Scintillectually Yours

It seems like the only time I come around anymore is to apologize for not coming around anymore.

Scintillectual started out several years ago as FemmeBLT (with Mayo). At the time, it was a great way to elucidate my relationship with former HTB. I had no real outlet to discuss the myriad topics that being with a transman brought up. We had milestones to celebrate and identities to redefine and we also had a lot of issues. He hated that I kept a sex blog. At the time, he accused me of using it to get attention and I scoffed. I qualified it as a creative outlet for a little harmless erotica.

But he was right. I resurrected FemmeBLT as Scintillectual when he packed his things, left one morning, and never came back. I pulled the covers over my head, smoked a lot of cigarettes, wrote very maudlin blog posts on my (other) site, and eventually I packed away my engagement ring, the wedding magazines, and the photos of us, and started taking baby steps into the dating world again. The overwhelming reaction to the writing I did on Scintillectually Yours fed my hunger for attention. I was awash in my loneliness. I thrived on the comments and the accolades and the occasional appearance of one of my submissions as a top pick for one of the sex blogger digests.

Then DPR came back into my life. We had a smoking hot reunion and our week-long trysts once a month were passionate and exciting and my blogging became infectious. DPR started Androgynonamous and we both burned the midnight oil writing some of the best stuff we’d ever put out.

Then life changed.

Life became…life. Moving to the same city, 900 miles from where I’d been, our lives became tangible and interwoven and complex and wonderfully domestic. I found a fabulous job and my part-time hours became full-time hours. I started acting in community theatre–pursuing a lifelong passion that I’d never had either the time or a supportive partner for. We found a church we loved and became members. I started singing in the choir. My son fell into a rhythm of his own. There was no awkward transition, no missing his old friends. He moved easily and gratefully into his new life. He and DPR take scout camping trips together and go “man-shopping” for my birthday and Mother’s Day. I coached his basketball team and sit on the sidelines cheering his flag football games.

Our sex life is no less passionate than it was…but it’s admittedly less frequent. We’re busy. We’re older. We’re parents. And we’re tired. When we get the chance we go for it with gusto but we’re not feeling part of the fetish community. We’re feeling like a couple. A family. Just your average middle-class suburban Southern dykes with a kid, a station wagon, and a couple of pets.

We’re planning our wedding. It’s going to be a big affair. My big fat gay wedding. My days are filled with appointments with caterers and florists and bakeries and phone calls to and from my bridesmaids and oh, did I mention how positively beautiful my dress is?

We’re spending our honeymoon in Sedona. Spiritual. Romantic. Relaxed. Beautiful.

Just. Like. Us.

For those of you that still pop by on occasion…I hope to keep writing. The tone of Scintillectual may change some. It doesn’t need to serve the same purpose it once did. I live with more integrity now. I have all of the attention I could possibly need. I’m in love and I am loved and sex is the icing on the cake of my life. Perhaps I’ll stop by now and then and serve up a slice.

Just don’t hold your breath for too long, now, ya hear?

I’m a horrible blogger. I have neglected this site for so long that just coming around to muse the fact that people still actually stop by here every single day (and not just a few…more like…50) even though I haven’t posted in a coon’s age (yes, I am picking up southern colloquialisms) makes me cough and sputter through the dust and cobwebs in the corners. So, I thought that, while I don’t have anything remotely sex-related to write about today, I’d at least let my faithful readers know I’m still alive and well.

DPR and I have settled into somewhat of a routine since I moved down here in July. Although we don’t live in the same house, we do spend most of our nights together. Some are hot and steamy, others are lovely, quiet times when we lie next to each other with books and reading glasses, holding hands, and then drifting off to sleep with hir hand on my breast (it’s by far my favorite way to fall asleep). Our life has become fairly domesticated and we no longer need to cram all that we can into a too-short week’s visit once a month or so. We are both busy with our respective jobs, our extended families, entertaining friends for dinner, and co-parenting my son (DPR is rock solid in that department and I thrill to watch my son wait at the window for hir arrival and wrap himself around hir like a monkey).

