Skirts

Time for a happy (happier) post from me.

So let's start it off right by stating a plain fact:

I'm hot.

I am so fucking hot, just by looking at a girl, with my hot, sultry, sexy, wanton look, I can make her cu...

Um, that's not the 'hot' I mean, but thank you for thinking that.

*blush*

Anyway, I went to the Marine Corps Pass in Review last night ...

... Oh, for the love of everything, why did you do that, `phfina?

Research. Yeah, research!

*ahem*

And I wore my hair back in a pony tail, 'cause wearing it down in this 100°F heat?

But do you know what? If you were nibbling on the nape of my neck last night ...

... `phfina! KEEP IT CLEAN!

Just sayin' that if you were, you would not have gone thirsty, even after wandering the Sahara for a month!

AND I wore a dress.

Yes! I know! Now pick yourself up off of the floor.

I mean, what the heck! I'm young; I'm hot (see above), so, you know, I can wear a dress if I want to. It was a spaghetti-strap cotton little number that was just above the knee. You know the kind, right? A summer dress, white, with bold blue flowers that said to every and all, 'I'm such a sweet little fem, that will coo so prettily, when, you know, you do to me exactly what you're thinking, you strong-looking virile young man in uniform from Indianapolis, Indiana!'

Yes, I was thinking that they were thinking that, but God! Those marines, all built in V-shapes in their picture-purrfect uniforms, standing ramrod straight, offering their arms to all ladies to escort them to their seats, saluting all the fathers, calling all the girls 'ma'am' with a very polite, professional smile on their face that just screamed 'gentlemanly manly man!'

I mean, they could beat the straight right into this crooked little gaie girl, I'm telling you!

I mean, that's why we all love Emmett ... even Rosalie, who doesn't love anybody, loves and cleaves to Emmett ... and Thor, btw ... it's because I mean, men have been unmanned. They always have been, right, if you look at history. I mean, heros are heros because they actually stand up for something, like their families (their poor, defenseless wives and children against the oppressive British tyrants (which describes about half the Mel Gibson movies out there, I just realize)), and we so love our heros because when you ask them, 'Honey, what do you want for supper?' They don't say, 'Oh, I dunno, whatever you want,' and you're like GRRR! I've just darned socks and fed and taught the children and stoked the fire and swept the (dirt ground) floor and I. WANT. YOU. TO. GIVE. MY. POOR. TIRED. BRAIN. A. BREAK. FOR. TWO. SECONDS and tell me WHAT YOU WANT FOR SUPPER SO I CAN COOK THE G.D. THING SO YOU WON'T GIVE ME THE STINK-EYE BECAUSE you're not getting your fav that you've had the last three days in a row.

No, manly men aren't like that mealy-mouthed types who say 'Oh, whatever you want,' no, they say: "Supper, I want YOU for supper, NOW!" and throw you over their shoulder, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE KIDS! take you into the bedroom, lick you until you're good and ready and making you change your murmured protestations of 'But, dear, the kids!' to 'Oh, fuck me now, fuck me hard, you beast!' And he does, he rams right into you long, and hard, and now!

And then, afterwards, he strokes your hair, and you say, gasping, 'get off me, you lug,' *gasp-gasp* 'can't breathe!' and he laughs and gets you a cup of water, and helps the kids make pancakes or whatever he and they can make for you to eat (and even, o.m.g. does the dishes ... keeper!) and brings you just one chocolate truffle afterwards and plops down in bed right besides you and starts snoring away without a care in his head!

Men!

Um ... um ... um ... yeah.

Actually, I have a few dresses in my closet now. I have this little yellow number, pale yellow prints on white, halter top ... I got complimented on it and my demur little white shawl I wore (the office's air conditioning is good!), and I blushed as hard as any little fem would blush.

GAWD! SO embarrassing! Me blushing up a storm 'cause somebody sez I look 'nice' and that I should wear dresses more often ... and I look pretty!

EEeeEEeeEEeeK!

So I've been wearing dresses more. I went for modest at first (okay, don't go there, let me explain 'at first' before you picture me, a pole, and a skin-tight athletic suit that seems to shed pieces as I twirl around the pole, inverted, ... for easy inspection)

(I can't believe I just wrote that!)

