Feeling Primal

 

He breathes in me the breath of vitality.  Giving me anticipation of changing residence from the inhibited address that I own, to a more desirable zip code on the side of town known for sexually living.

He makes me feel primal. 

In a way I don’t quite totally understand.  Yet, I welcome.

His words are sadistic to me as I read them.  Their very existence DEMANDS I lean my head to the side and twirl my hair in my fingertips as I uncontrollably bite my bottom lip–like the innocent whore that I am.

I’m a virgin–to his type of seduction.

Untouched by his type of romance.

Pure–in owning an unbusted cherry to man of his caliber.

Everything in his aura gives me butterflies.  I can’t help but smell him through my computer screen.   And as I inhale, with the lustful nostrils of a virgin ready to taste the side of life that they have been missing;  my heart skips a beat when I think of him and at the prospect of giving myself away, at least in that regard; like it was the very first time.

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In My own Words

http://peaceinthestormpublishing.blogspot.com/2011/02/in-her-words-lorraine-elzia-on-ask.html

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When Prey Speaks from Ask Nicely and I Might

I study her in a manner I don’t want to. 
 
I can’t help myself. She captivates me as the willing prey that I am.
 
I can’t help but notice the cute way she has of tucking her hair behind her ear, just underneath the flower above her left lobe. That subtle seduction of hers drives me wild and she’s a pro at doing ‘subtlety’ well. 
 
Accidental, yet on purpose. 
 
I’ll give her that.
 
My whole body tingles as I watch.  I’m a voyeur by invitation and I welcome my role.
 
I feel as though I am cheating on Alex by virtue of my need to watch her.
 
To study her.
 
To absorb her.
 
I try to stop myself, but I can’t.  My actions are futile.
 
I stop fighting and go with the flow.
 
What I’m doing is not physically cheating, it’s not emotionally cheating, but it is visually cheating and I’m guilty as charged.
 
She knows I am watching her, and she likes it. 
 
We both do.
 
I sense it in her movements, for they are accentuated and overdone for this audience of one.
 
We’ve yet to speak actual words to one another, yet she is seducing me just the same.  Guilt consumes me as I rationalize her performance for my benefit and I hate to admit it…
 
As I try to fight it…
 
While protesting with my mind in the manner I feel inclined to do.
 
Yet my mental efforts mean nothing as my body still gives her the standing ovation she deserves. 
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Musketeer Christmas

          My fondest memory of Christmas comes from the first Christmas after my sister and I figured out that our gifts did not come from a jolly white bearded man in a red suit, but from our single parent mother who worked overtime at two jobs just to see us smile on Christmas day.

           We were the three musketeers; my mother, my sister and me.  It was us against the world and we seemed to hold our own.  The only time an outsider was let into the posse was for Christmas when my sister and me welcomed Santa into the fold. 

           In those early years, my sister and I never understood why Santa’s handwriting looked a lot like mommy’s on the tags on the gifts under the tree.  Nor did we understand why her prideful eyes held a little bit of jealousy as we sang praises to Santa for our gifts. 

          With age comes wisdom and if age doesn’t school you, other kids will.  Soon the proverbial grapevine told us there was no Santa and that our mom was the one supplying the gifts.  We didn’t want to believe them, but the left over cookies in the refrigerator and the half-drank glass of milk with her lipstick on the glass made her suspect.  It soon dawned on us that the schoolyard grapevine was right and Santa wouldn’t leave cookies in a fridge he wouldn’t visit again for another year and from everything we had been told about him, he didn’t wear Avon shade #12 lipstick either, so we knew the truth was that Santa and mommy were one in the same.

         After opening our gifts that first Christmas after our discovery, my sister and I allowed our mother to hang on for a little while to the belief that her daughters still had the innocent belief in fairytales and myths.  But that Christmas we just said how thankful we were for being fortunate enough to receive gifts; we no longer gave the glory to the man in the red suit.  Our mother’s eyes began to have less envy in them for the sleigh driver who had stolen part of her joy for years.  When she went into the kitchen she saw the note we had left on the plate of half-eaten cookies that said, “Thanks for all you do.”

         That Christmas, we started a new tradition, every Christmas morning we would go out in the front yard, lay down in the snow and move our arms and legs side to side leaving snow angles on our lawn.  Mommy was always in the middle with a daughter on each side.  We left our marks every Christmas morning that we didn’t need Santa or anyone else because we were, and always would be, the Three Musketeers.

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ADQ: A woman is just an ant

An ant can carry 20 times its weight.

 I’m willing to place a bet that the average woman carries double that amount on her shoulders on a daily basis. And like the ant we do it for survival and protection of the colony…maintenance of the home.

 The ant is small, seemingly powerless, and insignificant in the eyes of more aggressive and hurtful prey. Yet it still functions, accomplishing miraculous deeds day by day, carrying the weight of others on its back so that “its” kind may function, survive and thrive.

 Such is the plight of WOMAN.

We move mountains…

Fragile in our thoughts and emotions

Mighty in our accomplishments and deeds.

 Our homes,

Our jobs,

Our children

and mankind in general

would cease to be

without the equation of those that are womanly…..

 So next time your world is overwhelming

Next time you feel the weight of the world rest solely on your shoulders,

liken yourself to the ant.

 Relish in the fact that because of YOU

Others live

Because of you

Others survive

Because you carry more than your own weight

Our world can thrive.

