Thank God It's Good n' F*cked-Up Friday at The FF Word!
Want to know why this Friday is F*cked-Up and why I'm thanking God for it? Clickity-click here. Not there!....Here. (That was for you, Amanda.)
I'm not supposed to be here on the blog today but this could not wait to be posted and offered to my absolutely extraordinary Lovelies who have bestowed upon this humbled girl a multitude of impassioned gifts the past 24 hours, not the least of which are your words. Beautiful, lush, supportive, wise, feverishly enduring words. How can I thank you properly? Only God could do you justice.
I thank you God for your people. Do something really nice for them. On me.
And most importantly the Good part. I thank you God for committing the greatest act of love known to mankind ~ To sacrifice your Son, Jesus Christ, in such an agonizing, torturous manner for the sake of saving your children from themselves, for an eternity with You, the best guy EVER. To forgive us our sinful, flawed, wasted natures that we may be loved despite ourselves. For you so loved your babies that you gave us the gift of You incarnate, that we could find comfort in the knowledge that your own holy experience, embodied in human flesh and human weakness, would bring You closer to us, and us to You. That You get it. You get us. "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." John 3:16 That will never get old.
I only have one more piece of gratitude to share and then I'm outta here. That is to Tanya Keenan. Ms. Keenan sent me an email last night after reading Shards of Glass in support of my 'situation'. A simple, elegant email (from an elegant woman) with only eight words and an attachment that changed the course, of not only my night, but my heart of glass. May it inspire you with the same peaceful delight as it has me:
"I love you and this is for you..." ~ Ms Tanya Keenan
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
~ Anais Nin
This one's going to be a tough one so please bear with me, my Lovelies. It may come across as a rambling, hot mess. I want to write to you and tell you what's been happening the past few days but I also need to be very wise in my words. Just as we learned how important words can be to a cause so can they be to the heart...and a girl's reputation. This heart is gentle and therefore seeks to soften the blow. I also don't want to come off as a "downer". This is a thing told me time and again as something not to be here on the blog. Though I feel completely down, I don't want to sound like Charlie Brown's school teacher. So here is the non-downer, words wisely chosen blog post about feeling like crap.
I have lived my life as a fist. Both figuratively and literally. When I began this blog it was to break through many fears that I held tightly to my chest like four kings at a Texas Hold'em table. I saw the blog as an outlet for living out loud. This would be contrary to my secretive life of hopes and talents...of loves and losses. I haven't necessarily sought out to be a private person as many friends and family know who I am and what I'm about. But I have also kept many aspects of who I am under wraps. Fearlessly Female would set that little bird free. And boy, have I flown.
When I was a child, as I've mentioned in The Uglies, I was terrified of people.....of getting any attention.....of authority figures.....of speaking up, defending myself or proving a point. I have hated confrontation of any kind all the days of my life. These childhood fears have morphed and manifested themselves into one part of my adult body. My hands.
On daily walks around the lake, during one of the most beautiful rituals I have found to partake of, I can look down and find my hand clenched into a fist. While talking on the phone to someone I love or sharing the details of my upcoming day with the girls at Starbuck's there I will feel it, my hand as tight as a rubber ball. I can't even grow my fingernails past puberty length because they are continually being rubbed down by tight flesh. Subconsciously I do believe it is the reason I began writing so many years ago. It is one of the reasons I believe I can be found typing on my keyboard all throughout the day. My hands are released from the clenching fear of being bound. They are open and moving and free to express my heart into words. When I finish I return back to my default position. My hands, clutched.
Even on one of the best nights of my life (New Year's Eve, truly....THE BEST), my right hand is in it's 'closed for business' status.
They aren't in a defensive pose, ready to take out someone lights. They aren't ready to punch the wall in frustration. They aren't closed off in order to keep me from grabbing the Chocolate swiftly and with great ease (I don't need hands to do that. Talent!). They are my body's feeble way of protecting myself from intruders. Of shutting off, away from the world. The rest of me is free and happy and carefree. I am a physical person who adores affection and moving and dancing and working. I try to appear as approachable as a tulip with only four petals to hide my blushing center. But there remains a part that is hard to break open.
