Owner: The Domestic Minx URL:http://thedomesticminx.squarespace.com Join Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2007 02:32:44 -0500 Rating:0 Site Description: Being a minx is delicious.
Add a big dollop of domesticity and you could have a recipe for disaster.
A hip-swinging, shot-slinging, globe-trotting member of the jet-setting elite leaves her expat world for housework, teenagers and a chance to write her Site statistics:Click here
the minx thinx and winx and makes some linky love 2007-06-02 20:10:23 I fear it is only a matter of time now.
It is that most volatile combination of Vanity and Grey Matter that threatens to do me in.
My distended head, impossibly engorged and still growing, is in imminent danger of exploding.
The vast, tumescent and insatiably feeding, thinking brain within it is threatening to burst forth from it's elegant yet brittle casing and soil my party dress.
And it is a party dress that I wear this morning, dear reader, as I celebrate with a timely glass of champagne, my Thinking Blogger Award.
Again.
My darling friend, the brilliant and ballsy Bill Blunt, writer extraordinaire and contributor to British journalism for over four decades, has recognized the curiously materialistic and accumulative tendencies of The Domestic Minx and honoured me with something more for my mantlepiece.
It is with pride that I accept this most worthy prize: The Celebration of my Cerebration.
It is rewarding to know that the almost musical musings on my minge, the diab Read more:makes
, linky
melinda 2007-06-01 05:50:50 When I first met Melinda she was three years old.
I was very young and madly in love with her big brother but it wasn't long before I had fallen in love with Melinda too.
Impossibly fey and deliciously ingenuous, she was already intelligent, self-possessed and imbued with an uncommon serenity and gracefulness that inspired reverence.
Her friends fell into line. We all did.
She was bewitching.
Today, many years later, Melinda is still mesmerising.
She has channelled Freya, beautiful and propitious Nordic Goddess of sensuality and love.
Sexy, strong and successful, she embodies perfectly the modern woman.
Six feet tall, of blindingly blonde beauty, sharp wit, extraordinary understanding, compassion and blessed with a rare charm and elegance, she is Grace Kelly without the sad.
She is modern without the mad.
She is bold without the bad.
She is still my little Melinda and I love her.
This afternoon she had a baby and the earth moved.
I have been expecting this day since her
the body corpor-eight 2007-06-07 00:27:13 I do hope you are hungry, dear readers, for I have prepared for your dining pleasure, yet another plateful of my eviscerated entrails.
Oh, I will spare you somewhat, for it is not quite the inspection of my innards you may be expecting.
Rather, it is a crude dissection of my outward appearance, carefully carved for your gratification and presented in appetising bite-sized portions.
I have been tagged by my very gorgeous friend, Lola, of The Cherry Cola Cafe,
who wishes me to Expose Myself, physically.
In eight separate ways.
The Body Corpor-Eight
1. Perhaps the most immediate thing about me is my pair of big round eyes.
While predominantly hazel, they are seasonal things and often waver between green and khaki.
Although I believe my eyes to be rather sweet and ingenuous, I have been told they are unnervingly intense and have actually disturbed people.
While seemingly innocent, they are dangerously myopic.
If I forget my contact lenses I am likely to stumble blindly int
Wordless Wednesday - whatever... 2007-06-05 21:51:20
There is a conspiracy afoot.
It seems The Universe is not impressed with my plans for Silent Expression.
For the entire week I have been toying with the idea of Wordless Wednesday
.
Other people are doing it. They're cool. I like them.
I figured I could do it too.
With my trusty camera I would engage my rudimentary photographic skills to intuitively create the sort of pictures that ooze with conjecture, are poignant with insinuation and brimming with emotions unspoken.
Yes, my pictures would paint a thousand words...
All Enigmatic. Evocative. Endearing...
And even though I wondered how, without wild and wonderful words to waft about and wallow in, I may not have felt a little wasted, I decided to go for it.
Give it my best shot...
Let my pictures speak for me and allow this tantalizing tongue a rest.
I prepared a melange of scenes, redolent of the day. Of The Moment. Of The Minx.
