To Raise a Little Man


So I suppose it’s about time for the big gender reveal….. I am actually a man.

Ha, just kidding. I am all woman. Except for the little 15 ounces growing in my belly.

Yes, my baby is a boy. YAY! A boy is what I’ve always wanted. But you know what they say: be careful what you wish for.

While the ultrasound technician was roaming around for the evidence of a teeny tiny penis on my baby, I was mainly ecstatic about the fact that he had two arms and legs. I know that seems like kind of a minor concern when there is the question of gender, but, ya know. It’s a little bit easier to do things with all your appendages. Anyhoo, the Babe was in a pose that could either mean he is ready to be a Prima Ballerina, or he’s just waiting to hold up his future NASCAR trophy. I’m not quite sure which thought is more disturbing to me.

When the technician pointed out his little testes, I had mixed feelings of elation and slight disappointment. ‘Tis true I wanted a boy, and I still do, but the idea of such absence of sparkles and ruffles in my future child’s life gave me pause. The only hope is that he may one day be a famous drag queen, because we know then there will be sequins and makeup aplenty.

After my appointment, I got to thinking about the problems I may have in raising a little man. (Other than the fact that my Rockstar wants to name him Vince, after Vince Neil of Motley Crue- a problem which need be addressed another day.)

What do I know about being a man? My coworker insists I am quite manly, indeed, so I shouldn’t have a problem, but I believe he only thinks so because of my appreciation for much sex, a subject we have talked about at great length. Honestly, I’m not quite sure why else he would find me masculine, unless my cursing sailor’s mouth convinced him. Who knows….

What I DO know is that I want my boy to read, and read a lot. I realized that other than blogland, there has been quite an absence of men that read in my actual real life. Sure, here and there, a male that loves books as much as I do has reared his head, but it’s been a disturbingly rare phenomena, like Loch Ness monster sightings. I’ve gone away wondering if I actually saw what I saw, kinda thing. I myself do not find reading to be a solely feminine act, but, you must admit, it doesn’t exactly go with beer and hot wings.

Aside from that, I want my son to be sensitive. Not meaning I want every drop of rain and flower petal to bring him to tears, but that if he sees someone in pain, or having a bad day, he will take notice, and perhaps try to better that person’s situation. Along with that, I want him to treat women like princesses, even though by the time he is old enough to think about girls, most of them will probably be sluts and/ or lesbians (in which case, he might get his ass kicked if he tries to treat them like princesses.. All girls should be made to feel special, even if they are only subpar.

I want him to have self-confidence, but not the yucky jock kind. I mean the kind that will allow him to not be bothered when his mother grows out his hair and people tease him for looking like a girl. The kind that allows him to be proud of himself, and teach others to also be proud of themselves.

If he marries, I want him to have at least a slight interest in planning his own wedding someday, whether it be to a girl or a boy. We all know the best boys are the ones that take an active role in such things, and are generally worshipped among women.

If he doesn’t marry, I want him to be happy in whatever life he chooses, and to have many adventures.

I want him to say what he means, and mean what he says, and not be afraid to say what it is that needs to be said, but know when to stay silent.

I want him to know it’s perfectly ok for him to like Barbie dolls, and to admire their exaggerated feminine features, but to realize that real women that look nothing like Barbie dolls are also desirable. I also want him to like dinosaurs, and realize they are the coolest creatures ever to live. (Besides for mermaids and unicorns.)

I want him to be just a little bonkers, because all the best people are.

I honestly don’t know how I will help my son to become this man I want him to be; luckily, I may be able to help him out in the bonkers department.

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Charlie


Previously…

An almost inaudible sound came from his throat when I did it, and I knew I had him. I felt his cock straining against the fly of his pants, but when my fingers pulled his zipper down, he moved out of my reach. His fingers slipped out of me once again, and his other hand left my breast. My body felt absolutely bereft from the loss of his touch, and I couldn’t help the whimper that happened to come. I should have known better.

Charlie demands complete control- during fucking and everything leading up to it. Not that he’s into S&M, though he isn’t above a playful bite or spanking every now and then. I mean that every move, every act no matter how small, must be his decision. He will allow me to undress him, but I am only permitted to once he decides it is time. To so blatantly disregard this rule sets the mood for everything that follows. I’ll tell you a secret: I didn’t forget on accident.

