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.
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.
The next round of structural reorganization is upon us and today it’s personal. Don’t get me wrong, job eliminations of any kind are personal in nature. You are impacting a person’s livelihood, how can it not be personal. Today, today though, is the start of the restructuring within the central professional groups. Essentially the teams that have been endeavoring on behalf of the company for the last year are about to go through the exact exercise that that we’ve been guiding our company through.
It’s “Up in the Air” but internal to one’s own team. It sucks. It just does. I’m heartsick for my friends, colleagues and business partners that will be impacted today which may or may not include my team as well. It’s just that kind of day.
No, no, that was not meant to be salacious in nature. Truly.
Along with making a career change, traveling for the better part of the last six weeks, the mid-point of the semester for both kidlets, our eldest is in the throes of applying for college.
Or rather, she and her fellow class of 2015’s are in the homestretch of testing; here in the U.S. it ranges from the ACT, SAT, Subject specific testing, Early Decision applications, letters of recommendation and for other students like her that are “candidates for admission” to one of the four U.S. Military Academies, a battery of physical fitness exams, applications for congressional sponsorships which each require yet another layer of letters of recommendation. This is in addition to their every day studies and the various graduation requirements depending on the state in which they live in and or even the school district.
Add into the mix the enormous amount of pressure they are under from parents, their own expectations, the “competition” of their peers, some have part-time jobs, or full-time jobs, various home-life situations, sports or clubs or dance or, or , or…and of course, the fact that they are 16, 17 or 18-year old’s with raging hormones.
The work they are doing just to apply to college makes my head spin. And begs the question I’ve found myself asking other parents in similar situations. “I don’t remember it being this hard, do you?” Granted, I applied to college eons ago, and yes, I remember taking the SAT’s, once. Not multiple times or with the benefit of going to an expensive and intensive prep course. For my classmates and I, the majority of us knew we were going to go to college. For the majority of the majority, it was going to be college at one of the various in-state options and for others it was going to be the alma mater of their parents or grandparents and for a select few, it would be a school that was recruiting them for their academic and or athletic prowess. We looked at colleges by browsing the college catalogs in the high school counseling offices. No internet, no college fairs etc. We simply requested the application information via old fashioned snail mail and sent the same applications back the same way.
Maybe it’s a matter of looking back through rose colored glasses but I really don’t remember having to jump through so many loops or being pushed one way or another. Other than “you are going to college, not if”. In talking with several other parents, from a wide spectrum of socio-economic backgrounds, they remember it as I do. Almost a simple, what can you afford and apply there. That’s probably over-simplifying it but you get the gist.
What about you? Do you remember your senior year in high school, especially those educated in the U.S., being so rife with pressure and a double booked schedule just to shore up your resume to apply to college? I guess I just don’t remember it being so hard.
It was with nervous and giddy excitement that I paced the small space at the station near the turnstiles.
The trains were running on time that day and without fail, the train pulled in and I tried not to scan the crowd. I tried to be nonchalant, as if it were every week night that I met him. There, at the train.
And then my eyes met his cerulean blue eyes and the next thing I knew all decorum flew out the proverbial window as I stood up on my tip toes to kiss him…
Fellow Bloggers and people in my real life alike often ask what it is about London, that resonates with me? I don’t know the answer to that. No, wait, that’s not quite accurate. I don’t know that I can articulate what it is about Central London but it’s definitely a state of mind for me. Not unlike Billy Joel’s New York State of Mind
Truthfully, it’s not about England, or the other, even more amazing places throughout Britain or the United Kingdom. It’s definitely central London. I’ve friends and colleagues that are definite Anglophile’s and that isn’t me. I wish I could say it was but it’s not. No, it’s even more base than that. My entire being feels different the moment I step off the jet way and head towards immigration at LHR. It’s as if an electrical current is running through my veins and my soul sighs “ah, it’s good to be home.” There is no rational explanation but that feeling, the feeling of being right where I belong started from my very trip across the pond 13-years ago.
For a while, I worked in an organization where I traveled the world quarterly, which meant I was in London four times a year for a week. Granted, my free time was limited to the walk from my hotel to the offices in Soho and back. If I wasn’t too exhausted I would take my time walking back, take in central London at night, stop at any one of the numerous eateries for a bite or hit a museum that had late hours. I’d find ways to get out of the obligatory office dinner and drinks at least twice in a week to either take in a show or to simply immerse myself in London. Even after I moved to a new role in a different organization, London was never far from my mind.
So much so that instead of joining girlfriends for long weekends in Vegas or Napa, for the past 5-years I’ve set aside a week each September for a solo trek to mecca. I still have work accountabilities, and I make time for family time via Skype but with the time difference and my insomnia, I have entire days in London.
My personality shifts when I’m in London as well. Shifts may be too strong of a word. Maybe it’s more of an attitude adjustment. I feel more alive, I have more energy, I walk everywhere and I feel sexy. Not sexy as in come hither sexy but confident. No one knows me in London, well okay, that’s not true but it’s not like walking around the city I live in or even San Francisco or Los Angeles where I’ve lived etc. But in London, I am anonymous. Not invisible but anonymous.
As Ann St. Vincent knows, I had an appointment at Agent Provocateur during this past trip. While I’ve lost over 130-pounds and kept them off for the last 4-years, I’m still a bit too ample (or curvy as polite people will say to me-lol) to purchase some of the delicious items they have for sale. That doesn’t stop me from making an appointment each year and finding something to spend way too much money on, but I can assure you that I don’t know that I could do that here in the States. My state of mind whilst in London is one in which I don’t feel as if I have to shrink to belong in a store. Or perhaps it’s the more open culture in Europe in general?
Another store I adore is Coco de Mer, outside of San Francisco or New York City, I can’t think of any large, metropolitan city in the U.S. where you will find a beautiful and classy BDSM boutique amongst the high end shopping, boutique hotels, salons and eateries such as Coco de Mer in Covent Garden. While I may giggle a bit to myself whenever I cross the threshold, I never feel judged as I browse their offerings or when I step back out into the bustling sidewalks on Monmouth. The same can be said when scheduling a service at the Ministry of Wax (Hollywood all the way) no overriding feeling of needing to apologize in advance for being a plus size gal.
And of course, there are the book stores, the museums, the various walks of life every where. It’s the rush of life every where around you.
There is something to be said for confidence. For feeling good about where you are at that moment. For me, London personifies all of this for me…
I am many things. Innocent is not one of them. Then again, I haven’t claimed to be.
is me is really me 