Enigmatic, Evocative, Endearing...
And I was all ready to shoot when -
oh...
what the hel Read more:whatever
bite club 2007-06-04 23:40:19
I am a little nipper.
Not only am I of modest size and of a rather terrier nature,
I also like to bite.
I nibble, I nip, I sink my teeth into things both literally and figuratively.
While my bark might be bigger than my bite, I bite off much more than I can chew.
and I have taken a big bite of life because I can't help it.
I am compelled.
I like it.
I like to bite
and in my customary minx fashion, I am compulsive.
If I bite it once, then I must bite it twice.
Perhaps I will bite it thrice.
Four times to make it even...
Lately, I have taken to biting people.
Not random people of course, not ordinary citizens standing before me in the queue at the supermarket or quietly riding the escalator in the shopping mall. Iam not yet so bold.
And while I haven't taken to mauling familiar friends who pop in for a cup of tea or stay longer for a glass or two of my sacred shiraz, my husband and children have begun eyeing me with suspicion.
For they fear I have crossed the line.
They hav
badass 2007-06-09 18:16:25 Today is my 100th Post!
I am celebrating of course, but it will not be champagne that pops my cork today,
dear reader.
Join me in something dark, delectable and dangerous...
For it is official.
I am a BadAss.
Yes, I'm a wicked, saucy, naughty minx who likes to call it like it is.
I'll even call it something else if I want to. Something more delicious...
because I'm bad like that.
And now it's endorsed.
I'm a BadAss and proud of it.
But you already knew that, didn't you, dear reader?
Now, thanks to the very BadAss Christina of Paris Romance I am certified.
And I have The Utimate Prize for my minxy mantlepiece.
It is, I must say, an honour to receive an award from such an intelligent and honest writer, not only because she is so deliciously true to herself, the genuine article,
but because she is a bold, brilliant and beautiful BadAss herself.
It takes one to know one, doesn't it...
And I do love being Bad...
Don't you?
While I consider it entirely normal
to Read more:badass
the back passage 2007-06-07 21:19:26 I often get lost.
It's not that I can't read map books. I can.
I am not one of those Venusian women supposedly lacking direction,
unable to tell her left from her right, her up from her down.
If I look at a map it is clear to me where I must travel in order to reach my destination.
I simply choose not to read the map book.
I'm a smart arse like that.
I don't like people telling me what to do.
I don't like map books telling me where to go.
I like to follow my nose, see where the road takes me.
Today it took me right up my own bottom.
But please don't panic, dear reader.
I've been there before. Unfortunately. Often.
I had reason to do a pick up and drop off this morning.
Essentially, the mission was a simple one.
Although it wasn't familiar territory I knew the direction in which I was headed.
Northeast of the river, a quick slip off a wellworn freeway exit, a bit of zig, a bit of zag and I would be there. Pick up. Drop off. Simple.
But there was little e Read more:passage
listless 2007-06-11 22:21:15 Are you a list maker?
Do you prepare schedules, listing in point form
the issues you wish to address throughout the week?
Do you employ endless agendums,
itemizing each and every task and function
for imminent completion?
Or do you fly by the seat of your pants, skirting Issues, flouting authority, condemning lists and a decent semblance of order to inevitably whirl like a dervish into dark and unmentionable places?
Like me...
Much to everyone's horror, I don't do lists.
Oh, I've tried. I have endless pads, pens and pertinent paraphernalia at my fingertips. I even have the genes.
My father loved lists. He was a List Maker Extraordinaire.
He assembled them incessantly.
He made inventories of the wood working equipment he would purchase slyly for his shed.
He scheduled with awful regularity the renovation tasks our family would perform, chain gang style, over the weekends.
I even found his list, numbering in point form, the reasons he should stay with his family
la vie en rose 2007-06-15 06:46:01
"Oh look!" I smiled, as my long mach arrived, steaming with crema and the aroma of good beans, "I have a little heart on mine!"
"Well" announced my mother, "I've got a penis!"
It was a little too loud.
Two teenagers giggled. An old lady turned her head. Her husband sniggered.
