Category Archives: passion

Focus 52: "Variety"

I am a shoe whore.

No, no…it’s alright.  Don’t worry about labeling me a shoe whore.  I’m good with it.  It’s okay.  I have come to terms with it and while the term “whore” is a bit degrading, it is what it is.  I mean, a whore is someone who performs sex for money, right?  I perform sex…for shoes.  Now, don’t get me wrong, my husband doesn’t say to me, “Babe, I saw a fabulous pair of Steve Madden’s that you are going to LOVE.  Price?  One blow job.”  But, if he did say that, I would totally be down for it.  So, in theory, that makes me a shoe whore.  There’s not too much that I wouldn’t do for a pair of shoes as long as it will A) not land me in jail where I can only wear state approved canvas boat shoes or B) will not cross the boundaries of my marriage, disabling my pipe line to fantastic shoes for the price of a well timed blow job.  I mean, seriously, are there many men out there who would say, “baby, for just one quick hand job, you can have these Jimmy Choo’s?”  No, not many.  But, my husband is one of them…and I am not going to disrupt the flow, you know?

So, for this week’s Focus 52 prompt being “Variety”, I have allowed you into my closet, so to speak and pulled out 25 of my favorite pairs of high heels.  Mind you, I said my favorites.  This does not include my ridiculous flip flop collection, my multiple pairs of flats, the tons of heels I no longer wear as they are out of season or fashion, the vast array of sneakers that I own or anything that can be remotely referred to as a “stripper shoe”.  I call them “Over the shoulder” shoes. 

You figure it out.

So there they are.  Mama’s babies.  However this photo does not include my crown jewel.  The Pièce de résistance.  (That’s French, Fuckers.  Someone come kiss their way up my arm and say “Cara Mi!  You spoke French!  And if you don’t get the reference, you are too young to be reading my blog.  Go away.)

Here she is:

Ladies, say hello to “Fifi” by Steve Madden. 

She is my new best friend.  My “sole” mate.  And no, I don’t own a DAMN thing that will go with her, but best believe that I will by this weekend.  I see her and my lady bits throb.  She makes me happy.  We are in love and never shall any other shoe render us asunder. 

Until next season. 

Focus 52: "Love, Baby"

“Stay there. Just like that. I have my camera under the pillow.”


“Sh.  Don’t move.  Don’t smile. Just stay…like that.”


Yes, People. I went “there”.  I always wanted a photo of us literally seconds after the the “big finish”.  I love the glazed over look on his face.  I love how soft his eyes are.  I love that I can’t help from biting my bottom lip like a schoolgirl with a big secret.  What you can’t feel in this photo is the warmth between our two bodies.  What you cannot see in this photo is how our legs are intertwined under our big down comforter.  How his right foot is playing with the bottom of my left foot, tickling me.  How the tips of his fingers are swirling soft, concentric circles just above the top of my ass, in that small indentation we women have in our lower backs.  What you cannot hear are the banging of two over taxed hearts and the huff and puff of the aftermath of the aerobic exercise we just completed.  Neither of us are particularly active people…except in this arena.  It is here that we can run the mile, vault the horse, stick the landing and end with a perfect dismount that even the harshest of Russian judges would have to give a “10” to.

This picture is not about two people who just had sex, bumped uglies, did the nasty, made the four armed machine, etc.  This photo is this weeks title:  Love, Baby.  After 11 long years together, this man still captivates me.  Every line, every dent, every nook and cranny.  His scent intoxicates me.  His eyes draw me in like magnets.  His breath on my face is like warm apple pie.  His hands feel like butterflies, flickering all up and down this expansive mountain of flesh that makes up my ample body.

And me?  What you are seeing there is a rare moment…only vaguely seen by previous lovers, but never quite the way my husband sees it.  It is vulnerability.  It is the taming of the shrew.  It is the moment that I become not just his wife or lover, but rather, his mistress.  His virgin.  His whore.  His Goddess.  His first time.  My first time. And what will be, for both of us, our last time…until the next time.

