Saturday Night Fever: Holy orgasm, Batman!

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topless woman reclined on bed wearing Batman pajama bottoms

It was an arms-numb-with-ambient-cold awakening, the Junuary chill having seeped into my skin where it was uncovered.

The mountain of blankets covering my torso and thighs having kept my midsection cozy-warm, the frozen limbs and heated core was a study in contrasts.

Cold-numb and warm-sensitized, the texture of the contrasting sensations wakened me fully.

At 3:57am.

When nobody in her right mind — or at least I, in my still-sleepy and desparately-tired but now fully-awake mind — should be awake.

And so it was that, flipping through my NSFW folder on my photo app, I was reminded of my own warmth-during-cold photo adventure with my husband’s purloined pajamas….

An adventure that led to more than just photos…

And that led to memories.

Memories of the fact that I used to know full well how to get myself back to sleep when these odd awakenings happened.

And so, putting that memory to practice, I put cold fingers to heated flesh and remembered…

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On (not) Giving a F*ck

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I don’t give a fuck.

Have you ever heard someone say — or said yourself — “I don’t give a fuck”?

Sometimes, perhaps, it’s “I don’t give a flying fuck.”

I, myself, have been known to say, “I give ZERO fucks” when somebody complains to me about something I care less than nothing about.

Think: Situation = All Fucked Up; Feve = Zero Fucks Given

^Pretty much, that sums up my family history.^

A n y w a y

I kind of got to think about “giving a fuck” and subsequently about all the fucks I do not give, and I thought I’d share them with you here.

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Saturday Night Fever: Junuary

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chest and shoulder shot of woman holding unbuttoned red plaid shirt, draped open to show a black bra

Junuary

While many areas in the northern hemisphere are experiencing heat and warmth right now, the same cannot be said of Where I Live.

The sunlight is quietly gaining ground over the dark — today being the longest day of said light — but it does not typically bring ‘summer’ with it until some time in July.

Which means that — since gone are the days of being heated by my own internal furnace — I dress much the same during the January doldrums as I do during the June gloom: fuzzy sweaters and soft plaid are my favored adornments during this most wintry of summer months.

We are planning a getaway though. A short trip to the other side of the mountains – to a place we haven’t been in two years – where the high desert and apple valley attract sun rays that both sparkle and warm. Where the average temps are over 70 degrees and where it only occurs to the wind and clouds to visit during the winter dirge. A place where summer, when present on the calendar, actually feels like summer on the skin.

Maybe then I will break out the sundresses and sandals.

But for now…

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Saturday Night Fever: Non-Dominant Hand {Job}

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What I notice —

besides the rigid give and the satin smooth-hard, the baby-oil-slick slide and the swell-to-fill response to my grip

— is how different it feels.

.

Situated facing him, with my left hip next to his, I am committing this act of carnality with a different muscle group than usual: I am using – entirely, with no help from the dominant right side – my left (and only my left) hand.

This is the hand that typically supports. That adds-to or enhances, that extra-izes. It is the hand that normally fondles or rubs in secondary spots while the right hand strokes. But today, my left hand ~ my non-dominant hand ~ is doing one job — the whole job, the hand job — all by itself.

And it is different.

The pressure and twist, the knead and rub, the light-hold up-down glide and stroke…

It is different.

My motions are similar but also opposite — a turning of the left wrist inward will produce a slightly different sensation than that of the right, yes? — and, because my left hand does not have the same level of dexterous fitness as my right, it is lighter somehow.

Lighter in pressure, in squeeze.

Slower, but still varied in speed.

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