Ties That Bind…

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…And gag.  Ugh.

Bondage, anyone?

Nope, not today.  I’m (un)tying knots of a different kind, and the only kinks I’m dealing with are in my back because I slept for shit last night.  So if you’re not in the mood to read stream/river/ocean-of-consciousness writing from a Feverish mind, I recommend you go away.  Now.

So back to the ties that bind and gag.  A.K.A.  The Family.  *Shudder*

My family is…erm…

Uhhh…

Well, most of them are…

How shall I put this?

Did you ever play recognition games when you were a kid?  You know, the kind where you line up several items and then have to decide, ‘Which one of these is not like the others’?  Well, let’s just say that I have a severe case of not-like-the-others-itis.  I’ve never ‘accidentally’ gotten pregnant, I’ve never been arrested (not that I don’t fantasize about men in uniform though; oh, hellllooooo, officer…), I’ve never used/possessed/sold illegal substances, I’ve never relied on my fists to solve my problems, (which may by one of the reasons why) I have all my own teeth, and I’ve never had a cavity.

The kin to whom I am blood and/or legally related (I have steps, you see ~ plus I’m legally – via adoption – the child of a man who did not contribute to my creation; I’ll get to him in a minute) are just…

Well, they’re not like me.  Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?

But despite the illicit and sometimes illegal behaviors demonstrated by the ones they spawned, the parents of this brood are fairly decent human beings.  Go figure.  And my dad (who was actually my stepdad, but then became my legal dad – see adoption note above) is going to be visiting for a few days.  Starting today.  In about two hours.  As a matter of fact, I’ll be picking him up after my dermatology appointment this afternoon (apparently there is a shortage of dermatologists in this country, so I’ve been waiting for months to have my ‘pre-cancerous skin cells’ on my face re-examined; oh joy of joys) and from then until late Friday evening, my house will become the den of…

The Zuulfather.

I see you are wondering, What, exactly, is a Zuulfather, Feve?

I’ll tell you!

My friend Sklor (I’ve written about him before and Sklor is, indeed, my friend’s proper nickname), who happens to be part of the family I choose (yes, I consider him a brother) calls me Zuul (Ghostbusters:  There is no Dana, only Zuul) and has dubbed my dad (who is the father of Zuul) the Zuulfather.  Which is kind of fitting.  Because if anyone could outweigh Marlon Brando’s Godfather, it is he.

So here’s the thing about the Zuulfather:  He’s soooooo not in touch with reality when it comes to his own self.  Ever lived with someone who has PTSD?  How about someone who has it but is in total denial that he has it?  Mmm-kay.  You with me now?  That was my reality during my time under his roof (which only amounted – thank God – to only six years, because I was OUT OF THERE when I was 18) and he is just now (FINALLY!!!!) realizing that maybe (just maaaaybe, possibly, perhaps) there might be something to all this PTSD nonsense (*snort*) after all.

Hmm.  Ya think?

Let’s recap my teenage existence, shall we?  Maybe not.

How about an example?  Okay:  I took my life into my own hands (or rather, put it in his hands) once and approached him while he was sleeping.  I will NEVER (never, Never, NEVER!) do that again.  This was just one of many (many, many, manymanymany) instances that demonstrated my dad’s post-war…issues…and was only one in a long line of freak-the-fuck-out moments.

So now ~ 24 years after the aforementioned…uhmmm…’event’ ~ the Zuulfather is on a mission quest to analyze and dissect The True Meaning Of This Newfound Thing (PTSD) so that he can define The Errors Of His Ways in an attempt to Fix The Past.  He is, of course, still totally military (he’s a Vietnam veteran) in his thinking and behaviors, so along with his ‘coming out’ statement of “I have PTSD,” I was handed two books on the subject and ordered – yes, ORDERED – to read them. (Do I strike you as the kind of woman who follows orders?  Cuz I don’t.  Ever.)

And I, of course, being the kind of daughter that drives a man like that (read:  a military-esque order-giver of the first degree) crazy (I think the raising of me was somewhat akin to herding cats; I’m intelligent and imaginative and I question authority), said, “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”  Followed by an eyeroll.  Followed by, “I don’t need to read these books.”  Followed by, “So I was gonna make macaroni and cheese for lunch.  Are you hungry?”

