Waving

Torn hose cling desperately to my smilng thigh, escaped flesh dancing – like a sultan’s mistriss

A black knit skirt clings like peach fuzzzz, veiling the latent invitation

But someone knows, maybe he’s onto my scent

I catch his not so furtive glance in the corner of my eye, as I stoop over, knees bent

My fingers linger along the rows of pantyhose Taupe or caramel?Sandal toe or nude?

Sheer silks or smoking coal? I'll take the sheers - my legs sizzle perfectly enough all on their own

The suit moves past again, scurrying back for one last item,

or perhaps another glimpse my way?

This time I let my eyes meet his, a mischievious smile beginning to creep across my blushing lips,

And as I move through the checkout, my escaped creamy thigh waves goodbye ……



(reposted due to accidental deletion)

Put me in your pocket

You make me giddy and nervous
self-conscious and demure

Submissive and sultry
watery and pure

Your touch makes me sigh
Your drawl makes me purr

Can I crawl into your pocket
And stay deep inside, warm and secure?

What My Mother Knew #11: Kisses and Cat Fights

The next few years are a bit of a mosaic of late nights, new highs and fast cars.

I began dating a boy from school. We were in grade eight and he was mysteriously quiet, but his eyes were piercing sky blue and he was not shy with me. He spoke with a California drawl and shocked me with stories of gang violence, guns and detention camp. He'd been partying in a beat up Chevy Nova with a bunch of young gang-bangers and one of them shot a handgun out the car window. It ricocheted off a light standard and hit a woman in the head. After he'd finished his sentence, his mother thought that Canada would be a more wholesome environment and sent him to live with his father. Luckily, for me, his father happened to be a dope dealer. We smoked his father's stuff together after school in the forest behind the rec centre. He tried to kiss me with an insistent tongue, prodding my throat like an anteater looking for grubs. It really was terribly gross. He was cute and I loved his accent but I just didn't 'feel it' when we kissed and I ended it as gently as I could. That never feels good.

I had a friend whose father beat her and who also loved to shoplift. She was completely brazen and would take anything without a second thought. Most of the kids in junior high had branded her as a full-fledged witch. While it's true that she did read tarot cards and dress in freaky clothing, she wasn't a witch - just strange. We got drunk one night and ended up arguing about whether or not to follow some boys she'd just met into the forest to party with them. Things got a bit out of hand and we ended up in a total all out girl scrap. It's the only fight I've ever had and it was over quickly. A typical girl fight, there were no punches thrown, only scratching, pushing and lots of screaming - I guess that's why they call them cat fights! We both cried afterward, then hugged and went home.

It was not long after that we moved to a better neighbourhood with a better school. It didn't stop me from getting into lots of trouble though - it just meant access to more home mini-bars and guys with better cars.

Girl Thoughts (Naughty)

Once in awhile, I find myself alone in the house, with the sleeping cats, the clock ticking and empty vats of time. Oh, there's usually lots of busy things waiting to be done, but with a little discipline, I can avoid my obligations completely and imagine that I'm really living a life of leisure. I might throw on a bit of blues or maybe some Janice Joplin, stretch out and think about my latest love interest or some anonymous passer-by and let my tensions unwind.

Usually the fantasy is pretty incomplete, flashes here and there of images that really get my blood flowing. One that I've returned to many times is a scene from "Emanuelle: Joys of a Woman". Two strangers meet on an airplane and begin fondling each other sitting right in their seats. Eventually they make their way to the bathroom independently and somehow both squeeze into the small space together. The thing that gets me about this image is that the stranger props Emanuelle up on the edge of the sink and thrusts into her, fully dressed. Slowly, deliberately, balanced, with quietness and passion. You see the man from behind, pressing into her, both fully clothed. If I ever join the Mile High club, that's how I want it.

