inhibitions and allowed two slightly off-kilter dykes like us a single dark corner in which to do our dirty deeds.

You make me feel like a candy apple
Red and horny
You make me feel like I wanna be a dumb blonde
In a centerfold, the girl next door
And I would open the door and…
I’d be all wet
With my tits soaking through this tiny little t-shirt…
That I’m wearing
And you would open the door and tie…
Me up to the bed

~Paula Cole, from “Feelin’ Love”

*CLICK*

(and don’t forget to visit Osbasso for more HNT goodness)

vi.sualize.us

Two days have passed since we’d seen each other. I thought that once I was a scant two miles down the road, we’d be together all the time. I hadn’t bargained on all of the minutia of day-to-day life—a new job with a fairly long commute, visits with my family, time I need to spend alone with my son, time you need with your mother, not to mention the small silly things like banking and grocery shopping. Today, however, I had cleared the decks. My son was sent to a friend’s house and I have no impending work. I am looking forward to spending time together and thinking of what we might do as I move from room to room, tidying up as I go along.

I am just pulling taut the wrinkles in the comforter, bending over to smooth out the folds, when I feel your hands on my hips. I jump and started to turn—I hadn’t heard you come in. “Oh baby, don’t move,” you say, “let me look at you.” I grin to myself. I know what parts of my body drive you crazy. I know you have a thing for my legs—my thighs and calves well-muscled and tight from daily hip-hop and Zumba classes (my newfound passion next to you)—and, of course, my ass. You sigh appreciatively and put your hands firmly on my shoulders, pushing me down across the bed. “Mmmm…naughty boi…what are you up to?” I expect your usual comeback (“oh, about 5’4”) but you shush me and I stretch my arms out languidly.

You reach around me and quickly unzip my jean shorts. They drop to the floor and I arch my back as you push my panties down around my ankles to join them. I am already achingly wet with anticipation and frustration. I imagine your fingers slipping into me but you have something else in mind entirely and you know it will make me want you ever so much more. While I expect you to take your boi-clit in hand (there is nothing quite like having you jerk off against my bare skin—your hand bumping against my swollen clit with each thrust), I am pleasantly surprised when I feel your cock slide between the cheeks of my ass. Your hand comes down hard upon me and I gasp with the exquisite pain. Again, you thwart my expectations. Rather than bending over to kiss the welt you have raised, your hand caresses my skin and I feel the wetness that you have produced soothe the burn like a balm.

I press myself back against you and spread my legs as wide as I possible can—opening myself to you utterly. “Oh, what a good girl…” you say and a moan escapes me involuntarily. Now you have a purpose. With cock in hand, lubricated by your own juices, you begin to slowly pull your shaft. I feel your fist and then the head of your cock alternately pushing at my anus, wet and open. I crave your cock inside me but you aren’t ready. You pick up the pace and all the nasty thoughts in my head flow from my mouth and I can’t stop them (I want to be your good girl, your bad girl, your dirty little whore, filthy slut, everything you want, fill me up, use me, take me, spank me, please, daddy, please daddy please, daddy please daddy please). Driven by my words you jerk off faster and harder—the sound of your breathing nearly overrides the stream of dirty talk that I have no apparent control over. Very soon you stiffen and moan and your hand tugs hard on your cock one final time as you collapse over me.

I smile and begin to turn over, expecting (the unexpected, by now?) you to hold me for a bit as you catch your breath. Again, you take me by surprise. Holding me down you tell me that you brought me a bit of a present but I am not to move. I obey although my cunt is throbbing with need. You leave the room and when you come back, you slip my new blindfold over my eyes. The sudden darkness and my vulnerable position make me weak with desire. But, that isn’t all you’ve brought. I feel something snakelike and silky coil across my back. It feels familiar, but not like anything we’ve used before. I try to place the texture but before I can name it you pull my arms backward and bend my knees, placing my hands around my own ankles. Rope. Silken rope.

I am now tethered to myself in the middle of my own bed in my own room. You leave again and I hear you in the kitchen. This is becoming maddening. I can’t even begin to imagine how swollen and red my pussy must be. You are silent when you return and this time the sensation is immediately recognizable. Oh how I love the white-hot pain of ice, particularly when my body temperature is already soaring.

