together

He was tired of pacing. The grandfather clock was driving him nuts. With every trip up the hallway, he felt his footsteps keeping time with the clock. "You are a mess," he sighed. Everything about his life was well ordered and organized. He was punctual. He liked everything in its place. Everything was. His desire to have everything just right for her was becoming obsessive compulsive... He had been cleaning the house for days. Washed windows, mirrors, cleaned countertops, he dusted, he vacuumed, vacuumed again... He had been ready for awhile now. The weather confounded his perfect planning. She should have been here by now. The rain, the winds, the nasty lightning and thunder, Holy Monkey, he had never seen such a storm.

He cringed whilst another bolt crackled over head. He hated it when he could hear the lightning. The entire yard light up for a second or two, and then the thunder boomed so loudly it felt as if the entire house were picked up off its foundation and dropped from several feet back down again. He sat down, and laid his head on the table. He was tired. Tired of thinking, tired of worrying about her, not sure where she was, why she didn't at least call. Was she lost, was she in trouble, off the road... who the hell knows? He had called her number a gazillion times, it didn't matter. His head touched the cool surface of the table. Thunder rumbled again in the distance. His eyes closed, his brain stopped, an uneasy silence came over him, his breath calmed, sleep came. Or a barely conscious doze...

He jolted awake. What the? He felt warm, soothing fingertips massaging his neck. Before he could react or rebel or identify the intruder, her face came down to his, she was giggling, and yet trying to reassure him... "It's OK, it's OK... I was going to lower my voice and try to sound real sinister, but Jeeze, Louise... don't have a heart attack!" His heart was pounding, he must've crashed into some form of REM sleep, and her touch had really jump started his heart. He had no idea of the time, but he did remember sitting down to rest. The storm had ceased outside, it was still dark, but none of that mattered. In the nanoseconds it took to process the information around him, his brain leaped to the conclusion, she was here! Oh sweet mother of joy, she was here! She was here! She was here, right now!

He was entrapped betwixt the chair and the table, and with her presence behind him, he struggled to his feet, skewing the chair, moving the table, and forcing her to step back... He took her presence in, all of her. Good Gosh Almighty, here she was! She looked a bit tired, but her eyes were expressive, showing at the same time relief, joy, anticipation, happiness, weariness... all, all of it at once. He threw his arms out and she nestled into his form, and they wrapped themselves around each other. He was curious as to what had happened to her, what had caused the delay, the disruption of communications... but it didn't matter, she was here, he was here, they were together... The hug took on urgency, as pent up emotions, so much anticipation, dissolving fears and melting insecurities... none of it mattered. They could talk, and ask and answer questions and catch up on the multitude of miscellany that might matter in a different moment, but not now...

Just before their mouths collided, a breathless smiling voice whispered, "Did ya miss me?" And the lips met lips. Yes. She threw her legs around his waist, kicking the chair in the process. She tasted like heaven. He didn't know, nor little cared what it was, but it was delightful. Her full lips nibbled on his, their tongues circling around in their mouths. A new urgency had arrived, and they both were captive to it. He held her lovely firm butt cheeks in his hands, as she mashed her pelvis against his midsection. He moved his hands up her form... pausing at her hips, caressing her hips, lower back, down to her globes again... she humped against him. They both knew what they wanted, what they each had to have... He broke the kiss to inhale her neck, her chin, her ear... she mauled an ear of his, trailing her tongue across his forehead, down his nose.... they simply could not have all that they wanted of each other.

She touched his temple, then the other and moved his face back, just a tad. Nose to nose now, they took in each other's eyes. She giggled, he smiled... they were giddy with lust, with hope, with anticipation. She formed an "o" with her mouth, to kiss his nose, then backed away again... "I gotta pee, sweetie... can you show me where I can do that..."

"Absitively," he said... and grasped her hand and led her to the bathroom around the corner. One more kiss, a slight, though firm brush across the lips, and he flicked the light on for her and pulled the door shut. As it closed, he said, "I'll get us nice bottle of something, and maybe we can do the hot tub, I think the weather is OK now." The door shut and as he padded away, he heard her reply "The only thing I'm doin' is you, baby..." He laughed. She likes merlot, but he felt more like a chardonnay. Hmm, I don't look like a chardonnay, do I? He closed his eyes, grabbed one and turned around. The cork gave way with ease, and he pulled two glasses from the rack. He kicked his shoes toward the door, and flung his socks to the corner. The shirt went over one of the chairs, his pants over the arm of the chair... with bottle and glasses in hand, he met her right when she emerged from the bathroom.

