Hot-Be-Gone

Came home the other evening after a long day at work and in between rushing to get some dinner on the table and trying to fire off some emails I didn’t have time to respond to at work, I clicked on my not-checked-enough email for this bog. There I found a very sweet and humbling letter from a silent reader, one where he way-over flattered my writing and confessed to having had a crush on me for over a year now. I was floored by the note, rather pink-cheeked by that whole crushing business and immediately wrote him back, thanking him for the almost unbearably sweet words and for reaching out to say hello. “As for that crush thing, you need only talk to my husband or friend me on Facebook for a cure” my response to his adorable confession of crushdom.  I then popped on to Facebook myself and posted about the note and my response, not bragging mind you, but because I knew that my friends there would know why getting closer to me is the quickest and most surefire way to take that “flame” to a fizzle. I am actually, rather obnoxious….

So as I think I have mentioned here before, I am married to one of the horniest men alive and after nearly twenty years he is still all over me with the enthusiasm of an eighteen year old. Oh I harbor no delusions that this has anything to do with me, pretty sure there is some genetic explanation for his one track mind and compulsion to pounce me nearly every time I walk by. Don’t get me wrong, I’m terribly flattered, (sometimes) and prefer the being mauled over the alternative, but there are times when I find myself shaking my head and thinking, “Dude, really?” Like the time he added “Underpants Inspector” to long list of job descriptions, thusly preforming the occasional “Spot Check” on me which amounts to grabbing my hips and slipping his hand down the back of my jeans before spinning me around and giving me the, “All clear” The time I walked into the bedroom where he was folding the wash and he grabbed all my undies, shoved them in his lap and began to sing, “Red under-pants on my junk. Black under-pants on my junk” that was a lovely little ditty, and the now famous on Facebook, turkey sandwich proclamation. 

This was where he and I were discussing lunch options and when I said, “I feel like a turkey sandwich” he raised his arm like the Statue of Liberty, finger pointed to the heavens and said, “For today I have renamed my penis Turkey Sandwich!” which of course I simply had to share on Facebook and so began a not so inside joke that is still running with many friends there. I’ve been sent pictures of turkey sandwiches, actual ones, had my wee neighbors yell through my front window, “Carl! We had a turkey sandwich!” and has even had me saying shit like, “Dude, you’re being a turkey sandwich” when my husband and I were bickering. Hell, even today I posted on Facebook, “Don’t tell my husband but I’m having a turkey sandwich” to which I was “liked” all over the place and received comments like, “Well, it is your birthday” along with another, “Out of the confines of marriage? You sinner” so yeah, I slink about the house, changing my clothes when the husband is occu-pod-o, aka in the toitty, trying to avoid the “RAWR!” when his horny dude senses alert him that I am near and might be naked, (which I almost never am by the way) I live in a constant state of flinching and looking over my shoulder, spastically ripping out of my clothes, my heart racing and eyes looking for shadows coming down the hall….and my Facebook buddies, well they get to hear it all, and then some. 

One night last week I came home wiped out. Just painfully exhausted and feeling like I had tugged about three hundred cases of wine with my ass all afternoon. Beat, days’ worth of dried sweat and fine dust caked on me like corn starch on a cutting board. Found my husband tied up on an afterhours work call and quickly made my way to the cavernous silence on my cool, dark bedroom. Twisted the dial on the fan that sits upon my dresser, the tick of the nob and whoosh of damp air was lifting my hair off my shoulders, sweeping it across my neck and the sound of my own groaning began competing with the steady hum of the twisting fan. I could hear my husband’s voice locked in work related babble, “The x-3000 modes are on the super big deal pricing so that fits in the budget” or whatever, sounding so far away that I began to slowly free the buttons on my shirt from the slits that held them in place all day. My nails brushing the soft patch of skin between my bound breasts, running along the sensitive skin on my tummy that seems to tighten and jump when being touched. Slipping off my too big jeans, wiggling out of them and leaving them in a pile on the floor before settling my rump on the edge of the bed, feet still on the floor, back falling into the mass of crumpled sheets and plushy pillows. The slow and powerful thump of my pleasure receiving heart a soundtrack causing my chest to rise and fall to the rhythm of the moment. 

