Yet another visit

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on June 15, 2006 @ 5:58 pm
I’ve been talking to my mom and she had hinted about visiting over the summer. She works for a school district, and though summer is not a totally empty time for her, it’s still the best time for her to take a vacation. I suggested the July 4th week, so that she’d get the holiday too and then use some vacation time along with it.
“Are you sure it’s OK with Monsieur?” she asked.
“I’ll check with him – but you know, Mom, I’m allowed visitors. I’m not Tess of the D’Urbervilles here, you know.”
Later I checked with Monsieur and he seemed very enthusiastic. “Yes,” he said, “I look forward to it. Shall I invite her myself?”
Negotiations have been going back and forth between my mom and her work, and my brother’s job which may or may not start by then, but this is what we know as the facts on the ground now stand at this moment*: My mom, and possibly my brother, will be coming down for a week beginning on the 1st of July.

*An actual phrase I overheard on FOXNews.

I am, um, pleased. Yes….
Yes. I am. I am pleased.
Who wouldn’t be pleased? My mom’s fine.
Isn’t she? Sure, she is. She’s groovy.
And my brother. I just hope he doesn’t bring weed.
This will be fun. Won’t it? Sure, it will. Yup, yup, yup.

HNT won’t wait for the polish to dry

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on @ 12:38 am
Happy Half Nekkid Thursday!

Girls do this when they get together. Really.
HNT_1
This was from last weekend, when I spent the night at K’s place, and we just did girly things. I don’t usually paint my nails, and I think I can count the times I’ve painted my toenails on my toenails.
Still, fun was had. And, after our nails were dry, and the pizza boxes were put away, K and I had naked tickle-fights, then we made out for a little while and spent the rest of the evening locked in a Sapphic love-embrace.
Just joking. Happy Half Nekkid Thursday!

badmoonrising

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on June 14, 2006 @ 12:22 am

Enough?

No, you silly man. “Enough?” he asked me.
I could’t catch my breath. We were in our favorite cheap motel. It was two AM, a few days after my birthday. I nodded my head, yes, enough, and he tried to withdraw from me. I shook my head vigorously and pulled him closer to me. I held him there, keeping him inside me.
“Why can’t we do that more?” I pouted, weeks later (this morning) the morning right after he used his tongue in delightful ways until I had to bite the pillow. “Can’t I have you inside me?”
He didn’t say anything.
“You are stingy and mean!”I pouted.
He didn’t say anything.
“Why can’t I have your cock?!”
“So that you’ll enjoy it, when I do give it to you,” he replied.
“But if I get more I’ll enjoy more!” I whined.
“It’s quite simple,” he explained. “By conserving this energy, by re-channeling it, we can use this energy in our own way. It preserves you, if you will exercise the discipline. You are getting as much as you really need. Once a month, or so.”
So, the reason I’m not getting enough is that I’m getting the exact amount I need but not as much as I want? “I don’t fucking WANT to exercise any discipline! Will you at least do me? When I need it? Like tonight? I know you didn’t come last night.” I looked at him.
He looked away, tried to change the subject smoothly, but I just had to keep asking.
“I know I’ve asked you this, but is there something about me?”
No, he says, he’s just like this, he thinks I’m beautiful and very sexy, which is what he always says, and that should have been fine.
“Do you think you’re getting away with something?” I asked him. “When you’re with me? Like, you’re doing something bad?”
“Something bad?” He looked uncomfortable. “Like what”
“Like you’re doing it,” I said, grinning with emphasis, “with your baby sitter, who is like, nineteen,” I ran my hands over his chest. “And oo! your wife is so jealous but she’s kinda hot for her, too? It’s OK, you can have fantasies.”
“Don’t be … don’t be crude,” he said, hoarsely, almost like a whisper. He got out of the bed, and looked out the window.
“I’m … really sorry,” I said. “But that’s it, isn’t it? You were attracted to me when you first saw me just like I was?”
He nodded.
I continued. Why did I have to keep going? “And I was like, twenty, and I had just moved in with [your sister]? I was only twenty, and you felt that, like I did….”
“No,” he said. “That’s not quite right. You were only nineteen.” He turned around. “You were nineteen, beautiful.”
“Maggie hated me when she met me.”
“Maggie did not, but she thought you were immature. She was very demanding of young people. She liked you, instantly. She just didn’t like your effect on me. She enjoyed my effect on you, though.”
“I loved her, Monsieur. I always felt like she was this ideal of excellence, a role model. But we had our fights. Over meaningless stuff, but also over you. She didn’t like me to talk to you.”
“Maggie didn’t mind unless you and I were to speak to each other alone, or on the phone, If she were to be present for the conversation, she didn’t mind at all.”
“Do you feel like you’re cheating on her still, being here with me?”
“That’s ridiculous,“ he said, and turned away again.
That’s as close as I got. I finally got him to come back to bed, regretting opening up that whole door.

