Wet

I roll over in bed half-awake, or half asleep. I don’t really know what awakened me; I was having a dream, I’m sure. One of those dreams that so gloriously vivid you’re sure it’s real, but the second you open your eyes, the entirety of it is gone, and you aren’t even sure if it was there to begin with.

I spy my beloved through my sleepy haze, and a tired smile plays on my lips as I spy his naked shoulder emerging from the pile of fuzzy blankets. Even in the minimal moonlight pouring through the blinds, I can see the innumerable freckles dotting his skin like an insane connect-the-dots. I move my hand lazily across the bed to feel his skin beneath mine, but stop short when I feel a huge wet spot.

“Ugh. Gross.” I think to myself. I try to remember if the dream I was having was one of those dreams, and if this soaked area is my fault. I feel myself through my panties and don’t feel anything, but I’m a little more awake now, and begin to wonder what caused the wet spot. I think to earlier and the lyrics to a popular song come to mind: With a little bit of last night on these sheets... I grin in the dark. It’s certainly possible. But any of that would have been dry hours ago.

I bend my leg, and my bare thigh touches another spot, soggy like the first. I’m starting to get grossed out. “What the f?!” I almost utter the question aloud, but fear of waking my Rockstar. I drag my face off the pillow, where my cheek comes in contact with yet another cold, dank spot. I sit up, and wipe my face with my clean hand, sniffing it to see if I can figure out what it is. Nothing.

I try to kick the blankets off, but the dog is lying atop of them, and she’s way to heavy for my sleepy legs to lift. Her ass is facing the head of the bed, of course. It’s as if she is pointing her gaseous tush at our faces just to get us back for those times we leave her in the kennel. Just as I think it, she lets out a silent fart, that is truly gruesome in odor. I shove her butt away, disgusted, and she stands and turns so her droopy lips set right on my arm. I instantly feel drippy, and my arm is soaked like I just got out of the shower. Then it dawns on me.

I knew there was some reason why I didn’t want the dog to learn about sleeping on the bed. Because I didn’t want to wake up in a puddle of drool.

True story, bro.

Writing Assignments 101

My friend Delightful takes college classes tirelessly, and mentioned yesterday that she didn’t want to do her latest assignment. I offered to do it for her, but since it was a somewhat personalized assignment, she did it herself. Luckily, having a friend in creative writing gives me great ideas for blog posts!

The assignment: Imagine yourself as a car. What color are you? What’s in the glovebox? What’s in the trunk? What kind of music is playing on the radio?

My response:

I’d love to say that myself as a car would be a 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500. Good old-fashioned all- American muscle encased in a body sexy enough to give any guy with half a brain a hard-on. The kind of car a guy can just get in and go 100 miles an hour in.

Sadly, I am not the owner of long, flowing blonde hair,  or legs that go for miles, or capable of causing most guys to rubberneck when I walk down the street. I have curves in all the right places, and a few in the wrong places. It takes a certain kind of man to want to pick me out of all the other cars that are out there. So I would have to say I’m probably a convertible Volkswagon Rabbit. Pretty cute, reminiscent of a better day, sturdy, and better with my top down.

Maybe I don’t have the generic beauty of a Mustang, but I maintain that under my hood lives the engine of such a beast. Fast enough to challenge anything that comes up, (like a new, not-so-sexy Camaro) and strong enough to handle the rough bumps in life.

My adorable Rabbit body would be a bright shimmery fuschia color, which, upon closer inspection, would change to a deep royal blue. A paint job that draws women in immediately, and one that, if they take the time to notice, guys actually think to themselves, “Yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

In my glovebox? A whole lot of things with words on them. Books, maps, diaries, what have you. A general catch-all for everything that finds it’s way into my innards. There’s probably quite a few receipts from McDonald’s and Victoria’s Secret too.

What’s in the trunk? Heh heh. Junk. Isn’t that what the guys want in the trunk? Of course there would be an umbrella I never use, but for the most part, my trunk would be filled with speakers sufficient to melt the faces off of anybody who turned them up.

As for the radio, it would be a flow of music constantly changing so as to avoid any interruptions like commercials. Rock, country, classic rock, hip-hop, R&B, easy listening on occasion, and little bit of rap thrown in. Rest assured there would be a steady stream of Michael Jackson “Hee-hoo!” ‘s and 80’s music blaring.

The Goose and the Gander

After a lovely day of bitching in the park and eating not-so-scrumptious wings at B-dubs with the lovely Cat Woman, I have decided to manufacture a silly little tale based off of our observations of geese and men today. So grab a bottle of Jack and have a seat.