Dumbfounded, I tell you.  Daddy was dumfounded.

Sigh…

But I let him leave his books here and agreed to fill out a little questionnaire for him about his behaviors (this thing reads like a military manual…oh, go figure…it’s from the V.A. hospital) and to date (I was given my orders three weeks ago; I have yet to act on them) I’ve sort of…

Well…

Forgotten about it, truth be told.

But my memory has been jogged.  And I expect my memory will be jostled and jilted and upended and tossed about over the next few days, because The Soldier and The Man who is My Father have to come to grips with one another and attempt to find some peace.  Even if they (ah, the Triune Dad) disrupt my peace while doing so.

Which is more than you ever wanted to know, I’m sure.  That is, if you even read this far.  (I realize most of you probably ran screaming into the night after my fairly warned, “Go away.  Now.”)  And if you did read this far, you probably think the Zuulfather (and my other assorted relative-types) is slightly…erm…’off’…  But remember this:  Just because my family is bat-shit crazy doesn’t mean I don’t love them (well, actually, I do not claim to love ALL of them – but the ‘rents, for sure), you know.

Ahhh…

Family.

The family. We are a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another’s desserts, hiding shampoo, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.  –Erma Bombeck

The Bitch Is In Residence

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SHE came out to play with us today,
With he and me
She is a cock fiend of the first degree,
And this morning he filled our pussy momentarily,
Then left us
Aching…

Clenching…

EMPTY

But She will make him pay for that transgression
When he comes home today,
Looking to be satisfied,
And finds his own orgasm…

Denied?

Delayed…

While we,
She and me,
Take our fill of him

Watch out Mister, here we cum again
Hmmm…
And again
And again and again,

But what about him?

What ABOUT him?
(Evil grin)

She’s here to stay awhile, this Bitch of mine
She wants to play
(Rough, by the way)
And let’s just say…

It’s going to be one hell of a day.

Pussies Rule!

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I recently read a post by Kyle Mew (http://wp.me/10kIt), who has been adopted by a cat (Did that link even work?  I’m soooo not technically savvy…), so it was with him in mind that I decided to share…erm…pussy pics…  😉

As I will be talking about my feline family members from time to time (there’s more to my life than just sex, ya know), I thought my readers (hello, readers!) might like to meet the mini’s.  🙂

First up:  Mistress Twiggy Isabella (aka Bella, Beli, Beli Button *snicker*, The Button, just plain Button, and Stop Hissing At Me I’m About To Feed You Dammit!)

She’s a strong little tiger, and while she does like to cuddle (primarily with Daddy; something we have in common), she also likes to fight.  In Princess Bride speak:  She IS the brute squad!

Don’t believe me?  Just ask her (adopted) brother Wallace (aka…erm…Wallace):

They sometimes fight over possession of the chenille throw.

Well…’fight’ might be the wrong word to use.  It’s more like she attacks him (That’s MINE, you short-haired twerp!) until he moves his lazy ass (Get your lazy ass UP!  It’s MINE!) off the pretty red cushy, LOL.

Beli wins.  Wallace loses.

Every.

Single.

Time.

(I could go into relationship metaphors here…  But I won’t.  :P)

But they soon kiss and make up, then find a new place to cuddle.

So now, after the weekend I suffered through with Psycho McPup, I’m ready to take a cue from these two…

…and snooze.

Of Pets and Prozac

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I love thunderstorms.  They do things to my body that defy explanation.  (Don’t ask, don’t ask…)

My dog hates thunderstorms.  They do things to her brain that defy explanation.

So after nearly 20 hours of dealing with a spastic, fretting, home-wrecking (literally – she tried to chew through the door RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME!) fluffy freak, I finally ~ FINALLY ~ managed to get approximately three hours of sleep.  After which, I promptly called the vet’s to explain my predicament.

