(...friendly note to those tuning in again, and to those less friendly readers.... apologies for my seeming absence, etc. ...
My excuse is... I was working on "steaming.")
I must say I will not always write this way. Please don't tune out if you are not turned on....; I can write "good."
I wish to welcome you all again. Obviously, I have to learn how to "blog" and not try to blog short novels. This may be impossible.
Please stay with me. We'll work it out.
It may just come in spurts. L.L.
A Dear Friend, whose name will be spared, requested I write something more salacious for my next blog. At first, I couldn't swallow the idea.
It's only Blog #2, and I must be careful of my reputations ... reputation... and not give myself, ...or selves, away..... like I just did. Let's pretend this is another nom-de-plume. How freeing! Under pseudonym, I could write the sequel to 'The Story of O', and no one would ever know! (So many today wouldn't know mine wasn't the first go.) Never mind. Few know what I'm talking about, including me. I may be writing in first person, but this character has nothing to do with moi, and whatever she is,.. does, will become, suits her fancy, jerks her chains, or otherwise.... it might be YOU, but may I just reiterate, not at all me.
Remember, it's just a POV.
So... how raunchy and ribald are we feeling? I won't ask again. I guess if you talk about it too much, the mood is gone. Haven't we all made that mistake..., or is it only mouthy writers? I think I'm ready to do this, painful as it might be....
Here we go, Jack. Oh. Sorry. Forgot nameless. Let's just call you DF (dear friend), just in case you need future reference. O.k., Jack? Sorry again. Rough start. This is harder than I thought it was going to be. But you must like that.
At the crack of dawn, I rolled (slipped) off satin sheets and touched (hit) the floor with excitement to breathe in the day and pour out words...and perchance other things. Still wearing a satin something (no, I did not roll out of bed wrapped in the sheet as you are picturing), I sleepily sauntered downstairs, ...thud, thud, thud... still in a dream state, slowly approached, and reached out... to turn on... my computer. Excitement in me was approaching the level of daylight robbery, yet, as of yet, all thought, no action... No arrests. I had the dawning that of course I could write something more salacious than not-salacious-at-all (as was my first blog). I could please my nameless reader and more! I hope you are not all going to get jealous of one another. I know; I worry about feelings too much to write. I worry that I could have/ should have written this better in the night. How was I going to satisfy DF's unctuous wishes first thing in the morning? There is a reason they call it a dawning and not a fawning. No one's words are slick and smarmy enough to roll off the tongue too early with dry mouth.
First, I would need a little bubbly. DF said he wanted "salacious,"not "salubrious," so we're safe, but is safe what we really want in this genre? Questionably, I looked at the clock. Yes, I question my good judgement in doing that. I question my good judgement in writing this. Why ruin a good thing, feeling guilty so early in the morning? I thought the better of it. Bubbly!?! What was I thinking!?! ...Wine would be a better choice. Hemingway would think so. I abandoned the machine which needed a plug-in and went into the kitchen for something more free standing. Then the devil himself appeared from behind and forced me to put down the bottle and corkscrew and reach for a banana. He must have become health conscious with the rest of society's trends. That's why he is the devil to me, and bad in my books, getting in the way of my fun. I couldn't see him, but he was there, almost incarnate, wearing satin pajamas, too, as I saw it. No, it wasn't Hugh Hefner in the kitchen, though I do remember that day... and you think I'm kidding? Another blog...another life...; by the way, how did all those guys write, way back around the B.C/ A.D days, without a decent amount of thirst quenching in the A.M.? I guess if they had, the stories would have been a little different. Ultimately, they would have called the finished product The ImBibel.
The banana wouldn't take any time at all. I knew I had this one covered, and so did the guy who invented it. I mean I don't cook, so I can handle this bit of a meal. You can eat it raw. Fast and convenient like I like it sometimes. I knew I had to get to work, writing and drinking... I'm not Hemingway, or am I?... ( female version, if there could be one? No. Remember, we are talking Hemingway!)....No, not I,... not for size, nor beard (ooo, tough visual... certainly not titillating)... though I did love fishing when I was younger and spent a lot of time in Ketchum, Idaho. We can talk about that in yet another risque-on-the-river blog, where only slightly vetted and wetted watermelons will come loose and roll down the stream...with our stripping and diving in for the chase....