I blushed. Yes.
"Oh look, there are even testicles." she added.
There were too.
"I'll have what she's having." I said. To the audience.
A day with my Mum is ever amusing, always rosy and often embarrassing.
Blowsy blonde, adorably artless, utterly feminine and comical in the extreme,
my mother plays the eternal ingenue to perfection.
Although she is now in her sixties, her hourglass figure, petite and perfect,
is a lesson to women a third her age.
She embodies the pin up with her pertness, her cheeky smile, her cloud of blonde hair still ungreyed by the years.
But it is her sense of humour that undoes me.
She is incorrigible.
She can spot an innunendo at twenty paces, casually slipping h
guilty pleasures 2007-06-13 17:46:02 I was wafting about the confectionery section of the supermarket this morning
when an unfamiliar voice joined my creamy dreams of cocoa love.
"It's my guilty pleasure."
announced the rather curvacious
and red faced woman next to me,
sliding two slabs of Old Gold into her trolley.
"Oh, pleasure indeed," I smiled,
reaching for the Chocolat Noir.
"Why on earth spoil it with guilt?"
"Well I, oh,"
"Just enjoy it." I winked,
popping my own dark pleasure into the basket.
My comment, unduly shameless
and nonchalant,
made me wonder, dear reader.
Why are our most treasured pleasures
tinged with that taste most toxic?
Guilt.
As a child I was steeped in it.
Growing up Catholic ensured huge servings of guilt were heaped upon my plate and served up religiously with each meal. I almost choked on the bloody stuff.
It was an insidious thing, and pervasive. Almost anything worth entertaining was laced with sin, and so a dose of guilt was inevitable.
Yet the very mischief
butterfly wings 2007-06-19 02:07:33
My Nan was in love with Luciano Pavarotti.
No one else could move her like the singing sofa.
With his beautiful and blessed voice booming magnificently from her old turntable,
she was transfixed, transported.
Nessun Dorma was by far her favourite, reducing her to tears at each sitting.
She would become lost, nestled in her armchair, hands knitted, her little eyes closed tight against the flutter of memories, bittersweet and brave.
With every ounce of strength she would fight the tears, her lips moving with his,
her resolve strong, of little use by the time the chorus conspired with
Il nome suo nessun sapra!...
e noi dovrem, ahime, morir
to bring the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Beautiful, beautiful.." she would whisper as the crescendo died and vincero
was swept away with tramontate, stelle!
Preparing to visit Nan for the final time last year, knowing that my moments with her would be to say goodbye, I knew instinctively what to do.
I would play her Nessun Dorma.
speaking in tongues 2007-06-17 21:13:36 You have no doubt gleaned from these rather rude and rampant pages, dear reader, that my tongue has oft been tied when it comes to saying no to the demon drink.
Having a fundamentally decadent, disobedient and diabolical nature has made it rather too easy to overindulge.
I cheerfully and repeatedly throw myself into the fray.
Why, I knock them back with gay abandon, lubricating my licentiousness and disengaging the devil inside.
Being small, being a woman, doesn't help. It takes such little effort for la diabolique to wash over me like a splash of red paint and turn me into a scarlet woman.
It will come as no surprise to you then, my dears, that before we headed out for dinner with friends on Saturday, I was gently read the riot act by my husband, patient yet weary of using his infinitely broad shoulders to carry the load that I have inevitably become by the end of the evening, lush and lolloping, loud and lubricated.
My dear husband must have known it would ultimately
monster 2007-06-23 05:29:36
There must have been 60 of them.
Hard, grey and shrivelled, they sat in formation, poised as if awaiting further instructions, as they hugged the wall.
Once moist and full of promise, their very pith had been squeezed from them as the rolling and squeezing of their essence rendered them lifeless; inanimate trophies of crude decoration. But their purpose served a higher purpose, claimed my little brother, whose vile and forbidding booger collection stood proudly above the bed.
They were a talisman against evil.
An amulet against malevolence.
Cross my heart and hope to die!
His boogie collection was a gris gris for The BoogeyMan.