She had her hands folded beneath her chin, her arms covering her chest... She had removed all her clothes, save her thong, and she gasped when she saw him, and followed that with a giggle. "Great minds think alike, huh?" she tittered out loud. He set the bottle and the glasses down, and she wrapped her arms around her neck. This kiss was slower, fuller, with no less intensity. She pushed herself against him and they reveled in the warmth of each other's skin. She jumped up on him again, this time holding her hips out away from him, as his hands dropped to her thong, and the cooperative engagement had it falling effortlessly to the floor. Immediately she slammed herself against him, his eyes rolling back in his head as he felt the scorching heat of her sliding up and down his stomach. Her ass was perfect, and his hands formed and kneaded each cheek.

She was out of breath. His was caught down near his rib cage. "Please," she rasped, "you better, real quick, cause baby's on fire." She nuzzled his neck, and fingertips glided and danced over his form, finding the waistband of his boxers... She disengaged from him, never letting go of his boxers, and slid them down roughly. He was ready... very. "Now," she half cried, half pleaded... and she jumped back up into his arms, and lowered herself onto him. He leaned back against the wall, took one hand to guide himself in, and held her firmly at her hips. She was devouring his mouth, and their carnal dance took over. He couldn't remember ever feeling this good, she was so wet and receptive, and they found a rhythm without a pause. She enveloped him with a such a searing heat that he gasped when he felt himself all the way in. She fit him like a glove. "Gimme some, now... please, I have to... oh please..." and her voice trailed off.

She bowed her head and gave herself over to the moment... He kept her steady with his palms on her hips... she dictating the tempo with hips, he spurring her on by pushing and pulling moving her from side to side and up and down... Purrs and growls, sighs, whispers, unintelligible sounds, kissing, moaning, a fleshy symphony of sounds emanated from the two glistening bodies in the hallway. He pounded away, grunting as he tried to go in further... further each time. Slapping, wet sloshing... heavy, gasping breathing... and low in her throat, first as a whimper, growing with urgency, "Please, please, please... oh, pleeeeeeaaaaaaassse," and she went over, her head tossing from side to side, her thighs squeezing around him so abruptly that he almost thought that she had cracked a rib... she was so lost in her exquisite pleasure that he could hardly hold her... and his own moment was close at hand...

He allowed her to slow to a semi-swift sway, and then she felt his hands tighten at her hips, he moved to her ass cheeks and pushed her against himself with one last heave he was there, too... pushing and heaving into her, wave after wave as he emptied himself again and again... they were groaning and gasping and the whole world stopped around them. She was humming or making some sound that just came out as "mmmmmmmmmm," and then again "mmmmmm," and then "uh" and a series of "uh" followed by a deep exhale "uuuuuggggghhhh" and she wanted to say what was in her mind but her mind was mush... it didn't matter, it really didn't matter. Their bodies had spoken, quite fluently, all that was needed to be said. Their hearts were banging out a deafening crescendo to the act that was just now ending...

"I know," he said, with almost no breath left inside him. "I know."

The one...

I have been down this road before. I have am so diffident and aloof to matters of the heart sometimes that it scares me. I am not seeking the one... I hope that I am not repulsive or so defensive as to absolutely cancel the possibility, but I am sorry, I just don't seem to have the energy for it. It seems like too much work, so fraught with danger, so much downside to almost completely negate the upside... If I want to be depressed, I will just look at my bank statements. I have a full life, a daughter in college who is in love with life, her boyfriend and completely immersed in her studies... and a son in high school, who is popular, smart, athletic and fun... they're joy, success and fulfillment is mine.

I enjoy my volunteer endeavors - I am president of a community theatre group, and we are about to embark on a production, my son and I both have landed roles in it. I get to chaperone trips with the marching band that my son is a part of, and I know some awesome people involved with that and we get to take some great trips to interesting places. I am working three jobs, in various fashion, so that is interesting, and gives me all the sleep deprivation that I could hope for. I am not anti-romance, I love being in love and I am so happy for those that find it and thrive with it... I just don't think that it is for everyone, and too many of us, me included, just don't know how to get it right...

I fell in love with a woman in November, 2003. We were attracted to one another immediately, we had similar interests, similar sense of humor, kids of similar ages... I adored her, still do in fact. We laughed and loved and we so enjoyed being with each other, it eclipsed anything else in my life. It was great, I was so happy. She was married. It couldn't last, it didn't. I was shattered, but recovered. We are great friends now, and I will always love her deeply. A part of me will never allow myself to be that vulnerable again, ever... a part of me is so thankful for everything that we shared, and I would not trade those six months for anything...  and a good part of me knows how fragile I am. That romance awakened a zombie, who had learned how to tread water quite nicely, after dealing with depression in 2000-2001. She taught me about life, challenged me to be more, grabbed a beating heart and taught it how to open up and pound and pulsate.

