Tag Archives: erotica

Two Super Frosty Mornings In A Row!

Yes, by midday yesterday, I actually broke down and turned on the furnace. It was really unbelievably frosty in this house yesterday!

By tomorrow, the temperatures will be getting back to the normal September weather, but last night (and tonight again) it actually got down into the 30s Fahrenheit… my poor cats, right? So I had to turn on the heat.

The main reason I hate having that furnace on, and always put it off until the final moment, is that it messes with my sinuses like you wouldn’t believe. (By January, I usually start getting nose-bleeds that last until I can finally turn that furnace off.) ( I really really just love fresh air.)  (Even this morning, I woke up at 5am, wondering why I couldn’t breathe and then remembered that the furnace was on…)

And now I am facing the awesome task of once again cutting back the hydrangea bush for the season. The blossoms have all turned to that greenish-pink color now, and are all bent over. I am going to try to get to it during the week. It is such a massive plant now that I can’t even imagine where I will start! I guess that I’ll just “start.”

(How it looked when it was finally in full bloom in August; it got to be 8 ft tall this year)

That first summer when I bought the house, it didn’t bloom anywhere near this astoundingly.  I don’t think anyone had really taken care of it in years.  But I began cutting it back that first fall, and these past two summers it has just exploded with growth and blossoms. I really just love this plant.

So, I got great work done on the novella yesterday (1954 Powder Blue Pickup). I sat and stared at it for several hours yesterday morning, before it came to me to move that part where  his girl does that unexpected thing to after the gangbang section. Because, honestly, I could not figure out for the life of me how to move anything forward. So it finally occurred to me to just rearrange stuff.

And then 9 hours later… I was done writing for the day. So I was happy.

All right, well, I don’t want to become a stalker or anything, but that blond teenage boy down the street is just too awesome. Now that I know what house he lives in, I can’t help but be looking right at it every time I get up from my desk and look out that window. And yesterday, in that unbelievably gorgeous (although cool) weather, he was out there washing and waxing that electric blue Honda Civic that his mom drive’s from the Honda dealership.  (See how, without even trying, I’m starting to learn all this weird stuff about their lives?? And I don’t even have a clue who they are! I wonder how much I would learn if I actually was stalking him…)

Well, he did an amazing job with that car. And it made me wish so much that I had a kid who would wash & wax my Honda civic!! Because mine is Molten-Lava, which is a color and intensely sparkly finish that makes “a bold sparkly statement” and draws attention and I never wash it. I have had it a year now and it has only been washed twice in that year.

Mostly this is because there has been a pandemic going on for 6 months of that year, but also because that first summer I was here in the house, the garden spigot was making me insane and always turning itself on by accident, without me knowing it had done that until after it had run up a fortune on my water bill. So I had the spigot removed, and had a turn-off valve installed just inside the basement where the spigot connects to the main water line, but then never had a new spigot put back in so, for now, I have no garden hose, which makes it a colossal pain to try to wash your own car at home.

I just love being a single homeowner.  I absolutely never get around to half the stuff that needs doing around here. Mostly because it would involve me actually getting up from my desk.

And speaking of getting up from my desk…

I guess I will get started here today, do yoga and then get back to work on the novella.

It is just so beautiful outside right now, and it’s supposed to get up to 70 today, so here’s hoping I will breathe just fine for most of the day!! I hope you are enjoying your Sunday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning — from an album I was listening to nonstop for most of my 9-hour drive out to Rhinebeck, NY, this time last year to see Nick Cave in Conversation (oh, and also to have that incredibly great meeting with my director in NYC regarding my play Tell My Bones that is indeed moving forward in a way that makes me so unbelievably happy.) (What a difference a year makes, right? Good and not so good, but mostly good.)

Anyway, a very, very favorite song of mine, as well as a total classic from Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, the “live” version of “Southern Accents”. (In the incredibly hard-to-put-down book, Conversations with Tom Petty (2005),  he talked about getting up in the middle of the night, going out to the piano in the other room and suddenly writing this song from start to finish, just like that. It all came out at once — music & lyrics. And then he went right back to bed. And it was the song that finally helped him process his mom’s death. They were from Northern Florida, which, especially back then, was like coming from Southern Georgia — very southern. Well,  I knew none of that stuff until I read that book; until then, I’d just sort of loved the song. Now, I really, really love the song. And of course, it practically became his anthem. Or one of them.)

Anyway!! Enjoy. Have a great day and thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!

“Southern Accents”

There’s a southern accent, where I come from
The young ‘uns call it country, the Yankees call it dumb
I got my own way of talking, but everything gets done
With a southern accent, where I come from

Now that drunk tank in Atlanta is just a motel room to me
Think I might go work Orlando, if them orange groves don’t freeze
Got my own way of working, but everything is run
With a southern accent, where I come from

For just a minute there I was dreaming
For just a minute it was all so real
For just a minute she was standing there, with me

There’s a dream I keep having, where my mama comes to me
And kneels down over by the window, and says a prayer for me
Got my own way of praying, but every one’s begun
With a southern accent, where I come from

Got my own way of living, but everything gets done
With a southern accent, where I come from

© 1985 Tom Petty

L’Shana Tovah!

For any of my readers who perhaps celebrate Rosh Hashanah! I hope you’re having a “shouting and blasting” sort of weekend, wherever you are in the world.

The Trumpets are Blowing! | CBN.com

Oddly enough, I could not find any vintage illustrations of cats blowing the shofar (or even the chauffeur for that matter!!), so I had to settle for something tasteful as well as G-rated…

(Yes, I’m in a much friskier mood today than I was yesterday…)

(It might have something to do with it being 40 degrees Fahrenheit out here in the Hinterlands this morning and my steadfastly refusing to turn on that furnace until October…)

(And me scampering around in my little birthday suit upstairs in the freezing cold house, with all the frisky cats scampering around, too, except that their birthday suits came with handy fur coats!!)

(And, yes, I was having a “blast” scampering around naked in the freezing cold and singing “Good Morning, Good Morning!” from the musical Singin’ in the Rain, at the top of my voice and making my cats go berserk –)

(– and I realized that it is now official: I am no longer twelve years old, but more like seven!!)

(Especially when you factor in that I’m still watching those reruns of The Monkees every night…)

(However, rest assured that by the time I was downstairs where all those many enormous windows are, I was wearing my rather matronly-looking lavender-colored chenille bathrobe…)

(And by the way, if you don’t know that video clip up above there from Singin’ in the Rain, you gotta watch it!! It’s a bona fide classic!!)

All righty.

I have so much writing to tackle today, gang.  I didn’t make any true headway in 1954 Powder Blue Pickup yesterday because I’m still trying to figure out two key scenes in my mind.  Trying to make sure they make emotional sense for all the various characters involved.

And it includes that gangbang scene I mentioned the other morning, but now his girl does something so unexpected (by me, even — the writer!) that it now skews how he’s going to handle that gangbang…

AAAArrrggggh!!!

I know! Leave it to girls to do something unexpected and screw up everything!!!

Okay.

So that’s where I’m at this morning.

It’s a gorgeous day here, now that the sun is up, too, although it’s still a bit frosty. For some reason, I’ve got more laundry to do here today, so I’m gonna get started on that and then get down to writing.

