I've got a lot on my mind today.
Yesterday, I explored another blog - Unspeakable Axe. I read the whole thing, start to finish, and I really enjoyed it. Axe is just so frank, and I can't help but be drawn to people who don't sugar-coat things. Sometimes things don't go very well, and you don't always get what you want out of encounters and relationships, and Axe tells us all about that with a dry wit and subtle humor. I particularly enjoyed the bit about folding fitted sheets. I mean, who can't relate to that? Plus, I'm told he's handsome. Though that doesn't have much to do with the quality of his writing, it certainly can't hurt.
Anyway, in Axe's archives, I came across this news story from the UK. It was an article about the discrimination of a transit company against a young goth couple, Dani Graves and Tasha Maltby. Apparently, a bus driver would not allow the couple to ride the bus. Why? Because Tasha is Dani's collared pet, and he had her on a leash. The relatively short article includes a photo of the couple, doing what they do. I recommend you take a peek at it.
Now, this stimulates me for all sorts of different reasons. First of all, the fashion geek in me is absolutely drooling over their clothes. Just look at his coat! His rings! Her dress! That hardware! Plus, it's no big secret that I'm a sucker for the goth types in general. In fact, Mr. Fingernails from my morning bus looks a bit like this fellow, albeit not so well-dressed. Also, that girl is just cute as a button, and her figure is dead sexy. However, that's not what was most striking about this. What got me, of course, is the leash.
Now, I've been well aware for a very long time that there are plenty of people who do this in relative privacy. I don't, however, normally see it in broad daylight. I'd like to, though. Perhaps I ought to move to the UK.
When I was young - 14 years old, in fact - I spent a lot of time hanging around in a trendy neighborhood near the intersection of Clark and Belmont in the city. This area was home to all sorts of interesting little stores - lots of piercing/tattoo studios, head shops, Taboo Tabou for those who want overpriced softcore kink paraphernalia. Then, of course, there's the Alley, an staple of the Chicago alternative scene, especially in the 90s. All sorts of pierced up, Mohawk-sporting, self-proclaimed "freaks" milled about this neighborhood at all hours of the day and night, and of course, that was where I wanted to be. I was the Clark & Belmont equivalent of a mallrat, essentially. I felt like a little badass at the time.
It was at that age that I began to collect my accessories. I learned very quickly that I was pleased by the feel of leather or metal against my skin, and I spent quite a lot of money collecting little things that excited me in a tactile way. For me, that was chokers and bracelets/cuffs. I can't tell you how many spiked and/or studded leather chokers and bracelets I had, and still have. I wore choke chains made for dogs, too. I'd sit in front of the TV or wherever when I was alone, absentmindedly tugging at them to increase the pressure on my neck, reminding myself that they were there. I began to feel excited by almost anything with hardware attached, particularly clothes or boots with chains or buckles involved. That same year, I purchased what was, at the time, the crowning jewel of my small collection - a black leather choker with the word "submissive" spelled out in shiny steel letters. I'd been eyeing it for quite a while, and when Alex failed to pick up on my hints, I decided to simply buy it for myself. I still have it and I still love it, although I seldom find myself wearing it since I am not often trying to give off the impression of being owned.
One day, when shopping for boots at the Doc Martens store, I was browsing their selection of the patches and pin-back buttons I so loved to cover my jackets and bags with, and I came across a button that caught my attention. It read, in tiny red letters, "I want to be your dog."
I bought it. I stuck it in my pocket. I was a fairly savvy 14 year old, and was well-versed in kinky porn by that time, but was not ready to handle the possible consequences of displaying my new badge proudly. I knew what it meant, but wasn't ready to think about whether or not I identified with it. The fact that I bought it and kept it in my pocket probably should have been a hint.
About a month after my purchase, Alex and I made plans to go to a concert at the Metro with some mutual friends. I honestly don't even remember how the heavy chain dog leash got there. I don't know if it was mine, or one of our friends', or why we had it, but the point is that it ended up in my hands as we sat at a Taco Bell prior to the show. At the time, I was wearing a chain-link choker. Somewhat tentatively, in the middle of my meal, I snapped the end of the leash onto the ring on my choker, and handed the handle to Alex. He giggled a little bit, awkwardly, but he held it. I wore it for the rest of the night, and nobody talked about it. We got some strange looks from passers-by, but on the whole, the presence of the leash was not acknowledged too much by any of us. Our friends, either out of awkwardness or acceptance, didn't mention it either. We carried on with our evening in a perfectly natural way, enjoying the concert. Inside, though, I was floating. I remember how completely exhilarated my adolescent mind and body felt at that tiny little act, though I didn't really grasp the significance. I wasn't even sexually active yet.
Much to my dismay, we never took it any further than that, and I never wore a leash again, though I did pin that button to my coat after that night.
There's no real point to this post, except perhaps to once again examine myself in text instead of in practice, and to publicly add another thing to the list of things I feel compelled to explore in my lifetime. It's becoming a long list.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Can you keep a secret?
The last time I found out a former flame of mine was getting hitched, I wrote a post commemorating the pseudo-relationship I had with him. This time, for Ricky, I will do the same thing. Perhaps this will become a tradition.
Nearly 7 years ago, I was eating dessert one spring night with my sister at a popular chain restaurant – the sort of casual-dining place with red and white checkered tablecloths and old movie posters up on the walls. As I dug into my piece of chocolate cake, I remarked to my sister that the people working at this restaurant seemed pretty happy. It looked like a fun place to work. She said, “Why don’t you just apply then? I dare you.” I hardly gave this any thought. I acted on impulse. I already had a steady but depressing full-time job at an animal hospital, but I was eager for a change. As we paid our bill, I asked our server for a job application. I filled it out, and the manager-on-duty met with me 5 minutes later. We chatted briefly. I could tell he liked me. He told me to return the next day at 11:00 A.M. to speak with the general manager. I arrived early for my interview, and the G.M., Kevin, was a sweetheart. He gave me a part-time hostess job on the spot. That night, I had most of my hair cut off (in what would later become a new-job tradition for me), and I arrived for work the next day with a fresh pixie-cut and a smile on my face.
It wasn’t a difficult job to get the hang of, and the restaurant was staffed with a bunch of other young people for me to make friends with. I got along reasonably well with everybody, and I enjoyed getting to chat with the patrons. It didn’t pay well at all, but it was a lot of fun. Kevin was a laid-back hippie type, with his Grateful Dead t-shirts and jolly laughter. I found my groove very quickly. Every day when I’d arrive for my shift, I’d check the seating chart at the host stand. There would be a list of that day’s servers, and then there was a little dry-erase picture showing which tables belonged to which server. One day, about a week and a half after I started working there, I noticed a name on the chart that I hadn’t seen before – Ricky. I’d heard a little bit about him, mostly from the other girls at the restaurant. It seemed he had a bit of a reputation. I wondered if he was attractive. I was in the middle of one of my off-periods with my on-again, off-again boyfriend Alex, and I was in the mood to flirt.
Later that afternoon, during a slow period, I stood at the host stand, leaning against the wall, listening to Wilco on the satellite radio and zoning out. All of a sudden, in a loud, booming voice, I heard, “What’s up, cool cats?!” I turned around. A tall, tan fellow with sandy brown hair and a white t-shirt had come through the back door. I watched quietly as he greeted everybody around the bar and stopped to talk with Kevin. A girl, Ella, approached him with a hug. He had a big, broad smile. Fake, I thought. Loud and fake. This was supposed to be impressive? I turned around and went back to my work.
Twenty minutes or so passed by, and I was chatting with Paul and another server, Bradley, when the sandy-haired fellow approached the host stand. Paul and Bradley walked away, and Ricky stood right in front of me, staring. His eyes were some of the bluest I’ve ever seen, and they looked very gentle. His skin was flawless, his hairline receding slightly. I was not immediately captivated by his looks. He put his hands – large, rough – on the edge of the stand. I noticed he wore puka shell bracelets. Great, I thought. He thinks he’s a surfer, with his California tan and his seashells so far from any ocean. He did not smile – just stared. I broke the silence.
“You must be Ricky.”
“I might be. And who are you? I haven’t seen you here before.”
He had a remarkable voice; the sort of voice I was accustomed to hearing from newscasters or radio personalities. He had a small gap between his front teeth, too. I tried my best to look confident and uninterested.
“I just started last week. I’m Mariel.”
“Well it’s lovely to meet you, Mariel.”
He offered his hand, and I took it. He gave a firm handshake; not the limp kind I’m used to getting from men, as though my hands might break. I returned it with gusto. He came around to stand next to me, looking over my shoulder at the seating chart. He smelled delicious, like sweat and Ralph Lauren. His breath was minty.
“I have work to do, but I’ll come back. Will you wait for me?”
I tried to suppress a smile. I failed. “Maybe.”
As he walked away, he winked at me. He actually winked! “God,” I thought, “how arrogant. How smarmy. I am not susceptible to that kind of cheap shit.”
But I was wrong.
