A little snow fell Friday night. It was pretty as it came down and the big, fat, wet flakes were illuminated in the lights of a high school football stadium as we headed to dinner.
We went to a fun gathering of friends last night. Our offerings for the "Frienz Thanksgivin'" potluck included a pot of oyster stew, a plate of peanut butter cookies and the gee-tar. I practiced a song for the event -- working on my Iris Dement drawl. I've been singing along with John & Iris in the car for a week. I figured that after a few glasses of wine & I wouldn't feel a thing. It turned out that the youngin's had other plans for music, spinning electronic dj sounds. That's OK. We're going to the mountains next weekend to spend Thanksgiving with the cowboys again. I'll have another week to practice and the folks out there have never even heard of dubstep.
Off to spank whitey in the sunshine before the rain comes back. I can't believe we're back to playing winter golf already. Where did the summer go? Here's that song I'm working on (kind of fun singing with an Arkansas drawl) and a snippet of smut as we head out the door....a piece Brad and I wrote together. I sure love being part of a team.
Lost in Paris
An excerpt by Daisy James
Andre winked at a petite blond with short, platinum hair sitting alone at the bar and called her over with his finger. I giggled. “Come hither?” You’re too much, mister. “No baby, you’re too much,” Andre said, his voice low and rough.
The girl sauntered over with her drink. She wore tight, black jeans with a silver beaded belt and a sleeveless satin shirt. I could see the bas relief of her nipples rising against the shiny peaches and cream fabric. Andre began the flirtatious introductions. “Andre,” he said, hand on chest, narrow hips cocked. “This is my wife, Miranda.” He pulled me close and kissed my neck. Then he turned to the girl. “And you are?” The girl licked her red glossed lower lip, set down her drink and picked up a pool stick. Her eyes lowered for a moment, the silver eye shadow sparkling a little. “Janelle,” she said, her voice having the smooth twang of a first bite of crème brule. “Let’s play.”
Looking back, I don’t remember how many games we played, or how many games I won or lost. I don’t remember what we talked or laughed about.
Between games, Andre took one of Janelle’s small hands and placed it on my inner thigh, pulled her fingers into the soft, moist tangle between my legs, then slowly brought her hand to his mouth, and licked me from her. She visibly shuddered at his raw gesture, her lips wet, eyes shining. Then she racked the balls and hit a perfect break as if nothing had happened.
Janelle smacked my ass a couple of times. I returned the favor by rubbing the small of her back and touching the soft fibers of the wish flower hair at the nape of her neck while Andre took his shots. The desire-filled glances and sexual tension rose as the evening went on and we played as perversely with sticks and balls as we would with one another, in a less dangerous world. The kiss she gave Andre as we left made the color rise in my cheeks – in a good way. I watched her turn the corner on the daggers of her boot heels. She took one glance behind her, and then, with a naughty smirk and a flash of her platinum hair, she was gone.
I barely remember the strip club we went to, to watch the slinky undulations of young women and the quiet approval of hard, drooling boys. I felt the gnawing of dirty thoughts, questioned for a moment why I wanted this, what drew me here -- yet I felt safe and loved and deeply connected to this man I was with. It was in that bubble of warmth and deep satisfaction that I walked with Andre to Paris.