S&M Redneck Style

Ahma gon' grab me up a whip and do me sum whippin'!
Ahma gon' grab me up a whip and do me sum whippin'!

Come along with me and take you a chance,
Ain't no love and ain't no romance,
Just whippin'!

Well I gots me a mask and a red rubber ball!
Well I gots me a mask and a red rubber ball!

Come along with me and take you a chance,
Ain't no love and ain't no romance,
We'll have a ball!

I'll bind you and tie you and wraps you up tight
I'll blindfold you and spank you all through the night
Yer ass will be as red as that new traffic light!

I gots some furry handcuffs and a bowl of ice-cubes!
I gots some furry handcuffs and a bowl of ice-cubes!

Come along with me and take you a chance,
Ain't no love and ain't no romance,
Just some torture!

Yee ha!


M. PotPie

There Was a Complaint?!

Harrumph.

That's right, harrumph! There has been a complaint posted by a certain person regarding my last entry of a 'regurgitated blog'. I'm not gonna name names, but her initials are Asian Pixie.

So, my dear AP, this is kind of for you:

This is the thing that is new. It is neither old nor regurgitated, not repeated nor rerun. It is, in fact, entirely new.

Bask in it's newness! It is glory from on high! It has a sleekness not found in something old, a new puppy feel and smell, it's a kitten of a post! It's so new it hasn't opened it's eyes yet, it is unsullied and untainted by the cruel, demanding world it now inhabits. Celebrate it's freshness, for tomorrow it will be old.

And abandoned. Oh, perhaps it will be revisited once or twice, and on occasion new again for a fleeting moment for a random reader flitting through the blogosphere.

But never again will it possess the same feeling and quality that it does now.

So rejoice, and realize, that when you've finished reading it.....

You'll have killed it.


M. PotPie

Time for a Rerun

And no, I don't mean the guy from"'What's Happening?" I'm simply too swamped to devote the time necessary to deliver a well-crafted blog entry today. Instead I bring you one from the archives:

I Love My French Press


As the title implies, I love my French Press. It's not a full size carafe, but instead some genius decided to make a travel-mug French Press! (and yes, I feel the need to capitalize both French and Press) What this means is that I can now drink snobbish coffee while I drive! At work I can lord over my lowly peasant co-workers as they drink their Maxwell House 50/50 blend of crap and crap! I chuckle to myself as I enjoy the fully caffeinated so-brown-it's-almost-black elixir contained in my hard plastic feat of modern engineering. Like a King I raise the pneumatic chair in my cube as high as it can be raised and look down on the masses gathered about admiring my superior coffee. They shuffle their feet and mutter to one another, or to themselves, looking first at my French Press with longing, their gaze then returning to whatever sludge is contained in their sad comic emblazoned mugs or, heaven forbid, their styrofoam cups.

My French Press has granted me the status of "Interesting and/or Mysterious" and leads people to believe my life is fascinating and makes them wonder what I do outside of work that would allow me to possess such an item. I keep my after work activities secret. When asked "So what did you do last night?" I smile, gaze off into the distance and reply "Oh, nothing really."I always make sure to empty the grounds from my French Press into the trash can in my cube. Not only does this make my cube smell like an exotic coffee house, but the coarse grounds are sure to attract the curiosity and wonder of the cleaning lady. I'll only wash my French Press when the kitchenette is full. I make sure to wash it both gently and carefully, making sure the screen isn't clogged by the smallest particle and shines in the pale flourescent light, glinting like the treasure it is. I dry it carefully, reverently and reassemble it with gentle and deft twists of my wrists. I leave the kitchenette cradling my French Press like a puppy, walking slowly and surely back to my cube where I place it on display yet out of reach. When I hate my job I'll turn and look at it, already wishing it was the next morning so I could refill it, and in so doing refill myself as well.

I love my French Press....


M. PotPie

A Diagnosis?

I think I may have a problem. I'm not sure what this problem is, but I am sure that it exists. It could be a disease, it could be a mental disorder, it could be a broken bone. Actually I'm pretty sure it's not a broken bone. I mean, how stupid would I have to be to not to know that? Ha ha!

So we're left with a disease or mental disorder. Let's look at the symptoms, shall we? We shall!

1) Constant, paralyzing paranoia
2) Copious drooling
3) Leakage
4) Extra digits
5) Pus. Lots and lots of pus
6) Superiority Complex
7) Sore throat
8) A general malaise
9) An odor of burned butter
10) An urge to sing everything I'm going to say
11) Chronic, excessive masturbation
12) Long yellow toenails
13) Bleeding gums
14) Headache
15) Gas

Frankly, I'm at a loss. Could be something, could be nothing, right? Right. I guess I'll just ignore it and hope it goes away.


M. PotPie

Allow Please For Me To Say....

This is for the biting of the ass. I mean for real, man. To be of the working on today, after the day yesterday, is serious balls. Big balls.

But what a day for yesterday to have been! Oh, my paining stomach belly hurts! Eating and eating of the bird, the turkey, the potatoes smashed, the greens strings of beans with the nuts....we did the big celebration, man.

The was being the best, best, best! Ever, man.

But now, today, is for the balls and the ass.

Man.


M. PotPie

Not A Thanksgiving Post

Once, in a land slightly more free and slightly less judgemental than our own, lived a man named Otis. Otis had been a farmer, a laborer, a herdsman and a husband. Currently he was none of these things. He was, as they say, 'between jobs'.