Once upon a time, there was a gander (Sidenote: I have just discovered that a gander is a male goose. I do not know why a female goose is still called just a goose. Sexism at it’s finest.)

This gander was very handsome, and had a long elegant neck. (As geese tend to have.) He spent his day strutting through the park, honking lasciviously at the females of his species, and hissing arrogantly at any humans who deemed themselves fit to try and feed him stale bread and sunflower seeds. The only people he let get close were the ones who offered dill pickle-flavored sunflower seeds, which, unbeknownst to him, caused the gander to have wretched breath.

The gander was wildly narcissistic, and would spend long hours gazing into the man-made pond in the middle of town at the reflection of  his beautiful neck, sticking it out this way and that, and posing for the womanly geese that wandered past. There were a group of the females who fawned over the gander (as much as geese can fawn), but the gander would simply fertilize their eggs and then never honk at them again. (Sidenote: geese generally mate for life; another nature fact I have just learned.) The female geese were so busy caring for their fertilized eggs that they didn’t have time to warn other innocent geese of the gander’s shameful behavior.

One day, as the gander was doing a yoga-like pose as he peed, he caught sight of a goose he hadn’t yet pillaged. He stretched his long neck out while he finished his business, hoping the goose would notice how impressive and long it was (hee hee). He was so busy trying to impress the goose, that he failed to notice the naughty little boy who was running towards him. Before he knew what was happening, the gander found a grubby little fist wrapped around his prized neck, and he felt a yucky snap. He found himself looking down at the ground, unable to hold his little head upright, before the boy’s mother yelled at him and he was flung to the ground. The little boy ran off, and the gander was left honking and hissing, never even noticing the feather that was stuff in his nose hole, making him even more absurd.

From then on, the vain gander wandered through the park with a broken neck, which made his head to wobble unsteadily on his once-beloved neck, causing him to look a little bit demented.

The moral of the story: Don’t rubberneck at dames, you may end up without your most valuable asset.

“Lieb”-erate Me

 

 

Jonas Lee over in his Imaginarium has nominated me for a Liebster Award. Since I’m generally awesome (or so people seem to think), this is not the first of such an award. Actually, I just checked, and I was nominated here, here, here, and here. Wow. I’m starting to feel a little like the literary Meryl Streep here…. Anyhoo, I must say that Jonas is pretty amazing, because he responds to my comments in a timely fashion, and I just realized that his name is actually Jonas. (Dude, I’ve been reading your blog for awhile, but it kinda just clicked now. You have an awesome name!)

Since I have received this award before, I’m beginning to run out of interesting facts to mention about myself, so I have taken the liberty of copying Jonas’ (so cool!!!!!) 11 facts about himself and editing them to fit my self. Here they are:

11 Facts:

1. I hold no Bachelor’s degree, or Master’s either. While I believe that, in some ways, further education might benefit me, I find that I am a little bit smarter and a damn bit funnier than those who suffer from such an education. That, and I don’t want school loan sharks hounding me. I already have Victoria’s Secret on my back about a little $2800 deficit.
2. I panic when anything flies near my face. Insects, rocks, baseballs…. you get the picture. The only exception is penis, because I usually initiate such things.
3. While Jonas can quote the entire movie “Clue”, I can quote the entire movie “Clueless”. A much more useful feat.
4. I, too, am super stubborn.
5. Green Lantern is NOT my favorite super hero. Unless it’s Ryan Reynolds, because he is beautiful. But Mystique is pretty frickin’ awesome. I suppose she may be considered a super villain though…
6. I would take sex over a philosophical debate anytime.
7. I am right handed, but my left boob is bigger than my right, and my left hip is going out. Fuckin’ A.
8. I almost named my daughter Ophelia. But then I remembered that I don’t have a daughter.
9. French fries magically disappear around me. As do Doritos, cheese, ramen noodles, candy… really, anything that can be put in my mouth. (Yes, that was meant to sound dirty.)
10. I,too, have astigmatism in both eyes. And have a nasty habit of wearing my contacts for four months longer than I should.
11. As a child, I never wanted to be a garbage man, but I did think being a lion would have been an excellent career choice.

Now I will answer the questions asked of me.

My 11 Questions:

1. You are able to scratch one thing off your bucket list, no matter what it entails. What is it?

I suppose I would choose to be a model in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, because that seems like the most unlikely thing to happen from my Honey-Do List. Because I’m short, not because I’m chubby.

