Tag Archives: adult

What ifs…

The preceding story:

His Side

Her Side

How it ends?

Running 1

A continuation…..Her Side…

He made these noises when he slept. Somewhere between a moan and a whimper, he would stretch and yawn, shift and make those noises, he was adorable. He looked, innocent. Like the man who did all those things, was someone else, and all the roiling feelings or doubt and stress and all that other stuff did not apply to this man. This sleeping figure, all warm and relaxed and tame. This person deserved only gentleness and kindness and filled her bosom with the most unearthly welcome weight.

The weight had life, and mood to it. A way of inciting a sort of longing, a desperate one, pathetically so. It would make itself dense and heavy at the very thought of his permanent absence. Heavy when he did everything to be anything but that innocent form making noises between a whimper and a moan in the throws of rem sleep. And so she had stayed.

Now the image in the mirror acted as the only counter the weight had ever known. A challenging lightness triggered by the hand she held on her now protruding belly. Feeling the first kicks, evidence that this thing causing her figure to distort was a living being, not just a part of her, but someone to whom she would owe her fealty above all others. Someone small and sweet and hers. It made her smile.

It made her frown. By now she would be plagues by “what ifs“. What if it was her? What if she was being too rigid? What if he needed her? What if her leaving would be the thing to push him over? What if she could be the change in him? The lightness contradicted it all. She had done all she could and all she had done had been in vain.

So she ignored the little heavy flutter. The little voice asking about what the future would be. What would happen when he wanted to partake in the life they had created? Was she strong enough to not fall back into him? Would that be so bad? What if he was the only thing to come between her and her lightness?

His Side…

The bed was cold. Her place was cold. He had to admit to himself that he missed her. He felt his chest heave, and his breath quicken in the way that he had become accustomed to it doing over the last few months.

Since she left a note on his pillow, and a poem in his hand. He touched the manila folder, he had looked at the black and white print out so many times it now looked worn. But not with age, simply with the frequency of his touch and  his tears. He could admit that to himself here too. Here in the dark, in the dead of night, he could admit to an audience of one that her leaving in the way she had had bought him to his knees.

If only she had given him a chance. If only she had let him know before, given him time to find a space for this, this newness in his life. Then he would have, he thought, found a way to convince her, that things could be better, that they could be better. She just needed to have a little faith. If only she had had a little faith in him.

In his mind eye, he played again the sight of her. He had seen her today, leaving the doctors office. Her belly gently rounded with the blessed burden of his loin making.  She was carrying in her all his possibilities, and she denied him even the pleasure of her company. He wondered if he kicked yet, if he put his hand to her belly if he would feel a heart beat, if his son would respond to the sound of his voice, if it was a son at all.

He felt the hot sting of liquid on his cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away, he was alone after all. On one would think him less a man for this. For this heaviness in his chest. Something that had developed when she left. Like she had taken the air with her and left him to breath some thick heavy concoction made of loneliness and misery and shame.

If only she had given him a chance, to explain it all the right way, to make her see it his way, to make her stay, so they could be a them again. Now he had to contemplate, what if she never let him back in? What if he had to see his son grow from a distance? What if she never came to her senses? What if she refused to love him again? What then?



Deadpool: F@#$ing Awesome

Honest guys I tried to keep the spoilers at a minimum, but one or two might have gotten through, also please feel free to google any comic references I might make.download (9)

*pops knuckles* Ok let’s get this party started.

It was immediately refreshing to watch a mutant movie where the word ‘mutant’ was not a dirty word. No ‘augmented humans’ or not quite clever ways of saying it without saying it.  It was freaking awesome, freeing if you will, of those of us who have been seething over what fox (yes I know it’s a proper noun but they don’t deserve the capitalization) in their ultimate foolishness has done to the franchise. The not so subtle jabs about the mutant dynamic in the movie were also cool, none of that over serious tone of doom, of like all other epic superhero movies.


There’s not two ways about this being an adult movie, though. You can’t make any bones about it. Not if you watched any of the trailers, or if you ever picked up a comic, or if you have google, or if you know, have had a pulse for more than three seconds. The abundance of gore, sex-yness, swearing, mutant powers in full swing, gratuitous violence, and adolescent genital/jerking off jokes makes this totally inappropriate for most prissy adults let alone kids, and I loved that. An unapologetic adult movie, pulling no punches in this day and age? Take a bow guys, you did something right.

Deadpool’s classic off color humor was present and accounted for and at lease for one movie goer aptly appreciated. Which brings me to Ryan.


