pas de deux

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Toes pointed, knees bent, I wrap my legs around his shoulders, poised for the first/next/continual onslaught of his tongue sliding electric soft over my exposed wet.

His hands – thick fingers coated with the proof of my want – wrap around my hips in a demanding grip that coaxes me open wider/further/more, and with deep held breaths I push forward onto his mouth, engaging my thigh muscles and arching my back, striving for _just_ the right tense-taut astriction that will take me from ‘approaching the edge’ to right…

…there…rightthererightthere…

and then he
STOPS.

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Ornithology

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BLUE HERON

This is one of my favorite kinds of birds.

blue heron on log next to dock with boats in background

As with other ornithological creatures that fascinate me, rarely am I in a position to photograph one.  (Or perhaps *they* aren’t in the proper position to BE photographed.  They do have a propensity for flying away.)

blue heron on log next to end of dock

This one didn’t exactly sit still for me while I fumbled about for my camera (with all the cautious quietude of a slam-dancing elephant ~ “Look!!!” I squee-shouted to my spouse as I ran for the rock shore, “Look Look LOOK!!!“), but I managed – out of 16 rapidly clicked cameraphone photos – to frame a few halfway decent shots…

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Nonsense

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There is, in BDSM guru-ism and Relationship Coaching and how-to-get-along-with-others psychology, much ado about communication.  “COMMUNICATE!!!” shout The Experts™, in screaming red all-caps font.

But sometimes communication is, quite literally, a bunch of nonsense.

 

“What are you doing?” asks my hubby, walking into my reading space, all bright eyed interest and giddy bouncing excitement.

I look at the book I’m holding in my hand, then at the cat that’s been occupying my lap for the past hour while I’ve read, before looking up at him with a blank face.  “What am I doing?  Did you really just ask me that?”

He looks confused.  I’ve just asked a question, haven’t I? says the befuddled expression on his face.  What did I just say?

I take pity on him.

“Obviously,” I declare with schoolmarm-declaratory intonation, “I’m dancing the tango with Elvis Presley.”

 

This is par for the course in my house, and the “What are you doing?” question – which never actually means What are you doing? – has become more of a ridiculous ritual than the basis for relevant repartee.

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