Gratitude

Stones. Each one dropping into dark water.  Silent fall.  Ripples swallowed in their wake.  Indigo well.  My mind in quiet.  Finally finally.  Each stone given up to the deep.  A small sacrifice to sanity.  A burden I don’t need to carry. This is how I find sleep.  Giving them up.  One by one.  Until my hands are empty.  Empty.  And my heart is full again.

Goodnight

He reads to me.  His breath turned to words on my neck.  Warm.  Like milk.  And the soft light is a small world.  Just for us.  The words are stolen.  From a book I wouldn’t read.  But I don’t care what they mean.  The syllables a string of broken beads.  Bright.  Filled with the warm rumble of breath and syncopation.  Pebbles on a path.  And I sink, eyes heavy, with a slow pleasure.  Sink into a world.  Where nothing matters but the sound of his voice.  Against my neck.  This gift he gives me.  Reading me to sleep like a child.  The curve of a smile softening.  The wisp of hair he moves from my cheek.  A gift given with such open hands.  That all I can do is surrender. And whisper wordlessly, in the dark of sleep, “thank you.”

Australian Kisses.

Some men really like cunnilingus.  Some just don’t.  This is a new discovery.   I used to think it was me.  That I just wasn’t one of those girls who liked a little tongue lashing.  But it has come to my attention that this is in fact not the case.  I am one of those girls.  I was just waiting for a boy who was a connoisseur.  A  specialist. A punani pundit.  A purveyor of pussy.  A man who likes it Australia style.  The old kiss on the lips down under.  Because the difference between a boy who goes down out of duty and one who’s thinking about you for dessert is very, very clear.

And these days, with all the hints and tips out there on the interwebs, there is very little reason for the old ‘I’m not sure I’m doing it right’ excuse.  That’s what experimenting is for. And trying again is fun.

And look.  I’m not one for doing anything of sexual nature that you don’t like.  But I know something.  I didn’t use to like playing the old meat flute.  Until I realised how much pleasure I could give someone.  Pleasure with a bit of power.  And I started to enjoy it.  And the more I enjoyed it, the more it turned me on.  So now I find myself rather delighted to delve down stairs.  In fact, yum.

So it stands to reason that the same goes for boys.  Once they realise how delicious it can all be, how a little lickage could make their girl crazy, surely there would be no stopping them?  Unless, of course, they’re sexually selfish.  And in that case, gals….

Puppy love

Update: Oh dear.  Looks like His Royal Squishiness is rather HER Highness….

There is new puppiness on the farm.  Puppiness squared.  All needle teeth and puppy breath, soft ears and bounciness.  His Royal Squishness also nearly died, so is now carried around in a basket, wrapped in a blanket, and let out to sproing on the grass when he squeaks his desire.  I’m utterly besotted with this bundle of fluff with its inquisitive nose. Poor LB.  I think he’s felt somewhat left out of the ‘ooooooh’ fest.  But I can’t help myself.  Resistance is futile!  I’m in puppy love.

His Majesty

PS Photo by the lovely LB.

Que?

I do not think so…

(Via Don Packett…guy, where do you find this shit?)

Falling in love with madness

Murmuring close to madness.  A glimpse into a world unseen.  Only heard.  The flash of fingers.  Hunched soul.  Joy released in the hammer and strings.  In the flourish of the notes.  And the rhythms of centuries. Liszt.  Mendelssohn. Chopin.  “A cascade of star dust”.  I wonder.  I wonder at this blurred life.  One on the cusp of ours.  But different.  Glowing with genius.  Alive with a visceral pleasure that pulls the whole being toward it.  Bumble bees and waltzes.  A critics praise; “a waterfall of notes”.  And I’m falling.  Falling in love with madness.

AWOL*

Overwhelmed. A skewed view. Failure a very real option. Fear. Inadequacy. Off kilter. A healthy dose of fuck you. Each hour stolen against another. And the questions my daily companion: Am I up to this? Do I really care? Can I afford to fail? What happened to my quieter life? Will my friends beat me if this poor me act gets boring?

9 weeks

This is what happens when you’re deprived for 9 (and a half ?) weeks and you accidently stumble on sites like this one (hello Dita).  And you’re just 24 hours away.  Your imagination starts to implode.  It does.  So I apologise.  Friends.  Family.  Read no further if value your sanity.  Bad erotica to follow.  The shame.

Eish.

To the theatre daaahling…

Outside the Palace Theatre....shooooooooeeees!

A trip to London should always include a jaunt down to the West End for a spot of theee-Aye-tar, daahling!  So M and I headed into the throngs for a spot of Priscilla Queen of the Desert: The Musical.  Based on the film of the same name, it starred Jason Donovan in the role of Tick.  He was fantastic.  The man can do an excellent camp man, sing, dance and all in high heels.  And he even threw in a very funny  joke about fancying Scott in Neighbours.

Platform shoes.  Magnificent, completely over the top costumes.  Flying divas with swan wings.  Half naked men in hotpants.  Outrageous wigs.  More feather boas than you could shake a stick at.   Show tunes. Uncouth jokes.  Drag queens.  A large disco pink bus.

Humungeous mirror Balls.

Shiney!

What more could a girl ask for?

*delighted sigh*

Humanity

Just standing around.

So, today the rest of my country went to the polls.  And I’ve been thinking about it all day.  When I went up to London last week to vote, right near SA House, I saw this statue.  Humanity etched into one side. And it resonated.

Today, it’s something I hope we remember:

...close up

Too much to ask of patriotism?  Too much to ask of humanity?