I know that there are more than six billion souls on this planet, and that chances are that one of them would be just right for me... still sounds kind of risky to me. If the planets all align and I stumble upon her somehow, hey, that would be peachier than something. In the meantime, I have three books that I am trying to read, taxes to do, lines to memorize, a chaperon schedule to layout, and a house to maintain. I have a dog and cat who love me and ask nothing more of me than my presence, and two kids who keep life full and interesting. Can't it just be good enough to be content?

aftermath

The heart races, pounds, feels about to leap from my chest, the palpitations, the sweat, the voice calling out to who knows who in the language of untranslatable bliss... it is not over in a minute, or in a heartbeat, the bodies transition from arousal, to heightened arousal, to utter satisfaction, and now the joy of completion begins... No more urgency, well, maybe some, but it moves to the back burner, as languid loving loopiness descends, laughter creeps in... as feeling that good, this intensely, cannot be contained without mirth.

To collapse upon the heated receptive form of someone with whom you have just made love with, surely has to be a form of the sweetest surrender... you may want to scream thank you, but the smile of satisfaction and the twinkling of eyes overflowing say it well enough, loud enough, clearly enough... Take me down easy, bring me down slowly, let me recline and nuzzle in all that places that we fit so well, my head against your chest to listen to the percussion inside that lovely vessel... yes, that is a very good place to start. Your heart thunders and drums, and tries to remain where it is... seconds ago it was pounding a crescendo of sweet thunder, pulsing endorphins to the very toes and earlobes... now it pounds and pounds, dancing to the tune it still hears, and the music that will not stop...

The skin that shines, the rosiness that it takes on, the warm glow that goes on and on... the lips that pucker, begging for the exclamation, not unlike the ribbon that greets the runner at the end of the race... share with me this taste of unbridled exuberance, and let the mouth and tongue try as they might to express in moist wet wrestling what they were not able to form in words or syllables... Let my hands and arms tighten about you, and hold and fold around you, this clinging to your form says thank you rather nicely... let my lungs catch up, as they feed the heart and try to restore some semblance of peace and total satisfaction...

Let my chin fold into the proper recess of your form so that your mouth can approach my ear, and make some words of nonsense or total sense, but the brains are both mushy, so if one says something profound or clever, it may be lost in the hearing... not that words are bad or unwelcome - just not necessary, right now. This is the time for no words or just one, "yes" works well... "yes" says it nicely, whatever it is that needs to be said... usually nothing, as the speaking is complete... words don't do it anywhere near as well.

Let me pay tribute to this moment, in all ways that a tribute should take, with the percussion of the heart, the winds of the lungs, the total joy in my eyes, the applause of my lips with yours, and let us take a bow for perfection of the dance... and love the fact that encore could start at nearly any minute... bravo...

an amazing life

We think about our place here, our function, our significance... and much of that will be written or speculated upon outside of our own hearing... maybe most of it after our own passing. Today I am thinking of a woman who has seen her share of obstacles, of times when she probably could've thrown in the towel, of when life was not what we would call fair. She recently turned 85, and is important to me, and a role model for anyone. I salute her today.


Born in a farmhouse right after Christmas, 1924, the second child of William (Bill) and Elsie. Not a remarkable child, or particularly gifted in anything, other than tenacity and the will to carry on. Her elder sister Elanore preceded her by two years, and the sisters would need a strength and pluck, which somehow they received in fine supply. Bill worked the farm and Elsie was his helpmate, he the son of German immigrants, she was third generation German American. Bill had an accident and had injured his head, and friends and relatives covered his farm duties until he recovered. The sisters learned from a young age the importance of community, of family and of helping out.

Some say it was a result of that accident, but in any event, Bill developed a brain tumor and died in 1928, his daughters were just six and not quite three. On the cusp of the great depression, their mother was left alone. In years to come, Elsie would marry another Bill, he was divorced, and the father of two boys, Delbert and Billy. In time, this yours and mine family would have three more children of their own - Dorothy, Eunice and Don.

She went to grade school, and at that time, many children were needed as farm hands, so oftentimes they did not go to school beyond the 8th grade. In 1939 she was confirmed and graduated from Osborn Elementary School, and went to work on her parents farm. A few years later, she met a handsome young man at a dance, they dated for awhile and married in 1943. They had their first child in 1945, their second in 1947 and found out that she was expecting their third in the summer of 1948. Just before she found out that she was pregnant, Marge and Les attended the funeral of a friend of theirs, a young man killed in a farm accident, leaving his wife and young children behind. Les was mortified, and saddened to his core. He told Marge that he could not imagine leaving a family like that behind, and how sad it must be for the man's family. A few months later, on a Wednesday, he went into the house and told Marge that he wasn't feeling well. He took to his bed, a rare thing indeed for this strong young man. By Sunday he was dead, of a kidney ailment that now would have been treated easily with antibiotics. Marge spent the entire time at the visitation, the funeral, and the days after, telling anyone and everyone that she was pregnant, lest anyone start rumors...

