Sunday, January 17, 2010


All the good is gone now, all the wonder too. You lied yourself away, brick by burning brick. I always think there's hope, even when hope is insecure. The switchblades you hide in there are tearing up and stripping gears. Theory defines the best parts of you, reality is fully let down. Were you ever a man, or at least a boy with integrity? You are cold and callous, a liar at best, and at your worst, you love. I called you a coward once and I've believe it ever since; nothing you've done has proven me wrong, but I still hold the space for hope. You'd give up the trust, the love, the caring, and the real for a moment of false enjoyment. What kind of respect does that deserve? Not mine, not yours, not any. The traps you've created, you've created alone. You've got the keys to your cage, but you're too lazy to use them because it's easier just to blame me. I told you you'd break my heart once, and you said you'd not do it on purpose. The truth about that is simple: you lied.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Morning Muffins - 10thDoM Clarity Through a Cinnamon Mist

The children watched the muffins rise through the grease stained window of the stove. It was exciting for them to start their day with such a treat. Fighting for space in front of the tiny window, their voices carried throughout the house, and she wondered if it would wake him. She hoped so. She imagined him walking up behind her and planting little good morning kisses on her neck.

As usual, she had to wake him, and he feigned complaint, burying himself beneath the layers of bedding. When he finally gave in and let her pull the covers off him, he let her stare at him for a moment because he knew how she enjoyed his body. She wished he'd look at her the same way. She closed her eyes and envisioned his eyes enjoying her body as he traced his fingers along her silhouette.

Their fingers intertwined as they walked down the hallway together, dropping only when they came in sight of the children. The smell of cinnamon muffins drifted lightly through the kitchen. As she began getting plates and cups and utensils, she glimpsed at him gazing aimlessly into air, and wished he'd have presence of mind to ask if she needed any help. He didn't. He never did. She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled a deep sigh, planted a smile across her face, and dutifully brought the plates of muffins to the table.

As they ate, she eyed him wistfully, the children bantered back and forth for his attention, and he seemed at once oblivious and captivated by the moment. He made faces to make her giggle, he played along well with the children, and every once in a while, he'd look at her in a way that made her melt every time. She reveled in these moments. She couldn't imagine them lasting a lifetime, but she could be happy for a few more months of these moments strung together.

Slowly she chewed her last bite of muffin, savoring the cinnamon flavor. The smell of the cinnamon was wonderful, she thought, and pondered on when the house would lose the warm mist of scent. She looked across the table at him and wondered when she would lose him. He always seemed to have one foot out the door. This wasn't a forever relationship, she knew, this was a relationship with an expiration date. She smiled sweetly across the table at him and waited patiently for their bitter demise.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

How to Make a Bed - 10th DoM Dirty

She ripped the cum-stained sheets off the bed for the second night in a row. She hated doing laundry, but she hated the way the sticky stuff would dry and harden, and she hated the smell. With a heavy sigh, thinking of the task that lay ahead, she stared at the naked bed.
She'd thought ahead and bought a new mattress pad because she was pretty sure that the drips and trails of strawberry flavored lube and his and hers never matching cum stains must certainly have soaked through the sheets. As she had stripped the sheets from the bed, she threw a crooked smile across her face, at once remembering how the stains had gotten there in the first place and giving herself mental kudos for thinking ahead.
After unpacking the new mattress pad, taking a deep inhale of her new piece of bedding, she began to spread, smooth, and tuck around all the corners. This was her favorite part of bed making for many reasons: 1. She loved new bedding pieces, no matter how mundane, more than just about any other new thing she could buy. 2. She knew "he" liked her bed more than his own in large part because of this comfort piece. 3. She was excited about making a fresh bed because she knew "he" would be back.
With the mattress pad perfectly in place, and with a slowness usually reserved for snails and tortoises, she began to spread her Martha-Stewart-folded fitted sheet across the bed, tugging and pulling at the corners to get the top of the bed as smooth as possible. Each layer of her bedding took more than a few minutes to perfectly place, tuck, and fold. And as she stared at the smoothed out sheet, she felt a tiny tinge of frustration that she might be doing this again all too soon, but that would be a happy thing too. If she weren't just so anal about the perfection of her bed, this wouldn't even have crossed her mind.
Next, the top sheet would be sight measured, though she'd thought more than once about finding a tape measure just to see how well her eyes envisioned symmetry, and placed right side down so as to sleep between the "right" sides of the sheets, and so the pretty trim would fold perfectly back for show. The warming blanket, only there in case she had to sleep alone, was next and always the most difficult, what with maneuvering the wires so that they'd be unnoticeable and so as not to disturb the other layers.
After careful work with the wires and top sheet, the next layer, a winter weight down comforter, was ready to be placed atop the other four layers. She liked the winter weight blanket best because the summer weight one always hung down too low, and she had to tuck the edges into the sideboards of the 250 year old bed. And then, she'd ever-so-obsessively fold the top edge of the 600-thread-count top sheet over the edges of the warming blanket and comforter. Here, without fail, the tugging and smoothing seemed to go on forever.
For the final layer, a seasonal quilt, deep chocolate brown for winter, would be placed lovingly atop the rest of the layers, attempting to smother the white down comforter down and not look quite so fluffy. Two firm pillows, two medium pillows, two shams, and two decorative pillows later, the bed was made, ready for her lover to make dirty again.