Reserved Lust.


Every inch of Stella’s body was damp with sweat. The air around her smelled sticky. She opened her hazy eyes, as the corner of her lips elevated. A smile that even a stranger would recognize as sinful.

This was the second night in a row she had dreamed about him. She was so twisted in the sheets, it was like he was there with her. Stella squeezed her eyes shut and tried to lock in every thrust and moan.

Stella rolled over and stared at her handsome husband. They had been married three years now. She glanced at the alarm clock next to him. She knew in two minutes, he would wake, stretch and stumble his way to the bathroom. Peter never set the alarm. He never needed to rely on it. His life had become a busy, worn routine. One that left Stella feeling invisible and unfulfilled.

At a café near her office, Stella devoured a Rueben and the last chapter of her book.

Stella? Hey! I thought that was you.”

Stella was startled by the familiar voice, causing her to look up from her book, a piece of limp lettuce hanging from her full mouth. There he was, Jonah, the man she almost married; the man that she welcomed in to her dreams.

Suddenly, her head had a flirtation tilt, as she said, “Hey you! Just having some meat, I mean a bite to eat! I mean, I’m on my lunch break, care to join me?”

As Jonah sat down, Stella could feel a warm energy crawling up her thighs. All she could think about was the way his thick, rough hands used to guide her hips, as she slowly took him in and out. Stella craved his kind of masculine attention again.

Within the first few seconds of sitting across from each other, neither saying a word, the sexual tension became palpable. It never went away, even when their relationship did.

Jonah asked, “It’s been what, four years since we last saw each other? I still think of you often, Stella.”

Stella could see nothing but the rise and fall of his chest, as she admitted, “I think about you too.”

Neither of them mentioned the fact that they had both gotten married since they last saw each other.

Stella wanted nothing more than to use what was left of her lunch break, to let Jonah make her feel alive again.

Suddenly, Peter flashed in her mind. Stella wanted to cry. The only piece missing from their marriage, passion, was sitting right in front of her, but out of her reach.

Stella knew what she had to do. She asked Jonah about his family. It was the only way to bring them both back down from the erotic high they were swimming in.


That evening, Peter walked in from work, right on cue. Stella, lying naked on the couch, her body glowing from the candles surrounding her, immediately stood and walked to him. Peter started to speak, but Stella put her finger to his lips. She grabbed hold of his tie, and pulled him to the floor.


Don't take life too serious., Momma has lost her mind.

19 and Falling.



Passion explodes within his eyes

as I begin to wonder between his thighs

a deep breath and a teasing sigh

a want or need I cannot decide.

I’m screaming and yearning to feel him inside

his hands no longer shy

his kisses, his thrust – a natural high

he seduces my mind, body and soul

his actions and thoughts becoming more bold

my moans and cries I cannot withhold

holding and caressing I never want to let go.

I’ve never felt this way before

my entire body begs for more

and then as one, we fall motionless to the floor

his eyes dig deep inside mine, begin to explore

looking for the answer I’m sure

I know what it is he is looking for.

My eyes tell the story he wants to see

“Baby, it’s you, you’re all I need

I feel loved and safe, you have set me free

baby, I love you

you complete me”.

** The United Colours of Orgasm Thermal Nude       by 

Don't take life too serious.

Walking In My Husband’s Worn Out Work Boots.

work boots

“Every day I come home to a frazzled wife, a messy house and whiney children.”

I’m not mad at my husband for saying that. It was out of frustration, in the midst of a healthy morning argument. Ok maybe I was a little at first…or maybe a lot. Maybe, initially I took it as a personal attack on how I run this house and wanted to fly across the room, matrix style, and connect my foot with his jewels. But after grabbing the keys, spinning the tires out of the driveway, going for a ride by myself and stewing over it for at least 24 hours…I got it. I would be lying if I said I didn’t already know he felt this way. Some days, it’s written all over his face when he walks in the house.

I could get my panties in a bunch about this and start ranting about all the unknowns I do in a day that prevent me from keeping my house clean and how dare he blah, blah, blah. The truth is, I know my husband has the same love/hate relationship with me being a SAHM as I do. He’s just graciously refrained from saying it…until now.

