At first, it starts off innocently enough. A soft, barely there whisper of a kiss on your cheek, forehead, hand when he says good night. And then, the lips are no longer involved and when that mouth is gone...what it did to your insides. Now, it's a pat on the outside of your thigh; "pat" probably being too strong of a word when it's just fingers doing a little grazing. And you're left wondering...when did the meeting of your skins and bodies stop? The stroking, nibbling, tasting, devouring...they all just stopped. As if he forgot how. Or worst, he knows these actions but he has no inclination to do them. Like he's looking at you and doesn't feel stirred. Or any anticipation. And he doesn't remember what it was like between you and him back then. The fire you had. How ripping the sheets was always lovingly desperate and intense.

When that's ALL I can think about. When I used to choose sex with him over food. When all I ever did was crave him. And sometimes, I want him to want me so bad, that my fingers tingle achingly just touching his chest. I thought that seeing me grow fuller with his baby, would churn his insides crazy with desire. I was wrong....And baffled at how he could look at me with such neutrality.

Because the word "neutral" never existed in my life. I never wore neutral colors. I don't have neutral beliefs. I don't make neutral decisions. Everything in my life is...heat and gusto. But he's all comfort and niceties in five-year old Levi's.

Jilted...

you got me with your baby baby babys
somewhere between the first inning
and the third taste
your lips like rum…
goes along with stardust
and wishful thinking
said you wouldn't mind getting down between my legs
that's what you said

only that was a "today" type of promise, sixty minutes long
your whispers across my thighs
making me trust and ache and dream
said I was a beauty you've never experienced before

you took and took and I gave and gave 
but never enough, sweet enough, fuckable enough, precious enough 
your used, rough gem I became
my secret places I once promised to share on my wedding...a common thing 
and then you had a new plan. and it wasn't me.

you and me

I realize it’s no way to live life, but all I seem to want lately is you and me in bed all day long…getting tangled up in the sheets, our hands everywhere, skin to skin, pulses racing and my heart beating fiercely. The lines completely blurred between love and lust. Speaking through kisses and sensual caresses. 

Our only spoken words would be nothing more than "baby" and "God, yes." and "more." and "harder." and "now."

Southern Preambles

Why I do confesss...

That it's time I become a real country girl.

Move back home to Louisiana.

And learn how to ride a horse expertly. A white stallion, preferably.

And learn how to bake a pie. Any kind. Maybe, peach pie first.

And finally, learn how to handle a weapon. A dagger. A gun. Anything that I can protect myself with.

Because this city girl has gone soft. And need to toughen up. Because a little babe is on the way. And she needs a strong mama.

love and sex. love and sex. love-sex.

To me, those 2 things always went together. Because why should you have sex if love wasn't there? You would just feel unsatisfied afterwards. And uncertain.

And didn't love always naturally lead to sex? The kind of sex that's still on your mind days later - when you're walking down the street and images of skin and sheets spontaneously pop into your head, making you smile. Yes, that Love-Sex. It's life's rule. My only rule.  I refer to it as the hopeless romantic in me.  I can't and won't ever let it go.

But the only problem is...sometimes love is fleeting.

Love Letters, Part XXXIVsomething

I dreamt about us yesterday morning...that it was a few months into our unlikely pairing. And you whisked me away to Barcelona because you knew I fell in love with Spain when I visited Malaga, Picasso's birth town, a while back. Our first night in Barcelona, you took me to the cutest, almost-secret little tapas bar in Las Ramblas that only the locals know about. They sat us at an intimate table and we laughed all night...drinking Tempranillo, my favorite Spanish wine. And Spanish wine has a thing about making me feel so happy and in love...Like you.

Yes you...let's get to you. You had never looked so dorky until that night. With your glasses. And you somehow thought it would be "neat" to grow out your sideburns. You said you were in disguise. But every time you looked at me or touched my knees - I wanted to pull you by the neck into my lips. It was a hot May night in Barcelona and all I had on was a black tank top and high-waisted pants, a little bit of blush and you had already kissed away all of my red lip stain. But you said I looked like a goddess. I thought you were crazy, but you made me feel what you felt about me. I saw myself the way you saw me. And it was intoxicating as hell...

And then, the dream ended...

Tomorrow, Paris!

Yes, I'm going to Paris for the FIRST TIME tomorrow.

Decided I'm going to wear black the entire time. Well, plus my new pink Keds sneakers. Because the coolest item I own right now is a black "Ain't Laurent" cropped black sweatshirt. And when I say "coolest"-- I mean easy and comfortable.

My style, as of late - has been all about soft and stretchy. And I strongly believe that every girl's hair should be big and billowing with curls. And very bouncy.

So I'm taking my soft and stretchy style to Paris, with my big bouncy curls. And we'll see if the Parisians can spot the Cajun Girl.

Seychelles

Maybe sometimes it's ok that he's in your head. Every sentence that he's said to you, only you have heard them. And only you get it. No one has gotten me like the way you get me, he says. It's grammatically incorrect, but you feel a rush anyway and think he's clever as hell.

And in your head, you & he have a special place somewhere on the border of Nolita and Soho. The kind of place that always has Strawberry Abita's when you crave them. With sweet, kitschy photographs of 90's memorabilia and Kandinsky replicas. It doesn't even have a name; it's just called "our place" and you both know to meet there every Thursday at 5:30pm...For a little bit of T.I., some Seychelles and a whole lot of i'm-crazy-about-you's...because in that place, it's always Christmas morning. His hand's on your thigh, your heart written on your face and his eyes telling you everything you imagine your husband would say, promising you the universe. And he smiles yearningly when you say "I'm naming our daughter Tallulah and our son Fritz, not Fitz, but Fritz. Maybe Meaux if there's a second son."

And he says "I can't wait, Babe."

Perhaps all of this exists inside your little head. But it's yours. And it's real. And no one can break it apart.