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
burlesque and the art of the Teese 2007-07-23 00:04:55
Amongst the plethora of fabulous birthday presents I received yesterday is a particular gem I have been unable to take my eyes off since I first peeled away it's wrapping paper.
It is something I love.
Something thrilling and transporting, filled with fantasy and the promise of escape.
"Could it be a book?" you ask.
Yes, dear readers, of course, but this is no ordinary book.
Fuelling my fascination with all that flirts and flounces and calls itself burlesque,
my darling brother indulged me with the most fabulous of books:
Burlesque/Fetish - The Art of the Teese.
Oh yes, it is thrilling and transporting indeed, filled with fantasy and the promise of escape but it is also abundant with pictures, luscious pictures; evocative, elegant and delightfully titillating.
I will add though, dear friends, that while the pictures are wholly delicious, it is the content of the book, with it's enigmatic prose, it's deliriously decadent historical content and it's delectable vignett
masquerade 2007-07-26 01:49:33
I confess.
I am more than a little chameleonic right now.
I have been dressing up in secret a little more than usual,
tightening my corset, slipping into boots, sliding into a wig,
for I am frustrated and flummoxed.
Yes, I've been reading my book...
and I realize now it's been too long between parties,
those parties of the fabulous kind...
And I fear the worst:
my collection of boas, wigs, boots, the love profusion of party paraphernalia, persuasive and artfully apropos,
will be left to languish in my wardrobe like so much chrysalis..
if they remain unworn...
So I have rediscovered them, and myself
or Whoever It Is I Want To Be.
Excuse me, dear friends, while I pour myself a drink
and slip into someone more comfortable.
Oh dear readers, let's face it, the idea of being someone else sometimes
is so seductive.
And, short of identity theft and psychotropic drugs, is often one's only choice in an identity crisis.
Which brings me to the heart and soul of masquerade, the
magic 2007-07-30 03:28:04 “That's the thing with magic.
You've got to know it's still here, all around us,
or it just stays invisible for you.”
Charles de Lint
I am still a child,
and I never want to grow up,
for I still believe in magic
and so I see it, everyday,
everywhere..
It is not invisible to me.
And is that not it's secret?
Is it not the simple belief in magic that makes it real?
As a little girl, I clung to this magical vision with a grim determination.
I saw potency in all I did and all I wanted to be.
Climbing the fence to the world beyond my garden, I would wend my way to the stand of twisted trees that stood sentinel to my empire of magic and wonderment.
Sitting beneath the grasping, groping gnarledness of ancient branched fingers, my own hands would fondle and marvel at the elaborate and carnival creations of luxuriant tree fungi, lurking bold and colourful, structures of soft and spongy magnificence sprouting from their ancient hosts with such pertinence that I could not imagine
über chic 2007-07-28 04:02:29 After the last lunch date with Caroline,
my elegant, engaging and deliciously über chic friend,
I was determined not to add another misadventure to an unfortunate list
of fashion faux pas.
Oh yes, I have a history, dear friends, my appointments with chic often resulting in diabolical derailings of the worst kind.
While it is true that I am a fey and whimsical creature, you should find it no surprise that I seek comfort in elaborate masquerades after some of the blunders I have made...
Costumes aside, I did make every attempt yesterday to avoid this faux pas horror, conscious of the fact that this was my special moment, yet another in the continuing series of celebrations that have hitched a carriage to My Birthday Love Train.
Following my disheveled hair disaster of Tuesday's lunch date with the delectably smooth tressed Melinda and the goddess of tumbling waves, Simone, I was determined to meet my dear and fashionable friend in a manner unruffled, sophisticated, perhaps
lush and blush 2007-08-04 05:26:11 There are so many visions of Santorini that linger in my memory;
the crisp confluence of whitewashed walls against deep blue sky,
the deeply evocative pulse of the caldera,
the earthy exuberance of mule rides up the cliff face,
the lurking magic of Oia and the whispering of werewolves and vampires
in those cobbled streets when the sun had gone down.
