Patient Zero

As fate would have it there is drama with my aunt’s estate. She refused to write a will, convinced she would recover or drag out the battle. My dad is in an absolute tizzy over this and has been on the phone nonstop with banks and accountants. He’s not after the money himself; it was meant to go to my sister and me.

Quite frankly I was shocked there was any money left for anything or anyone. My aunt spent money like a drunken cowboy. She had a well paying job and no dependents, so while she was never in debt there wasn’t much concern for a rainy day.

Anyway I asked my husband to play interference with my dad because husband is much smarter about financial stuff than I am. Well somehow somewhere wires got crossed and my dad got pissed. He demanded we both call him that evening so we could all speak at once.

Right away I could tell my dad was drunk. I mouthed he’s drunk to my husband and pantomimed drinking from a glass.

How did I know my dad was drunk? My father is a highly functional alcoholic. He is very good at sounding sober when drunk. He rarely slurs words and can keep a clear train of thought. But there is a deep, ugly anger that comes out when he drinks. Think richard III combined with the impetuousness of a toddler.

I immediately recognized that anger in his voice, an anger I hadn’t heard in decades (I have avoided my father all my adult life). A dire chill ran through me and my heart sank to the floor.

My father started ranting at my husband in the most vile, insulting, demeaning manner imaginable… it was sheer hatred and malice. This was out of nowhere because my husband had done nothing to cause anger. My dad was simply drunk and stressed. As I sat there, phone clutched in hand, it occurred to me this is what I grew up with as a child- every.day.of.my.life.

My eyes welled over with tears. I’m sorry, I mouthed to my husband. I’m SO sorry.

As horrible as my husband has been these past five months, I was overwhelmed with sorrow and shame for how my dad was speaking to him. I was *this* close to telling my dad, Dude, keep the money and enjoy it but don’t ever contact me again. But I thought of my kids and how they might benefit from the money and kept my mouth shut.

Dad hung up on us. I went into the bathroom and started crying and crying. Because, let’s face it, everything comes down to this man. Whether genetics or what he put me through as a child, you don’t need a PhD in psychology to see my behavior and choices with men all come back to this piece of work.

ALL the men I get involved with fall into one of two categories:

Highly intelligent men who are emotionally stunted or unavailable (this is my dad when sober).

OR, abusive, volatile men with substance abuse issues (this is my dad when drunk).

So there I sat on the bathroom floor weeping. Look… my choices are my own; my actions are entirely my responsibility. But my mind traced through time all the guys I fucked, or who abused me, like a sad numberline with my dad as patient zero.

My husband came to the bathroom door. I’m okay, I said before he spoke. I’m just SO SORRY he spoke to you like that.

My husband laughed and was surprisingly light hearted. Don’t worry about me, he said. If someone wants to call me a nigger for X dollars I’ll be smiling all the way to the bank.

The next morning my dad called at exactly 8am to apologize. My biggest surprise is that he remembered anything. Like me, he is prone to alcohol induced brownouts. I’m fairly certain there are large segments of my childhood he has no memory of.

Don’t worry about it I repliedmy voice was so gentle I barely recognized it, and I hung up the phone with infinite sorrow.

His Favorite Pastime

J finally replied to my breakup message with a poorly spelled paragraph about how he is who he is and if I can’t accept who he is then well I don’t accept who he is but if I want his cock he could meet 3pm.

I replied, how about 2pm?

He said he would bring zip ties “so I could enjoy his cock.”

He never did bring those zip ties, not sure why. He has a pattern of suggesting extreme things (not that zip ties are extreme) then seemingly forgetting about it. For instance, he once asked would I use a dildo on him. Uh, ok? But he never broached the topic again.

As we walked down the hallway he turned and said something to me. What? He repeated himself and still I couldn’t understand a word he said! I wasn’t exaggerating when I said his guidoese is so thick and my king’s english is so king’s english, we have difficulty communicating.

In the room he undressed immediately, legs splayed on the bed and his dick rock hard; for an old guy he is surprisingly functional in the dick department. But jesus christ what is it with these guys undressing immediately? It is SO TACKY.

I kept my clothes on and climbed on top of him, asked did he bring the zip ties (no). Asked well what do you want to do then? I wanna fuckya, he replied, then requested I lick his balls. He pointed to a precise spot he wished me to lick and I did so. After a while I climbed back on top.

What? he asked.

I want to kiss you.

Oh, he said, rolling his eyes.

