Things at my Parents House

So.

I am visiting my parents in my annual summer pilgrimage to my birthplace at the shore. And for the record, people from the shore, call it the beach. It’s not THE shore. It’s A beach. One of many, many beaches. I just wanted to tell you, so when you come to the beach you can avoid angry glances from locals if you use safewords like, “This is a great beach.” or, “Out of ALL the beaches, this one is my favorite.” I’m just trying to help.

As I was trying to find things for my kids to do this morning, I discovered many things that only retired people own. I know this stage of life is inevitable, but I am a good daughter, so, I pointed out some obvious things using tape and a simple note pad and pen combo (just like Sherlock Holmes!)

I also took photos. Yes. I did.

So first. Let’s talk about clocks. Now, my parents are no strangers to technology. In fact, my mom is a self proclaimed gadget whore. They have tablets, iPhones, computers and lap tops. So, whats with all the clocks? Is it just a habit, back when we wore a watch and that’s all? I guess, I mean they are children of the 60’s, if you didn’t wear a watch, then you looked at the sun like crocodile Dundee, right?

Here are some examples of clock obsessive compulsive behavior:

  
  
    
  
How many printers is too many? I’m assuming both of these work. Is one a backup? Is one for crappy print jobs and one for photos? There is no clarification here.

  
  
Convenience is the name of the game at my parents house. At the touch of a fingertip, I have a plethora of pens, scissors, and yes a light that I don’t even have to crane my neck to turn on. My father should design Feng Schwa. Speaking of scissors, these existed when I was a kid. I’m all for if its not broke….etc. But I’m 37 and I’m pretty sure they used these to cut my bangs when I was 8.

  
  
My mom wrote this sentiment when they were celebrating 20 years together and had it published in the paper. Sweet, yes. And that’s what romance was in the 80’s. This was sexting in 1987. But I feel it’s my job to note that this is, indeed, expired.

  
  
In my path of discovery I counted at least 12 remotes. That’s just borderline certifiable, pops.

  
On the desk here, under the keyboard is a typical desk calendar with notations. On my immediate right, is a hanging, flippable calendar. I guess there are never too many reminders on what day it is.

  
My dad is an avid golfer. He even works at a golf club in his retirement. Someone probably thought this was a cool gift. But when someone like me reads this, it can become hazardous for the health. Who would have saved me from choking? The kids playing Wii? Please.

    
My father has yet, another clock on the desk here, notably to the direct left of the computer clock and the cool golf clock on the wall to the right. We never grew up near NC, went to NC for any college reasons, and at most have driven through it angerly on the way to Florida at best. This had to have been free.

  
Who uses these big web cams anymore? I feel like its following me.

  
This picture is about 10 years old and my mother recently just handed me down this t shirt. In her defense, its a nice t shirt and she took good care of it.

  
The bulletin board in the kitchen has yet another calendar. And all the business cards are lined up very orderly, more than likely so they can be seen. I *almost* moved them all around, but I would like to be welcomed back next time I come home.

  
I counted 4 pill organizers in plain sight. Lord knows how many are in cabinets. Is this a pre-requisite to your AARP membership? Do you have to flash this at the door with the secret passcode?

  
I love taking free samples. But where would you get these if you don’t buy them? Do they need to be so tiny?

  
This has to be a “shore” thing. Who puts a sea sponge on a refrigerator?

  
There are 2 phones in the same exact spot. I know there has to be a reason. There has to be. They claim they are different lines. But do you need that when your 65 and not running a small business venture from the home?

  
Yes, these are still hanging. And these are our current ages. I guess its good to remember your kids as you want. And when they come over and see how young they were, its okay that they cry in your arms.

   
   
WTF?

  
It’s weird, right?

  
I thought the jar would be bigger.

  
Im staying here when the zombie apocalypse happens. Who doesn’t like copious amounts of tuna?

  
What are you touching in a food pantry with these?

  
Oh boy. What this guy has seen. His innocence is gone.

  
It’s Disney soap. Did they need your SS# to pay for it?

  
Um….

  
  And finally. About 25 years ago my mom and dad met Jim Kelly when he was still a working class quarterback. They won a vase and he signed it. (A vase?). 

   

 

Aren’t you looking forward to your 60’s? Who wouldn’t want an organized house right about now? I thinking I need to be finding some time to hire my parents and pimp thier services. 

In the mean time…

Keep on keeping on.  

Smile today, wake up with a good memory tomorrow. 

Mandy 

You’re a Super Star! That’s Just What You Are!

According to VISA, AT&T, and The National Association of Professional Women, I am.

Remember when I said I was getting real mail? Yeah, it’s added to it’s weight over the passed couple weeks or so. I actually open all of it, because although I don’t wish to take advantage of their “deals”, (After all, I am technically not even a ‘small business owner’) I like to read things like “Amanda! Your Pre-Approved!” and “Hey small business owner! Good job on that small business, you strong, independent woman, you!” (Yes, I know we have established what I am and am not. A small business owner).

Despite my attempts at clarification, I have been making small rounds as a “small business owner” and little by little I’m gaining cred. And there is something to be said about the moms at my kids school reading my smut. Lesson learned? We all have the same dirty part of the brain moving. Is it age? Is it kids? Is it marriage? Too much Sangria? Nope. It’s smut, and it’s awesome.