Last weekend I experienced one of the best nights I've had in years. It was a regular love fest of old friends, great music, hysterical laughter and the capturing of new memories. Probably the best aspect of the night was that I introduced my mom to a group of people, a life if you will, that I adore more than a 2" Jimmy Choo platform. She saw me in a way that was new and fresh. Most of my life, any social activity her and I would share would be within her personal circle. This time I got to show of my own beautiful people to the woman I love more than anything. Immediately following that night my mom complimented me more than I can remember. It's primarily because I was truly loved, out in the open. My friends love me and I them. Her and I left on the wings of The Beatles reverb. Life was beautiful. And rich. I was so grateful for the bonds that had not broken. My hands had literally become wide open. It's as if my palms were breathing. And then I came home.
In the world of social networking both love and war can be sparked. When I came home, it was all about the love. Two days later it was war. A quick succession of failures followed a behind the scenes conversation where I stood up for myself. It was over an innocently flirtatious statement made to a friend. This caused a series of events brought on and affected by people completely unrelated to the statement. It snowballed into a landslide of destruction that was not seen out in the open. Somehow people got hurt. This was never my intention at all.
It is not necessary to go into details because it's not about the who's and what's in this case. The important factor for me is completely selfish. I'm being tested again as to who I am. I have to pull up my big girl panties with fist tightly made and prove myself to someone (or someones) regarding my level of worth, my attitude and my intentions. My Lovelies, I am a single girl with no children and no boss. There is literally (well, almost...I still have parents!) no one I must answer to. I've said this time and again, that I am in a place to speak freely...to blog about everything and anything that could make even myself embarrassed. I don't tear people down for fun nor wish to cause trauma or tribulation in someone else's world. But I have learned another great lesson through this ~ Let people go.
In the quote by Anais Nin, it is suggested that the pain lies in being bound within the tight petals with the only true release being the air in between. I would have to say, I agree. But at a price.
There is another reason I live with fists. Men. Oh here we go! (I heard a hundred sighs.) I love men. I mean I really, really love them. I have a brother and a father. My best friends from high school on have been boys. I was married to one. My MBF is one. There's a whole lot of them floating around. Combine that with my typically female nature, meaning, I want to help fix them and we've got "Girl who runs with fists". I have a well honed skill of knowing where someone is wounded and softly tying on the tourniquet. Though there are immense gifts cast from the ability to smell blood there is one major flaw. The shards of glass.
Anyone who is broken or has been emotionally injured has within them the ability to use sharp words with whomever is in close range, meaning very close range. For whatever reason I have chosen men over women to try and help heal this way. And for that reason it is men who bestow the cutting. When I am open.....when I feel safe and free and loved. When I sense I am doing something good, I unfasten. I breathe, unbuttoned. The rose shows up and her inner petals are exposed. I reach forward and I reach out.
I don't approve of your behavior, Tiffany. One shard of glass laid into my palm. You didn't make me feel special today. You let me down. Another shard of glass for me to bury. You have a lot of nerve acting like this. And you think you're fearless?? Yet another.
By nature of wanting to please I never toss these bits and pieces away from me. Instead I close my fist. Like a poppy I wind into myself tightly when the light goes down. I hold the accusations and the disappointments so tightly that you cannot see me bleed. Instead I work the shattered pieces into my system as if I was pushing them beneath my skin with stealthy force. Like a freshly broken bottle hitting the shore, they take to my blood streams, flowing thru the channels of my worth, seeking comfort in my heart. I have to make it right. I have to make it right. Shards of glass glisten in the light of empathy, being beaten against the love chambers and fear valves, pumping within my body like sand through the hourglass. After time they become worn with edges softened so that I no longer bleed from them. Just a fist remaining as my last tell tale sign of a girl affected.