You’re such a jerk! I dove in for a kiss. Sometimes our kisses are beautiful and sometimes they’re just blah. This time was blah. I undressed and he turned me on my stomach. We get in these weird positions- one of his favorites is straddling my right leg (me on my stomach) and my left leg hooked around his left leg. Except this time I was also able to hook my foot around his foot. We were double hooked!

He kept alternating between fucking me and licking my ass. The latter being his favorite pastime. I could tell he was struggling to hold back cumming; I kept reaching my hand back to touch his legs- they are like tree trunks, the man is crazy built- or to caress his arms and hands. At one point I glanced back and watched his hands grip my butt and hips as he fucked me. He was suntanned so dark and my skin was so pale it looked like a vignette from interracial porn. Unlike the previous time he fucked me he was very cautious- I daresay tender. I complained after the fact he was way too rough; I was surprised now he remembered to be careful.

His breath grew deeper and deeper and finally he moved in front of me and jerked off into my mouth. There was cum everywhere, on my face, in my hair, on my neck. He collapsed in reverse on the bed (his head at the foot his feet at the head). I cleaned up my face with a towel and I handed him a pillow.

He talked. He talked for a long time. This is profoundly uncharacteristic unless he’s drunk, which he wasn’t. His family is going to DC for vacation. He told me where his wife works. Talked about his deceased father- he served in WW2. His ashes have been sitting in the house for seven years and he worries it attracts bad luck.

He talked about his childhood, how his brother viciously abused him, twice landing him in the hospital. Their mother abandoned them and their father was never home.

Until one day J decided to fight back. When he was fifteen he took a chain and beat his brother so ferociously he couldn’t open his eyes nor speak for days.

His brother never laid hands on him again.

As he got dressed he talked about aliens. He thinks they contributed to human evolution and technology. I told him, that’s what scientologists believe.

Sometimes I think, he said with even more uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, When I die I’m gonna become an angel.

I haven’t told him about my ability to astral project so I just laughed, said I wasn’t sure it works that way.

Each time I tell myself: this is the last time. I wonder if he tells himself the same.

Michael Who?

Yesterday afternoon the phone rang. Glancing at the number I thought it was my daughter so answered immediately. Imagine my surprise when a male voice said:

Hi ella [I guess that will be my blog name] it’s michael.

Michael? Michael who? Did I fuck a michael last year I forgot about? And how did he have my house number?

Michael? I repeated into the phone, still clueless. My mind raced to tabulate all the men I encountered last year. There was S. That was just once. He chickened out. Then foot fetish guido; we never slept together but he sucked my toes while jerking off. B. Stupid B. We never slept together either but I gave him a blow job in his car behind an abandoned supermarket. Classy right? I’ll never forgive him for that. Then T. Sigh, T. I never told you much about T. Then the dreaded J, and R. R would not let go of me, he was like a dog with a bone. He threatened to jump off the bridge if I stopped seeing him. There was the ranger, and of course V. Did I forget anyone? Oh yeah… corporate attorney. What a dork.

But no michael. Then it dawned on me this was THE michael, my first ‘true love’ affair from eight long years ago. I didn’t even recognize his voice.

I was already on autopilot cheater mode, quickly collecting all the cordless extensions lest my kids pick one up. I locked myself in my room.

Michael, I said into the phone- Is everything okay?

I mean why else would he call my HOUSE after YEARS of not speaking? Surely this was a dire emergency?

I wanted to hear your voice.

I nearly threw the phone across the room! But instead I told him politely, You shouldn’t have called the house.

We conversed briefly. His son is having problems. I told him my husband lost his fucking mind and is not making life easy for me. I told him I’d text from a ‘safe’ number; we hung up and I texted him from V’s burner. I felt guilty using up V’s texts on michael. I really have no interest in communicating with him.

The affair was torment. We were madly in love. I was an inexperienced cheater (he was not). He was fat, shorter than me, had hair that looked like a bad toupee. But I was insanely in love with this man and the sex was mind blowing. To go from years of sexlessness to crazy over the top sex… well I’ve never done heroin but I dare make the comparison. I was hooked.

But it was too wretched, too painful. We were maniacally jealous over each other. The thought of him having female coworkers tormented me. For him the thought of any man laying eyes on me was torment. He often said, not joking, he wanted to put me in a burka.

We would have vicious texting battles to 2am, or text hours and hours about our infinite love and passion. [I should interject here this guy was the stiffest suit you’d ever meet, but with me he was a madman.] At times I was suicidal over him; it was an amour fou. Until one day I couldn’t take it anymore and ended it. I wasn’t abrupt or nasty. It was one of those not with a bang but a whimper scenarios. We remained in touch but it lessened with time. He started fucking someone else. I got into a years long affair with N, the one who eventually turned impotent. And that brings us to last year: you saw the list above lol. Oh I forgot shrek! I kind of miss him. The sex was god awful but I liked the cuddling, and he was surprisingly articulate and well read for a construction worker.