Other times I'll think about being teased incessantly. Kissed or nibbled enough to get me interested but having my partner hold back, depriving me of deeper oral penetration. He might push me up against a wall or a table and let me feel his growing interest through double layers of clothing but deny me full skin on skin contact. I move forward, meeting his body with my warmth but he gives me only enough to make me squirm for more. The yearning tension I feel is almost electric. I love the feeling of hands on my body moving up to my breasts, both screaming to be released from their confines, pushing through the fabric, but meeting only with silky underthings. With fabric in the way, he may have to squeeze a little harder, pinch slightly or even nibble to feel the hardness of my stiff nipples.

Sometimes I never see his face - he stands behind me and I feel him pressing in. Tattooed arms reach around my waist and find their way into the front of my panties, touching only playfully, never quite as deeply as my body yearns for. I feel his breath on my neck and feel the length of his body against my back and I want to turn around but don't. I let him have control, let him work my body, tuning me up like a fast car, too much torque built up and not enough road.

But my flesh is easily understood. Some parts are so sensitive that they can't even be touched directly. But he knows, he knows how to work in gradually, waiting for complete and total arousal before pressing in with more force, demanding of me complete surrender to his will. I reach down and press his hand over my mound more firmly. My knees want to buckle but I stand firm. I want to bend over and let him take me from behind but I don't - it's not what he wants. I let him toy with me until I come, screaming and revealing myself completely. I now feel the bruise on the side of my neck where his bite still stings. I feel his pent up desire, pressing through jeans, asking - no, demanding to be seen and felt.

I reach around and indulge his member the full priveledges of my warmed up hands, moist with my own wild screaming juices. On my knees, I gently tease him, only the tips of my fingers at first, caressing from the base of his shaft to the tip, and then back again, slowly, tenuously. I look into his eyes, to see if he approves, but they're closed so I continue. I form a soft, warm funnel with both my palms and let it slide gently down his length. He begins moving with me, and I let the pressure increase and decrease at the head, which is practically glowing with heat. I cup his tightened balls in one hand and gently squeeze, prodding, encouraging further engorgement. I let my other hand form a narrow canal, and as I slide up and down he begins to breathe faster and harder. I press on, moving my breasts up higher so they can brush against his thighs and prepare to be drenched in his sweetness. His eyes meet mine then and I know he's ready. Slowly, but firmly, I squeeze, still moving up and down but subtly now. His leg muscles stiffen and his come finds it's way to my breasts, my lips, my hair. I'm warmed by his soul's essence, reveling in his heat.

What My Mother Never Knew #10: B-Cubed

I also discovered that summer the joys of beach parties. It was pretty wild, out in the middle of nowhere, waves lapping at the shore and what seemed like an infinite supply of alcohol. It wouldn't have mattered if there was less though - my tolerance was pretty much zero. The first time I got drunk, I recall the swigs of Southern Comfort out of a bottle - the burn of the alcohol going down my throat was exhilarating. Teary eyed, I choked back a few more swigs, a beer or two and very quickly I was done - toasted. I'm sure I kissed someone - a guy I didn't know - but the kiss quickly devolved to him holding me up so that I wouldn't fall into the bonfire. The rest was a bit of a blur (well, a blackout is likely a more accurate description). As with most beach fire parties, the cops came and we scattered. Back in town I have no idea how I made it through the door without parental inebrial detection. My 12 year old would never get away with that and I've got no idea how I managed it. Having a room in the basement helped I guess. Nobody could hear me puking.

B-Cubed: Beachfires, booze and blackouts - I don't remember much of it, but I'd have sworn that it was the time of my life! Right from the start, I jumped into the experiment with total abandon. I really do wonder what my mother would have done if she'd known.

She had just started a new teaching job and was eager to impress her colleagues and make a name for herself - the whole reason for moving out West. I recall one of the staff family parties that was held in the posh faculty lounge that year. My brother had switched the signs on the punch bowls so that the kid's punch became the adult punch and vice-versa. He and I couldn't stop giggling in the car on the way home and we finally confessed. My normally liberal mother was appalled. With a furrowed brow that she only gets when she's really agitated, she mused that she thought a few of the kids were unusually wild. In fact one or two were actually rolling around the floor giggling....