Santorini will forever hold a magical place in my heart.
Not simply because of it's beauty and mystery
enjoyed in the enigmatic company of my adventurous and decadent friend A
and the lively, invigorating exuberance of my offbeat son Dan,
but because much of the time I was deliciously soused.
Yes, dear reader, I admit that a good deal of my time in Santorini was enjoyed in a waft of decadent inebriation, my gentle demeanour laughably pissed and floating on a rummy cushion of lush.
It was too hard not to ...
Before I attempt to blame my small and vulnerable frame for the inevitable tipsiness,
or indeed my very bon vivant Read more:blush
wash away my sins 2007-08-01 20:32:20
When in doubt, take a bath...
Mae West
It is often when I am most tired,
having burned my candle at both ends,
frayed the edges of my delicate fabric
and pulled at my very last thread,
that I head for the bath and the soothing waters of salvation.
For I seek comfort, dear reader, and I seek pleasure,
and God knows I need a little divine intervention.
I confess. It is more than that.
I require Divine Absolution.
Consumed with my own dirtiness and the collective weight of my lurking wickedness,
I find it a pleasurable penance to wash my sins away.
Oh, hand me the soap, pass me my bubbles.
Lo, bring me lather in sweet abundance!
Ah, there is nothing like the delicious delirium that a bath brings.
Within seconds of the voluminuous spume of bubbles rising to the lip of my bath
and a mere moment of tentative toe testing,
I am all a-slither with my slinkiness, slunk into the sweet waters of redemption.
Ahhhh...
I close my eyes, an apocalypse of sins seeping from my p
the corset 2007-08-08 18:09:59
There is something so erotic about pulling oneself into shape.
Oh, what delicious torment lies in the tantalizing tug of the tightlace, the sharp intake of breath as luscious curves are revealed, defined by the exhilarating yet torturous bondage of exquisite restraint.
Yes, dear friends, the corset is a delectable discipline.
One cannot cavort in a corset; there is no frolicking and frippery or fancy food intake when one is laced up, for there is constraint and capture by one's own body.
There is discipline in this undergarment and one is compelled to be sublimely graceful and civilized when trapped inside.
You may wonder how it is, in fact you may be aghast, that this bon vivant, this confirmed sensualist and devotedly wanton creature finds pleasure in lacing herself so tightly into something of such utter constriction and restraint.
The truth is, I am fascinated by this delicious undergarment, and have been since I was a little girl.
The tiny waists of my Victorian dol
nice hand... 2007-08-07 03:37:18 Of course I always knew there was something deliciously naughty about accidently revealing my undergarments.
I went to an all girls Catholic school.
God forbid there should be a flash of bloomer poking out from beneath one's casually hitched up sports skirt when the boys' school visited!
Heaven help the girl who had rolled her waistband into a sausage, enabling a cheeky peek of buttock when strolling past the visiting chemistry students and dropping one's books..
Oh yes, dear reader, I realised early that a tempting peek of something forbidden was an insanely titillating pleasure, both to oneself and one's drooling audience.
It remains no secret to me that a beguiling glimpse can be more tantalizing than a full exposure. (Although I'm relatively sure that if any one of the Year 12 girls had stripped off and run through the school naked, those Chemistry boys would have ejaculated in unison into their petri dishes.)
Nonetheless, most adolescent chemistry students will tel
gird my loins 2007-08-11 06:02:32 Me thinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.
Henry David Thoreau
While it's hard to beat a good bout in the sack, there is not much I find more invigorating and soul lightening than a hearty walk.
One sniff of the great outdoors and I'm off like a terrier, straining at the leash, anxious to stretch my legs, wag my tail and bound beyond the horizon.
It's a tonic indeed and one I like a dose of every day.
Unfortunately, given my feline disposition, the recent soggy weather and my fundamental fear of wet hair, I have lately felt a little like a caged bird, (and prone to extending analogies of the Wild Kingdom in my prose...)
