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February 4, 2010

white bits of (lovin)... WHAT?

Huzzah! I finally found a free moment to do something that has been harassing me since Christmas Eve. At the children’s service at my sister’s church they do a candlelight lighting… thingy, and these three youngish boys sitting behind me accidentally dropped three drips of wax on my new black (duh.) wool pea-coat. I didn’t notice until I hung my coat up and it looked like I had been molested by Bill Clinton.

I am in Austin, I have a planning meeting tomorrow and since I am in a hotel room at the airport and I purposefully didn’t pack anything cool to wear out on 6th Street, I am sort of stuck here. I turned on the iron, snagged a washcloth and viola! Transferred the white bits of (lovin) wax from the back of my coat to said wash cloth.

Speaking of … oh, nothing in particular. Last week, while in The Woodlands for a MidYear Board meeting I woke myself up from a sound sleep with a brilliant idea. I am thinking of writing a little diddy (maybe the trend will catch on) in book form with a title along the lines of “Know When To STFU”. Of, maybe I won’t actually put “Shut the Fuck Up” in the title. Anyway, the premise is such... um, knowing when to shut the fuck up.

First example:
The little * thingy shows you when to stop speaking. Or you know, STFU.

“I love your thighs. They are as creamy as butter*… freshly churned butter, pale, dimpled and full of fat.”

Second example:
“Your parents are wonderful, they are so happy and warm* when they have had a few too many, WOW, they can really kill a bottle!”

So you get the idea.

In keeping along with the theme of this entry… in that there isn’t really a theme. Weetacon is in (as of this exact moment… ) 26 days, 7 hours and 31 minutes from starting. I am so excited I could pee. The roster has one spot left as of yesterday. This is going to be the largest one ever, and we won’t talk about the one I missed in 2008 when Mike called my cell phone (I didn’t answer because I thought I would cry) and yelled into the voicemail, “ Donkey Punch! Where the hell are you!? Answer the damn phone! We love you!” So I listened to the voicemail… and cried. I still have that freaking voicemail. I am going into Milwaukee on that Thursday, driving up to Green Bay with Kev and Mel and the good times will commence. Oh YES, they will.

And yes, you have to follow all of those links. It’s in the fine print.

I have so much to tell y’all. But because of legalities, I can’t. Let’s all meet up for a beer soon and we’ll discuss it.

Hey, I didn’t say “porn” in this entry.


Now that I have been banned from most of your work computers, I am going to unpack and do some actual work.

By the way, thanks for the kudos on the short story from the last entry. It is because of emails and positive comments like those that I feel completely comfortable opening a blank Word doc and just typing what comes pouring out of my head. Like the lovely dribble you just read.


February 10, 2010


Looking around her desk at the mementos she had collected over the years Catherine was satisfied that she was doing her job well. Known as Cat to her friends; and one special person who called her “Kitten”; she looked around at the cards from colleagues, notes of thanks from volunteers, drawings by coworkers, photos of family, friends and pets and her wall calendar covered almost every inch of her tiny, ill constructed cubicle. She had been with the company for ten years so she had letters of accommodations framed her five and ten year plaques mounted along with her odd collection of dictionaries that she loved to smell.

Opening one of the older dictionaries she fanned the pages and stuck her nose in the small breeze created and inhaled deeply. The scent was one she loved. She loved old book stores, second hand book stores, new book stores… and she absolutely cherished walking into an old library. The smell was unmistakable; paper, ink, care, her grandmother’s family Bible, age and the knowledge that with words a whole new world could be created from most any combination that someone could and can think of.

She fanned the pages again and let the book fall open on its own accord. Pages 682 and 683 of her Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary published in 1969 stared back at her. Starting with prolong and ending with proportion, the pages practically begged for her to grab a word, any word and start a story with just a little push in the right direction.

Cat started on the left page and passed prolongate, prolontherapy, prolusion, prom, promenade, Prometheus, ect and stopped on a word that set her head spinning with ideas, thoughts, recollections, wishes, fantasies and she decided to start writing.

pro⋅mis⋅cu⋅ous [pruh-mis-kyoo-uhs] – adjective
1. characterized by or involving indiscriminate mingling or association, esp. having sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis.
2. consisting of parts, elements, or individuals of different kinds brought together without order.
3. indiscriminate; without discrimination.
4. casual; irregular; haphazard.

Cat had never really been the promiscuous type, but deep in her heart, she secretly longed to be. She longed to be anything but average. Being of average height, average weight, with average brown hair and an average wardrobe, Cat wished to match the only thing that stood out about her average countenance. Her eyes. Her eyes were the deep forest green of pine, where kudzu flourished and the smell was loamy and fertile. Cat’s eyes were exotic and she longed to match them, so she wrote stories of star crossed lovers, alien encounters, long voyages, lingering kisses and passionate embraces.