So michael starts texting me on V’s burner how he never stopped loving me etc etc. Is he serious? Maybe he has early onset dementia. I gave a few polite replies then dropped it.

I feel there’s a moral to this story but cannot quite put my finger on it. Don’t jump off that bridge? Don’t give blow jobs in public? If you can figure it out, let me know.

My Ugly Dog

Yesterday I went to church for the first time since being busted. My husband rarely lets me leave the house alone, and it was alone I typically went. So it was five long months since I got to see my buddies. John the baptist! Saint cyprian! The russian dude whose name I can’t pronounce! Saint Dorothea!

Don’t worry, I know I’m the world’s worst hypocrite attending church while I carry on, and indeed I avoided church for years once I began cheating. Then one day it dawned on me: I’m going to hell anyway, so I can either pay my respects to god in the meantime or pretend he doesn’t exist.

I was always quiet and unobtrusive. Sat in the back and if it was standing room only I promptly gave up my seat. I always gave money and never, ever got involved with any groups or committees. I thought of myself as something of a stowaway.

My husband hates this church, so much so it’s physically painful for me to stand near him if he accompanies me. He’s like a nuclear beacon of negativity in the pews, so I just stopped going.

Well then my aunt dies. I had to light a candle for her so off we went yesterday morning. He was silent the whole way, snarky and nasty when he did speak.

I got in the church and bought a candle, one of the big votive ones. There is a theory that ‘shrines’ exist in all dimensions so in theory by lighting a candle for her there I was lighting candles for her throughout the universe. I stared plaintively at the saint next to the candle rack. Find her! I pleaded silently.

The service sucked. It was a substitute priest. He gave a rambling sermon about jesus casting demons into pigs (and then the pigs jump off a cliff). All I could think was, poor pigs.

Husband and I got into an ugly argument on the way home. We are a Catholic family! he snarled. He didn’t want me attending this ‘other’ church!

The man hasn’t been to mass in a decade, not even for holidays. I don’t think he even believes in god. But all of a sudden he’s the catholic captain america.

Catholics are weird.

::–::–::–::

I never did ghost J. Instead I wrote him an exceedingly polite goodbye note. Said I knew he did not love or care for me and I was just a venue for sex (I didn’t use the word ‘venue,’ he wouldn’t understand what that means). Said I tolerated it as long as I could, but I could no longer. Told him we should both move on. That I wish him no harm (not entirely true). That I hope his children flourish.

He didn’t even reply.

It hurts. I know it shouldn’t, but it does. There’s a passage in Autobiography of a Yogi where either paramahansa or yukteswar giri, upon entering the ashram as a student, is told the story of the ugly dog. When the head guru was a child, he so badly yearned to have his neighbor’s ugly dog that he would weep for it, even though his family had a cute dog at home.

You get the moral of the story right?

We will always want strange things we don’t really need and shouldn’t even want. Human desire is irrational.

Rational or not, J is my ugly dog, and it hurts.

::–::–::–::

I have projected twice since my aunt died. The first time I was so frightened I quickly snapped back. The second time I maintained equanimity and stayed out. I did a very weird retrieval (this is where you help a stuck soul or soul shard move on) then found myself in a beautiful hospital. It looked more like a luxurious shopping mall or mansion than a hospital, but it was indeed a hospital. I saw a number of entities milling around then approached a very tall nun (angels sometimes look very tall in the astral). I inquired about my aunt and she agreed to take me to her.

But as I followed her she began walking so quickly I couldn’t keep up, and I snapped back into my body.

I hope this is a good sign. It appears she’s in some kind of celestial hospital. Too bad I can’t tell my mom and sister about this, but I can’t exactly say hey mom, I astral projected and spoke to an angel who looked like a nun who implied she’s taking care of aunt **** in a celestial hospital. Lol. If I could actually speak to her perhaps I could convey the message as being received in a dream. But the idea of chatting with my dead aunt is a bit terrifying, even with all the freaky supernatural things I’ve experienced on the other side.

A Thousand Angels

My aunt finally died. ‘Finally’ not because we wished to get rid of her; finally because she lived six years with an aggressive cancer that usually kills in months. She just kept fighting and fighting, doctor after doctor, hospital after hospital. She possessed a great deal of medical knowledge so knew what she was doing, but she simply could not accept she was dying. She refused to enter hospice, adamant she might recover or buy more time.

