Where Nipples Belong- SO version

RMPbondmanbraWhere nipples belong- Significant Other version

I’m getting them done.

Are you sure you want to do this? (breathing changes.  pupils dilate. feigns disinterest. stifles a grin. turns face away. ) I’m coming to the consult. May I come to the consult? 

No. You’re not.

Why not?

I’ll handle it.

Why not? How much is this going to cost? Do you know what they will look like?  Is there a computer simulation I can see?  I’ve watched this on tv. With you.  I think.  You want…I want you to be happy.  I just want you to be happy.  What about a second opinion?  I mean.  How many has this doctor ever done?  You said he told you some wish they had gone larger after it is done. Maybe you should go to LA.

You’re not going.


Let’s see. (Doctor undoes the flimsy tie on the front of the gown.)

Hmmm. ( Lifts left. Lifts Right. Lifts left again.) This is the ideal placement.

I don’t want to look like a porn star.

You won’t. (Looks into her eyes. She looks to the assistant who is typing away on the computer.)

I want to work out comfortably. (He waves her closer to him. She steps between his knees. She is inches from his face. She can smell smell her own scent.  She shifts weight from left to right. His hand touches the inside of her thigh. She looks him in the eye and then lifts her chin, and looks left. )

You must also have implants. There is too much to just do a lift.  The nipple should fall between the elbow and the shoulder. It is not like 10 years ago. The silicone, very safe. The look, very natural. The weight, very real.  (She continues to look at the assistant. His hand is on her right breast. Now her left. )

He wanted to come today. He  suggests I go just a smidge larger than I think. I want to be able to wear my clothes, workout, return to what I once was.  I want to be proportional.

250cc? (The assistant.)

No. 350cc.  (The good doctor.)  You have good shoulders. You can carry it. Where are you from? I’m sure I’ve done several of your friends. Yes. I’m sure I have. (He gently reaches under her chin to tie up the loose ends of the gown. He pats her on the right arm and exits the room with a smile.)

Next room please. (the assistant)  Photo time.  (from all angles.)

What an odd job to have.   She exits,  jaw thrust forward, eyes up. 

for Reticent Mental Property. Photo credit to the vast web and until yesterday, January 15, 2014, the free web.

Master the Saunter


It’s Wednesday,  my Dear.  Distract me over lunch, please.

After my workout and a pot of coffee I also have last night’s warm gin, no ice, for breakfast.   It set the tone for the day. Buzzed up and showered, the blue satin 4 inch sling backs were the obvious choice.

Sauntering into the office is never advised. Unless one is The Mistress.

Then, it is a statement.

Your  Wednesdays are my Friday nights.   My job is to heat them up. And bring the band.

If this requires extensive preparation all the better.  I shop with abandon over the weekend to find the black panties and garter set you admired in the window while we were gallivanting together, laughing at this,  through the streets of Prague.

They will be locally purchased yes. But no matter.

You’ve come with me to the  shops before and they wisely ask no questions when I escort you to the dressing room and arrange you just inside by the mirrors on the wing back chair.   The little brunette brings a bottle of water.  Does no one have Champagne on hand anymore?

I wave your card at the attending manager.  She knows me well.  

It’s not a chore to please you.  I adore dressing for you. 

Damn straight, I’ll distract you.  I believe I have found the local equivalent to what we saw overseas.  My perfume follows me through the room, the lovely underthings are arranged for maximum surprise.  Allow me to fold myself into that space underneath your big, dark desk.  Yes, here is my shoe.  Set it on the right corner;  dare them to ask why it is perched there.


 For Reticent Mental Property

Sex is Fun(ny)

RMPleguptryitSirYou never have a towel nearby, without planning, for the After.  And with planning, you may jinx yourself and never get to the After.

The sumakatra (?)  position you got into last night was implanted in your memory by Cosmo,  not by you. True.  It may not be possible to achieve. It may not even be called sumakatra.  Ahem.

The wet spot, is, sometimes,  inconveniently located too high,  as in,  up by your pillow. Deal with it.

First-time sex is awkward so do not limit yourself to the bed.  You can laugh, just as much, perhaps more,  in the living room, or in the car, or on the floor. The important thing is to laugh together. Next time, it’s all technique and flexibility showboating.

Children need you when the door is closed, locked, and barricaded by laundry.  Kids are  hard of hearing when the blockade is constructed. Words like, “We’ll be out in a minute! ”  turn into, after a brief  look at her wearing nothing but thigh high black boots-  which were by the way a super-bargain at DSW, even if he said you didn’t need anymore shoes, but instead, need a closet for the shoes, and a black leather corset-…You’ve completely lost your train of thought…. Shameless.  Snap back into the scenario– the kids are beating on the other side of the door, you are in a very hard-to-hold position with the little woman, you spew words out like, “Mommy and Daddy are busy getting dressed for teacher conferences, ” because your eyes have grown so big and you are so hard you have no blood flow to your brain because she is wearing that dildo that vibrates on the clit as well as on the shaft and. that.is.all.  You can barely stammar. Don’t even try to enunciate. Just say, “Go. Away.” and try not to use your falsetto voice or you’ll get the, “What Dad? WHAT?”  And. It will all. begin.again.