Over the next few weeks, I learned more about my new tan friend as we spent more and more time schmoozing at the host stand. He was older, and had recently moved to Chicago from sunny Florida with his girlfriend of five years, Dee. Turned out he really had done some surfing in his old hometown, and he wore the shells to remind him of home. He seemed wistful when he’d talk of “back home,” like he hadn’t really settled into Midwestern life yet. Ricky had a lot of dreams. He wanted to be a stand-up comic, he wanted to be a lawyer, he wanted to open a restaurant of his own, he wanted to go into broadcasting. He thought any or all of these things might be easy to do in a big city like Chicago, so he’d come up here to “find himself.” I quickly found myself interested in the stories he’d tell me in that confident, deep voice of his. I watched the way he interacted with our customers and co-workers, almost like he was flirting with everybody he met. Almost invariably, people responded to it. He seemed to attract women effortlessly. Several of our female co-workers (and a few of the males) clamored for his attention, and a handful of women from local businesses would stop into the bar during their lunch breaks just to let him serve up hamburgers and flirtatious platitudes. From the moment I met him and decided he was arrogant and not worthwhile, I was determined not to “fall for” that routine. Now, though, my resolve was beginning to fail me. I liked this cocky guy. Shit.
Our conversations slowly became more intimate. We talked about his relationship, my ex, our goals in life. We found ourselves arriving a few minutes earlier, and a few minutes earlier still, to chat before shifts. We talked extensively about movies and music, and he told me about his favorite band, Counting Crows. I had remembered that band from the early 90s when “Mr. Jones” was a big hit, but didn’t know anything more about them until Ricky wrote down the names of some songs for me to download. I listened and loved them, and they quickly made up the soundtrack to this blossoming friendship. Somewhere around this time, I quit my animal hospital job and began waiting tables full time, and Ricky was promoted. He was now officially my boss. That didn’t bother either of us too much at the time, since we were “just friends.” But he began to work longer days, and I found myself picking up extra shifts in order to spend time with him. Ricky wrote me notes on the backs of napkins, quoting some of our mutual favorite songs, giving me little reasons to smile to myself throughout the day. Gradually, that overbearing, arrogant charm I had witnessed in the beginning began to fade away. He spoke more quietly, became more humble, and began to trust me with little bits of personal information here and there. He was more melancholy than I originally took him for, it seemed. He began to hug me whenever we greeted one another, and we had fun, too. We danced, we sang. Somewhere along the line we began to have wrestling matches in the restaurant after closing, and he taught me how to do his favorite bar trick – spinning a drink tray on the tips of his fingers, throwing it up in the air and catching it. It took me a while to pick up that skill, but soon I was almost as good as he was. Before long, Ricky was giving me rides home from work, and people started noticing. Girls from the restaurant grew jealous. One in particular, Ella, was especially offended. She asked me to join her outside one day for a cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but I followed her out anyway.
“He’s not going to fuck you. And even if he does, you’ll regret it.”
“What?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Ricky. He’s just a slut. He just fucks around with everybody to stroke his ego. He doesn’t like you. Besides, you’re jailbait, and, I mean, if anybody told someone what was going on, he would get in trouble. You don’t want that.”
Ella was over 30. She was not a catty teenager, and this sort of immature, threatening talk sounded silly coming from the mouth of an adult woman. I drew my own conclusions, of course – that Ella and Ricky had at least slept together at one point, and she’d gotten hurt.
“There’s no reason to be rude. Nothing’s happening.”
“Whatever, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I could tell from the tone of her voice that was not the truth.
“Thanks, but this is none of your business one way or the other.”
I walked inside, stressed. I didn’t tell Ricky about that little discussion. Ella did have a point. I was jailbait. Ricky was well aware of that fact, too. More than once, phrases like “if only you were a few years older” would work their way into our conversations. I had, and still have, little patience for that sort of talk. My age was not something I could change, and it was glaringly obvious that we were becoming attracted to one another despite the gap. We had plenty in common, and whether we planned it or not, we were developing a relationship. His girlfriend was another obstacle, of course. Apparently, they’d been having problems for quite some time, and were more like roommates than lovers, but neither was prepared financially to strike out on their own, so they were both minding their own business in the meantime. Of course, I took all of this with a grain of salt, but I figured it was not my business to judge one way or the other and focused only on what was going on between the two of us. There was also the work issue, as my normally very relaxed general manager began to catch wind of what was going on between Ricky and I. I became very honest with Ricky. I told him that I was developing feelings for him, and that while I understood the (very good) reasons for his hesitancy to pursue me, I wasn’t going to wait around in limbo forever. Neither of us were sure how to proceed, what was the right thing to do, and we began to grow frustrated. We began to squabble a bit over nothing important. One slow evening after such a tiff, Ricky approached me at the host stand. He walked fast, and had an angry look on his face. He was obviously upset. When he spoke, his voice was low and hushed.
“What are we doing, Mariel?”
“You’re asking me? You’re the one who can’t make up your mind.”
“We’re just friends, right? We have to be. It’s completely platonic.”
“Oh, is it now? Well, that’s fine. No big deal.”
“Fuck you.”
He walked away. I was angry, hurt. What did he want? He knew how I felt, but yes, it was risky. I wasn’t about to offer him false reassurance or try to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do.
The following day’s lunch shift was busy. I had several tables full of annoying patrons to deal with, and I was making peanuts in tips. The previous night’s argument had left me feeling sour, and the day wasn’t going well. When I stepped into the kitchen and heard Ricky call me into the office, I was irritated. Everybody in the kitchen had heard him call me, and he sounded angry. Presumably, he was going to give me a hard time about something, call me out on some mistake, take out his frustration on me professionally. I set down the pitcher I was holding and walked over to the office. He stood up, looking angry, and told me to close the door. My stomach dropped a little. I wondered if he was going to fire me in order to remove me as a distraction. That would be humiliating. I closed the door behind me, and he approached. The office was stiflingly hot. He whispered, “Can you keep a secret?” I nodded.
Within a heartbeat, I was slammed roughly up against the wall. His hands ran through my hair and his tongue pushed its way into my mouth with a force and passion that literally took my breath away. Months and months of pent-up energy released themselves through his fingertips and his mouth and his hard cock pressing through his khakis. My hands teased his dress shirt out of his pants, finding the small beads of sweat on his back, his smooth chest, his belly and below, learning his anatomy as my tongue danced and my mind raced. He reached below my shirt and expertly released me from my bra, brushing my already achingly hard nipples with his fingertips. I closed my eyes and sighed over and over again as he pressed his body against mine and I attempted to grind my pussy against his leg. Though I am normally shy when naked, at that moment I had no capacity for self-consciousness. I felt lustful, primal, and I was acting on instinct. All I wanted was my naked flesh up against his, to feel him inside of me, and I was so wet, I was sure he’d feel it through my clothes. He licked and bit at my neck as he blindly explored my body with his hands, pressing here, pinching there, and we communicated our passion in sighs and monosyllables. I was absolutely in heaven, tracing the outline of his cock through his pants, willing the barrier gone. I wanted us to devour one another, right then and there. Instead, though, he pulled away.
“You have to get back out there, or this is going to look suspicious.”
He was right. We put ourselves back together and I straightened my hair and tried to will away the flush from my cheeks as I opened the door and went back into the kitchen, exhilarated. I had only been gone a matter of minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. People glanced at me suspiciously, and I tried my best to look as though I’d just been reprimanded instead of aroused. I did a pretty good job at that charade, apparently. When people asked what had happened, and I told them I’d rather not discuss it, I got comforting responses like “Yeah, I figured, Ricky looked pretty pissed off. But don’t take it personally, and hey, at least you didn’t get fired." I visited his office frequently in the following weeks to be “reprimanded.”
We only expanded our repertoire slightly over the next few months. Rides home to my house frequently included detours to local forest preserves so that he could kiss me hard and finger me harder in the backseat of his Honda. It felt sneaky and cheap, but we made the best of it. On nights that he was scheduled to close the restaurant, I’d stay late, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning. It usually began the same way – after everybody else left, I’d creep into the office as he worked, scratching his back gently, breathing lightly on his neck, whispering in his ear. He’d complain about being unable to concentrate on his work, and I’d apologize by undoing his belt and stroking his dick. Sometimes, I’d sneak into the dark, frigid cold of the walk-in freezer and call him from there, waiting on my knees for him to come feed me his cock so that I could keep it warm with my mouth. I never waited long. His cock was magnificent, too. Its proportions seemed built just for me and I had little trouble swallowing him whole as he pulled my hair and I watched his eyes roll toward the ceiling. He’d fuck my face roughly until he came in shudders and gasps, with my one had grasping his smooth-shaven balls and the other digging into the flesh of his ass. I enjoyed his taste, and I told him so as I swallowed everything he had to give me, smiling up at him from the floor.
He never reciprocated, but that didn’t matter to me at the time. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to please him. All the reciprocation in the world would not have equaled the pride I felt in being able to service him and offer him pleasure. I would have happily stayed on my knees forever if he’d wanted it.
At the end of these late nights, we often sat outside in the dark to talk. He sang to me in his beautiful voice and fashioned a bouquet of roses out of sheets of wax paper. I giggled and clapped and told him he was appreciated. He kissed me tenderly, and that was enough for both of us.