Each experience of making love to my husband is more intense than the last.  Orgasms be damned, for it is SO no longer about that.  It is about what I bring to the game, on bended knee if you will, for him.  He is not a selfish lover, by any means…but never in my entire sexually active life have I yearned to be more of the pleasurer than the pleasured.  Together we are a force to be reckoned with.  While we are working with the broken down bodies of what a man in his late thirties and a woman in her mid forties can offer, when it is time for game on, we are two eighteen year olds bringing 38 years worth of combined experience to the table. We are passionate, feverish, combining sweetness with the tart and tangy and softness with the heavy handed and hardened.  He is the yin to my yang and every move is done in perfect sympatico.

This picture.  It captures “love, baby” because feasibly, you will never meet another couple more in love than he and I.  Other couples aspire higher when they are around us.  I joke to my husband and say “we’re contagious, babe!”  They become better couples in our presence because they yearn to have what we do.  We’ve both heard it before.  “Oh, I wish our marriage was like yours.  You guys always look like you are having so much fun together.”  And, truth be told? We ARE having that much fun together.  We laugh during sex.  We laugh during nervous times.  We laugh in the midst of crisis…one of us usually cracking an inappropriate joke to lighten the mood.

It would sound as if I were bragging if it weren’t just merely the truth.  

It wasn’t always this way.  We had our share of problems in the very beginning.  His baggage came in form of a carry on piece of luggage with rickety wheels and a broken handle.  Mine came in a Louis Vuitton  8 piece steamer trunk set.  Once we learned how to put our clothes away and put the luggage in storage, our life together truly began and we haven’t looked back since.

“Lemme see the picture,” he says.

I show him.

“Aw, Baby…”, he whispers to me.  “You look like a little kid about to burst into laughter.  Was I that bad?”

“No.  You weren’t ‘bad’, goofball.  You were amazing.  You’re always amazing.”

“WE’RE always amazing,” he corrects me and kisses my forehead.

I put the camera to the side.

“Did you really have the camera under the pillow just for that,” he asks.

“Yep.  I always wanted to see what we looked like two seconds later, when we fall backwards in exhaustion.”

“We look pretty damn good,” he says.

Still biting my lip, I nod in agreement.

It’s late and he’s going to be catching a 4am plane to California for work.  It’s nearly 2am at the time the photo is taken.  I roll onto my side, pulling him with me.  My back is pressed into his chest.  I can feel the soft tendrils of his furry chest tickling my sensitive skin on my back.  His arm is raised above my head…our fingers interlaced.  His other hand rests in the dip of my waist, his fingertips grazing my lower abdomen.  I can feel him breathing into my hair, heavier and heavier.  He murmurs something almost inaudible, but I caught the tale end of “I love you”.  I answer him by pressing my hips a bit harder into his.  His breathing slows and hard, heavy breaths give way to light, exhausted snores.  There is music playing in our bedroom, soft piano music playing low.  The piano sounds soft and low as the oboe that is playing over it sounds vaguely like a woman crying.

Until I realize, I am the woman crying.

You see, my heart will be taking to the sky in less than two hours.  The better half of my soul will be 3000 miles away from me.  There will be no one to have a midnight snack with.  No one to giggle with me at America’s Funniest Home Videos.  No one to eat dinner with.  No one to talk to in the middle of the cold dark night.  No one sharing the warmth of my bed.  I will be alone for a week as I am every month for one week a month and as always, it will break my heart yet again.

I miss him already so my heart knows to instinctively cry.  I sob inwardly so not to wake him of his precious hour of sleep before having to board a plane.  The alarm rings forty-five minutes later.  He slips out from under the blankets.  I feign sleep.  He kisses the top of my head and goes in for his shower.  I hear the water running and it hurts so much.  I reach out and grab my camera, still sitting on the edge of the bed, just under my pillow.  I flip through to the picture I took.  Look at that moment.  I can’t help but smile.  That sweet, sexy innocent moment now forever preserved in time.  I bite my lower lip to suppress what could either amount to a giggle or a choked up sob. 

He is packed and leaving.

“I love you baby,” he says.  “It will be a short week.  And, when I get home…we have our special Valentines Day weekend at the beach.  Just you, me, dinner at The Pearl and a balcony view of the ocean.”

“Can’t wait,” I whisper.

He kisses my lips softly.

“All the love in the world, Angel,” he says.

“Nothing but love, Baby,” I reply.  And with that, he’s gone.

Monday comes.  I wait for the Focus 52 prompt, excited to see what the challenge will be for the week.

“Our prompt this week…,” she writes, “why, it is Love, Baby!!”