What's that? Husband is not a job, you say? Pish tosh! I, good reader, have been one, and I can assure you that it's nothing but work. Take out the garbage! Make dinner! Do the dishes! Fix the window! Find the little man in the boat! A husband's work, my friend, is never done.

But that is neither here nor there. We were speaking of Otis, the former farmer, laborer, herdsman and husband. Otis had a problem, you see. He was broke. Flat broke, not even a ha'penny to his name. And he was out of food. What to do? Surely he could not survive long without money or food, could he? He thought of going into The Woods.

"Maybe I should go into The Woods?"

But decided against it.

"No. Bad idea."

The Woods were supposed to be filled with food, berries and such, and there was thought to be clear springs of fresh water. Why, a man could live free forever in The Woods! There was, however, one problem:

The Faerie.

The Faerie were feared and reviled throughout the land, reputed to have monstrous appetites for small children and wayward virgins. It was said that once you looked upon them you could never leave The Woods and you had to live as their servants....forever!

Otis, being somewhat lazy, did not want to be a servant. His somewhat laziness also explains his long list of former occupations. He's not much of a hero, really. I know him quite well, and let me assure you that if you were a damsel in even the smallest amount of distress he would not come to your aid. He owns no shining armor that I'm aware of and if you've ever seen him on a horse...well, it's not pretty. But I digress.

Otis had two choices: Get a job (which really wasn't a choice, having the reputation he does) or go into The Woods. He thought about it again.

"Maybe I should go into The Woods?"

This time...he thought...

"Well, what the hell. Maybe The Faerie aren't real."

That evening (because really, what would a trip to The Woods during the day be? Boring, that's what!) Otis approached The Woods. Gathering all his nerve, which didn't take long, he took one tentative step in.

Nothing happened.

He took another. Nothing. Feeling considerably better he relaxed a bit and wiped his brow. Otis looked around and, seeing nothing resembling a Faerie, he started walking further into The Woods, determined to find berries and water.

Poor Otis. On his eleventh step in he was accosted by a psychotic Faerie with a penchant for violent sodomy and Mexican food. Seeing as there was no Mexican food to be found in The Woods....

Well, you get the picture.


M. PotPie

Today, Nothing.

I really don't have much to say today, but I feel obligated to post something. If for no other reason then to at least move that horrible photo of the fuckin' buckeyes farther down the page.

On top of not having much to say, I've become completely apathetic towards my job. So I'm ignoring my work and wasting your time. Really, I wouldn't blame you if you stopped reading now. But if you do, you might miss something special, like this:

Ode to a Corn Dog

Convenience: A meal on a stick.
Originality: A hot dog and corn, all in one?
Riboflavin: I'm sure there's some in there somewhere.
Natural: Perhaps the wood in the stick, but not much else.

Delicious: Yes! It is!
Orgasmic: The first bite is bliss. After that it's just cleaning up.
Genius: The drunk bastard who invented it. I salute you!


So there you have it. Another ten minutes (if you're a slow reader) of your day gone by.
Yes. You are welcome.


M. PotPie

An Homage

Per my bet with Ty, I present to you an homage to Ohio State, 25-21 victors in their anuual battle with Michigan.

Saturday, November 19, 2005.

I wait for this day every year, the third Saturday in November. Bigger than Thanksgiving, bigger than Christmas, even bigger than the Superbowl. I've cheered names like Howard, Carter, Woodson, Grbac, Brady, Edwards..and even a Biakabatuka. And I've cursed names like George, Schlicter, Carter, Spielman and, most recently, Troy Effing Smith.

This is Michigan/Ohio State. Wolverines/Buckeyes. Maize & Blue/Scarlet & Grey. Call it what you want, it's the best rivalry in any sport in the U.S. We paint our faces, wear the jerseys and pump our fists to every Hail! To the Victors. It's a hatred that runs deep, a malignant tumor that grows and festers all year, finally bursting in drunken curses and inarticulate rage. It's a game that might make you believe you suffer from bi-polar disorder, riding high one minute and writhing in agony the next. Every second counts, every play could be the one that swings the game in your team's favor...or against it.

On this particular Saturday, hopes were high as they alwasy are. Michigan had a chance to play spoiler and even capture a share of the Big Ten Title, if things went right.

They did not go right.

No, on this day, in front of more than 111,000 screaming people, the Scarlet & Grey marched into the Big House and kicked the Wolverines in the teeth.

I tip my cap to them.

Michigan, who prides themselves on a running game, and may have invented the "Three Yards and a Cloud of Dust" offense, couldn't move the ball on the ground. At all. Final tally? 32 yards. Ohio State, on the other hand, got the running yards when it mattered. Oh, and passing yards? Yeah, they racked up 300 of those. So much for our vaunted defense. Troy Smith was cool and composed in the pocket, throwing rainbows and darts with equal accuracy. When he was forced out of the pocket it was even worse, picking up 37 crucial yards and a touchdown of his own. He kept drives (and himself) alive by slipping out of the grasp of Wolverine defenders.

Make no mistake about it, Troy Smith beat the Wolverines.

And kudos to the Buckeye defense as well. After losing Bobby Carpenter to a broken ankle, agruably the best linebacker on either sideline, they didn't miss a beat. When he came out of the locker room crying, I felt for him. Here's a senior defensive stand-out, playing in the last rivalry game of his college career, and he goes out on the first series. Probably won't play in the bowl game, either. But instead of staying off the field, feeling sorry for himself, he came out in tears, in pain, in uniform and stood, on crutches and guts, and cheered for his team mates.