I watched his face in the mirror; I saw him struggling with the thought of breaking his own rule, and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t. I felt a moment of relieved anticipation when I saw his jaw firmly set, but I was not expecting what happened next.

His hands were on the neckline of my dress, and the next second, a bold ripping sound filled the silence as he forcefully tore my dress from neckline to hem. My Urban Decay’d lips formed a surprised “o” as I and Charlie looked at my now mostly-nude body in the mirror. I felt gooseflesh run up and down my skin in the split second before Charlie’s hand pushed my upper body down against the table in front of me.

He entered me roughly, but I was ready. So ready. His very first thrust left him so deep inside that I cried out, from pain or pleasure, or maybe a little bit of both. He withdrew, then again thrust himself into me. His hands gripped my hips, not gently, and I felt the familiar pleasure already beginning to rise in me. My right hand pressed against the mirror, causing it to fog there, and I pushed my rump ever so slightly into Charlie. I was immediately reprimanded with a welcome slap on my rear, warning me to stay still. His cock buried so deeply inside me, and the thrill of his spanking heightened my excitement; I wriggled against him, inviting another smack. The second one stung, and Charlie drove himself into me again and again, not waiting for me to further taunt his itching hand.

With every thrust, he reached the end of me, and my pleasure blossomed. I tried to move in such a way to prolong it, but my lover held me firmly in place, and was unrelenting. He knew what he did as he repeatedly pulled himself out of me and then pressed himself in again, hard and at an unwavering pace. It was clear he meant to punish me for my slip with his zipper, and I relished every moment until he pushed himself into me once again and pressed my hips harshly to him. He was as deep as he could go, and he filled me so completely that my growing pleasure exploded, and I let out a heartfelt moan. Charlie shuddered, and spent himself inside me. From my bent-over position, I could feel every throb of his cock. I used my inner muscles to squeeze him, and he moaned loudly before pulling back.

“Damn you, woman.” He said it because rough sex hadn’t been what he was in the mood for, but I couldn’t help giggling when he said it, because of the irony of his words. I made eye contact with him in the mirror, and when I saw the amused sparkle there, I knew he wasn’t really pissed.

I stood up as Charlie put himself back together and assessed my torn dress. There was no saving it. Damn. I hadn’t even gotten to wear it out in public yet.

Charlie eyed me, reading my thoughts. “I’ll call Nina and get you another dress, ” he assured me, and I smiled, because it amused me that not only did this man know who the designer of my dress was- he also knew her well enough to call her up out of the blue. Yet another reason to adore Charlie.

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A Response to a Hater


Almost a year ago, a wrote a letter to Tara Knowles, the fictional character in Sons of Anarchy, HERE. It seems there were many SOA fans who agreed with the contents of that letter; so many, in fact, that it has become the single most shared of my posts on Facebook. Sadly, we cannot all agree on how wise and generally hilarious I am, which leads me to my next post, a letter to “Tara’s biggest fan”, the person who left this comment on that post just the other day:

Tara’s biggest fan!

Fuck you and this post. Tara loved Jax more than anything. He chose the MC and his ‘mommy’ over a girl who could have and should have done way better. But instead trusted her heart that she could wait out and he would change. Became a mother to his first son while he left her alone to have his second while he was in the pin. Because of him and his false promises she lost the use of her hand that provided an out for their family, lost the love of her life to his club and bitch slut control freak druggie mom…and chose to raise her sons HIS sons so much she was the clear conscience he couldn’t be she was loyal to her role as a mother over herself and her piece of shit cheater ass husband. She lost her life trying to do what he wanted but couldn’t. She went to jail for his club duties and see how being loyal to her husband and the mc got her….it turned her into gemma which was the level she had to get on….to protect her sons from their father just like gemma did. She was the best thing that ever happened to jax, those boys, the mc, & charming! She’s the only thing that DID make sense in that show. She sacrificed everything for love and just when her husband decided to be a man and take credit for all the shit he’d caused her to do and become… once again crack hore slut bitch mom protects her baby boy….

For u to say she is ugly and deserved to die.. you must be a gemma skank ass bitch that gets off by homewrecking real relationships and it helps you sleep at night because you have NO respect or pride for yourself. If u hate her so much you must love Wendy. Well, I hope you are the pussy jax runs too and have a mother in law like gemma that stalks ur ass and leaves u know room to be alone wirh ur man or ur kids and u get stuck between becoming a bitch or serving as an old lady with no place ro speak ur mind if a man doesnt allow it…. u must think porns a real buisness of respect and killing innoscent people for sport is fun too huh?