In July, 1948 she faced the world with a three year old, a seven month old and another on the way. He was born in February, 1949 and given the middle name of Lester. Les' younger brother Ray was a farm hand and worked for them. He was a happy go lucky sort, quiet and diligent, yet more than ready to raise a glass of beer or several when given the chance. Had his brother lived, Ray would've been one of those free spirits who never would've thought of marrying... but he was needed. Ray and Marge were the same age, as Les had been four years his brother's senior. Ray did what he could to console the young widow, helping out as much as he could, and escorting her to a dance or two and helping to care for the young children when he could. In October, 1949 they were married. Their uncle was now their step-dad. The four children born to Ray and Marge all had the same last names as Marge's first three kids, and the older three were both cousins to and half siblings to the younger four.

They kept the farm and raised the seven kids as one family. They never got rich, but they were never wanting for anything either. The years passed, and the kids got married and grandchildren came along. In the late 80's they sold their farm and moved to a trailer park not far from where they had spent their nearly 40 years of marriage. The kids would take their parents along on trips, and the two were happy to see things beyond the farm,and they enjoyed the journeys, and spending time with their kids and grandkids...

One trip Ray began to show signs of hostility, confusion and... dementia. When they got back to Wisconsin, one of the daughters scheduled him for a check-up. The doctor found nothing physically wrong, but requested that they follow up with a neurologist. He determined in short order that Ray had Alzheimer's and the family should start to prepare for his long slow slide into the black hole that is that disease. Seven months later he was in a nursing home, and for the next seven years he drifted further and further away, finally passing in October, 1998, one day after their 49th anniversary. He was finally home again. The funeral was a standing room only affair - his quiet gentle nature had touched so many people, and friends and acquaintances that he had not seen in years were there to offer comfort and support to the family.

In 1995, in the midst of Ray's struggle with Alzheimer's, Marge had reluctantly gone on another trip with one of the kids. Her daughter, son-in-law and two kids took grandma out to Pennsylvania to the Pocono's to see some of the countryside. The day that she got home, she called her daughter, the same one with whom she had traveled, and tearfully reported that she had passed blood, and she feared for the worst. Her beloved mother Elsie had met with a similar fate, passing away to colon cancer in 1964. Elsie had sat at the funeral of her sister, a victim of breast cancer, knowing that many of the same people would be gathering for her funeral in a short period of time. She was right, and two weeks later she passed away at the age of 63.

Marge was 71 at the time of her diagnosis. Her doctor felt that it was a small mass and might not even require chemotherapy. A one foot section of her colon was removed, along with a few lymph nodes. Wrong prognosis - she would need chemo, but probably only once a month, and it would probably be mild enough that she might not lose her hair, and would only be necessary for a few months. Wrong, and wrong and wrong. Chemo was weekly, she became sick and week, and lost all of her hair, and after 11 months, she begged them to stop. They did, and in 2000 was declared totally cancer free. There has not been in any reoccurrence. It was feared that during her treatment, she would not make it, leaving Ray alone in the fog of his Alzheimer's.

She claimed that her grandchildren were an inspiration to her, and she maintains that if the cancer ever returns, she will not fight it... Having lost her sister Elanore to cancer during Ray's treatment at the nursing home, and many of her other friends, she was determined that no heroic measures should be taken to save her life. None have been necessary.

She leaves for a trip out west tomorrow, to visit a son in Arizona and a brother in California. They always love to have her visit every year, as she brings her cheerful nature and her love of beer and playing cards. It's all good for her now. She can leave her mobile home behind for a couple of months, and have the winter pass by without her. When the time comes for her to be called home, she is ready - life has been full and plentiful and challenging. Not easy, or perfect of smooth... She will start many a sentence with "Years ago..." and launch into a little essay on how things were for her when she was growing up... The years can't take away her spirit, her laughter, or her knowledge that it's all been worth it...

My children's maternal grandmother... and a grand, grand lady she is... bon voyage, Grandma!

what lies betwixt

Something I wrote a few years ago, and had this on my Yahoo 360 page... I still like it, so still want to share it...
I'd like to remember laying down between your legs, and licking, starting at one knee, and tickling and circling and flicking my tongue from your knee up and down and swirling and slowly. Very slowly inching up your thigh - making you put all your weight on your hands - so you can thrust your hips forward, if you wanted - and then you'd throw your head backwards, and shake it back and forth. You grit your teeth and suck in a huge breath - because it felt so good - and I am just getting started. Can you feel that tongue, it’s working it's way around - higher, and higher - I'm almost to that place - where your legs meet your torso. I have to detour now - I need to suck and nibble on that tendon – you know that I love that nice firm little cord that connects your legs right near your butt cheeks. It's sticking out, I take it between my lips and nibble it gently, and you like it, yes, you really like it. But you want more; you want my tongue and my mouth somewhere else, somewhere very close by. You're starting to wiggle and squirm and you're starting to say something, but you've closed your thighs a little around my head, and I can't quite hear clearly. You're breathing in faster - I can hear your breathing through your clenched teeth - the only words that I can make out clearly are "Come on..." and "PLEASE" - otherwise it's garbled. I flick on the tendon a little bit, and reach underneath you to grab your butt - I'm preparing to take my sucking and licking and nibbling to a new level, and I figure that I will need to have a good grip.




