Month: July 2016

On nectarines

Today I bit into a nectarine so sweet and juicy, its taste was that of summer.

Cool
Crisp
Fresh
Fragrant
Silky
Sensual
Glistening
Delicious.

Wet. Sexy.  Summery.

And mostly, more than anything else –

Hopeful.

It was a hopeful nectarine!

nectarine

Violet goes to gym

So it’s like mercury is retrograding over here because apart from all my internet woes I got in the shower this morning and snap crackle boom, nearly got electrocuted. Well, kind of. I got a huge shock from the taps, not huge enough to kill me but huge enough for me to think oh my god what is going on and leap out the shower very quickly.

With shampoo and delicious smelling vanilla soap all over my body.

It happened to me once in Lima, many years ago, and that was kind of hairy, but I digress.

I called my emergency electrician.

I can only come tomorrow Ms Violet.  But it sounds dangerous, don’t switch on any taps and stay well away from the water.

What to do? My neighbours seemed to be away, or perhaps dead in their own showers. Either way, they couldn’t help me.

I needed to shower.

I had no choice but to go to the gym.

I hate the gym.

But you know there’s a silver line behind every cloud!

I skipped the gym part and headed straight to the sauna. Smelling a bit like a vanilla pod.

Let me tell you, men in saunas like the smell of vanilla.

And there were a lot of men in the sauna.

All of them, experts on electricity. All of them offering me advice. All of them offering me their showers.

None of them offering to fix it for me quickly which is kind of expected because MEN, but I did come home with four new contacts, a prospective date, and a very clean shiny and detoxed body.

Only problem is, a few hours is a long time to sit in a sauna and I’m home now and very bloody dehydrated and I can’t yet switch on my taps.

I may have to go back to the gym.

Where’s my shampoo?

sauna

N.B. If I do get electrocuted, blame one of these guys.

Offline

My internet’s been down for the last few days, leaving me disconnected and irritated but also, kind of  liberated. I’ve spoken to my children and to friends, walked the dogs, read a few books and hey, it hasn’t been all bad.

I’ve had a break from social media, haven’t played Pokemon Go, I’ve ignored my blog and all your blogs, and have actually been super responsible.

I kept my last little bit of data in case of a crisis – like a madman trying to murder me, in case I needed an ambulance, or for something really hectic, like calling Mister Delivery to bring me dinner.

It’s been good. Easy.

Until he messaged me.

Violet, I miss you.

And you know, sorry about the ambulance or Mister Delivery.

I just had to use my hotspot.

Because goddammit, Cybersex is so much fun and so addictive and it makes you feel so good, even if for those brief five minutes.

Hey.

Hey.

Hey.  

(Three heys, waste of data, I know)

Take off your clothes. Pretend I’m there.  With you. Stroking you.  My hand between your legs.  Rubbing your clit, like that, do it, pinch your nipples, yes, oh god, stand in front of the mirror, there, bend over,  i’m going in you, deep, hard, god like that, naked, send me a photograph, jesus you look amazing, bend over, look in the mirror, I’m in you, fuck yes, yes, my cock,  feel it, hard, thick, my cock, your cunt, dammit, jesus I can see, feel how wet, oh god, god, I’m, I want to come, yes, oh god, jesus, now, wait, yes, yes..

And that was it. A whole lot of spelling errors.

And all  my data. Gone.

But at least I used it responsibly.

And had fun.

But now I’m starving, the fridge is empty and I can’t call Mr Delivery.

Oh well.

I’ll just have to take off my clothes.

On my own.

Again.

And pray I don’t need an ambulance.

 

images

Tell me more…

Who did you meet for drinks Violet?

My old friend Layla, I haven’t seen her for years so it was really good to catch up. Also I’d forgotten how incredibly beautiful she is.

He sat back in his chair, poured himself a glass of wine and said:-

Tell me more darling.

Oh she grew up in France so she’s elegant and beautiful in that very French way. She has eyes that pierce, green eyes, olive skin, she shines, she’s sexy.

Sexy?  I like that. What is it that makes her sexy?

Everything about her, the way she talks, the way she dresses, her legs, the way she crosses her legs, hey, hang on a fucking minute…

I was turning him on!

Really turning him on. His eyes had taken on that glazed look, that very oh god yes this is working for me look, like more more, oh god yes tell me everything now look…

He was getting horny thinking about somebody else.

I considered slapping him. Maybe knocking the wine out of his hand. Leaving the room.

But I didn’t.

Because it was working for me too.

I poured myself a glass. Took off my shoes. Curled up, next to him.

And carried on..

She never wears a bra. Her breasts are perfect. Her nipples, round, dark, you can always see them through her shirt.  I want to lean over, touch them, feel them.  I remember the one time I did, I…

He reached over.  Kissed me. Hard.

Unzipped my skirt.

And I carried on talking.

It was so good. So damn good.

Even though we were talking about somebody else.

Maybe because we were talking about somebody else.

Somebody else.

A fantasy…

sex

Trump is a cunt

This morning I wrote ‘Trump is a cunt’ and it felt so good writing it. And then I said it out loud and it just rolled off my tongue, like it was the best thing to say, so smooth, so perfect, TRUMP IS A CUNT TRUMP IS A CUNT TRUMP IS A CUNT.

Then I got a bit tongue twisted and it became one of those word things like TRUMP IS A CUNT CUNT IS A TRUMP TRUMP IS A CUNT CUNT IS A TRUMP TRUMP IS A CUNT and now I just can’t get it out of my head and that’s my ear worm for the day and I’m kinda hoping it becomes yours too.

Try it.

It feels good.

… … … … … … … … …

Of course when I googled a pic I realised millions have come before me in thinking, writing and saying it.

But still.

Trump is such a cunt.

We all know it to be true.

trump-is-a-cunt

Obsessions

All the mothers I know are huddled over cups of coffee anxiously discussing Pokemon. Their kids are obsessed, they haven’t slept for days, criminals are going to trace and kill them, they just don’t know how to cure this latest dark and dangerous obsession.

I’m trying to be supportive. Except I’m sitting at coffee too and I know that Pikachu is down the road and I only need to escape from this suburban hellhole and walk 200 meters and I’ll find him, aisle thirteen in the supermarket.

Near the tomato sauce.

I’m holding off though. Maybe because I had my fill of Pokemon as a young mom, maybe because I don’t care who gets to the tomato sauce first, maybe because Pokemon is not my only obsession.

I’ve had obsessions.  Often.

They take up a lot of time.

They’re not very  healthy.

It takes a lot of hard work to get over them.

But relax dear mother friends of mine.  They do end, they, what was I saying, oh my god that’s Pikachu, it’s really him, hang on, pay for my coffee I gotta get him, hang on, hang on…

Yeah.  They do end.

Without killing us.

Mostly.

Unknown