I just thought I’d be the one to stand up for Tara and what she stood for on a page that everyone seems to have lost their minds and be Gemma themsleves. you must be a gemma skank ass bitch that gets off by homewrecking real relationships and it helps you sleep at night because you have NO respect or pride for yourself. I wish u the best in your life…because tight pussy and a pretty face only gets you so far until youre used up stretched out and he throws ur wringly ass out. Then what do u have to show for respecting urself??

I must respond, and defend my “tight pussy and pretty face that will only get me so far.”

Dear Tara’s Biggest Fan, (and hater of Gemma),

I respect your opinion and your devastatingly noble devotion to any fictional character, namely one Tara Knowles.

That being said, your comment gave me great pleasure, and continues to give me great pleasure as I respond in kind to it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Firstly, I would like to address the bluntness with which you begin your comment. “Fuck you and this post.” You say. Being an eternal fan of the ever satisfying “fuck you”, I must say that I admire your quick and unadulterated use of the phrase, however, might I suggest that in the future, you refrain from beginning any lengthy rant with it, as the unfortunate timeliness of using it thusly can put the recipient on edge, and anything written thereafter will be received with ill feelings, and convince the reader that you are, in fact, not of a well-read or intelligent ilk. In other words, save if for the end. If it’s the first thing you say, it is likely no one will care one wit what it is you have to say after.

As I read further, I was again struck by your commitment to, might I repeat, a fictional character, as well as the loathing you have for some of the others. ‘Tis true, my contempt for Dr.
Tara Knowles did inspire me to write a letter to her, which, in some circles might be viewed as an act of absurdity. But not at any time did I address or insult a real person in my letter as you have done in yours. You must be a gemma skank ass bitch that gets off by homewrecking real relationships and it helps you sleep at night because you have NO respect or pride for yourself, you say. I suppose according to some, I may be a “skank-ass bitch”, though if I have wrecked any real relationships, it is solely because I am more adorable and funnier than the women in said relationships. (I must state at this time that I have never partaken of the man-fruits of these wrecked relationships, only made these men realize not every woman is as bitchy as their current girlfriends.) That being said, I clearly haven’t an issue with self respect or pride; I expect my histrionic personality disorder has something to do with that.

I do respect those who are comfortable enough to be employed in the porn business, because who among us at one time or another have not whored ourselves out for money? Perhaps not sucking cock and taking it up the butt, but surely everyone out there has stayed at a job they hate for money, while mentally getting fucked in the ass by their boss, or taken a pay raise to do something they detest. I applaud those of the porn industry who have given many hours of pleasure to many people who have partaken of their whorish efforts. As for killing innocent people for fun, I’ve never considered doing it, but I have it on good authority that many angry men in our country sign up for the armed forces to have a chance to do just that. I do not speak ill of our Nation’s army, for I understand the urge.

I will not address you, Tara’s Fan, quite as harshly as you have addressed me, but I must at this time mention the dreadful spelling errors and obnoxious punctuation mistakes in your tirade. You seem to think Gemma was not actually Jax’s mommy, as you have mentioned her as ‘mommy’. Apostrophes are used to show possession; I believe mayhap you had meant to use quotation marks, which really wouldn’t have made any more sense, since Gemma was, in fact, Jax’s mother, and referred to in that way throughout the show by your beloved Tara. Sadly, there are many instances in your rant which lack the proper use of apostrophes- far to many to mention. Your repeated use of “ur” and “u” suggest that perhaps you have the spelling mentality of an ever-texting teenager; your copious other spelling errors lead me to believe you spend more time watching TV shows and becoming obsessed with their fictional characters than you spend reading books, in which case, I feel sorry for you, and can only hope things change for you sooner, rather than later.

I wish u the best in your life…because tight pussy and a pretty face only gets you so far until youre used up stretched out and he throws ur wringly ass out. Then what do u have to show for respecting urself?? In response to this last bit of your angry diatribe, I assure you that I have not at any time possessed a “wringly ass”; I don’t exactly know what that is, but I assume it is not something most people want. As far as being stretched out- it will never happen. I take my Kegel exercises very seriously, and my Rockstar assures me there are no worries of my ever having a vagina that resembles a hallway having a hotdog thrown down it. If by chance it does happen, I have the knowledge that I will always use the proper spelling of “yourself.” There is no greater self-respect.