They didn't disappoint.

So congratulations to Ohio State.

For now.

See you next year.

Eddie Rabbit and the Rainy Night

Eddie was a rabbit. A very, very bad rabbit. Not bad in the naughty kind of way, but bad in the 'being a rabbit' kind of way.

Eddie couldn't hop, you see. Oh sure, he tried to hop like the other bunnies in his class, but it was as if his fluffy white feet were nailed to the ground.

Which they were.

The End.


Once upon a time, when Eddie wasn't hopping around, he had a thought: "My fluffy white feet hurt. I wonder why?" So he asked his mother.

"Mommy, why do my feet hurt?"

She did not answer. Eddie was confused. He asked again:

"Mommy, why do my feet hurt?"

Again, no answer. He tried to hop over to his mother, but could not. He decided to ask the flies buzzing around his mother why his feet hurt. But they didn't answer either, they just buzzed and ate. He tried to hop over and shoo the flies away, but that made his fluffy white feet hurt even more. It was as if his fluffy white feet were nailed to the ground.

Which they were.

Oh, and his mother was dead, too.

The End. Again.


M. PotPie

Poetry Thursday

I'm really short on time today, so I'll share a children's poem I wrote some years back:

Pirate Joe was a man with two wooden legs
And an earring in his nose.

He had a hole in his hat, a dog and a cat
And birds? He had plenty of those.

Pirate Joe took to sea with the greatest of ease
He didn't like the land.

With two wooden legs and rocks all around
He found it quite hard to stand.

Pirate Joe was a thief, at cards he would cheat
His reputation was known all around.

He'd share none of his gold, no not Pirate Joe
And he buried it all in the ground.

Pirate Joe didn't make many friends this way
When people saw him they'd all start to run.

He'd yell "Come back! Please come back!"
"Being alone isn't very much fun!"

But Pirate Joe was alone, all alone with his gold
And he said "Fine! I don't care, go away!"

So the dog and the cat and the people all left.
Even the birds flew away.

Pirate Joe was never, ever seen again
Some say he lived to one hundred years old.

And me? I think he's still alive today
And he lives, all alone, with his gold.


M. PotPie

24 Hours in the Jungle

I have been called out. I have had pressure applied and guilt thrust upon me, heaped in giant piles...or this could be my imagination.

Whatever the reason, here are some of the events that transpired in the last 24 hours of my life:

1. When the alarm went off at 5:45am, weighed the options of getting up and making coffee or hurling the clock through the window. Because it was 20-some degrees outside, chose coffee.

2. Like I do every morning, went outside with Oscar and walked around with him until he found the right spot to poop.

3. Picked up said poop, by hand, with a plastic grocery bag. The poop is warm, firm and steaming in the cold air. Good dog!

4. Took said poop to the goose blind that sits roughly 100 yards from my apartment and mashed it on to the bench where those fuckers sit and fire shotguns at 6am on weekends. Fuck you, hunters!

5. Laughed maniacally as I walked away.

6. At work, decided to read blogs instead of prepare a mortgage for closing.

7. 30 minutes later I regretted the decision as the mortgagees showed up early.

8. For the 100th time wished I was still at home in bed. Or in bed with company.

9. Worked my ass off to make up for my lazy co-workers and boss.

10. Scowled like a demon.

11. Decided I needed sugar, so I went downstairs and stole candy from the crippled children. Ok, not directly from them, but there is a cardboard box full of candy that you're supposed to leave money for. I did not.

12. Wept as I ate my skittles.

13. Went behind the teller line to fill my water bottle.

14. Flirted with a couple of tellers and wondered what they looked like naked.

15. Smiled quietly to myself.

16. Got a chubby for the 10th or 11th time that day.

17. While talking with some members at my desk, wondered why the hell they were married as they obviously disliked each other intensely.

18. Decided it was the guy's fault as I could smell him.

19. Thought about my ex-wife. Missed her.

20. Thought about my other dog. Missed him.

21. Thought about skittles. Ate some more.

22. Went home, watched Sports Center, did dishes.

23. Made pasta with broccoli, anchovies, garlic and fried breadcrumbs. Delicious.

24. Watched Bones and House. Was slightly disappointed.

25. Read for a while, played with the dog, shit, went to bed.


So there you have it. Not very eventful, I'm afraid.


M. PotPie

Back to the Grind

I need new shoes. That's what people keep telling me, anyway. To them I say "Be damned! Take thy foul attitude and negative energy elsewhere! I shall not have it!" People generally leave me alone when I talk like that. People can't deal with thee's and thou's.

As for my shoes I have this to say: "Fair people of Wisconsin! If thou wouldst not pollute the very Earth that gives you life, verily I would go bare of foot, unshod through this bucolic and tranquil land! But alas, the pollution and buggery of this blessed state wouldst seem to be thine aim. Why else the infected needles and cigarette butts? Why else the herds and herds of beasts left free to trample the flowers and, worse, to smear the land with ochre piles?

They do not answer, but perhaps this is for the best.

For more than likely they are still chewing.

So for now I wear shoes, but sadly. I will not shine them, nor wipe them, nor replace them. Let them become worn and threadbare! Let them be a symbol of protest against the rampant and ever-present pollution!

