Wench Week - Out Like a Lamb

I had thought it might be good to close wench week with an anecdote about some wenchy event in my past. But there's a small problem with that -- I rarely let the Inner Wench out in public. I may have a wild streak but I am not one of those who proclaims that fact on her T-shirt. (Unless, perhaps, it says: I Only Wench Behind Closed Doors)

There was once, though…

OK, it's not really a wench story. There's insouciance but no sass. It's only brazen if you were up close and personal. But there is exposed bosom in it, so perhaps it warrants a place here. I will tell you right now, however, that it was sweet, quiet, and mellow, so if you're looking for anything that's throbbing or drenched, prepare to be gravely disappointed.
This is Romance - with just the slightest hint of wench ...

*************
We had danced an evening away already but this was our first "date". We met for drinks on a deck overlooking the harbor, late on a Sunday evening. Having pressed flesh for hours two nights earlier, there was no reason to be shy or coy. We were both interested and we each knew it. But we weren't frantic about anything, either. Even tonight wouldn't be The Night. Rather, this was the time to relax, to get to know each other, to tease and tantalize so that the foregone conclusion would be that much better later on.

We moved from the bar to the beach. By now, it was after midnight. Cresting the dunes, we descended into a private world. The night was warm, quiet, serene. Waves shusshed and pebbles tumbled. It was a full moon and there was a light fog. Not a blanketing type of fog, but the kind that takes the light and reflects and diffuses it, until you feel like you're inside your own personal shimmery waterglobe. You can see, but everything is soft and hazy and infinitely soothing.

A few steps down the beach, he stopped. Reaching out, he unbuttoned my thin linen shirt to the waist. "I just need to look." Fingers lightly traced the skin at the edges of my bra and he smiled, but nothing more. We had time, after all.
Pulling his hands back, he tucked me under his arm, drew me close, and started to walk again. We murmured our hellos to a couple that passed ... then another. He threw me an expectant glance or two. I smiled inwardly but said nothing. We continued to stroll in silence.

He broke first.

"Your tits are gorgeous in the moonlight and I'm enjoying the hell out of the fact that you didn't re-button your shirt. But you WILL pay for this later, you know ..."

"mmmhmmm...," I smiled.

Which I did.
And then smiled some more.
But that's a story for another day ...

Wench Week - Day 3

(I was going to call it "Hump Day" but decided that would lead to FAR too many disappointed leches!)

OK, so having satisfied the light-hearted wench requirement with a gratuitous boob shot, let's get back to the subject of words.

One reason I hop on board this no-name calling train each year is to encourage us all to think about what we say. Yes, I certainly support the espoused goal of eliminating the harassment and bullying that result from the use of hurtful words. But even more, I like the idea of promoting mindful speech.

I chose "wench" as my replacement word for the week, since I find it sassy and flippant and fun. Yet I have a friend who will backhand you if you call her a one, because it also means prostitute.

Hedone asked me how I feel about the word "cunt".
To me, it's nothing but an anatomical descriptor.
But some consider it a put-down. Others react like a guy I used to date, unable to refer to genitalia directly. He could only come out with "my thingie" for his parts -- mine had no name at all. "Cunt" would probably have caused immediate and severe hyperventilation.

He couldn't say "fuck" either, unless as an epithet.
Which is silly, because "fuck" is one of the great words of all time.
Simple but with force, it carries weight, connotes the peculiar balance of soft and hard of the action itself, and defines one of the most phenomenal sensory experiences a person can undergo.
(So naturally, it's most common usage is when things go badly wrong -- which is like using a Ferrari to transport manure. But I digress.)

The point (and I do have one!) is that you can never be sure what any word will mean to any one person. So, going a week without calling anyone a single name, even if we don't find the term particularly pejorative, is a very useful reminder to consider our words at all times. You may be surprised at what tries to slip out!

Wench Week 2011 - Day One

OK, time to eliminate that "b" word for a week again!
I ran through a number of alternate titles but I decided that, really, I hadn't sucked all the fun out of being a wench last year. So, I'm going with that again.

SP informs me, however, that to properly be a wench, there must be a lot of heaving, exposed bosom on display. Apparently I lost points for that last time 'round.

In the spirit of cooperation and wench-like abandon, then, I present the extremely rare personal photo. I just happen to have a pretty new bra:

I do realize, however, that this picture is static.
The bosom heaves not.