It has been a conspiracy of sorts. Frequent thunderstorms and belting rains coinciding with the timing of my daily constitution have, over the past few weeks, colluded in a vile and unfriendly manner with the much extended birthday rituals to create an inclement thundering of my thighs. Hmmm...
And not the kind I like to re
interview with the minx 2007-08-13 02:45:30
It was inevitable.
Someone out there would eventually recognize my burgeoning über celebrity status and ensnare me into an interview
, scandalous and revealing.
It so happens that the delectable and desirable Mr Honea, of Honea Express fame, has ensnared me so, probing his way beneath my epidermis in one outrageous attempt to expose a little of my soft underbelly...
The revelations of his interview are as follows:
1. You have excellent artwork on your site, do you have a favorite piece?
Ah, Mr Honea, you notice I am a patron of the arts.
I must say, given that I am also a creature of whim and fancy, my tastes run wildly in many directions. I am, however, deeply fond of photography, particularly of the human form. I especially like things of an erotic and perhaps darkly disturbing nature.
I love anything antique and absolutely swoon over vintage erotica.
I love paintings and while there is not a particular genre I am most enamoured of, I do like work in oils.
Much to my
a generous side serve 2007-08-18 22:42:55
It has been my unfortunate experience that it is at those critical and pivotal moments in one's life that the universe will often choose to deliver an unexpected yet generous
side serve
of shit.
Birthday celebrations, anniversaries, death, funerals and other monumental occasions appear opportunistically to open the sluice gates and usher forth a stream of effluent from quarters unforeseen.
And, while I have already thrown blame at The Universe, it is not always the karmic ministrations of external forces that precipitate the horror.
In most circumstances it is the players, integral and peripheral, that create the drama.
For example, it was following the death of my darling Nan that an unexpected aberration in one dear relative's behaviour set about a chain of unpleasant events resulting in a Mexican standoff that lasted six months.
In fact, and not confined to this relationship, it was as if this dear lady's death acted as a purgative, releasing a scourge of constipated crapul
down the rabbit hole 2007-08-15 22:53:08
This isn't real life.
Real life is letting men fuck you over their desks
(and enjoying it, which is somehow the worst thing).
Real life is regularly running out of money, and then food.
Real life is having no proper heating. Real life is physical.
Give me books instead: give me the invisibility of the contents of books,
the thoughts, the ideas, the images.
Let me become part of a book.
And so I bought it. I bought the book on the strength of that teaser,
along with the promise of a portal into psychokinetic metaspace. Smart, stylish and dizzying, "The End of Mr Y" tantalizes me now from his place beside my bed, luring me with a declaration of curses, mysterious deaths and perhaps some flagrant fucking.
He calls me as a lover might, his allure as tangible, as real as the dust that lays on the shelves, the dishes that pile at the sink and the domestic duties that sit undone.
And oh how undone I become in the custody of a good book, for in my own feverish hands the res
la belle bacchante 2007-08-22 23:46:50
I enjoy so many guilty pleasures that you must think me a wanton minx,
a luxuriating sensualist who spends her days knee deep in indulgence
of one kind and another.
I would like to assure you, most assuredly, that I am.
Indeed.
And when I'm not, I'm plotting it.
Pleasure, that is...
For I am a hedonist, a sybarite, a voluptuary and a bon vivant!
And proud of it too.
In fact, I promote it at every opportunity.
Were you to pop over now, for example, perhaps to warn me of the evils of the flesh, I would make you sit down and have a glass of wine with me first,
for I am unrepentent, addicted to sensual pleasures, a Bacchanalian of the highest order.
Indeed, I am a blissful belle bacchante and loving devotee of He Who Is My Favourite God, for I live la dolce vita
and I like me a glass of wine, or two..
Why, I have just opened a bottle of 2002 Shiraz Viognier.
Bacchus would like him. He is known as Balthazar, a name I feel I would like to be called were I a man, and immediately
the secret life of Minx 2007-08-22 02:54:03
Cross my heart
and hope to die.