Let them.....oh, for christ's sake! I've stepped in a puddle of the most foul, unmentionable stank!

I need new shoes.


M. PotPie

I'm not one to normally share personal tragedy with strangers. It's not my thing. Kudos and hats off to those who do, and I hope you find solace in the sharing.

Today, though, will be different for me. Today is the 20th anniversary of one of the defining moments in my life, one that has shaped me and changed me forever.

Some background:

I come from a typical family. One brother, parents divorced when I was seven, father got remarried several times, mom once. But the once....

His name was Joe. Five-foot six, one hundred eighty pounds of angry muscle. Ranger in Vietnam. Abused as a kid. Fucked-up in the head. Made my life a living hell. I let him know from the beginning that he wasn't my dad and that I wouldn't consider him so, even if he did pay the bills, put food on the table and clothes on my back. Typical kid stuff, lashing out at the new guy, the replacement. The first dad wasn't all that great either, but the replacement was just that, a replacement, and I resented him for it.

I'm not gonna bore you with specific tales and examples, but I will point out that he was abusive. Seldomly physically abusive (I only went to the hospital once), he specialized in mental abuse. He had the ability to make me feel like a worthless piece of shit, ruined my self-image and, according to my mother (I don't remember this), had me hiding in my closet crying. On the flip side, he and my brother were great friends. They went fishing, camping, did all kinds of stuff together. My bro was six, young enough not to know any better, just happy to have a dad around.

He came to the family when I was ten. Fast forward six years. I'm sixteen. My mom and Joe are separated, my brother and I staying with her. She and I don't get along at all. I'm taking acid all the time, smoking pot, losing job after job, getting arrested for shoplifting....just being a teenager in Detroit. My mom has had enough of me, I've had enough of her. For some reason I call Joe. "Hey, can I come live with you?" He says yes. I go.

WTF? What was I thinking? I don't remember. Things are groovy, though. We start smoking dope together, getting along great. About three months later I come home from working at a gas station. (If you're from the city, or thereabouts, it was on 11 & Lahser. Joe lived in Southfield, around 13 and Evergreen) I walk in the house, the tv is on but I don't see him. I check the basement, the garage, the back yard...nowhere to be found. I check his room. Not there. Hmm. Maybe he's over at the neighbor's, right? So I hit the can and go to my bedroom to change. Oops. There he is.

Hanging from a plant hook in the ceiling. Dead. In his underwear. Clothespins on his nipples, cock hanging out. Auto-erotic-asphyxiation, they call it.

I'm calm as hell. Cool as winter. I call 911, call my mom, go outside to smoke and wait. Didn't cry or lash out for a solid year. And when I did I cried because I was happy. What does that say about me?

So, on the 20th anniversary of your death....

Fuck you, Joe.


M. PotPie

A Haiku Just For Ty

Michigan Football
The Buckeyes are in our sights
Hail to The Victors!

Haiku Saturday

Back at work again
Not motivated at all
And I'm hungover

Bloodshot, dry red eyes
Never again! This I swear!
Until tonight, right?

Ho sleeping at home
Dreaming, smiling and laughing
Footie pajamas.

I like to watch porn
But sometimes it takes too long
My penis is strong.

I. Have. Had. Enough.

I am in just a horrible mood today.

You ever have one of those days that suck as soon as you wake up? A day where you're convinced, from the beginning, that everything is going to go horribly awry?

That's my day.

Of course, nothing has gone horribly awry yet, but it's still early.

On a positive note.....ummm....ahh.....hmmm.

Nothing. Nothing positive.

Oh! Wait! I'm positive that I want to go home and start drinking right now. I want to go home, drink, play video games and watch porn. Is that too much to ask?

Sorry folks, that's all I've got today. Unless something does indeed go horribly awry, then I'll relate that to you.

Oh, and I have to work tomorrow. Saturday. Again.

Fuck me.


M. PotPie

Phone Sex

So I had phone sex last night. With the girl that just came to visit me last week. The girl that's coming back next week.

That's right, I'm like crack.

Anyway, phone sex. It was weird...but good. You really have to rely on imagination and dialogue. We'd take turns describing what we were doing, or what we wanted to do to each other, or how many other people we wanted to involve. It was certainly the best bit of masturbation I've had in some time. Let me paint a picture for you:

When I talk on the phone, I walk around the house. Last night was no different. On the phone, cock in hand, wandering about my apartment. And when the time came, shuffling as fast as I could to the bathroom to shoot a load into the toilet.

More planning next time. Perhaps less walking around.

Any thoughts on phone sex?


M. PotPie

My Co-Workers are Scum

As I write this it occurs to me that I may be being a bit hypocritical. I was going to write a post about how my co-workers sit around talking all morning instead of working, leaving me to answer all the incoming loan calls....and here I am blogging instead of working.

Cest la vie.

Fuck it, they're still scum. Bunch of damn gossipy women talking about kids and bad husbands and how much work there is to do. For the last hour and a half, no joke, they've been sitting around one desk bitching, bitching and bitching some more while I answer call after call and playing catch-up with all the shit I didn't get done yesterday.

Am I bitter?

Oh yes. Bitter, cynical, jaded and depressed, but I still do my job.

And why is that? I like to believe it's some sort of Midwestern work ethic, but isn't that just guilt in disguise?

Wait a moment...they're talking about their asses now. Apparently they think they're too big, but it's not their fault. Really? Not your fault?