What My Mother Never Knew #9: Moving at Light Speed

Catholic school was a bit weird considering that I'd never been to church. I went along with the expected rituals, buying a white dress for my first communion and confirmation. I had no idea what it meant although I did attend the orientation session explaining what I needed to bring and how I should act. The Italian and Portuguese kids must have found out what it really meant from their parents. And I didn't bother with the first confession - I saved that for here...

It wasn't long after, that my mother accepted a job out West. We were moving to BC. I knew what that meant: better looking guys (we'd seen a BC baseball team and were convinced), lots of easy access to weed and great skiing. I was thrilled to be leaving small town central Canada.

It never occurred to me that leaving my father would be difficult. I was so busy focusing on the excitement of a whole new life that I really didn't consider what I was leaving behind. My mother flew ahead to find a place and get things set up and my brother and I stayed with my dad.

I'd only seen my dad cry once - a few years earlier when my six year old brother sacked him accidentally. He immediately fell to the floor, turned all red and went stiff, with tears streaming into the carpet. Seeing his face that morning at the airport, as he hugged us in the boarding lounge was heart-wrenching. I didn't know how to tell him it would be OK, or how to comfort him at all. The image of tears streaming down his face stayed with me forever - a strong, normally somewhat stoic man. I know this might sound like a contradiction to my last chapter - feeling such strong love for someone who'd hurt me, deep in my soul. But I did love my dad a great deal. I still do. And at that time, I hadn't really put two and two together around the sexual abuse (it had happened at a much earlier age). Walking down the tube leading to the airplane, all I knew was that he loved my brother and I immensely and must have hated my mother for moving us away. I cried too, but I knew we'd be back for visits. And what lay ahead quickly captured my attention.

Landing out West was amazing. I'd never seen so many sea gulls and the smell of the salt air and sea weed was invigorating. We rented an old house which turned out to be full of spiders and next to a practice pad for a rock band. I loitered about outside, hoping they would invite me over to listen or indulge in some of the atmosphere enhancing odours drifting over to my yard. I guess they weren't interested in getting 11 year old girls high for some reason! I'd even tried turning up my Meatloaf and Boston LPs full volume, just to show I had good taste in music...

I ended up hooking up with a girl a few years older around the corner. She invited me to go to a roller-skating rink with her and that became my source of summer fun. We were wild, a hoard of kids, most in the 15-17 year old range. We frequently did our skating outside of rink, along waterfront, in cemeteries or on the streets. Times were fast and I did my best to keep up. The girl I'd hooked up with wore the shortest short shorts I'd ever seen and talked me into making mine a little more revealing. The attention we got from passing cars as we skated in the sun intoxicated me (but still made me blush with embarrassment too).

Sometimes, if we were too tired to skate home she'd call a cab and we'd get a ride. I was always dropped off first. It wasn't until quite a bit later that my friend confessed that the reason we always had the same driver was that she requested him specially because he gave her free rides in exchange for her giving him head! I had to work really hard not to look shocked when she told me. I wanted so much for her to think I was more grown up than 11. But I guess the truth is, I was growing up at break-neck speed. The friends I'd left behind out east would never believe some of the crazy stuff going on out here.