Additionally, I have finally had the chance to pursue a lifelong dream of being on the stage (no, not as a pole dancer, although the fantasy is a good one). Since July I have auditioned for three shows, gotten three callbacks, and landed a small role in To Kill a Mockingbird. Through 5 weeks of grueling rehearsals and 10 performances, DPR would work all day and then shuffle my son off to Scouts or help with homework or play games and then put him to bed so that I could get my first experience in live theatre. Needless to say, I loved every minute of it. The set was unbelievable, the cast and crew were amazing, and I learned so much in the process. I am forever grateful to finally have a partner that actually encourages my interests rather than laughing them off. For 10 years after my son was born, I put aside all of my own wants and needs in favor of his because my partners weren’t willing to step up and share responsibility. DPR does all that and then some…and it doesn’t hurt that I’m marrying into a theatre family. Zhe gets it. Zhe really does. (Oh, the pronouns? Yeah…I’ll explain that some other time.)

Wait, you caught the marrying part, too? Yes, on top of all that we have on our plates, we are planning our wedding. We set a date and we will be married in front of approximately 100 of our closest friends and family October 1, 2011. Afterward, we are jetting off to Hawaii to stay at a friend’s B&B in South Kona. While I sometimes feel the chill in my toes—having been divorced once and left at the altar a second time—I really am quite content to know that I’ll be spending the rest of my life with my best friend, my lover, my anam cara.

So, you see, we’re here…we’re just busy living life together. I am keeping up with some other writing projects—my letter writing challenge is taking far longer than 30 days, but I do get my article in for Our Big Gayborhood on time every month. In fact, yesterday my article posted about gender issues and the lines we draw for our children. Check it out here.

DPR has given me a few choice assignments for Wicked Wednesday that I need to work on and I am about a dozen products behind in my sex toy reviews. Rest assured, I’ll have some time over the holidays to do some writing and I promise not to neglect you all for long. My thanks for your loyal readership and willingness to be patient.

Anyone who knows my darling DPR and/or reads her blog, knows that she is extremely androgynous. Actually, she doesn’t look as confusing as she does downright male. Hell, just the other day while in line at the dollar store, the woman in front of her referred to her as “just another caucasian male.” Really? She could pass 100% of the time as a man if she never opened her mouth. When she speaks however, out drips this warm, soft southern syrup. A decidedly feminine voice if there ever was one.

DPR deals with gender confusion issues every day of her life and has done so since she was old enough to recognize that people were looking at her funny. This isn’t a “look” she chose to go after. She was simply born this way. If she tries to “femme-it-up” to make her identity easier for others, she looks very much like a bad drag queen. She is often mistaken for a gay man (which has had its amusing moments) but more often than not, folks just gawk openly. Sometimes the more ignorant of them assume that since she is gender-fluid, she must also be deaf—as was the case of the two women sitting across from her at the doctor’s office recently. She tells of one of the women very loudly  “stage-whispering” to her companion, “Is that a man or a woman?” Her friend looked at her, “What?” “Right there in front of you, dummy!” the woman replied. The entire waiting room was watching this exchange while DPR contemplated running for the exit. Instead she said simply, “Woman.” “WHAT???” came the incredulous response  (because she spoke, not because she identified her gender). “You seem confused,” DPR said, “I’m female.” This is but one example of what she endures every single day. I’ve seen it in action and I get extraordinarily angry at the ignorance that provokes such public humiliation.

Those who know me, know that I try to live my life based on my favorite quote by Emile Zola: “You ask me what I came here to do. I will tell you. I came to live out loud.” So it isn’t like me to sit idly by and let anyone I love be bashed in any way. While this may cause further embarrassment at times, it’s hard for me to hold back. So it was the other evening at dinner.