Have a nice day,

Sparklebumps

 

 

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Sparkle in Bloggerland


Where am I? All this seems so familiar somehow, as if maybe I dreamed it once. Or twice.

I thought I knew my way around this place, but clearly, I was mistaken, because it took me about ten minutes to figure out how to get to a new post page. Is this what WordPress has come to? Throwing in with the likes of Facebook and changing their format for us poor unfortunates who have been asleep for a hundred years and haven’t made it over here in awhile? Unheard of. Absurd!

Well, it seems my endless days of puking and suffering are finally at an end. In other words, I’ve had enough of these bad pregnancy symptoms and plan to only glow with glorious womanly fertility from this point on. I hope. Although I’m feeling a bit perturbed today, so maybe I’m not as zen yet as I’d hoped. Whatever, fuckers.

I’d like to take a moment and thank all of you who happened to remember me in my time of trial, as my stats inform me that I’ve received at least 20 visitors a day in my absence. (Yay me!) Considering that I’ve written very little of actual wit or interest in the past months, I see that as a good sign. Or maybe it’s just those bastard SPAM people. I guess we’ll never know.

Well, I dragged my ass to the computer today, which is a huge accomplishment for me these days, and as I really have nothing of inspiration to write, I must leave this once-again familiar place. I just wanted you all to know that I’m not dead (yet) and that my boobs have gotten bigger, so you can all rejoice. XOXO

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The Business of Lullabies


I do not fancy myself a superb singer. I will never be that girl who sends chills down people’s spines when I hit that one note, because it’s pretty damn certain I won’t ever hit that one note. Believe me, I’ve tried. No crowds will ever fill Madison Square Garden just because I’m there to sing; although I have no doubt that my Rockstar, my brother, and I will fill it when we finally start our band. I can carry a tune, and sound better than about half the people you hear attempting to sing, including Taylor Swift. Nevertheless, I fully intend to sing to my baby once he gets here. I just hope my doing so will not cause more tears than are normally expected from a baby.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that the songs I use as lullabies may very well be the songs my baby uses as lullabies to his own children someday, if he has any. (The continued use of male pronouns in reference to my baby are my way of using osmosis to decide his gender for him. He has no legs yet, so there is no way he has yet sprouted a teeny tiny penis. But I will continue to try to sway him.) Or, if nothing else, they will be songs he fondly remembers as ones his crazy mother sang to him because she loved him. Either way, this is not business that should be taken lightly. Music is the poetry of sound. So instilling in my baby a vast library of musical genres is a must. So far, here is my lullaby list:

For standards, I’ve only yet come up with two:

1. Over the Rainbow

2. Baby Mine from Dumbo

Moving along to somewhat newer music:

3. Let It Be by The Beetles

4. You’re Beautiful by James Blunt (Sidenote: As this James Blunt song is about a girl who is addicted to drugs, I feel that I may only sing the chorus so as not to introduce my babe to such evility prematurely.)

5. Jesus Loves Me

6. Give Me Love by Jasmine Cain (a mostly-independent artist, but a great song)

7. I’ll Be There by The Jackson 5 (or Mariah Carey, if you prefer)

8. True Colors by Cyndi Lauper

9. The Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog (a song my uncle used to sing to me when I was small)

10. Silent Night (a Christmas song, sure, but what better to sing about than the night I hope to have?)

11. Love is Forever by Slaughter

12. Unconditionally by Katy Perry

13. Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers

This is only a start, so I open my lullaby list to those of you in blogland, so speak now. Just know that Rob Zombie and Iron Maiden will have to wait just a year or two.

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On Nausea and Still Remaining Myself


Pregnancy is not an excuse.

Yes, ok, I haven’t written on my blog (or anywhere else, for that matter) for a shameful 18 days; my longest hiatus from blogging yet, I believe. I haven’t drunk coffee or whisky or any mind-altering substance for many weeks, (and I do not intend to for many many more weeks). When I go out to eat in a nice restaurant with edible food, I can no longer finish my Rockstar’s meal after snarfing down my own. In fact, I cannot even finish my own meal, and have taken to sharing. I still think of sex more often than the average person, but I also think of sleep more than a two-toed sloth. I remind myself of one thing:

This, too, shall pass.