I hope you are planning to have a great Saturday, wherever you are in the world. Thanks for visiting, gang. Apparently, yesterday was something like the 31st anniversary of the release of Bob Dylan’s album, Oh Mercy.  And first thing this morning, I saw the results of a poll taken by one of the Bob Dyan-fan accounts I follow on Instagram, and apparently most people voted that “Most of the Time” was their favorite song on that album. And while I agree that it’s a really good song, my favorite from Oh Mercy is “Man in the Long Black Coat.” And I immediately played it. And so I leave you with it here today!! Enjoy, gang!! Okay. I love you guys. See ya.

“Man In The Long Black Coat”

Crickets are chirpin’ the water is high
There’s a soft cotton dress on the line hangin’ dry
Window wide open African trees
Bent over backwards from a hurricane breeze
Not a word of goodbye not even a note
She’s gone with the man in the long black coat.

Somebody seen him hangin’ around
At the old dance hall on the outskirts of town
He looked into her eyes when she stopped him to ask
If he wanted to dance he had a face like a mask
Somebody said from the bible he’d quote
There was dust on the man in the long black coat.

Preacher was talking there’s a sermon he gave
He said every man’s conscience is vile and depraved
You cannot depend on it to be your guide
When it’s you who must keep it satisfied
It ain’t easy to swallow it sticks in the throat
She gave her heart to the man in the long black coat.

There are no mistakes in life some people say
It is true sometimes you can see it that way
But people don’t live or die people just float
She went with the man in the long black coat.

There’s smoke on the water it’s been there since June
Tree trunks uprooted beneath the high crescent moon
Feel the pulse and vibration and the rumbling force
Somebody is out there beating on a dead horse
She never said nothing there was nothing she wrote
She’s gone with the man in the long black coat.

© 1989 Bob Dylan

Yes, I’m Happy

Even though, for some indecipherable reason, I woke up feeling really sad this morning — even to the point of suddenly crying at the kitchen table during breakfast. I don’t think the tears had anything to do with listening to old hillbilly music, but I guess you never really know for sure. (I turned off the music, just in case.)

I slept a lot — straight through from something strange, like, 9pm last night to 5am this morning (I usually only need 5 or 6 hours of sleep). And, at some point, I even had a dream that I had already gotten up and gotten breakfast and gone back to bed so there was no reason to get up. (Weird.)

Anyway. Apparently, I was not in a big hurry for today to get here.

However, that said. Things really are okay here. So I don’t know why I was so sad. I’ve basically signed the contract for “Half-Moon Bride” with the new publisher! Yay!

And I made really unexpected progress with the new erotic novella, 1954 Powder Blue Pickup, yesterday — and by “strange” I mean that it went off into this whole unexpected storyline. To the point where, as I was writing it, I was also thinking: Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me, seriously?

But I’m still really happy with it, however, the work I need to tackle on it today will require really intense focusing (a good old 1950s-style gangbang, which was not the unexpected part).  But it will be intense, nonetheless. (So, you know, you probably shouldn’t drop by unannounced today, wanting to just hang out with me…) (As if you ever do!) (I have had TWO visitors since March… two, in six months.) (Yes, I’m aware that there’s been a pandemic that whole time, but, honestly, how long are you going to keep using that as your fall-back line?? None of us here in Crazeysburg have the virus, okay??)

Anyway!!

Early this morning on Instagram, there was a post sent out by Cave Things.  It was a very short video of Nick Cave working at his insanely cluttered desk — but you could only see his hands. And I thought it was amusing that he clearly had on a very nice suit, and he had all his gold rings on, but was working at this ridiculously cluttered desk.

Whereas, I have actually a very tidy desk while I’m working (because everything gets dumped on the floor first thing in the morning, then placed back on the desk in heaps when I’m done working at night.)

Still, I need a very tidy desk, or I can’t think straight. Yet I wear the sloppiest clothes you can imagine. Because I simply cannot feel encumbered by anything while I’m writing — and no jewelry, either. I can’t stand to have rings or even a bracelet on when I’m typing. I am always wearing some sort of really baggy tee shirt, and either baggy cargo shorts in summer, or a pair of baggy men’s lounge pants the rest of the year, and nothing on underneath any of that because I absolutely cannot stand to feel constricted in any way, and I am always barefoot at my desk because I can’t even stand to feel like my feet are constrained while I’m writing. (My flip-flops stay neatly at the side of my desk because I put them back on the absolute minute I stand up from my chair…)

I know! It’s almost like I’m neurotic, or something — right??

And add to that vision of loveliness the unlit, unfiltered cigarette that is always dangling from my mouth now whenever I’m at my desk… and the very real fact that I almost never remember to even comb my hair. Although I do brush my teeth twice a day!! But I usually also forget to wash my hair because I’m always in such a big hurry to get out of the shower and be neurotic about something…

Anyway. I did think that little video of Nick Cave’s hands was really cool!

Okay.

A mini-update regarding the print edition of The Guitar Hero Goes Home. Valerie is still trying to get the cover art to behave. And until that gets fixed, I have not fixed the formatting issue I’m having with the printed text, because I want to upload it all at once. You can still read it just fine, I’m just not 100% happy with the layout (it makes me insane, actually). But the eBook version is completely fine.  So there are no problems with that. (There was one typo that I fixed last week.)

Anyway. It’s frustrating. But ever-onward we go.

And then yesterday, I got an email from the director of my play (Tell My Bones), wherein  he was giving me the link to share in the dropbox that all the various technical director/ producer type people were already sharing in as they do all the necessary work to get the staged reading of my play ready to go.

Well. I was stunned. Literally. Because I had absolutely no clue that all this WORK was already well underway, involving all these professional theater people. I honestly was totally overwhelmed. WTF, right? How long has this been going on? While I’m here at my desk, thoroughly unconstrained by everything imaginable and spending hours and hours and hours and days and days and days writing incredibly intense erotica…

It was a very weird feeling.

Okay, it looks like a pretty day here today, but it’s heading down into the low 40s Fahrenheit tonight and for the next few nights, so the houseplants are coming indoors for the season and I have to once again create that literary barrier between the palm tree and the cats.

Literary barrier awaiting the houseplants!

Meaning, that I have to stack books as precariously as possible all around the palm tree so that the cats get scared away from trying to eat the palm leaves and thus absolutely ruining the poor tree.

It just feels like it’s too early to be doing all this, but I guess it is what it is this year. And on we go.

Okay. I’m going to get started here today. Have a nice Friday wherever you are in the world!! And enjoy whatever you’re wearing and enjoy whatever you’re doing!! I will endeavor to get my mood on a more even keel and try to have a good day here, as well. Meanwhile, I leave you with this morning’s breakfast-listening sad hillbilly music! Stonewall Jackson’s huge Country hit from 1962, “Leona.” (I  just fucking LOVE the piano on this song — if it doesn’t make you want to drink and smoke, I don’t know what will.) So, then. All righty, thanks for visiting, gang!! I love you guys. See ya.

Leona

Leona, Leona,
You tell him you’re through
You tell him, Leona, about me and you
You tell him we’re married with a baby of two
You tell him, Leona,
You tell him you’re through.