After listening to my succinct (I think it was succinct – hard to know for sure when operating in drunk-from-lack-of-sleep mode) explanation of The Terrible Trauma induced by The Thunderstorm From Hell (I only mentioned it about five times I think), during which I lamented my lack of sleep, the person to whom I was complaining made a sympathetic noise in my ear.  “So you want drugs, then?” the man on the other end inquired politely.

Oh THANK GOD, ThankGodThankGodThankGod…

“YEESSSSSSssss…” was my moaned reply.  (My husband, having not heard the beginning of my conversation with Monsieur Veterinarian’s Assistant, came a-runnin’ when he heard that moan.  Heh.)

“I’m sorry,” MVA sighed regretfully, “but we can’t give you drugs.”

NOOOOO!  NoNoNoNoNoNoNo!  Oh my GOD, Nooooooo! 

“However,” he explained in an oh-so-helpful tone of voice, “We can prescribe some for your dog.”

*

As a general rule, I avoid drugs of any kind.  I prefer, instead, to seek natural solutions.  But considering the fact that I was crying yesterday (I never cry!) out of sheer frustration (this was the straw that broke the camel’s back ~ we’ve been dealing with a crazy canine for nearly two weeks) and that it would just be mean to strangle the dog (although I really, really, really wanted to a few times!)…

I’ve made an exception to the rule.

I am now armed with Puppy Prozac (well, she’s not exactly a puppy ~ the bitch is ten years old) and I am NOT AFRAID TO USE IT!

*

I lost my entire Friday and most of my Saturday dealing with her shenanigans, which has unfortunately had a two-day impact on my sex life.  Which means it’s time to rectify that.

Remember when I said I believed in natural solutions?  Well, naturally, I took a little cat nap (okay, okay…so it was three hours…I deserved it!) today to catch up on my sleep.  And now that I’m rested?  Well…

I’ve always said that orgasms are (naturally) the ultimate cure-all…

😉

Needs Must

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In the heavy morning air,

Rolling thunder added aural pleasure to my already awakening

Pussy is trembling, burrowing under the sheets with the one I want to

Fuck,

Fuck,

FuckFuckFuckFuckFuck!

He calms her, soothes her, makes her purr

But what about my pussy,

DAMMIT!

I want to scream

Now the rain,

I AM WET

The lightning,

DRIPPING

The thunder…

DROWNING IN MY OWN AROUSAL

Booming,

Growling…

Growling?

Blinking awake, I turn my head and see the deep, sad, brown eyes of my

Bitch

Pleading

Save me, save me

FUCK ME

Duty o’er love,

I save her

From her storm-induced trauma

Because needs must.

Indeed,

NEEDS

Come,

MUST

My furry babies,

CUM

Agitated,

Fuck, Fuck, FuckFuckFuck

God, I want to FUCK

The day begins

I meet my lover’s eyes across the expanse of our shared bed,

His fingers may as well be miles away

And he smiles that

KNOWING

Smile,

Because

IT’S GOING TO BE ONE OF THOSE DAYS

Later,

AND

It’s going to be one of those

NIGHTS.

*

I woke (in every way) to a thunderstorm this morning and my body manifests that kind of environmental agitation as arousal…

However, my pets just freak the fuck out.

I can count on one hand the number of thunderstorms I’ve experienced since I moved to the Pacific Northwest.  I would prefer to be using that hand…

But needs must.

So we set aside what we wanted to do in favor of what needed to be done.  By the time our fuzzy buddies were settled, we were off to dutifully perform the tasks that, with their compensation, service the mortgage.

Needs must, indeed.

And tonight, the Missus has NEEDS that MUST, indeed, be met.  😉

Wanton Wednesday: Mountain or Molehill?

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When it comes to breasts, it’s all about perspective.  Mine may be small, but they’re mighty.  (Besides…  Someone gets ‘all kinds of hard’ when he sees my pink nipples.  How’s THAT for a compliment?)

I don’t really see the point of clothing these days.  It is summer, after all.

After wearing only my skin for a full weekend recently, the Mister asked me rather off-handedly if I was planning to get dressed.

I shook my head.  “Why should I?” was my puzzled response.

He didn’t even blink before countering with, “You shouldn’t.”

Indeed.  😉

For more information on Wanton Wednesdays, please visit my blog.