You run the cube down the middle of my back and then let it melt slightly in the crack of my ass. I am wild with wanting some relief. I ache with want. You reach under my body and rub the ice against my rock-hard nipples then bring it back and before I can even begin to beg you slip it inside me with two fingers. My orgasm is instantaneous. Hot, clear liquid gushes forth and I shudder. My body fights itself within the confines of the ropes. You are relentlessly working my clit—your tongue and fingers everywhere. I know you must be on your knees between my legs. My arms grow sore but I don’t care. Every sense I have is centered on my cunt and the wave after wave of contractions you pull forth from me.

The ice cube is long melted within me and I radiate nothing but heat. I can do nothing but whimper in the darkness and I am dimly aware of you lovingly untying my ropes. My arms have fallen asleep—they are numb and tingling. As soon as I am free my body curls in upon itself and you crawl over behind me, holding me tightly, whispering your love into my ear. You rock me quietly, soothing me.

And before too long, I reach over between your legs. I want what I want and, after all, we do have all day.

It’s not erotica. It’s not a toy review. It’s not an HNT or an MFM. DPR and I have had a bit on our plate lately and as usual, writing is my catharsis.

I hold the phone in my hand just a fraction of a second too long after my mumbled “thank you.” The receptionist, large, dark chocolate brown with kind eyes immediately gets up from her seat and comes around to the outer door—enveloping me in her mighty arms, my head against her shoulder, her hand in my hair. She is a stranger to me, but her contact is welcome. I had expected the word. We both had. We all had. But we had done such a wonderful job of glossing over it—knowing the risks of another hour of surgery.

Cancer.

I pulled away. Turned away. Stood looking out the plate glass window trying to regain my composure before your mother returned from the Ladies Room. I thought back to the last glimpse I had of you, embarrassed in your blue surgical bonnet. I bent over to kiss you, whispering my love, and stepping back so the nurse and orderlies could wheel you into the operating room. I thought, fleetingly, would this be the last time I would see you? No. No. I wouldn’t think that.

Before the parting I had entertained you. I pulled silly toys from my purse and lay them on your blanketed lap, careful not to jostle the intravenous umbilical. A Lego motorcycle rider. A bouncy ball in green and orange. A large plastic die. A tiny monkey doing a somersault. You seemed to relax a bit now that you were no longer keeping company alone with the constant beeping of the monitors. We played. You peered down my cleavage and mouthed double entendres unseen by your mother, reading in the corner behind you. We laughed and joked.

Before the hospital we kidded morbidly about what to do with your body in the event that you didn’t make it out alive. You told us to clean out your bank account—one way tickets to Scotland where we could spread your ashes over the highland cows (heeland coos). I thought perhaps we should be able to return so perhaps you’d like to live on a shelf in my son’s room for a year or so. Then I decided that we should stuff you and create an art installation of people frozen in time at the hands of a local taxidermist.

Looking out that window, none of it seemed funny.

We made our phone calls, your mother and I. We sat together as the waiting room emptied out. We sat silently, each with our own books, pretending not to notice whenever the other would steal a glance at the multicolored electronic board—your initials still in pink, marking your place in the operating room. This hour, the worst. It seemed as though we’d crossed into an episode of the Twilight  Zone. In that waiting room minutes became hours and hours became days. Shadows lengthened. The receptionist closed down. Occasionally a security guard would pass through. Still, your initials, alone on the board now, marking time in the operating room.

Cancer.

I felt a fist-sized ball of hurt in the pit of my stomach. I thought of all the complications we had discussed. I imagined the worst of all and wondered how I could possibly live without you. I felt selfish. How dare you bring me all the way down here and then leave me alone? I fought off anger and worry and sadness and despair and when we finally looked up to discover an empty board we rose in unison and silently moved to the elevator to find your room.

I spent the night fretfully at your side. I wouldn’t leave you now, no matter the condition of the sleeping arrangements. I had the rest of my life to sleep. I wanted to be there to hold your hand, to stroke your hair through your horrible sickness and pain, to do what little I could to make this first night just a bit more bearable for you.

Now, it has been 24 hours. You are home and I am home. Our homes are not the same homes and I miss you. I worry for you. I want to hover and fret. I want to distract you. I want you to distract me. In a few days we will have more test results. You promise me they’ve gotten it all.

Cut. Or burn. Or poison.

That is what you do to Cancer.

Can you promise me you won’t leave? Can you promise that?