Time passed, and things remained good. Our arrangement wasn’t getting anybody into trouble, and we were both reasonably satisfied. Then, we received bad news – Ricky was being transferred temporarily to a different restaurant, several hours away. He claimed he would need to stay at a hotel to avoid the commute, but I suspected things were going downhill at home with Dee as well. I didn’t ask. It was a good career move for him, so he could not refuse, and we learned he would only need to be away for 3 months. “I can be patient,” I told him, and he kissed me on the cheeks as he told me he’d keep in touch with me regularly. The following week, he left. I did not hear from him for several weeks. When I asked Kevin if he’d heard from Ricky, Kevin told me, “Well, I think he should be the one to talk to you about that.” How can somebody say something cryptic like that and not follow it up with any information, especially knowing that Ricky and I were close and that I’d be worried? I had no way to contact him, though, so I waited. When he finally did get in touch, I was relieved, but only momentarily, for the conversation quickly turned to his having gone AWOL. I learned that Ricky’s depression had gotten the better of him and he’d found himself in the hospital after a particularly bad night. I was distraught and worried sick, and I convinced him to let me visit. The next night, I drove out to his hotel, and we spent the whole time naked in bed, holding and cuddling one another, whispering softly in the dark. We got high and talked frankly. He had left Dee, and as such, had left his home and his dog and most of his belongings behind. It had not ended well, so there was little chance of recovering most of it. Ricky told me that he felt he needed to move back to Florida for his own well-being. There were a few tears, but mostly kisses. I was heartsick. The next morning, I woke early and got dressed, and we embraced, kissing softly at the door as I left for home. That would be the last kiss we’d have. He never fucked me.
Over the following weeks, as Ricky prepared to move back to Florida, we distanced ourselves from one another. Though he came back from the other restaurant, the contact became less and less frequent. I no longer made an effort to sync our work schedules, reasoning that there was no point in trying to hang on to someone who was leaving. I was angry at him for taking off at the very moment that he and I actually had a shot at pursuing something together, but I was not about to beg him to stay. Furthermore, if he felt he could not be happy here, I didn’t want him to stay in a situation that might cause him to be dangerous to himself. So I withdrew and kept my hurt to myself. Sensing this, he didn’t press me for attention. On his last day of work, he once again called me into the office. When I sat down next to him, he looked at me, pained, and said, “Do you want to come with me? Would you? Please?” I blinked and bit my lip. “No, you know I can’t do that.” He sighed and looked down at the desk, rubbing his neck. “I had to try.”
Later that afternoon, he said his goodbyes to everyone. I was the last in line. He gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear, “Be good.” I didn’t respond, for fear of crying in front of everybody.
Ricky went back to Florida, and he and I didn’t speak for 6 years. Last week, I found him online. He’s a restaurant manager again, back in his element, and he is hoping to finally go to law school. He got a new dog, a nice house, and found himself a very beautiful woman, and they’ve been traveling the world together for years. Now, they’re engaged. He seems genuinely happy. Good for him.
Nearly 7 years ago, I was eating dessert one spring night with my sister at a popular chain restaurant – the sort of casual-dining place with red and white checkered tablecloths and old movie posters up on the walls. As I dug into my piece of chocolate cake, I remarked to my sister that the people working at this restaurant seemed pretty happy. It looked like a fun place to work. She said, “Why don’t you just apply then? I dare you.” I hardly gave this any thought. I acted on impulse. I already had a steady but depressing full-time job at an animal hospital, but I was eager for a change. As we paid our bill, I asked our server for a job application. I filled it out, and the manager-on-duty met with me 5 minutes later. We chatted briefly. I could tell he liked me. He told me to return the next day at 11:00 A.M. to speak with the general manager. I arrived early for my interview, and the G.M., Kevin, was a sweetheart. He gave me a part-time hostess job on the spot. That night, I had most of my hair cut off (in what would later become a new-job tradition for me), and I arrived for work the next day with a fresh pixie-cut and a smile on my face.
It wasn’t a difficult job to get the hang of, and the restaurant was staffed with a bunch of other young people for me to make friends with. I got along reasonably well with everybody, and I enjoyed getting to chat with the patrons. It didn’t pay well at all, but it was a lot of fun. Kevin was a laid-back hippie type, with his Grateful Dead t-shirts and jolly laughter. I found my groove very quickly. Every day when I’d arrive for my shift, I’d check the seating chart at the host stand. There would be a list of that day’s servers, and then there was a little dry-erase picture showing which tables belonged to which server. One day, about a week and a half after I started working there, I noticed a name on the chart that I hadn’t seen before – Ricky. I’d heard a little bit about him, mostly from the other girls at the restaurant. It seemed he had a bit of a reputation. I wondered if he was attractive. I was in the middle of one of my off-periods with my on-again, off-again boyfriend Alex, and I was in the mood to flirt.
Later that afternoon, during a slow period, I stood at the host stand, leaning against the wall, listening to Wilco on the satellite radio and zoning out. All of a sudden, in a loud, booming voice, I heard, “What’s up, cool cats?!” I turned around. A tall, tan fellow with sandy brown hair and a white t-shirt had come through the back door. I watched quietly as he greeted everybody around the bar and stopped to talk with Kevin. A girl, Ella, approached him with a hug. He had a big, broad smile. Fake, I thought. Loud and fake. This was supposed to be impressive? I turned around and went back to my work.
Twenty minutes or so passed by, and I was chatting with Paul and another server, Bradley, when the sandy-haired fellow approached the host stand. Paul and Bradley walked away, and Ricky stood right in front of me, staring. His eyes were some of the bluest I’ve ever seen, and they looked very gentle. His skin was flawless, his hairline receding slightly. I was not immediately captivated by his looks. He put his hands – large, rough – on the edge of the stand. I noticed he wore puka shell bracelets. Great, I thought. He thinks he’s a surfer, with his California tan and his seashells so far from any ocean. He did not smile – just stared. I broke the silence.
“You must be Ricky.”
“I might be. And who are you? I haven’t seen you here before.”
He had a remarkable voice; the sort of voice I was accustomed to hearing from newscasters or radio personalities. He had a small gap between his front teeth, too. I tried my best to look confident and uninterested.
“I just started last week. I’m Mariel.”
“Well it’s lovely to meet you, Mariel.”
He offered his hand, and I took it. He gave a firm handshake; not the limp kind I’m used to getting from men, as though my hands might break. I returned it with gusto. He came around to stand next to me, looking over my shoulder at the seating chart. He smelled delicious, like sweat and Ralph Lauren. His breath was minty.
“I have work to do, but I’ll come back. Will you wait for me?”
I tried to suppress a smile. I failed. “Maybe.”
As he walked away, he winked at me. He actually winked! “God,” I thought, “how arrogant. How smarmy. I am not susceptible to that kind of cheap shit.”
But I was wrong.
Over the next few weeks, I learned more about my new tan friend as we spent more and more time schmoozing at the host stand. He was older, and had recently moved to Chicago from sunny Florida with his girlfriend of five years, Dee. Turned out he really had done some surfing in his old hometown, and he wore the shells to remind him of home. He seemed wistful when he’d talk of “back home,” like he hadn’t really settled into Midwestern life yet. Ricky had a lot of dreams. He wanted to be a stand-up comic, he wanted to be a lawyer, he wanted to open a restaurant of his own, he wanted to go into broadcasting. He thought any or all of these things might be easy to do in a big city like Chicago, so he’d come up here to “find himself.” I quickly found myself interested in the stories he’d tell me in that confident, deep voice of his. I watched the way he interacted with our customers and co-workers, almost like he was flirting with everybody he met. Almost invariably, people responded to it. He seemed to attract women effortlessly. Several of our female co-workers (and a few of the males) clamored for his attention, and a handful of women from local businesses would stop into the bar during their lunch breaks just to let him serve up hamburgers and flirtatious platitudes. From the moment I met him and decided he was arrogant and not worthwhile, I was determined not to “fall for” that routine. Now, though, my resolve was beginning to fail me. I liked this cocky guy. Shit.
Our conversations slowly became more intimate. We talked about his relationship, my ex, our goals in life. We found ourselves arriving a few minutes earlier, and a few minutes earlier still, to chat before shifts. We talked extensively about movies and music, and he told me about his favorite band, Counting Crows. I had remembered that band from the early 90s when “Mr. Jones” was a big hit, but didn’t know anything more about them until Ricky wrote down the names of some songs for me to download. I listened and loved them, and they quickly made up the soundtrack to this blossoming friendship. Somewhere around this time, I quit my animal hospital job and began waiting tables full time, and Ricky was promoted. He was now officially my boss. That didn’t bother either of us too much at the time, since we were “just friends.” But he began to work longer days, and I found myself picking up extra shifts in order to spend time with him. Ricky wrote me notes on the backs of napkins, quoting some of our mutual favorite songs, giving me little reasons to smile to myself throughout the day. Gradually, that overbearing, arrogant charm I had witnessed in the beginning began to fade away. He spoke more quietly, became more humble, and began to trust me with little bits of personal information here and there. He was more melancholy than I originally took him for, it seemed. He began to hug me whenever we greeted one another, and we had fun, too. We danced, we sang. Somewhere along the line we began to have wrestling matches in the restaurant after closing, and he taught me how to do his favorite bar trick – spinning a drink tray on the tips of his fingers, throwing it up in the air and catching it. It took me a while to pick up that skill, but soon I was almost as good as he was. Before long, Ricky was giving me rides home from work, and people started noticing. Girls from the restaurant grew jealous. One in particular, Ella, was especially offended. She asked me to join her outside one day for a cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but I followed her out anyway.
“He’s not going to fuck you. And even if he does, you’ll regret it.”
“What?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Ricky. He’s just a slut. He just fucks around with everybody to stroke his ego. He doesn’t like you. Besides, you’re jailbait, and, I mean, if anybody told someone what was going on, he would get in trouble. You don’t want that.”