Like I have mentioned in my FB posts and so on, I have officially given an ‘End’ to my book. I even wrote ‘The End’ and it was liberating as hell. I danced, I sang, I poured some Iced Tea. It was a good day. Giving my book an ending was harder than I thought. It took me longer to write the two last chapters than the entire book combined. Ending your story, and putting your characters to (partial) rest is harder than you think it may be. In fact, it’s excruciating. I drafted a query letter to literary agents, I took out self help-ish type books at the library, and I have been on the internet finding writing contests and open submission calls. I’m in it to win it. You don’t know me! You don’t know me! This baby is 1000% percent his!

I also figured out that my book is considered a full length novel at 58,000-ish words. What separates a novella from a novel? 3,000 words. 55,000 and under is a novella.

Suck it, biatch!

Not at all grown up, but if you are following along and keeping score, I am NOT a grown up.

Declan and Maggie have come a long way and they still have a ways to go. It’s only my first book, but I have learned a lot from that little book. I have learned to let the little things go, to set limits for myself and finally, to be brave enough to WANT to let it go.

“Go the mile! Be the ball! See the goal!  BE the goal!” Says imaginary gym teacher. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T “says Arthea.

After all, it’s like parenting. The beauty and the agony of being a mom is simply finding the strength to let go. (And drink a lot while being responsible enough to make decisions that shape your kids future.)

For my cheerleaders, you mean more to me than my corduroys. I love you.

I can do this. I AM doing this.

Do what makes you happy. While your doing that, eat a decent sandwich.

Cheers.

Mandy

Parenting and Writing Dirty Books

So I thought about my blog posts and I realized that I can’t offer snippets EVERY time I write a post. That’s just cray. I would give away so many cows that you never come back to the farm and well, my career would be over before it even started.

That being said I have to please my public, all five of you, so here I go with a regular blog post, without the snippets. Don’t cry though. I mean, I know I just ruined your night, but I’ll try and make it up to you. I promise.

I was thinking to myself, here, mid-summer,  and home with three kids, that writing smut with them in the house can get really weird. Like Mary Kay Letourneau weird. While I try to write a little everyday, it’s hard when your kids are on the verge of pubescence, to sit at the dining room table and think of a good a scene in where I say things like, “he enters her slowly, almost painfully” and his “cock was heavy as a brass rod against my thigh”.  It’s just not okay, and its enough that this blog post could probably send me to jail.

So in the spirit of the title of this blog, this weeks little story is quite painful. The idea of your kids having a mom who writes smutty books is just odd and strange on so many creepy levels.

Anyway, this week, Connor informed me that he wanted to be a Doctor, and if it was okay, can he get a book about anatomy. So off to the library we go.  I told him it was fine to get a book on anatomy, as l long as he got it from the kids science section which I so lovingly showed him where it was. Being the good mom I am, I didn’t pay much attention to the book he picked. After all, we were in the kids section. What could go wrong with that? Right? When we checked out, and were in the car, he started reading. About half way through the journey home, Connor asked me what an erection was.

Yeah.

He got a “kids” book about babies. How they are made. He got a kids book about how babies are made. Needless to say I have not been writing about anything erotic since that moment in my 2008 Honda Odyssey.

I know that I need to get passed this little conflict of interest, and learn to compartmentalize things like this. I mean, the two don’t go together, now and forever, so why think about it? Because we are human, and we think about things that we can’t think about. Luckily my kids have not asked me about the content in which I write (yes, they know mommy wants to be a writer), but I know it will happen one day. I have a policy about having fairly honest conversations about sex with my kids and I don’t believe in sugar coating things. I know it HAS to come up, especially once and if the book ever sees a publisher. I guess we will cross that therapy bridge when we come to it.

Until then, I’ll just keep drinking alone in the bathroom.

Cheers.

Smut? Who? Me?

Hello Fans! Or Fan!

So. Turns out I got some slack from the last post I made. “It was really graphic.” Yes. It’s a smutty book. “Romance” novel is a nice way to tell people who read things like “Chicken Soup for the Christian’s Soul” that I write smut. It’s smut. Lots of smut, with a plot mixed in there.

keep-calm-and-read-smut-8

 

So I will do something a little less gratifying for the smutty lovers, and a little more scandalous for the “romance” wanters. I will combine sweetness with smut and wait for it to hit the proverbial “romance” fan. How many times can I say smut in one blog post? Challenge accepted!

This week I am ordering business cards! I’m tired of writing this web address on napkins for people to lose, or forget. I also started getting real mail (and no, not email) about my ‘small business venture’ and how they can help. (It was only AT&T but shit, I got MAIL!). I’m sure throughout this time, I will have a ton of things sent that are un wanted, but it’s nice to see un wanted things than to be utterly ignored.

Please feel free to comment below (and share this with people who like smut!) I would love to hear what you have to say! In the mean time, enjoy another smut filled snippet. I mean, “romance” filled. (Smut, smut, smutty smut!)

Loves and Hugs,

Mandy

Disclaimer: All material is subject to copyright. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are wither the product of the authors imagination of are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorizes, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

He walks over to the guitars with me and from the corner produces an acoustic Gibson and hands it to me. My eyes go wide.

“Declan! This is a J-200 standard!” I run my fingers around the detail of the flowery, decorative face of the pick guard. I’m astounded that I’m here, touching this amazing instrument. “This is a 5,000 dollar guitar!” He’s still holding it out to me, eyebrows raised, offering it up like a meal, expecting me to take it. So I do, gingerly. I sit on the stool to the left of me and carefully place it on my lap, holding it horizontally so I can strum the strings. I do, and I notice it needs tuning, so with ease, I start to tune it by ear until it sounds like a perfectly tuned Gibson J-200. “This was introduced in the 1930’s. Pete Townsend played this guitar.” Declan is staring at me, watching me intently as he takes a seat on one of the plush chairs. His head is resting on his fingers, his elbow on the arm chair and his pinky by his lips. His hair is mussed and I find myself hungrily appraising him and forgetting what I am holding. He breaks my revere. “Will you play me something darling?”