2. You can listen to any band/artist (live) in their time period. Who would you want to see?

Iron Maiden!!!!! Because I want to see Eddie! And because if I see them in concert now, it would kind of be like watching my Grampa on stage.

3. If you could collaborate with any artist/author/professional on a project, who would you choose?

My first choice would have been Maya Angelou, but since she decided to die before I met her, I will have to go with #2. Dolly Parton. Because the woman is brilliant. And adorably nice.

4. Would you rather live in a zombie apocalypse (Walking Dead) or an electronic apocalypse (Revolution)?

A zombie apocalypse.

5. Why to number 4?

Because who would be able to survive if we were in an electronic apocalypse and I couldn’t write on my blog?! Too, any excuse to chop people’s heads off is a good thing, even if they ARE already dead.

6. Pop Tarts or Toaster Strudel?

Toaster Strudel, because they are so flakily delicious.

7. Favorite smell?

Raw onions. And horses. Don’t judge me.

8. You can have one super power. What would you choose?

The power of seduction.

9.What is your worst habit?

Acting as though the world revolves around me. It isn’t my fault….it’s my histrionic personality.

10. What do you find to be your best quality (physically or mentally)?

My boobs and my ability to understand why idiots are idiots.

11. What keeps you from having your dreams come true?

Nothing can stop me! Except shiny things. And mermaids. And pretty men and women that smell nice.

I’m sorry, Jonas, (Jonas!! I had to say it twice!) but it is a well-known fact that I do not follow all the rules of Liebster-dom, and so I cannot ask question of people I do not post links to. Suffice to say that anyone who comments on my blog is very wise, and should be paid attention to.

The End

 

An Apology to my Neighbors

Dear friendly neighbors,

I compose this letter today in the hopes that we can still be amiable aquaintances. While I have done nothing to openly displease you, it is, perhaps, safe to say that one or some of you may be slightly vexed in my general direction.

I apologize for spending five hours outside bent over my garden in my swimsuit.

Were it not the fact that, by some anyway, I would be considered pudgy or stout, I would not be issuing such an apology today. However, upon reflection of my own judgemental thoughts when faced with the excessive flesh exposure of some portly women in the summertime, I felt the need to ask pardon.

I, too, will explain why I have so blatantly bared my ASSets.

I have a problem with tan lines. Like, (and I’m sorry to revert back into a thirteen-year-old girl here, but) omg, batman! Tan lines drive me CRACRA!!!!!!! #insane. Due to having this past weekend off, I have already suffered the injustice of tan lines. My only option is to bare as much of my skin as possible in order to attempt a fading of such horrid atrocities. Thus, the semi-nakedness.

There is always the hope that the men amongst you are closeted chubby-chasers. If this happens to be true, then my apology is to the wives, who may have found their husbands open-mouthed and ogling, and finding reasons to venture outside- maybe feigning getting the mail- in order to get a closer look at my superfluous boobies that so stubbornly kept refusing to stay attired. Here’s the thing: it’s nigh impossible to find a swimmy that fits bosoms of such extent sufficiently. So pay no attention to the fact that I was adjusting and re-adjusting so as not to completely flash the whole neighborhood. Though I’m certain the men didn’t mind.

There is the fleeting thought that perhaps no one noticed me at all. That thought quickly dispersed, however, when I remember how viciously my Rockstar and I verbally gossip about you all when we see you puttering around your yards. Think nothing of it, it’s just something we do.

I cannot promise that I will never again assault your eyes with the sight of my husky thighs, (ha, that rhymed!) but I do hope you all may learn to ignore them. Or in the least, not tell everybody that there’s an almost naked girl outside, because it certainly seemed like A LOT of cars were driving by yesterday. Multiple times.

The girl next door,

Sparklebumps

P.S. I do not apologize for walking around inside my house naked with the blinds open. It’s my house. I can do what I want.

 

 

You Are Beautiful

Fitting rooms are death.

As in, every time I enter a fitting room,

I die a little bit inside

when I look in the mirror.

This dress would look great!

If it wasn’t on me.

I think to myself.

It doesn’t seem to matter

that I flaunt a pair of plentiful breasts,

the sort of which many women would pay dearly for.

Or that my legs,

though considerably short,

are toned from hours and hours of

wearing heels,

or waiting on tables.

I climb out of the dress,

which is rather difficult

since I forced the zipper up

in hopes of making it fit.

I shake my head and vow

that I will not be undone by an

inanimate piece of fabric.