We were out at our favorite restaurant with her mother and my son. We frequent this place at least once a week and DPR has been a regular for more than a decade. Needless to say, she knows everyone and everyone knows her. Well, everyone save the three elderly folks who were seated three tables away from our booth. DPR had come in late and they must have watched her walking across the parking lot. Slim of hip and flat of chest, she has close-cropped hair and a bit of a cowboy swagger. Dressed for work in khaki pants and a button-down shirt over a polo, she sat down and placed her order. The minute she opened her mouth I watched all three blue-tinted heads swivel in their chairs. I let it pass. When she started relating her day, they turned again. And again. And again. Finally I mentioned it to DPR, who had her back to them. She rolled her eyes and sighed. The woman seated behind her excused herself for eavesdropping but said she had noticed it too and found it horribly rude. “Welcome to my world,” DPR said.

I let a few minutes pass by and then I asked my son to let me out of the booth. “I’ll be back,” I said. Really, I was fed up and this was OUR turf and there was no way I was going to let these people off the hook. I didn’t care how old they were or how entitled they felt in making their disgust and bewilderment so painfully obvious. I walked up to the table with a big smile on my face and was immediately greeted by three of the most shocked looks I’ve ever encountered.

“Hi! I couldn’t help but notice you staring and I figured you must know me! Since I couldn’t place your faces, I thought I’d get up and introduce myself.” I stuck my hand out to the woman across the table and said “I’m Diana…and you are…?” The woman mumbled something incoherent and shook my hand. I repeated the process with her friend who was peering at me owlishly out of a very red face. Then I turned to the man who seemed to be trying to crawl under the table, “And you sir? You are…?” Of course I don’t recall any of their names. They were insignificant to me. I was there to make a point. “That’s fabulous!” I said,”Well now! I just want you all to enjoy the rest of your meal and,” at this point, I leaned in closely and confidentially, all eyes upon me, and said, “why don’t you take the rest of the evening to,” I gestured in a small circle around the table, “talk amongst yourselves now. Take care!” I flashed another huge smile and walked back to our booth and sat down. Needless to say, I never saw them turn around again.

DPR looked at her mom, “This is why I love this woman.”

Never, ever let it be said that chivalry is either dead or marked “butch only.” Next time, I may take names AND kick some ass.

My darling DPR nominated me as one of Rhett’s Queens of the Rodeo over on his site, Musings from the High Speed Rodeo. I got up this morning to find pics of myself plastered all over his page along with some truly blush-worthy text written by my sweetie. So get on over there and check it out. Don’t forget to browse around and see the Queens that came before me and if you have a beautiful femme Queen you’d like to nominate, step up to the bar and do so!

Oh, and if you were ever curious about what I look like from the neck up? You won’t be anymore! *grin*

My darling DPR has a birthday today and as most of you have followed our relationship from our reconnection after 26 years, I thought I’d be brazen and post an open letter to the love of my life—celebrating the day of her birth. Join me in wishing her (and us) many years of happiness to come, won’t you?

Dearest Li,

It has been almost a full year since I found you again and nearly 9 months to the day that we decided to “factor you into the equation”—the crowded puzzle that was my life last December. Quite obviously, you were (and are) the perfect fit for me. Just as I knew you were “the one” that would finally pop my impatient lesbian cherry at the tender age of 19, so you now fill all the parts of my life that I have left neglected and/or abused for so long.

Sweetheart, you are such an incredible person. You have faced physical/mental/emotional challenges all of your life with courage and conviction. You face every day with renewed vigor and unwavering Faith that all is as it should be and all will be well. You inspire everyone who comes in contact with you. You are brave and steadfast and you are my hero.

I love that we laugh the way we do—that I can be completely and utterly myself and you accept me fully and meet me wherever I am. I love your astounding intellect—the way you call up any bit of knowledge that you have read or heard and hold your own against the weightiest of PhDs. Your business acumen is well-honed and razor sharp. But it is your spirit and the spiritual journey that you pursue that impresses me most. You have brought me back to Center and remind me every day why life is worth living even in the midst of the greatest stresses. The times when we thought we might lose hold of one another as I clung to driftwood and almost let the life raft pass me by—the greatest fear I felt when we learned you did, indeed, have cancer.