But the problem with ankle length skirts is that, okay, have you ever had to sprint down stairs to catch a train? And then, deboarding the train, have you ever had to sprint upstairs to catch the bus? And then, so you've got work papers in your hand, right, so grasping the helm to lift it an inch so you don't trip over yourself? So it's either you or your work papers that are going to fly all over the metro station, drawing a crowd around the stupid girl who fell on her face asking if she's okay and boy you really took a spill, didn't you?

I'm fine, thanks, can you guide me to the tracks, I'm looking for the third rail for a quick end to this embarrassment.

I must be known as the 'Olympic Sprinter' at the metro stations, for the amount of sprinting I do.

Rule number one at group: there are no excuses. There is only you and how you honor your word.

Rule number one at group: You are late, then you are late, and we will never, ever forgive you.

Actually that second rule number one really isn't a rule, but you try being late, just once, at group where I work.

Won't happen a second time. I guarantee it.

So I've gone more toward just-below-the-knee to, now, just above the knee.

*blush*

What? I'm young and it's summer, and I do have the world track record for getting into the bus just as it's closing its doors. To the applause and laughter OF THE ENTIRE BUS! (no joke).

So I have those two numbers, AND I have this indigo cocktail number with these small tropical purple flowers.

So that brings on a whole new world of problems, right girls? You know what I'm talking about.

Accessories.

Okay, how in the world can people afford to be women for fuck-me-up-the-ass-boss secretary pay (even though, as a girl who cooks the books, I'm not a secretary, I'm a glorified secretary)? And then there's the infinite diversity in infinite combinations that comes with.

We have this Dr. at work, her name's Faye, and she has a business of selling smex-me-hard shoes on the side. She wears a different pair into work every day. I haven't yet got the courage yet to ask her if the shoes work, but from the conversations she has with 'invited guests' to her shoe parties where the wine flows as easily as the tongues (for talking, you pervs!), I'm given to understand that the shoes do work.

And how.

But me, wearing heels?

I'd pull a Bella Swan in a heartbeat, end up in the hospital with a broken femur and telling the doctor before he cuts me open to call Cindy at work to tell her I'll be late and then wait in dreadful anticipation after I wake up in the recovery room to see the great dame Cindy looking at me and her watch.

Okay, that last one was uncalled for, but heels? No.

So what then to go with the dresses? Keens?

Sigh!

You know what I feel when I'm wearing a dress?

I was so, SO! scared that I'd get all femmy and ...

... okay, don't get me wrong. Me? A butch? No way! I'm a top, that doesn't mean I'm 280 pounds and have a buzz cut, that you see with their fems strapped in behind them riding their Harleys going to the Memorial Day parade.

Not that there's anything wrong with that for some people, that's who they are, and they are damn proud to be the people they are, but me? I'm a wee Irish-Italian lass and, well, yeah, okay, I'm proud of that, dammit!

Hey. Wow. I'm proud of that.

Um. ... wow. Um.

Why am I crying now?

But, as I was saying, I was afraid I'd get all femmy and sweet, and pretty, and worry about my hair and blush alot, and "that's so not me!"

Context.

But what if it was. Is. Not only 'what if' but ... it is, sometimes, and I ... like it. I like feeling pretty, and wearing a nice dress, and feeling the wind whip through my hair and between my legs and see the eyes of everybody, the mass of commuters watching me as I run against the tide to get to my little eighth floor cubby hole in a large corporate office building so I can run numbers to see if we broke even this month, and I don't even get to see that figure, all I do is process travel claims and expense reports and invoices. I don't get to see the income reports.

Looking back on this post, the image that sticks in my mind, and perhaps yours, is little housewifey me, being escorted by a proud, strong, ... boy from Indiana and I could cop out and say I don't know how to handle that or what I feel about that. But I know exactly what I'm feeling.

And that scares me.

And there's a love-making scene coming up between Alice and Jazz in Christmas Surprises ... do you think Jasper is not possessive of his little Alice? Do you think all those raw emotions running through her as she sees the future-as-present attaching her teeth to her mother Esme's neck doesn't ...