I suggest blinking rapidly ...

(Have I mentioned I feel like someone glitter-glued my boobs?)

What a Difference An Adjective Makes

Yes, that time is upon us again.

So, quickly, before I am effectually muzzled for a week by GLSEN,
(And no, they will NOT accept bribes to extend the event...!)
I'm going to touch on That Word once more.

"Bitch"
We know I don't like this word.
As an endearment? I find it mind-boggling.

I know it's semantics.
I know he means something other than what I hear.
But that doesn't matter. I still continue to struggle with being a bitch.

Except that the other day,
I was called, "my delicious, wanton, delightful little bitch"

Strangely, I don't feel at ALL reluctant to be that!

Never doubt it -  the word you choose makes a difference.

******************************************
SP: I like calling you a slut, it makes you very polite
Jz: ja, schat

Puzzle Me This

The wretched weather has us all sequestered inside, so I'm hunkered down with my jigsaw puzzle. I am SUCH a sucker for those!

I like 'em big and challenging, with lots of tiny little pieces to sort out.
No easy ones, n'uh-uh.

I like the ones that make me work for it.
I sift the loose pieces through my fingers, sorting, squinting, examining, poking, turning, testing, until I finally find where one or two belong. I like to see the finished product slowly take shape.

Not because I want to see the assembled picture.
I already know what it looks like.

It's that I like being able to understand the parts, to know each piece.
I want to discover the subtle, minute variations of color and texture in each bit, to understand how they help to create the big picture.
I like learning to recognize what I'm looking at, even out of context.

It's that rush of discovery that keeps pulling me back.

If a puzzle doesn't let you in, won't show you it's secrets, if you never have those small wins, there is no joy in it.
When it does, however, you have something intriguing, compelling...
Something that draws you back, time after time.

(hmmm... We are still talking jigsaw puzzles, right ...?)

My Prayer is Answered?

BG was sympathetic over my suction cup injury.
("Yeowch!")
But somehow, I knew...

Breakfast and a quickie this morning:

*ping!*
Him: On my way
me: yay!

*ping!*
Him: Naked and in your robe
me: got it



*ping!*
Him: Rope
me: roger



*ping!*
Him: Nipple toys
me: new, hot pink, blister-raising ones?
Him: Yep
me: *sighs deeply and types*
        "k"

But please give me points for faith and trust.

I did not say, "You aren't really going to ... ? Are you ...?"
I did NOT, at any point, ask if he'd lost his tiny little mind.
I didn't even flinch when he picked them both up and rolled them in his palm, watching my face.

I just looked calmly in his eyes.
(and prayed really, reeeely hard)

"Let's see the damage ..."
"Ow. That still looks sore. We'll skip it on this one."
(oh, thank you, Lord!)

"Thank you, Sir."
"I'll just put this one on here ..."
(Really - thank you, Lord!)

"... and then twist everything else twice as hard to make up for that one being missing ..."

| pause |

"Thank you, Sir"
That man has a VERY evil grin...

The Injury

My nephew tells me periodically that, "We need to buy you a helmet."
I try to protest but it's hard when you don't have a leg to stand on.

I'm a klutz who is prone to spectacular accidents.

The best I can do is own it.
And maybe work it.
Or at least share the absurdity of it all.

SO-

Let me tell you about my morning ...

I recently bought myself a pair of these:
Cute li'l hot pink plastic nipple suckers.
I have to admit, they're nifty gadgets. I've tried 'em a few times and me likey. They're simple but they work.

Luxuriating under the warm comforter on this snowy grey Saturday morning, I decided these would be just the thing to add that extra touch of sensation to the morning's solo entertainment.

It was a long, lazy, unhurried event, what can I say?

I noticed a time or two that the suction seemed to be easing, so I rectified the situation and returned to my previously-scheduled program. That last time really ratcheted the sensation up.
Oooo, that felt good ...

But all good things must come to an end.
Time to take these suckers off.

*pop!* ... *pop!*
"Holy Crap!!"

The second one fell away to reveal a giNORmous blood blister - the size of a pencil eraser, (nestled right up next to the other pencil eraser-like thing,) freshly broken and starting to drain.

Guess you're not supposed to utilize multiple re-suctions.
(Who knew?)

So now my litany of injuries also includes the one about The Time I Drew Blood With A Soft, Hot Pink Suction Cup.

*sigh*
Oh, well. At least BG liked the pictures ...