Towards the end of my 30's I was diagnosed with a disease (which I will share later in The Uglies) that has left me with an enlarged heart. I am a heart inflicted. When the cardiology practitioners would do their Echocardiograms I always wondered if they could see the shrapnel of war torn Tiffany? If they would balk at the fact that my heart was like the ocean, made of salt water and sea glass and that the reason it was large was to hold it all in? No one said anything to those mysteries except for that you can watch it beat through my clothes and that I should "stop that."
I don't want to be this girl anymore. I want to learn to open my hands to everyone without fear of what I must receive. I don't want there to be a penalty so great that I find myself a recluse. My Lovelies, I am taking time off of Facebook and from the blog for a spell. It is time for me to reestablish what it is I stand for and who it is I am becoming as a mature woman. I need to go find peace for awhile as well as seek pleasure. Real pleasure. Gosh, that sounds good, no? I need to take care of my heart. The health of it. It has to last me long enough to get my job done. I am blessed beyond measure. Beyond. I had no idea that my life would be this beautiful. Not a clue. And the people involved in this latest episode of chaos, I love them dearly. Truly. They are very special human beings who don't mean me harm. None the less, it is time for me to take my cue outta here (just for a bit) and have a serious chat with the girl with the clenched fists. It is just a regrouping for I will come back stronger and better than ever. The Uglies have been knocking on the door and it is time to open it once more.
As far as men go, I wont be bowing out of their masculine delights anytime soon. But I will say this. I long for the one. The one who will, finger by finger, open my hand wide and rest his own inside...for good.
In the meantime, stay Fearless and Foxy (FB ladies o'mine, I'm talkin to you!). Speaking of which, Ladies of Facebook ~ You are too good for words. Seriously. I love you more than life itself. Hold down the FF fort. Your girl will return with stuff to knock your socks off (But not your stilettos. By all means, keep those on!)......I'm heading out with a smile on my lips and Chocolate on my tongue and taking to the sky.
Take it Tori! Honest to God, you know everything about me. (If you can't see the video in email, click here)
Greetings and hallucinations, you passion fruity bon-bons! Your blogger du jour has been to the holy land and it smells exactly like Chocolate. This is important on Sexpot Sundae for two reasons:
One. Today, there was Chocolate. A whole lot of it! If you were to stand in the middle of the great, vast space and chuck a leopard printed stiletto as hard as you could 300 ft in any direction you would hit Chocolate and/or some lucky son-of-a-gun eating Chocolate. This means FF ate Chocolate. A whole lot of it! And we all know what that means. (If you don't, where have you been?).
Two. I've been saturated through and through of the extra dark obsession that calls me "Lover", which means my mind will be possessed for the next 24 hours. There will be very little writing of the sexy sex from this girl tonight. My "Lover" is very demanding. However....there will be visuals. Captivating, hypnotizing visuals.
There is a trait that Sexpots own. Some are born with it. Others learn it later in life. And a very talented few are oozing it daily, leaving a wake of wide-eyed menfolk scratching their heads in wonderment of "What the hell just happened?" and "When can I see her again??" It is the power of complete and utter captivation.
How to keep him mesmerized.
First, introduce yourself...properly.
Secondly, speak his body language.
Next, splash a little water on the situation. (i.e. Do something quite unexpected.)
And before you lose your little black dress to the destiny of his living room floor, tell him you hate him.
Vixen o' my heart, you have just successfully mesmerized your man.
Now get out there and make some lucky boy scratch his head with intoxicated wonder and smile...hours after you've gone.
Love & Chocolate...lots and lots of Chocolate,
FF xx
(PS...If you are reading this in email come on over to the blog to watch the videos.)
Dear God...You wondrous, torturous, funny God, You. I've got a list for You. Yes I do. Not like it's any surprise but, by God (that's You, big guy), I'm gonna say it out loud. And my Lovelies, do you have any of your own this TGIFF? I would so love to read devour them.
...
Thank you God for coffee. I don't know if I have ever really given proper gratitude for the liquid excrement of burnished brown African beans. I was never a coffee drinker until a few years ago. What led me to coffee? I can't even remember. Did You really need to draw me near another deliciously heart-palpitating vice? Yes. Yes You did.
