Hooch & Boobs

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It started, of course — as so many things with us do — because of something I read.

Which I then read to him.

(Well, I read him the title and showed him the picture and he said, “Ohhh…”)

And so, on our most recent grocery shopping trip, I reminded him: We have to get some booze.

(Which, considering that neither of us is much of a drinker, was {1} and unusual thing to say, but also {2} the last thing you’d think we’d need, considering that our fridge contents upon embarking on the aforementioned grocery trip consisted primarily of beer, wine, and vodka. Oh, and mustard.)

So, after waiting approximately 117 years for an employee to come unlock the liquor case at the grocery store, we got ourselves some Jim Beam.

And, after having a ‘preferences’ conversation — Me: “Thighs?” Him: “No, breasts… I’m a breast man.”1 — we also picked up some chicken boobs.

For what purpose? you ask.

To make bourbon chicken.

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Beating Meat

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So he’s in the kitchen, right? (Now that he’s an old codger a grown-up, he is cooking. It’s a thing.) Today his grown-up cooking consists of Spaghetti With Meat Sauce. And from the living room I can hear, above the sound of the exhaust fan:

  • the sizzle of ground beef browning, and
  • bam! Bam! BAM! BambamBAM!

Leaving the comfort of my cushy chair, I trot into the kitchen to see what the clatter and clash is all about, only to see him standing calmly at the stovetop…

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A Look At 2021 — B{u}Y THE BOOK

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Good Reads (and Goodreads) From 2021

On January 1, 2017, I cataloged my first finished book of the year on Goodreads. I have utilized their book shelving system ever since, and have found it a good way to keep track of titles but also a good way to note my tendencies (mystery, mystery, mystery!) and acknowledge my obvious favorites (Agatha Christie, anyone?) while simultaneously tracking my reading appetites over time in terms of speed of reading and total tomes absorbed.

Early in 2021, I noted that I had fallen behind on my reading averages in 2020. Partly due to screen exhaustion (not that I read from a screen; I don’t — I hold real books in my hands and manually turn their pages) and the eye strain/general burnout induced by it, but also partly because for many years my imaginative enjoyment of book reading was accompanied by the physical pleasure of having a purring cat in my lap while I read. Upon expressing my “miss my kitty” issue to someone who cared, I received a ‘cat’ to keep me company.

It may be silly, but that little piece of snuggle-love helped me over the blocked-interest reading hump.

Once I started reading more (or more at my normal pace), things began feeling — despite the continuing COVID craziness — more ‘normal’.

I read 63 books in 2021.

These were a few of my favorites:

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Switch: OFF

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We struggle — first him above me, my two hands held gripped in one of his above my head, then him flipped under me, his hips held down with mine — back and forth, the exertion of muscle an athletic form of foreplay. 

He nips. I scratch. We roll, continually changing position, choreographing an elaborate dance in erotic exertion. 

Hands roam — first his, a caress; then mine, a smack — while bodies twist, seeking to be on top… Or on bottom… 

Only to seek the opposite — to dominate, to submit — seconds later, and again to change position mere moments after that.

.

When people think of ‘switching’ in a power-exchange kind of way, they often think it means taking a specific role and sticking to it, either within a ‘scene’ or in total where sexual relations (or full relationship) is concerned. One person is dominant; one person is submissive. And a ‘switch’ means a change of hats, a full-swap taking of turns.

But that’s not what switching is to me.

.

He chases me up the stairs, his hand catching the upper inside of my thigh and pulling me back, halting me.

I throw him a look over my shoulder before turning slowly around and – with him two steps below me – staring him eye to eye.

With the cock of a brow, the tables are turned. It is now I who am chasing. But I do not run to chase. I stalk…

He backs up one step at a time as I start down the stairs toward him, the not-touching closeness of our bodies creating a heated, palpable friction between us…

Until, distracted by the electricity of ‘possibility’, he loses focus and I bound away from him with a laugh — running again, two steps at a time — and we are back to the original chase.

.

Rather, ^THIS^ is what ‘switching’ is to me.

Or perhaps I should say: This is what switching was to me.

It was fluid. Interchangeable, exchangeable. Gradual, continual.

It was not about winning. It was not about topping. (Or bottoming.) It was not ‘scene’-based. It was not a hat worn. (Or traded.)

Rather than being a fight for control, it was a delight in sharing control. There was fun in the give-and-take, and even though it was playful, it was also a serious expression of erotic appreciation.

But as I said: This is what switching was to me.

When I was switchy.

But honestly — and it’s been like this for quite a while now — I think my ‘switch’ is currently set to OFF.