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.




Making Good Time


pinterest 17Loveblind is my time,

It does not see the face of the clock,

It does not beat to the rhythm of urgency that runs

the desk over my office chair.

It believes, for the tiniest of moments,

in fable and fairytales

where fate is vanquished and only good karma sweeps

over Ogres and incivility.


gated, barred, shut down

sheltered was my heart

by the precious seconds

of this fantasy.


It is good to believe. We made that happen. We did. We. Did. 

.for RetMP. Images courtesy of the web.



An Empty Villa


It’s 3 am.

The clock has turned into a hammer as its limbs strike each minute.  Flipping the covers back, she pulls her knees to her chest and rolls left where bare toes touch the coldness of the hardwood and as she runs her fingers through her hair to shake out tangled mass that comes with the restless gerbil-wheel of replayed conversations; the goodbye ending hasn’t changed.

His words do not hear her command to stay in the salt on her pillow.  Instead they rise up from the tangled sheets and carry themselves on the silence and stillness of pre-dawn darkness,  peppering her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine,  weaving themselves around her throat and tracing the letters of letting go from her shoulders to her hip , up and down and up and down, until she shivers and has to hold back the sobs, and save the waking of the day for his sunrise.  She kindly declines to disturb his dawn,  is still giving, generous, she has no contempt for his theft of her night.

Despite the mental rewrites, no matter how carefully each has devoured his library of gold-spined secrets to success, the timeless aching honesty of all well-worn romance novels prevails.  Their story remains the same;  trysts and touch are nothing if they rob him of peace of mind,  if he holds back that wonderful smile he lets fly when he sees her.

So, he rises early to take in a new, clean day while she holds on to the night to take everything from each moment. He won’t settle, has tasted and stands tall knowing what he puts into the universe will return and he must keep himself from her.

She assures him the most exquisite pain is still feeling, knows the music will take over after the words stop pummeling her heart and head.

And when he’s home,  he looks into the mirror, alone,  and protects his reflection from dishonor.

She makes her home where her spirit is alone, unknown, and finds in the lines of her face no regrets.

 She raises her glass filled with his favorite Sangiovese, sips, savors and forces a smile. Cheers wise man. She expected no less. 

#for Reticent Mental Property

Beyond Romance

RPMbwlovepoemDon’t be heartbroken, my future, as yet undiscovered new lover; romance isn’t dead.

At our age, it is just finely tuned, has more depth, is more satisfying on multiple levels and and doesn’t leave one crying into a pillow.

It doesn’t require purchasing diamond rings, though diamond earrings are okay.

It’s not called romance. It’s called something else…oh, it’s called mutual satisfaction…what is that…oh Carnal Knowledge? no…too rough…it’s emotional, but not a swoon….Yes, we swoon, but more from the entire self than a lightheaded feeling…it is guttural, stems from the core, it twists the entire body into a sweet pleasurable pain that can be repeated over and over and over.  It engages the mind, adds patient anticipation, yes, want and desire still rule.

And even better, it involves laughter, at one self, and each other, with each other.   It has touch, confident touch, a stroking touch and thrives on ordering someone around in the best way one can give orders. It’s is both sweet and sweaty, it is still consuming and hot and compelling.

In comparison, romance seems rather one-sided…


# For Reticent Mental Property, image credit blogspot