Thank you God for the color red. And not just any red. That juicy, other-worldy watermelon red that makes me salivate every time I see it as if I could bite right into those exploding Chinese Poppies and taste Jolly Ranchers.
Thank you God for the Thesaurus so that the aforementioned red does not have to stand alone as an itty-bitty, almost insignificant three letter word but may rejoice in the revelation that it is also scarlet, crimson, claret, vermilion, garnet, flame, cardinal, titian, sanguine, cherry, roseate, rufescent and roon.
Thank you God for the love of hockey. And that the San Jose Sharks are in the playoffs (woot! woot!). But most of all that there remains a sport that if a guy looks at another guy wrong, and well, he just doesn't like that look, that he can stop the game by throwing off his gloves in one fell swoop, call upon the "yeah, I gave you the eye" guy, and proceed to beat the bloody crap out of each other while everyone, including refs, stand back and watch. *Sigh* I love that, God.
Thank you God for reminding me that I'm a girl. For when I have entered day 3 of manual labor, covered in paint head to toe (literally), wearing raggedly overalls, a ravaged manicure and torn knuckles from beating the stripped Philip-head screws into the wall with my own fists, that I can crawl into my closet and find Chantilly lace, silky blush pink Mongolian lamb fur, and silver sequin knickers peeking out...beckoning...gleefully...for the girl.....who is me.
Yeah, thank you Lord.
Thank you for inspiring Mr. Ronald McDonald to not only create a $1 menu but for thinking crazy thoughts, throwing all caution to wind and making all drinks, including large-ass larges, $1 as well. And here I thought it would only last a few months? By God, you salty dog, they are STILL $1. The money I have saved is embarrasing. It's the little things. And large-ass things disguised as little things. Can it get any better?
Thank you for this little song and little dreams and little wings and for beautiful Robin for bringing it to my attention...(if you're reading this in email, click here to watch the video)
Thank you God for whispering to me in the wind like a child. For that little voice that seeps into the crevices of my leaking heart like rain water soaking the ground. For singing tender words that are never loud or boisterous or commanding when the softness of love is really what penetrates all my boundaries. For answering my every wish...my every cry, no matter how or when or why. Your answers follow me like the breeze. They ruffle my feathers in the prompting to take flight. As if to say, "Go on little bird. Fly."
I will love you until the sun stops working (and even then...),
Yesterday, after reading the blog about how I don't talk about men in my blog, my MBF whined suggested that perhaps maybe I write about him? Here you are, you big baby. A love letter about my best friend.
I call him 'Ehhdeek' and I call him often. He is my rock, paper and scissors. He is cute. Really cute in an 'if Steven Colbert + James Franco + Pig-Pen had a love child', kind of way.
Eric and I have known each other for over 25 years but we haven't been friends that entire time. In high school I had a serious crush on him. Secretly, maybe even slipping "love me" notes in his locker. He didn't know I existed. My best girl friend's boy friend was his best friend. We would hang out together and go to the same parties. He barely remembers me even though I sat on his knee and sang Santa Baby to his gangly and rebellious Santa Claus. Which explains why he left me stranded at a school dance by leaving with another girl after arriving with me. (Aren't you thrilled I'm writing about you?). Thankfully, he rues the day that ever happened.
Two years ago we found each other again. Two very different people than in high school. We have been inseparable ever since. Jerk.
Eric loves lamp ("I love lamp!"), abnormally worships a gray Slanket and hates his dogs. They are stupid. Whenever I go his way he throws me in the car and drives like a crazy person to See's Candies where we run through the parking lot like 6 year old banshees to get pineapple truffles and freebies. Do you know that people leave their free samples on the counter top? And that you can eat those too? Not that I've ever done that.
He supports my Diet Pepsi habit, my coffee habit, my Chocolate habit, my Bravo channel habit, my Muse habit, my doing nothing for hours habit, my "I gotta be on the internets" habit and all with incredibly delicious enabling encouragement. I love him for this.