I felt my eyes grow heavy, weary and tired as the spinning fan blew soothing kisses of air that skipped sweetly across my needing flesh. “Fuuccck” the word escaped my lips in a tone that dripped with surrender, my back bending just a little as I dug my head deeper into the mass of now cool sheets. I was alone, the room and the liberation of being there, in my bra and panties, my body shifting in slow motion chasing the whispering fan and the so fucking intoxicating pulling tight of my bare skin and tingle of fine body hairs standing on end, swallowing me whole. I found myself lost in the moment, greedily devouring the uninterrupted sensuality of near nakedness, a tired body seeking release and the deep sucking in of my breath as my fingertips joined the fan’s kisses dancing along my skin. The thumb on my right hand tracing my hip and scraping along my ribcage…back once again arching before the saturation of the moment became almost too much pleasure to bear. My palm now flat and pressed against my side, fine hairs, heart racing, head focused on nothing but each stolen second of “Please, don’t let this end” tired eyes now closed as my overtaken brain focused on the tiny erect bumps that spread across my body. My heart quickening, throat getting tight, mouth opening just enough to let my teeth dig into the plump meat of my bottom lip…nostrils opening wider to take in the sweet scent of submission, the heel of my right palm dug into my own side before lifting and gently resting on the plushy softness of my tummy, the thick nail of my thumb landing upon my bellybutton with a “click”. Click?! What the fuck in my bellybutton makes a clicking sound?!

My heart was racing alright, but this time with “Oh My Gawd, what the hell is that?!” panic. I jumped from the bed and scurried to the bathroom mirror, pulled my tummy tight, (this I DO NOT recommend to anyone trying to feel even a tiny bit sexy…ewe) to find what looked to be a large coffee bean or some savage bug buried deep in my belly….well, it’s not a button, more a hole. My first instinct was to just pull a large shirt over myself and pretend I never saw it. This lasted all of about twenty minutes. Before I knew it I was back in front of a mirror, sumo type stance, spreading my belly hole to see what the fuck had taken up real estate there. My face in as severe a scrunch as it had ever seen, nose nearly to my forehead as I squished, pulled and dug around in my too often ignored belly stuff. 

Would have been bad enough but for some reason I was compelled to hop on Facebook and say, “Just had a bellybutton….situation and there may be fossilization” before sheepishly approaching my husband, pulled tummy in hand, showing him the Tootsie Roll that was lodged in my belly hole. Needless to say, there was no Ninja Horny Guy pouncing at the exposed tummy with clicky-sounding-plug. No, there was a, “Sometimes secrets are good” comment, delivered with a “Dude, you’re gross” face before returning to the way more enticing doing of the dishes.

Hot

Be

Gone….

Woke the next morning, the morning after as it were, to walk past the husband just to have him smile at me. Smile. No grabbing, no underpants inspections and not even one “You look like you are craving a turkey sandwich” comment. Turns out belly hole neglect trumps forever horny dude. Who knew? Spent the morning saying things like, “What? You’re not into stalagmites?” or “Hey honey, you wanna go spelunking?” which of course cracked my not-fearing-the-pounce ass up, as did the, “Oh don’t worry honey, I’m on it, in a week you can slurp soup from this mother f’er” trying to choke back the laughter as he writhed in his, “Ewe my wife is disgusting” flashbacks of Tootsie Roll protrusion….and my Facebook “friends” they too got to hear it all. How lucky, and not crushing on me are they?!

Samantha Dugan, celebrating 41 years, today, of Crush Crushing…

Would like to take a quick second to thank all of you that sent emails, posted comments, (Winey the Elder, I’m looking at you) gripped my heart with flowers, cards and gifts.....absolutely overwhelming. I have to say, this birthday, while spent working a 9 hour shift at work and alone, was one of the sweetest and most overwhelming I have ever had. Cannot think of another time I felt more loved, appreciated and adored only my silly birthday as I did today. Sitting here with my glass of Bandol Rose, in my jammies, and wishing that I could smother you all with actual kisses, that you could see the tears, and pride that you filled me with today. Ron’s Rayas, (and the love with which it was sent) Kate’s wish of cheese indulgence, Veronica’s gift of Silex, Jess and her bunch of breath taking sun flowers, Chris and her keeping up with all that I’m doing here, my would be crusher, who’s fantasies I have just dashed, you all are here, at my table, sharing this wine and my undying love….thank you.