The day she died I took a nap in the afternoon; I’ve taken to napping when husband is home as a small means of escape. I was groggily waking when I heard his footsteps clump down the hallway. I pretended I was still sound asleep.

He stood over my bed staring at me while I ‘slept.’ He does this sometimes. It’s creepy.

Finally he bends down close to my face: your mother just called. Your aunt’s in a coma.

My aunt had slipped into a coma during the night and was unresponsive, even though she was cognizant and able to shower the day before.

I went about my business but toward evening got a feeling. Hard to describe but I heard the words ‘okay it’s now.’ Immediately I got a votive candle, the kind that burns for days (thankfully I had one on hand) and a white candle. I lit both on the floor, sat down in front of them and started reciting the jesus prayer with all the mental and spiritual strength I could muster. My daughter came in at a certain point; I put a hand up to shush her. Mommy’s busy. So she sat beside me playing while I prayed. I went through the prayer a hundred times.

My aunt died that hour. When I got the news I fell to the floor weeping and keening. My husband awkwardly tried to comfort me.

She was a nice lady, he said. 

She was a bitch, I replied through a stream of tears.

And this is true. But she was also fiercely intelligent, independent, and, when it suited her, profoundly generous and selfless.

Some of my worst childhood memories revolve around this aunt. She was cruel to her sister (my mother) and my sister. Said nasty things to their face about their weight. Said snide things to me, all in an off the cuff manner like it meant nothing to hurt other people. But she could also be very generous and attentive. I guess you could say she was complex.

I am in the unique and bizarre position to be able to contact her. I mean if I could find V’s nonna I’m sure I could find my own aunt. But I’m not sure I want to, nor am I sure it would do her any good to see me. If she is stuck, seeing me might further convince her she’s still alive.

I begged for angels to surround her but the problem with stuck souls is they can’t see the angels. So you could have a thousand angels trying to help, but if you can’t see them you can’t move on. I ask helpful guy from /r/astralprojection to find her (before she died); he did and shared information he couldn’t have known other than supernaturally. I don’t need validation, but it’s still really cool when it happens.

So I’m dreading my next projection (my projections are involuntary). I feel obligated to find her to make sure she’s ok, but worry it might do more harm than good for both of us. At least I have the comfort of knowing there are worlds and life beyond this one, but I can’t talk about it much with my mom or sister lest they think I’m cuckoo. But amma (the hindu ‘hugging saint’) was right: death is a period before the beginning of the next sentence.

This Bag of Hammers

I attended yet another school event, not at a catholic school but rather a public school. I was sat next to a ginormous black lady who was sat next to an even more ginormous black lady. Behind them was a yet MORE ginormous black lady. They were like russian nesting dolls!

Administrators gave speeches. A vietnam vet gave a tearful speech about a fallen comrade perished in a rice paddy. Some guys got up and gave a well done rendition of Imagine. Look, it’s a pretty song but atheists get on my nerves. Of course there’s a heaven and hell. Duh!

My two and five year olds were surprisingly well behaved for the first hour but deteriorated. The black ladies kept whooping it up for reasons that were sometimes unclear. My two year old started sliding off his seat to roll around the ground. My five year old started whooping it up with the black ladies. She even did that lasso thing over her head.

Well I couldn’t take it anymore so I dragged the kids outside and walked to a nearby park. We passed a group of old dudes playing bocce; they were measuring the balls as though international incidents hinged on the outcome.

My five year old was whining. She was hungry! She was hot! Her legs were tired! The two year old kept yanking his hand from mine so he could roll on the ground (a fond pastime of his).

I dragged them back to the school and buckled them in their carseats. Mwahaha, now they were trapped! I pondered my next move, then texted my husband he could get a ride home with *******. I was going home.

This was an unfamiliar part of guidoville. J lives here. Since I’m not a creepy stalker I’ve never driven past his house. But as I was in the vicinity… why not? I glanced in the rearview mirror; both kids were engrossed by a game on my ex-phone (when my husband took away my phone I managed to reset it, then gave it to the kids to fill with junk data. This was on V’s recommendation).

Took a turn. A few more turns. All the streets were so quaint and pretty. And there it was: J’s little house. I recognized it immediately from his car in the driveway. 

And there was, I assume, his wife’s car in front of his.

I wondered were his kids home?

I thought of the many dreadful things his wife doesn’t know; his nasty masturbation video was on the phone in my handbag.

Oh well. A song entered my head, Bag of Hammers. I once heard it on the radio:

I’m all in a ball in your front lawn/ I have this bag of hammers/ I won’t ask to come in, I’ve sold everything/ And still… I have some manners.