You are an amazing co-parent to my child. You have given him a wonderful gift: the gift of security. I know my child finally sees Great Love and feels safe in the knowledge that we, at least, don’t plan to go anywhere. He finally has a familial unit that is strong, together, and bound for life. He enjoys you and learns from you. When the two of you laugh together, my heart leaps with unbridled joy.

As for the physical love we share. Well, from all that I’ve written here, I’m sure that is self-evident. We continue to grow together in so many ways. Our erotic explorations never cease to amaze me. Again, with you I am never self-conscious. You worship me in ways I never thought possible and I cannot feel ashamed in the presence of your love for me—for my body. Our physical relationship transcends any that I have shared with others—while I thought that I’d seen it all, done it all…I hadn’t even skimmed the surface of my desires until you came along and exhibited your willingness to fully explore our sexuality.

And, so, my dear…I am blessed in these and countless other ways. I celebrate your birth and Thank God for bringing you back into my life. I can’t imagine spending it with anyone more compatible and I look forward to many more of these celebrations. I love you with all that I am. Always, and in all ways.

Your Sweet Scin.

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.

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?

Feeling compelled to write after last week’s self-indulgent sulkfest, I requested an assignment from DPR. The following was inspired by a little bedtime banter we’d had—very playful, extremely cute. The kind of stuff that makes other people want to vomit. I, personally, loved it and asked her if she could expand on it for me. She went in a very different direction (only one small part of this would give you a clue as to what we’d been teasing each other about) and I was really blown away by what she sent. Normally, she’ll set a rough scene for me and I will go off with it; this time, however, her writing was thorough and good, really good. So good in fact, that I couldn’t rewrite it. So, I am presenting a joint venture. The first part, from DPR is very much her impression of me. Think DPR and Scintillectual circa 1984–85. Then, I take over. I hope you enjoy the fruits of our labors. I never knew work could be this much fun!

Androgynonamous writes:

I lurked around the hallway after color and design class—waiting to see if I had missed you leave your illustration class, or if I would be lucky enough to bump into you. I shot the shit with Alice, my butch buddy from life drawing, and pretended not to be watching the door of your classroom. Soon, a gaggle of girls began to fill the doorway and move into the hall, talking and giggling as girls do. You came out with a purpose and kept moving down the hall as you chatted with some of the more grown-up girls. It was clear you did not want to hang in the hall or run around with the crowd today. But, then, I wasn’t surprised. Even at 19, you were more grown, more mature, than the others in so many ways. And so much more attractive.

I said goodbye to Alice and made my way toward you, watching the subtle sway of your hips…thinking about the warm pleasures to be found there. I slipped up behind you, “Hi there.” You turned slightly to say hello, but kept your pace just slightly ahead of me. “So, are you done for the day?” I asked. You nodded, eyeing me with that coy smile I loved so much.  “I’m done too,” I informed you as I moved up to walk beside you. I inhaled the faint scent of your hair, your skin, as I stared at the line of your neck.

“So, you want some help carrying your stuff?” I grinned.

The coy smile broadened, “Are you asking to carry my books home?”

“Yes…Yes, I am,” I returned.

“You know, there are lots of bois who want to carry my books home,” You teased me.  I stopped, looked you hard in the eyes and smiled, “I know.”

You handed me your tackle box and sketchpad and I worked them into my own armful of supplies. We walked back to the dorm chatting about our day. Now and then, I would lag behind just enough to watch you walk. “Stop looking at my ass,” you would instruct me, all the while being sure to ever-so-slightly increase that lovely sway. I was humming between responses to the light conversation. You asked me what I was humming. “Oh, just this song I know,” I said, “maybe I’ll sing it to you sometime…if you are good.” I winked at you—but tried not too get too lost in your creamy chocolate eyes and smack into something.