You laughed as I pleaded, and walked out the door
To meet him, to kiss him, to shame me once more
I knew where to find you
Just follow the sign:
Dancing and dining, cocktails and wine

The sidewalk was crowded in front of the bar
I heard the sirens of the black police car
Two bodies lay crumpled, a woman, a man
His wife stood there by you,
A gun in her hand

Leona, Leona,
It’s over and through
The baby is crying and calling for you
For me there’s no difference
I knew for so long
That some day you’d leave me
And now you are gone

© 1962 Cindy Walker

As Much As I’d Love To Tarry Here…

And talk about the fall weather arriving, and all the strange dreams I had last night, and how happy I am with how the erotic novella (!!) 1954 Powder Blue Pickup is going, etc…

The reality is that, for some reason, I was wide awake between 2am to 3am today, and I was determined not to get out of bed and start my day at that ridiculous hour because the ridiculous hour that I normally start my day at is ridiculous enough, thank you, so I forced myself to go back to sleep, and then….

Four hours later!! Fuck! You know, I never wake-up when the sun is already up.  It was almost 7am when I got out of bed today and, for me, that feels like my day is half-over.

So, I am trying to cut corners here and get emails dashed off, get bills paid, forego yoga, blitz through the blog post and get down to work on the writing for today!

I will go on a quick tangent here and mention that it was a sort of shock to me to realize that all those photos posted here from my trip to Rhinebeck are now almost one year old. I cannot fucking believe that. I don’t want to believe that — not only that the year has flown, but that it wound up being such an insane year, plus it means it’s been a year since I saw Nick Cave — twice in one weekend.

It just doesn’t seem possible.

I’ve written a lot in the past year. A lot. So I can’t say it wasn’t a fruitful year. Still. I just find this unbelievably rapid disappearance of time really unnerving.

And that said, before it becomes next September already, I’m gonna close this and get to work here.

I hope you enjoy your wonderful Wednesday, wherever you are in the world.  I leave you with Hank Locklin, singing his Country & Western hit from 1958, “Send Me the Pillow that You Dream On.” If you don’t know his work, he was just an amazing Country & Western songwriter (and singer — but his songs were just fantastic. Singers in other styles of music covered his hits, too)  Okay. Enjoy and thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya.

“Send Me The Pillow You Dream On”

Send me the pillow that you dream on
Don’t you know that I still care for you
Send me the pillow that you dream on
So darling I can dream on it too

Each night while I’m sleeping oh so lonely
I’ll share your love in dreams that once were true
Send me the pillow that you dream on
So darling I can dream on it too

Send me the pillow that you dream on
Maybe time will let our dreams come true
Send me the pillow that you dream on
So darling I can dream on it too

I’ve waited so long for you to write me
But just a memory’s all that’s left of you
So send me the pillow that you dream on
So darling I can dream on it too

© 1958 Hank Locklin

Happy Campers in Crazeysburg!!

Yes!! So the very good news is that I did sell “Half-Moon Bride” to the new publishers! I am so excited, gang. As soon as the contract is signed/sealed/delivered, I will give you the details. But I could not be happier.

And then, after really struggling for several hours yesterday over it, it became clear that the new erotic short story, “1954 Powder Blue Pickup,” is indeed going to be a novella.

What I struggled over was the intensity level — having to do with (very) “questionable consent” — and once I realized that it had to happen, that the story was going in that direction almost in spite of me, then it became clear that it would be a novella. (The “short” story is already at 17,000 words. Novellas, technically, run from 17,000 to about 40,000 words.)

Even though most of my stories contain questionable consent scenarios in one way or another because I am almost always writing from a POV of D/s, and even though I have a short story up there in the vault that relies heavily on extremely questionable consent, it’s presented as something that is unfolding in a woman’s mind (which is a paper-thin device, but still…).

And in “1954 Powder Blue Pickup,” it’s not happening in anyone’s mind. Not that it is that terribly intense, I just was not completely sure I was committed to going there. It was the main reason I got bogged down in Pasolini’s Salò and Sade’s book 120 Days of Sodom on Sunday. And even, to a lesser extent, Gaspar Noé’s film Irreversible (meaning just the rape scene and not all the other violence).  For me, it is mostly about the minds that created these expressions and what they needed from the creation of them and how people then become part of what was created by joining their minds to it in one way or another.

I’ve always struggled with knowing or not knowing what the responsibilities are when you create something either non-consensual or of questionable consent, and put it into the world.

Anyway, the struggle is over regarding “1954 Powder Blue Pickup,” because I finally wrote the section that was asking to be written, and it took me about 10 hours yesterday to write 3 pages.  Literally. But it’s done. And then I collapsed in bed around 11pm and was absolutely out like a light until morning.

And so, the weather has really gotten cool — especially at night. And I am now contemplating bringing the house plants back inside now. Fall seems to be coming really quickly this year. So we’ll see. September usually does that thing where it tricks you into thinking it’s Fall, and then it soars back up to the 90s for 10 straight days in a row. Yet, sometimes, it’s just Fall and it stays Fall.

So here is another really, really interesting thing!

Yesterday, from my upstairs window, I saw the cute blond guy getting into the passenger’s side of a car in his driveway, and a blonde woman was getting into the driver’s side and it sort of looked, from 5 houses away, that maybe she was his mom. She had long straight blonde hair — like his– and she seemed to be a little too old to be a sister.

So I watched as the car came right past my open window and stopped at the stop sign and I noticed several things. Yes, that woman was old enough to be his mom. And the car was a brand-new Honda Civic, like mine, except that mine is molten lava-colored, and this one was electric blue.  AND it had dealer plates. And it wasn’t from the Honda dealership here in Muskingum County but from the dealership where I lease my own Honda, in the next county over.

And then I remembered how, every time I go into the show room side of the dealership, there are always tons of sales men but only one sales woman and she has long straight blonde hair!

OMG, right?? Jesus. I have probably sort of “known” that boy’s mom for about 4 years already. So fucking weird. And not just that she is likely his mom, but also that anyone I would ever see anywhere else at all in the world could possibly live on my street in the tiniest village known to man!! How fucking odd.

So that was cool!!

All righty!! I’m finishing up the laundry here. Then I’m gonna get back to “1954 Powder Blue Pickup.” Thanks for visiting, gang. I hope you have a terrific Tuesday, wherever you are in the world. I leave you with my breakfast-listening music from this morning!! Tennessee Ernie Ford’s huge hit from 1955, “Sixteen Tons” — written by Merle Travis in 1947, who was just really an amazing songwriter.  (16 tons refers to coal miners and the  amount of coal they had to mine, and then, back in the old days, the coal-mining towns had stores run by the coal companies that extended the miners tons & tons of credit, so the miners were usually very in debt to the Company store and saw no way out of their bleak lives.)  So, well, I guess enjoy!All righty.  I love you guys. See ya!

“Sixteen Tons”

Some people say a man is made out of mud
A poor man’s made out of muscle and blood
Muscle and blood and skin and bones
A mind that’s weak and a back that’s strong

You load sixteen tons, whattaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Peter don’cha call me, ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store

I was born one morning when the sun didn’t shine
I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine
I loaded sixteen tons of number-nine coal
And the straw boss said, “Well bless my soul!”

