For Michael

When The Daylight Comes
Ian Hunter

Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, ooooo
Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, ooooo

Sweet woman what's your name?
You smell as fresh as the rain
Instead of leaving you came
Let me feel your hair

A light shines in your eyes
The hungry years are so nice
Shadows shake in the lamplight
No writer could explain

But when the daylight comes
But when the daylight comes
But when the daylight comes
I'll be on my way

Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, ooooo
Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, ooooo
Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, ooooo, yeah!

Please share my bed and i swear
That i won't touch you nowhere
Just need your warmth and your care
Don't wanna mess around

And when the daylight comes
Yeah when the daylight comes
Oh when the daylight comes
I'll be on my way

Yeah when the daylight comes
Yeah when the daylight comes
Yeah when the daylight comes
I'll be on my way

But there's a song in the air
And it knows that you're there
'cause it's making me share
You with my life
I know i know i know that
I want to weave you in words
Want to paint you in verse
Want to leave you in someone else's dreams
It seems the only way, hey!
I can thank you, thank you baby

Some people say that we're sinners
Some people say that we're winners
We make good gossip at dinners
They try to pin us down

But when the daylight comes
Yeah when the daylight comes
Oh when the daylight comes
I'll be on my way

Yeah when the daylight comes
Yeah when the daylight comes
Oh when the daylight comes
We'll be on my way

Did He Say What I Thought He Said?

The pilot is trouble.

Big trouble.

He scares the living hell out of me.

This one refuses to be a sex object. Hell, he refuses to have sex. He knows what I'm about. He likes it. He liked it very much, thank you, the one time. And I know he wants to again. That is painfully obvious to both of us.

But he won't.

He says he wants to end his marriage knowing he tried his best to be a good guy. And that it should be over by Christmas.
He says that his head is still not in the right place to do me justice.
He says he doesn't want me to be just sex.
He says he wants to take it slow because he doesn't want me to be the rebound.
He says he wants to spend time with me, out with others and among people who I am afraid will not necessarily approve.
He says, is it okay if he keeps calling and texting me when he's on these long flight jags, wherein I won't see him for a week or so. Because, he says, he finds me popping into his head and just has to let me know.

He also says that he can't forget about that one night.
He also says that he can hardly control himself when I let him hold my arms over my head and we kiss, lying on my couch.
He also says that he dreams about my breasts.
He also says that, yes, naughty girls need punished. And that he knows exactly how to do it.

He makes me quiver and quake. Physically and emotionally.

Because I think he really said he wanted a relationship. With me.

But I'm not confident enough of myself and my ability to read such things anymore to be sure.

And if I'm wrong, I'll have thrown myself off the cliff. And I'm not sure I can survive this time, and so soon.

Another Year Older But Not a Bit Wiser

I am fucking forty-eight years old.

Forty-eight!!!!!!!

Can you believe it? I know I can't. Honestly? I don't feel any older than about 30 in my head. And though the body is fully aware of its age and makes it known to me on a regular basis, it hasn't aged badly either.

Forty-fucking-eight!!!!!!!!

In 1958, Lebanon was pretty much the same mess it is now.
In 1958, the U.S. finally successfully launched its first satellite into space. About a year after the Soviets launched Sputnik. Thus launching the false premise of the "missile gap."
In 1958, air travel was revolutionized by the introduction of jet service between New York and Paris via the 707 by Pan Am.
In 1958, NASA was founded.

Prince, Madonna, Tim Burton, and Michael Jackson are all older than me by mere months.

The Everly Brothers had a hit song, "All I Have To Do Is Dream" in 1958. Other hits that year include "Do You Want To Dance," "Peggy Sue,""Yackety Yak," "Sweet Little Sixteen,""Splish Splash," "Who's Sorry Now," "Great Balls of Fire," "Tequila," "Get A Job," and "At the Hop."

Breakfast At Tiffanys, Dr. No, and Yertle the Turtle were all published that year.

Not a huge year, apparently, in modern American history. Nothing of great significance. The year that could be the poster child for the somnolent Fifties.

It has to make you wonder.

How did such a disruptive, disconcerting, and dysfunctional soul such as I am come from such a tranquil time?

I think I'm an allergic reaction.

I'm fucking forty-fucking-eight.

A Slight Change of Heart

I don't take back the last post. I'm still an idiot.

But the pilot?