Whereas in past times not so long ago, any text message I received was almost immediately responded to, I have become a textical hermit. My repeated responses of “Not good. Puking all day. Sleeping when not puking.” I’m sure got old quickly when people asked how I was faring, and quite honestly, that exact response sums up the last eighteen days frighteningly well. It didn’t help that last week when my Rockstar had an entire week off between changing jobs, and instead of indulging in an all-week fuckfest with him, I was forced to hack and cough and blow my nose in between naps when I contracted the Mother of All Colds. The only upside was that the nausea that had continued to haunt me for over a month has finally begun to subside; I am no longer hurling unless I’ve not eaten within two hours. Yay me.

For the entirety of my adult life, I have begun planning my Halloween costume for each year in mid-summer. Not so this year. In fact, yesterday was the first day that I realized Halloween is less than two months away, and I said to myself, “Self! Enough of this bull-shit! You’re fucking dressing up, even if it is as a horse wearing a feed bag in order to catch the vomit!” There will be no alcoholic libations, but at least I have a house this year, so I plan on celebrating by scaring the beJesus out of the neighborhood childlings. The buzz from such doings will certainly suffice.

I realize that when you become a mother, (which I’m not, quite yet, anyway) you change. But I’ll be damned if everyone I know will only engage in conversations with me that pertain to my child, now or later. People without kids have lives, and do things, whether the People With Kids believe it or not. I will never enjoy talking about diaper genies and the latest invention created to make parenthood easier. I will, however, speak of sexually deviant practices with whomever is interested, even when my waistline is 57″.  I am not complaining about where my future is headed in the least, only stating how perturbed I am that having my head in a toilet has kept me from doing the things I wanted in the last weeks.

P.S. The ultrasound specialist assures me that my baby’s lack of legs and arms is a natural thing at this point. I pray he’s not just placating me.

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A Letter To My Baby


Dear Baby,

I would have addressed my letter “Dear Little Bastard”, but there are those who might have taken offense. Luckily, I am your momma, and shall teach you to have a great sense of humor, and to never be ashamed of who and what you are.

So, hello, baby. I’ve been waiting a really long time to be able to write a letter to you. You would think I’d have given a bit more thought to what I would write, but considering that I never actually thought I’d have an opportunity to write such a letter, you will understand my faltering. It seems very cliche’, but I love you, baby. I’ve loved you for a very long time.

I promise you will be the most loved baby there ever was, (I know that seems pretentious, but you will learn soon enough that I am very exactly that). And don’t worry, I promise to teach you what pretentious means, and how to spell it, because I don’t want you to be one of those silly people who only use simple words and nod stupidly when educated people talk to you. You will know many many things, and the things I cannot teach you, you will learn from other people who love you dearly, like Auntie Delightful, who will be your Fairy Godmother, and who did a happy dance in public when your existence was confirmed; she will teach you all about poetry and to love books like I will, and she will never run out of crafts for you two to o together. And my godmother Auntie, who has been waiting for you for a long time too. She will teach you to accept everybody, and to be kind to people you don’t necessarily understand, and, if you ask her to, she will teach you to quilt beautiful quilts that will keep people you love warm.

Your daddy will love you too, even though he might not say it. (You and I will get him to eventually, though, I know it.) He will teach you all about music, and how important it is, and how rockers wearing women’s makeup is not only funny, but very cool. He will also take you to car races, and watch football with you, and will play with you even though he is kind of old, and really just wants to take a nap. Don’t get mad when he doesn’t respond to all your questions- he doesn’t have as many words to use as I do; but that just means you have to listen closely when he does talk.

I have always hoped you would be a boy, because dinosaurs are so much cooler than Barbies, and teenage boys are less of a pain in the ass than teen girls. But if you are a girl, I will teach you to love dinosaurs anyway, and to not be a pain in the ass.

The most important thing you need to know is that life is beautiful, and all people are beautiful in their own way, so you need to treat them like they are special, because they are someone’s baby, too. Also, God is a cool Guy, but He sometimes will do things you don’t understand just because He can; don’t get discouraged, because you are tougher than anything He will throw at you.

I’m sure there will be many more letters for you, baby, but for now, I should really work on my book, so I will have more time and money to spend on you when you get here.

Love You Forever,

Mommy

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