I dress in my own not-quite-so-fabulous attire;

I face myself once again in the mirror,

and repeat to the refection there

the words many men have proven to be true,

the words friends that only tell the truth have spoken,

the words I remind myself that I believe:

“You are beautiful.”

 

Reasons to Brush Your Teeth

On a regular basis, I am required to remind my Rockstar’s Daughter to brush her teeth in the morning. Sadly, I understand her ire at having to complete such a task, as my mother waited until my first trip to the dentist at the age of 5, when I was told I was the proud owner of 5 whole cavities, to properly train me on the brushing of my (then) not-so-pearly whites. To further encourage the Daughter to brush daily, I have come up with a list of reasons why it is a good idea to do so. (I admit my list may not be completely of the child-friendly sort.) :

1. Because the first coffee of the day always tastes better on a fresh breath.

I do not know the reason for such a thing, only that it has been proven to be true on many a -cranky-before-coffee morn.

2. Because you don’t want people to call you Penis Breath. Or Fart Face. Or accuse you of having Dragon Breath capable of wilting a person’s face off.

You just don’t.

3. Because you never know who will want to kiss you.

I am aware that a good number of people with significant others think they know perfectly well who wants to kiss them. What they may not realize is that there may be other people admiring them from afar. Didn’t you ever see Fatal Attraction? Old Dan was perfectly happy being a married man until he realized he could have hot elevator sex with a ‘fro-d out Glenn Close. Do you think Glenn would have been so obsessed if Michael Douglas had forgotten to brush his teeth? I think not.

4. Because if you don’t, your teeth will fall out.

And taking care of dentures certainly seems like a lot more work.

And you don’t want to wake up looking like this, do you? :

 

5. Because people will talk about you and your disgusting teeth if you don’t.

Not that you should care about what other people think, unless the other “people” is me. Then you most definitely should. And I recall many many conversations my friend and I had over a coworker’s lack of oral hygiene.

6. Because no one will want to kiss you.

I am aware that I’ve mentioned this reason once before, but I find it to be of the utmost importance. And you’d be pretty fuckin’ sad if Angelina showed up with puckered lips, only to withdraw in horror at the smell of butt rot emitted from your mouth.

7. Because you don’t want to be like my old district manager.

Yes, he was pretty. In fact, his looks were the sole reason I slaved away as a Pizza Slut for over two years. (Looks DO get you things, such as a well-endowed book whore who rocks at her job). Sadly, there were many long and boring meetings spent across the table from the pretty man Boss that were only made more excruciating by d’odor du poopy. I do believe he mentioned something about a mouth fungus once, which I’m sure could have been prevented by brushing.

“Look At Me”

Earlier

 

Look at me,” he had said.

I looked, and was pleased.

Professor had introduced him to me only as Master, so that I might never make the mistake of addressing him otherwise. I did not know if it was his teaching he doubted, or my learning. After thinking on it later, I realized it was neither, but the stubborn streak in me he hadn’t had the heart to break that caused him to use such caution.

He had wanted me to look, and I did. For a moment, I did not think on rules and obedience; my eyes saw Master now simply as one would see a stranger. I saw from where I knelt first; his legs were clad in fine black suit pants, and my fingertips ached to reach out and feel the expensive fabric. Such forwardness would bring a merciless punishment indeed, but I tucked the thought away as I looked further. There was no hint of arousal from beneath the slacks, and I knew Master was indeed a man needful of being in control then. Above the Italian leather belt, there was no belly extended, but what I assumed was a well-taken-care-of stomach that was clothed in a rich blue button-down. Upon further inspection, I saw a hint of indigo within it, and mentally congratulated him on his fashion choices.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hand twitch, just barely. I turned my attention to it. This hand would treat me kindly, if I pleased him, or deal unmentionable discipline were I to rebel. The fingers were long, but not thick and calloused as Professor’s had been. Instead, these were slender, but not too, and looked to be incredibly soft. I leaned my face into them before I thought about it.

It seemed there was an instant when Master was caught off-guard by my action- just a second, before my chin was gripped roughly by the delicate fingers. My inspection was over.

“I believe the Professor allowed you too many liberties.” The statement was issued, and rightly. I’d known Professor granted me more favors than he should have, and I’d grown accustomed to them. “We will rectify that predicament soon enough.” His silken voice dropped. “Now show me what that old fool has taught you.”

I tried to ignore the comment, but I had never before had ill words spoken of a master, and it took great self-control. I swallowed the words that threatened to pour from my mouth and concentrated on my training. Without a steady pressure on my leash, I found myself out of sorts, and found it impossible to center my thoughts. I improvised.