Is really great. A man who can talk philosophy while touching me in ways that have nothing to do with higher brain functions. Who calls me from the runway at 11:30pm to tell me he can't wait to see me. That I must meet him immediately for a drink. But who doesn't want to make love to me again (his words; I'd just say fuck) until the divorce is final and he doesn't feel still married any more. Whose kiss goodbye takes my breath away. And who texts me on his way home to say he had the best time and he can't wait to do it again. And, best of all, says he can't stop thinking about me.

The pilot has potential.

Where I've Been Lately

The plant manager

The project manager

The butcher

The construction supervisor

The assistant director of financial aid for an osteopathic college

The pilot

But the one I wanted the most got away. I'm an idiot.

Goodbye: K's Apartment

K's apartment is less than a mile from mine. I can make the trip in under three minutes if I catch the light. At two a.m., there are few cars to get in my way, and my fear of cops decreases in direct proportion to my desire to get laid. If I were a different sort of woman, I'd burn rubber in my haste to get to his place.

On this night, I find him up, as I thought he would be, watching some cultish comic-based movie that obviously isn't considered a classic. It's basically a B-movie. He only casually looks at me as he lets me in before turning his attention back to the flick, with an intense expression on that face...with those lips.

There's a moment where I actually think he's going to make me beg. That he's going to explain in a dark tone how interested he is in the plot of this dog of a movie, that I'll have to wait until the film is over. If he says that, I may just cry. I'll dissolve into some pathetic creature who will just absolutely beg him to take me. No holds barred. I'll fall on my knees in front of him, scrambling to undo the fly of his faded jeans, to pull him out and suck him deep down my throat.

Don't make me beg, I think. Just fuck me. Please just fuck me.

I got so wet on the drive over that I'm almost out of my head with lust. Sure, the journey was brief, I know, but then I was actually wet before I left my apartment. Sopping as I slid into my jeans and stretchy black lace top. So amazingly wet as I slicked on some lip gloss and spritzed on some perfume.

So don't make me beg, I think. Come on, K. Don't make me.

Then, like an angel, he smiles at me, mutes the TV, and stands. We don't go to his bedroom. Not tonight. There isn't time, and he knows it. Maybe he can smell the arousal on me. Maybe he's as intensely turned on as I am. Instead of ushering me to his bedroom, he brings me to his couch and sits me down, then pulls my top down past my shoulders to reveal my naked breasts. I can't wear a bra with this sort of flimsy contraption. That's my excuse, anyway. He bends to kiss my breasts, his mouth with those lips soft and warm on my nipples, and he moves back and forth, making sure to treat both equally.

I'm humming with pleasure already. And I close my eyes, feeling the movie flicker over my shut lids. Seeing without seeing.

K goes on his knees to kiss me, and I feel my lip gloss smear from my mouth to his, feel his teeth on my bottom lip, tugging. He nips and bites his way back down again to my breasts, and then he moves his hands to cradle my waist. I think that I'll have to stand to take my jeans off, but he has other ideas. First, he slides his hand down my stomach, opening my fly as he goes. Somehow, he manages to touch me through my panties but inside my tight jeans, and I feel myself shift forward, groaning at the connection.

Now, he moves his hands and rips my jeans down and off. When he sees the pretty little panties I have on underneath, he's the one to sigh. He presses those lips to the pink cloth that covers me. The fabric provides no protection at all from the warm soft wetness of his mouth. But that's okay. I don't want protection. I want the wetness. Drippy and hot. I want everything about this--the way he slides his tongue in dreamy designs over me, traces invisible pictures round and round. He kisses and licks until I'm babbling urgest requests for him to continue, to please not stop, to just make it happen. And he does.

He eats me relentlessly until I come on his tongue, and only then does he slide my panties off and turn me so I'm bent over the arm of the couch. He takes his position behind me, drops his jeans and enters me deep and strong. I gaze at the floor as I feel a second climax build, and I memorize the patterns of the rug, intricate boxes within boxes in shades of brown and beige and gold. The designs remind me of his tongue against me, and I run one hand between my legs, touching myself when I sense K is about to come.

We climax together--in overwhelming waves--in the late night movie glow of K's apartment.

Oh, how I'll miss that mouth, those lips. Bye bye, K. It was fun.

