13. Fruit, Wine, and Tantalization

     Yeah, so that thing about maybe never bothering to alert you to my presence? Scratch that. (Hi reddit.) Right when I thought I was getting used to the idea of all this being out there in the world… Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s fine. It actually happened before the Best Compliment Ever, but it brought on a new bout of anxiety and I didn’t want to write about it. But probably it doesn’t matter. Why wouldn’t it be totally fine? I keep thinking about the difference between all those fancy sex blogs and this. It was easier not to care when it was just me and few people I knew, reading over my shoulder. Now I actually do have You to worry about. Does this random rambling bother you? Should I have to wonder? Is it rude not to give a fuck, now that I know you’re there? What about the format? My husband thought I should probably post the back story as static pages instead of individual posts, to encourage people not to read it backwards, but I didn’t want the subsequent posts – the rambling parts -  to start feeling like Facebook comments instead of parts of each episode. Because even when they are unrelated, they are describing a period of time, be it a three month phase or a night at a hotel. Pobble Thoughts is completely random and still manages to be awesome. Pobble is actually an old friend of mine. She’s the High Priestess of truth, inspiration, righteous indignation, and, well, anything shiny that happens to catch her eye. But she’s also a published author with a standing writing gig, an established fan base, and a blog network that’s close to a decade in the making. I can’t even think about comparing my shit to that without getting queasy. Though maybe I can borrow some of her iron clad orneriness: This is how I’m doing it because this is how I want it. You are welcome to come in and poke around. If you don’t like the way it’s done, I trust you can find your own way out. If you like it, pull up a cushy chair and make yourself comfortable. If there’s none left in the fridge, here’s my recipe for ghetto sangria – stir some up and I’ll try to have something written about sex for you to read, by the time you get back. (And pour me a glass, would you?)

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.

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.)