The Pink Panther & Deep Purple: Remembering Your Sensual Self

orangeblossomcandleDeep purple. The Pink Panther. Randall.

You know what I”m talking about ladies – your BOB’s.

For those of you not in the 90’s know, BOB is a dirty acronym. Battery. Operated.  Boyfriend.

If you deny having one, either you’re missing out, or  you’re lying.

Recently I had the occasion to invite another BOB into my life. Not because I was jonesing for a new part-time lover, but for other personal reasons. And we shall leave it at that.

At mid-life sexuality is interesting. Just like everything else; our careers, our relationships, and our perspective on how-in-the-hell-did-we-end-up-here.

At this stage, when it comes to sex you’ve either giddy-uped, gotten-down and satisfied your every whim, or you’re spent shell of a person wondering how you missed out on it all. At this age, whether you really  ever need to see anyone else your age naked is a question you start to consider seriously.

Naked and sex are often poor substitutes for sensuality, when really, they are the pleasurable end-result.

Sensuality is Marc Broussard singing Do Right Woman.

You may think that BOB is going to make you feel sexual. For a while, and for a purpose, but more than BOB, you need to remember how to make love to yourself.

Too often the synchronicity of making time for our significant others feels like another obligation, rather than the joy of connection that it should be. Sensuality gets discouraged, because after all, wouldn’t it be nice to always end a hot bath or beautiful snack with some lovemaking? Alas, we are too often left alone feeling like a cog in a relationship wheel, unappreciated as a sensual being.

This is where your imagination comes in. Start with BOB if you must, but try to remember what it’s like to soak in a luxurious bath surrounded by the scents that make you exhale…orange blossom, vanilla, cinnamon. You need to remember how good it feels to pass the razor over your tired legs, and to massage your favourite shampoo into your scalp.

bath

Perhaps like me, you enjoy the cool, salty sensation of fresh oysters and creamy champagne, or a pungent blue cheese accompanied with port by candlelight on a crisp fall evening.

BOB may help you remember the end game, but it won’t love you the way you can love you baby.

Indulge in the sensual sights, smells and sensations that remind your body of just how sexy it is.  Trust me, someone will notice.

 

 

 

 

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Sunday Night Music

It’s that time again. Turn down the lights, snuggle with your sweetie, or, put your head back and dream of the day when you can.

 

Wednesday Wisdom

kiss on the neck

Santa Baby, I Feel Pretty…

toesinbathThe wild and wonderful Mae West once said, “Cultivate your curves – they may be dangerous but they won’t be avoided“.

God bless Mae West!

‘Tis the season to cultivate your curves ladies.

‘Tis the season of Christmas parites, and getting cozy by the fire with the love of your life while the winter wind whips up a wonderful wonderland.

Sometimes, just like preparing for a much anticipated holiday, preparing to go out somewhere special is just as satisfying as the event itself.

Tomorrow night marks the first of four, yes, count’em, four Christmas parties that I will be attending during the next two weeks.

I’ve fluffed up my party dress, have my open-toed, black satin shoes ready by the door, and a new tube of lipstick waiting to be unleashed.

There’s nothing better than feeling pretty. Besides being intelligent, devilishly charming and totally independent of course, my wee little butter toffee puddings.

Being a strong, independent woman is the only way to go, and when you combine it with indulging in your sensuality, well, that, my darlings, is nirvana.

Instead of rushing through the holidays, take time for yourself.  If you indulge yourself in some of the pleasures of the flesh, I guarantee that your holiday season will be merry, bright, and full of possibility.

Always make time for your pedicure (mine was just finished in a lovely shade of In My Santa Suit), and for selecting just the right jewelry to accentuate your outfit, even if your outfit is jeans and a sweater.

I’ve been dutifully massaging new Peppermint Twist hand cream into my cuticles and on my hands all week.  Thanks to some really great lip balm , my lips are getting ready for what I hope to be a season of mistletoe-snog related workouts with a tall dark and handsome hottie..

Tomorrow, after work, a long, hot shower will wash away the shell of the hustle and bustle of every-day-life, and I will delight in preparing for my evening out.

Whether it’s for a night on the town like tomorrow, or a night in with your best friend and lover, take time to pamper the body that has carried you through the past year.

You may not be gracing the cover of Vogue in the near future, but your body deserves a little worshipping and loving this holiday.

Love yourself first, and the rest of the world will fall in love with you too.

 

 

Tonight’s Your Lucky Night

English: Fireworks on the Fourth of July

English: Fireworks on the Fourth of July (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You just don’t know it yet.

You see darling, it’s the classic duel in the battle of the sexes. The man hunts, and the woman plays the coquette, finally succumbing to the pleasures of the flesh.

Or not. Perhaps we know darlings, exactly how the evening will end long before you even start allowing yourself the hope of seeing our delicate, porcelain white flesh stripped bare within reach of your pulsating fingertips. Perhaps our appetites are whetted much longer than your own constant ache?