Not being one to be terribly shy, I flush a little. “Do you have a capo?” He nods and retrieves one for me. I place it on the neck and adjust it so that I am ready. Playing in front of him means more than when I play for faceless strangers in a bar. I think of the songs in my head and come up with Van Morrison’s ‘Into the Mystic’. I know the key change, and chords by heart just like when my father taught me them for the first time. I slowly begin, sounding a little chalky at first then, slowly finding my way back to the song that I have played thousands of times. I continue, through the bridge, closing my eyes, getting lost in the lovely sound that this guitar makes. Fluid notes and seamless chord changes, I am astounded at the quality of sound and feel of it. Before I know it, and all too soon, roughly four minutes later, I am done. I end the song with one last stroke, my eyes still closed when I feel the guitar being pulled from me. When I open them, Declan is placing the guitar back into its rightful spot in the corner. He grabs my hands and pulls me out of the chair, pulling me flush against him. He takes my head in both hands. “That was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. You, my Maggie, are beautiful, just an incredible creature.” I melt into his words and before I can respond to him, he is kissing me, hands on either side of my face. Slowly, I open my mouth so his tongue can slide in. I don’t regret it. His kisses are like velvet, slow, soft and oh, so good.

CH 13

I melt into his chest, and I move my hands into his robe, through his dark chest hair, up and over his shoulders. He moans audibly, holding nothing back. He pulls away too leaving me gasping to grab a remote off the ledge of the fireplace. With one click he turns it on. “It’s chilly in here yeah. This should warm things up enough to I can take you here, on the floor.” He is bold and sexy and everything I thought never existed. Then my thoughts shift. I should slow down. This whole night has been a whirlwind. I’m also tired and sore, but my body doesn’t seem to care as I follow his lead. “Are you cold Mag?” I can’t speak. I just shake my head, and then I de-robe, slowly, showing every piece of me to him, without hesitation. He gasps inwardly as I pull his robe and tug him to me. I can feel his erection through the terrycloth fabric and he pushes it into my belly, letting me know full well the reaction I evoke in him.

Gathering my wits, I look up, he’s at least five inches taller than me, just enough for me to nuzzle into him. As I breathe in his scent, I slowly untie his robe and push it over his shoulders. I hear it fall and we both stand, naked, in front of the fireplace of his music room, and all of those stunning Les Paul guitars. I kiss his chest and he smells like a mix of me, him and sex and its an intoxicating, heady scent that leaves me reeling. He wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me up suddenly, leaving me to wrap my legs around his powerful frame. He turns carrying me to the back door, which in turn has windows. “ I love when you wrap those beautiful legs around me Mag.” I do as I’m bid and take a cautious side glance at the windows I’m pressed up against. “Don’t worry, no one for a mile to see you, and trust me, I would share that glorious ass with anyone.” I kiss him, hard. My tongue making a path to his deepest place. Needing him, wanting him, I reach down to grab his length and center it to my opening. As soon as he is lined up, he pushes. Hard. I jolt upward, my head going back against the door with a small ‘thud’. The sting is gone in a nanosecond. He is filling me. Oh, he’s filling me up all the way and nothing around me matters. Nothing exists, but him, and me.

He starts to move, building up speed.  He is rough, impatient, his one arm snaked around my waist holding me in place. He brings the other one up under my neck. He grabs as if he’s choking me but does not squeeze. He keeps my head in place and he stifles my cries with chaste kisses, and small bites as he moves down my neck, sucking motions as if he’s tasting me and cannot get enough. I am close, my body almost rigid with pleasure. His fingers start to tighten and he’s gasping for air.

Sorry for the abrupt ending. But SMUT!  More coming…. 🙂 I hope you enjoyed it. xx

I’ll throw you a dirty bone…

 

…If you can handle it.

If your reading this with your kids, stop. Now. Never read this for or with your kids. If you do you may go to jail if someone catches you. I get dirty in this thing, there is a lot of explicit sex and I don’t apologize for any of it. Keeping in mind, if you enjoy this kind of thing, I will oblige your proverbial bad side and, shit, good side. Sex is good! Excellent even! Don’t let anyone tell you different. You have one life to live and bad sex doesn’t have to be a part of that equation. If your not enjoying it, someone ain’t doin’ it right, and its time to speak up.

“Move to the left, up a little, and to the right” are just some of the suggestions I can give you. And if it hurts their pride, can I suggest a cease fire so he understands your frustration?

Men are almost guaranteed, every time, a happy ending. Not us. Not even close. And it’s okay to say it. “I want my happy ending!” Demand he work just has hard for yours as you do for his. This is a partnership, and its an equal one, so step it up and get what you need. Bitches need happy endings!

No shame in it.

Enjoy your dirty side today!

And if you have to read a little smut to get there, then by gods read a little smut!

Image result for smutty fun books

 

 

Disclaimer: All material is subject to copyright. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are wither the product of the authors imagination of are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorizes, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Some office sex for you today….

 

….Behind the door is a vast personal space that looks more like a hotel room than an office. There is a luxurious bed, decorated in earth tones and pops of red, several hanging TV’s on mute, a small stainless fridge, a bar of course, and from the far side a door opens, where hot steam erupts, and Declan walks out.