You load sixteen tons, whattaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Peter don’cha call me, ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store

I was born one morning, it was drizzlin’ rain
Fightin’ and trouble are my middle name
I was raised in the canebreak by an old mama lion
Can’t no high-toned woman make me walk the line

You load sixteen tons, whattaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Peter don’cha call me, ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store

If you see me comin’ better step aside
A lotta men didn’t, a lotta men died
One fist of iron, the other of steel
If the right one don’t getcha then the left one will

You load sixteen tons, whattaya get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
St. Peter don’cha call me, ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store

© 1947 Merle Travis

That’s Right!! Heading to the Store Today!!

Oui, c’est moi! The “demon on wheels” — Speed Racer. At least I am on Monday mornings, when I head into to town to get the groceries. (Play this 1 minute intro. It’s so fun!!)

Sadly, though, when I needed to renew my car lease, Honda was not offering a “powerful Mach 5” so I had to settle for a boring Honda Civic, instead.

(Although loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that what I really wanted was a Dodge Hellcat, and that the moment I signed the lease for the Civic and was leaving the Honda show room with it,  across the street, in the Used Car lot, was a used Hellcat….)

Ah well. At least with my brand new Honda there’s, like, zero maintenance ever. Not so with a used Hellcat.

And honestly, me in a Hellcat would just be such bad news out here in Muskingum County, where there is almost always no Sheriff. And even though my Honda doesn’t go from zero to 60 mph in (literally) 3 seconds, as the Hellcat does, it at least goes from zero to 60 in less than 10 seconds… (every single time a red light turns to green.)

Okay!!! So yes, I am going to get groceries the minute I post this to the blog. And it is another stunning day here today, although the days are just generally cooler now. But it is still just beautiful.

Yesterday was a really big adventure for me.

Loyal readers of this lofty blog no doubt recall that back when last fall began to change into winter (or something like that), the ceiling in my downstairs bathroom leaked really ferociously during a lengthy torrential downpour of rain, thunder, wind, etc., sending plaster to the floor.  And while yesterday, we did not have a lengthy torrential downpour of rain, thunder, wind, etc. , big chunks of that same part of the bathroom ceiling actually came down and was incredibly gross and yucky and awful — it had something to do with me putting off getting the roof re-sealed this past spring because I was so enamored with the idea of getting a new roof on my barn after that heavy wind came and blew the old barn roof right off and set it not too gently down in my backyard.

Oh my god, right?  Where are the handymen when you need them to be living with you free of charge at all times and handling all your many, many, many DIY housing issues?? I sure don’t know. All I know is that I have an exceedingly unattractive ceiling in my downstairs bathroom now, and I can’t really do a darn thing about it until I get the roof re-sealed, otherwise it’ll just happen all over again. And whoever it is who finally does come to re-seal that roof is gonna see that I have really seriously let my gutter go on that side of the house, too (because it’s on that side of the house and no one sees it — many, many teeny tiny maple trees are growing in that gutter), and he is gonna wonder what my fucking problem is. Why bother to own a home if you’re just going to  be insane? (But writing porn is extremely time-consuming… I simply can’t focus on everything around here.)

Anyway. It is indeed upsetting.  I hate to put in an insurance claim on that roof because then they just go and up your annual premium as punishment for actually using your insurance. (And while there are indeed certain types of punishment that I enjoy and perhaps even encourage, rising insurance premiums are not among them.) And oddly enough, just yesterday morning, when I was outside taking care of all the many flowers that are still in bloom, I was looking at that barn and feeling so happy about that new roof on that barn…

Aaaaarrrrrgh

Oh well.  You know what I’ve decided to do about it for now, right? That’s right: Ignore it.

Okay. So I am still very happy with how the work is going on the new erotic story, “1954 Powder Blue Pickup.” Although, yesterday afternoon, after I had to take a HUGE chunk of time out to clean up that darn bathroom, I found that I was at a place in the story where I was unsure of just how intense I wanted it to get.  I am still thinking that it could be a novella, and if that’s the case, then it really does have to get kind of intense or the plot won’t sustain the length of it.

And I won’t explain exactly why, because I don’t want you to know how my brain actually works, but then I was off on this weird and rather unending tangent, involving Pasolini’s film, Salò: or the 120 Days of Sodom — which, if you haven’t already seen it, I would not suggest running out to see it (or stream it), because if you in fact need to see a film like that then you’ve probably already seen it and know it well.

I’ve seen it and I know it well.

It is, of course, disturbing. But I believe I understand what Pasolini was trying to process (about Nazis and Fascists) by creating that film. And then I was thinking about the Marquis de Sade’s original book, 120 Days of Sodom, which is quite different but which he wrote while incarcerated in the Bastille prison in Paris for 37 days… And I also believe I understand what Sade was always trying to process when he wrote all the books he wrote. (I think I also know what the Bible was trying to process when it wrote about Sodom & Gomorrah… but that, indeed, is a whole other story, and one that interests me way less than Salò or Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom. )

Anyway, it is sufficient to say, that after the bathroom ceiling came down, and after I spent time cleaning it up and spluttering the f-word nonstop, and after I went down the intensely intense rabbit hole of Pasolini and Sade, I was kind of spent and could not really get back to work on the new short story.

However, that said! I feel completely confident that the work I’m gonna get done on it today will be very, very, very good! So I’m excited.

But I’m still not sure if I will post any more excerpts from it to the blog. I probably worry too much. But I guess we’ll just see. (Mostly I worry about how much it skirts the “questionable consent” thing.) But we’ll see.

Okay! I guess I’m gonna scoot into town now and get those groceries. I hope you’re having a great Monday, wherever you are in the world. I’m leaving you with something I saw on Instagram this morning — a Neil Young song, but done by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds! “Helpless.” It’s on their B Sides & Rarities CD from 2005, but I think they recorded it in 1990? Anyway. Enjoy. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya!

Golly, It’s Humid Here in Crazeysburg!!

It is just one of those Sundays, gang, where it is so humid and likely to rain off and on all day, that I have decided to forego the treadmill this morning and just take the day off from working out.

Yay!! Makes me happy enough to want to swing a cat…

The weather is actually pretty interesting right now. The tiniest hint of a breeze, otherwise everything is really still and really quiet (except for the crickets) and it’s completely cloudy and not a person or a car is in sight.

Just so totally still. (Which means that  any moment, the loudest train whistle on Earth will probably come screaming by…)

I have been so busy working on the new erotic short story (“1954 Powder Blue Pickup”), that I haven’t been spending much time online at all and so I missed the fact that yesterday was the anniversary of Johnny Cash’s death.  (“Anniversary” sounds like such a happy word, though, doesn’t it? “Commemorate” is probably a better word to use there.)

Well, I would rather just remember what it was like when he was alive, and how much I loved him when I was a little girl.

It’s one of the (many) things I really regret about not having been raised in my birth family — they all loved Country & Western music so much. And were a part of it, as professional musicians, as well. The type of music it was before it became the “Country” music we have now in America, which is much more middle-of-the-road rock music than true Country music.

Although now they also give us the option to like “Americana” music, which to me, is more like folk music than anything else. Authentic Country & Western is simply gone and there was just nothing like it. I loved that type of music so much, and I was the only person in my entire adoptive family who did.

Once, after my birth father died, and I went to visit his brother, one of his sisters, and his nieces, nephews and cousins (in rural Indiana),  at one point, after lunch, we were all out on my cousin’s front porch, and one of them took out an acoustic guitar, and we all sang Hank Williams’ “You’re Cheatin’ Heart”.  I still lived in New York City back then (and had been a singer there for a long time) and none of them could believe that I knew all the words to that song. It was so not New York.