Were you scared of the Boogeyman as a child?
What was it that chilled you to the bone?
Was it the lurking figure under the bed, the shadow by the door, the Nosferatu tapping at the window?
As a child I was both paralysed and fascinated by The Monster.
While scared shitless, I wanted still to see the beast, to feel it, to immerse myself in the darkn
go ahead - eat me 2007-06-20 22:47:44 A good cook is the peculiar gift of the gods.
She must be a perfect creature from the brain to the palate,
from the palate to the finger's end.
Walter Savage Landor
The insightful and enquiring mind of my friend Diogenes at The Fine Art of Blogging - Quasi Fictional Views recently posed a pertinent and probing question.
"My dear Domestic Minx," he prodded, "Why is it that you blog?
What is it that drives you to serve a plateful of your eviscerated entrails to your loyal readers, almost every day?"
The answer was simple.
The evisceration process enthralls me.
My entrails enchant me.
The convoluted culinary process involved in presenting them as cuisine captivates me.
So I concoct, I create, I convey...
I prepare a meal. For you, dear reader.
Please pull up a chair...
And eat me.
Bon Appetit
Step into my parlour, please, and allow me to offer you something tasty and delectable, something I have prepared for you myself.
Oh, I do hope you find it delicious, for I cook fro Read more:ahead
anomaly 2007-06-26 05:41:01 "Oh Good God! You look fabulous darling!"
I almost didn't recognize my friend Rebecca.
Gone were the mummy jeans and the voluminous shirts.
Gone indeed was the mummy tummy. Gone, gone gone were the luscious Rubenesque curves, replaced instead by a lighter luminescence more becoming of my Botticelli Angel.
"Oh, you look. sooo. fucking. hot!"
Oh, she did and she knew it. 30 pounds had evaporated since our last meeting and she was glowing.
But then, Rebecca has always glowed. In the thirteen years of being her dear and darling friend, I have basked in the glow of everyman's Angelina Jolie. With her immaculate Mediterranean skin, her lustrous hair and oh, those lips, she has been a delectable and luscious fruit!! I have seen her swell and ripen over the years, blossoming from the 21 year old first-year-out-teacher/pin-up of my son, through a trinity of pregnancies to the 34 year old goddess she is today.
Incredibly creative, unfathomably intelligent and inestimably civi
butterfly wings 2007-06-20 02:07:33
My Nan was in love with Luciano Pavarotti.
No one else could move her like the singing sofa.
With his beautiful and blessed voice booming magnificently from her old turntable,
she was transfixed, transported.
Nessun Dorma was by far her favourite, reducing her to tears at each sitting.
She would become lost, nestled in her armchair, hands knitted, her little eyes closed tight against the flutter of memories, bittersweet and brave.
With every ounce of strength she would fight the tears, her lips moving with his,
her resolve strong, of little use by the time the chorus conspired with
Il nome suo nessun sapra!...
e noi dovrem, ahime, morir
to bring the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Beautiful, beautiful.." she would whisper as the crescendo died and vincero
was swept away with tramontate, stelle!
Preparing to visit Nan for the final time last year, knowing that my moments with her would be to say goodbye, I knew instinctively what to do.
I would play her Nessun Dorma.
music to make minx by 2007-06-30 04:24:15
She keeps Moet et Chandon
In a pretty cabinet
'Let them eat cake' she says,
Just like Marie Antoinette.
What makes the Minx move?
Oh, it is easy, darlings. It is music.
I love it.
All kinds, all types, genres and styles. My taste is deliciously eclectic.
I have my favourites, of course.
I am ambient and deep and love anything that moves me to my core...
And there are some tunes, dear readers, that get my juices flowing, warm, mellifluous and intoxicating, reminiscent as they are of earlier glories, spikes in the heartbeat, the soundtrack of my life.
Here are some of them, a sample of the songs that have meant something to me over the years...
10 classic Minx Tracks perhaps.
Only 10...ouch..
God, it was hard to do...
to prune, to tweak, to pare this lot down..to a mere ten..
It is but a small portion of the collection.
A snippet of The Soundtrack...