With nothing on.

His cock hanging in between his yummy hard thighs. Holy fuck.

“Good morning beautiful lady.” He saunters over to me. “You’re early. I haven’t had time to dress yet.” Im still fighting for breath as I drink in his lean hips, his muscular arms, his broad, sculpted chest, and his wet mussed hair. “I-I see that.”
“I just had a work out, since, well, I find myself frustrated lately and need something to keep myself, well, occupied.” He kisses my cheek and rounds me..raising an eyebrow to indicate his meaning. In three moves, he’s in front of me and he’s grasping the hem of my dress. He whips the dress off of me in one swoop and steps back

“Wow. You are more delectable now than in my dreams last night Maggie. I have had to wank off at least two more times thinking about coming in your tight, sexy body. And here you are…in a thong, in my private  quarters. Hmmm. Turn about for me.” His voice and slight brogue is intoxicating. I do as I am bid.

I feel on display. But I don’t care. Im a pile of goo after what he just said. I do a spin in my heels and my lacy thong and bra.
“Walk over to the bed and bend over. I want to see your ass.” I do as he bids gain (what happened to my spine? Oh, it’s back in bed…) and walk slowly, so I don’t trip in my horny stupor. I bend over, making sure to make a meal out of doing so, and slowly moving my ass back and forth for him to see.

I hear him walk over. But he doesn’t touch me. Arggg! “Do you like to be spanked Maggie?” Oh shit. What?

“You’re shaking your ass at me, taunting me after I’ve waiting all torturous night to have you. Do you think that’s good manners?”
As I set out to think about it, and all of a sudden there it is. A loud ‘SMACK!’ as his hand meets my rump. It makes me jump, but, to my surprise, I don’t hate it. “I-Im sorry….” The inspiration hits me and I think of the last word in that sentence…. “…sir.”

He sucks his breath in sharp and in a second flat, my panties are ripped off my body in a loud ‘SNAP!’ Im startled and jump. He smacks me again, but this time I don’t jump. I moan. I like it. I like what he does.

“She does like to be spanked…hmm.” I feel him behind me. He grabs my hips and squeezes. He starts rubbing his erection between my folds, slicking himself up for me. Im wet, soaking wet. For him. “Put your leg on the bed Mag.” I do, lifting my right leg and placing the bottom of my foot on the mattress, opening up myself more than if it were my knee on the mattress. He likes this apparently. I hear him hum in appreciation of the view I am giving him.

I feel his two fingers linger at my opening while he gently rims my clitoris. “Im going to take you now, and you’re going to enjoy…” He slams in to me, “Every. Last. Bit.” He says, in between thrusts. I am jolted forward each time and I find get enough gusto to speak. “Declan. Let me turn around, let me see you…” I plea. He stops and without leaving my body, he flips me and lowers me, coming down with me.
“You want to watch me fuck you? Very well then, gives me more time with those perfect tits of yours.” Grabbing a hold of my bra and yanking it down. He head nestled between them, “Hello ladies…” and he kisses them, making me giggle. He suckles on my nipples slowly, soft at first, then, harder and harder and at the same pace he is pistoning in and out, in and out.
Finally, he rears up grabbing my legs and moves them to the side holding them up, he really starts to give it to me. Im moaning, and thrashing…he starts to sweat. “Let me hear you Mag. This room is sound proofed, be as loud as you want. Let me hear you come for me as I fuck you.”
I could give a shit at this moment how ‘sound proofed’ this room was. I am lost, stolen to this mans need, to my own need, working again to a mind blowing orgasm. How am I going to work today after he effectively steals my strength?

He starts going faster, his balls slapping the top bottom of my buttocks. I see him lick his thumb and he brings it down to my clit and starts rubbing me…then flicking me, then rubbing me…oh lord, he’s going to kill me.

“Come for me. All over my cock. Come, Maggie. Do it now.” Oh lord. He really knows the moments to say that. I do. And it’s glorious, and loud and everything I needed from that moment. I feel like hot melted chocolate. Im crying now, tears driving down my face. Because I know, I really know, I cannot live without this. How did I ever live my life without this? Without this pleasure? I deserve it, I tell myself. And so does he.

“Oh god!’ I’m yelling, still. He grabs underneath my back and pulls my ass up, off the bed so I am looking up at his powerful frame. “Oh!” I say at his startled motion. It’s so much deeper now. “Fuck!” He yells, clearly getting me at the angle he wanted. He starts coming. So hard I can feel him in my body, warm, hot, powerful, just like the man above me. He pulls himself out of me mid orgasm and I realize it’s because his come is spilling it out of me. He grabs his cock in his hands and rubs the rest of his orgasm out on me, on my stomach, on my waiting pussy, everywhere, marking me. Marking me as his. His hand comes to rest on me, cupping my sex, inserting two lazy fingers where he just was, circling. Slowly.