Ella was over 30. She was not a catty teenager, and this sort of immature, threatening talk sounded silly coming from the mouth of an adult woman. I drew my own conclusions, of course – that Ella and Ricky had at least slept together at one point, and she’d gotten hurt.
“There’s no reason to be rude. Nothing’s happening.”
“Whatever, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I could tell from the tone of her voice that was not the truth.
“Thanks, but this is none of your business one way or the other.”
I walked inside, stressed. I didn’t tell Ricky about that little discussion. Ella did have a point. I was jailbait. Ricky was well aware of that fact, too. More than once, phrases like “if only you were a few years older” would work their way into our conversations. I had, and still have, little patience for that sort of talk. My age was not something I could change, and it was glaringly obvious that we were becoming attracted to one another despite the gap. We had plenty in common, and whether we planned it or not, we were developing a relationship. His girlfriend was another obstacle, of course. Apparently, they’d been having problems for quite some time, and were more like roommates than lovers, but neither was prepared financially to strike out on their own, so they were both minding their own business in the meantime. Of course, I took all of this with a grain of salt, but I figured it was not my business to judge one way or the other and focused only on what was going on between the two of us. There was also the work issue, as my normally very relaxed general manager began to catch wind of what was going on between Ricky and I. I became very honest with Ricky. I told him that I was developing feelings for him, and that while I understood the (very good) reasons for his hesitancy to pursue me, I wasn’t going to wait around in limbo forever. Neither of us were sure how to proceed, what was the right thing to do, and we began to grow frustrated. We began to squabble a bit over nothing important. One slow evening after such a tiff, Ricky approached me at the host stand. He walked fast, and had an angry look on his face. He was obviously upset. When he spoke, his voice was low and hushed.
“What are we doing, Mariel?”
“You’re asking me? You’re the one who can’t make up your mind.”
“We’re just friends, right? We have to be. It’s completely platonic.”
“Oh, is it now? Well, that’s fine. No big deal.”
“Fuck you.”
He walked away. I was angry, hurt. What did he want? He knew how I felt, but yes, it was risky. I wasn’t about to offer him false reassurance or try to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do.
The following day’s lunch shift was busy. I had several tables full of annoying patrons to deal with, and I was making peanuts in tips. The previous night’s argument had left me feeling sour, and the day wasn’t going well. When I stepped into the kitchen and heard Ricky call me into the office, I was irritated. Everybody in the kitchen had heard him call me, and he sounded angry. Presumably, he was going to give me a hard time about something, call me out on some mistake, take out his frustration on me professionally. I set down the pitcher I was holding and walked over to the office. He stood up, looking angry, and told me to close the door. My stomach dropped a little. I wondered if he was going to fire me in order to remove me as a distraction. That would be humiliating. I closed the door behind me, and he approached. The office was stiflingly hot. He whispered, “Can you keep a secret?” I nodded.
Within a heartbeat, I was slammed roughly up against the wall. His hands ran through my hair and his tongue pushed its way into my mouth with a force and passion that literally took my breath away. Months and months of pent-up energy released themselves through his fingertips and his mouth and his hard cock pressing through his khakis. My hands teased his dress shirt out of his pants, finding the small beads of sweat on his back, his smooth chest, his belly and below, learning his anatomy as my tongue danced and my mind raced. He reached below my shirt and expertly released me from my bra, brushing my already achingly hard nipples with his fingertips. I closed my eyes and sighed over and over again as he pressed his body against mine and I attempted to grind my pussy against his leg. Though I am normally shy when naked, at that moment I had no capacity for self-consciousness. I felt lustful, primal, and I was acting on instinct. All I wanted was my naked flesh up against his, to feel him inside of me, and I was so wet, I was sure he’d feel it through my clothes. He licked and bit at my neck as he blindly explored my body with his hands, pressing here, pinching there, and we communicated our passion in sighs and monosyllables. I was absolutely in heaven, tracing the outline of his cock through his pants, willing the barrier gone. I wanted us to devour one another, right then and there. Instead, though, he pulled away.
“You have to get back out there, or this is going to look suspicious.”
He was right. We put ourselves back together and I straightened my hair and tried to will away the flush from my cheeks as I opened the door and went back into the kitchen, exhilarated. I had only been gone a matter of minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. People glanced at me suspiciously, and I tried my best to look as though I’d just been reprimanded instead of aroused. I did a pretty good job at that charade, apparently. When people asked what had happened, and I told them I’d rather not discuss it, I got comforting responses like “Yeah, I figured, Ricky looked pretty pissed off. But don’t take it personally, and hey, at least you didn’t get fired." I visited his office frequently in the following weeks to be “reprimanded.”
We only expanded our repertoire slightly over the next few months. Rides home to my house frequently included detours to local forest preserves so that he could kiss me hard and finger me harder in the backseat of his Honda. It felt sneaky and cheap, but we made the best of it. On nights that he was scheduled to close the restaurant, I’d stay late, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning. It usually began the same way – after everybody else left, I’d creep into the office as he worked, scratching his back gently, breathing lightly on his neck, whispering in his ear. He’d complain about being unable to concentrate on his work, and I’d apologize by undoing his belt and stroking his dick. Sometimes, I’d sneak into the dark, frigid cold of the walk-in freezer and call him from there, waiting on my knees for him to come feed me his cock so that I could keep it warm with my mouth. I never waited long. His cock was magnificent, too. Its proportions seemed built just for me and I had little trouble swallowing him whole as he pulled my hair and I watched his eyes roll toward the ceiling. He’d fuck my face roughly until he came in shudders and gasps, with my one had grasping his smooth-shaven balls and the other digging into the flesh of his ass. I enjoyed his taste, and I told him so as I swallowed everything he had to give me, smiling up at him from the floor.
He never reciprocated, but that didn’t matter to me at the time. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to please him. All the reciprocation in the world would not have equaled the pride I felt in being able to service him and offer him pleasure. I would have happily stayed on my knees forever if he’d wanted it.
At the end of these late nights, we often sat outside in the dark to talk. He sang to me in his beautiful voice and fashioned a bouquet of roses out of sheets of wax paper. I giggled and clapped and told him he was appreciated. He kissed me tenderly, and that was enough for both of us.
Time passed, and things remained good. Our arrangement wasn’t getting anybody into trouble, and we were both reasonably satisfied. Then, we received bad news – Ricky was being transferred temporarily to a different restaurant, several hours away. He claimed he would need to stay at a hotel to avoid the commute, but I suspected things were going downhill at home with Dee as well. I didn’t ask. It was a good career move for him, so he could not refuse, and we learned he would only need to be away for 3 months. “I can be patient,” I told him, and he kissed me on the cheeks as he told me he’d keep in touch with me regularly. The following week, he left. I did not hear from him for several weeks. When I asked Kevin if he’d heard from Ricky, Kevin told me, “Well, I think he should be the one to talk to you about that.” How can somebody say something cryptic like that and not follow it up with any information, especially knowing that Ricky and I were close and that I’d be worried? I had no way to contact him, though, so I waited. When he finally did get in touch, I was relieved, but only momentarily, for the conversation quickly turned to his having gone AWOL. I learned that Ricky’s depression had gotten the better of him and he’d found himself in the hospital after a particularly bad night. I was distraught and worried sick, and I convinced him to let me visit. The next night, I drove out to his hotel, and we spent the whole time naked in bed, holding and cuddling one another, whispering softly in the dark. We got high and talked frankly. He had left Dee, and as such, had left his home and his dog and most of his belongings behind. It had not ended well, so there was little chance of recovering most of it. Ricky told me that he felt he needed to move back to Florida for his own well-being. There were a few tears, but mostly kisses. I was heartsick. The next morning, I woke early and got dressed, and we embraced, kissing softly at the door as I left for home. That would be the last kiss we’d have. He never fucked me.
Over the following weeks, as Ricky prepared to move back to Florida, we distanced ourselves from one another. Though he came back from the other restaurant, the contact became less and less frequent. I no longer made an effort to sync our work schedules, reasoning that there was no point in trying to hang on to someone who was leaving. I was angry at him for taking off at the very moment that he and I actually had a shot at pursuing something together, but I was not about to beg him to stay. Furthermore, if he felt he could not be happy here, I didn’t want him to stay in a situation that might cause him to be dangerous to himself. So I withdrew and kept my hurt to myself. Sensing this, he didn’t press me for attention. On his last day of work, he once again called me into the office. When I sat down next to him, he looked at me, pained, and said, “Do you want to come with me? Would you? Please?” I blinked and bit my lip. “No, you know I can’t do that.” He sighed and looked down at the desk, rubbing his neck. “I had to try.”
Later that afternoon, he said his goodbyes to everyone. I was the last in line. He gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear, “Be good.” I didn’t respond, for fear of crying in front of everybody.
Ricky went back to Florida, and he and I didn’t speak for 6 years. Last week, I found him online. He’s a restaurant manager again, back in his element, and he is hoping to finally go to law school. He got a new dog, a nice house, and found himself a very beautiful woman, and they’ve been traveling the world together for years. Now, they’re engaged. He seems genuinely happy. Good for him.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Reunions
Reunions, both real and imaginary, seem to be this week's theme.