Stick a needle in my eye.
Can you keep a secret?
Indeed I can and I'll never tell...
No, no, no..
For I am Mata Hari Minx and these secrets stay with me.
Lo, though I am burdened by the weight of a thousand promises...
Really, dear readers, is there is nothing more delicious than a mystery unfolding,
being privy to a secret...the sweet unfolding of another's confidence, the diabolical knowledge of deeds divined?
Truly the darkly arcane pleasure of being granted the keys of another's kingdom by way of a secret shared, with the illumination gleaned into another's soul, is such sweet intoxication.
Oh, but promise not to tell?
Cross my heart
and hope to die.
Jam a dagger in my thigh...
For no! One must never, ever tell.
Indeed, I have been the keeper of many secrets.
For years I have entrusted confidences to my heart, my own included, their delicious mystery becoming as deeply a part of me as the blood that courses through my veins, t
the kinky minx 2007-08-26 04:10:59
In 1995 our family lived in Bali.
Surfing, Bintang, beachside blissful, it was as close to a bohemian rhapsody as I have ever known.
It was also the year I realized I was probably never going to Heaven.
Being of a feline disposition, it did not take me long to realize there was a sad tale being told by all the cats on the island.
Stubbed, broken, warped and kinky, not one of my Balinese friends' feline tails were straight. It was a carnival of horrors.
"Mengapa semua ekor anda dipatahkan?" I eventually asked one of my kinky friends, "Why are all your tails broken?"
"Seperti ini, hanya yang sempurna bisa masuk Surga.. Dengan sedih, teman pengasih kami percaya kami akan mengambil alih tempat! Oleh sebab itu mereka mematahkan ekor kami..." replied the cat, "It's like this. Only the perfect can enter Heaven.. Sadly, our human friends believe we will take over the place! So they break our tails..."
And while I could see her future was looking rather rosy, I could see there wou
a fabulous chichi 2007-08-30 06:03:10
"I like my money where I can see it.
Hanging in my closet."
Carrie Bradshaw.
For those of you who know me, this confession will come as no surprise.
I am quite the fashionista.
And I like me my clothes.
I have tried to curb my impulses, I really have.
I have weighed the value of a new pair of boots against the total of the electricity bill, I have pitted the new seasons maxi dress against the cost of groceries and I have balanced the metallic wedges against car repairs.
Sadly, I remain immoderate, intemperate and extravagant.
But dammit, I am fabulous.
I'll admit I've have had to work hard at it too in recent years.
Eschewing the classroom to pursue the writing of my book has seen a considerable drop in income but has simultaneously reduced the incidence of new and potentially fabulous entrances by up to 70%. Convenient yes, but sad.
I don't need to dress up every day any more.
And this has been hard.
For, while I will be the first to admit that fabulousness is intrins
the unbearable lightness of being 2007-08-28 06:20:57 alternatively, A Day on the Domestic Front...
or, The Inevitable Sauciness of Being..Minx...
Arise with some reluctance at 5:10 am to prepare coffee for similarly disenchanted husband.
While sipping coffee, keep one bleary eye on Sky Channel with other on exotic blip of light from plane travelling to presumably more exciting location...
Kiss husband goodbye and move immediately and with much vigour to computer, checking rabidly for new comments on posts, emails from friends and vital information regarding incalculable and enormous enlargement of p3n1s.
With all inconsistent penile thoughts now scoured from domestic consciousness, proceed to laundry where scouring continues and estimation is made of detritus, accumulating it seems with festering and rabid vigour overnight.
Gathering and sorting of soiled items reveals profit of $5.30 in coins and $10.00 in notes, with grisly assortment of paraphernalia, including one unopened packet of orange earplugs, one post-it notepad a
the breastplate of boadicea 2007-09-21 05:58:09
In keeping with my underwear motif of late, dear readers, I would like to surprise you with a curious confession.
Today I have done something I've never done before.
I have bought me a sports bra.
Now please don't laugh.