*×*×*×*

The next day V met me at Target. He was patiently waiting in his truck when I pulled into the parking lot. I made him lift the two year old out of my car and put him in the cart; that kid is a sack of potatoes.

We strolled through Target like a long married couple. My other son needed bateries so we hunted those down. Then I picked some sports bras to try on; I figured it’s about time I start wearing bras again. Small boobs or not the world doesn’t need to see my nipples. V stayed with my little guy while I was in the fitting room.

They all felt like murder. The straps bit into my skin like a nasty harness. (Maybe I do have OCD?) I tore them off.

Long story short my daughter starts frantically texting me from a pool party that her glasses broke and she wants to come home. The party was in yet another unfamiliar part of guidoville (my gps was not working) but V knew the way and offered to have me follow him there and back.

We loaded the two year old in the car and I followed V through winding side streets and roads I’d never been on. The area grew increasingly remote, trees looming up on all sides. V pulled over and gestured to turn left; I followed a serpentine uphill driveway and found a guido mansion perched on the hill. There were statues. Multiple garages, a bright yellow mercedes convertible parked in one.

******’s mom says to come through the back, texted my daughter. 

I sighed. That meant dragging the two year old along with me. I lugged him out of the car and the two of us crunched along the gravel path to the pool; it was vast and glittering, more statues and a fake waterfall. A plump woman suntanned to bronze came barreling toward us.

Wouldja look adim? Wouldja look at HIM! She was going gaga over my son (he is really cute) and began pleading with us to stay. I thought anxiously of V waiting at the end of the driveway and declined.

My daughter trudged over in a black bikini all gloomy. Bronze lady apologized profusely for the glasses incident. She pleaded a little more for us to stay and asked how many children I have. Oh man, not this again! I told her the number and the age range and she says- not joking, remember this is guidoville- Honey, you can’t go around having babies when you’re twelve!

Then she looks at my daughter. You better hope you have your mother’s genes!

My daughter rolled her eyes. I don’t, she sighed, and the three of us crunched back down the gravel path to the car.

At the base of the driveway there was V! I couldn’t believe he was so gracious to take me back and forth like this. My daughter was so busy talking about herself she was oblivious as to V’s car leading us back to the main thoroughfare.

The next day V and I met for sex and he fucked me really hard. Not in the callous way J does, but, that’s another post.

Hard Math

Since I like the marriage therapist so much, and she apparently likes me even more, I decided to co-opt her for myself. I asked her, in front of my husband, if she would be willing to see me privately. I wasn’t sure if this might break some therapy code of ethics. Her face lit up. Sure! she said. No problem.

I had not seen a therapist in twenty years. I did belong to a lot of internet message boards (message boards… remember those?). For sexless marriages. For adulterers. For people with severe anxiety. But never professional help.

My thinking was I could discuss J in a watered down, past tense context. And this is precisely what I did, said there was a man I was formerly involved with whom I could not stop thinking about in an obsessive manner, even though I didn’t want to waste another second of my life thinking about him.

She listened intently as I described a dilluted version of all that transpired between me and J. Even with this less concentrated tale her eyes widened in shock.

Well, said the therapist. He sounds like a very irrational man. He used you!

Hearing it out loud woke me up a little. I mean I know he’s using me. I know he’s a loose cannon. But I cannot break this mental loop.