Sir, I think you have found your character, if not your genre, if not your calling. You don’t do cuddly upright superhero well, you also don’t do mouth sewn shut creepy freak very well, and well…I haven’t really paid you much attention outside those roles. But the grit and the sarcasm, have elevated you to more than just man candy in my eyes. Yes, you were man candy, take it as a compliment, because you are hot even when you look like, to steal a line, “Testicles with teeth.” The role was awesomely played , down to your relationship with Blind Al. The cameos to those epic fails were also well appreciated, and anyone who tells you otherwise on any account ,you can simply tell them to…well Tripple H made the saying famous.

And to the folks complaining about the villain being too shallow, did you not hear Alfred when he said “Some men just want to watch the world burn”? Not everyone had their puppy crushed at a tender age and use that bad memory and subsequent emotional scaring to fuel their evil. Some folks just wanna kill something annoying in a psychopathic rage. Or is that just me that gets that? Anywho…


And if I can make a quick suggestion, can we please get Copycat in the the next installment? Huh? You don’t know who Copycat is? Well then you won’t find out here, no spoilers remember? Go google it.

Did I mention there was a little romance in the movie, some tragedy too, heart string tugging, get choked up kind of stuff. I guess they threw that in for us chicks, though someone should really tell these folks that the kind of chick who puts herself out to see Deadpool probably is there primarily for the mutanty stuff and the violence and the potty mouth.


All in all I was satisfied with this movie. What few sins there were are totally forgiven. Full on 8/10. What did you think?

Oh before I forget, to the CC crowd who shared the experience, Thank you. For not taking selfies, for not checking your social media during the movie, for leaving the kids at home. Much love to you all. Til’ next time.


In response to Photo-Fiction #11


“SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP. SHUT. UP” How was she supposed to think straight with him simpering like that. Before it was all, boasting and joking. He was a peacock, feathers extended, preening for every eye.

Now he was begging and sniveling.  She felt a giggle begin to build in her chest. This was the one she had feared. Feared his coming, his leaving, his touch and his smile. He was the powerful one, and he had wielded it so well over her. Over her body, her mind, everything that made her, her.

Now he was, crying and begging. He had worked his wrists raw trying to escape the handcuffs, toppled himself onto the floor of the public pool locker room, trying to run. Now futility sunk in, he was begging for his life, from her. In the place where he did it to her, even as she begged him to stop, to look away, to not touch, or feel her.

But she had been there, looked that way, at first she had been willing. Maybe it was her fault, maybe it was her doing, this thing that happened to her. Maybe that’s why the police had never used their cuffs on him, or why his mother tossed her out on here ear, why her own mother had called her tramp and put her out too. Maybe that was why her credibility was shot, and her reputation gone, why this was all she thought about, living his intrusion over and over.


“SHUT UP.” There was so little resistance to his flesh, but then the scalpel was made to cut. Theewarm spurt across her face barely registered. She lay down beside him, as his eyes grew glassy, and he made little gurgling noises. She touched his face, the way he had touched hers, not caring for the crimson that got all over her fingers. The last thing he saw was a familiar gesture. One he used back then, her finger over her lips.



We don’t tell them. Do we?

Do you remember your talk? I mean THE TALK. That awkward talk or vague talk or even worse that painfully clinical talk that made you wonder about the rational for doing this sex thing at all. This sticky icky thing that concerns all the parts that we really don’t want anyone to touch.

Indeed I thought my parents were just odd. With their threats about boys touching, never even specifying which orifices were off limits, or that especially hilarious one liner, I kid you not, I got about the way men and women relate, or more rather how my 17 year old self was supposedly relating to boys.

“You’re around boys now…you’re gonna have feelings” That was it. I mean really? Note that before that point I went to an all girls school and was just now attending a co-ed institution. I tell you it was damn confusing. What were they shy about? Why did they have to be so…weird. It’s not like we didn’t cover the hard stuff in Biology class.

That is until my 7 year old asked me where babies came from, specifically how he was made and I squeaked in surprise and had to catch myself before I spun some tale about storks, or cabbage. Instead “Ask your Dad” I yelped. Only to have him tell them in the way that men do in the proud way they have.

“I put you in there.” pointing at my tummy, and then sent the kid right back to Mommy to find out the ins and outs and the hows.