I know for some of you this may be something of a bland and redundant admission.
You may even be sniggering at this stage, mocking me in my sad confession, rolling on the floor weeping at my miserable entry.
But for me it is a stupendous moment.
All my life I have titillated my girls with the fluff and frippery of a fancy brassiere.
With delicious indulgence, I have defined myself with the stuff dreams are made of, tantalising my delightful breasts with a variety of lingerie fantasies in black lace, red satin, pink frills and broderie anglaise.
Indeed, I have succumbed to every titillation, every taunting probe made by Agent Provocateur and Victoria's Secret, been found stalking and haunting the David Jones underwear department like a lovelorn teenager, awa
Mistress of the Magical Panties 2007-09-18 23:10:35
There is something sinfully sorcerous about my bottom.
Indeed.
I have a pair of magical panties.
Yes. Magical
.
And not just because my fabulous little arse is in them.
Although that helps...
No, dear reader, I assure you they are imbued with a sorcery most sublime, a juju jubilicious, and a mojo most magical.
I know this because, as I slide my little cheeks into them, a most wonderful thing occurs. As the clouds part and shimmer down upon me, in the most luminous of lights a shaft of sunburst shines, filled with a splendour sublime, and within the ethereal chorus of angels, sprung to celestial song upon the engaging of my knickers, there is a simultaneous and irresistible swirl of potency.
And I am filled with a mojo mysterious.
Ah, like a song upon the air it wafts the corridors of my subconscious as I spring to life like a wind-up toy wound and wired; and with a whirring of my engines, I whip and whorl and wheel about my domestic domain as a whirling dervish would.
With a Read more:Mistress
the karmic feast 2007-09-16 23:13:11
I like to believe in Karma.
There is delicious pleasure in amusing myself with visions of poetic justice and a timely taste of the just desserts; for there is nothing more satisfying than a good comeuppance.
Indeed, dear reader, there are countless times I have been forced, in the enactment of my own karmic feast, to eat my words, suffer a slice of humble pie and wear a little egg on my face.
And for one who enjoys a little haute cuisine, it has never been a dish I've enjoyed, for it is inevitably accompanied by a scarlet demeanour, an uncomfortable griping of the lower intestines and the wretched smear of shame.
Yet it is a dish I am fully familiar with and one which I first had a good taste of in the thick of my teenage years.
I was a typical private school girl and flaunted my teen spirit with reckless abandon.
Proud, cocky and arrogant, I drove my mother mad with my incorrigible smart arse, my sharp tongue and my ballsy bravado.
No one could tell me a thing, for I was
sweet disregard 2007-09-13 04:36:12
Being of an impertinent and inquisitive nature, naturally given to probing and poking, perpetually perched on the edge of my seat and poised for flights of fancy, it gives me great pleasure at times to be my opposite - oblivious, heedless and a little neglectful.
Indeed yes. Sometimes I stick my head in the sand, for I wish to be negligent.
I hold my hands over my ears and sing "lah lah lah" and simply pretend that things, some things, don't exist..
"I can't see you, I can't hear you."
For ignorance is bliss, is it not?
Well, of that, I'm not so sure.
Because, to be honest, dear reader, I truly abhor it when I am not at the cutting edge, not aware, not knowing things.
My entire life story is a quest for knowledge, both arcane and academic.
I must know each and every little detail, for indeed I am The Gatherer of Information,
I am the Mistress of Minutiae, I am a dirty door-listener, a stealthy cat lurking at the window for snippets of something surreptitious, I a
spin the wheel 2007-09-11 01:49:34
"Claire, I feel the need to reinvent myself!" she says as we settle into our first glass of champagne. "I want to turn myself around."
I sit opposite my friend and take in the image of loveliness before me.
Rebecca looks sensational. Her elegance and beauty, so obvious in her bearing and good manners, is now as evident in her demeanour as her dignity, and I am dumbfounded.
"I wish I could be as bohemian as you," she adds, pulling at her smart and subdued top and trousers. "I need you to help me free myself."