Put the donut down, honey, we need to talk. Now, I know you drink diet soda and eat no-fat pretzels. But if you drink six or seven a day and eat the entire bag of pretzels....well, you're still gonna get that big ass. And while a certain type of big ass is sexy, your cottage-cheese version is not. So put down the snacks, do some work, and maybe take a walk. Maybe your husband will want to fuck you then and you can relax, stop bitching, and get back to work, thereby making my life easier.

Ahhh. I feel better. Now all I have to do is muster up the courage to say these things out loud.


M. PotPie

A Break From the Sex

Yeah, there's three more days worth to tell, but I have to do this at work and it becomes distracting. So today, something different.

I had a nice conversation with my liver last night. I decided to take a break from self-medicating and drink water all day and night, and apparently this was just the opportunity my liver (whose name is Filter) was waiting for.

"(coughing) Dude... (coughing) oh my god, I am sooooo hung over."

"What? Who the fuck is that?"

"Holy shit...hold on...I'm gonna puke."

I suddenly taste bile. Blecch.

"Oh...shit...ok...whoooo. Man, it's about time you took a break."

"What the hell is going on here? Where are you?"

"Dude, I'm your liver. Call me Filter. You, my friend, need to slow down, you're straight up killing me."

"Huh?"

"You drink. A lot. Every day. If you don't slow down I'll die, and then you'll follow pretty quick. Hey, can you take an aspirin or something?"

"Umm...sure. Do you really think I drink too much?"

"Think? What's to think? I process all that shit, dude. What you drink, I drink. I'd wake up the kidneys but they're a bit waterlogged right now. You just go from one extreme to the other, don't you?"

"If you say so, I guess."

"Damn right I say so. Anyway, you need to cut back, maybe take a day off now and again. Or better yet, have you ever heard of fruit juice?"

"Well yeah, I just had some the other day. Lime-ade with cherry."

"And vodka. Don't forget the vodka."

"Right, with vodka."

"Kinda defeats the purpose, don't you think?"

"Look, this can't be happening. I must be having an acid flashback or something."

"No, this is no flashback, but it wouldn't surprise me if you did have one. Man, I'm surprised you didn't melt your brain a long time ago."

"I haven't taken acid in more than ten years. All I do now is smoke a little bit now and again. And drink."

"And that's what we're talking about, the drinking. Do us all a favor and cut back. I ain't saying quit, don't do that, but at least slow it down. Maybe instead of four or five drinks a night, maybe stop at two. Or none. Hey, how about none once in a while? Think you can do that, lushie?"

"Hey, there's no reason to be rude!"

"Right. Rude. Anyway, I've gotta crash. Think about what I said."

"Ok...Filter."

"Jack ass."

Anyway, that's pretty much how it went. So I guess I'm gonna cut back.


M. PotPie

The Story- Part Four

I'm back in the kitchen, stirring the minestrone. It's about finished. I finish preparing the garlic bread, spreading butter, roasted garlic and oregano, and put it in the oven. I turn to ask Astarte to set the table but she's not there. Hmm. I set it myself, light a few candles on the table and go back to the kitchen, paranoid about burning the bread. If there's one thing I consistently screw up, it's the bread. I always seem to forget it's in the oven until it's on fire. No problem this time, it comes out steaming, golden brown and fragrant. I take the bread to the table and ladle two healthy portions of minestrone into bowls. As I bring the soup to the table, Astarte reappears wearing some of my pajamas. Flannel pajamas. Not the sexiest things in the world, but somehow she makes them look good. Maybe it's because she's left the top unbuttoned and I can see the swell of each breast when she turns.

She's changed the music as well, replacing Anthony Hamilton with Etta James, singing "At Last". Smart, that girl. The soup is delicious (if I do say so myself), perfectly complimented by the fresh garlic bread and another bottle of wine. We're drinking a Shiraz/Cabernet by Penfolds. Very full-bodied with a hint of smokiness to it. We don't speak, there's no need, and we take our time eating, feet occasionally touching, the music soothing. Oscar trots back out sniffing the air and looking for scraps. He knows this is wrong.

"Are you begging?" This is normally what makes him lay down and stop. But as I say this to him a hunk of garlic bread flies through the air and he catches it, swallowing it whole. Glutton. I look at Astarte. "You realize you'll spoil him. I don't give him people food."

She takes a drink of her wine and throws another hunk to him. I can only smile and think about how I'm going to pay her back for this.

Dinner is over, the bowls mopped clean of soup with the bread. We've finished another bottle of wine and I feel flush, sated, happy. I could probably nap but that certainly is not in the cards. Astarte looks at me.

"So what now, monkey?"

"How about a shower? You can wash me."

"Dirty boy. Open another bottle of wine." She gets up and heads to the bathroom. As I open the third bottle I hear the water in the shower. I turn the music up so we can hear it in there, Etta now singing "I've Got a Right to Sing the Blues". The shower is just starting to steam when I get there, and I'm just in time to watch Astarte undress, facing away from me. Oh, the things that ass does to me. I've decided to spend a long, long time washing it, worshipping it, and I have the insane desire to bite it, hard, clamp my teeth down and not let go. Instead I put the bottle of wine against her ass, cold glass against flesh and she jumps a bit.

"Hey!"