Well, and so there he is, in all his manly, powerful glory, intercepting Alice and Esme on a recovery hunt, and there are no preliminaries, and Jasper, so full of manly virility, just throws Alice down on the forest floor and turns into a ravenous, rutting animal.

And Alice loves it.

And, thinking about that scene ... it scares me. Not the scene itself, writing that scene, I will ... ooh! ... the 'creative' juices are gonna flow, girls.

And that's what scares me.

Am I ... am I 'turning' straight?

I'm going to a civil war battle reenactment tomorrow. Again, for 'research.'

I might do some more research. All I have to do is look at one of those boys, all hot and manly from the battlefield, and ... well, that's all I need to do. Boys, playing sports, need to satiate their victory, don't you know. And all a wee pretty girl has to do is bat her eyelashes and whisper some awed platitudes, and ...

And that.

And I'm like, GOD! I wear a dress and I want a man in me ... on top of me?!? and have babies and cook supper and ... and all that? Or is this a questioning phase where I'm looking toward my future, and what future do I have alone? What future do I have with a girl?

What future do I have with a strong, virile Marine?

Besides none? Do you know the divorce rates? Infidelity rates of wives, and husbands, when those brave young men and women go overseas?

And come back shellshocked? Or don't come back at all? Except in a box?

I've seen it happen.

Or they come back, and lay down the law, and what the hell do you think you're doing, running the house like you have for the past year and a half that I've been away, unable to help with finances or the furnace or disciplining the kids? I'll beat that presumption out of you right now!

Yeah, domestic violence, too.

You know what I am? I'm a skirt. I'm a receptacle to be used and abused by a warrior man, then filled up with his seed to make babies to have more men rule the world.

And I want that?

But what's the alternative?

The second question is an avoidance question, it's a question to divert your attention away from the first question, of do I want an Emmett or Thor or Marine from Indiana on top of me, pounding into me, hard and manly, as only men can do?

And I'm terrified as I write: God, yes. God, I so want to be taken and filled, and held, and protected from the whole world.

But what is the cost of that? To me? To my identity? To the ones I love? To my future, where I'm supposed to be some church lady shepherding my kids to soccer practice and ballet and take care of the house and spread my legs whenever he wants me to and be happy and satisfied even though I'm horny as hell, but he's out with his buds at the bar or playing XBox, and I'm supposed to be okay with that, 'cause I'm a woman and that's my role?

And okay, now I'm thinking about girl-girl love, and ... whew! Fireworks!

You know why?

Yes, you do.

Because it's not wham, blam, thank you, ma'am sex (in 30 seconds or less), it's a slower build, sometimes, but that build just keeps going up and up and up and you get hysterically terrified that you may actually scream your head off, cumming so hard, and you don't know when you are going to come down, because she's nowhere finished nor done with you, not for a long time, baby. And then there's a woman's kiss, softer. And the way a woman holds you in her arms. And lets you suckle at her breast. And the way she looks at you, it can be across the room, but, oopsie, I have to change my panties now, ... again! Just from her look and her shy smile, and the way her fingers caress the stem of her wine glass.

And it's okay for you to wear a dress around her, AND it's okay that she likes looking pretty in a dress, too, ...

... and for you, too.

Or she may go with the leather corset option; girls aren't limited in what they wear, like guys are: jeans or suits. We have tons of options.

We aren't limited.

So I can wear a dress. And I can feel pretty in a dress. And I can run, full bore, right up to my bus and smile at the driver as he kindly reopens the door for me that he's just closed as he's started to pull away from the stop (this happens too many times to be coincidence. God has a special secret plan going on with bus drivers, I just know it!)

And when I'm home, I can wear my white cotton pjs ... or take them off to walk around in the flat with just panties on, 'cause it's so damn HOT! and the air conditioning is set to like, 300°F before it kicks on and the repair guy won't be in the building for another two days, to reset a stupid dial.

Or ... I can pull off those panties and whisper, 'here, kitty, kitty, kitty!' and pat my kitty, and feel her start to purr, and get that warm, fuzzy feeling throughout my body as I hold my kitty close to me, stroking her with long, slow, luxurious strokes.

Um.

Um.

I think I have to end this post now. Good night.