Oh, if only you had 30 minutes or so to indulge me ... click on and tune into the power that is Youtube and fill yourselve
indolence, a guilty pleasure 2007-06-27 21:17:06 Slow down, you move too fast.
You got to make the morning last.
Just kicking down the cobble stones.
Looking for fun and feelin' groovy.
Oh, the subject of Guilty Pleasures is a delicious one, is it not?
I promised you more of the Guilty Pleasures, dear readers, and you shall have it, for I am wont to talk about Pleasure, of course.
It is intrinsic to who I am.
Indeed, I am a Hedonist, a Libertine and an unabashed Bacchanalian Minx of decadent proportions.
And while guilt is a vile and dirty word, it's association with stolen pleasures works much like whiskey does with coke. It sexes it up. It makes it naughty.
But guilty pleasures are all relative. There is no guilt unless the pleasure is forbidden, verboten, incongruous perhaps with the mask one uses to face the world.
Naughtiness is neutered, the thrill is killed if all is condoned.
Is fruit not sweeter when it is forbidden?
Chocolate? Sex?
So, what might the forbidden fruit be for someone consumed with moving at
a question of flirtation 2007-07-02 19:51:55
I can still see his eyes. Dark and mysterious, they held mine for just a moment as my taxi pulled away from Hotel de L'Odeon in Paris. I knew him not, but with bags packed and destiny taking us in two different directions, his question was left hanging like a murmured breath in the morning air. What if?
I smile at the memory of a beautiful woman waiting our table in Santorini who held my hand and slowly ran her finger down the length of my thumb as I counted out change for a glass of wine.
Ah, the lingering looks of the glass blower in Antalya, his long hair tossed back as I crossed his path in the mornings, his heavy eyes and slow smile a heady promise as intoxicating as an all over massage in a Turkish bath.
Warm glances exchanged over a Gauloise, half-smiles shared over capuccino across a village cafe, tenuous conversations in broken English, the gentle touch of a finger on the elbow. My memory is filled with moments, replete and delicious, where the gentle art of flirti
a rude swelling 2007-07-02 19:44:53
Once more, dear readers,
I find my head rudely gargantuan...
I have been lucky this week to have acquired not one, but two, awards.
And both from such darlings that I am inclined to swim across the watery divide that separates us and plant a juicy and minxy kiss on them both.
The most adorable b.Kitty, reknowned for his witty and incisive deliberations, as well as his hysterical commentary on celebrity events, has deigned to bestow his most coveted of awards on the Minx.
I can say that not only am I flushed with pride, I am feeling an almost palpable heat between my minxy thighs.
Oh Kitty, I do love you.
Purrrrr...
While still recovering from the fluffy wonderment of receiving the b.Kitty award, I find myself the recipient of another rocking shout out.
The delicious and delectable Rapunzel, Castle Mistress and Magical Minx of the Realm has shown me the love and flourished the name of The Domestic Minx with a most beautiful exclamation mark!
It is an extraordinary ho Read more:swelling
gold 2007-07-07 05:02:21 Twelve roses, red and slightly open, waited like lips parted for a kiss.
They greeted me as I returned from the hospital today, my heavy heart lightened as I spied their colour and the message that lay within their leaves.
"We love you Gold."
Ah, Gold...my name you understand,
for my children have never called me Mum.
I have been Mummy. It was my deliciously domestic moment.
For a long time, too long perhaps, I was Mummy and I loved it.
I was the sweetness of Jelly Tots and Enid Blyton. Artless and happy and tender and loving, it was an age of bedtime stories and kisses deep and neck snuggling. It was holding hands in the supermarket and kisses in front of school friends, long after it was cool.
Inevitably of course, it ran it's course and it had to go. Almost overnight, Mummy became rudely incongruous with two strapping high school lads and, well beyond it's barking madness, it was suddenly out of time and deeply, deeply unfashionable.
But I couldn't be Mum, they in
mischief, of one kind and another 2007-07-04 19:36:47
For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed making mischief of one kind and another, upsetting the apple cart, placing a fly in the ointment.