He’s still breathing heavy when he says, “One more time. Do it one more time, so I can see you come apart under me.” Holy shit, he wants me to come again. Can I? He rubs my oversensitive clit with his thumb, with his two fingers in me. Lowering me down so I am half on the bed, half off, his other hand runs down my backside, bringing the semen he spilled on me with him. He circles my other hole, testing the area. Im nervous. Not much for anal sex, he senses my tense reaction. “I-I can’t Declan,…”

“Yes…Open and relax my Mag. Trust me…” He says, still keeping up with his ministrations. He then inserts a pinky in the puckered hole slowly, and it feels…foreign and a little strange. He starts to move his pinky in time with his other fingers. And soon I am lost to sensation. I roll my head from side to side moaning, out of control, my muscles tense and waiting for that surfacing orgasm to come crashing down on me. I don’t know if I can do this one more time.
“How does it feel baby?” Oh it’s good. It’s so good, but I can’t speak, so I moan, loudly as I arch my hips up.
“That good? Should I keep going?” I am lost still, but I manage to say, “Y-yes….please, Declan, please.” He smiles, perfect wife teeth lazily. He is so damn sexy.

I’m close, he’s going faster, and then, there is pressure, he pushes down with his thumb as he pushes in with his fingers at the same time. His pinky goes in all the way, sending me crashing, over and over, and I can’t help it I scream. “Oh My GOD!! Declan! Holy Fuck!” In-between moans. I can feel my muscles pulsate over his fingers that still haven’t moved. He removes his fingers and slides his erect cock in me, he removes his pinky as I am still mid orgasm and he pumps, once, twice, and he is coming again. With me. “FUCK Maggie. Jesus fuck!” He’s moaning now, and all of him is spilled in me again.

He collapses on me. Breathing me in at my neck and I have lost all cognitive thought which is why I probably blurted out “I l-liked that….”. As soon as I say it, I stop. Everything, talking, breathing, moving. Oh god. No, no, no, no. I almost didn’t just say that. Did I? Of course I did. He just took to me to a place I have never been before.

He raises his head to meet my eyes. He starts brushing my hair away. He’s not running scared. He’s looking at me. In wonderment.

And before more words are out, he’s kissing me, hard, his hands thrusting in my hair, his answer clear. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear he didn’t seem to care that I almost said it way too soon. I kiss him back, matching his passion. When he finally releases me, he sees the tears forming in my eyes. I’m trying to control it but I can’t.

“Shit, Declan I’m sorry. I am, that was just so, something I have never experienced before and I’m…”
He puts his hands over my mouth. He’s looking down at me, his hair all mussed from the shower, then the sex. His green eyes boring into my brown pools of stupid woman emotion. He wipes a tear away with a thumb.

“My dear mag. No. Never apologize. You are simply amazing. What you do to me, make me feel alive. I no longer walk around numb, going through the motions. I no longer feel dead inside. All the things in my past…I go through the day with purpose now.”

 

 

You are welcome. Come back again for the next installment.

“What was bad yesterday, is a lot of fun today” — Signe Hasso – 1943

Good Memorial Day weekend!

I know most of you are doing the things you want this weekend; barbequing, cartwheels, blowing bubbles, maybe building illegal forts in the woods. Catapulting watermelons. You know, Memorial Day fun. God bless all who serve and have served. Your sacrifice does not go unnoticed from me.

Bubbles!

Here I am, I’m at my computer; evaluating poems for my creative writing class and thinking of awesome quotes to start my 3rd entry, debating what snippet to share…..will it be normal like the last one? Smutty? What are you waiting for? What do YOU want to know? There is a comment section. Just saying.

Lightning Bugs!

As the end of the school year approaches, I am in full book mode, which contrary to September happens all year for me. I have to write smutty content while my kids play Call of Duty in the next room. Creepy, inappropriate and completely necessary. Summer brings out my happy side as I enjoy having my kids to myself. No homework (for them), no ‘purple shirt day’ (every feckin’ day is a color shirt day!), no reloading school lunch accounts or dropping off musical instruments. Even the front desk ladies stopped making small talk with me and just give me a head nod, which in all fairness, I give one right back. We are tired of being nice. I get it. School is over, please let it be over.

For those who are following me, please do me a solid and recommend me to a friend. Email me at: exposingmaggie@yahoo.com if you have any ideas on where I can publish more of my book before I get to the point where I am ‘actually’ publishing a book.

I love you, I mean it. Anybody want a peanut?  Enjoy Snippet 2, derived from chapter 5.

 

Disclaimer: All material is subject to copyright. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorizes, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

“I will have to check my schedule. But I think Monday works for me. I have no appointments that day.” He’s stands, and casually walks over to his massive mahogany desk. He picks up what looks like a fancy,  old man pen and scribbles something; I assume our makeshift appointment, onto an equally fancy ledger. “Monday”, he says casually. “We have a date”. Date? I hold back giggles. So much so I have to put my hand over my mouth to suppress it. Okay, so I’m a teenager.

He senses something odd in me, as I have my hand pressed to my mouth and my body does a shift so great, that my dress makes a crunching noise on his expensive sofa. I look up to see his eyes on mine. The sunlight is coming in right to his left side, and it appears like he’s glowing. He really is stunning. His eyes are the color of emeralds. His black thick hair in a tousled casual style and his sleek nose looks like it was chiseled from a Greek statue. He is taller than I remember. His hands are immaculate and his steely blue tie looks sharp against his flawless complexion. His shirt matches his tie and is in a deep contrast against the stark black suit he is wearing. I watch him swallow, as his adams apple bobs, I am dumbfounded by the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Even behind the thickness of his suit, I can see them moving so slightly as he moves and shifts. I fear my mouth is gaping a little as I try and will myself to make sure my lips stay together, and my eyes blink. Although, by doing so, I may have looked like a puppet on strings with my body shifting from side to side, my lips tight and my eyelashes batting off beat. I take a deep breath, and as I try to go zenlike, I realize that it’s been a few moments since one of us has spoken. “You have a lovely office. It’s, um, very presidential.” Presidential? I suppress a laugh so hard, I think I almost pee a little. I’m such an idiot. He smiles on the corner of his right side. It’s very boyish and it makes him seem very real. I notice in this very instant as I am uncomfortably shifting from side to side that my thighs are on the moist side. Seriously?