"Drink that champagne down, darling," I counter, "And we'll discuss the details."
Rebecca is beautiful. And diligent.
For the past five months she has whittled down some serious post-baby weight to become, once more, the beautiful butterfly she was when I met her at 21.
Although she exudes curvacious feminine charm, her demeanour is graceful and elegant; she is the poster girl for Country Road in her conservative teeshirt, slender jeans and quiet earings. And yes, wh Read more:wheel
pleasure on the menu 2007-09-09 05:21:23
It is a perfectly miserable fact that there is a distinct lack of pleasure in performing those things that one is supposed to be doing..
Right now, for example, I should be attending to the vile state of my kitchen.
Instead, I sit here, tapping away on my laptop, deliciously ignorant of the mounting pile of dishes gaining dominion over the sink area, the thickening layers of detritus gathering their insurgent forces in dark and unmentionable corners and the casual indifference of soiled and saucy dishcloths flirting outrageously with the bad boys on the benchtop.
Yet the fact that I am studiously ignoring the wails of unwashed plates, the sluttish squeals of sullied teatowels and the bellowing of baked on grease and grime, is giving me immense pleasure.
Guilty Pleasure.
Indeed. It is almost orgasmic.
For I am attending to something much more interesting and for all I care, the entire kitchen can go to hell, in my overflowing garbage bag.
And this of course, dear friends, i
gossamer 2007-09-06 05:15:18
Alas, dear reader, I find myself in tears tonight.
For Il Maestro is dead.
And as the soaring notes, the sad lament of Pagliacci fills the room, bringing with it a sharp sting of tears, I am reminded with vivid poignance of Luciano Pavarotti's greatest fan, my own dear Nan.
For it was at her feet that I was introduced to opera.
As a surly teenager, it was initially the least appealing of all music genres for me to listen to, yet at the feet of my darling Nan, her little eyes closed in bliss to the voluminous voices, visceral and filling her every sense, it became a treasured pleasure, a rare glimpse of the passion my grandmother had once known.
It was with an almost religious devotion that she knelt at the altar of Nessun Dorma, rapt in those soaring C's; the enormous voice of her dear Prince moving her with the fervour and passion she reserved for those moments she became his sweet Principessa.
It was inevitable that I would come to love Luciano with the same dedication, his pa
first class peregrino 2007-09-04 03:20:11 I'm in the hi-fidelity first class
travelling set
and I think I need a Lear jet...
There was a time when I was so fully wrapped in my globe trotting, shot swilling,
jet setting world that I could imagine nothing more delicious than travelling first class, in Lear Jet no less, fuelled not only by the very high fidelity vibe that kept me emotionally and physically aloft, but the promise of accomodating my inevitable excess baggage.
And indeed the thought still does me in.
I am flighty and frivolous and if you wave those first class tickets before me like so much chocolate I will grab them and race you to the exit, my 30 kg hand carry a mere trifle.
I make no excuse, dear readers, for being this creature of luxury and comfort.
Hedonistic and sensual, I want all the good things in life.
Indeed, I want it all and I want it smothered in whipped cream and chocolate!
Lately, however, I have been challenging my own ideals.
I have been turning it all on it's indulgent little head!
a bosom bodacious 2007-09-26 05:22:28
It would be hard to view this little minx as anything other than one consumed by an unholy underwear obsession, given the prevalence of my various lingerie lingerings over the past week.
Curiously enough, today is no exception...
Indeed, I find myself focusing on a frivolity most fundamental,
The Little Black Bra.
Bold and bodacious, beguiling and bewitching, she is the sort of support every girl,
and her girls, need.
Indeed, I have several of the contraptions.
Yet none so amazing as the newest member of my boudoir.
Perhaps you may have met her, this fascinating creature, Olga the Traveling Bra.
She is black, Indeed. And not only does she lift you up when you're down, she'll take you on an adventure.
It was evident, upon our meeting that she would find comfort here in my well pampered parlour and, in her titillation, she has bestowed on me an award.