Somewhere Through The Hurt

"I've discovered the paradox that I can love until it actually hurts.
But then the hurt is gone and there is only more love."
Mother Theresa


True love is elusive, it's escaped me for years
I sometimes flirt with it, but calls of freedom always reappear

With each new love, my world opens, dissolving sense of self
And I let my suitor merge, with macho bravado and stealth

Men feel they have earned me, possessed me through the night
Sweet lovemaking masquerade, an illusion cloaked in light

But the secret pain I hold is old - it's worn and cold as stone
A dark empty place deep in my soul, where I will always be alone

It's guarded and booby-trapped, though I may let some near
Soul wounds and scar tissue are much too thick to tear

So I wait for one special knight, he with the sharpest blade
I brush away the tears, and pretend I'm not afraid

With hopes that my saltwater will corrode these deformed prison bars
And the next time I fear love, I'll move closer, not apart
And just maybe, if I'm lucky, perhaps I'll find the truth:
That the path to "more love" waits, somewhere through the hurt.

Hearts on Fire

Lovers apart, soul-linked but unfulfilled
Waiting, in limbo, on the edge of a precipice... or an oasis

I held your hand last week and you warmed up, ready to run, but staying with me and revealing your truth

And I sat quietly with my doubts, letting them drift gently out to sea with the salty off-shore breeze

The buzzy warm glow I feel is almost palatable, an effusive radiance, moving like the waves of mellow heat from a nest of embers

I can sense our growing soul-connection - feel it in my skin and breath, instinctively nurturing it like a sleeping babe, safe and comfortable in a mother's arms

For a moment the other day, I forgot myself, letting my lips find you and reveling in the friendly reverbrant sting from your five o'clock shadow

I know we agreed to contain this for the time-being, or discourage it, or not encourage it

But can this kind of longing be denied? Can it be told to wait for a better time?

The 'unknowns' have settled in - taking only a peripheral seat in my consciousness, now a dull-edged threat

I'm ready to accept the odds for now - I'm prepared to take whatever bitter pills that fate dispenses later, if that's where this road leads.

Perhaps though, it may lead us toward something more hopeful, something that's right

Either way though, I'll have lived fully
and if I'm lucky,
I'll have loved well

Are you strong enough to be my man?
Lie to me, and I'll believe
Sheryl Crow

What My Mother Never Knew #8: Nice Ass

It's hard to describe the inner world that I experienced as a young adolescent. There were reasons that I seldom looked people in the eye. There were reasons that I was filled with shame when boys first began showing an interest on the Catholic school ground in grade 7.

"HEY LEMANS - NICE ASS!!" (I was wearing a jacket with the Lemans Ferrari racing logo on the back). I thought I would die.

The next week a number of boys had me surrounded, grabbing my butt and squeezing my tender breasts. I managed to evade them but the next day, they returned, this time getting rougher and pinching at me. I finally ended up telling a teacher and each of the boys was given the strap. They had totally violated my dignity but still, I felt bad for them. Somehow, I felt like I'd done something to provoke the whole thing. I was even too embarrassed to tell my mother.

I've learned a lot about myself since then and what I know now is that feeling violated and ashamed that day was simply a repeat of events that took place much earlier on in my life. I had been prematurely introduced to my sexuality by my father, when I was too young to know what was right and wrong. While it wasn't violent, it scared me to the point of paralysis (at the time) and left me feeling confused about sexuality and uncomfortable with sexual attention from members of the opposite sex. It also left me with a sense of shame about my own sexual feelings and an extreme distrust of men. I saw them as dangerous and consuming.

I'm sure I wasn't totally aware of all this baggage at 12, but I carried it nonetheless. There were many other family secrets that contributed to some of my emotional wounding - too many to describe here. And it's hard to describe them without sounding like a victim. I now recognize, after many years of soul-searching, that who I am is based on the suffering and successes I experience growing up. And I guess the bottom line is, while I wasn't responsible for my childhood family disfunction, I did have choice as to how I coped with or dealt with the impacts. This is important context to the next few years of my life.



NOTE: I have to step out of the story for a moment to say something here that's very important: To all the pedophiles that have stumbled upon this site (I know there are more than a few based on the searches that refer people here) - sexual activity with children damages their souls, wounding their sense of self and destroying their chance at normal relationships later in life. It's hurtful, selfish and shameful, no matter how you try to rationalize it.