I certainly know it would not be Ernest, the writer, for his love of the juice, who would make me put down the preferred breakfast, nor in his earnest, a fellow soul, should I sully His name, and take him down with me. Wish he were really here in the kitchen playfully wrestling on the ground like it sounds. What would we say to one another once we uprighted the chairs again and sat breathless to chat? Never mind. Sometimes there are no words, or words enough. We might be lost in translation. He would have to work too hard to bump up his simple sentences in order to get a word in with me.
Maybe we would decide just not to talk. I would feel his grand presence. Sometimes, one just has to bow to greatness.
I succumbed. I peeled the fruit and consumed it wholeheartedly. Unfortunately, no one was watching. The devil had gone. So had Hemingway for the moment. That was their bad luck.
My cat was there. I knew I was sensing a third party in the room. She was sprawled out on her little mat by the door in the sun, looking like a poser in a Renaissance painting, bigger than her background, and ready to take over a whole canvas. I bent over to pick her up for my exercise of the day, and embraced her, 'the Immoveable Feast Beast.' Just for my touch, she greeted me with hair everywhere. That's when satin comes in handy defense. It's slippery and nothing sticks. I knew what was coming and it comes every day. I'm just so lucky. There is "shedding light" on something, and then there is shedding in the light. In the latter case, one cannot breathe, and simultaneously see why for the sudden floating whirlwind of flying fluff, a Storm in the room; thus, the cat's name, Storm Cloud! This high-pressure flurry does not cease until you put the little lovely "Two-Ton-Kitty" back down, and walk away slowly, while reaching for a sticky roller. I should design protective wear for those who chase tornados. After twelve years of loving her, I have had to craft or run for cover. Silk is also my preferred choice of fabric for the same satiny, obvious reasons. Hairs don't stick, and it allows for love without the clinginess. By the way, this does not mean I cannot commit.
And, by the way, again, this is not that kind of story.
Hemingway is now tapping me on the shoulder. Maybe he wants to go hunting or fishing, but I haven't showered. I think one should be clean before they do any sport, even the most odiferous, which is bound to make you unclean all over again, I know. Nothing wrong with that. Is there any order in disorder? .. disodeur? ... That's why the French made perfume... to confuse us all. Oh, I am craving France, but I told him I have to write. Maybe he wants to go to Paris, and throw one back at the bar, before the next chapter, at the Cloiserie de Lilas...
What? Throw me on my back on a bar?!
(I do have the hardest time!... hearing him.)
Why not?! That would work wonders for this wantonly bogged blog! Forget the shower! Then I would really have something to write about! The bar is exciting me the most at this moment! Nonetheless, no. NO.
I'm not that kind of girl. Sorry, Jack and Ernest. Oh, the list is growing, and it's only ten in the morning.
Hey! Where are you all going? Now the cat is gone, too, and I'm starting to rhyme like Cat in the Hat! (sorry)....and no wonder I am alone. I could reach for the remote, for the kettle and teapot, and maybe even the tea flakes.... leaves...whatever! (but I since I don't cook, I obviously don't know how to make heated tea, really...as confirmed once by an English friend.) Still spunky and hungry, I could reach for another banana, but as usual, there is a very different urge beckoning....
I've decided I have a real rendezvous with the Door. It is neither rebuke nor relief from the dishes and my little kitchen, nor from my pet, kids, nor husband lurking on the inside.
I just want the neighbors to see my satins.
Most discouragingly, I am not making a mad dash for a limo waiting outside, pre-packed (... or planning to buy when I get there...) for a plane to Paris with another celebrity....
(another time, another true story.).
You can scratch my back for that one, too. Sorry, now I AM the cat. No. Not this cat. That would be too much of a stretch. I probably did not survive the Renaissance.
The door is open. There is a warm breeze wafting without enough fans nor any fanfare. There is a blank page to caress. There is wine and one banana left, or is it favoring the right? Never mind. It’s practically tropical here. On what island have we landed? Another day, another simply salacious blog,… with less emphasis on “simple” next time. I hope DF and EH are still eagerly awaiting me, baited. See I do know something about fishing.