And my cup runneth over, dear reader.
Indeed, both cups.
As I write, a pair of 10B's burst their banks in udder joy!
For
What's it all about, Alfie? 2007-09-24 06:33:43
Tonight I nurse a bad headache.
It is self inflicted of course.
There are any number of reasons I can suggest for having it.
There is the 40km I have hiked this weekend, the too little water I consumed during the experience, the too many glasses of wine taken as therapy and the fitful sleep I had last night.
But I will probably just blame it on my brother. And the two pints of beer at lunch today.
One loses track of things around Adrian.
He bends the space/time continuum to his will.
He freewheels, he lingers, indulges and lounges.
His immersion in the good life is deeply hedonistic and deliciously selfish.
He could be Alfie
.
While most men his age are inevitably tending to the needs of home and hearth, this confirmed bachelor remains blissfully single, his indulgent lifestyle spent flying jets, entertaining a parade of air hostesses and finding ever more interesting ways to spend his money.
I'm his sister. I like to help him.
So, despite an already pounding head this morning,
cleaning out my closet 2007-10-02 01:02:43
This evening there is not an inch of my closet unaccounted for.
It has been assaulted in the most brazen manner, standing now blatant and exposed; its secrets laid bare, its contents pillaged and scoured with an almost military precision.
I can assure you, dear reader, it had it coming.
Last night, as a tantalizing glimpse and subsequent tug of something silver resulted in a bombardment of handbags upon my bewildered head, I knew something had to be done.
Justice was swift.
Restitution was ruthless and with a disgorgement worthy of Madame Ipecac herself, the detritus that befouled my bedspread this morning was dealt with.
It wasn't pretty.
Well, some of it was.
It's just that there was so much of it.
Boxes of beguiling Christmas decorations twinkled next to swaying piles of sarongs which reclined seductively against heaving mounds of folded sheets. Upon layers of make-up containers balanced beams of wrapping paper, unravelling and extending their inner coils like light sabr
midnight rambler 2007-09-29 06:03:06
Slept not a wink last night.
All night, atoss and turn
and lost,
your weight, your body missed against mine.
My kiss amiss in places dark,
with lips lonely whispering your name,
the black cat cloak of darkness swallowing cries
of please return.
Please, please!
come. home..
No word,
no warning sign that you had somewhere else to go.
I cried
and wandered lonely as a clouded
footprint pad through lonely halls
and places dark to call your name.
I cried and yet you stayed, you strayed
and played, to toy with me.
And hurt me
with your slick and sly insouciance.
And so, bereft I sit as
ohhhh!
Oh, so smoothly slide you in,
your bad boy blues a breeze,
a morning soft, a kiss against your eyes a-blink
and winking up at me.
Sweet soft your brush against my cheek
as all forgotten lays upon the fur
as fine as lies upon my lips.
Still, slyly slink and smarm your smiles
Sweet Prince,
your smooth and silken gestures lost
against the doors
that close now in your face.
Manipulate, manouevre Read more:midnight
the striptease, please 2007-10-14 20:00:21
Growing up in the seventies, it was inevitable that my memories would be punctuated by the pertinence of popular culture. It was inescapable that the cross pollination of those deliciously kitsch influences on my developing psyche would help create what I am today.
Mission Impossible, The Mod Squad and The Persuaders encouraged my Spy Girl instincts.
The Night Stalker and Invaders instigated sleuth of the supernatural kind; but in my twelfth year, as I watched an old video of The Sting with Paul Newman and Robert Redford it was like watching history unfold. It was an epiphany.
I wanted to be a stripper.
I remember watching open mouthed, stupefied by their infamous sting, manipulated by the masterful monkeying, but mesmerized mostly by the fabulous bump and grinder in the first act. I was twelve and the sleazy strip joints of The Great Depression's Downtown Chicago held an action I was unfamiliar with. It was positively delicious. There were fans, there were feathers, there w Read more:striptease
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