In the elevator up to your room, we were alone. I stood close, but not too close to you at the back corner of the elevator. You leaned in toward me. “So, now that I have let you carry my books, what are your intentions?” you whispered to me, moving to within about 6 short inches from my neck.

“Oh, I don’t know if I should tell you just yet, sugar…” I leaned in toward your neck and inhaled you deeply. “Why is that?” you asked as you offered your neck, barely brushing your cheek on mine.

“I’ve been thinking of doing bad things.” I said as the elevator doors opened.  We walked toward your room. I began to sing to you:

I want to carry your books home
I want to walk with your hand in mine.
I want to be the name on your lips when you’re all alone;
I want to court you and make you mine.
I want to give you rings made of silver and stone;
I want to be near you and love you for all time…
I want to carry you books home…

We reached the door to your suite.

Scintillectual writes:

You opened the door to my room and held it open for me. I motioned for you to lay my things on my drawing board. While you set down the load you were carrying, I shut the door and leaned back against it, quietly clicking the lock into place. The Philly streets were uncannily quiet on this warm, early Fall afternoon, and the latch reverberated in the silence. You turned with a grin.

“Where’s Julie?” you asked, sweeping one hand toward the empty bed on the near wall.

“In class, I expect,” I said, “Why? Afraid we’ll get caught?”

“Get caught doing what, exactly?” Oh, please. Now you play it safe. You were all but dry humping me in the elevator.

I fixed my gaze upon your green eyes as I began to unbutton my shirt, “I do believe you were thinking of doing bad things?” I saw you swallow hard as you watched my shirt hit the floor. You made a move in my direction and I stayed you with one hand. My jeans, bra, and panties quickly followed and I stepped out of the puddle of clothing and moved in your direction. You stopped watching me for a fraction of a second to take in the open blinds on the huge picture window. Just across the street was a bank of office windows filled with folks about to get a mid-afternoon treat. “Trust me,” I purred, “it’s not the first thing they’ve ever seen over here.”

You mumbled something and I pushed you back on my single bed, straddling you, utterly naked. I leaned down close to you, my mouth poised just above yours, “and what, pray tell, did you have in mind? Just a song before you go? Or…” I never finished my sentence as you wrapped your arms around my neck and pulled me hard into you. Our fumbling to get your own clothes off began in earnest. Belt, jeans, t-shirt, beater, my God, how much could one person wear at one time? Lips locked, we almost fell off the narrow bed as we maneuvered in and around each other. Finally, blissfully nude, you settled into a criminally smooth rhythm.

I sighed as you traced soft kisses around my ear and worked your way down my neck. I’m thinking you have a thing for my neck. You moaned quietly as you took my breasts in both hands and moved from one rock hard nipple to the next. My leg moved involuntarily between yours and I connected with your boi-cunt. Soaking wet. As if I wasn’t turned on enough from the moment I saw you standing outside my class (pretending to be all nonchalant—as though you weren’t waiting for me), I now flooded the comforter beneath me with my own juices. Soon, though, you were there—between my legs—making sure nothing went to waste. I grabbed your head and twisted my fingers in your hair as you ran your hands down my sides and pushed my legs farther apart.

After a good 10 minutes or so of you tonguing my clit and licking me up one side and down the other, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck me,” I panted, “you need to fuck me.”

“As you wish,” you said and promptly plunged three fingers deep inside me as I bucked against you. Grinding my thigh into you, eliciting deep-throated moans. I could feel my orgasm building and then I heard voices in the vestibule. Fuck. I prayed that they were coming from my suitemates until I heard the key in the lock. Why hadn’t I thought to stick the do-not-disturb sign on the door. Shit! Your head jerked up and your hand stopped moving, I grabbed it with my one free hand and shoved it back inside me. I wasn’t stopping now. Hell, what was the worst that could happen? Lose my Resident Assistant job? At this point, I cared not.

