Where are the moments we wish we had altered? Do they disappear as quickly as they were set free? Or do they linger, taunting us, chiding our failures?

There’s the age of reason.

There’s the coming of age.

There’s the mid life crisis

There’s the peri-menopause stage.


But what if, just what if, we have the perfect storm? The late onset coming of age mixed with the onset of menopause?

There would be a realization of age as a defining moment.

We’d see no need for a midlife crisis; indeed, midlife and crisis, paired, would be too neat.

What if the tumultuous and messy came in the form of awakening the teenage self with the exit of time? What if we suddenly woke, aware that we missed out and we paired it with the surge of energy to make up lost time, avoid regret, steal a few more years of invincibility?

Don’t cry about what you’ve missed. Don’t brag about what you are finding. Just live in the moment, grateful you learned anything at all. 

Versus this, versus that.


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Let’s take moment to reflect on what young women are trained to want and then what we are told to choose.  We are trained to want the Knight in Shining Armor (shining Ardor would be  nice, yes!) but we are told to want stability and solid stock in manliness. We are told to seek someone who sweeps us off our feet but to still expect respect and chivalry and equality and practicality.

This makes us fall hard for the romantics. Then we reject them when we realize we are supposed to want the hard-ass, workaholic providers who are firm in their ability to raise your hem simply because they bring in the cadillac salary and demand you show a little leg because they bought the dress you pulled out of the master closet he provided.

These romantics. Who are they ? They are in all the Disney movies, in all the erotica we read but don’t admit we read. They are in all the fantasy images of Fabio’s muscular form gracing the cover of the books we read at age 12, the same book we hide under our pillow when daddy comes in our bedroom door to tuck us into bed.

Romantics are the desire. But these tender, artistic, expressive men don’t win the Princess.

The guy who wins the Princess is the man who has a boundary. He has a boundary that lets him fuck before 8am so he can make the next client meeting. He has the wife who visits the office wearing the outfit, is close with the office Secretary and knows her kink and sets up Miss Front Desk with the dudes who like to engage in some cosplay.

The guy with the non-romantic cojones?

He has the complacent wife who puts out for him while he thinks about how to handle the caseload of his job.

He has he wife who knows she has that pussy wax scheduled (and  willingly paid for) on Tuesday.

He knows she has that Chamber dinner on Wednesday that he’ll attend if she will wear the black number that shows her side boob and clearly tells his peers he has paid for her rack and he is not sharing.

Then, there’s the romantic. He loves her legs, her ass, her form and how she loves to suck his dick. The romantic lets his cock bury inside her ass, lets her talk dirty in his ear begging him to take her dancing, sans panties, and offers her heart to him if he will just make her cum every day before breakfast.

Fucking Money. It doesn’t equal pleasure. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of Ret’s mind.




Knowlton’s Threshold

RMPorange nailsThe repackaging of words to suit the mood, to soothe the mood ensued around 6 pm, often later, rarely over the noon hour. Darkness crossed threshold as he stood in the doorway savoring his view of her, legs bare, hair in a messy bun atop her head and her pencil between her teeth as she worked at the kitchen table. The shadow of his form fell onto the lacquered edge and as he approached the grey stain moved with him overtaking the folded newspaper at  her elbow, then the cuff of her sleeve and eventually covering her hands and the keyboard and the laptop screen.

She could feel the heat of his arm as he placed a hand flat on the table and circled behind her, chest to her back, now left hand positioned to her left wrists bent, elbows angled, lips to her ear.

“Say, sweetheart, don’t you want to knock off now? I’m sure I can find something else for you to put your hands on.”

She liked to preserve her work to life balance and in the years prior had prepared quickly, assisting in the shift by clearing the cache, deleting the download history, closing the mac book and positioning herself on the leather couch at the sound of the garage opener. The whirr of the motor and the telltale squeak of the right side rail announced the changing role she needed to assume and by the time the slam of the driver’s door echoed through the space she assessed what she had and had not accomplished that day and took care to erase all worry from her face.

The petty cash stash in the white box that held the flat gold hammered necklace was in it’s place. This week she was approved for her first credit card bearing only her name, delighted when the service representative on the other end of the line asked which style she preferred, classic or purple with orange edging or blue plaid tech, and delighted at the obvious choice, purple, choosing her favorite and his least favorite all at once.

The 7, turn past, then rest on 12, then back to 22 was followed by the pleasing sound of the bell, a whining bell, drawn out but not shaky, announcing the lock was opened and private contents could be added. Or removed. The sifting through memories was distracting but not daunting, and the shuffle through the top layer allowed the extraction of one passport, birth certificates for three children, social security card copies for all, the appraisal of her mother’s diamond ring and the twenty four, black and white 3×5 photos she had snapped of herself in various stages of undress while taking that photography course during the first summer she moved to the city from Smallville, way up in the northern half of the state that still owed her an explanation of what part of childhood she was supposed to refer to when she thought about why she needed to move to to that apartment above the diner so quickly after graduation.

#DRAFT for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. May 17, 2017.


where is her head, he wonders.

where is her loyalty, he wonders.

where is her lover, he wonders (and stands tall)

where is her mind tonight?

is she alright?

is she messing with everyone to the Left and the Right of her fucked. up. life.

She’s been a good girl.. She’s been so strong, She’s got a crazy feeling, she’s been led down.the wrong path. again.

She’s got a sense of pride, she doesn’t want to hide, she’s got a shot to go big.

She’s in the middle of  a dream for a couple of children, those wanna-be-men. sigh.

She’s got a job to do, a duty

to fulfill.

She’s got a semblance of pride. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. images courtesy of the web.




Let’s talk, yes?

It’s a spring evening. There are a few days of storms rolling through. We have the humidity in mid-May that defies July’s trend setting style.

Pull in scenes of Gatsby, Gatsby when sitting in the drawing room, sweltering and shiny.

G wants his lover, Daisy, to come clean, to share all, to declare her loyalty and all she can do is fan herself in the heat, eat the ice.

Gatsby though, he presses forward. He declares. He brings a vision from his head and heart into stagnant, silent, stillness.

Tom, he struts and expects more love than he offers, fewer lies than he has told, more kindness than he brings.

The cigarette smoke lingers, circles, swallows the words as they hang naked and bared.


There are times when she needs a fast car, a long road, a gorgeous destination and a good fuck.

#for Reticent Mental Property. images courtesy of the web.


Judge Not


Why are we told we shouldn’t care about what other people think about what we do when in reality there are things called reputation and integrity?

We do care.

We should care.

Actions display good (or bad) character.

Perhaps we should simply choose to act in ways that demonstrate the way we wish others would deem moral and good.

Or should we?

Who likes to be judged?

Perhaps we should, therefore, engage only in what is judged to be moral and just.


She has failed. And will pay. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.




Desired. And not.

STbraceletsChelseaDelucaThere’s a coldness in her eyes, a walk that won’t sway, a melancholy sigh in her step.

She’s a woman of complicated wanting. She’s a woman of the simplest of ways.
She’s been to the ocean and desert; she’s traveled her heart, his, and her time. .

She’s comparing the beds of the others, beds of silk, beds of rest, best of the best.

She’s left all her inhibitions in writing, expecting a challenger to cum out of the fray.

She’s not a woman of answers, she’s excited to answer the call, she seeks what the wild abandon has left wanton and empty for all. She gives far more than expected, she’s sacrificed, sweaty thigh-quaking, to find- no to hold- the holy grail of love making truth.

She’s a mere novice, a tolerant giver. She’s willing to reveal all to You. 

#for Reticent Mental Property