Much to my surprise, I reconnected with a girl who was, once upon a time, my very best friend. To date, I have never again had quite such a close friendship with anyone else. Part of that, I believe, has to do with the trust issues resulting from the circumstances under which our friendship dissolved - there was, in the grand tradition of young girlfriends, a catastrophic betrayal of epic proportions - and the other part has to do with the fact that there's just nobody else quite like her. The years since we last spoke have found me sifting nostalgically on many an occasion through old photos and notes scribbled lovingly on patterned paper with doodles and inside jokes in the margins. With each perusal of these artifacts, the bad memories faded and my resolve to cut that person out of my life has softened a bit. After a message that left me tearing up in the middle of the bath accessories aisle at Target, it is with no small amount of both elation and worry that I once again offer my friendship, support and love to an addict.
Also in contact with me this week was Ricky, my ex-boss, whom you may remember from a recent post containing the summary of my sexual history. The very same Ricky of the walk-in freezer. I was very pleased to hear that Ricky is doing very well in his new life far South of here, where the weather is sticky and the girls are quite tan. I also learned that he is taking one of these sunbathing beauties as his new wife! Photos and congratulations were exchanged, of course. This makes Ricky the second of my former flings to either get engaged or hitched in the space of two weeks. For whatever reason, I'm feeling sort of awkward about that, but I am nonetheless very happy for them both.
In other news, Pride Fest approaches! Next weekend, Chicago kids. Regrettably, I sat last year's festivities out. This year, though, I fully intend to make up for my absence.
Here's a photo for you:
That's me in the 2006 Pride parade. That year, dressing up like a dog and marching in the parade was a work requirement, and though it seemed to be about 120 degrees in that costume and I was parched the whole way, I was more than eager to participate. I'm glad I did, too. I've been to a fair number of Pride celebrations in my young life, but never have I enjoyed one quite as much as I did that summer. I don't relish the stifling feeling of baking in a faux fur oven, mind you, but something about that goofy costume gave throngs of very attractive, sweaty people license to hug, kiss, dry hump, grab, pet and otherwise rub up against me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't totally enjoy it. This time around, I'll be without my furry paws, and probably considerably less popular for that fact, but no less pleased to be there.
Finally, news of break-ups travels fast, and I am finding my attention in high demand among former flames who have learned of mine. This is flattering, but reminding myself that exes are exes for a reason, I politely decline most of the invitations. However, one clever man recently pitched me the following line in a bid to persuade me to agree to a sleepover: "He keeps telling me, 'I want to release my dark passenger noooowwwww.' I keep telling him, 'No, you've got to wait until Mariel gets here.' So come on, Mariel - don't you want to see his dark passenger?"
Well, what girl could resist such an overture?
Much to my surprise, I reconnected with a girl who was, once upon a time, my very best friend. To date, I have never again had quite such a close friendship with anyone else. Part of that, I believe, has to do with the trust issues resulting from the circumstances under which our friendship dissolved - there was, in the grand tradition of young girlfriends, a catastrophic betrayal of epic proportions - and the other part has to do with the fact that there's just nobody else quite like her. The years since we last spoke have found me sifting nostalgically on many an occasion through old photos and notes scribbled lovingly on patterned paper with doodles and inside jokes in the margins. With each perusal of these artifacts, the bad memories faded and my resolve to cut that person out of my life has softened a bit. After a message that left me tearing up in the middle of the bath accessories aisle at Target, it is with no small amount of both elation and worry that I once again offer my friendship, support and love to an addict.
Also in contact with me this week was Ricky, my ex-boss, whom you may remember from a recent post containing the summary of my sexual history. The very same Ricky of the walk-in freezer. I was very pleased to hear that Ricky is doing very well in his new life far South of here, where the weather is sticky and the girls are quite tan. I also learned that he is taking one of these sunbathing beauties as his new wife! Photos and congratulations were exchanged, of course. This makes Ricky the second of my former flings to either get engaged or hitched in the space of two weeks. For whatever reason, I'm feeling sort of awkward about that, but I am nonetheless very happy for them both.
In other news, Pride Fest approaches! Next weekend, Chicago kids. Regrettably, I sat last year's festivities out. This year, though, I fully intend to make up for my absence.
Here's a photo for you:
That's me in the 2006 Pride parade. That year, dressing up like a dog and marching in the parade was a work requirement, and though it seemed to be about 120 degrees in that costume and I was parched the whole way, I was more than eager to participate. I'm glad I did, too. I've been to a fair number of Pride celebrations in my young life, but never have I enjoyed one quite as much as I did that summer. I don't relish the stifling feeling of baking in a faux fur oven, mind you, but something about that goofy costume gave throngs of very attractive, sweaty people license to hug, kiss, dry hump, grab, pet and otherwise rub up against me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't totally enjoy it. This time around, I'll be without my furry paws, and probably considerably less popular for that fact, but no less pleased to be there.
Finally, news of break-ups travels fast, and I am finding my attention in high demand among former flames who have learned of mine. This is flattering, but reminding myself that exes are exes for a reason, I politely decline most of the invitations. However, one clever man recently pitched me the following line in a bid to persuade me to agree to a sleepover: "He keeps telling me, 'I want to release my dark passenger noooowwwww.' I keep telling him, 'No, you've got to wait until Mariel gets here.' So come on, Mariel - don't you want to see his dark passenger?"
Well, what girl could resist such an overture?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
More social networking.
I joined FetLife today. I like the general idea of it, for sure. Also appealing was the idea of having, you know, more than the same 2 or 3 far-away friends on each website (though I thoroughly enjoy the 2 or 3 of you). However, a quick browse through the "kinksters" local to Chicago left me feeling a bit less than optimistic about it opening any new doors for me. Despite this, I am giving it a shot.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Recommendation
I'm feeling just a little bit adrift today. Distracted, listless, somewhat pensive. This feeling is probably exacerbated (if not caused) by the fact that I barely got any sleep last night. Every twenty minutes or so, I'd jolt awake in a panic, thinking that I'd missed my alarm and was oversleeping. Needless to say, I'm completely exhausted today.
This morning, I decided to start reading a new blog. It belongs to a girl who calls herself Eden, and I found it through Jefferson's blog. Her name has certainly popped up in his writing more than a handful of times since I've been reading, and the situations he describes between the two of them have frequently turned me on. The stories about their interactions are the ones, maybe more than any others, that cause me to think "Yes, that sounds about right. I think I could enjoy that." I have no idea why I didn't bother to look at her blog to get her side of the story before today. My mistake.
She writes rather candidly about some pretty weighty topics, and I appreciate that kind of openness even if I can't always relate to the subject matter. At certain points in her ongoing story, the similarities between what's in my head and what's on her page are quite obvious (at least to me). There are some fundamental differences too, not the least of which is the fact that she has actually done some of these things whereas I have only fantasized about them. I'm also fairly certain that I wouldn't get off on having somebody rub their feet in my face, but far be it from me to discount something I haven't tried! I digress. Her blog can be found at The Garden.
The candor of her writing has set me to thinking about my own experiences with some heavier issues. As a matter of fact, I wrote a lengthy story about a couple of incidents and how they pertain to my sexual development, but have decided not to post it at this time. While I've got no qualms about sharing, it has a decidedly buzz-kill feel to it, and I'm really going to try to avoid being a downer just because I'm having an off day. I may post it later, when I'm feeling a little brighter and am able to put a slightly more positive spin on it. In the meantime, enjoy the new link.
This morning, I decided to start reading a new blog. It belongs to a girl who calls herself Eden, and I found it through Jefferson's blog. Her name has certainly popped up in his writing more than a handful of times since I've been reading, and the situations he describes between the two of them have frequently turned me on. The stories about their interactions are the ones, maybe more than any others, that cause me to think "Yes, that sounds about right. I think I could enjoy that." I have no idea why I didn't bother to look at her blog to get her side of the story before today. My mistake.
She writes rather candidly about some pretty weighty topics, and I appreciate that kind of openness even if I can't always relate to the subject matter. At certain points in her ongoing story, the similarities between what's in my head and what's on her page are quite obvious (at least to me). There are some fundamental differences too, not the least of which is the fact that she has actually done some of these things whereas I have only fantasized about them. I'm also fairly certain that I wouldn't get off on having somebody rub their feet in my face, but far be it from me to discount something I haven't tried! I digress. Her blog can be found at The Garden.
The candor of her writing has set me to thinking about my own experiences with some heavier issues. As a matter of fact, I wrote a lengthy story about a couple of incidents and how they pertain to my sexual development, but have decided not to post it at this time. While I've got no qualms about sharing, it has a decidedly buzz-kill feel to it, and I'm really going to try to avoid being a downer just because I'm having an off day. I may post it later, when I'm feeling a little brighter and am able to put a slightly more positive spin on it. In the meantime, enjoy the new link.
Monday, June 9, 2008
My Mark
Today, I'd like to talk about things that might have been. I'd like to tell you about someone pretty unique to me. His name is Mark.
We first met when I was a teenager. It was the 1990s, the height of the rave scene, and I was a hard-partying kid. My weekends were spent heaped in "cuddle puddles" - giant masses of sweaty young bodies draped over one another in all manner of entwinement - on the dirty floors of giant empty warehouses, as the rhythmic thump-thump of Chicago's finest house music assaulted my eardrums.
Back then, I went by "Scooter" to some, "Kitty" to others, and "Bunny" to only one. My outfits were flowy and colorful, my hair was in pigtails, and there was always a flurry of glitter around me. My backpack was full of toys - Hoberman spheres, blinking lights, glowsticks, Blow-Pops, vibrators, acrylic massagers, Vick's VapoRub, surgical masks. I did not do the drugs, but I made it my personal mission to ensure that those who did them had the time of their lives, safely. My backpack and my hands were very popular party favors.