Anyway to my surprise the therapist did not diagnose me with sex addiction or sociopathy. She says I have OCD.

~~~***~~~

I told myself I would see J one last time then ghost him. If he came back begging I might reconsider, but him begging is highly unlikely.

Once again there he was like a spectre emerged from the mist. He undressed, threw back a glass of wine and urged me to drink.

I can’t drink too fast, I told him. I’ll puke.

Still he urged me to drink. So I did, downed a glass in five gulps. We kissed for a while and he asked why do I like him so much?

I couldn’t exactly tell him I don’t like him at all, that I’m with him just to feed my stupid obsession. So I said: I feel a connection to you.

He cocked his head to the side as though trying to do hard math. 

Anyway he started fucking me. And fucking me. And fucking me. My face was in the mattress, then he dragged me to the edge of the bed- when I tried to climb away he dragged me back. Flipped me over and pinned back my legs. He was being way too aggressive.

You like it baby?

I shook my head no and peered up at him. On his face, his expression, he looked in a trance. 

You know you like it. And he kept going, pulling me this way and that, pinning and twisting me. At a certain point I was so physically exhausted and emotionally worn down I just went limp. By this point he had me twisted around in a weird position: on my stomach, one leg between his legs and the other leg outstretched. His hands drove down on my butt as he pounded me.

You want me to fuck you harder? He was practically growling now, his guidoese so thick were it not for the context I would have no clue what he was saying.

Yih wahme tuh fuckyih hadah?

I felt like I was in the clutches of a deranged ape. And then he ejaculated, all over my butt and thigh. He paused for some moments then collapsed next to me.

I was in daze. I just lay there limp. He was panting, his heart beating so hard I could hear it a foot away. His breathing was heavy and labored: HEWwww …… HEWwww……. HEWwww…

That was like- he was gasping for breath- that was like being in a FIRE.

Shit! I sat up and put a hand on his chest. I have NEVER felt a man’s heart pound so hard. For the first time in my cheating career I was genuinely afraid I might have just killed a man. (What a way to get re-busted!)

So I began running my palms over his chest, gently over his face, then placed my palm gently over each chakra and held it there a few seconds. I had no idea what else to do! The genitals, a little below the belly button, the belly button, the sternum, the collarbone, his forehead and the top of his head (I know it sounds kooky but these energy points really do exist in the human body). After I did this a few times his breathing normalized completely. I don’t know of it was me or physiology… but he wasn’t dead.

He started talking about his son. One day of school left! And his daughter. Two days!

I still felt dazed. Wondered if I would indeed have the strength to ghost this man. I watched him sadly as he got dressed, got dressed myself, and we parted ways without much fanfare.

All Hail King Scraps

The semi-tame feral cat will occasionally come inside. At first it was just to eat but later he scooted in- by all appearances- just to hang out. He likes to watch me do laundry and is astonished by the glowing light of the dryer. Other times he follows close on my heels like a dog, and even more dog-like we taught him to stand on his hind legs, a trick he shows off to our delight. We named him Athelstan after the amazing character in Vikings. My 5 year old can’t pronounce that so she calls him Apple Stand.

Athelstan is a beautiful, clever cat but as much cannot be said for the rest of the herd. Did you see The Secret Life of Pets? Well that initial stray cat scene is highly accurate- something went seriously wrong in the chromosome department for these animals.

One cat, we call him Scraps because he really looks like he was stitched together from scraps, is crossed eyed, his tongue lolls out and he often drools. His fur clumps together in strangely colored tufts (brown? black? it almost looks navy blue!). He’s runty; at first I thought he was a kitten but he’s just scrunched up and creepily stunted. One of my daughters observed he is the ugliest cat she’s ever seen.

All the other feral cats live in fear of Scraps. No matter who is eating, even the tough tabby with huge paws, if Scraps appears they move aside with deference and patiently sit on the sidelines while Scraps eats and drinks. It reminds me of the scene V described from his catering hall days, how the mobsters lined up to hand envelopes to the top mobster sat on the throne reserved for weddings. 

So instead of Scraps I sometimes refer to him as King Scraps. Hello king scraps! as I’m unloading the kids from the car. All hail Lord Scraps and his lady Babybell.

Poor Babybell. She is constantly injured, scrawny (having fed feral cats for a year, I can tell you no matter how much food you distribute, some remain skin and bones. Maybe they have worms, I dunno.) and is so feral she doesn’t let me closer than twenty feet: she takes off like a cockroach.

She does like to stare at us with luminous green eyes. She will even stare at us through the window in a bizarre, endless staring contest (she always wins). Is she trying to tell us something?

Thanks for the food…?

More salmon please…?

Please rescue me from King Scraps…?

Athelstan, clever cat that he is steers clear of King Scraps in all ways possible. Occasionally he trots behind Babybell with a look of concern on his face (yes, cats can have a look on their face… you cat people out there can vouch for this!).

Once Athelstan came inside begging for food but refused to eat, so finally I let him back out and situated the food outside with him. He stood by that food not touching it… and who creeps in but poor Babybell! Athelstan stood gallantly by her side while she ate.

They had colluded!

Hopefully they don’t get busted by King Scraps.

~~~<><>~~~

I attended yet another catholic school event this evening. This one was in a church; I have been in this church countless times but always alone.

Father Enzo gave a long sermon on the EVILS OF LUST AND INTOXICATION. Oh shit. I threw back a glass of wine before we came over (I did not drive!)

Father Enzo told us to repent for our sins.

God, I asked. Please forgive all the nasty shit I have done and will do with J. Also, please wipe V’s slate clean. His wife is a horrid abusive shrew (she is) and he is not culpable.

There were speeches. Yawn. There were awards. More yawn. Then my 5 year old starts whining she needs to use the bathroom. Uggggghh. So I drag her through the doors to the rectory where the bathroom is located.