Love, Baby?  I laugh.  I laugh so deep and hard that it almost hurts my belly.

I grab the picture and run to my blog.  Sometimes, fact is stranger than fiction and the story just writes itself.  Who would have thought that a picture would accompany it as well.  I “frame” the pic with a Polaroid type effect to make it look like an instant moment in time.  Something captured and clandestine.  Something sneaky and sexy…like the Polaroids you have hidden away in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. 

So there you have it.  The story of the photo.  The story of our loves…and nothing but Love, Baby.

Nothing but love.

It’s all in the attitude, Baby.

It took me time to understand. Admittedly, at times, I still don’t.

He worships this body of mine, this body of breadth and depth. Certainly, he has a selection of waif-like goddesses, all dying to be a part of his harem, and yet, it is at my alter that he genuflects, night after satiated night. While I might get into bed feeling like the Michelin Man on some nights, I leave there a as a Playboy pictorial.

Attitude, baby. It’s all in the attitude.

I was prone to breaking out my old pictures from my former “thin” days. The days before the babies wore down my breasts in their battle to defy gravity. The days when my stomach was a “tummy” and I wore the word “voluptuous” like a crown. I would show him that, once upon a decade ago, I was slender and sleek. In showing ‘him’ these pictures, I was saying, “Look, I was once what every man desires.”

He dismisses my memories and dives for my mammaries.

It’s amazing how easily distracted I can be. I obsess over this body. I see every bump and bang along the way, appraising it like a recently wrecked Mercedes. When he touches me, I am the star of the showroom. I have no mileage and there are no dings or dents. I am an accidental goddess, and I blame him. When the touch is just right, my stomach, normally my nemesis, reacts like a third breast. It stiffens. It hardens. It wants to be kissed.

I have stretch marks from my bouts of birthing babies.

“Roadmaps. Reminders of where you have been in your life”, he states as his tongue maneuvers the dangerous curves of my highways and bi-ways. He drives onward; upward from the deepest valleys to my purple peaked mountains majesty. There are no stop signs on this road. There are no detours to drive him away. No reason to yield and everything is slippery when wet.

If I close my eyes, I am the autobahn, riding him, rather than the other way around.

I have learned to be on top and allow my landscape to be lingered upon. The sweet liberation in the realization that he is not assessing what is right and what is wrong. He is listening to my breathing in response to his. He is godlike, holding the whole world in his hands, being able to see all of me, from heaven to earth. He is not thinking that I weigh more than he, but how I glide so stealthily, so weightlessly upon him.

Moreover, he is filled with pride, while filling me.

He created this misfit, this accidental goddess by allowing me to remember I am more than a body. I am a mind that wanders. I am a soul that fulfills. I am a breath of fresh air and a heart of gold. I am the eyes of the compassionate and the laughter of a child. Astride him, I am patience being pushed to the limit and poetry in motion. When release is achieved, he never releases his hold. I smile. I smirk. I remind myself that I am beautiful in the dark and the light. I remind myself that he is panting helplessly beneath me and I was the cause. I was the cure. I put away my old photographs permanently. I never want to be her again, as he does not desire “that girl”, only this woman.

Attitude baby, it’s all in the attitude.

Her heart in my hands…and I got nothin’.

I am a Jewish woman. We come equipped with a guilt meter that exceeds most peoples. Things make us feel bad, certainly, but we are far better at making YOU feel bad for making US feel bad.

Jewish husbands don’t stand a chance in hell against our powers.

Today, I am feeling guilt. I have a very special girlfriend in my life. We’ve been friends forever, if forever could equal about 14 years. She’s not my best friend. She’s more than that. She’s like a baby sister to me. I am 14 years older than she is…but have learned more from her than I have from most people my own age. I met her in college. She was kind of the odd girl out. Funky colored hair. Weird clothes. Strange taste in music. And I was drawn to her immediately.

We had ZERO in common. She was a kid out of high school. I was a mom of two going back to college for my nursing degree. What I did discover is that she had an absolutely wicked sense of humor, a crazy zest for life and a total “What the fuck ever, Dude” attitude.

In essence, she was me…25 years earlier, before marriage, divorce, kids, career and life got in my way.

