Here's what I had planned for this post. A sweet little narrative about how I love spring (which I do), how I love to hike the woods with my husband (which I did) and how we sometimes make love under the cover of leaves (which is glorious). Then I was going to add an excerpt from Tasting Pleasure (which I still might). However, I've changed my mind. It happens. A few recent events have served to both get my dander up and swell my heart. So fair warning - I'm going on a rant.
First, a little boy in my area recently wander away from his home. He's three. His mom turned her back "just for a minute" and he was gone.Truthfully, I believe the mom and I believe that no matter how diligently we as parents try to watch our children, they're quick little whippersnappers with a hint of sneaky. The family lives in a heavy wooded, rural area with lots of natural hazards, especially if you're only 3 feet tall. A day and a half later, searchers found the boy's shoe. Not good we all thought. Lots of people loudly speculated on what "really" happened to this baby. Did the mom kill him? Was he kidnapped? Did the dad kill him? Demands for a criminal investigation began to surface. After 3 days of searching, the boy was found. Covered in mud and leaves with a flock of bugs flying around him. He was hungry, cold, scared and fine. One of the first things he asked for was milk and a hot dog.
Next, it's almost 10:30 at night now and I'm writing this after a long day. Tonight I attended my 15 year old son's high school band concert. Playing his silver tenor sax and sporting his new super cool tie, he looked awesome. I was tired, crabby and hungry, but so what. My baby was in the spotlight and all I could think about was how grown up he looked. Then, I overheard a few folks talking in the audience before the performance began. They were saying how tired, crabby and hungry they were. How they couldn't wait for this thing to be over so they could go home and watch television. I heard these things as I saw the bright, hopeful faces of their children.
Here's my bitch. We, as a society, really need to get our heads out of our butts and stop being so selfish. We also need to stop pointing fingers at others so we can feel better about ourselves. How does this help anyone? It doesn't. Does this make the world a better place? No.
But all is not lost. Hundreds of people helped search for the 3 year old boy. Hundreds of people who had no connection at all to the family. Hundreds who simply couldn't stand the idea of a lost, scared little boy and frantic parents. Bless them all. Second, despite the few parents who bitched about having to attend their children's performance, lots of other parents brought flowers for their daughters, snapped pictures of their sons and applauded the hard work of all those involved with the underfunded music program.
Pat Benatar was right. Hell is for children, but it is us, the adults, who create that hell. It is also up to us to change it. Luckily, I think there are more of us who want to change it.
Okay, now that I have that off my chest - here's the excerpt from Tasting Pleasure - I had to have something sexy here, didn't I!
“Now, now, remember the directions,” Maverick scolded. Alicia contritely licked the length of his penis—all seven inches—then plunged her mouth over the tip, savouring the taste of him. Despite her expertise, within a few minutes her knees began to ache and her jaw muscles began to clench. Maverick grabbed a handful of her hair, which she had left unbound, and pulled her away. “Good. You will perform this task—without mistake or hesitation—each time I instruct you to bestow a greeting.” Alicia nodded her understanding. “Undress me,” Maverick commanded as he released her hair. Alicia quickly completed this task, untying and removing one shoe at a time, then his socks, then slipping off his trousers and boxers. As she removed each article of clothing, she neatly folded it and laid it in a pile. Next, she stood, unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it from his shoulders. Unable to resist, Alicia ran her hand over Maverick’s chest, sighing in appreciation of the muscles beneath the dark, curling hair. Maverick grabbed her hands. “I told you to undress me—not to touch me. You are gathering quite a list of mistakes to atone for, my dear. It is time we begin. Go to the St. Andrew’s cross. Stand facing it. Raise your arms and spread your legs so I can bind you to it.” Alicia’s head snapped up to meet his eyes. Oh God! Could she do this? But even as she asked herself this question, her feet followed Maverick’s instructions. She began to tremble as Maverick closed the bindings around her wrists and ankles. Already she felt tears gather in her eyes, and fear overtook desire. “This device is named in honour of Andrew, Patron saint of Scotland. Did you know that?” he asked. “Yes, sir, I did,” she quietly answered. “And did you know how this cross was used?” “No, sir, I don’t.”