I lift my head up a little and I look up at you and you are really enjoying yourself – you are sporting a smile that could thaw a polar ice cap. I lick my way up your thigh, across your hips - zoom onto your stomach - linger for a few seconds in your navel and then help myself to a nipple - then to another. You like that - you start to moan and purr, but at the same time you press on my head - you'd like me to continue that pleasure making a little lower, in the area I have just left to move up here. I free up a hand from beneath you and slowly, lightly let my fingers wander down to your special place - and they are immediately greeted with warmth and wetness - and a sharp intake of breath. I run a finger up and down your slit - you are so wet, oh honey, so, so wet. You start pumping your hips a little and pressing against my hand, trying to draw me into you. OK, if you insist, first one, then two, fingers quickly sink inside you. OH, OH - the heat and the wetness - you are so unbelievably hot, honey, wow. You like this, but you are losing control. The fingers are good, you love having something inside you, but you want that tongue, and soon, after enough suggestive pressure on the top of my head, I start licking my way down again, enroute to a rendezvous with my fingers, right in the center of your bodily pleasure...



My tongue continues it's way down. I love the squirming and the anticipation, the breathless, almost pleading, urgency of a woman on the verge. I might travel back up and nuzzle your breasts for just another moment, luxuriating in the soft warm flesh - then to kiss your neck, your chin, and of course, your mouth. Before I go down, to complete what you so desperately want, I'll kiss your ear and tell you what I'm about to do.



Something like - "You want it so bad, don't you, honey, are you ready? Do you feel this tongue in your ear, - very, very soon, it's going to be somewhere else. It's going to be tasting and licking your hot, wet, lovely flesh, right in a spot that is going to make you feel so good, you're almost going to cry from the sheer pleasure... Do you want this tongue, if you do, you're going to have to tell me...tell me what you want me to do with it. Shall I circle around and around, making gradually smaller and smaller circles...until I get there, right where you want it? And where is it - do I go inside, or stay on that special spot - do you want me to lick hard or soft? So soft that you can just barely feel it, oh my God, honey - you are so fucking hot, I feel how hot and wet you are, my hand is soaked - do you want my tongue where my fingers are? Do you want to cum, right now, do you?" You would be wiggling and writhing and breathing so hard, it would be hard to for me to proceed - and you're trying to help me, trying to tell me what I wanted to know. But it's not easy, your breathing is jerky, you want it so bad - you grit your teeth, and suck in a huge breath, but it gets caught in your throat. You open your eyes wide as I trail my tongue down from your ear, down your neck, making big sweeping circles around your neck and upper chest, then I lightly bite each nipple, with my lips covering my teeth, trying to give you a little feel of pleasure and pain. You start pushing on my head in earnest, mumbling "Now, Now, Now - please, plllllllleeeeeeeeeeassssssse - EAT ME NOW - Just fucking do it - now!" And I will, the table is set, no more delightful torture is necessary. I kiss each nipple once more, and my tongue travels a straight line, from between your lovely breast, over your stomach, flicking lightly along the way - a quick kiss and a couple flicks at your navel - and you are anxiously awaiting it's arrival. You violently thrust your pelvis against my hand, which has been churning with two fingers inside you. I have avoided your clit, as my tongue wants to sample it first, and it is just about to arrive (and so are you!). I give full kisses on your mound, taking as much of your mound into my mouth as I can, and I stretch my tongue out and reach toward your slit. God you are hot...As we near the final phase, I reposition myself - I work my fingers in and out of you several times, and you are about to go over... I take my fingers - so full of your juices, and I place them into my mouth - and it so lovely, you taste so good.



From there my hands go back to your ass - and you raise up, and my tongue stretches out to its entire length and I touch you there, very gently. Your head goes back and then violently side to side. I want this for you now, almost as bad as you want it for yourself. I drop down, to the bottom of your opening, flicking, back and forth - gradually increasing the pressure as I move up the slit. You are moaning and smiling - your head is at an almost grotesque angle - the pleasure almost forces it back all the way, but your curiosity and longing to see what I am doing brings in forward. I take one delightful dip into you all the way, into an incredible hot blast furnace of moistness - and you begin to cum. I go back to the clit, my tongue curved lengthwise into a tube to surround your button - and you shake violently and the moistness turns to a flow - so wet. My hands grasp your ass cheeks, so I can firmly administer to your needs, but also to steady you so you can just go completely over. And you do, alternately shouting, then almost whispering - "God, yes, yes yesssssssss, oh fuck - now now now…” as your voice trails off… Then suddenly, violently you shriek “NOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!" And the words are no longer words, just sounds - nasal, guttural - as wave after wave of pounding pleasure sweep over you.