A year ago, during my personal health scare he fell into the hands of God to find peace and power "to do something" after feeling helpless. He changed his life on the wings of my pain. Miraculously after his decision, I was well. God works in beautiful ways.
My MBF is a single dad with full custody and responsibility of his teenage son. He never complains. My MBF found out a few months ago that he has cancer. Almost no one knows this. He never burdened a soul. My MBF makes me laugh so hard that I will have tremors of hysteria hours after the impact when he is long gone. He relishes this fact. As do I.
We can spend hours at BJ's eating calamari, drinking Margaritas and watching Shark's games and never get bored. We can lay on his bed for half a day listening to the full collection of Muse from beginning to end and feel as if the hour has just begun. We can speak in a secret language that only toddlers could interpret and completely and utterly get each other.
He has never farted in front of me except at a book store in the Self-Help aisle when he didn't know I was on the other side of the wall. I mean, he ripped it. I had no idea he had it in him. He was horrified. It was awe inspiring.
He is my tree and I am his sky. He is my anchor and I am his red balloon. He is my Starbucks and I am his butterfly. He is my biggest fan and I am the boot print on his ass. The world could come to a screeching halt but we would live on in the dreams of a little girl and the wonder of a little boy. He has been there with me through tremendous heartbreak, suspended worry and blissed out success. Never wavering in his support, I would die without him. He is my favorite person on the planet and because he is my best friend I get to keep him all the days of my life.
Eric is the only person who has every turned my mood ring to indigo blue. (Indigo blue is as good as it gets). He is my lab partner in life.
There is so much more I could say but he is a doosh-bag (his word, not mine) and apt to head swell to unbearable proportions. Just know...anyone and everyone who ever crosses his path is better because of him and will smile all the rest of their days. He is the slow exhale.
Ehhhdeeeek, *ahem*.....allllllways, NEVER, have I allllways.....*hhhmmm ahhmmmhh*.....you're fun. I love you more than salt.
I don't blog like a blogger should. Play by plays of what's really going on...
"Today I woke up surprisingly early after dreaming about driving through apple orchards on winding roads, populated by bunnies in bunny huts at window level so you could pet them as you drove by only to be halted by a female Nazi road guard in a gorgeous vintage Mercedes with thick German accent and very long chin hair telling me, "You ceeenot pet zeee bunneeees!"
See? That could be a cool blog post. Or not. Maybe not.
Or how my cat Libby makes a beeline for my chest whenever I open the laptop to write while laying down, grunting (yes, she' weird) in my face as I get better and better at typing blindly over her black and white, big butt kitten frame. Is she jealous? You got me. Is she cat whispering more intriguing vocabulary words for me to chose? Man, I hope so. Do I move her off me? LOL...Oh you are precious, blog reader!
See, look? I even called you "blog reader". What the hell is up with that? Is this really me? I didn't even capitalize "blog reader". What. the. hell.
So, my Lovelies (ahhh yes, better) I'm a little out of sorts these days. There have been changes on the fearless front. A changing of the guards. It's funny that I write about many personal and sometimes painful things but I have shied away from reporting too many details about my romantic relationships. Primarily to protect the boys. And it seems that when I do start gabbing they start running. Can I blame them? Not really. I like how I keep writing plural....boys...them...as if I'm Lola Falana. I do have many menfolk in my life but it's not what you think. I'm manufacturing them out in the backyard.
Where on God's green earth is this 'blog it like bloggers should blog' blog going? Now I know why I don't blog like this. So let me continue.
There was a break-up early last week. But the beauty of it was, there were no break downs. Thank you, Jesus. And we remain zeee best of friends. Really we do. He is a loving doll and we shared something very special. Life is funny. And stupid. Like Philip head screws that will do the job (i.e screw that thing to that thing) but always, and I mean always, eventually strip so you can't get it unscrewed. That's just plain stupid. Why do they even exist when there are flat head screws that don't strip? (I've been working labor again. Can you tell?) Is this just so that menfolk can buy 217 screwdrivers and drill bits that they will never be able to find anyway only to curse it all to hell? Stupid. I'm telling you, I don't get it. Why take on life (and love) as an inevitably stripped down, Philips-headed, unscrewable screw when you can be a big-fat-and-shiny Flathead coupling that only takes one tool in order to connect for the rest of your life? There's a point in there somewhere. Whoa baby, I'm blogging now!