Another long silence passes with unspoken things being assumed between my thighs apparently, he breaks the silence. “I think there would be a great many objections if I ran for President, Ms. Morris.” His smile goes away. Not political? I rebut, “I’m sure, Mr. Knight there would be some positive feedback going your way, what with all the lowly photography businesses you help to support.” Smiles back. Two points. “I do my best to help the lay person, Ms. Morris, but to be honest with you, I have never once thought of photography as a real fiscal career choice until I entered your dwelling.” I’m offended at the notion that Mr. Bossman has issues with my profession outright. “Dwelling? Did I step back a century? And what’s wrong with photography as a profession Mr. Knight? Besides raising my children, it’s the only thing I have ever wanted to do, and, might I add, am quite successful at it. I may not make millions, but I pay my bills and my kids are fed. It seems good for a lay person to me.” My cheeks are getting red, I can feel them, although I’m not sure if it’s from the sexual tension in the office, or from taking blatant offense at him mocking my profession. I sincerely doubt his dick even feels a twinge for a, according to him, a poor mom of two with a pitiful photography business.

His eyebrows go up and his stance changes. He shifts from side to side, and I can hear his expensive leather shoes creak. His mouth forming a straight line, he comes over and sits next to me. As I turn to face him our knees touch, and he looks as serious as a heart attack. “Ms. Morris, please do not take my comments to offense. I appreciate photography and I am a lover of all works of art. I’m excited to be working with you. I apologize that I offended you.” His eyes are blazing that amazing green, and for a second I forget what he says. I am caught up in them. “It’s just that, in my line of work, I often forget how the other half lives. The ones that actually make a living doing what they love to do. It’s remarkable really. You remind me of simpler times in my childhood,” I shake my head, bringing myself back to the here and now. Did he just say that? “Mr. Knight. I am quite sure you can afford a much higher regarded artist than me.” Trying not to show that his sentiment actually touched me. I wave my hand at the ludicrous surroundings. “Surly, in your circles there are several artists who can accommodate your needs.” I stare into him, pretending not to be affected by his presence, putting on my most serious mom face. No one messes with the mom face.

“Every day above ground is a good day.” –Harris Yulin

We are not all fortunate to do what we love, that’s for damn sure. So how do we change that? Sometimes it’s all about timing. I seriously never thought I would write a book. Ever.

One random day, while my kids were busy growing up and I was no longer changing diapers or my shirt 18 times a day from all the spit up, I thought, why not? My husband said to me, “You can write. I’ve seen it. Do it. Write a book.” Right at that time I had found Sylvia Day, and it was like the planets aligned. (Or something like that.)

In all seriousness, it started as a joke. Hey, lets write something about something and have sex in it! Like a Seinfeld episode, lets write about nothing! Sure. Sex is fun after all (Well, unless you’re not doing it right, let’s have that conversation another day), and who doesn’t want to read about fun things?  If you don’t like sex, I apologize, I hope you have a nice hobby, like lawn darts or ladder ball tournaments.

Doing the thing you love the most for a living is everyone’s dream. As they say in the opening of Pretty Woman, “Welcome to Hollywood! What’s your dream?” Mine just happens to be writing smutty books. But if you wake up tomorrow and want to be a Ghostbuster. Do it. Life is too short for second thoughts.

ghostbuster

I’m the one on the left, and yes, that’s a full on proton pack.

 

As promised in this blog, there will be snippets, and I start of course, at the beginning.

Please understand, snippets are subject to change, as they have not gone through professional edit. Please consider these factors before commenting. I’m also not looking for suggestions, no offense 🙂 Thank you!

Let me sum up before we begin:

Maggie is a photographer who owns and operates her own studio in Washington, DC. She is a divorced mom of two young sons. Her ex-husband moved her here, since he is a free-lance photographer and ended up leaving for a job with National Geographic. He travels the world and comes home to spend a couple of weeks with his kids every few months. Maggie’s parents live here as well, having relocated from New Jersey to help her out after their retirement. She has a best friend, Nora, who is married with kids and thankfully, is a stay at home mom who can also help her juggle her hectic life. She is quite happy, having made a nice life for herself until one day….

 

Disclaimer: All material is subject to copyright. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorizes, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

 

EXPOSING MAGGIE

CHAPTER ONE SNIPPET

I looked closely in the rear view mirror. I look like someone who resembles the real me. Ugh. I look 80. Being 31 with two kids and a full-time job will do that to your complexion. It’s also amazing what adding divorce into that situation does. People always hope for a seamless separation, but in my case, it’s been nothing but dastardly. It’s put my emotions through the ringer, not to mention my sleep habits. No matter, I use my left hand for steering and my right for finding some much-needed concealer in my purse. I pop it open with my index finger and my thumb, to find it clumping in not so natural ways. Note to self, Buy more makeup, better makeup. I spatter it on under my eyes and over my old pimple scars (thank you pregnancy), and at the risk of getting into a multiple car accident, I put my compact away. Or, rather, I throw it on my side seat. I fish again in my purse; that, for the record needs to be replaced. Complete with juice box stains and goldfish crumbs; there is not much about it that says sexy single adult. I add it to my list of things to do for myself, complete with the makeup, sunglasses I don’t need to tape to my face, and light bulbs.

