my son is now 12-years old. he is high functioning and at the same time a pre-teen with the social challenges of every day kids with the additional complexity of the inability to cope or respond in a neurotypical way. Reading this post and the subsequent articles makes my heart hurt and squeeze in fear.
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I haven’t been posting much as of late; a combination of many things including but not limited to;
- new career is kicking my ass (and it’s a fat ass at that) and I don’t have the same free time or mental wherewithal to write as I wish to
- it’s the homestretch for kidlet #1 and guiding her through the college application process, the last of the standardized tests and senior requirements feels like a full-time job in of it self
- there are so many more talented writers out there so I’ve been reading, lurking and commenting here and there
However, one of my favorite bloggers, Ann St. Vincent, recently posted a clarification post after a particularly difficult day in which she felt she needed to apologize for her thoughts and feelings and posting honestly, as honest as one chooses to be, on her own blog. She also went on to state that she isn’t infallible. Well duh, that’s just one of the reason’s I really enjoy her writing. She is who she is, I have never felt judged by her, even when we have disagreed or have a difference of opinion.
I find her unabashed intelligence and keen sense of humor compelling but it’s her human frailty and her willingness to post real and raw moments and feelings that draws me back. In one moment, she is very clear that she wants to continue on her path of sexual discovery and freedom whilst not being willing to share her lover. That is real people. She doesn’t apologize for wanting it all as much as she questions herself on her own motivations and desires.
She expressed sadness that she may have lost some followers due to her words not ringing true or perhaps because she offended them. Unintentionally. I admire her for caring, for wanting to provide clarity even if she doesn’t need to. So when I ran across this lost word, latibule, earlier this evening. I thought of her and her safe place. Her writings, her online journal, which she has chosen to share with us.
Thank you Ann, your latibule is just that. Yours.
the ache is ever present. the need. the lust. the desire. the craving. for his scent. his taste. his weight upon my body. him.
she turned to walk away. again. when he reached out and pulled her to him. tilting her head up questioningly he silenced the question with his lips crushing hers and his tongue finding his way into her mouth. rendering her speechless, literally and figuratively.
the moisture on their faces only distinguishable if one were to taste the saltiness indicative of tears. hers. his. theirs. as they say goodbye. in their city. under the beautiful rainfall they’ve come to love. goodbye.
The girl was feeling exhausted but happy when she pulled her car into her driveway. She’d run one of the last high school cross-country meets of the season, and she’d placed well. Her mother had gone to watch her and told her daughter to meet her back at home to celebrate the victory.
Their house was lit up as the girl got out and walked down the drive, but it was pitch black outside. It was late autumn, and the sun had set hours earlier.
As she approached her back door, she spotted pieces of fried chicken strewn in front of her, as if someone had gleefully thrown a bucket of it into the air. A leg, then a breast, then another leg were spread out before her. She felt unnerved by the mysterious, deep-fried scene.
She went inside to meet her brother and sister dividing Halloween candy on the…
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this article has been making the rounds on various social media sites and has spurred many conversations amongst my oldest and her group of friends (which fortunately is comprised of a diverse spread of both genders, ages, and sexual orientation). conversations and awareness help end the silence that has long permeated throughout society. whether in Canada, the U.S., across the pond etc.
Consent is explicit, not implied.
There’s been a bit of hovering these past several days, the freedom to post limited by a multitude of factors. But what I’ve noticed in so many is a recurring theme. Of moving onward, forward in the various journey’s that I follow.
Some are making deliberate choices to forge ahead, even leaving their blogs as a way to move forward. Others are taking tentative steps, some painful, some resigned and yet others unfettered in a way they haven’t been in years.
And a small few are struggling mightily, for a multitude of reasons to make any moves at all. And yet, each are determined to persevere, to stretch and grow. I find each of them inspiring in their own way. Brave with courage in their hearts.
“never look down on anybody unless you’re helping them up”
a quick proud mom moment. oldest is a challenge, to be clear. i’m sure the fact that she’s a hormonal 17-year old has nothing to do with it *smirk*. But I will admit she does have her moments.