I think Libby approved of that last part. She stopped grunting and is making out with my chin.
So as you've noticed, there was no Sexpot Sundae last weekend nor a Part 4 of The Uglies revealed as of yet. I told you this would happen. Alas. The soldiers are restless out on the battlefield. Their rifles are cooling while the earth rumbles beneath foot, readying for the war coming up over the horizon. I'm getting a little scared, my Lovelies...to tell you the truth. I know what's coming in The Uglies and I am, how do you say, prolonging the peace before the big bang. I don't know exactly what I'm worried about except that Shingles? I miss them comparably. Now I'm just exaggerating. Shingles are the worst thing since nuclear bombs exploding on your skin. I'm still exaggerating. It's fun.
This is why I don't blog like a blogger. Lunacy.
And when I write about all the sexy sex? It always, and I mean always, leads to a break-up. Ok, so I've written about sexy sex twice but by God, each time....each time. Does that mean I'm going to stop writing about wickedly wanton desires, moves, secrets, stories, dripping, melting, ooey-gooey things and "how not to ask for sex if you're a guy"? No. Hellllll to the no. This ain't no one trick pony show. This is me and I don't give a crap. Sexpot's are useless without their sexy sex. Then their just a pot. Who the hell wants to be a pot?
I love saying hell. And crap. And shit. And holy crap. But not f*ck. I notice bloggers who write blogs like bloggers say f*ck a lot. It's edgy I guess. Or they just woke up from a scary apple-essenced, chin-haired Nazi bunny-rabbit dream with a cat sucking their face. That will bring the f*ck out of anyone.
Thank you God for hot water. That I can jump into a bathtub, turn the knob and be blissed out beyond comprehension for the fact that hot water will indeed flow from the faucet without any effort from me except to just lay there....for hours....doing nothing...........for hours.....in hot water.............for hours.....
Thank you God for making leopard's spots so incredibly cool that I can find them stylishly reproduced on anything from toilet paper to 5" platform strappy sandals with red lacquered soles.
Thank you God for inspiring a few genius denim designers to put 11% spandex in a few sexy pair of jeans so that my bootyfull cheeks can move independently from the rest of my body as they so love to do.
Thank you God for Chantal and Amanda at the Green Valley Road Starbucks. For creating in them hearts so heavenly touched that to spend just 2 minutes of my mornings with them is the highlight to my every beginning day.
Thank you God for my dad's big blue sweatshirt that he no longer wanted so that I may sit here writing in this cold room and not freeze my beejeebees off, with sleeves long enough for me to look like a little person, in the color of a cloudy sky that will forever more always make me think of my dad. Even though he is right upstairs.
Thank you God for hair color. 'nuff said.
Thank you God for delicately softening a hardened heart in such a way that has inspired a hundred dreams, a thousand words, and a whole new world of possibility.
Thank you God for my little white 12" (yep you heard it right) non-HD television WITH built-in VHS player, thank you very much! And for the fact that 12" is plenty for this girl.
Thank you God for a 6 year old boy who expressed love for me in the back seat of a Jeep in a way that made his little heart seem like that of a old sage that knew more about love than people three times his age.
Thank you God for new beginnings. That when the end draws near of something beloved and true, we are blessed with the whisper of a hopeful hello at the end of yesterday's goodbye.
tangled hearts and wanton flesh, living from my pulse to yours. remembering the carelessness it took to take a breath when there was no love. finding this hour, this moment the escaping of knowledge as to how to breathe without you. i have taken to the dampness; i have become an underwater thing, fluid and restless, waiting for you to cast out into my sea. when i see your reflection above me with the falling of orange peels breaking the languid surface, i will have you. quenched and alone.