It has been a curious pleasure, naughty and childish, where poking my tongue at, and poking a few holes in, the stout and sturdy fabric of a lampoonable institution has been decidely exhilarating.
The very first time I was filled with such a devilment was the summer of my eleventh year.
It had been a big year. My hair had grown long, I'd ditched Robin Rabbit for hipster jeans and smoked my first cigarette. Oh, how I marvelled at the way the smoke snaked and curled from my lips as I watched myself in the mirror through half closed movie star eyes, the taste of rebellion dirty on my tongue.
The same year had seen me polish off most of my Nan's Yalumba Cream Sherry while feigning illness to avoid going to church with the family; it's devilish delirium had coursed through my veins like liquid sin, until I threw it all up.
And yes, it
curiosity 2007-07-11 17:14:38
Curiosity is the very basis of education
and if you tell me that curiosity killed the cat,
I say only that the cat died nobly.
Arnold Edinborough
I suffer from insatiable curiosity.
I'm clinging to what's left of my nine lives with all the strength I can muster,
for we all know what happened to the cat...
But there is enormous pleasure to be had sticking my twitchy little nose where it shouldn't be stuck, peering between the cracks at things my sly green eyes should not be seeing and sliding my slinky little body into holes I can't quite wriggle out of.
Call me Tabatha.
Pandora, perhaps.
Because I can't promise I won't look in the box.
I have an enquiring mind.
And if it's dangerous, dark and devilish, dubious, decadent, deep down and dirty,
you just know this cat wants to look at it.
Well, even if it's not, I still want to see it. All of it.
No secrets please. For while I wear my own like a second skin, I don't much like them on other people. I'm funny
the schmoozer 2007-07-11 17:03:21 You Snooze, you lose.
You Schmooze, you Win!!!
My darling friend Meleah Rebeccah of Momma Mia, Mea Culpa, disturbed at the decrease in my cranial swelling since last week's award, has seen fit to distend my noggin further by gracing me with yet another award.
This one hints at the potent power of schmooze, the ability to sway others, perhaps even gain the upper hand socially with one's words, one's casual words.
schmooze (shmz) Slang
v.intr.
To converse casually, especially in order to gain an advantage or make a social connection. (Not necessarily by gratuitous squeezing of breast at wine bar.)
Well, I do like squeezing my girls and I'm all about making connections.
It's true! I love you all, my dear friends out there in the blogosphere.
Old, new, male, female, you all add something special to my day and if I have moved you in some small way, made you laugh, tickled you with tales of my underwear or kindled feelings of your family with talk of mine, then I am happy.
liberté, levité et lingerie 2007-07-10 00:28:33 My senses, starved of stimulation from the outside world, have become razor sharp.
Holed up, pent up inside the confines of my home as I convalesce, my perception, my extra sensory perception, has become tuned to frequencies rare and unheard by mere mortals.
I can't see dead people but I can hear my undies talking.
It is true, dear readers, and they're not happy.
Admittedly, the ones I'm wearing are rather gleeful, but the others left languishing in the drawer are quite another story...
I could hear them this morning, their rumbling, mumbling and mutineering literally rocking my boudoir as I polished the chest of drawers in which they lay.
While a handful on the top layer trilled and crooned, puffing out their little lingerie chests in song, it was clear that the majority were miserable.
I'm afraid it has been a while since I delved deep within the darkly delicious depths of my underwear drawer. And while nothing much seems to have changed on the surface, it seems obvious that Read more:libert
paris, je t'aime 2007-07-14 04:37:01
He was tall and he was brooding, his flashing eyes, his burnished skin, his dark and gently curling hair a tousled melange of raw sensuality, poetic injustice and the urbane je ne sais quoi of every clichéd Frenchman in existence.
"Excusez-moi Madame, mais je pense que vous pouvez prendre une peu d'asperge coincée entre vos deux dents avant." (1)
I blushed. His words mellifluous as honey to my ears.
His hand brushed against mine as the euro slipped like droplets of sex soaked sweat into the palm of my hand.