Well the bathroom was occupied so I dragged her into the rectory courtyard. 

There was a mausoleum to a former priest. Okay that’s a little weird. Like I said, catholics are weird. I studied the inscription. He had the same birthday as me! (160 years earlier) That was even weirder. 

Then… THEN… I see an empty can of cat food and a dish of dry food by the rectory door.

Well I’ll be damned. Father Enzo is feeding feral cats too!!! And there was one of the culprits: a sleek black cat perched on Father Enzo’s windowsill. He peered at us suspiciously, leapt down to the ground and vanished in the bushes.

I noticed a smaller courtyard toward the back of Father Enzo’s yard. My daughter and I investigated; it was a memorial to parish members perished in 9/11. Eight firefighters including a captain. One woman- she must have worked in the towers.

This was just too fucking sad. My eyes teared up (I DO NOT cry easily). I thought of J’s friend who took his shift that day and died instead. I imagined J dying- saw him suffocated and crushed in a horrific maze of smoke and rubble. Then I dragged my daughter back to the rectory. The bathroom was free.

As she peed I studied the bathroom. It was surprisingly nice, clean. A placard on the wall declared: PRAY THE ROSARY EVERY DAY.

EVERY DAY.

…***…

Surprise Surprise

I attended a function at one of the catholic schools recently. I wore a pencil skirt, lace camisole and that cute long sleeved halter I mentioned previously. And tall black boots. Really I had very little skin showing. Were it not for the form fittedness and glimpse of leg it would have been shariah approved. Maybe. I also wore some of my beautiful aunt’s jewelry; she handed off a big box last time she visited- she was already on 24/7 oxygen at that point.

There was assigned seating and we were situated with two black ladies, a cheerful white guy and two children. It took me a while to figure out they were all together. My mind was elsewhere as I was supposedly seeing both J and V later that day (not at the same time) and I kept going over the logistics in my head, realizing it wasn’t going to work.

So with heavy heart I excused myself, found a quiet alcove and sat under the statue of St. Anthony to text J: sorry but there’s too much going on today it’s not going to work. Then waited for a reply. Nothing. As much of a nightmare as it is to plan anything with this man, it can be equally nightmarish to UNplan anything.

After a few fruitless minutes I decided to return to the function. Father Enzo and I nearly careened headlong when I did; we stopped in our tracks and stared at each other. My whorephone was still in hand.

Uh… hi father.

Hello, said Father Enzo, and after an awkward pause: How are you?

I’m great! I exclaimed and ducked back to my seat.

The principal gave a speech. Father Enzo blessed the food. Then everyone but me got up to get something to eat from the banquet tables. My daughter returned with a plate piled high with bagels, cookies and fruit. Score!

I chatted with my daughter as she munched away. Poured orange juice for the black ladies. Periodically checked the whorephone for a reply from J. Nada.

Mom, said my daughter, staring fearfully at a twice bitten cookie in her hand, this cookie has nuts in it. She showed me hives on her hands and a rash sprouting around her mouth.

No worries- I gave her benadryl and the hives died down. She seemed sleepy but ok by the time we drove home.

Once home I settled into the kitchen with the two year old and listened to my latest guilty pleasure- I’m infinitely ashamed to admit this but I have been bitten by the kpop bug. I wanna big house, big cars and big rings! Suga pronounces ‘rings’ as ‘rangs.’ It’s so cute. So I was floating along the ethereal refrains of kpop when my daughter stumbled into the kitchen looking like a zombie.

Do we, she asked between wheezing gasps, have an epipen?

SHIT. I leapt up, tore apart another daughter’s room where I knew a recent epipen was stored. I couldn’t find it. So I retrieved an older set from the bathroom and found my daughter slumped on the floor. It’d been a while since I did this so I read the directions out loud.

REMOVE SAFETY RELEASE.

HOLD AT 90 DEGREE ANGLE.

WHACK!

My daughter screamed while I counted to ten.

***°°°***

I drove behind the ambulance and parked on the street near the hospital. J texted as I walked over.

We’re still on right? [See??]

I explained the situation. He apologized and asked, did I want a video of him jerking off?

Well he’s never offered THAT before.

Sure, I texted back.

The guidoville ER is always an experience. The children have their own section, but if they’re a bad case, which my daughter was, they’re kept on the adult side.

People lay crumpled and still on stretchers. Some look dead or near dead.

A hulking guy burst in with three cops on him; he still nearly busted loose. YA FUCKIN NIGGAS, he kept screaming [but the cops were white?]. YA FUCKIN NIGGAS!! They shot him up with something and put him in an isolation room.