But I knew all that stuff — even the more obscure stuff.  The true honky-tonk singers of the 30s & 40s — I had all those records, knew the words by heart.

And even though it doesn’t seem like it, because I live alone now in the middle of nowhere, I have always been a truly family-oriented person. I always just wanted to be surrounded by family (but it turned out that I would have preferred not being surrounded by a really abusive family…). And I loved being around children and always assumed I would have a big family of my own — well, to finally be able to sing the kind of music I really loved, surrounded by a family who was really loving to me, that I was actually related to by blood and not by the randomness of the Adoption courts — that day meant so much to me.

Die 30+ besten Bilder zu Rock Dreams by Guy Peelaert | rock album cover,  johnny cash, frank sinatra
Hank Williams’ legendary death by Guy Peelleart

It was fitting, of course, that it was a Hank Williams song we were singing — based on his life and death and legend. Both sides of my birth family definitely had all of that in their blood.  And I know that had I been raised by them, I would have wound up a Country singer instead of a folksinger, and I would have had  just a rip-roaring alcohol “issue,” and probably a bunch of illegitimate kids. (As it was, even isolated within a non-drinking adoptive family, I had just an amazing ability consume bourbon. I began to have a true fondness for bourbon and cigarettes when I was eleven years old. And by the time I was twelve, I developed a real fondness for barbiturates, too.)

Considering that I started writing songs on my acoustic guitar by the time I was eleven, as well, I was just a true Country & Western legend waiting to happen…

Anyway. That’s not how it worked out.

I got this truly weird other life instead. That seems to have no real “course” or purpose.  Although, considering that my birth parents were basically still children when they conceived me — (my mom was 12 and my dad was 14) —  and they barely knew each other and were just horny and wanted to have intercourse for about five minutes…

I guess I lived up to that heritage, in a way. I mean, considering all of my writing. And even though I do all kinds of writing, its my erotica that readers usually prefer.  Hands down.

Anyway, I find it amusing. And I’m okay with it, actually.

Okay, well, I guess on that lofty note, I’m gonna get back to writing my new dirty story here!! I hope you guys are having a great Sunday, wherever you are in the world and whatever the weather! Thanks for visiting. I’ll leave you with a later song of Johnny Cash’s that I always just loved, especially because I was living in NYC when this version of the song, “Ballad of Barbara,” came out. (On his album Johnny Cash is Coming to Town, 1987). Enjoy, gang!! Okay. I love you guys. See ya.

“Ballad Of Barbara”

In a southern town where I was born
That’s where I got my education
I worked in the fields and I walked in the woods
And I wondered at creation.

I recall the sun in a sky of blue
And the smell of green things growin’
And the seasons chang’d and I lived each day
Just the way the wind was blowin’.

Then I heard of a cultured city life
Breath takin’ lofty steeples
And the day I called myself a man
I left my land and my people.

And I rambled north and I rambled east
And I tested and I tasted
And a girl or two, took me round and round
But they always left me wasted.

In a world that’s all concrete and steel
With nothin’ green ever growin’
Where the buildings hide the risin’ sun
And they blocked the free winds from blowin.

Where you sleep all day and you wake all night
To a world of drink and laughter
I met that girl that I was sure would be
The one that I was after.

In a soft blue gown and formal tux
Beneath that lofty steeple
He said, “Do you Barbara, take this man,
Will you be one of his people?”

And she said, “I will.” and she said, “I do.”
And the world looked mighty pretty
And we lived in a fancy downtown flat
‘Cause she loved the noisy city.

But the days grew cold beneath a yellow sky
And I longed for green things growin’
And the thoughts of home and the people there
But she’d not agreed to goin’.

Then her hazel eyes turned away from me
With a look that wasn’t pretty
And she turned into concrete and steel
And she said, “I’ll take the city.”

Now the cars go by on the interstate
And my pack is on my shoulder
But I’m goin’ home, where I belong
Much wiser now and older.

© 1977 Johnny Cash

A Fine September Saturday Underway in Crazeysburg!

What a difference a day makes, as they say.

Everything in my life looks sort of perfect right now, so I’m just going to focus on writing the new story today, and accept this gorgeous weather we have right this minute, even though by evening, we’re supposed to get thunderstorms again.

And I’ve already brought all the plants further onto the porch so that no unexpected winds come along this time and start blowing them all over the place. (My palm tree is actually doing just fine and doesn’t seem to be at all traumatized from having been blown down under the hydrangea bush and having laid like that for hours before I discovered it.)

I had to go into to town briefly yesterday, but other than that, I got a lot of work done on the new short story, “1954 Powder Blue Pickup”. I’m not sure if I will keep posting excerpts to the blog or not — last night’s excerpt might be the last one that will be tame enough for the blog. I guess we’ll see. But I’m really having so much fun with it.

And then when I was done writing for the day, I did what I have been doing a lot of lately — watching episodes of the old TV show The Monkees on YouTube!! The Monkees was probably my favorite TV show from the years when I was 6 to 8 years old. Watching the reruns just takes me right back there to Cleveland in the 1960s — even though now I’m not only watching it “in living color”, but also on a tiny iPhone screen. Who would have ever guessed, right?

BTW, The Monkees were not on NBC. They were on ABC… But that little NBC promo is completely burned into my brain from childhood.

And also, watching the old reruns now makes me see that I had absolutely no clue what most of the (ridiculous) humor was about when I was little, I just loved watching the show. Plus I really, really loved their songs.

This episode below  — “The Paris Show” — is probably their most iconic, although not my favorite, by any stretch. It was shot on location in Paris in 1968. I preferred it when they just stayed in their weird apartment in LA.

This TV series was aired back in that era where a show would turn out to be a huge hit for kids on a weekday evening, so then they’d also show it on Saturday mornings.  I watched it whenever I possibly could. I just loved that show.

And even though I don’t actually pay close attention to it when I watch it nowadays — I usually play solitaire on my iPad at the same time and try to figure out my life! But just having it on calms me down and makes me feel really happy. And it’s not so much “nostalgia” for me — I actually feel really happy that those days are over. Even though I loved that show, that era of my childhood in Cleveland was when my adoptive mother was really coming unglued. My life was almost constant anxiety back then.

So I guess I’m sort of celebrating now — watching the show, knowing that  I’m not in any sort of weird prison anymore. My childhood is over. Yay.

So. Yesterday, on Instagram, Cave Things posted a photo of Nick Cave’s (EVIL) desk!! I just love this!!

I am at long last, learning how to copy other people’s photos from Instagram.

Okay. So I’m gonna get started here! I hope you have a great Saturday underway, wherever you are in the world!! Even though there are quite a few songs that The Monkees recorded that I still really love, this could be my favorite– their version of Neil Diamond’s song, “I’m A Believer.” The Monkees actually had a hit with this song on the AM radio back then. I leave it with you today! Play it loud. It is a super happy song!! All righty. Thanks for visiting, gang. I love you guys. See ya!