GOOD after-sex hair looks a lot like recently showered hair.

You get hair in  your mouth, yes. But you don’t need to cough it out like a hairball. Sheesh.

All that glamorous tearing of clothing in the movies,  is really, very hard to recreate.  Plan ahead and have her use a scissors if you need the rippppp to get you off.

Will he be able to pee with the door open after he sees those red 5 inch high heels?

There is no better view of a man’s bald spot than when he’s going down on you.  That being said, balding men are said to have more testosterone and make for fabulous lovers.

Cuff links are a bitch to undo. However,  any man wearing them is usually able to remove them just as swiftly as he is able to remove a pair of wet panties.

High heels serve a purpose. They should really be called- fall-into-my-arms-darlin’. You better believe they are designed by men (see Louboutin) in fact, men wore them before women.

Blow jobs do not require blowing.

All that air gets up there during the thrust,  you know,  must also come out. Men love this sound.

“Fuck You” is a universal term. Try using it in any country. Talk about cross-cultural communication.  It also results in face slaps when you use this as a question in the presence of a female. This is called cultural awareness. Get Some.

After, because there is no towel, do not, I repeat,  DO NOT,  reach for the Vicks infused kleenex to wipe your lady parts.

#for Reticent Mental Property

Crass Grass

RMPweedI always want what I cannot have.

I want to earn a large income in a jaded world, doing what feels good and right and necessary, working to serve a desire or a passion or a purpose and produce  something that does not profit the middle man or the widget seller.  It shall involve joyful union, of mind, of body, of want and will be called both work and pleasure.

I want to live in a mansion, legs happily entwined with those of a man I adore. He will beg to marry me and I will love him for that need but hush him into lavishly spending his most valuable assets on me- time and attention and conversation.  And when we are off to see the vineyards or sitting on a boulder in the Sierra Nevadas having coffee with the sunrise, or out tasting some new delight created in the kitchens of the finest chefs and served on the tiniest plates,  we will let the excess rooms to recent divorcees and their little ones.

I want to make lust, not love.

Then I want to make love with lust. 

I want to be desired by many, owned by none, take what I wish, and tell my truth. Always.

I want to be independently wealthy with the kind of money that allows me to say, money is not everything.

I want to feel passion and stir his soul and mine and turn back the hands of time through the little known practice of unconditional acceptance while wearing nothing but a fine pair of red leather boots and my smile.

I want to be treated like a princess whore and hold a steady gaze while looking into my lover’s eyes as  I tell him he’s the only one.

I want to travel alone,  accosted only by good looking men who know how to read and cook and learn with laughter and touch and exploration and wild abandon all day and into the night.

I want to live in a library penthouse, my bed nestled between the literature stacks where I will live off kisses and daydreams and wear bare feet to lectures by professors and poets.

I want to travel to Italy, know wine by the barrel, drop my accent when convenient and become fluent in Fuckme.

I want to offer myself to the man who won’t take me and when he succumbs to my charms,  I want to teach him the error of his ways and after, turn my back on him and walk away and then let amnesia take over his mind, and teach him the same lesson over and over and over again. 

I want to make high heels comfortable and then, slip them off,  to fall one, then the other in random fashion where they will lie under his bed until I am finished.   

For Reticent Mental Property image found while web surfing.


RMPweddingringtreeIt’s nature.

She gives.

She just keeps on giving.

It’s January 19th.  In my living room the evergreen once again stands naked.  Her needles embed in my shirt sleeves but she cannot hold on to the fashionable glitter and glam of the holiday season.  Out with last year’s trends.. Out with the influences of 2013.

As she is undone,  the sharp points of her dry needles write her memoir in red stippling on the back of my hand.

The smell of pine fills the house again as I assault her boughs, roughly pulling them apart to dethrone figures demarcating the milestones of the past couple of decades of my life.   Finally,  one single string of old fashioned large bulb lights are pulled free and tucked away in tissue for another year.

Back on December 1, this six foot blue spruce was the backdrop for the holiday card. It was the reason behind an excursion into the woods and the cause of many sibling debates including discussions about proper size and flexibility and the fine shape of her mid section.

She is chosen, almost unanimously- the natural order of selection is compelling in this way.  No one can deny her magic and all want to put her on display,  hold her, maybe place her a pedestal.  

The touch and smell of the evergreen,  the silent surrender of her years to the teeth of the blade are part of the draw.

The stories have been passed down from generation to generation; how to protect the seedlings,  the value of untouched pristine lands, the need to replace and plant more.  And as conservation and sustainable harvesting goes,  so too is the promise that with each one taken  there will be more, readied, waiting,  to bring home and be the  future.

She is found, admired, chosen.