You’ve got to be a football hero

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on June 13, 2006 @ 8:21 am
I was reminded of this story when I was talking to my friend Melanie on the phone. Apparently she only met Maggie once, and she never forgot it. I had to write down this whole story from Melanie, since I was there and couldn’t remember all that Maggie had said.
Anyway, one time she and Monsieur were visiting us. SH was there, and a few of his friends, and I had some friends of mine over as well. Melanie, for one. My friends were all “artistes”, and SH’s friends were mostly bartender and jock types that worked in the sports bar where I worked. Somehow Maggie got into a football conversation with one of SH’s friends (I’ll call him John T because that was his name and I can’t stand him) and John T mentioned his favorite team was the Lions.
“Oh, they’re my sworn enemy,” Maggie said. “You see, I’m a Bears fan.”
“Aw, now, I thought you were smart,” said John T. “The Bears suck. What do you know about football?”
“Probably not much,” she said to him boldly, “but I’d bet I know more than you do.”
There was a bit of immoderate laughter at that, then John T challenged her, “I bet I can come up with two football questions you can’t answer before you could come up with two that I can’t answer.”
“I’ll take some of that action. Is this a drinking game?” Maggie asked.
“No – ten bucks on it?”
“NFL rulebook?” Maggie asked.
“Sure,” John T said, “whatever.”
“Done and done,” Maggie said, then they touched palms. “You first.”
John T smiled, then said, “When is a forward pass illegal?”
“Oh shit,” said Maggie, “there’s lot’s of times it’s illegal. Past the line of scrimmage – or when there isn’t a line of scrimmage on the play.”
“There’s always a line of scrimmage,” said John T.
“Or, if it’s a pass thrown by someone who isn’t an eligible receiver on the down,” Maggie continued. “Or if –”
“OK, OK … you know that rule,” John T admitted. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Well, you led me to my first question – when is there NOT a line of scrimmage?”
“Um, there’s always a line of scrimmage.”
“No, there’s not,” said Maggie. “Not on a kickoff.”
He looked around and one or two guys said, “She’s right.” “Yup, that’s not considered a “‘play from scrimmage.’” “You’re down one, John.”
“All right,” said John T, warming up. “OK, let’s say you call a one-seven pass, gun, in the huddle – but when you go to the line the defense shows blitz. What do you do?”
“Is it a Nickel D?’ asked Maggie.
John T looked at his friends, who all shrugged at him. “Doesn’t matter,” he bluffed. “The middle linebacker is coming for your throat. What do you do?”
“The hell it doesn’t matter,” Maggie replied. “If they’re showing blitz on a nickel, you dump it to the tight end, who should move open to the strong side on a blitz. If it’s not a Nickel D, then the tight end should be moving across the flat in a post pattern. Flip it to him if he’s open. If not, roll weak side, look for your two wides. If they’re not open, dump it to the sideline.”
John T, looked at his friends, who grinned at him. “I think it’s the lady’s turn to ask now,” SH said. “She’s up one; if you can’t answer this one, you lose.”
“OK,” Maggie smiled, “one more question: Can the ref call a penalty on,” and here, Maggie paused, “the coin toss?” Maggie smiled, rather like how I imagined a very lovely cartoon crocodile might.
“The coin toss?” John T looked like couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Can the ref call a penalty on the coin toss? Well, why the hell would he? It’s a trick question – the game hasn’t started yet, so I’m gonna say no.”
I didn’t remember the question; Mel had to remind me what Maggie had asked. But I remembered that smile.
“15 yard penalty,” Maggie said, calmly, “and you lose the option of the coin toss, if your team’s captains don’t appear for the coin toss. NFL rules.”
There was a pause, then a cheer and a round of applause. John T just smiled and shook his head.
“I can break a twenty,” Maggie prompted John T, who remembered the wager and went for his wallet. “Did you have any more questions?” she asked him, smiling.
“Um… well, just one,” he said, taking out a ten dollar bill and putting it on the table. “Do you have a sister, who might be single?”