Idle Time

Well, the semester has finally settled down. Everyone's bill is paid or in the process of being paid. Or they've been tossed for non-payment or non-attendance. And, even though spring bills will be hitting the streets in just three weeks, spring is generally much easier on me as far as current students than fall. We only get a few new or transfer students who will be clueless about financial aid and that's nothing compared to the hell I've just been through for fall. Recruitment season for next fall has, of course, begun; however, the real student aid push won't begin until January. So, right now, the toughest part of my job is the community financial aid nights I have scheduled at local high schools from now until Christmas break. Piece of cake compared to the other 10 1/2 months out of the year. Which, if you've been paying attention to this blog thing of mine, gives me plenty of time to think. Always a dangerous proposition.

• I am happy to report that my butt is now a size 4 or 6, depending on what clothing manufacturer is measuring. In fact, as far as Levi's goes, there is no size available in their Dockers for someone like me. At least in local stores, anyway. I recently took all of my mostly expensive work pants to a seamstress, who tailored them from my old, fat self to my new, slim self. She told me that she took them all in at least two sizes and that it still left some room in case I regained a few pounds. But I didn't see the point of paying to tailor the khakis we're allowed to wear for business casual and weekend events. I reasoned I could buy new ones, although I never actually did. I just went around in my baggy old ones, using strategic belting techniques to keep them up. But a rather large campus event with many important guests was held last weekend, prompting me to finally bust loose and buy new khakis, mainly so I wouldn't be mistaken for a homeless person crashing the party for the free food. Determined to spend some cash, I went off to hit the mall and it's environs. And found out that, to my surprise, no one in Beaver County wears anything in a misses size of less than a 6. And none of the khakis in a size 6 fit. After several hours of frustration, I finally took myself into the juniors section of Boscov's. Now, I haven't been able to wear a junior's size since I was about 25. But I needed something for the big bash. So I reasoned that perhaps some of the larger sizes in juniors would fit my slimmer, but womanly, booty. I grabbed an 11 and a 9 to try on. Shockingly, both were much too large, even though they were slim cut. So I grabbed the same ones in a 7 and a 5. Well, what do you know? The 5s fit me like a glove. I mean, I looked totally smokin' in them. But I ended up buying the 7s. Because even though I'm slim enough to pass for a younger woman, I'm old enough to know it can't last forever.
• I'm getting mighty frustrated with men my age. I know, I know, I've spent months singing the praises of young studs. And they do have their charms, I must say. But I'd actually like to have some sort of relationship with someone other than the one we have in bed. No big commitment or falling in love or anything like that. Just someone who wants to do something other than fuck, fuck, fuck. Like maybe have an intelligent conversation about current events. Or the current coaching of the Steelers. Or the amazing start to the season our young Penguins are having. Or the upcoming Pitt basketball season. Or the book I'm reading about Lincoln's cabinet. There are loads of single (divorced, separated, whatever) men in between the ages of 40-50 out there. I know that. So why don't any of them ask me out? I'm smart. I like to have fun, mostly in male-friendly ways. I know sports. I have few wrinkles and am, in fact, often mistaken for 5-10 years younger for that reason. My body is in fabulous shape. I have a good job. I don't have children. So what the fuck is wrong with me?????? I'm told that some men (okay, a lot of men) are intimidated by me. Personally, I think the hair just throws them off. Because the young ones seem to not be intimidated in any way. They just keep buzzing around, no matter what I do to discourage them. So...are all the men in my age range just pussies? Or is there something wrong with me?
• I'm completely jealous of Carey's 4oth birthday celebration. I wish I could have a party like that for mine this year. Of course, it's closer to 50 than 40, but I haven't had a celebration, or even wanted one, since my 40th. And I'd love to have some of my cyberfriends around to help me celebrate. Just in case anyone is interested, my birthday is the day after Thanksgiving this year. Just sayin'.
• My formerly expansive lifestyle has now shrunk to the point that I can no longer afford my Brazilian waxes. And I'm sick to death of not only trying to shave that area every single day, but of how badly I do it. So, seeing a relatively inexpensive home waxing kit with the word "spa" in the name (I mean, I got my Brazilian waxes in a spa, so it works, right?) at the Bath and Body Works, I bought it. But I do not yet have the courage to do it. Not to mention, I haven't figured out the logistics. I'm a little worried about hot wax in proximity to my clitoris while I try to apply it using the mirror method of viewing myself that I first learned in "Our Bodies, Ourselves." And I don't think any of my girlfriends would help me because that would be too weird. And I'd never, ever, ever trust a man to do it. On second thought, maybe I would trust a man to do it. But none of the men I've ever actually met, that's for sure.
• I don't care what that hooker has to say about his bedroom technique, I want to fuck Keith Olbermann.