Here’s another truth I stumbled upon this morning: A man so candidly stating he hates living in a dirty house, dealing with whiney children and a psychotic (insert nervous laugh) wife will no doubt have a mob of angry, duck faced women, shaking their heads and wagging their fingers (yep…right there with them!). He would be a total asshat that my girlfriends and I would crucify over coffee while our whiney, ungrateful kids create more of a mess around us. It occurred to me that I complain about those things on the daily to my girlfriends and if I didn’t have that option, I would implode in to a hot mess worthy of electric shock therapy.

Believe me, it feels weird to be defending men so vigorously, but this time it’s personal and I’m connected to it by my heart strings.

This is not a post for making excuses for the chauvinistic, only a father and husband on paper kind of man. I know that man. I know women that are unfortunately married to that man. That man doesn’t deserve the effort his wife, unbeknownst to him, devotes to him.

This is a post about putting my self in a hard working man’s worn out boots. Steel toed boots that carry a man who always puts his family first and says thank you after finishing a supper I cooked, whether he loved it or not. A man that vacuums the stairs and washes the windows because he knows it’s hard enough for me to stay on top of the “normal” chores. A man that brushes his daughter’s hair before bed and snuggles with his son when he is sick. A man that rolls over and reaches for me in his sleep. My man.

There are countless blogs full of stories about the struggles of, and the thankless job that is being a SAHM. And I will probably write another one next week, but today I want to just say thank you. Thank you to the Men that raise their children, that are true partners for their better halves. To the ones that bite their tongues when they come home and can’t quite understand how the house looks like a bomb went off, but choose to acknowledge his family instead of the mess.

Don't take life too serious.

The little yellow couch

little yellow couch
The little yellow couch cradling our beginning.

Let me take you back about five or six years to a time of freedom and carefree-ness, a.k.a before kids.  My husband and I had this little yellow couch in our living room.  It was a very small, old, slightly smelly hand me down that I both appreciated and loathed.  My biggest complaint at that time was it was too small.  I always felt like my husband and I were right on top of each other.  Throw in our dog, an entitled Weimaraner who believes she is way above sleeping on the floor or even an expensive dog bed, and we were literally on top of each other.

Pre-kids, exhaustion didn’t take over at 7pm, so we had time to enjoy watching movies.  Even though the couch was small, we somehow managed to lie down together.  Hubby would lie down first, as far against the back of the couch as he could and then I would push my back against him as close as I could so that we both lay “comfortably” snuggled and ready to watch the movie.  Most of the time, he would have his arm wrapped around me as both a gesture of love and simply to save me from falling off the couch.  I loved it but still continued to joke and complain about our pitiful little couch.

When I got pregnant with our first child, the couch stayed it’s same small, smelly self but I got bigger and bigger.  There came a point where us lying together became a laughing matter.  It simply could no longer happen.  I clearly remember our last attempt.  I tried to lie in front of him and my big belly (about 7 or 8 mths worth of baby in there) would literally hang off the couch.  I crack up just thinking about it.  It was not happening.  So life goes on and we just watched our movies sitting up.  Or hubby would lie his head on what was left of my lap and our very active little girl in utero would practice her soccer moves with his head.  But still we “had” to be so close to each other.

The little yellow couch is now long gone and was replace with a bigger, slightly nicer hand me down couch that offers more room to put between us.  That yellow couch has been on my mind recently because I’ve noticed how little my husband and I actually touch each other lately.  I don’t mean in a sexual way but just literally, simply touch each other.  Two kids later, I could die my hair red, he could grow a beard and I’m not sure either of us would notice until days later.  We’re busy.  We’re distracted.  We’re tired.  We’re comfortable.  We’re creatures of habit that now sit in “our” spots to watch tv or play mindless Facebook games after the kids go to bed.  It’s a habit that I’m realizing will take effort to break.

I have a very close friend and family member who recently has had the opportunity to buy a bigger house.  We were discussing how very awesome it is and how grateful she is to be able to own such a nice home.  One thing she said has stuck with me.  She talked about how strange it is to not have the chaos that is her three boys around her all the time now.  They now have their own area up stairs.  She said this was bittersweet.

I can equate that to my little, old, smelly, yellow couch.  It’s nice to have added space but that previous lack of space is now seen differently.  It’s missed.  It’s appreciated.