“Are you a good mom, or a bad mom?”

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on June 12, 2006 @ 5:36 pm
My friend M from high school has two little kids. We chatted and she said she would never have believed that I, of all people, would be on the phone with her talking about how to get boys to take off their clothes and get into the bath, or how to get poop stains out of rayon.
“You’re a good mom,” she said.
“I’m not a mom at all!” I laughed, and we both laughed at that.
“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” she said, laughing.
“I’m not a witch, I’m not a witch!”
“Hey, remember, it didn’t matter to the Munchkins whether Dorothy thought she was a witch or not,” M pointed out to me. “Her house landed on the bad witch, so Dorothy must have been a good witch. Even if she wasn’t a witch at all.”
“Well, what does that prove?” I wondered.
“Well, in the last ten minutes, while we’ve been talking, you’ve said both ‘Take that outside!’ and ‘You heard me!’ plus you’ve put one boy in time-out. Not only do you sound like a mom, you sound like a good one.”
Your quiz results make you a
Zen Mom
How do you do it? Even when explosions are all around, you are able to take a deep cleansing breath and chant your mantra “this too shall pass.” You are a calming influence on your kids in a hectic world.

Take this free personality test by Clicking Here>> or going to www.areyouaslackermom.com

Girl Time

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on @ 6:43 am
There are no other girls for a radius of five miles. I am the only one. Unless you count the chickens.
This overwhelming testosterone level would not be tolerable, even for a tomboy like me, without a few concessions to my gender. First of all, everyone is a gentleman. That’s not a compliment to them as much as it is a rule:
“You will be a gentleman,” Monsieur frequently warns a boy, “or I will know the reason why not.”
It’s very difficult to remember to be a gentleman when you are only five, I told Monsieur.
“It is more difficult to make a gentleman out of a man of fifty years, if he has never been required to be a gentleman at the age of five,” he replied.
Yet, with all of his attempts to corral them, they still have a hard time not banging doors, not running in the house, and not coming downstairs without a full complement of shirt, underwear, and pants.
They do close the back door now, and they do close the toilet completely after each use. I was not the one who trained them to do that.
One morning Middlest Boy let the cat in, fed him, and then went upstairs to pee. He found a raccoon drinking from the toilet, and screamed for his daddy.
Monsieur took a look at the raccoon, then told me to keep the kids in the downstairs bedroom until he said it was safe to come out. He then took a cloth bag and a mop, got the raccoon into the bag, and took it outside to put it into a dog crate. “It’s safe now,” he called, coming into the living room.
The boys filed out slowly. “Where’s the raccoon?” Middlest Boy asked. Bigglest Boy went up to his room to hide from the wildlife.
“He is in the dog cage,” Monsieur replied. The boys went out to observe the prisoner.
“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.
“I will call Animal Control,” he replied.
From that day forward, all of the boys keep the toilet seat closed. All doors are closed at all times. Middlest Boy checks the locks, too, and makes sure that we are always sealed in tightly.
Still, even though they are apprentice gentlemen, they are still boys. Sometimes, I need a break from all this boyness. Last weekend I went to my friend K’s house, and spent all of Sunday watching TV and talking about boys. We did our hair and nails, and we watched girly shows on cable. She watched some of her weekend soaps.
It was good, especially since Monsieur does not have cable TV:
“I should pay over $700 a year to watch these insufferable cretins and their insipid entertainment? I think not – for that amount of money, do you realize what an incredible library of videos I could accumulate?”
“But Discovery, National Geographic, the History Channel?”
“I have much of that here,” he said, opening the locked video bookcase and taking out titles. “Here are hours of “Biography”, of National Geographic including the kids’ specials narrated by Dudley Moore, here is classic Jacques Cousteau from the 1970s, here is the Apollo space program almost in its entirety….”
So K and I watched cable for hours. We ordered pizza. We did a few quizzes in the women’s magazines. I hadn’t done a Cosmo quiz in years.
Apparently I’m adventurous, shy, studious, intense, laid-back, and a “Zen mom.” Go figure.
Also, I’m average for getting sex, if I were a married mom. I get sex from Monsieur about once a month, and apparently that’s about average for couples who are married and have more than one small child in the house. Hmmpf. Well. I’ve never enjoyed being “average”, I guess. Maybe I’ll stop complaining about it.
Talking about sex brought up favorite sexual positions, some of which I actually wrote down:

  • On my side: I keep my top leg bent, he straddles my bottom leg and holds my top leg on his shoulder. I’ve done this one. De-e-e-p penetration.
  • The Booty Grip: From behind, he should be inside me and my legs should be straight. Once he’s in, I have to close my legs and cross my ankles. “He has to stay close or he pops out!” K says. Sounds intense.
  • The square dance: I sit on him, with him inside and my hands and knees on either side of him. Then, I should move my body in four directions: forward, backward, left, right. “You’ll feel every inch on every spot inside of you,” K assured me.
  • Using his thigh: I’m on top but turned to one side, holding onto his bent knee. I can rub back and forth on his inner thigh as I go. I’ve done this too. Very good.

By the time the Tony’s were on I just wanted to race home and jump on Monsieur, but I watched them anyway.
Still, it was good to just hang out and be girly, and let their daddy take care of the kids for 30 hours.

“The sandwiches were stale, too.”

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on June 10, 2006 @ 2:40 am

I have not posted a dumb joke in so long:

A beautiful young aspiring actress was so depressed over her failed Broadway acting career that she decided to end her life by throwing herself into the ocean. But just before she could throw herself from the docks, a handsome young sailor stopped her.
“You have so much to live for,” said the sailor. “Look, I’m off to Europe tomorrow and I can stow you away on my ship. I’ll take care of you, bring you food every day, and keep you happy.”
With nothing to lose, combined with the fact that she had always wanted to go to Europe, the woman accepted. That night the sailor brought her aboard and hid her in a lifeboat. From then on, every night he would bring her three sandwiches and make love to her until dawn.
Three weeks later she was discovered by the captain during a routine inspection.
“What are you doing here?” asked the captain.
“I have an arrangement with one of the sailors,” she replied. “He brings me food and I get a free trip to Europe.”
“I see,” the captain says.
“Plus,” she adds, “he’s screwing me.”
“He certainly is,” replied the captain. “This is the Staten Island Ferry.”

Early Returns Affect Today’s HNT

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on June 7, 2006 @ 5:04 pm



Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday. Sorry about the color balance thing.

Half-Nekkid Thursday
Well, the results are far from conclusive so I am leaving the poll open. Don’t forget to vote.
However, based on preliminary results, the Yearning Heart Election Center can predict the following:


  • Most voters love the juicy details

  • A small but significant minority don’t care

  • No one seems to take offense

  • A few would like to see my cooter (Done. See right. It’s right there, under my hand.)

Exit polls indicate that it’s my blog and I oughta post what I want. I am just curious; this is a non-binding referendum. And again, the poll is still open.

Poll

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on June 6, 2006 @ 4:20 pm

Some of you, my dear bloggites, have stated that they don’t really care for the intimate details about my sex life, and that it’s demeaning for them to read about, and/or that I might want to reconsider. Some have stated that they love them, and read about them with great enthusiasm. Most don’t say anything whatsoever, so I’m asking my dear bloggites using this highly unscientific poll:

Do you want the intimate details?
You betcha! The juicier, the better!
Not really, but I don’t mind. I just skip them.
No. Disgusting. I’d rather read a wet newspaper.
Will you please show me your cooter?

