Hiya folks. I write to you feeling a mite creaky, following a weekend of cavorting with children and man. A BBQ I went to on Saturday was going on regular pleasant enough. I was managing to appear normal in front of my Honey's acquaintances and friends, for a while at least.
Then Honey started refreshing my drink for me, and handing me large amounts of Crown Royal on ice, and I started to get a mite feisty. Then two small boys appeared with plastic light sabres, and I was like, no way, and they were like, yeaaaaah, uh-huh it's STAR WARS TIME, and I was like woo-hoo, bring it bitches!
We then proceeded to chase each other around like maniacs. The older one had honour, but the smaller one would just huck his plastic haft at my legs when I wasn't looking. To be fair, to be only given a haft and not a full sword is mega-lame. I might be angered, were I a small child trying to scowl convincingly like a Sith.
Unsurprisingly, I now have giant, light-sabre shaped bruises on my right thigh and a constellation of smaller ones on my shins. I wonder what the worthy adversaries look like. I was careful not to actually strike them but laughed loudly every time they accidentally hit their own hands or fell down. I will be World's Best Mother, if it ever comes to that.
As a party-goer, I likely became a little obnoxious. I demanded cake as the evening drew to a close. Everyone else had forgotten about it, but I could see that damn ice cream cake every time I opened the freezer to get more ice. Everyone else was on beer, had no need of ice, but I would reach in for a handful and have that cake mock me in its plastic dome. On outing the cake, I think the others were grateful, at least they tore into it with the alacrity of starving wolves. Luckily, my date and I went home after only one round of "Sippy-cup: the Drinking Game!" I was already lickered up nicely, I didn't want to get punchy. At least not in public.
Apparently, when I drink rye I like to practise Brazilian jujitsu as a means of foreplay. Ooooo, I feel frisky, why don't you get your sexy ass over here and let me leg-lock you for, oh, 15-20 minutes? I do not recall the particulars, but apparently I was being coy. Honey apologized profusely for the thumb-sized bruise on my forearm the next day; I dead-eyed him.
"Look, babe, I wanted to be dominated. Look at my legs (covered in huge kickboxing and plastic light-sabre bruises). I can take a litle tussle. I was begging for tussle. And I got me some fine tussle. I just can't believe you let me go on for 20 minutes...Did I really leg-lock you that long?"
Apparently yes. Purrrrrrr....Later, on my beloved CBC radio, I heard Bonnie Raitt talk about seeing Howlin' Wolf play live and going ga-ga for him in spirit because he was a magnetic mountain of a man. "Every strong woman wants to be dominated by a strong man," she rasped, and chuckled at her pronouncement. I agree with Ms. Bonnie. On occasion I like to feel overpowered by my loving, sexy, good-humoured mate. Not always, not even often, but once in a while it is incredibly hot to feel physically out-matched by someone strong that I trust with my body. Of course, in my case I like to make them earn it.
I couldn't figure out why my neck hurt on one side, either, until Honey demonstrated how hard I was pressing one side of my face against his cheek. At one point he just had to grab my head and push it to the other side. He recounted this with a mix of awe, pleasure and mild confusion. He is so good-natured I'm in a state of constant rut, just to see if he'll oblige.
Apparently, it's too late to play demure so I figure I'll keep going full steam-ahead. You see, I started the relationship completely by accident. I was convinced I was leaving town to go to school far away, and was likely not coming back, so heyo-hiya, let's just have a good time. I could let it all hang out because I wasn't invested in the outcome, beyond getting laid and having some summertime yuks. Then my departure got called as a bluff, and here I was two months into dating the sweetest man, and durn if I wasn't a girlfriend when I'd swore an oath not to be this year. And damned if I didn't mind it after all.
In short, acting like one is leaving town shortly freed me up to be myself, both with Honey and my friends. I've never had better friendships nor a better mate. So go figure. Carpe fuckin' diem! Now I go to rest my weary, sated, bruizied bones.
Buenas noches, chiquitas
Gretchita
No comments:
Post a Comment