In between bouts of dancing, I'd park myself in a corner and soon I'd have a small line forming as I ran my fingertips over a seemingly endless stream of glistening skin, brought to the very peak of heightened sensitivity by my attentions and the chemicals coursing through the veins beneath. I played with hair. I nuzzled necks. I whispered my name in ears that likely never heard it, and certainly never remembered. I supplied cold bottled water where needed, and breathed tingly menthol air into the eyes and mouths of my compatriots.
I played mother hen, making sure everybody was safe and hydrated. I grinned as girls and boys I didn't know rubbed up against me, flashing me their starry eyes. I facilitated kisses and more between willing, handsome boys and my on-again, off-again boyfriend, whose normally undercover bisexuality was so easily teased to the surface by a tiny white pill and my gentle reminders that yes, baby, it is turning me on so much to watch you with him. Eyes rolled back in heads. Hearts beat hard, keeping time with the bassline. In the mornings, we gathered along the lakefront in groups of hundreds, sometimes thousands, to quietly play drums and watch the sun rise. We breathed deeply and held one another close, talking nonsense about peace, love, unity and acceptance. For a warm, cuddly girl like me, this space was paradise, and I got to visit it regularly for a few shining years.
In the daytime, I went back to being the angsty, withdrawn girl my family knew me as. My lipstick was black, my mood was sullen, and my temper was short. I didn't like myself very much, and didn't have many friends. I had a very hard time relating to other people. I was very private, preferring to spend most of my time hiding behind the anonymity of my computer, chatting with strangers who didn't know me and didn't know my story; strangers who couldn't judge. I have always made a better first impression in text. I am nowhere near eloquent in person, most of the time.
Thus, it was on the internet that I met Mark, over a round-table discussion of dance music. He lived nearby, albeit on the "bad side" of town, and attended many of the same parties. I recalled having seen him around - he was an incredible dancer, but I couldn't remember what he looked like. We chatted for a couple of weeks, and then agreed to meet. He would come to my house to pick me up. I dressed in my typical head-to-toe black, covered from wrists to ankles, careful not to show much skin, as I was not fond of my body. I went to the porch and waited. And waited. When I glanced at my watch and realized he was 45 minutes late, I turned back into the house, feeling dejected. I stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I splashed some water on my face and took a hard look in the mirror, sharply criticizing every flaw, the way I have always done when upset. He had seen a photo of me - did he decide I wasn't attractive enough? Had he found something better to do this evening? I felt hurt.
Just then, I heard a knock at the bathroom door. It was my mother. Testily, I responded. She said, "Mariel, he's here." Shit! I dried my face, checked my makeup, and opened the bathroom door. My mother was grinning ear to ear. "He's so handsome, Mariel!" she whispered. My heart fluttered. If my mother thought he was handsome, well, that was something. I walked to the front door, as she lingered in the kitchen to give me space. I opened the door. Standing in front of me was the physical embodiment of almost every teenage girl's dreamboat fantasy.
He was tall and slender but not lanky. His skin was flawless. His longish dark hair hung in front of his brown eyes in that messy, accidental way that only teenage boys can pull off. His lips were compact but his smile was wide, and he lit up at the sight of me. I'd never gotten that reaction before. I stepped out, tentatively, and went to shake his hand, only to be scooped up into an earnest hug that literally swept me off my feet. I was not a tiny girl, mind you, but he was very strong. His arms held me steady, and he made it look effortless. "It's so good to meet you, finally! I'm Mark." He set me down, and kissed my cheek. We held hands as we walked.
That night, we went to the lake. Walking through the trendy neighborhoods, women from several different age groups eyed my date and obviously approved. We talked and talked, the conversation never flagging. On the grass lining the rocky waterfront, we cuddled. He held me in his lap and stroked my arms, telling me that I was pretty. I turned around to get a better look at him, unabashedly memorizing his face and enjoying his gaze. We watched the boats light up in the summer night, floating on the inky water. It was a beautiful, innocent first date.
A week or so later, we visited a park in the rain. I love rain, and he knew it. I
climbed on the playground, revisiting my youth, chatting away about nothing in particular. At one point, he became silent and tapped me on the shoulder. Instinctively, I spun around, only to be met by his embrace. He was upon me in a moment, his strong tongue parting my lips, discovering my own. I met his kisses with enthusiasm, and we pressed our rain-soaked bodies together. We kissed for hours, as young people will do. I was delighted.
Such dates continued for several months as we got to know one another. My Mark was smart, funny and outgoing, having learned to carve a niche for himself as the middle child in a very large family. He had an easy charm about him, and was friendly almost to a fault. There were obstacles, though, as there always are. The largest of these was the fact that my Mark fancied himself a strict Pentecostal and vegetarian. Now, I was raised a good Catholic girl, but by the age of 12 I had already done my research and branded myself an agnostic. I hold firm on my refusal to hold firm to this day. In his mind, this made me a heathen, worthy of a fiery afterlife. I had no desire to debate religion. Even now, I will not engage in that.
I commended him for not pressuring me to change, but he did spend quite a lot of time
enumerating for me the ways in which Jesus was his one, true love, and how he needed to settle down with a woman who would join in his fervor for the lord. He also found my meat-eating ways disgusting, and this I was much less offended by. To this day, I feel guilty about being an omnivore. I have tried, and subsequently failed, several times to become a vegetarian. I don't know how to cook and don't own a stove, so my experiments never go well. I was willing to concede that yes, my support of the meat industry made me at least passively cruel, and that in the future, I might consider changing.
In a very short amount of time, though, these differences in lifestyle weighed heavy upon his conscience, especially when we spoke of all things sensual. I have always loved to talk about sex, even before I was doing it. I was always honest about my sexual desires, and I would tell him about my eagerness to experiment. Occasionally, I invited my best friend, Katie, to kiss and grope with the two of us. It got even worse as my roving hands got bolder and bolder during our extended lip locks. He was forbidden by his faith to have "sexual relations" prior to his marriage to his ideal God-fearing wife, and he was beginning to think I was a floozy for all my boldness. I was frustrated. He was frustrated. Over time, we drifted apart and stopped speaking.
Years passed. I grew up. The bubble burst on the party scene. I had other relationships, had sex, got a real job, learned to be social, continued to eat meat and never returned to my Christian roots. One day in 2004, I decided to check on good ol' Mark. I sent an e-mail to the address he had given me years before, not allowing myself to hope for much. To my surprise, I got a response that very night.
I could practically see his broad smile in his excited response. He seemed so happy to hear from me. He said we had much to discuss. We agreed to meet.
Again, before our second first date, I found myself deep in scrutiny in front of my bathroom mirror. I had put on weight. My hair was short. Would he like it? Would he still find me pretty, despite the fact that I was chubby and older? Would he still be as attractive as he had been years ago?
He came and picked me up again. He hugged me tightly again. He was still handsome. Older, more rugged. I was still girlishly blushing. We found each other easy company, talking as we drove. He was a plumber, and had the rough hands of a laborer. He was still very attached to his religion and an active (now vegan) member of PETA, but he said he had learned to be more accepting of others. He never forgot my kisses, he said. He still had the flowery, teenage love notes I'd written, he said. I was still pretty, he said.
Naturally, there was a catch to this.
My Mark had found himself a girlfriend. A stunningly beautiful girl named Jenny.
Anyway, Mark told me all about his relationship. He did not seem very happy. I felt awkward. Why was he telling me this? Why was it my business? Where was this leading? We continued to see one another, gradually spending more time together. Most of the time, we were at his house, watching movies together in his bedroom. Soon, we were wrestling on his bed, having pillow fights. Once or twice, we even cuddled. I picked up a belt one day, turning it over in my hands, making a joke about how my ardent vegan owned a leather item. He explained to me that it was fake and 100% cruelty-free, but that it held pants up and left marks on backsides just the same. My eyes lit up and my cheeks went pink. He noticed. My Mark had relaxed about sex, it seemed.
He worked similar comments into our conversations from that point on, trying to make them seem nonchalant. Most of the time, I'm sad to say, I took the bait and flirted, and then chastised myself for it later. I wanted to experience him in the ways that had been denied to me years earlier, but I was not about to contribute to him cheating on his girlfriend. I had been there before, and felt none too proud of myself. He was not ready to end his relationship. We were at an impasse.
One night in late July, as I was leaving his house, my Mark once again swept me off my feet as we stood under a streetlamp, his arms wrapped around me like he never intended to let go. That was the last time I saw him. I recognized what was happening, and needed to stop it before we had regrets. I was falling for him, and that would only lead to heartache for both of us. I ended things neatly, and we stopped talking all together.
Years passed again.
A couple of weeks ago, I looked him up once more. My Mark is married.
We first met when I was a teenager. It was the 1990s, the height of the rave scene, and I was a hard-partying kid. My weekends were spent heaped in "cuddle puddles" - giant masses of sweaty young bodies draped over one another in all manner of entwinement - on the dirty floors of giant empty warehouses, as the rhythmic thump-thump of Chicago's finest house music assaulted my eardrums.
Back then, I went by "Scooter" to some, "Kitty" to others, and "Bunny" to only one. My outfits were flowy and colorful, my hair was in pigtails, and there was always a flurry of glitter around me. My backpack was full of toys - Hoberman spheres, blinking lights, glowsticks, Blow-Pops, vibrators, acrylic massagers, Vick's VapoRub, surgical masks. I did not do the drugs, but I made it my personal mission to ensure that those who did them had the time of their lives, safely. My backpack and my hands were very popular party favors.