The smile of a woman in her consummate pleasure - it is pleasure/pain on the way up - a longing desire, but here, now - at it's fullness, is just sheer, wanton, abandon and release. Your pelvis is wracked with continuous pounding as your orgasm hits full thrust, and just hangs there - you are so into the moment, you have given yourself to it - totally. My tongue has encased your clit, and I turn my head to circle it completely - working hard to control you. Finally, I release your buns and lower you down - you lower your pelvis, and my lips take you in to my mouth more fully... and finally, oh ever so gradually, the waves start to subside. Still ever so wonderful and beautiful - you are able to breathe, and your smile is of utter, complete bliss. You throw your head back all the way, trying to get the circulation to resume - your midsection has so dominated your body's attention, it was as if all things centered there, and the rest of the body starved and waited until it was over. And it is ending, slowly; ebbing away - giving you so much pleasure, as it gradually fades away. And you are done. I sense the completion. I crawl up to your chest - I love the symphony of a heartbeat that has just finished a masterpiece - and yours does not disappoint me. Though your body is moving toward a resolution and relaxation, your heart is pounding ferociously - speeding frantically to nourish all your extremities. As your heart finds equilibrium, I’m satisfied that I have accomplished my mission. I move my mouth to yours, so that we can reward ourselves with a kiss. A long, slow, satisfying kiss... and it is good, very good.

Yes

And in this place and time, in this moment, I still see it, can feel that warmth surrounding me, being totally surrounded and consumed and knowing that I as I probe your depths, it is you that is inside me... I feel that incredible warmth, heat that holds me, floating, transfixed, lost in this moment of anticipation, building, yearning... yes, I, am, inside... inside you, all the way, but it is not enough, never enough, the fever, hold me right there, clench around me, hold me in your nether depths like you want to take all of me... moist urgency, clenching muscles, then clenching teeth, fists, butt muscles, all a symphony of sex, yes, not moving now, just holding here, can I go on, is there another millimeter that I could push further, can you spread for me a little more, take me in deeper, I can't be in deep enough, should we go on from here, start the fever, frenzied push that leave us gasping and heaving, and leaving some of me in you... as your eyes hold me, hold me right here, just as tightly as your sheath grabs me and beckons me further... let us hold on, right here, right now, and know that this moment, it is not about completion... that will take care of itself, but in this moment we are complete, the puzzle pieces fit, the clocks have all stopped, the calendar has no meaning - we have this moment, we are this moment, we cannot be deprived of what is here, what is now...
Sliding back, not out, knowing that at some point, I must take leave of you, but for now, let us go forth into this great adventure, let us find that rhythm, ride this wave, take this moment, and build on momentum, I want you, take me further into your depths, have me now, take me all the way, this great act of acceptance, not to fulfill some want, to scratch some itch, not to play out some evolutionary urge, but take me, have me, all of me, let me, show me, urge me, yes, yes, I cannot close my eyes, as you own those, I feel that beckoning urgency, you clasp my soul with your pools of light, and your body composes the symphony of echoes, and cries, and grasp around me, urging me to fill you, fill you, take out that last oozing ounce of emptiness, and have me splash inside you with a willing, aching, yawning yes... yes, now... we have this moment, and then can freeze it, keep it, call it up and lovingly turn it over... yes
No hurry, no worry, no haste... just being, being inside you...yes... being, being inside you, let us hold onto this, being together, inside you, this moment is forever...

Hidden namesakes

I usually post all original stuff, things that I write. But this caught my fancy, as I am a connoisseur of words. I thought that this was very cool... from the magazine "The Week" page 48, December 4, 2009 edition. The origin of words... The article describes words, and how they came to be... some have been bandied about recently, others are part of our common usage, and some are, well... just interesting.


"Author John Bemelmans Marciano pays tribute to the forgotten figures behind 10 everyday words."

John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich, is famous for a particular type of obscurity. You may know nothing about him other than that he was saved from oblivion by the way he liked to snack—with a slab of salt beef stuffed between two pieces of toast. He is famous, in other words, for being the obscure figure behind a word that people often assume was not named after anyone. The earl might be the patron saint of a condition we might call anonyponomy. He is a man who is almost anonymous despite the eponymous use of his name in everyday language. He is not alone, though, in this limbo. As the examples here show, there are delightful, remarkable, and ridiculous figures and stories lurking everywhere in our speech.

MAVERICK (n.)
Samuel Augustus Maverick was a Yale grad­uate, lawyer, Mexican War veteran, and San Antonio mayor who owned so much Texas real estate they named a county after him. In the mid-1840s, Maverick accepted a herd of cattle in exchange for a debt and, not caring much for livestock, neglected them to the point of allowing calves to wander about unbranded, a cardinal sin in the free-ranging days before barbed wire. The lack of a brand became a brand in itself: Whenever anybody found a stray calf with no markings, they said, “That there’s a maverick.” Metaphorical uses soon followed.