"Merci. Beaucoup." I breathed, looking from beneath my lashes at his mouth, sensual yet strong, uttering words so laden with aphrodisia I could barely contain my excitement.
"Peut-être vous pouvez doucement l'enlever avec votre ongle avant que quelqu'un d'autre le voie." (2)
I licked my lips and smiled coyly, his voice like sex slow and languorous, sending a shiver of delight along the length of my thighs and warming me in a way that made me cross my legs.
"Je pe
malaise 2007-07-17 04:39:51
It is not often that this spring heeled harlequin, this merry minx, droops into despondency, but alas, dear reader, I fear I have fallen foul of the Fates and descended to the dismal depths of despair...
My dear friends, I am sad to report that if you have arrived at my splendid boudoir looking for jollity today then your quest may end in disappointment.
Overwhelmingly, I feel it is the result of too many months sans international travel. Yes indeed. It is 7 months now with not a blip on the radar, a palm tree on the horizon.
And you know how claustrophobic I can be. A gilded cage is still a cage is it not?...
Sacre bleu!
Or could it be, perhaps, that with two operations on my fair form within the space of as many months I have been rendered with a curious post operative malaise or, more likely, a pertinent pain killer withdrawl?
Could it be the looming spectre of my unfinished book, dangling at the edge of my peripheral vision like something limp and flaccid and terribly, di
floorplay 2007-07-16 02:34:29 There is nothing like a bit of floorplay to heat things up.
And after watching the troupe of delicious dancers working Floorplay, "Burn up the Floor," last night I was almost incendiary. Flanked by the swag of beauties that comprise the Carroll Family women, I allowed myself to be bitten on the arse by the intoxication that is live dance.
You will forgive me, dear reader, if my words flit about in front of you like so many frolicking nymphs, for even now my feet still tap.
Ah, the heady pleasure of watching a collective group of derrieres jiggle and swivel in mesmerising delirium as the posturing of puffed male chests, taut, sweaty and a-ripple with testosterone, pull them into places verboten and voodoo, sidestep them to places dark and desirous.
I was entranced, my hips jiggling, my own delicious bottom barely touching the seat as I was lured into the labyrinth of lascivious dance hall moves and suggestion made real by the sauciest and sexiest of shimmying, a tripping of t
obsession 2007-07-18 20:40:51
I am easily distracted by the details.
Delicious and rare, precious and extraordinary,
the magical minutiae will drive me to distraction.
I love them. Drink them in. Drown in them.
It would be fair to say that I am obsessed by them.
But then Obsession itself has always been rather a compulsion here in the boudoir.
I love an enchantment, a whirlpool, a heady escape from the humdrum.
It is too easy for me to lose myself in a flurry of flirtatious fantasy,
dance a decadent distraction with one delicious detail after another and not come up for air.
While others, stodgy and unkind, accuse me of not looking at the big picture, chasing rainbows or not appreciating the forest for the trees, I see myself rather as
The Mistress of Minutiae,
The Bon Vivant of Beguiling Bits and
The Valiant Voluptuary of Delicious Trivialities.
Passionate and easily charmed, I am compelled to confound myself with a compulsion, overwhelm myself with an obsession, for I fear I simply cannot ex
blithe and bonny 2007-07-20 23:06:56
I was the child born on the Sabbath Day.
It was July 22, just after lunch, in my Nan's bed.
A deliriously warm and sunny afternoon, I was impatient to find my place in the world and surprised everyone in the little council house at Creswick Greave by arriving early and without complication. My Nan, nurse, trouper and sister to a multitude of brothers and sisters, even assisted the midwife in my delivery.
Upon my entry there began a riot of rejoicing and festivities in typical Yorkshire fashion, the semi detached building alive with the rampant swilling of cheap champagne downed heartily to the tunes of the swinging 60's played on the radiogramme.
Aye, luv. Our Claire had arrived! The blithe and bonny herald of a new and vibrant generation as Nan's beloved and only child ushered me into a brave new world.
By all accounts, Nan's own entry had been a glaring contrast.
One of fifteen children, born into what must surely have been the very slums of Sheffield in The De
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