She falls, hard.

We lovingly tie her down,  reverently stroke her trunk,  run our fingers over her limbs.

As the season passes she is adored and will be remembered for her centering grace,  how she stood tall and let little ones find comfort in her steadiness.   Sometimes, she steals the show at parties, flirting with the champagne goblets and the flickering fire,  a starlet on the stage of time.  

Prepared well, she takes no bows.  She was once firmly rooted,  and like other young sapling pines, just when she has figured out the sun, and the light and how to bend in any wind,  the evergreen still finds herself yearning to give up her place in the wild wood and dress in the whitest finery of the season,  and longing to take shelter in a home and leave behind,  nay sever,  those outstretched and hungry roots.

By late January,  as the days grow imperceptibly longer in the solstice,  her trunk is still strong, but her outstretched limbs are unable to dutifully lift the lights and the glass to the ceiling for much longer.   Soon, as is the way of all things,  she is  lying down in a bed of snow with drifts weighing upon her, cradling and preserving her color. Yet she still gives shelter to the wildlife near the fire pit and though it shadows the ground beneath her, she almost effortlessly makes peace with the springtime rains.

She holds on.  July 4th will be her glory day.

She is ready to stand witness to the woods.  She has much left inside.

Friends and neighbors under the night sky will set off the rockets and spin the sparklers of independence.  And then, when the night is dark,  she’ll be tossed upon the fire ring:  a sacrifice to the senses.  Stand back!  A hush will take over the melee as she roars,  ignites,  becomes nearly blue before the exhale of the burn.

She performs the expected spontaneous disintegration, dancing in spark and shine as she throws her heat to the circle of bodies.  Duty done,  the token of tradition sings into the starlight as the  fire sends her where she hasn’t been before.

As she raises her glass to toast the 4th,  she looks around the the faces of her loved ones lit by the hissing sap and she swears she hears the merry music making of carolers in the summer breeze and in her mind,  the memories of New Year’s kisses and lovers winter whispers fall like ash to settle on her strong shoulders,  quickly getting lost  in her beautiful graying hair.  

for ReticentMentalProperty with photo credit to http://www.theouijaboard.co.uk/2013/06/marriage-does-not-make-you-special-my.html





I just need to confirm you are out there.

That you exist outside of this world.

For me.

With me.

Tether me

with iron ropes

to my flying thoughts.

With keystrokes and clicks

encourage this mindful traveler

and better yet,

let me catch you laughing.

With me.

For me.

There were days when technology saved her.  

#for Reticent Mental Property, artwork by http://bucikah.deviantart.com


RMPmuscularbicepSo I responded to a listing for a Personal Assistant for “$800-1000K” a week.

Turned out to be a body builder named “John” who is a doppelganger for  that other, greener, body builder who worked opposite Bill Bixby in the 70’s.

Couldn’t string two sentences together other than, “I want to make you moan.” and “I’ll come over with some wine and give you a massage. ” I’m finding men really get into massage.  Smart men.

And he wouldn’t send a face photo though I appreciated the ones he did send- at my request, multiple photos from one request actually – of his abs, biceps, triceps and lats, and all of which,  somehow, obscured his facial features. I don’t get it.

I will admit, his biceps were large and held tatts in the right position.  Yes, a young thang.  Damned hot. Yes.

He quickly asked if I’d consider a casual arrangement as soon as I grew concerned about his name, John, (officer John perchance pretending to A. John?)  His hopes to hire someone for  sex,    a skill set capable of pleasing the boss soon dropped to, “I just need some make out time.”

In other words, he needs his $800 for kale chips and whey protein and he’s sure all those nutrients absorb better after sex.

I agree.  Everything absorbs better after sex including my 22% Egyptian cotton towels stolen off that cruise I took on the Carniavale line back in 1991.

He promised he is DDF (for those of you entertaining excursions in the new millennium, that means Disease and Drug Free as in cleared of the STDs that your mother warned you about) but I’m not sure he knew what DDF means, either.

I hear ‘roid consumption really increases the stamina.  I think is this why he was hoping to “get with” a mature lady which when pronounced, “machure lay-dee ” makes me quiver (in all the wrong ways. )

And he refused to provide paperwork about where it’s been and with whom it’s been running those marathons.

I decided since there was no typing required I might enjoy it.

But then I realized I’m not fluent in Neanderthal so it would be better if I refresh my skills using Rosetta Stone  first. Should probably start with edition 1, the Stone Age; Drag Off with Boner Speak.

I just don’t have time for that.  I’m already trying to learn Italian.  Although Italian men are so fluent and smooth and blatantly appreciative of a romance language- heck any language  spoken in the language of my hips- so I might have more free time than I think.

I really feel I should just spend my time studying noble grapes and the wine regions of Italy and not go to the caveman era.

She sticks with the original plan to adventure wisely, learn from the locals and always  take the unpaved road.  

for Reticent Mental Property. photo courtesy of the (soon to be history)free internet.