I arrive to work, two minutes early, and I am pleased with myself at my, albeit, dangerous multitasking, that included not only make up application while driving, but calling the pediatrician, making a vet appointment for my elderly, dying cat, and changing several CD’s to get me in the right mood so I can successfully complete my day without an emotional scar popping through my seems. All that, and I still drank twenty ounces of coffee brewed this morning by yours truly. Thank god for Keurig and the modern coffee generation.

As I walk into my studio, I am blinded by two truths. One, I’m glad I’m at a point in my life where I am doing what I love to do. And two, that I am financially stable enough to support myself, and my kids. Life hasn’t been easy since, well, since my marriage ended, and I don’t have tons of cash lying around, but I am able to pay my bills and keep my kids in a stable, clean, and happy environment and that’s all that matters. I have a feeling my day will be busy. It’s almost the end of April, and I usually get twenty or so desperate brides looking for a good photographer for their wedding for this season (Wedding season is usually capped between March and September). DC is a busy city anyway, and I always have my fair share of good business, but these next couple of months, I will usually have to turn away half, due to my full dates for people who planned ahead of time. It’s better to turn business away than to have to go out and find it, I tell myself, when I am up to my neck in bridezilla hell. I turn on all the lights, my computer and printer systems, and unlock my office. I notice how clean everything is. Rita was here last night. I love the nights the cleaning woman comes. My whole office space smells like citrus and clean linen. I take a deep breath. I open the windows to air out the very wonderful yet potent scent, and I am looking forward to a lovely spring day. Highs in the high eighties the weather app on my iPhone says; Warmer than our usual low seventy degree weather here in this area for the end of April.

I’m wearing my favorite maxi dress. It’s simple and a grey slate blue with some pretty flower embroidery on the waist line. I pair it with a deep violet cardigan and a pair of peep toe heels in the very same shade of purple. My hair is half up and half down, kind of shaggy and a little messy on purpose. I try to keep it casual so my clients feel at ease talking to me, and I don’t seem like a tight ass dressed in your typical white shirt and black pants with a tight bun pulling my eyebrows into my hair-line. I recently painted my toes a pale pink, and I feel sumptuous today.  By ten A.M, an hour after opening, a woman comes in inquiring about her thirtieth anniversary party. She needs a professional to take photos of the vow renewal and reception. She’s not doing this until November, and I am happy I do not have to squeeze her in mid-June, right at my busiest. I show her my work on a recent, similar event, pencil her in and take her deposit. Time seems to creep by slow after she leaves. I try to do some busy work balancing books, getting ready for my audit. I don’t have the kids tonight, thank to my folks who take them once a week, so I was planning to hit the gym right after work, and my mind is drifting to my hot Zumba instructor when I hear the door open again and the stereo starts singing Monty Python’s, “Always look at the bright side of life…”. I hate bells on a door or those lout DING DONG effects. You may as well have a cattle call or a dinner bell. No, mine plays music, and I have about thirty preloaded songs, most regarding some happy life event, like, “ She’s having my baby…” or, “Always and forever…”. I change them every few weeks or so with selections from my iPod, so I don’t die a slow death of Frank Sinatra and cheesy 80’s Richard Marx tunes.

I’m humming to myself, finishing the verse after the music ends, when I hear, “Excuse me? I’m looking for Margaret Morris.” “That’s me…I’m Maggie Morris..” I mumble through the lyrics and half eaten granny smith apple at my lips. I look up, and in the same moment, my eyes widen, and my legs feel like tapioca pudding. A tall, maybe early 40-ish something man with black mussed hair, a sharp, perfectly fitted black business suit and a glowing white smile is leaning on his left elbow on the counter to the right of me. “Excuse me…” I say, half heartedly, as I gather my wits, toss my apple in the trash and grasp for some air.

I stand up straight and flatten my blue dress with my palms and start to apologize for my apparent lack of etiquette and professionalism in front of this pretty professional, absolutely beautiful creature. He interrupts almost immediately. “Hello Mrs. Morris.” I object, probably too quickly. “Ms. Morris. Ms.” He nods in resignment.  “Oh. Pardon me, Ms. Morris. I am Declan Knight.” Oh, he has a slight accent. “Hello Mr. Knight. What can I, uh, do for you today?” I realize I am staring and I shift uncomfortably on my plum-colored pumps. He continues to smile. I’m cursing inwardly. “I was told by some locals here, that you take lovely photographs. I am looking for a photographer to come into my place of business and do some candid shots for our website. Do you do such work?” He’s so proper, that’s kinda hot, in a.. I want to play teacher way. Jesus H. Shut UP.

He talks clearly and I watch his mouth as he forms the words so eloquently. I take a deep breath. “I do all kinds of Photography, from weddings, to children, to corporate functions Mr. Knight. I’m certain we could work something out.” As I recite my automated response, he starts casually glancing at the work on the walls in the studio. He smiles at the pregnant bellied mom with her two kids kissing her basketball size belly. He glances further to the right, past the ocean and mountain landscapes, scanning each one carefully when I see him stop at one above my desk. “Where was this taken, if you don’t mind me asking?” I look at him to respond, shuffling papers to find a point of contact form. Wow, his eyes are really quite green. “Ireland. West coast, a small coastal town in Connemara.” He smiles. “I’m from Belfast. My family still lives there, well, in part.” Ahhh. Accent. I can’t stop looking at him. He has nice skin I notice. No five o clock shadow. Smooth. His eyes are a super bright shade of green, almost the color of the ocean, deep out in sea, when the blues are so blue they look sheer and green on top. I sigh, I think out loud. Oops.