The video above was sent to a few parents earlier this week from another parent that we don’t know very well. He prefaced the video by saying he wished he had thought to capture what he witnessed earlier this week and this video was along the lines of what he saw. hmm… he went on to explain that he was at a local super Target (has a grocery store and pharmacy etc.) and on his way in there was a mother with two small children and the usual sign that said something akin to: “anything will help. husband and me (sic) work in fast food but can’t always covers bills. food and diapers needed most.” he said he avoided their eyes and walked into get his list purchased and get out.
on his way out he saw these teenage girls giving this woman bags with basic foods, diapers, formula and small stuffed animal for each child. the woman was overcome and said she would go and wait for the bus the group said they would take the bus with her and help her with the items. another girl in the group gave the woman a her bus card saying she can always buy another one.
Naturally, tears welled up and then the emails, texts and calls flew between the parents of the girls in question. Do we ask them about it? Why haven’t they said anything? And of course the random “you knew didn’t you?” etc. It boiled down to none of us knew our kids did this and probably wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the father of another student who recognized these girls. we checked their social media sites, nothing. We didn’t know what to do, we are proud of them and wanted to let them know yet there had to be a reason we didn’t know.
The opportunity to do some not so subtle digging came last night when my daughter came home with 4 of them in tow, deciding on a last minute sleepover. I asked them about it, they fell silent. finally, one spoke up and merely said “mrs. smith-we try to do something like that once a month. we have been since we were freshmen. it’s no big deal, it’s just our way of trying to make a difference as friends.” and of course all of them asked if their parents knew? I had to tell them that we now knew and asked why the secret? A cacophony of female voices filled the air “not a secret really, just not a big deal” “we do it because we want to, not because we have to” “didn’t think anyone needs to know” “it’s like fight club, we don’t talk about dsg club”(dsg=do something good) “please tell our parents to help us keep this quiet”…hmm I think that’s going to be hard, but we’ll try.
mind. blown. literally.
Wow what a crap day. Seriously. And I admit, before meeting up with my colleagues, these fine people that I’ve worked along side of for several years, I had to release some of the stress. No time to run to the gym, and besides, I not only left my gym bag at home, the gym is 15-miles in the opposite direction of the restaurant everyone was gathering at.
So I ducked into the combo ladies locker room/mothers room/restroom at work, just after the janitorial staff and made myself comfortable in one of the privacy stalls. A few deep shoulder shrugs and neck rolls before I remembered to breathe…
Deeply, as if matching my breathing to his. And as I drifted, I had this overwhelming memory of him; my body betraying my need for a few winks in favor of feeding the lust that precedes a dream…
I find myself up on all fours, my ass up, twitching in anticipation as the soft breeze teases me. Memories flash; of his mouth upon me, the bite of his teeth, and the sure, firm possession in the way his hands devour my body. As his touches me, pinches me, a longing moan escapes from my mouth. His large hand-print bright and red on my ass, the result of loving spankings doled out for various transgressions over the course of time. And then, his fingers reach to explore my sex. As if to ensure that I am still his. Still wet for him. Still lustful, hungry and in need. My eyes roll to the back of my head and I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t resist the need to rock back and forth, grinding into his hand, dripping as it begs for him to keep touching me. Taking me.
My hands, are bound before me, looking even smaller than usual but the color of my nail polish is set off well in comparison to the soft rope he’s selected to bound me with, my elbows now red from the burn and my knees, oh my knees are livid with the impression from the seams of the bedspread. Mewling moans fall from my mouth only to be further articulated by gasps of pleasure and guttural grunts driven by lustful inhibition. The fingers from his free hand tracing unseen trails up and down my back further eliciting sounds of ecstasy.
And then, after my body has come over and over, my legs quivering and breasts sore and pink, he takes me again, with the pleasure of his full, hard cock with one deep thrust. Pushing through the juice of desire built up within in, overflowing and dripping down my legs as he thrusts in and out of my wet pussy, eager to tighten itself around his shaft in convulsing orgasms…
mmm yes, just what a gal needs to relieve the stress and release the endorphins. Cleaning myself up and readjusting my clothes, I walk to the garage ready to commiserate with my team.
Job eliminations are only easy when you’re terminating someone for cause, and even then, everyone has a story. Leaving the office for the night, the eerie silence and pall permeating the halls is palpable.
Going to meet up with colleagues, those impacted and those lucky to remain employed….
is me is really me 