Falling in love with Scott Baio, causing one to steal money out of mother's purse to send pissed off younger brother, who will "make you pay" later, to the ARCO station to purchase the latest TigerBeat magazine with 2 pages out of 77 written about your unrequited lover, to be devoured on a daily basis looking for new facts that were written by the teen idol fairies while you were sleeping, whilst you study day in and day out the first aid book hiding in mother's closet to learn how to take care of a victim (i.e. Scott Baio) in the case of Heat Stroke, which will surely happen since he lives in sweltering Los Angeles (which he flew you out to for reasons he can't yet understand), induced by the exhaustion of filming Joanie Loves Chachi, causing him to pass out dripping in love sweat at a secluded and romantic park where you are forced to save his life with ice cubes and running your fingers through his hair.
It's not stalking if you're invited, right?
Gosh, I got illness, travel and babies all in one! Thankfully, my letter writing & seduction skills have improved some since 1981.
My Lovelies, yesterday marked the 119th anniversary of the first documented ice cream sundae. I know, what you're thinking. Who was the mastermind behind the wild idea to pile different flavors of icy cold sin in a bowl, pour rivers of molten chocolate over it, frantically whip stiff a bowl of fresh cream to dollop, delicately sprinkle freshly roasted peanuts and then top it off with a juicy red succulent cherry because, well, it just wasn't good enough yet? And could he still be alive today? And is he single?
And this prompted a quick discussion on Facebook about my favorite flavors of ice cream, which was ridiculous because Ben & Jerry are cocky mofo's who have presented 75 flavors alone to Joe Public, not one of which I dislike to any degree, to which I say, Bring It!
So then I started thinking of how I had nothing to properly celebrate this momentous occasion except memories of the handlebar mustached boys at Farrell's and an afternoon in Miami with a gorgeous Austrian in a bubble bath with a carton of Rocky Road and two spoons. He spoke French. And then I remembered how sexy ice cream really is. And then I remembered how sexy sex is. And then I went to bed and woke up on a Sunday and realized, hot damn, this is Sexpot Sundae.
To which I answer to you, Sexpot Sundae is my favorite flavor of ice cream, Dan.
So here's the what for: You may have noticed that I like to categorize things. For example, The Uglies and Signs That You Just May Be a Masochist pile up the pain in tidy components. They will continue on until I run out. But if Ben & Jerry are any clue, I've got flavor after flavor to devour. I am indeed a masochist (when it comes to what I really want) and have been thru a rigorous run of The Uglies for much of my fear-based life but, by God, I am also sexy, dammit. I'm sexy like the tongue-tied knot in a cherry stem after the pint has melted and the spoons are sticky. I've made it a personal quest to examine, dissect and major in the sexy side of life since I was 13. I blame it on a tight white angora sweater, my mom's 70's Cosmo magazine and Rick Springfield (that full tale coming soon).
"Hi. My name is Tiffany and underneath this innocent facade and the pajama pants with the crotch hole (created hole-istically by burning desire and Neurotoxins) I am a sexpot."
Every Sunday I will scoop up a heaping spoonful of something sexifying. For you. My Lovelies. My Lovelies who are also sexpots. Or pots o'sex. Or dirty, dirty dishes. Or spoon fulls of sensuality. Or Mmms&Mmms. Or bored.
Why Sundays...The Sabbath...The day of the Lord? Because I am a crazy person and hate to do things in any kind of normal fashion. At The FF Word, Sundays will be for zee sexee. Which leads me to Fridays.
Next Friday I will introduce TGIFF, which used to mean 'Thank God it's French Fries' but since I replaced them with ridiculous amounts of Dark Chocolate & cotton-eating Neurotoxins it now stands for Thank God It's Fearlessly Female! On Fridays I will thank the Almighty for all I can lay my hands, eyes and heart on.
God gets my Fridays. Sex gets my Sundays. It's just the way of the FF world.
If by chance I miss a Friday, which you know will happen, I will apologize profusely and ask for forgiveness. If by chance I miss a Sunday, which I know will happen, it means I am doing tedious, on the spot research and you should be really happy for me.