He continues as I am distracted by his hard, squared off jaw. “Is this for sale?” I’m dumfounded. I squirm a little under his curious gaze that wafts from me to the photograph and back to me again. “Yes. All of these photos, with the exception of the ones with children in them, are for sale Mr. Knight.” I pause. My mouth is dry. “I’ll take this one, please.” He says, casually, mind made up-matter- of- factly. Okay. “Don’t you want to know how much it is?” I ask bluntly, intrigued. He smirks. He has a nice smile. “Okay, Miss Morris, then, how much is it?” He asks, almost sarcastically, leaning a little forward, just enough so I can smell him.. Lucky for him I’m fluent in that language. “It’s $750.00, mounted with the frame and all.” I say, a little nervous coming out too fast and a tone too high. “I’ll take it.” He says one more time. This time he smiles and with one swoop into his pocket, he takes out a long leather wallet and places a credit card on the glass counter, with purpose, so the sound of the plastic slapping the glass makes me take notice.

It’s Platinum, the Master Card, and I pick it up and ring him out carefully, almost in slow motion. I hand him with card with the receipt folded over it purposefully, smiling the whole way, giddy that someone bought something of mine. Must be my lucky day, I think to myself. I turn around and gently take the frame down from the wall, and I can feel his eyes on me. You would think you would smell smoke coming from the back of my head. When I turn around, he is grinning politely, and says, “If you don’t mind Ms. Morris, I have to get back to take a meeting. Could we set up a time for you to deliver the photograph and for us to discuss our arrangement?” He wants me to come to his office. “Sure. I can do that for you Mr. Knight. What time is best for you?”

He thinks for a moment, and his eyes wander as if he’s trying to remember something specific. His hands are lovely, I notice as his thumb grabs his bottom lip slightly. He seems very well manicured and put together. After a moment, he speaks, almost making me jump. “I will be finished with my meeting by three. I will be available any time after that. I work about four miles away, off 23rd and M Streets.” He says. I pause briefly. “Oh, okay.” I stutter over my words like a teenage twit. “Which one is your office?” He continues, “Well Ms. Morris, the building is my own, however, my offices are located on the top floor. You will have to give your name to the security down stairs and they will escort you up.” Security? Did I miss something? Is he the fucking President? “I see. Okay, well, I close my shop here generally around four, so I should not be any later than four thirty.” His eyes look into mine. “Splendid. I will see you then, in my office, at four thirty.” He’s still looking at me. Is there something on my face? “Yes sir, four thirty.” I say briskly. “Thank you for coming in and for….um.. buying a piece of my work.” His eyebrows jump a little. “You do lovely work Ms. Morris, I’m honored to have it.” I feel my ears get hot and my hair on my neck seems to, I don’t know, move. He’s honored. “Have a good afternoon.” He smiles at me as he opens the door. Monte Python starts singing again. He holds the door open with his right hand, his left in his pocket of what looks like an expensive suit, and smiles at the sound of the music. He looks at me with his right hand still holding the door open and says. “That’s brilliant.” Then, just as quickly as he came in, he’s gone. My whole body relaxes. I didn’t even realize I was tense. I mean, I knew I was tense, but, my muscles are actually a little sore from all of the terseness.

I fall back onto the stool behind me, thankful for its presence. Shit. I now have to worry about the next two hours and what I am going to do when I get to four. Did that just happen? I decide I need to make a phone call.

Its Begins…

Good Afternoon Friends.

Here is the lowdown, downtown.

I am a writer, and have been since I was 8. I started journaling before it was popular and became a ‘thing’. I wrote because I loved to, needed to. I escaped in books. Found worlds I belonged in, simply for being me. I knew one day, when I was a grown up, I would write one of these things, these, books.

Problems. Got distracted as most people with A.D.D do….

Had three kids. Cried and drank a lot. Stayed married, thankfully, and lost a ton of money investing in these ‘kid’ things. But man, what a ride.

I drive a mini van, given though, it’s tricked out state, with custom plates and stickers (lets leave that for another evening of entertainment). But alas, there is a soccer ball in there. But it works. Lots of balls ride in that car given the number of males vs. females in this house. (4:1 eek)

I love sci fi. A great sci fi book is just balls to the wall, lets get drunk and go hunting fun, and one day I picked up one with a romantic twist. An author named Sylvia Day caught my eye with a great story about a dream warrior who falls in love with his ‘human’. Given there is a ton of sex in it, I was completely interested, given my likeness for he activity. I read more, and more of her work, which in turn allowed me to find others like her (You read THIS, so you should read THIS too…). 500 + books in the genre later, I think I finally found my face.

It’s still hard to explain to people what I write without them blushing, but it is fun to watch “ummmmsss….” and “Ohhh wows…” that come out of those conversations.

In my profession as an art instructor, I have talked about my book a lot….mainly because I was in the throes of writing it and really wanted people in my circle to anticipate it. It turned into many questions about when it will be published and by who.

While I finish it up and work on the publishing date, I made this blog so people of this persuasion can follow my writing journey and read some of the book along with me as I edit.

There will be offensive words. I curse. A lot. My blog nor my book is a family activity, and if it is, get a new family, that’s weird.

Here I go, in this great big world of “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing…” Join me for some beer, won’t you? I’ll need to be drunk through most of this.

Enjoy.

Mandy Lou

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