I straightened my back, and my naked breasts brushed against the front of Master’s legs. My face was now level with his manhood, which was still clothed and of no evidence of even existing. I pressed my face into the zippered Y of his pants, and blew out the breath I’d been holding through my mouth. The heat of it met my face, and I hoped a little of that heat had made it through the extravagant fabric. I raised my hand from behind my back and slid the end of the leather belt through the clasp until it was undone. Master’s fingers exerted pressure on my chin, and I remembered what he had said. I looked up into his eyes and saw mild amusement.

I feared Professor’s teaching was of little use to me as I slid the zipper down on Master’s pants and undid the button at the top. The state of my nerves was glaringly apparent as I fumbled with it, and I tried to keep the frustration from my face. I pushed the offending pants down, too eagerly, and then the silk boxers. I recall now that they were plaid.

Master stood half naked before me now, and I put my tongue out and touched it to the tip of him. I ran my tongue up his considerable length, and felt him begin to stir. This was the encouragement I needed. I took in the icy blue of his eyes at the moment I took him into my mouth, and I saw his beautiful jaw clench as I began my art. My hands of their own accord found his muscular hips, and slid further back to grip his ass when I took the entire length of him into my throat. The feeling of it caused me to inadvertently make a sound.

Master’s hand had slipped down to my neck, but just then he placed both hands on the back of my head and buried his fingers into my hair as he thrust himself deeper into my throat again and again; his eyes never left mine as he spent himself quickly and withdrew himself from me. He stepped back with a look of disappointment.

“The old man is getting lethargic in his teaching. Or perhaps he just had too many feelings for you, hmm?” Master pulled up his trousers and left the room without a backward glance, leaving me unsatisfied and uncomforted as my leash trailed loose and taunting behind me.

A Break From Monday

 

I began today with a to-do list of unending proportions. I have accomplished eight of the fourteen things on my list, (because I did, indeed, write an actual list for the day) and have decided that’s about enough work for now. So, as I logged into my blog account, I thought to myself, “Self! What better way to relax than to write some good old-fashioned smut?!”  What an excellent idea! I know I’ve said it before, but let me just give Mr. Grey and his Fifty Shades a run for his ill-earned money:

 

I remembered my training- how it felt when the cool links of the silver choke chain tightened around my neck, and how Professor’s massive hand spread across my exposed rear felt red-hot as he chastised me after I’d been too eager when I’d had him in my mouth. My refusal to stop fellatio had caused him to spend himself more quickly than he’d wanted, and I drank him in hungrily before he pushed me away. I saw the lust and indignation mingled in his eyes just before the leash connected to my collar was yanked forcefully forward, making my behind the perfect distance away for a good beating. The spanking wasn’t the reason I’d disobeyed him, though it was delicious in its agony, but what came after that I’d been insubordinate for. Professor always felt contrite after his punishments, and the severe hands that administered such harsh disciplines were as equally tender afterward.

That had been Professor’s flaw.

The chain around my neck was the same, a gift from Professor. He’d lowered it over my head that final day, and as the links fell cold around my collarbone, Professor had twisted the end loop around his meaty fingers slowly until it was cutting off my air. I’d hoped for one last time with him, a farewell, and my body responded as it had so many times before. Professor looked into my eyes, and I saw the almost imperceptible smile touch the corner of his well-formed lips. He knew his effect on me. He had taught me well.

He whispered in my ear, and his breath burned like fire on my skin, igniting an invisible trail of sensual gunpowder down the length of my body.

“Do not shame me.”

I would not. But the curiosity of what such brazenness would bring was always in the back of my mind. With my new master, I knew the chastening would be exquisite torture.

He stood before me now as I knelt, my leash lying loose in his hand. He saw me looking at it, waiting for his fist to close and the length of it to tighten, but instead, he dropped it.

No, this one would not feel contrition.

I think I made a small whimper when I realized it, which made him smile wickedly. Professor had said he was a venerable master, and I had not doubted it. I knew the satisfaction would be superb, but I could tell already that the waiting would be excruciating.

“Come here.” His voice was liquid-smooth, a deep sound that washed over me. I crawled forward, feeling a void at the end of my leash where a hand should have been. I kept my eyes downcast.

“Look at me.” His hand, the one that had dropped the end of my leash, cupped my chin and pulled it up until I saw his eyes gazing into my own. They were blue. The blue of an icy winter sky.

“You will look at me while you please me.”

This was new. A master had never before required such a thing. I did as he said.