Now what would I tell you if I told you that as a parent that that talk seems quite awkward and weird, age appropriate for a 7 year old though it was. Now don’t tell the tribesmen this but there is little more intimidating than a precocious, curious child on the cusp of pubescent change.  How do you arm them with all the things they need to know, all the ideals you would hope that they live by, without fracturing those rose colored glasses?

And don’t even get me started on those little hot messes they call friends and relatives who even at the tender ages of 8 and 9 informed my children of the Birds and bees. Giving all the clinical details and none of the ethics that come with the budding boobs or the hairy underarms.

After that first time odd experience, I found my kids has an awesome propensity for piping out their observations on the male/female thing, loudly and in public,and that the only tool I had in my arsenal was my honestly. So now we talk about  the places hair springs up, and the way things don’t grow in proportion to the rest of them, and the funky smells that come creeping before we kill them dead dead dead with soap, water, deodorant and a sometimes a liberal spritz of body spray.


We don’t very often get around to the social bits, things like sexual ethics and respect for our sexual selves. What we expect from our partners and what they should expect of us. I guess partly because I want a manling of 11 and a womanling of 9 to hold on to what little of the boy and girl they are before life wrestles it away. But that video might be good discussion point. Maybe not today, but later.


The St John’s fish market. In the time before time, as far as a little girl knew.

We called him Papolie. It was simply what we called him, us, the young ones. The little ones. The third generation that had sprung from his loins. They didn’t bother to correct us, he was Papa Willie. Mr William Jacobs.

He was our great grandfather, he was old. Older than old, he was the beginning of time as far as we knew. Because there was no one older than he in our surroundings, and nobody told us about where or who had spawned him. But we were the fruit of the trees that had sprung from the trees he had planted. He was Papolie and we, the young ones had to respect him.

We knew him as the drunken man, who’s senility only let him float in and out of our reality. You see, there were days when he knew us, days when he would greet us warmly and robustly. Then there were days when he looked at my mother and saw Mem’ his wife, long gone to the here after before him. On those days we would here in real time how they interacted, how he spoke to her and how she would respond to him. We would get a sense of the women he had married. A strong woman, a determined woman, the kind of woman who tamed the world around her by the force of her will. The kind of woman who had tamed him in his prime. She was legend.

She was the mother of the old ones, the one who had raised and tamed and loved and whooped the leathery skinned juggernauts whom even our mighty parents dared not challenge. Let alone us? The children or the children of the day.

But those days were also the days when he let himself be taken, by the drink. And we were never sure, us children, if his delusions were just because he was old, and that was what old people did. Being from the time before time and all, or if they were the kind that the rum bought. We weren’t sure if the stories he told, heavily scented by rum were real. They were so fantastic.

Stories of great locomotives and village matters not for childish ears. But still ones that anyone worth their salt would want to hear. He spoke of his daughters and sons and their shenanigans. Them, the old ones, our parents’ parents could never do the things he said, not when we would face a tongue lashing then a real one if we ever dared. His stories could not have been truth, stories of ghosts and Jack-o-lantan , of Sukuna and Jables doing battle with this man in his youth, in the late of night in the time before electrical lights to guide his way home. Him and his donkey after a hard day in his fields. What seems like half a world away, a few villages over.

We knew it was pride in his eyes on his clear days when he looked at us though. He told us as much. He told us tales of the people we would become. He infused us with his hopes, and his dreams. All built on his understanding of the difference between then and now. He saw us with the opportunities hard won by the sweat of his brows, and praised in us the manners, and ingenuity he had sowed into the ones he had fathered directly.

He was Papolie, and a woman of 31 looks back at her 8 year old self and wishes she had listened more closely to his account of how things had been. Listen and heard about the late night adventures, about the legend of Mem, about the Old ones who had be born just after the beginning of time as I knew it. I wish I had taken to heart his hopes and understood that his prophesies came not from the bottom of a bottle, but from the knowledge of watching the three generations before me grow and evolve, watching then thrive, and become a foundation that if I chose to, I could build on.

I wonder what Papolie, Papa Willie, Mr. William Jacobs would say to the times I face. I wonder if he would think that his sweat had been well spent. I wonder if time had given him more than his 97 years if he would look about at his great family, or what’s left of it and still feel proud and hopeful. I wonder what he would think of me, and my little tribe. I think some days I miss Papolie, what little there is of him left in the memory of an 8 year old girl.

Amazing the things we remember. And a wonder why this specter of my youth would come to haunt me now. Do you have an old one? Did you know well enough to cherish them when you had the chance? What were they like? What did they teach you?