“I’m A Believer”

I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else, but not for me
Love was out to get me
That’s the way it seemed
Disappointment haunted all my dreams

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind
I’m in love and I’m a believer
I couldn’t leave her if I tried

I thought love was more or less a giving thing
Seems the more I gave, the less I got
What’s the use in trying, all you get is pain
When I needed sunshine, I got rain

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind
I’m in love and I’m a believer
I couldn’t leave her if I tried

Love was out to get me
That’s the way it seemed
Disappointment haunted all my dreams

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind
I’m in love and I’m a believer
I couldn’t leave her if I tried
Saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind
I’m in love, and I’m a believer

© 1966 Neil Diamond

Excerpt #2 “1954 Powder Blue Pickup”

Okay, here’s another excerpt that I don’t think is too extreme.  But please be advised that it is sexually explicit, it deals with subject matter that some readers could find offensive and it won’t be suitable for everybody. Thanks, gang!

Please excuse any typos. It is still in progress. Okay! Have a great night.

Approx. 4 1/2 pages

************************************************

Excerpt from “1954 Powder Blue Pickup”
© 2020 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

He drove the truck back out to the edge of town, where it was dark and quiet, and he parked it in his usual spot. He lit a cigarette and he drank his Coke and he sat back and stared out the windshield, just letting his dick get hard.

She’d blushed. She’d really blushed. He knew without doubt what that meant. She’d been thinking about it. It might be better not to rush her – then she’d be really good to go, be open to all kinds of suggestions. So far, she’d liked every one of his dirty ideas.

“That is one dirty girl,” he said quietly.

The first date, he’d driven the truck out here to the edge of town after the movie and they’d kissed in the front seat of the truck and she was so polite. So shy – he was surprised when she let him fondle one of her tits while they kissed. But she had on that bra that was like armor – the kind that made her tits stand up in points. He couldn’t feel anything that felt anything like a breast through that thing.

He smoked his cigarette now and remembered. How shy she’d been, still was – it had made him get so hard.

“Do you mind,” he had said haltingly. “I don’t want to offend you, but do you think it would be okay to take that thing off?”

“What thing?” she asked, startled.

“That thing under your blouse. I can’t feel anything.”

She stared at him and blushed. “You mean my bra?” she said quietly.

“Would it be okay? You could put your blouse right back on – just take that bra off.”

She stared at him and nervously bit her lip. She’s a total virgin, he realized then.

“I won’t look,” he said. “If you don’t want me to.”

She stared at him, saying nothing, but not looking away. Not at all. “Should I help you?” he asked.

Again, she just stared at him, not looking away.  So he reached over and began to unbutton her blouse. Right away she’d started breathing funny, not trying to stop him. So he’d simply unbuttoned the blouse, very methodically, and then helped her out of it. She sat there then, in her tight skirt and that armor of a bra that had no straps at all. It simply held up her tits with more elastic than he’d ever seen – but it was very pretty, very grown-up-woman looking. And her hair was pulled back neatly in that bow. She looked so pretty like that, that he decided to kiss her again, while she was just wearing that sexy bra.

He held the back of her head and they opened their mouths, their tongues mashing together – real kissing. Her, just in that skirt and bra. And her heavy breathing was very telling. He didn’t even ask her – he just felt behind her and unhooked it and let it come right off.

God, her breasts were beautiful – big and full and weighing down on that slender rib cage. He went right back to kissing her – didn’t bother offering her the blouse back. He wanted to get a good feel of those tits while they kissed. And she’d let him do it – let him feel her tits and even squeeze them. Her kisses got very passionate, then.

“I don’t want to be rude,” he said. “But your tits are beautiful. They are. I bet everybody tells you that.”

“No one’s ever seen them before,” she replied quietly.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’m the only one?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, let me tell you – they’re beautiful.” Then he took both of her breasts between in his hands, gently squeezed them close together and then leaned down and kissed each of her nipples. She gasped. “Really beautiful,” he said. Then he kissed each nipple again. Then lightly licked each of them, just on the tips of the nipples. They had gotten erect. Oh god, she was saying so softly, with each kiss, each lick. Oh god.

Without asking her if it would be okay, he began sucking on one of the nipples, while very lightly rubbing his thumb over the other one at the same time. Her “oh gods” filled the front seat of the truck then, and he saw her pelvis begin to squirm on the seat.

It wasn’t long before she’d unzipped her skirt and wiggled out of it. And there had been those complicated panty-things with the garters that attached to her stockings. He’d seen those things before – they almost looked like girdles, but not quite. He hated those things – they were so complicated. But there she sat, in the front seat of his truck, a dim glow coming from the radio dial, darkness everywhere else. And her beautiful breasts hanging down, and that girdle-type thing, like still more armor, and those stockings attached to it, like they meant business.

He didn’t have to ask if she was a virgin; he knew. He said, plain and simple, “Don’t worry. Nothing we ever do together is going to ruin you. I promise. Any doctor on Earth would pass you with flying colors, if it ever came to that. So just don’t ever worry. Okay?”

The obvious relief she felt was what seemed to underlie her willingness to let him remove her stockings. And to lie down flat on the seat when he asked her to. And to let him get between her legs, even though he had no intention of removing the remaining vestige of her armor. He already knew from experience with other girls, that the crotch of that thing was cotton – soft cotton. And he was content to kiss her through the cotton fabric – just kiss her through the fabric, down there between her legs.

He discovered right away, of course, that her crotch was soaking – she had soaked right through the cotton.  He didn’t bring it to her attention, he simply made a note of it. And he also made a note of how widely she spread her legs apart for those kisses down there. And he noted to himself the little gasps she made when he ran his tongue lightly on her skin right at the edges of the elastic leg openings of the panties. And although he couldn’t tell for sure if he’d found her clit or not, he kissed all over the area where he knew it generally was.

And when he thought she was going to faint for lack of air, he told her that he didn’t want to get carried away and that they should probably think about getting her back to her apartment.

Which only meant that on the next date, they’d skipped the movie entirely – went straight out to the edge of town and parked. He’d already seen, before she’d gotten into the truck, that her legs were bare in those high heels. No stockings. Which also meant that the complicated girdle-thing was going to be gone now, too. And he was right.

The crazy armored-bra was still there, but he didn’t mind that so much because it was pretty and it held that unbelievable delight of her big tits spilling out when it came off of her, because they were packed in there so tight.

When her bra was off, and she’d slid out of her tight skirt, and was there in the front seat wearing just her high heels and a pair of very pretty lacy panties – the kind of panties he could easily get off of her if he wanted to; that’s when he pulled her onto his lap, letting her straddle him while they kissed. Keeping her panties in place. Making her wonder if he was gonna kiss her down there again. But most importantly, letting her feel his hard cock that was making a tent in his trousers. Letting her feel it right down there between her legs.

“Do you want to see it?” he finally said, knowing that it was making her nervous to be straddling it like that while they kissed. He was rubbing it up against her down there and he was so hard.

She looked at him but was too shy to make eye contact for too long.

When she didn’t answer, he said, “How about, I show you mine and then you show me yours? What do you say?”

It was clear from the look on her face – an excitement she tried to conceal – that she liked that idea a lot.

He helped her off of his lap, unbuckled his belt, undid his trousers, and then slid them down enough so that she could see the whole package. And again, he could tell just by looking at her face that she’d never seen a cock before, let alone an erect one.

“You wanna touch it?” he asked. “Or does that scare you?”

She didn’t reply right away.