  
Pollhost.com

You really want to hear? Don’t get me started!

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by the Yearning Heart on June 4, 2006 @ 3:42 pm

Checking my mail box tells me I seem to have left one or two of my readers a bit disappointed regarding a recent post:



You can NOT just leave us hanging like that!

— C. G.


Details! Details!

— M. P.


Oh gosh, OK. I hate leaving anyone unsatisfied. If you insist on hearing the boring details [smiles coyly]:

He carried me to the bed, kicking my shoes out of his way, which I had left in the middle of the floor. For some reason I couldn’t stop giggling.
Setting me down on the bed, he removed his shirt and paused, I think, for effect. I looked up at him, slipping my pajamas off and smiling. Naked, I turned over, got on my knees, lowered my face to the pillow, and presented him with my bottom.
He ran his hands over it, delicately at first, then firmly, squeezing and holding my cheeks in his hands. I parted my legs slightly.
“Are you going to spank me?” I asked, whispering.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he replied, gently. “I really am not the sort who spanks, you see.”
I don’t really know why but I was both disappointed and relieved at the same time.
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked him.
“I am also not the sort who talks so much,” he said, and then he lay down behind me on his stomach, parted my bottom and started to lick me in long, slow, sensuous licks, starting from my clitoris and going up through my slit and across my anus. It was delicious. I closed my eyes and held on to the pillow.
His tongue pointed and screwed itself against my clitoris, drilling into it and running along its swollen length. I moaned. His hands held my bottom up and his mouth opened wide, his tongue running up to my slit, parting it and sliding into me. I bit my pillow. His tongue was thick and very warm, and so soft yet so insistent. It parted my folds and slid into me, slowly, finding ridges and folds that I didn’t know that I had. I let out a long, slow breath of air. Once I was totally and completely relaxed he traced one finger along my slit and then pushed it in my pussy, and I could hear it; it was wet, slishing and sloshing back and forth. He withdrew it and tasted it, and then slid two fingers into me and started kissing my anus.
I turned beet red and wanted to scream. It was so embarrassing to be kissed there, but it felt so good I couldn’t stop him. I hid my face in the pillow and surrendered to his lips. Those lips… they sucked it, pulled it, then opened it and his tongue entered it, hotly. It was soft, yet firm and a wave of pleasure consumed me until my body was enflamed and my legs started to tremble. I made a small crying noise and he stopped.
“I am hurting you?” he asked softly.
“NO!!” I screamed, then more gently I continued, “I mean… no, I’m fine, it’s fine; it’s just that… are you sure you want to do this? You don’t mind?”
I could hear him smiling as he replied, “My dear lady, I don’t do anything I don’t want. Not here. Not with you.”
“Well, OK then,” I said, “if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“Has no one done this to you before?” he asked, tracing the ring of my anus with his finger.
“Well,” I admitted, “yes, but … well, he wasn’t as slow and sure of himself as you are. I think he was in a rush to get inside me.”
“Inside your bottom?” he asked.
“Yes, I let him … I let him do that. He enjoyed it; I guess I let him do it.”
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
“Not really,” I admitted.
“Are you enjoying this?” he asked.
“Yes.” I lifted my bottom higher and opened my legs more. “As long as you don’t think … that I’m a slut or something.”
“Hardly,” he said. His finger entered my bottom again and I groaned softly.
“Monsieur,” I said, turning around, “I need … I need very badly to suck you while you do that.” I helped him remove his pants.
He was quite erect, and I held it happily in my greedy hand as my mouth lowered over it. I sucked it happily, and he turned me onto my side so he could continue with his mouth on me.
When his mouth found my anus again, the palm of his hand pressed on to my vulva, spreading it and mashing it. His fingers stroked my clitoris as his palm spread my slit wider. I moaned around his cock, licking it, sucking it, loving it as much as I could. His tongue buried into my ass, driving me wild, and it all became a blur of pleasure – tongue, fingers, and cock. It was delicious.