I laugh and get undressed as Astarte slips into the shower. I pour the wine and get in with her. The steam evelops us as I put the glasses on the side of the tub. Astarte is under the water, leaning back into it and running her hands through her thick hair. It turns black as the water hits it but remains wavy. Her hair, much like her, refuses to be tamed. I move forward and put my arms around her, my hands in the small of her back, my fingers just on the top of her ass. We stand under the hot water for a bit and I can feel myself getting hard again as my cock brushes the smooth skin where her pubic hair used to be. She reaches down and puts both hands on me, rubbing the head of my cock against her stomach and leans in to kiss me. We stand like this for some time, hot water spraying over us.

I reach over and grab the soap, lather it up and rub it all over Astarte's chest, stomach and arms. Grabbing her I press myself against her, rubbing up and down, back and forth, two soapy bodies sliding against one another. Her hands full of soap, she grabs my cock again and starts pumping up and down. I reach down and put my hand between her legs, fingers exploring, rubbing. She moans, puts her head on my shoulder and then bites me. I love being bitten and she knows it. She bites again, still stroking me, the water splashing on us, wine forgotten. I put both hands behind her head, just under her ears, pull her close and kiss her, hard and deep. She lets go of my cock and puts her arms around me, hands on my shoulders. I whisper to her.

"Turn around and bend over."

She does. There, before me, the ass I dream about, round, firm...perfect. I rub the head of my cock up and down her pussy lips, spreading them, and then slowly enter her, going deep, all the way in and then stay there for a moment. Astarte inhales sharply, holding her breath, waiting for me to start moving. So..I don't. I slap her ass instead. Turn about's fair play, no? She reaches back with one hand and tries to push me back, out, but she doesn't have the leverage. I smack her ass again and move out, slowly, then back in, slowly, so I can watch. I'm sliding in and out, water and soap everywhere, both of us moaning, breathing hard. I have both hands on her hips, moving her back and forth, I'm sliding almost all the way out before going back in, going slow, savoring the feeling, the water, the sound of the shower and the woman in front of me.

"Come on monkey, this is what you wanted, you've got me from behind. Now fuck me."

I don't need any further encouragement. I increase the rythym, going faster, harder, slapping against her ass. She reaches down and starts rubbing her clit as I fuck her, lifting one foot to the side of the tub. I move one hand to cup her breast, squeeze the nipple, and then reach up and grab her hair, pulling it. We're moaning almost in unison now and I can feel the climax coming and tell her so.

"I'm gonna cum."

"Cum on my ass, all over it, cum on me monkey!"

God I love it when she talks like that. I pull out and do exactly what she said, cumming all over her ass, white and creamy. It runs down the crack of her ass and she reaches back, rubbing it. We sit there for a moment, panting, me leaning against her. She stands up, turns around and kisses me.

"I've missed you monkey."


More to come.


M. PotPie

The Story- Part Three

I stand up and Astarte unbuttons my pants, sliding them down and looking up at me from the couch.

"Do you want me on my knees?"

I smile. "Yeah." I smile more.

She slithers off the couch on to the floor, never taking her hand off my cock or her eyes off mine. Gently, almost sweetly, she kisses the head and my knees about buckle. Her other hand moves around and grabs my ass, fingers slipping up and down the crack, brushing that most sensitive of areas. She takes me in her mouth, slowly, tongue swirling, lightly teasing with her teeth and I moan, loudly. Her mouth is hot, so hot and it feels like velvet. Oscar gets up and goes in the bedroom, clearly disapproving of the stupid humans.

Her hand moves from my ass and cups my balls, kneading so gently, squeezing just right, her mouth now moving faster and her grip getting harder. I move my hands to her head..I can't help it, something about this woman makes me want to dominate her, just a little. She's moaning with me now and I can feel my orgasm start to build up from the depths. Astarte senses the same thing and slows her rythm, squeezing my balls a bit harder.

"Not so fast, Monkey. You have a lot of work to do tonight."

I smile. She smiles, kisses the head again and stands. We embrace, I hold her tight, smelling her hair. Moving back we kiss, my taste still on her tongue. I run my hands down her back to her ass, slipping them under the panties, feeling the warm, soft flesh. Astarte has a fabulous ass, curvy and beautifully spankable. I give it a good one-handed smack, pull up my pants and go back in the kitchen to check on the minestrone. Astarte moves back to the couch and lies down. I stir the soup and begin preparing the garlic bread, finishing off my wine. Time for a refill.

Filling my glass I go back to the couch to find Astarte with her eyes closed and both hands in her panties, writhing. Being a bit of a voyeur I stop to watch and my own hand moves between my legs. She opens her eyes and moves her hands up over her stomach and cups her breasts.

"How long 'till dinner?"

"Oh, I don't know. Half hour?"

"Mmm. Smells good."

She puts her legs together and raises her knees up, sliding her feet towards her ass. I lean over and part them, moving down, kissing her from her knees to her inner thighs. As I get closer I can smell her, feel the heat on my face, and I kiss her through the panties, inhaling. She lifts herself up a bit and I pull her panties down, over her legs, over her feet and drop them on the floor. I move back to the newly shaved pussy in front of me. Her lips are spread, flushed and glistening. I take one between my lips and pull just a little, my hands rubbing up and down her legs, then up over her stomach, over her breasts, squeezing her nipples, then back down again. I flick my tongue lightly between the lips, tasting, then move up and genlty lick around her clit. I move one hand underneath her, rubbing her ass, my thumb pressing her anus. I kiss her thighs again, blowing on her pussy, and without any warning thrust my tongue inside her as far as it will go, my face now wet with her juices.