I heard the door open and we all gasped at once. You and I in tandem, coming together, hard and fast. My roommate, likely in shock from the sight of your bare naked ass grinding away at my bare naked thigh. The door slammed shut just as quickly and we pulled away from each other, sweat glistening on our bodies, our breath coming in ragged waves. “Do you…uh…should we…uh…” you stammered your mortification and I laughed.

“She’ll live,” I said, “and I doubt she’ll be back anytime soon. Now, I think I have a favor to return.” I pushed you back on the bed again and caught you smiling in the lengthening shadows as I moved down your body.

If I have any loyal readers (well, I can think of a few at least) then you know I’ve been rather AWOL lately. And what I have posted has been mediocre at best. I am behind on everything including the literally dozens of product reviews that need to be addressed, some of which have been outstanding for months! I’m beginning to think I’m going to start getting invoices from these wonderful companies assuming I just took the products and ran with them. I promise, I will catch up.

In the meantime, there will be no Wicked Wednesday this week and likely I won’t get around to an HNT. I just haven’t got the energy or the motivation. I have been decompensating rapidly due to the stress of my upcoming move and it is all I can do to drag my sorry ass out of bed every morning with some semblance of sanity. That, my friends, is slipping. I am working all hours of the day and night, including the entire holiday weekend just past, and still I’m shy of my financial goals for the move by several thousand dollars. I have no idea where that’s going to come from. With barely five weeks left, even if I did get new work, getting paid in a timely fashion seems unlikely. I may be carrying my belongings on my back as my son and I hitchhike down south.

If you follow DPR’s blog at all, you probably think our relationship is all wine and roses and sunshine beaming out of our perfectly bleached assholes. Trust me, it’s not. It’s hard work being apart, it’s hard work orchestrating this move, and I sometimes wonder why she even puts up with me. I’m also surprised my kid hasn’t packed a small suitcase and tried to run away by now. I’ve become this total shrew. I am cranky and bitchy, I’ve lost my sense of humor, I snap at both of them, and I take everything personally. While DPR maintains this butch pollyanna sense of optimism, I sink further and further into the third circle of hell. Today we had a massive thunderstorm and I just sort of sat here and prayed that lightning would strike me down and then I’d have a good excuse to fuckitall.

I don’t quite understand what is holding me back from being all gung-ho and cheery about our impending move. There are 101 practical reasons to do this. Unfortunately, the closer the day comes the more I dig in my heels and want to live under the covers. I can’t remember a day without a migraine. I just never realized how much I’d grown to call this place home. I’ve lived in this state longer than I’ve lived anywhere in my life (and I’ve moved a LOT), but most recently, I developed a true sense of community here and some real friendships that I’m loathe to step away from. I swore that I would NEVER move back to the buckle of the bible belt. I did not want to live down south again and deal with all of the misogyny and homophobia that comes along with being there. Add to that the fact that my only sibling hasn’t spoken to me in almost 4 years and what we have left is…me moving into DPR’s life. Her life. Her homeland. Her family. Her friends. I love them all dearly and feel entirely accepted there but what I built here I’m abandoning. I finally got a sense of self and I have to hope that I can keep that self alive once I’ve made this 900 mile trek to where she is.

I hate to sound bitter. This month apart has been extremely hard. Harder than any other time we’ve spent away from each other. DPR is flying in on Thursday and the timing couldn’t be better. I really need to be sure of her. The phone just isn’t cutting it. Emails are scant and we don’t seem to know how to communicate this time around. I feel a certain disconnect that I’ve never felt before. I’m scared and I admit it. My love for her is strong indeed but my soul is weary and the tears flow too freely these days.

So, dear reader, forgive my absence for a bit. I need to take this time with her to cement our bond and find the strength to move ahead with whatever comes. If I can muster up the motivation, you’ll see a review or two, but I may not be back at the helm until next week—after my darling DPR has taken to the skyway one more time before she returns to help me pack my belongings and begin a life anew.