Perhaps, we’ve been daydreaming about it since our last text, telephone call, or first date. Maybe we’re even preparing for it as you get ready for your Sunday bedtime routine, none the wiser about our careful preparation. After all, it does take time for a woman to prepare for the decadent feast that is the carnal pleasure of a manly man like yourself.

We have to change the sheets, tidy, prepare some succulent aphrodisiac appetizers and chill the bubbly darling. We’ve had to make appointments to be waxed and polished in all of the secret places we hope you find with the tender caresses of your lips.

This takes militant, precision planning, and immaculate timing.

Even though you don’t think we know that you prime yourself to be less anxious for your evening performance, we know, because we do the very same thing.

So, while you’re tucking yourself in tonight, looking forward to your next rendezvous with a fabulously voluptuous lady-love, we’re preparing our little love trap so you will think that it was your idea all along.

When you wake up tomorrow, just think, tonight could be your lucky night. You just don’t know it yet.

Confessions of a Gallery Junkie

Musee Rodin - Adam

Musee Rodin – Adam (Photo credit: John Kroll)

You all know by now that I adore my time spent at the local art gallery.

I have been blessed by the art gods, or pan-sexual-life-affirming gods (whomever inspires you my darlings), to live near a world-class gallery.

I spend many a Sunday afternoon sipping wine in the  member’s lounge, chatting to fellow artists, wanna-be artists, or perhaps just myself, Moleskine and smooth writing pen in hand.

Some days I write pages, and other days the page holds out its fabulously, gnarled hand and won’t let me write a damn thing.

Most of all, beyond my nine-to-five life, the gallery feeds the flame of my creativity.

The art feeds my imagination, and what, pray tell,  my sweet, tender ,figs, would an artist be without imagination?

My top ten fantasies inspired by the AGO

1) I finally find that flowing scarf that never snags, flops into my soup, or makes my voluptuous ass look big. I also find the perfect sexy boot that doesn’t make me sound like a Clydesdale clopping across the sacred silence of gallery space.

2) I am bent over the knee of Rodin’s Adam, being shagged mercilessly by a very determined lover. He must be virile and skilled enough to finish the entire job before we get tossed out of my Eden of art forever. Preferably he speaks no English. Better yet, he doesn’t speak at all.

3) All of the books that whet my insatiable appetite for the exchange of ideas are priced reasonably, and I meet a man across the crowded, over-priced gift shop who is as hungry for intellectually stimulating intimacy as I am. (Hopefully this one speaks English, but with a sexy Irish brogue, or French yum-yum-accent).

I’m afraid that sums it up. I know lovey, I know, I did say there were ten fantasies, but I can’t share the rest with you. I’m saving them for someone special.

The gallery inspires me to creative, lustful, philosophy. It’s as simple as that. The other seven fantasies are for that yummy man, whom I meet as he sizes up my books and I size up his, er, um….anyway, our, eyes lock across the crowded bookstore/coffee shop/gallery/coat check/gate/pub/studio, and I know he’s the lucky one.

In My Secret Life

I leave you tonight with a song by Leonard Cohen, and a video by ….???

I will listen as I sip a sumptuous Burgundy and indulge in my memory of my very favourite guitar strumming, dulcet toned crooner of a lover who made sex seem like a church compared to what he was capable of.

Charcuterie

pomegraniteIt seems that the next wonderful holiday that we have to look forward to is Valentine’s Day.

So, to get you in the mood my darling readers, I give to you to feast upon, a platter of words.

After you read this, get on out there my sweet little chocolate covered cherries and be sensuous and lovable.

CHARCUTERIE

Plucking fruit from the careful platter

I sit before you

an offering serenaded by the mid-winter gloaming

calculated and subtle

like cheese baked to bursting,

a crack in the rind

forced open to ease the creamy center

a tragic release, tenderness forced to rise.

Your thick fingers

squeeze the delicate fruit from the stem.

My memory winks;

I’ve seen these hands before –

working, deft and capable.

This – this is a different light – though

now I have reason to hesitate.

Should I take each finger softly between my own,

kissing each knuckle

and letting the tips linger  between my teeth

so I can taste your skin?

Should I kiss your lips; a mere sigh of touch,

letting your hands find my cheek,

feathering a thumb over my lip

preparing my tongue for yours?

Or, even to my breast

as our mouths press, ever, so, slowly

warm, wet, disappearing like August morning fog;

from our lips, to our breath, through our bodies…?

Wondering, who are we?

I do none of that. Simply studying you.

A grape; A fig; Deep, bitter chocolate.

You taste it all;

your beautiful fingers busied in the employ

of bringing each sensation to your succulent mouth,

as I watch, waiting

for my turn.

Copyright 2013