GUY (n.)
In the wee morning hours of Nov. 5, 1605, Guy Fawkes was arrested in a rented storeroom under the House of Lords that was suspiciously packed with 36 barrels of gunpowder. Under torture, Guy confessed to being part of a Roman Catholic conspiracy to assassinate King James I, his family, and both houses of Parliament; he was hanged.

For more than 400 years, Guy Fawkes Day has been celebrated across the United Kingdom with fireworks and bonfires. On these crisp, late-autumn nights, children parade effigies of Fawkes through the streets chanting, “What shall we do with him? Burn him!” Upon reaching the great central bonfire, the kids toss “the guy” into the flames and then, if they are traditional, follow it with an effigy of the pope. Etymologically speaking, a “guy” came to mean someone of grotesque appearance, which came to include everyone, at least everyone in America.

DUNCE (n.)
John Duns Scotus was a Scottish theologian and one of the most influential thinkers of the Middle Ages. An ardent follower of St. Francis, Duns Scotus spent his career at the universities of Oxford, Paris, and Cologne. He provided the definitive argument on the then culture-war issue of the Immaculate Conception, after which it became Catholic dogma that Mary, the mother of Jesus, was conceived without sin. For his delicately shaded approach to this and similar difficult issues, he earned the nickname Dr. Subtilis, and his theories held sway from his 1308 death through the end of the Middle Ages.

Duns Scotus’ followers, the Scotists, dominated theology until another gang of scholars, the Thomists (after Thomas Aquinas), encroached on their turf. These new philosophers ridiculed the hairsplitting sophistry of Dr. Subtilis and his Dunsmen (pronounced DUNCE-men), who were impervious to learning anything new or different. In the intellectual rumble of the Renaissance, the elegant theories of Duns Scotus were knifed on account of his blockhead followers. To be called a “dunce” became the worst insult a would-be man of letters could receive.

TAWDRY (adj.)
Once upon a time, (the middle of the seventh century), there was a young English princess names Æthelthryth, or, as the Normans would later call her, Audrey. Princess Audrey was widowed after a marriage that, we are told, was never consummated. She took a vow of chastity, but her father the king required that Audrey marry again; her new hubby, understandably less than thrilled about her promise to God, bribed the local bishop to make the vow go away. The bishop instead helped Audrey escape, but hubby got wise and gave chase. Divine intervention in the form of a prolonged high tide provided Audrey cover for her getaway, causing her husband to give up and find himself a more ready gal to marry. Becoming a nun, Audrey founded the Abbey of Ely. Many years later, as she lay dying after a life of good works, Audrey developed a red, burning tumor around her neck, which she gladly accepted as punishment for the many frivolous necklaces she had worn in her youth. As a reward for Audrey’s extreme devotion to not having sex, she was sainted, and her feast day was celebrated with an annual fair held at Ely.

In a show of medieval irony, a certain kind of frilly silk neckerchief was known as St. Audrey lace, or “Taudrey Lace.” This item was a top seller at the St. Audrey fair, especially among “country wenches” who bought the cheapest and gaudiest varieties, paying little heed to Audrey’s cautionary tale about the link between necklaces and neck tumors.

PANTS (n.)
Pantaleon was an unmarried physician and citizen of the pagan Roman empire who could, simply by invoking the name of Jesus Christ, perform such miraculous acts as healing the blind. Jealous, Pantaleon’s fellow doctors denounced him to the emperor, who asked the good doctor to give up this Christian nonsense—whereupon Pantaleon proved the power of God by curing a man of paralysis. Having witnessed the trick, the emperor condemned Pantaleon to death for practicing black magic.

As is the case with many Christian martyrs, death was the beginning of a second life. Pantaleon became the patron saint of bachelors and physicians, and his name could be invoked to cure a variety of ailments. When the Black Death swept through Europe, St. Pantaleon’s stock went up dramatically in places like hard-hit Venice, where a spectacular church was dedicated to him. “San Pantalone” became so identified with Venice that his name was borrowed by the commedia dell’arte for the character of the prototypically greedy Venetian merchant.

The commedia dell’arte had story lines harking back to Roman times, but was played out as improvisational farce. Each actor of the troupe dressed in mask and costume as one of a repertory of stock characters, such as Arlecchino, easily recognizable in his trademark diamond-patch outfit and better known to us by his Frenchified name, Harlequin. The costume signature of Pantalone was a pair of red leggings that reached the feet, a distinctively Venetian manner of cladding the legs that audiences outside the region found remarkable. Over the years and in various languages, the character’s name was borrowed to describe varying fashions of long trousers and related garments. By the mid-1800s, the Anglicized name Pantaloon had comfortably been shortened to “pants.”