Then there was my daughter, albuterol and oxygen mask on her face, IV in her arm. Whatever it was had her knocked out cold. A dorky young doctor entered the room and explained the meds to me and said they would watch her for a few hours but she should emerge unscathed.  I made myself comfortable and tried to ignore the chaos and misery around me.

Then my phone buzzed; it was the video from J. Since my daughter was sound asleep I carefully muted the sound and pressed play.

There was J’s bathroom. The tiles were bright white interspersed with black.

There was a glimpse of J’s face as he positioned his phone.

What ensued was the most lurid masturbation scene I have ever witnessed. I was stunned that not only would he do what he was doing, but that he would VIDEO it with his FACE VISIBLE.

I watched in horrified fascination. When it was over I immediately saved it to my phone (and later assured him I deleted it).

It takes a lot to surprise me these days and suffice it to say I was sure surprised.

~~~***~~~

The next morning I took a walk around our yard. We have a large yard by guidoville standards. Our semi-tame feral cat watched me keenly from a distance.

God, you’re weird, I said aloud. Why did you create nut allergies? It makes no sense.

Then I remembered how Sri Yukteswar Giri explained we exist within a dream inside the consciousnesses of god.

So it would make sense that strange, nonsensical phenomenon exists, since dreams can be so strange and nonsensical. It isn’t really a satisfying answer, but an answer nonetheless.

~~~^^^~~~

MEE yow

A week ago from friday I saw J. He was tired coming off a 24 hour shift. As with the previous time I felt ambivalent and slightly apathetic. He took his clothes off and was already hard. We kissed a lot then I slipped off my skort; he turned me on my stomach and alternated between licking my ass (what is it with ass licking?) and fucking me. I was wearing a cute long sleeved black halter that I left on.

Well, then he got aggressive. The guy is either really stupid and/or has a very weak concept of consent. I once suggested we have a safe word. ‘No safe word’ he replied. Oooookay… anyway I literally had to scream at him to get him to back off and calm down. He did tone it down a notch, drove into me hard, just held himself there real still and deep, then told me to take it all. I scooched under him, swallowed and swallowed.

Afterwards we lay in bed; I kissed his padre pio medal and held it tight in my hand as though afraid of dropping it. I asked about his cat. He found it as a stray kitten, he explained, stuck in a guardrail; he cut it free then placed it in a cardboard box behind the firehouse. Then the kitten crawled under the hood of a car. J rescued it again but took it home this time.

I told him I taught my cat (one of the feral cats in my yard is semi-tame) to stand on his hind legs. His cat does the same, he said. I makim beg befoe I feedim. I makim meow. 

He pronounced ‘meow’ as MEE yow.

As we got dressed I asked what he was making the kids for dinner. Aw I’m jus takinem out. He gave me a slightly better hug than last time and we parted ways.
*

Then yesterday I saw V. He was dressed for work so looked terribly cute in dress pants and shirt. He has been beaten down so hard, for so long by his wife that he doesn’t realize how handsome he is. When I tell him as much he looks flattered and bashful.

I was extremely horny and felt tipsy despite having ingested no alcohol. He held me tight against him and asked, did I get taller? I laughed and replied no, he just forgot how tall I am.

Let’s stand in front of the mirror, I told him, back to back. We did and I pointed out he has a good four inches on me.

We undressed and kissed, he was all over me nibbling, kissing, biting (V is a biter) and caressing. I dunno what tuh doduya fuhst he said quietly, his voice full of emotion and his cock soooo hard against me.

He eventually got me under him and made me suck his cock while he straddled me. His cock has an upward bent so it was a little awkward, physically, but hot. I gradually took him in deeper, until I was gagging slightly.

He moved down and began giving me oral. I don’t particularly like receiving oral but whatever. Then he lifts/tilts my butt back and HE STARTS LICKING MY ASS. What the fuck? Either I have a very lickable ass or this is some kind of trend?

Anyway he fucked me hard missionary, turned me over and fucked me very hard doggie, pulled my hair (not only is V a biter but he’s a hair puller) then told me to lay flat on my stomach as he climaxed inside me.

He always gets this look on face after he cums, his eyes closed and his face pressed against mine, like he is overcome unbearably with emotion. After a few minutes he whispered, I love you baby. And he caressed and cradled me sweetly. He’s touching me as though I were a newborn baby, I thought to myself, and indeed he was. He held me like I was something new and precious, still pressing his face against mine, kissing my forehead. I felt a little guilty realizing how much he loves me. I mean I do love him back and appreciate how good he is to me, but I’m not at his level of ardor.

*