Her body arches and she whimpers. She grabs my head and wraps her legs around me, pushing me forward. I suck on her clit, running my tongue over it at the same time. She moves her feet down and starts pushing at my pants, pulling my head up towards her at the same time. I reach down and unbutton them and she drags them down with her feet. We kiss, my taste on her tongue, her taste on mine, a dance to copy the one that's sure to come. I feel her hand on my cock, rock hard, throbbing, all the blood in my body rushing to it. She guides me inside her and rakes her nails down my back as I start to move, long slow strokes, rotating my hips a little. My heart is pounding, my head feels light, I look down into Astare's eyes and I swear they're on fire. Her lips are parted, she's panting, but staring right back at me. She smiles and squeezes my cock, trying to stop it from moving, her legs wrapping around my waist. I fight against her, wanting to continue, wanting the release.

"You want to fuck me, monkey?"

"Hell yeah."

"Tell me. Tell me what you want."

"I want to fuck you, fuck you hard, take you from behind, cum all over your ass."

"Mmmm." She moans, closing her eyes, but doesn't ease the vice-like grip of her legs and pussy.
"That sounds good. But I want to eat first."

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. I should've known, really. I sigh, deflated a bit, and she relaxes her grip. I pull out, still hard, still on the verge but fading. Astarte blows me a kiss. Bitch. I think I love her.


(More next week)

M. PotPie

The Story- Part Two

I walked back into the kitchen, loosening my tie as the wine loosened my mind. I drained the beans, pureed half of them and put them back in the pot with more water. Every once in a while I look back at Astarte, still perched on the couch with Oscar, reading a magazine with a half smile on her lips. My breath catches for a moment as the realization hits me that she's actually here and we'll soon be in bed. If we make it that far. While I chop carrots, onions, celery, garlic and napa cabbage, I picture what will surely come later and what form it will take. I already know exactly what she looks like under that shirt, I know what she smells like, tastes like, I know how hard she can grip me, I can feel her nails scratching my back.... After our last encounter I almost needed medical attention. My back was raw and bleeding and I didn't even know it until the next day when I woke up stuck to the sheet by dried blood and torn skin. She shredded me, like a cat with claws. I loved it.

The veggies go in the pan of olive oil and begin to hiss. I leave them for a moment to refill my wine glass. Walking over to the couch I ask Astarte if she wants more. She's stopped reading the magazine and loosened her own tie, the top buttons undone on the shirt. She has one hand on her wineglass, the other inside the shirt lazily stroking her left breast. She looks up at me with wet lips.

"Sure. I'll take a refill."

I pour the wine. She puts her finger in the glass and then in her mouth. Then it's back in the shirt. I'm so hard it hurts. I just stand there, trembling.

"Don't burn the veggies, lover."

"Yeah. Ok."

I manage to make it back to the kitchen without dropping the wine and stir the veggies in the pan. They smell fantastic. I add smashed tomatoes with their juice and the mixture swells, boiling. In goes the prosciutto and now it's really starting to smell good. After it cooks for a few minutes it goes into the pot with the beans, puree and water. Now it has to cook for an hour. Excellent. I have time to change and see what develops. I wander to the bedroom to change. As I'm undressing I hear music from the other room. Anthony Hamilton is singing about how much his mother loved him. (http://www.anthonyhamilton.com/)

Changed into a fresh white tee shirt and olive cargo pants I head back to the living room. Astarte is back on the couch, eyes closed, humming along with Anthony. I tell Oscar to get down and he does, heading to his pad on the floor. The apartment is beginning to smell like fresh minestrone, the music is just right and the wine has really relaxed me. I light a few candles before sitting down. Astarte looks up at me through half-slitted eyes and smiles.

"Come over here, monkey."

I set my wine down and sit next to her. She turns me so I'm facing away from her and leans me back, my head against her chest. She kisses the top of my head, her lips warm. Both her hands come up my arms and on to my shoulders, rubbing, kneading, massaging. I'm smiling like an idiot and moaning. Her touch is electric, and raises goosebumps wherever it lands and I sigh as her hands move from my shoulders to my temples. My mind goes blank for a moment and then fills with one thought, one feeling: lust. I sit up and turn around to face her.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Shut up. Whatever the hell I want."

I grab the shirt and tear it open, ripping buttons, exposing her smallish breasts and hard, pink nipples. I feel a moment of regret for my shirt but it fades when she grabs my head as it moves to her. I bite her right breast, softly just under the nipple, then harder and she moans, squeezing my head. Her legs move to wrap around me and, if it's possible, I'm harder than before. I move and grind myself against her and can feel her heat through my pants. I move up and kiss her neck, bite it, I kiss behind her ear and breathe into it, hot, and whisper her name...Astarte.... Her hands are on my head, my back, my ass, squeezing. We kiss, deep, tongues moving and she bites my bottom lip, pulling it back, staring me in the eyes, hers blazing, hungry, hard and deadly. I pull up my shirt and press myself against her, flesh on flesh, her hard nipples two beads of desire. Her hand snakes down between my legs, probing, squeezing as we kiss, and I return the favor and move my own hand down. Oh my...she is so wet, so warm, her panties soaked through. I slide two fingers underneath the cotton and feel...smoothness. She shaved.