In between bouts of dancing, I'd park myself in a corner and soon I'd have a small line forming as I ran my fingertips over a seemingly endless stream of glistening skin, brought to the very peak of heightened sensitivity by my attentions and the chemicals coursing through the veins beneath. I played with hair. I nuzzled necks. I whispered my name in ears that likely never heard it, and certainly never remembered. I supplied cold bottled water where needed, and breathed tingly menthol air into the eyes and mouths of my compatriots.
I played mother hen, making sure everybody was safe and hydrated. I grinned as girls and boys I didn't know rubbed up against me, flashing me their starry eyes. I facilitated kisses and more between willing, handsome boys and my on-again, off-again boyfriend, whose normally undercover bisexuality was so easily teased to the surface by a tiny white pill and my gentle reminders that yes, baby, it is turning me on so much to watch you with him. Eyes rolled back in heads. Hearts beat hard, keeping time with the bassline. In the mornings, we gathered along the lakefront in groups of hundreds, sometimes thousands, to quietly play drums and watch the sun rise. We breathed deeply and held one another close, talking nonsense about peace, love, unity and acceptance. For a warm, cuddly girl like me, this space was paradise, and I got to visit it regularly for a few shining years.
In the daytime, I went back to being the angsty, withdrawn girl my family knew me as. My lipstick was black, my mood was sullen, and my temper was short. I didn't like myself very much, and didn't have many friends. I had a very hard time relating to other people. I was very private, preferring to spend most of my time hiding behind the anonymity of my computer, chatting with strangers who didn't know me and didn't know my story; strangers who couldn't judge. I have always made a better first impression in text. I am nowhere near eloquent in person, most of the time.
Thus, it was on the internet that I met Mark, over a round-table discussion of dance music. He lived nearby, albeit on the "bad side" of town, and attended many of the same parties. I recalled having seen him around - he was an incredible dancer, but I couldn't remember what he looked like. We chatted for a couple of weeks, and then agreed to meet. He would come to my house to pick me up. I dressed in my typical head-to-toe black, covered from wrists to ankles, careful not to show much skin, as I was not fond of my body. I went to the porch and waited. And waited. When I glanced at my watch and realized he was 45 minutes late, I turned back into the house, feeling dejected. I stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I splashed some water on my face and took a hard look in the mirror, sharply criticizing every flaw, the way I have always done when upset. He had seen a photo of me - did he decide I wasn't attractive enough? Had he found something better to do this evening? I felt hurt.
Just then, I heard a knock at the bathroom door. It was my mother. Testily, I responded. She said, "Mariel, he's here." Shit! I dried my face, checked my makeup, and opened the bathroom door. My mother was grinning ear to ear. "He's so handsome, Mariel!" she whispered. My heart fluttered. If my mother thought he was handsome, well, that was something. I walked to the front door, as she lingered in the kitchen to give me space. I opened the door. Standing in front of me was the physical embodiment of almost every teenage girl's dreamboat fantasy.
He was tall and slender but not lanky. His skin was flawless. His longish dark hair hung in front of his brown eyes in that messy, accidental way that only teenage boys can pull off. His lips were compact but his smile was wide, and he lit up at the sight of me. I'd never gotten that reaction before. I stepped out, tentatively, and went to shake his hand, only to be scooped up into an earnest hug that literally swept me off my feet. I was not a tiny girl, mind you, but he was very strong. His arms held me steady, and he made it look effortless. "It's so good to meet you, finally! I'm Mark." He set me down, and kissed my cheek. We held hands as we walked.
That night, we went to the lake. Walking through the trendy neighborhoods, women from several different age groups eyed my date and obviously approved. We talked and talked, the conversation never flagging. On the grass lining the rocky waterfront, we cuddled. He held me in his lap and stroked my arms, telling me that I was pretty. I turned around to get a better look at him, unabashedly memorizing his face and enjoying his gaze. We watched the boats light up in the summer night, floating on the inky water. It was a beautiful, innocent first date.
A week or so later, we visited a park in the rain. I love rain, and he knew it. I
climbed on the playground, revisiting my youth, chatting away about nothing in particular. At one point, he became silent and tapped me on the shoulder. Instinctively, I spun around, only to be met by his embrace. He was upon me in a moment, his strong tongue parting my lips, discovering my own. I met his kisses with enthusiasm, and we pressed our rain-soaked bodies together. We kissed for hours, as young people will do. I was delighted.
Such dates continued for several months as we got to know one another. My Mark was smart, funny and outgoing, having learned to carve a niche for himself as the middle child in a very large family. He had an easy charm about him, and was friendly almost to a fault. There were obstacles, though, as there always are. The largest of these was the fact that my Mark fancied himself a strict Pentecostal and vegetarian. Now, I was raised a good Catholic girl, but by the age of 12 I had already done my research and branded myself an agnostic. I hold firm on my refusal to hold firm to this day. In his mind, this made me a heathen, worthy of a fiery afterlife. I had no desire to debate religion. Even now, I will not engage in that.
I commended him for not pressuring me to change, but he did spend quite a lot of time
enumerating for me the ways in which Jesus was his one, true love, and how he needed to settle down with a woman who would join in his fervor for the lord. He also found my meat-eating ways disgusting, and this I was much less offended by. To this day, I feel guilty about being an omnivore. I have tried, and subsequently failed, several times to become a vegetarian. I don't know how to cook and don't own a stove, so my experiments never go well. I was willing to concede that yes, my support of the meat industry made me at least passively cruel, and that in the future, I might consider changing.
In a very short amount of time, though, these differences in lifestyle weighed heavy upon his conscience, especially when we spoke of all things sensual. I have always loved to talk about sex, even before I was doing it. I was always honest about my sexual desires, and I would tell him about my eagerness to experiment. Occasionally, I invited my best friend, Katie, to kiss and grope with the two of us. It got even worse as my roving hands got bolder and bolder during our extended lip locks. He was forbidden by his faith to have "sexual relations" prior to his marriage to his ideal God-fearing wife, and he was beginning to think I was a floozy for all my boldness. I was frustrated. He was frustrated. Over time, we drifted apart and stopped speaking.
Years passed. I grew up. The bubble burst on the party scene. I had other relationships, had sex, got a real job, learned to be social, continued to eat meat and never returned to my Christian roots. One day in 2004, I decided to check on good ol' Mark. I sent an e-mail to the address he had given me years before, not allowing myself to hope for much. To my surprise, I got a response that very night.
I could practically see his broad smile in his excited response. He seemed so happy to hear from me. He said we had much to discuss. We agreed to meet.
Again, before our second first date, I found myself deep in scrutiny in front of my bathroom mirror. I had put on weight. My hair was short. Would he like it? Would he still find me pretty, despite the fact that I was chubby and older? Would he still be as attractive as he had been years ago?
He came and picked me up again. He hugged me tightly again. He was still handsome. Older, more rugged. I was still girlishly blushing. We found each other easy company, talking as we drove. He was a plumber, and had the rough hands of a laborer. He was still very attached to his religion and an active (now vegan) member of PETA, but he said he had learned to be more accepting of others. He never forgot my kisses, he said. He still had the flowery, teenage love notes I'd written, he said. I was still pretty, he said.
Naturally, there was a catch to this.
My Mark had found himself a girlfriend. A stunningly beautiful girl named Jenny.
Anyway, Mark told me all about his relationship. He did not seem very happy. I felt awkward. Why was he telling me this? Why was it my business? Where was this leading? We continued to see one another, gradually spending more time together. Most of the time, we were at his house, watching movies together in his bedroom. Soon, we were wrestling on his bed, having pillow fights. Once or twice, we even cuddled. I picked up a belt one day, turning it over in my hands, making a joke about how my ardent vegan owned a leather item. He explained to me that it was fake and 100% cruelty-free, but that it held pants up and left marks on backsides just the same. My eyes lit up and my cheeks went pink. He noticed. My Mark had relaxed about sex, it seemed.
He worked similar comments into our conversations from that point on, trying to make them seem nonchalant. Most of the time, I'm sad to say, I took the bait and flirted, and then chastised myself for it later. I wanted to experience him in the ways that had been denied to me years earlier, but I was not about to contribute to him cheating on his girlfriend. I had been there before, and felt none too proud of myself. He was not ready to end his relationship. We were at an impasse.
One night in late July, as I was leaving his house, my Mark once again swept me off my feet as we stood under a streetlamp, his arms wrapped around me like he never intended to let go. That was the last time I saw him. I recognized what was happening, and needed to stop it before we had regrets. I was falling for him, and that would only lead to heartache for both of us. I ended things neatly, and we stopped talking all together.
Years passed again.
A couple of weeks ago, I looked him up once more. My Mark is married.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Addendum
It seems I share some common interests (even beyond a similar name) with another blogger from the East coast, Mariella. Apparently, she also prefers her smut well-structured, her favorite bloggers blonde, and can appreciate my, well, appreciation for a good 30-eyelet boot. Her seemingly limitless vocabulary puts yours truly to shame, too, and I recommend that any of you who might be reading my page without having had access to hers (an unlikely few, to be sure) check it out for yourselves. The girl can write.
Organizational skills
It is very, very hot in Chicago. And very humid. Therefore, I can be found comfortably holed up in the refrigerated sanctuary of my home office, sipping an iced tea and munching some pretzels as I type, far far away from temperatures that would make me melt (in a bad way).