Her husband was my husbands best friend. It was such a natural fit. He was kind of eclectic and different. So was she. So when my husband and I started dating, we thought these two would be a match made in heaven. And, as cupid would have it, they were. They were married in 2001, a year before my husband and I were.

Now, we’re both moms. She calls me for parenting advice. I give it to her easily, readily, as her little one is only 6. Mine are 22 and 14. Been there and done that with the 6 year olds. I adore her son. If anything in the world were ever to happen to my girlfriend, I would embrace him as my own without a second thought, making sure he had everything in his life that his mom would ever want for him.

Yesterday, she came over my house with a problem. A marital problem. Was it a huge problem? Well, it depends where you are sitting. But, for her, yes…it was a huge problem. And, for the first time, I had no answers for her. I had some basic advice, things she already knew, because she is hella smart, but nothing concrete. Nothing she could walk away with and feel complete sense of satisfaction. The subject moved onto other things, like politics, imbeciles who can’t understand a health care bill, Ron Paul, Gwar (don’t google that, you’ve been warned) and various other things. Yet still, in the back of my mind, I was a little heartsick that through all the coffee, cigarettes and conversation, I had not “fixed” my friends problem.

She means the world to me. And today, I know she’s home with a headache that more than likely as brought on by stress and sadness. I want to punch her husband really hard in his face. She’s a great woman. An awesome mother. She cooks, she cleans, she works part time, takes care of that baby of theirs…everything that my husband wishes I would do but don’t.

I am feeling a tremendous amount of guilt. Surely there is something I could have done, something I could have said. But, I got nothing. Nothing.

She came to me with her heart in her hands…and I got nothing.

Still, I cling to the little bit of hope that the six hours we spent together talking and laughing brought a bright spot into her day, at least for a little while. I hope she knows she’s loved. I hope she knows she’s cared about.

And most of all, I hope she knows that I would brown bag her husband in a parking lot upon request. Urban dictionary describes “brown baggin'” as putting a bag over an ugly chicks face before banging her. But, New Yorkers know that Brown Baggin’ someone means filling a paper sack full of soda cans and beating someone relentlessly with it, until the bag breaks.

She best know I’d break a nail for her anyday.

"Hello, Ex-Nurse!"

The first time I heard these words, I almost shook with fright.

What am I to be if not a nurse? Where do I go from here?

I made a decision during my 12 weeks of intensive outpatient therapy. I opted not to reinstate my nursing license. After a lot of soul searching and mulling the process over, I decided that nursing was no longer going to be a part of my future.

When I received my contract from the nursing board, they made some extraordinary demands of me; demands that I know I would never be able to comply with while attempting to get out into the workforce again. I thought long and hard about this decision and I decided that it would be in my best interest to let it go. The past 12 weeks in IOP taught me a lot about myself and the things I want to do with my future.

That’s when I came to realize that nursing was not a part of what I wanted to do with my life.

I called my counselor and told him this. He said he wasn’t really surprised, as this wasn’t the first time he heard me allude to this.

“It’s not in my heart any longer,” I told him.

And you know what? That’s okay. A long time ago, I had a first love. That first love was writing. It always has been. It always will be. While nursing was a challenge, it never fulfilled me the way my writing did. I have been published a number of times. When I walked away from that to pursue a career in nursing, I felt like I put a part of my soul away.

I am 43 years old. It is getting late in life not to pursue dreams.

With that said, I am going back to my dreams of writing for a newspaper. I have written editorials for magazines before. I have a vast collection of work that I have done over the years, work that I am very proud of. When I went to college a million years ago, my major was journalism.

With the support of my husband, I am going to pursue this dream of mine.

I realize that newspapers are a dying breed, so more than likely, it will mean writing for online news journals, but I am ready to take on this challenge. In the interim, I will probably work as a medical assistant in a doctors office, as I will no longer be able to represent myself as a nurse. But, having nights and weekends off will allow me to pursue this dream of mine. The flexibility will allow me to write creatively once more.

I am 97 days sober and I have never seen anything more clearly in my entire life. I am ready for this next stage, this next step. Careers are one thing, passions are quite another. I am ready to forgo my career and let my passion run rampant once again. It will be a dream come true to parlay my passion into a new career.

I don’t know if it is smart to start my life over at this juncture, but I can’t allow myself to look back and know I never tried.

One door closes. Another opens.

I am ready to step through this new door. It’s time.