"Do you like that?"

Do I? Oh yes. Very much. My fingers are wet and I bring them to my mouth, tasting her. My head is swimming, Anthony still singing but I can't hear the words over my moaning. Her hands are in my pants, grabbing my cock, moving back and forth, stroking, flicking the head with her thumb. She speaks, guttural and low:

"I want you in my mouth."

I'm happy to oblige her.



Part three tomorrow


M. PotPie

The Story- Part One

I shall do my best to relay the details of what transpired during the...ah...hmm...ordeal?..without exaggeration or dramatic license. I can only offer my assurances, such as they are, that this is a true story.

It's Friday afternoon, roughly 3:30 central time. In only an hour and a half I'll be able to leave work, go to the store and prepare for Astarte's arrival. I've made my list, checked it twice, and I'm determined to be very, very naughty. My cell phone, always set on vibrate, begins it's angry buzz in my pocket.

"Hello?"

"Hello." A low, smokey voice is in my ear. Astarte. I close my eyes and inhale, trying to smell her over the phone.

"Is your plane delayed? I thought you'd be in the air about now."

"No, it's not delayed. In fact, I'm already here, in your apartment."

"What? No you're not. You said you'd be here around eight. You're messing with me. Typical of you."

"Really, I'm here. Trust me."

"That's the last thing I'm likely to do, and you know it. No, you're not there." I'm getting nervous, even though I'm sure she's lying to me.

"I can prove it to you. Oscar, speak." Oscar is my dog. He listens only to me.

"Bark!" He speaks. Apparently he really, really likes Astarte. Great.

"Oh, and you have beans soaking in a pot. What are we having tonight?" Shit. She really is there. Early. This is just like her, actually. Surprise after surprise. I can barely contain my excitement, which is heightened by the fear I feel. Is that good? I don't know, but I like it. "I'll see you when you get home. I have to go change. Bye." She hangs up.

The next hour and a half crawls by, each minute seemingly trebled by anticipation and desire. Five o'clock finally rolls around and I run out the door, jump in my truck and race to the store. Wine. Chocolate. Pancetta. Shit, they don't have it....Prosciutto instead. Bread. The list goes on. Back in the truck. Race home. It's a 35 mile drive one way...I'm doing roughly eighty-five and decide to slow down. I take a deep breath and light a cigarette. I don't normally smoke.

I finally arrive at my apartment, tires crunching on the gravel driveway, and pull in the garage. I shut the truck off and take a deep breath. Gathering my groceries I walk to the stairs, climb them and open the door to my apartment. Normally when I get home Oscar runs to me and jumps around, excited. Not this time. I sniff the air...it smells like a bakery. I walk into the living room to find Oscar laying on the couch and Astarte in the kitchen. Baking. Oscar looks up at me and wags a hello, then closes his eyes. Fucking traitor. I drop the groceries on the kitchen table and look at Astarte. She's wearing one of my work shirts and a tie. It just covers her ass, so I can't see what she's wearing underneath. She says a hello over her shoulder as she turns back to the stove. Something in the oven is done. Bending over, I discover what's under the shirt: A pair of boy-cut panties, tan in color, with a picture of a monkey wearing a crown. My hands go straight to her ass. Withouth flinching she quickly turns around and I feel the heat of a glass baking dish as it narrowly misses my face.

"Hands off, monkey-man!"

I look up into bright hazel eyes, down to her cruel, full lips and whisper something I don't understand. Desire has propelled me beyond reason. She speaks again, her voice a chorus of the damned.

"You have cooking to do, don't you?"

"I don't care about the food...it's good to see you again. Now I want to feel you again."

She smiles. "Oooh..you will. But I'm hungry, won't you cook for me?" I'm weak. So weak.

"Yes, of course. I'll open the wine first."

"Good boy." She kisses me. Her lips are sweet and full, her tongue warm as it slides against mine. I think I'm melting. The back of her hand gently brushes my face and she walks...no, strolls over to the couch, hips moving under my shirt. She sits next to Oscar, who begins wagging his tail and moves closer to her. Fucking traitor.

I open the wine and pour us each a glass. It's deep, dark red, blood and passion, love with a streak of mean. This same red haze will color my eyes for days. I hand Astarte her glass and run my fingers through her hair, dark brown and wavy, thick. She tilts her head back into my hand and I'm offered glimpse into her lap, my gaze running down her legs, touching her with my eyes. I sigh and go back to the kitchen to prepare the minestrone.

(I have to get some work done, I'll have more later)

M. PotPie

The Return

Astarte is a cruel, demanding mistress.

Perfect.

Friends, I am spent. Weak and weary I return to work, relieved and saddened at the same time. I am sore, having used muscles that don't normally get such a workout...I feel drained of life but full of satisfaction...and I wear a stupid grin, proudly, a secret purple heart.

I have explored uncharted waters, navigating the perilous sea with blind faith and bald courage, relying on instinct and experience. But unlike Odysseus, when I heard the sirens' call I did not strap myself to the mast. I gave in, willingly, and abandoned myself to whatever fate awaited.

And what a fate it was. As with all good journeys I learned something about myself previously unknown and discovered that some things previously believed simply aren't true at all.

I need some time to digest what actually happened, to sort through the discoveries and newly awakened desires, to give time and distance a chance to offer a larger view. And then perhaps give a more detailed report of a very, very interesting four days.


M. PotPie