JANITOR (n.)
Pity poor Janus, once the mightiest Roman deity of all. He was the father of the gods—until his worshippers fell all over themselves for the flashier, sexier Greek pantheon and left Janus to be the god of doors. Janus was well suited to his task, at least, having a face on both the front and back of his head. Those who attended to the god of doors—that is, doorkeepers—came to be called janitors.

WIMP (n.)
The original wimp was J. Wellington Wimpy, the porkpie-hatted mooch of the Popeye cartoons, whose perennial gambit “I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today” never quite succeeded.

E.C. Segar’s Thimble Theatre, the comic strip in which Popeye first appeared, is remarkable for its contribution to the lexicon. In addition to “wimp,” Segar is also responsible for the word “goon,” from his hairy warrior woman Alice the Goon, and probably the vehicle name Jeep, after Olive Oyl’s pet Eugene the Jeep, a magical and resourceful creature from the fourth dimension whose entire vocabulary consisted of the single word “Jeep!”

CARDIGAN (n.)
The Charge of the Light Brigade, immortalized in the poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson, was a big fat mistake. A miscommunicated order during the Crimean War’s Battle of Balaclava (1854) led to a cavalry assault so foolhardy that the enemy Russian troops thought the onrushing Brits had to be drunk. The doomed but brave sally sparked the English imagination in a romantic period when the doomed but brave was much celebrated.

The leader of the charge managed to make it through unscathed, and went home to England a hero, an unlikely outcome for James Thomas Brudenell, the seventh Earl of Cardigan. Cardigan had risen through the army via family connections and purchasing commissions; he certainly hadn’t done it by being an upstanding citizen or military man.

In one respect, however, Cardigan treated his subordinates splendidly. Wanting his 11th Hussars to be the spiffiest regiment in the Queen’s army, Cardigan spent an estimated 10,000 pounds a year of his personal fortune outfitting them. Reportedly, this included a knitted, button-down vest of Cardigan’s own invention that he and his men wore under their battle uniforms to stave off the Crimean cold. Whether true or the fantasy of an enterprising sweater salesman, the story was widely believed, and with everyone wanting to copy the heroes of the Light Brigade, the cardigan became the fashion of the day. What would Mr. Rogers have done without them?

FRISBEE (n.)
In the 1930s, a couple of drunk Yale students munched down a pie and started playing catch with the leftover tin plate. The game took off, and soon the whole campus was eating pies and playing the new sport. The students’ pastry of choice was made by Mrs. Frisbie’s Pies of Bridgeport, Conn.; it’s unknown whether this preference speaks to the quality of her pastry or the aerodynamics of her tins, which came embossed with the company name.

Mrs. Mary Frisbie was likely amused by this tossing around of her plates; certainly, her bakeries were selling a lot of pies—80,000 a day in 1956. On the other side of the country there was a guy who would’ve envied her: Fred Morrison had created a disk designed specifically for flying, but no one was buying them. Trying to cash in on the UFO craze, Morrison released the Pipco Flyin-Saucer, then the Pluto Platter, which caught the eyes of the Wham-O corporation. Wham-O executives had recently created the biggest fad America had ever seen, the Hula Hoop, selling 25 million units in four months. They purchased Morrison’s designs, realizing why success eluded him: His names all stunk. They soon learned there was already a better name for a flying disk—Frisbie—in a place where the sport was wildly popular. Wham-O decided to call its plastic version the same thing, but to trademark the name, it changed the spelling to Frisbee. (Very tricky.) The Frisbee wound up being Wham-O’s most popular and enduring product.

CRAPPER (n.)
Thomas Crapper is a man yet to receive his due. Most reputable arbiters of etymology deem urban legend the idea that he had anything to do with the word “crapper.” To be sure, the word “crap” predates Mr. Crapper. Crappa was a medieval Latin term meaning “chaff,” from which developed many variations, all generally meaning something left over. Crapper as a last name similarly has agricultural roots: It is a variation on Cropper.

The first usage of “crap” in regards to excrement was recorded in 1846, too early for it to have anything to do with Thomas Crapper, who was not yet 10. Young Crapper, however, would grow up to be an early purveyor of the flush toilet. His London firm manufactured thousands of such toilets, all emphatically marked CRAPPER’S. American servicemen visiting London during the Great War thought this was the funniest thing they had ever seen, and, according to one theory, brought back with them a new word.

It does seem fair to question, however, just how a plumbing-fixtures manufacturer came by so serendipitous a surname. Fate? Or was it a case of nominative determinism, in which Thomas’ surname steered him into his life’s work? Or did Thomas choose the name Crapper for professional advantage? That would show some serious dedication to marketing.

From the book Anonyponymous: The Forgotten People Behind Everyday Words by John Bemelmans Marciano. ©2009 by John Bemelmans Marciano. Used with permission.