 So Ms. Ant….

embrace your destiny,

And if you ever feel like you can’t take all of the pressure upon yourself any more….

whistle this song, wink and smile:

 Just what makes that little ole ant, think he can move a rubber tree plant…anyone knows and ant, can’t… move a rubber tree plant…but he’s got high hopes….And anytime you’re feeling low, ‘sted of letting go, just remember that ant CAN….move a rubber tree…move a rubber tree…move a rubber tree plant!

 You are the ant. 

You can move a rubber tree plant and anything else you put your mind to do.

You might be carrying the world on your shoulders

But the possibilities in you dictate that you should shake off the thoughts of “I can’t” and replace them with “I can, and I will.”

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A Deeva Quickie (ADQ) A man will be a man, even if he is just a boy

(Previously shared with some)

I never have to wonder when my mother knew I had come of age.  There were two events that caused it and after each she never looked at me the same. The first was when I got my period for the first time.  After a day and a half of crying, she got me some library books, video tapes then had a long conversation with me about how I was a woman now and that my body had matured to do what it was designed to do. She never looked at me the same. 

The second event was when I wrote in my diary about my first sexual encounter.  I poured it all out there, the good, the bad, the ugly, it was all written in a book that was supposed to be for my eyes only.  Yet she looked.  She saw. She was mortified. I tried to cover it up once I knew she had seen it by saying I only wrote what I did because I knew my nosey sister was reading my diary, so I wanted to give her something juicy to bust her on later as proof she was spying.  My mother didn’t buy it, but she acted like she did.  I’m sure she hoped and prayed that my lie was the truth, but deep within, we both knew her heart told her otherwise and her eyes never looked at me the same.

Those two incidents screamed to her that her baby was no longer her baby. From that point on she knew that I was a woman, or at least on the road to becoming one.  I think she was more hurt at me losing my youth than she was disappointed in my actions.  But either/or…things had changed. Her baby was becoming the same as her…a woman and I know that part of her heart ached because of all that entailed.

Today my heart aches.  It’s a feeling that you have to be a mother to truly feel. It’s that moment that your child crosses over; the moment when they are no longer innocent and have made the transition that defines all adults at some point or another–the pursuit of lust.

I knocked on his door as I always do before entering.  His room is his haven, and I respect that.  He did not hear me knocking.  He had no time to hide what he was viewing. As the door to his room opened there it was on a full 21-inch computer screen.

Porn. 

At first my motherly eyes that normally look at my son with a crush of him being perfect, thought I had entered the wrong room and had entered my 19 year olds room instead.  But that wasn’t the case. 

Sweetness…my pride and joy, my 16 and a half year old virgin, my football player extraordinaire, my innocent child, the one that every teacher loves, the one with the good grades, the Morris chestnut looks and the perfect smile, the one that parents come up to me at games asking can they adopt…

 ’Sweetness’ was looking at porn.

Our eyes met as he tried to down size the screen.  I just looked at him and left the room.

His brother came in my room as I sat in shock and I told him, “I just saw your brother looking at porn.”  Will chuckles and tries to comfort his dramatic mother.  “Ma, it was bound to happen, he’s 16, that’s what boys do as they come into manhood.  Just be happy he was only looking when you came in.”

I sent hubby a text at work and told him what I saw, his response…”It was bound to happen, he’s 16.”  Then he told me he would heighten the security on the computer.

Both of those 3rd legs could not feel my pain.  Hummm…I guess you have to be a mother to understand. I can’t say that I am really disappointed because having a 3rd leg does cloud judgment when you have sperm on the brain.  But I guess I am just hurt.  Because for the first time, I feel what my mother felt when I got my period and when I lost my virginity.  I guess I am just sad because this signals the end of his innocence.  I guess I am just seeing my baby disappear and a man emerge.  I guess I just don’t want to let go of the child-like beauty that I could always witness through his eyes. 

All of that is gone and I know, much like my mother, I will never look at him the same.  I think that is what hurts most.

There will be discussion about this tonight…actions will be taken concerning his computer to block him looking at porn, but in the end, tonight Sweetness joined the number, and I had to realize that men will be men, even if the man is a boy.

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ADQ (A Deeva Quickie): Pony Express; Heavenly Father Style

Ever been sitting in church listening to a sermon and felt it was spoken just for you?
Ever been reading a quote or story that hit home and spoke to the core of your soul just when you needed it?
Ever had a stranger encourage you, just when your confidence was low?
Ever thought about a long lost friend and then got an email or card from them saying you were on their mind?
Ever talked to a random stranger about nothing….yet EVERYTHING at the same time and you walked away feeling full…feeling fed?

That’s God’s Pony Express in your life. It’s a message that started in his hands long ago, but was delivered to you right on time….right at the moment that was destined for you to receive it.

In this microwave popcorn existence that we refer to as our lives…a time when we want instant gratification and results….

Sometimes our Father slows that puppy down.
He does it for our own good.

He forces us, in spite of ourselves, to stop and smell the flowers along the way to where we are running the rat race to get to. Sometimes He takes His sweet time just so that we may savor the moment…Savor the messenger and savor the delivery.

Next time your blessing comes right at the time you needed it, recognize that the old fashion way of delivering messages…the method of slowly but surely….only heightens the experience and enhances the fulfillment. Take a moment to recognize that in doing so….in giving you a blessing handed to you by the Pony Express of deliverance…..He is making the entire experience more worthwhile.

(That’s your marinating moment for today…and as my favorite pastor used to say….I ain’t talking about nobody….just talking about what I’m talking about.)

Smooches…

~A Deeva~

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