He reached up and gently brushed a finger tip over one of her nipples. He could see that she was awful nervous now – that the presence of his cock was getting her in over her head. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he said, still rubbing the tip of her nipple. It had gotten erect. She was starting to breathe funny. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you want to lean over and give it a kiss, then I’ll do the same for you. This time, we’ll take down your panties – I’ll kiss you all over down there.”

Oh. She let out the softest moan. He didn’t let up on that nipple.

“What do you think? Are you brave enough? Just a kiss.”

“Okay,” she finally said. And when she leaned over to kiss his cock, her boobs hung down and he squeezed one of them. And then stroked the nipple. And when her soft lips pressed against his cock, she let out another little moan because her nipple had gotten so stiff and so tender.

Such pretty tits, he whispered to her. So pretty. I just love squeezing ‘em.  And he squeezed it some more. And she moaned some more. Kiss it again, he encouraged her. Just all over it. Just kiss it. It’s okay. You’re doing just fine.

Her kisses were so light, so timid, that it felt incredibly exciting. He got so hard. But she wouldn’t get near where his cock turned into his balls. She steered clear of that. And he didn’t want to push her. Instead, he lifted his cock straight up and said, “Just kiss the very tip of it, okay? Just the tip.”

“But it’s wet there,” she said, sitting up again.

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be wet where I’m gonna be kissing you, right?”

She glanced at him then, like she could not believe her ears.

“Right?” he said. Over this little point, he was not gonna let her off the hook. He was gonna make her answer the question. He stroked her nipple again and looked her in the eye. “It gets wet down there, right?”

She finally answered him. “Yes.”

“It’s probably wet right now, right?”

She wouldn’t answer.

He put his finger under her chin and then lifted it and made her look at him. “Right? It’s wet right now.”

“Yes.”

“Come on, then. Just a quick kiss,” he said, wiggling his cock a little and winking at her. “That wet stuff just means it likes you. And then we’ll take a look at what you’ve got.”

It had clearly appealed to her – that trade-off. She’d leaned over again and kissed the very tip of his cock, right where the pre-cum had oozed out – and she’d even licked it off her lips, where the pre-cum had gotten them wet.

And so he’d kept his word and they took a good long look at her, down where she’d gotten so wet, and he’d let her feel his lips on her clit, then feel his tongue there, too.

He stubbed out his cigarette now and drank his Coke. His dick always got so hard just thinking about her – he didn’t even have to touch it.

But when he did touch it… Oh. He sighed out loud. The pictures in his head got so dirty then. The things he thought about making her do.

She’ll do it, too, he said quietly to himself. She does everything I tell her to do.

He unzipped his trousers now and slid his cock out, just enough to gently tug on it – just enough to fill his head with the pictures.

*     *     *

Thursday night finally arrived and he waited for her out in front of her apartment building. When she came out of the front door, he saw that she was not wearing a tight skirt this time – she was wearing a gently pleated one. Loose and flowing; summery. And she wore a midriff top; it tied under her ample breasts which he could tell were not packed inside a bra – again. More and more, she was dressing like someone who was ready to get undressed as easily as possible.

He got out of the truck to go kiss her hello and to open her door for her.

When he kissed her, he lightly ran a hand down over her rear end. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to scoot clear of the unasked-for caress. Best yet, the material of her skirt was silky; he could feel her behind through it. It almost felt like she wasn’t wearing underpants… He let his hand linger on her behind a moment longer, kissed her again and then looked her in the eye. She smiled shyly at him and looked away.

That’s when he knew.

He pulled her up close to him to give her a big kiss, a real kiss – not just a quick peck on the lips. And he used it as an excuse to hold her with both his hands down there, holding her rear end through the loose silky fabric of her skirt. Her ass was as loose under that skirt as her tits were inside of the midriff top.

“Oh my goodness,” he said quietly, between kisses. “You’re not wearing panties tonight.” He groaned into the kiss now, and he took a firm hold of those ass cheeks in both his hands.

She pulled gently away from his kiss, and said, “Not right here.” And he realized that he was already hard.

He quickly opened the passenger door for her and watched her slide up into the front seat.

As he walked back around to the driver’s side door, he thought to himself that she might just be ready. She might be more ready for him than she even knew.

They hardly exchanged a word on the drive out to the edge of town. But the air inside the truck felt electrified. He was rock-hard inside his trousers and he didn’t even care if it showed.

When they parked in their usual spot and he turned off the motor, he said, “Do you mind if I do something a little forward?”

She studied his face warily. “I don’t know – what did you want to do?”

“You just sit there for a minute. I’m gonna come around to your side.”

He got out of the truck, went back around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Just sit there a second,” he told her, and then he opened the glove compartment and made doubly sure the Vaseline was in there.

He watched her watching him. He saw her notice the little tub of Vaseline; saw that her breathing was getting uneven. To him, she was an open book: She’d really liked what had happened to her the other night, had probably been reliving it in her head, over and over. He’d known other girls like her – girls who had wound up really liking it up the backdoor – but none of them had gotten him as excited as she did.

“I just want to remind you,” he said, “that anything that happens between us is just between us, and we won’t ever do anything that any doctor anywhere could find out about – okay?”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I trust you.”

“Good,” he said, leaning in and giving her a kiss on the mouth. “I really like you.”

“I like you, too.”

He gently squeezed one of her breasts through the midriff, then began to untie it. She didn’t stop him; she watched him do it. When it was untied, he unbuttoned the four little buttons and pulled it open. She was really breathing heavy when her breasts – loose and free and soft and so full – spilled out into the warm night air.

He helped her take the little top off completely, watching those big tits bounce and jiggle as she maneuvered herself out of it. With the passenger door open, the little overhead light was shining bright. And as she sat there in the front seat, topless in that silky skirt, her bare legs leading down to those pretty high heels, he said, “How about we do something a little more grown up tonight? What do you think? You feel like growing up a little tonight?”

She got nervous again. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you.”

He helped her slide out of the front seat, turned her around and had her lean over, so that those naked breasts were pressed flat against the leather seat. He lifted her skirt and there it was – her round, white and very naked ass, no panties at all; and those long naked legs and those high heels making her legs seem even longer. In this position, she looked a lot like Shelley. Only prettier, and somehow brand new.

She got tense right away. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing you won’t like – come on. You can relax.”

He leaned down and planted kisses all over her bottom. And right away, she did relax.

Then he squatted down, parted her ass cheeks and, like he’d done with Shelley, began licking her asshole. She gasped and, on reflex, tried to clench her cheeks closed but he kept them spread. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “It’s just us.” And he licked the tiny hole; patiently and methodically. Keeping those cheeks of hers spread. Winning her over.  When she parted her legs, repositioning those high heels more firmly on the ground, he knew it was going to be a big night for her. A big one. Because once she’d parted her legs like that, he could easily see that her pussy was wet. She was thoroughly enjoying it.

To win her confidence even more, he pulled open her pussy lips and found her clit and licked it, too. And he listened to her moan, watched her ass arch up good and high. He always steered clear of her little pussy hole, though; only went for the clit – never put a finger up her there, never even touched it with his tongue. But he could see plain as day that she was a virgin, all right. Really tight. The guy who ended up marrying her would have his work cut out for him on that wedding night, he knew that for certain.

But he also knew for certain that it wasn’t gonna be him – he had his own work cut out for him, the kind of work that no future-intended of hers ever needed to find out about.