Secretly they would meet in back alleyways, in parking garages and even at the local mall. They tried to hide in plain sight but they figured that the naked lust that showed in their eyes for one another would belie their actions and ever so careful cultivated carefree attitudes towards one another around their spouses. It would never work.
No good, Cat thought to herself. Not promiscuous enough. Not clandestine enough. Not … it just doesn’t have… that something. It is just too safe. I need to throw caution to the wind. I need to step out on that branch, regardless of the danger. I am going to put this out there. I am going to be… promiscuous.
With a flourish Carol flicked open her phone to read a text that had come in while she was with a client, now in the elevator, there was no one to hear her deep inhalation at the words on the teeny LCD screen of her high tech phone. “I have been thinking about you all day long. I cannot stop. Please meet me again, and soon. The smell of you on my hands is driving me mad.”

She thought back to that morning. She had met with Chance at a tiny corner coffee shop to chat before work. Just to chat… right.

For the past three months she and Chance had been seeing one another on a regular basis. They had friends that were mutual and so they, all being single, got together at least two or three times a week for a happy hour downtown by their offices after work. She and Chance hit it off, but he was supposed to be a set up for one of her friends’ sister. Chance and the sister never had an opportunity because as soon as Carol and Chance saw one another from across the room. All others disappeared.

Carol wanted to pretend that she wasn’t interested in Chance and she knew that he had just gone through an ugly break up so she was sure he wasn’t looking for something long term. But they just couldn’t help it. Their eyes locked, and they both smiled.

From that first Happy Hour, they exchanged texts, friended one another on FaceBook, emailed and left each other questionable voice mails. The even had an arrangement. It would be casual. No questions, no pressure, no worries. But with each additional meeting, it was harder and harder not to give into pleasure, passion and all the trappings that lay within.

They kept their secrets from their friends, sure that if everyone knew that they would be happy for them, but push for more, and Carol and Chance never wanted to mess up the group dynamic. So they just kept their tête-à-tête on the side. They met in the evenings and on the weekends. Soon, Chance was asking her to meet him before work, or even to stay over and go to work from her place.

It was almost too much, but the sex was incredible. Carol couldn’t believe her good fortune. She had never been much into casual sex, but if this was what it was like, then she was beating herself up for not joining the party sooner.

The evening before, the whole group had gone to happy hour. Carol and Chance left separately, but before she could even get the key into her apartment door, Chance was texting her, “One more drink? A kiss for the day? Meet me for breakfast? Can I convince you that any of these are good ideas?” She laughed as she opened her door, kicked it shut behind her and called him back.

“Chance, you are going to get tired of me if we keep spending so much time with one another.” He replied with one of the longest replies she had ever heard from him. “To me,” Chance said, “you are incredibly fun, like the antidote for dull and boring. Life with you, even simple chat, is always exciting to me. I never ever get bored with you and can talk with you forever. You renew every day; you're not a habit or some mundane thing that leads to a rut. You, above anyone else I know, keep life fresh.” Carol was stunned. It was probably one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her, so she agreed to coffee in the morning before they headed to work.

That morning they met at a small little mom and pop diner that was between their two jobs. They couldn’t go to Starbucks or Seattle’s Best because they would run into mutual friends and that would lead to too many questions. They settled into their little booth and as Chance slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a quick peck he tilted his head and laid a kiss under her jawbone, eliciting a small shiver from her.

They chatted for a bit and Chance called for the check thirty minutes before their agreed upon time to leave. Before the waitress could come over to deliver the check, Chance slid his hand under the table, pulled her business skirt up a little and played with the tops of her stockings. She tried to keep her chest from flushing, her breath from quickening and her face from turning red. All to no avail.

Chance put Carol’s skirt back in place, threw a twenty dollar bill on the table for their three dollar coffees and then drew her out the door and down the alley. He braced his hands on either side of her head and leaned in. He nibbled at her mouth, kissing and licking her lips. He nipped at first her top lip then the bottom while sliding a hand down her bottom and pulling her left leg up against his hip, exposing her stockings to his eyes only. He kept kissing her, pulling small moans from Carol’s mouth as she slid her hands around his waist, down his narrow hips to cup his buttocks.

He slid her panties aside and drew one finger against her and then licked his finger and kissed her one last time before putting everything right. Making sure they were both presentable and then walking her to the end of the alley so they could both go to work.

Cat reread the story and smiled. She thought that Carol and Chance would be seeing a lot more of one another.

About February 2010

This page contains all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in February 2010. They are listed from oldest to newest.

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