My Lovelies, are you ready to dip in? Grab your spoon and let's begin...You will need a restaurant (the classier the more potent the effect), a glass of red wine and a dose of "I don't care who is watching me" confidence. Though this can be offered up by either a man or a woman, experience has told me it will be better received by the man being the "recipient". So, Ladies...
You are out on a date. Preferably a second or third date as not to come off as a hussy (yet) but you want to let him witness your sensual side. Or better yet, if you are in an established relationship and few things surprise your mate, including your crotch hole Pj's. Before you begin your meal you decide to order wine...red wine...it's sexier.
How to seduce him with a Petite Syrah in three sexy steps.
One ~ You order your own glass of Cabernet. When it arrives you tenderly swirl your stemware watching for the distinct legs and color of ripe currant. You bring the glass to your nose, inhale and sip. Close your eyes, make your "mmmmm mmmms", sigh and open your eyes brightly with a smile. "Is it good?", he asks. You offer him the suggestion, "Would you like to have a taste?" If you "mmmmm mmmm'd" with enough girlish gusto and he enjoys wine, he won't say no. Instead of handing him your wine stand up to be near him while he's seated (or scoot next to him in a booth). Holding your glass in one hand, take one sweet sip and with your other wrist resting on his shoulder lean down to give him one, long, deep kiss with the taste of Cabernet staining his taste buds. Return to your seat. Smile. You just earned one cherry on your Sexpot Sundae.
Or...
Two ~ You order your own glass of Merlot. When it arrives you carry on in conversation. You swirl, you twirl, you tend to it's magnificence all the while talking about your idiot coworker who is stealing rubber bands and how the stock market isn't serving you any longer. You get lost in conversation. You laugh about last night's Family Guy. You take a long, steady sip of the grape and speak of its full bodied headiness. You ask him if he'd like to try it. Smart sap says, yes! Lean forward in your seat with a mischievous grin and cleavage resonating in his direction. Elbows on the table and your glass tilted so far that it could easily spill in front of you, take your middle finger and dip it into the wine. Don't spin it or swirl it, just seductively dip until your delicate digit is ready to drip. Pull it out, spill your body across the table, reaching toward his smiling face and softly trace his lips with liquid intoxication. Sit back in your seat and carry on with your conversation as if nothing happened. You've just amassed two cherries on your Sexpot Sundae.
Or...
Three ~ You and your beau are at a fine establishment worthy of purchasing a good bottle of 2003 Turley Dragon Vnyd Zinfandel. You cozy up close to him with your hand on his thigh and your eyes locked on his every word. You share secrets and whispers and laugh for the love of it all. When the Sommelier returns with your vintage and uncorks the bottle; pouring a taste and waiting for approval, rest your hand on your inamorato's hand when he goes to pick it up as if to say, "Not yet". While the wine steward awaits the fate of another pour, you take the glass, tilt it on it's side, penetrate the libation with your finger and gently part his lips with your lacquered fingertip until it drips on his tongue, beckoning him to suck your finger. When the Sommelier blushes and your companion (future diamond giver) rolls his eyes in pleasure (or loses his breath from shock), you lower your chin demurely with a nod and a smile and approve a complete pour. You have just put the knot in his cherry stem, you Sexpot Sundae! Extra nuts if the bus boy slips you his number.
May your glass never be empty and a smile permanently on his (and your) lips. Happy Sunday, my Lovelies!
Like ancient alabaster, there he stands.
Untouched by anything soiled, he gleams.
Where the cast of covered light bulbs,
And afternoon shadows cradle his every curve,
His every hollow, he is quiet.
With the pause of a caught breathe,
And the length of a thousand miles, he remains...
Waiting to be discovered.
Touched by tender fingertips,
And brushed with silken strands,
Explored by hungry tongues,
And tasted through sweet saliva,
He has felt everything only to feel nothing.
I roam and divide and mangle and preserve that which he is created from.
My eyes the only appendage to reach his skill,
He is there standing, now before me,
Waiting to leave.