Then he backed off, and began to gently strum my clitoris very slowly, running his thumb up, then down its length. I felt my vulva, beating with my heart, and I became intensely aware of how engorged my clitoris was. His attention to my bottom had ceased, and I could feel the cool air against my wetness as he flicked his thumb up … down … up … down, and my hips were moving to try to increase the pressure against his hand. But he held me off.
I had pulled my mouth off his cock by then, and was holding it in my fist tightly as I gasped. “More,” I begged, “please.”
“More what?” he asked, teasing me.
“Unghh…” I opened my legs wider and tried desperately to get more of his fingers, but he was holding them tantalizingly away so that they only brushed against my sex very slightly.
“More what, love?” he insisted.
I grabbed his hand with both of mine and was prepared to shove the whole thing inside me at that point, but he took hold of my wrists and pinned them up over my head, pushing me to my back; then Monsieur began kissing me. I responded hungrily. His tongue brushed my lips then plunged into my mouth, teasing my tongue, dancing with it, but then he pulled away and circled my breast with sugar kisses, still holding me by my wrists. It was pure torture, and I arched my back and humped against him wantonly.
“Please,” I begged again.
“What do you want?” Monsieur asked, letting go of my wrists. I reached for his cock but he took one nipple in his fingers and pulled it, gently at first, then insistently. This single contact between our bodies seemed electric, and I felt a charge go through my body as my nipple became engorged with blood.
“Aagh!” I cried, gutturally, gripping the sheets in both hands and twisting them up, almost ripping them from the bed. I felt lewd, shameless, my legs open and the wetness from my slit coating my thighs and pooling on the linens.
He held the nipple like a firm clamp, not actually hurting it – but not treating it like fine porcelain either. “What do you want?”
“I want you!” I cried. “I want you to take me, to take me now! Please, Monsieur,” I begged again, “you’ve got to fuck my pussy!”
“Lustful girl,” he smiled. He held his body over me, covering me with his body. He took my wrists in his hands again, pinning me down. This prevented me from reaching between us and shoving his thick, wonderful cock into me like I desperately needed. His chest hairs gently teased my breasts and my head was spinning. He undulated over me, his body moving in slow rhythm and I moved with him. I tried to position my body so that he would slip into me, but he held his hips away. His cock was teasing the lips of my pussy, or it was sliding up, slishing down, and glissading my slit. When his glans came in contact with my clitoris, I was almost in tears.
“I’m yours!” I said hoarsely.
“Are you, indeed?” he said, half to himself, then he held his cock in one hand, and moved his hips just so, spreading me, entering me, slipping his way past my pulsing labia and tunneling into me. My hands stopping gripping the sheets and my arms went around his ass, pulling him in. It was filling me, and my eyes closed tightly while I bit my lower lip.
He paused to ask, “I am not hurting you?” and I shook my head, made a few incoherently formed syllables, then pulled him into me in One. Smooth. Stroke.
Tears were streaming down my face as I came. I bit my lips to avoid crying out but it was no use. A long, low moan escaped my mouth through my clenched teeth. My head was spinning and my body moved with him almost involuntarily. My hands squeezed his ass and pulled him closer to me, and I writhed against his body to increase the contact of my clit on his shaft.
“Forgive me; I cannot last,” he whispered to me, and I nodded assent and held him close. I felt him swell up, his back arched, and he closed his eyes and filled me with his soothing seed. I trembled and he shuddered. I gasped and cried out his name, waves of pleasure rippling through my body.
He lay on me, resting his weight on his elbows like a gentleman should, and I held his head against my chest.
“Do you feel better?” I asked him.
“I feel wonderful,” he said, and when he looked up at me I could see tears on his face as well.
“Are you all right?” I asked, looking at him closely. “What’s wrong?”
“Release,” he said in a whisper. “Emotion. I am fine.”
“Can we do this more often?” I asked him as gently as I could.
“[Yearning Heart],” he sighed, “I promise you – I do what I can. Besides,” he added, “isn’t it the sweeter in its rarity?”
I wiped his tears away, kissing him. He wiped mine away as well. I held him against me and we murmured to each other, reassuring each other until there were no more words.

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image: detail of installation by Bronwyn Lace