Today I'd like to talk a little bit about a couple of things that please me. First and foremost, it should be obvious, given my recommended reading material thus far, that I thoroughly enjoy those folks who can wrap their lips (or fingers, as the case may be) around a complete sentence. This is almost certainly more important to me than their undoubted ability to wrap their lips around other things, even when it comes to smut. I always enjoy someone who can turn a good phrase, and in my opinion, it's a good sign when a person takes the time to pay attention to their grammar, spelling and punctuation. It shows effort.
Also high up on my list are organizational skills. Those who know me best know that in my personal life, I'm pretty scatter-brained. I'm Mariel the perpetually tardy, Mariel the distracted. Mariel whose house is seldom completely clean, Mariel who is always losing her keys. I do strive very hard to make sure not to let down those closest to me when it comes to keeping appointments and remembering important dates and such. I do a pretty good job of it, too, but when it comes to my own daily life, things can get messy as I forget to fill up my gas tank or misplace my remote control in my sock drawer.
In my professional life, though, I'm a whole different story. I arrive for work fully half an hour early, if not more, most days. When I tell a client I will call them back, it usually only takes minutes. My store is always immaculate, and my supplies are always neatly organized and easily accessible. Appointments are documented and kept. Every item I'm working on is carefully catalogued in detail, both in my computer and on paper, as a precaution. Therefore, when somebody calls me to check on the status of some work, it takes me mere seconds to find the answer they're looking for, and I only need to look in one place.
Prior to my arrival, my store was not always such a tight ship. There is no better place to look for evidence of this than at my boss's other branch, a location I only visit on weekends. The store is a mess, cluttered from floor to ceiling with 20 years of accumulated junk. When work comes in, it is not recorded anywhere. The item is simply heaped onto the appropriate pile to wait its turn. Imagine how fun it is for me when a customer from that location calls me up on a weekend, asking me to check on the status of their item. The only way to do that for them is to physically sift through the piles of work, trying to find the right piece. Ridiculous, right? The conversation goes something like this: "Hi, I'm so-and-so, and I'd like to check on the status of my item." They proceed to describe their item. I say, "Oh, okay. Well, give me a little while, and I will look for it." They ask, "Well, don't you have it on a computer somewhere or something?" "No, I'm sorry, we don't." <crickets>
When I first started my job, I asked my boss how they keep track of things over there. His answer? "I don't know. We just do." When I volunteered to start keeping a detailed record of new work as it came in, my idea was rejected. "We've been doing it like this for 25 years, and it works. We just kind of know where things are. Do things how you want at your store." Fine. I won't rock the boat. You know what else I won't do, though? I won't spend all day searching for things for your clients anymore. If you guys just know off the top of your head where to find any given thing at any given time, then by all means, be my guest. Therefore, every Monday, my boss opens his shop to see a short, neatly hand-written list of items that his customers would like to check on. He does not complain to me about it. I guess we have an understanding.
On a more physical note, I'd like to sing my offbeat praises of hands and arms. Not just any hands and arms, but some - mostly those belonging to men. Don't get me wrong, girls have lovely, delicate paws, but I can't say I've ever experienced raw lust just from looking at them. Certain men, however, have just what it takes. I really, really enjoy touching and being touched in many different ways, and it is not a big stretch for me to imagine a pair of arms and hands that I like doing some serious feeling around.
I've found inspiration recently in the forelimbs of a fellow morning commuter. He's young, tall and lean, and is obviously trying his best to look more intimidating than he is. He's got long black hair, shinier and healthier than I've seen on most women. His eyes are large and brown, with long lashes and a sad, soulful expression that all but ruins the hardcore image he's obviously trying to pull off. He is up to his eyeballs in piercings, which I certainly appreciate, and even comes complete with a predictable pair of shit-kicking boots. Excellent.
I imagine that if we caught a glimpse of his forearms, we'd see numerous tattoos, maybe some scars, but what peeks out from beyond his cuffs is what catches my attention. My, my - what have we here? Studded leather bracelets and the palest of pale hands, large and masculine, with strong fingers tipped in meticulously painted black fingernails. I couldn't have dreamed it better myself.
I'm not exactly sure where it came from, but I've got quite a thing for rockstar hands. Show me your black nails, guitar-calloused fingertips and dark leather bracelets and I'll show you a puddle on my seat. Something about dark colors on pale flesh really does it for me, and this kid's got the works. A popular blogger who shall remain nameless recently dared me, upon hearing of this fancy of mine, to tell the boy what I think of his mitts. Crippling shyness has prevented me from doing so thus far, but if it happens, I'll be sure to keep everybody posted if I score some numbers while praising his digits.
There was going to be more to this, but barbecue calls and, well, a girl's got to have priorities.
Today I'd like to talk a little bit about a couple of things that please me. First and foremost, it should be obvious, given my recommended reading material thus far, that I thoroughly enjoy those folks who can wrap their lips (or fingers, as the case may be) around a complete sentence. This is almost certainly more important to me than their undoubted ability to wrap their lips around other things, even when it comes to smut. I always enjoy someone who can turn a good phrase, and in my opinion, it's a good sign when a person takes the time to pay attention to their grammar, spelling and punctuation. It shows effort.
Also high up on my list are organizational skills. Those who know me best know that in my personal life, I'm pretty scatter-brained. I'm Mariel the perpetually tardy, Mariel the distracted. Mariel whose house is seldom completely clean, Mariel who is always losing her keys. I do strive very hard to make sure not to let down those closest to me when it comes to keeping appointments and remembering important dates and such. I do a pretty good job of it, too, but when it comes to my own daily life, things can get messy as I forget to fill up my gas tank or misplace my remote control in my sock drawer.
In my professional life, though, I'm a whole different story. I arrive for work fully half an hour early, if not more, most days. When I tell a client I will call them back, it usually only takes minutes. My store is always immaculate, and my supplies are always neatly organized and easily accessible. Appointments are documented and kept. Every item I'm working on is carefully catalogued in detail, both in my computer and on paper, as a precaution. Therefore, when somebody calls me to check on the status of some work, it takes me mere seconds to find the answer they're looking for, and I only need to look in one place.
Prior to my arrival, my store was not always such a tight ship. There is no better place to look for evidence of this than at my boss's other branch, a location I only visit on weekends. The store is a mess, cluttered from floor to ceiling with 20 years of accumulated junk. When work comes in, it is not recorded anywhere. The item is simply heaped onto the appropriate pile to wait its turn. Imagine how fun it is for me when a customer from that location calls me up on a weekend, asking me to check on the status of their item. The only way to do that for them is to physically sift through the piles of work, trying to find the right piece. Ridiculous, right? The conversation goes something like this: "Hi, I'm so-and-so, and I'd like to check on the status of my item." They proceed to describe their item. I say, "Oh, okay. Well, give me a little while, and I will look for it." They ask, "Well, don't you have it on a computer somewhere or something?" "No, I'm sorry, we don't." <crickets>
When I first started my job, I asked my boss how they keep track of things over there. His answer? "I don't know. We just do." When I volunteered to start keeping a detailed record of new work as it came in, my idea was rejected. "We've been doing it like this for 25 years, and it works. We just kind of know where things are. Do things how you want at your store." Fine. I won't rock the boat. You know what else I won't do, though? I won't spend all day searching for things for your clients anymore. If you guys just know off the top of your head where to find any given thing at any given time, then by all means, be my guest. Therefore, every Monday, my boss opens his shop to see a short, neatly hand-written list of items that his customers would like to check on. He does not complain to me about it. I guess we have an understanding.
On a more physical note, I'd like to sing my offbeat praises of hands and arms. Not just any hands and arms, but some - mostly those belonging to men. Don't get me wrong, girls have lovely, delicate paws, but I can't say I've ever experienced raw lust just from looking at them. Certain men, however, have just what it takes. I really, really enjoy touching and being touched in many different ways, and it is not a big stretch for me to imagine a pair of arms and hands that I like doing some serious feeling around.
I've found inspiration recently in the forelimbs of a fellow morning commuter. He's young, tall and lean, and is obviously trying his best to look more intimidating than he is. He's got long black hair, shinier and healthier than I've seen on most women. His eyes are large and brown, with long lashes and a sad, soulful expression that all but ruins the hardcore image he's obviously trying to pull off. He is up to his eyeballs in piercings, which I certainly appreciate, and even comes complete with a predictable pair of shit-kicking boots. Excellent.
I imagine that if we caught a glimpse of his forearms, we'd see numerous tattoos, maybe some scars, but what peeks out from beyond his cuffs is what catches my attention. My, my - what have we here? Studded leather bracelets and the palest of pale hands, large and masculine, with strong fingers tipped in meticulously painted black fingernails. I couldn't have dreamed it better myself.
I'm not exactly sure where it came from, but I've got quite a thing for rockstar hands. Show me your black nails, guitar-calloused fingertips and dark leather bracelets and I'll show you a puddle on my seat. Something about dark colors on pale flesh really does it for me, and this kid's got the works. A popular blogger who shall remain nameless recently dared me, upon hearing of this fancy of mine, to tell the boy what I think of his mitts. Crippling shyness has prevented me from doing so thus far, but if it happens, I'll be sure to keep everybody posted if I score some numbers while praising his digits.
There was going to be more to this, but barbecue calls and, well, a girl's got to have priorities.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