He stood up and got the little tub of Vaseline from out of the glove compartment, and he saw how her ass stayed arched up high, how she tried to keep herself open, how her legs were rigid with anticipation. She really wanted that finger up her ass again. He was going to comply.

He scooped the Vaseline from the tub and smeared it on her asshole, getting a lot of it up inside the hole now, too – a lot of it. “It feels like so much,” she said.

“This way we don’t have to stop and have to keep getting more. In fact, do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Hold yourself open down here for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, hold your cheeks open – so that I can get that hole good and greased up. Come on,” he encouraged her, knowing she was getting shy again. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve already seen it. Just help me out a little.”

To his delight, she reached both of her hands behind her and pulled her cheeks open.

He was ready to burst out of his trousers. “Oh god, you look so pretty doing that,” he told her quietly, as he smeared even more Vaseline right in the opening of her asshole. “I wish I could take a picture of you right now and sell it; you know? Guys the world over would die to see how pretty you look like this.”

And he wasn’t saying it to win her over now – he meant it. She looked so dirty, holding her ass cheeks apart, showing that tight asshole, the wet pussy peeking out right underneath it. So dirty, and yet so pretty, too.

Then he wedged himself up beside her on the front seat and said quietly, “Keep holding yourself just like that, okay?”

“Okay,” she said – her voice just a wisp of breath. She was clearly getting very aroused.

Then in one synchronized motion, he grabbed a hold of her ponytail in that pretty bow, pulled her head back and slid his middle finger right up her ass. Right at the same moment – and she was clearly overcome with lust. In just that instant. That quick.

Oh god,” she cried sweetly. “Oh my god.”

She had all the signs of a girl in heat. She kept her ass cheeks spread open, kept her ass arched up high, letting her hair be pulled way back – she wasn’t fighting him at all. Not in any way. And when he let that finger of his fuck her ass slow and deep – nothing rough, nothing quick, just in and out, in and out – the moans that came out of her, came from someplace very deep.

Oh god, she sighed out breathlessly. Oh yes. Oh god.

He kept a slow steady rhythm with his finger – in and out. They had all the time in the world.

When he did finally ease his finger out of her ass, there she was: still holding her ass cheeks open, her legs spread, her ass arched, and not for a moment asking him to let go of his grip on her hair. He said to her quietly, “You know that you’re a very dirty girl, don’t you?”

Mm hm, she agreed softly.

“Say it out loud, I want to hear you. Say: ‘I’m a very dirty girl’.”

“I’m a very dirty girl,” she said quietly.

He gave her ponytail a firm tug, “Louder – so I can really hear you.”

“I’m a very dirty girl,” she said more loudly.

“Louder,” he said, really yanking on her hair.

“I’m a very dirty girl!” she said, as two of his fingers pushed right up her asshole. “Oh, god!” she cried out.

“Go on, say it – keep saying it. I really wanna hear you.” He kept a tight grip on her hair, her head pulling way back now, as his two fingers fucked her asshole hard and deep.

“I’m a very dirty girl!” she cried loudly, still holding her ass cheeks open. “A dirty girl. A very dirty girl! Oh god. Oh god. A dirty girl. I’m a very dirty girl!” While his fingers fucked her and fucked her.

She was the best girl he ever had. She really was such a dirty girl.

He let go of her hair finally and eased his fingers out of her asshole. Then she rested her face down on the front seat and looked up at him. She was still holding her ass cheeks open – she didn’t even seem aware that she was still doing that.

Excerpt from “1954 Powder Blue Pickup”
© 2020 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

Getting There

I think the full moon is making my brain a muddled mess today.

I keep puttering around, doing weird stuff.  Sort of sticking to my morning routine, sort of not. I even sat down here to post to the blog, totally forgetting that I hadn’t even done yoga yet, so I came to the unexpected decision that I’m not working out today. Even though I’m wearing my little “do yoga” outfit as I type this.

I also decided that I had to do laundry today — it was suddenly imperative. So I put the dirty clothes in the washer and there was maybe a half an inch of clothes! I sort of stared at it, wondering why I was so hellbent to do laundry, then I went ahead and started the machine anyway.

And even the trash pick-up truck seems to be acting strangely this morning. I’ve seen them drive by my house 3 times already, but they haven’t picked up my trash yet — they’re going on a whole different route. Which is incredibly weird because we have about 6 streets here in Crazeysburg, so why on Earth would you suddenly need a new route, you know? Is it more efficient to drive past people’s houses 3 times?

Not sure what’s going on there. But part of me immediately panics when I see them pass me by, thinking that I forgot to pay the trash pick-up bill again. But they seem to just be driving strangely today.  So before I call them up and lose my fucking mind on the phone, I’ll just wait and see what happens.

Okay, well, yesterday evening, we came SO CLOSE to ordering the test proof for The Guitar Hero Goes Home. The print-preview machine was grinding out the proofing copy over at Amazon, it took forever, but when it was finally finished, the cover art was a fraction of a hair’s breadth too big for the template.

And this was after just a whole big long line of things yesterday that had already exasperated Valerie in trying to get the cover art, within the template specs, to me so that I could upload it. So it was disappointing. But we are almost there, gang.

I already know I don’t like some of the aspects of the layout of the text (well, 2 things), but they are super minor, and the next time around, I know better than to type an entire manuscript into a Beta-testing template. So on we go, right?

And another weird thing — suddenly, this morning, Instagram has started putting people I don’t even know at the top of my feed, putting the posts of people I actually do know, down lower in the feed. Of the 13,704 people I now follow on Instagram, I know maybe 4 of those people, so I would really like to have their posts at the top of my feed, since right now, I don’t have time to hang out scrolling on Instagram; I want to see only my favorite posts at the top of the page and then get off Instagram, because I need every spare moment right now to sit here and quietly lose my mind.

Actually, one of the downsides of letting go of my private Instagram account and making it a public one, is that now I have way too many people that I’m following. And the people I really did enjoy following for such a  long time,  almost never come up in my feed anymore. Yesterday, I saw a post from Benmont Tench and it was the first post of his that I’d seen in, literally, months. And he’s someone who posts all day long. I used to see him first thing in the morning and then last thing at night, and his posts were always funny, charming, etc.  And I really loved his posts. (He was the life-long piano player for Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers.)

Oh, which reminds me. Today is the anniversary of the death of Conway Savage, who was the piano player for Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds for a really long time. Nick Cave wrote an amusing tribute to him in his Red Hand Files for today. You can read it here.

Okay, well. I’m hoping today will be productive, even though I am clearly in this strangely befuddled mindset. I had wanted to drive into town today to do something very important but now I’m wondering if getting into the car and driving 95 miles an hour today is the best idea. I guess we’ll just find out.

I’m just in one of those weird spaces where life feels intensely unmanageable. I know it will pass…

I’m going to leave you today with Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds’ version of “Stagger Lee”, because for some reason, I always really liked Conway Savage in this video. Well, I like everybody in this video. I just love this video. I’ve posted it here before, of course, but here it is again.  I hope you have a good Wednesday– enjoy that full moon (btw, they just picked up my trash! So if I lose my fucking mind today, it won’t be while I’m on the phone talking to the trash pick-up people). Okay. Thanks for visiting. I love you guys. See ya.