L&BJ’s Ghetto Sangria
This is the big
recipe. It’s easy enough to halve it, but the longer it sits around, the more
the fruit and liquor soak together, the better it is, so it’s beneficial to
make more than you can drink in one sitting, anyway.
And you won’t be left with half an orange.
And you won’t be left with half an orange.
1. Take off your shirt; you’re going to get sticky.
2. Music. You need music. (There are some good
suggestions on here, if you scroll.)
3. Pour half a cup of sugar into the bottom of a
large pitcher.
4. Add two shots of Cointreau – don’t measure too
hard, let them overflow, you’re going to get sticky anyway, remember?
5. Add one of those pre-cut, grocery store pint
containers of fruit. I always use the one that’s a combination of pineapple,
blueberries, strawberries and blackberries. (You may have to cut the
strawberries smaller – they usually leave those fairly whole for the people who
like to take them into the bedroom. I don’t like food with my sex, personally,
but I’m not about to judge those of you who do.)
6. Slice an unpeeled orange as thinly as you can
(do it on a plate, so you can save the juice), and tumble it all into the mix.
Go ahead, try to do that without getting any on your skin.
7. Dump in one large (like the 1.5 liter size) or
two regular sized bottles of shitty, sweet wine. I recommend a late harvest riesling
(Hogue is good & cheap) or moscato (Barefoot is good and cheap).
8. Stir and stab violently with a wooden spoon, to
crush the fruit a bit.
9. Pour in a few glugs of something bubbly. I use
lime flavored sparkling water, but 7-Up or any light to clear carbonated
beverage will do.
10. Stir more reasonably.
11. Have someone lick the sticky off your boobs and
fingers.
12. Garnish with sex or internet erotica.
Glass full? Feet up? Comfy? Okay,
let me tell you a story from last week.
He’d been away on business for
days. I am pathetic, when he’s away. I am a kite with no string. All things
normal and routine become unfamiliar and strange. I become a bundle of
hesitation and vague, featureless fear. So when I woke to find him there where
he was supposed to be, warm and delicious and sprawled across the pillows like
someone had thrown him there, ah, all was right with the world again. I curled
up against him with my head in that little dip between his shoulder and his
chest, and he put his arms around me and pulled me against him. I can’t usually
get away with this. Usually his brain is already at work. Usually this kind of
lying together requires post coitus level relaxation that doesn’t exist in the
morning, but he let me. This is my favorite way to sleep – no nagging or ugly
thoughts can get past him, to my mind. It’s the half sleep in which the lines
blur between reality and dream, whale sleep. Whales sleep with only one lobe of
their brains at a time; part has to stay awake so they’ll remember to breathe.
I can sleep like that forever. But this was morning, so it couldn’t last.
Eventually we got up and began to slowly move toward the obligations of the
day. I was working on letting go of all the goodness that made me want to pull
him back into the bed (surely it was still warm), and then he came up and
groped me from behind while I was brushing my teeth. I looked up in the mirror,
expecting to meet his eyes and share a wicked little moment, but I found
instead that he was looking at my ass. I have these soft, tiny little pajama
shorts that he is helpless to resist. In a second, his hands were inside them, grabbing
me, fingers in my pussy, manhandling and starting that slow shudder traveling
from his hands, up through my flesh to my breasts and my neck, and me, holding
onto the counter to steady myself, eyes closed… And then he just walked away.
Jesusmarymotherofgod I love it when he fucks with my head.
I was on my way back from the
kitchen a little while later, having been discussing the kid’s plans for the
evening – halle-fucking-lujah, he’s staying out late, at a friend’s house
(apparently we’re doing Christian based cursing on L&BJ today). I was still
feeling the soft and smooshy and warm of a comfortable waking, and the relief
of finding him back in our bed and his hands back on my body. My hair was
disheveled, my eyes half-lidded, and then there he was, just standing there,
bag on his shoulder, ready to go, and not moving. Looking at me. I went to him,
summoned without communication of any sort, and he pulled me to him, kissed me
like he meant it, his face in my hair, his hand in the crack of my ass, fingers
pressing into my quim, and he whispered in my ear “Cum twice before noon, and
then not again.” As he walked to the door he added without looking back, “Until
tonight.”
This is how awesome my life is,
now.
I told you I was inviting you to
live vicariously through my unemployment, didn’t I? This time I’m going to let
you share the anticipation of that moment, because of course there’s more to
the story. There’s the afternoon I spent alone, and the night that followed it.
But I’m also trying to break the self-imposed routine of the Monday morning blog
post. Every time I try to force myself into a writing regimen, the very next
thing I do is fuck it up. So now that I’m not just posting epochs that have
been previously written (you’re still not quite
caught up to reality, because I’m writing this from what’s a couple of pages
back in my journal), I’m going to stop pretending I have any sort of real routine,
at all. I’ve already started, if you haven’t noticed, but only because I’ve
been fucking up the Monday post by not getting to it until Tuesday. Now I’m
going to embrace the randomness that I’ve been worrying about. I’ll come back
tomorrow or the next day and tell you about the afternoon of self-pleasuring,
and then maybe I’ll make you wait another day for the graphics of nightfall, as
I had to wait for them, when it happened. Maybe you’ll stick around to find out
how it went. Maybe you’ll get bored and go away. I’m trying not to worry about
you. I hope that you’ll at least get housed on fruit and wine and think dirty
thoughts, wherever you end up.
( It's a good kind of sticky.)