I’d love it if …

I’d love it if humans were furry like cats and minks and baby seals. Fur is so much nicer than hair.

Fur comes in a range of colours and amazing patterns – solid, spotty, stripey, two-tone, three-tone, ten-tone. Rich, deep colours. It’s fashion unto itself. We could get rid of clothes. No more worrying about what to wear or how everything we own is old crap that doesn’t fit properly and will never, ever come back into fashion. No more lugging around heavy suitcases on holiday. No more washing or ironing.

Our fur would keep us toasty warm but maybe we could have a jacket for winter (made from wool), and probably shoes. But that’s all.

Our body fur would hide our ‘naughty’ bits, our flab, cellulite, knobbly knees, weird rashes, varicose veins, and gnarly toes. No matter what shape a furry body is, it always looks good. Fur hides a multitude of sins beautifully.

A furry face would hide blotchy skin, a crooked nose, zits, wrinkles, puffy eyes, dark circles and bags. No more expensive surgery or botox needed. Or sun block.

Humans definitely have fur envy. We spend half our time ripping and nuking all the hair we can from our bodies and then pop on a fur coat (fake and real), and parade around as if we’re now really special. And fur rugs are treated like a luxurious indulgence. Notice how the furry species are not vying to wear our hair on their backs or lay us down as rugs!!

Yep, if we had our own fur, we could leave all the other critters to theirs. And I’d really love that.


Things That Are Not Based In Reality #1 – Toilet Seat Wars

Where did this whole toilet seat war come from? I swear it’s only an issue that’s cropped up in the last year or so.

If you’ve missed the drama because you’ve been too busy having an actual life, the issue is – she wants the seat down (for comfort, warmth and the prevention of inadvertently sitting on drops of his pee). He wants it up (for ease of hitting the porcelain).

Up. Down. Clearly the twain shall never meet.

Apparently it’s much too difficult for him to lift up. And much too difficult for her to put down. When did the toilet seat get so heavy and cumbersome? Do we all need to hire weightlifters to do the job for us? “I’m sorry, I’d do it myself but my arms are too spindly and weak to move this featherweight bit of plastic a couple of inches.”

I have lived with men all my life – first my father and brother, and now my partner and, this is not a word of a lie, there has never, ever been an issue with the position of the seat. Not once in all my years has it been the source of a casual conversation, a dinner table discussion or fodder during an argument. Except for suddenly being bombarded with it a while ago via all manner of media, I never knew it was something that was worthy of comment.

And why only now? Toilets have been around for quite a while, sitting quietly, minding their own business (and yours).

I reckon the ‘issue’ was made into a big deal in a movie or a TV show. Some writer was trying to think of some kind of gender conflict for the purposes of the story and decided the loo would do. Somehow it escaped the celluloid, made its way into the real world, and took on a life of its own. So now we have to live with men and women abusing each other over the position of a seat.

Nope, the war of the toilet seat is not based in reality. It’s a made up issue that should have remained in the fake world of ‘entertainment’ (and I use the term loosely!)

Who should clean the toilet? Now there’s your real war!


Fifty Shades Of Dust

This is a short story I wrote on Sunday November 4th, 2012. I was lying in bed and thinking about how all I had to look forward to that day was the housework. My partner came into the bedroom and he must has mistaken my glazed look and state of ennui for something else because he said, “What are you fantasising about?” “You,” I said. He looked pleased. “Doing the housework,” I added. Then the idea for Fifty Shades of Dust just flew in.

I’ve never read ‘Fifty Shades …’ but I appreciate the need for each generation to have its erotica. During the 90s, erotica was everywhere. In Australia, there was a magazine called ‘Australian Women’s Forum’ and every month it published a short erotic fiction as part of its content. Every now and then they’d publish an Erotica Special Edition and it was in one of those that I had an erotic fiction published (under a nom de plume for reasons that now escape me). After that, my partner was forever telling me to write an erotic novel and because I felt that erotica was on the wane,  I said to him … “No one’s interested. No one will publish it and no one will buy it.” Proves how much I don’t know!!!!! Anyway … here’s my grab at some of that ‘Fifty Shades …’ success.

Fifty Shades of Dust

She stared into the toothpaste splattered mirror and sighed. Her impossibly large emerald eyes scanned the ensuite’s messy reflection. She sighed again, but this time it was because her beautiful man had just entered. His ocean blue eyes met hers in the mirror and he smiled lovingly at her. He pressed his firm, lean, shirtless body into her back, wrapped his strong arms around her and nuzzled her neck.

“You look tired,” he said. “Come with me.”

He took her hand and guided her to the bedroom and sat her down on the overstuffed chair. Taking a silk scarf from her drawer, he tied her hands.

“What are you doing?”

“Today is all about you,” he breathed seductively in her ear. “The bonds are to make sure you can’t do anything, even if you want to.”

A warm tingle flowed through her as he caressed her face and kissed the tip of her nose. He slowly massaged her shoulders and neck and ran feather-like fingertips down her arms. His magic touch made her shiver with delight.

He moved away from her, turned to face the bed and slowly began to strip … it. First the quilt cover, then the top sheet. As he worked, he purposely leant forward to accentuate his obvious assets. Her main view was of his hot, tight butt swaying seductively as he slowly peeled layer after layer off the bed until it lay bare.

He scooped up the bed clothes. “I’ll just pop these in the machine.” He winked suggestively as her strutted out of the room.

She felt her face flush as the warm tingle went up a few degrees. When he returned, he was carrying clean sheets that smelled as fresh as a Spring morning. She took an audible intake of breath and her heart rate quickened as he carefully dressed the bed.

His magnificent arms flexed and danced as he straightened and tucked in the sheets and when he was done his soft, yet strong, masculine hands glided over the black satin until it was smooth.

Satisfied, he turned to her, took her tied hands in his and helped her out of the chair. Without the need for words, he guided her back to the ensuite. She stood in the doorway and watched as he searched in the cabinet for the rubber objects she kept in there. Success. He snapped on the gloves.

Her heat increased and a wave of pleasure surged through her body as he cleaned the toilet until the porcelain shone whiter than his perfect teeth. The toilet brush bristles scratched down the bowl like long nails being raked down a back. Her eyes never left his lithe, glistening body as he wiped the shower screen, then cleaned the sink. He was like poetry in motion the way he swayed from side to side with each stroke of the cloth.

Then the mirror. He met her wide eyes and fixed his gaze as he brought the damp fabric up and slowly and rhythmically slid it across the sleek surface, wiping away the toothpaste and water drops. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out, “Not that cloth, use the blue one!”

He rinsed the cloth, placed it to dry, changed the towels then led her electrically charged body into the living space. He sat her down in a chair, straddled her, kissed her eyelids closed and told her not to peek until he said so. He disappeared and when he came back she was glad she was sitting because she went weak at the knees. Gripped tightly in his hands was a large, rigid rod. He was dragging the vacuum cleaner behind him!

His nimble, agile fingers found the ‘on’ button and he expertly flicked it to bring the machine to life. The suction was so strong he fought for a moment to get it to submit to his will. Then she realised why it had an almighty suck – he’d emptied it first! Another, more intense, wave of pleasure surged through her.

He glided the vacuum across the rugs and the tiles, and it sucked furiously and greedily. He moved the long, hard head in and out of every crevice and under every piece of furniture. The thick hose stretched and flexed with each thrust forward. No hole, gap or space was ignored.

He moved over the same spots several times, making sure every last bit of grit and dirt was lifted. A small piece of fluff wouldn’t budge so he bent over and picked it up! The sweat on his abdomen emphasised his six-pack. He was a domestic god; her slave for the day. This meant she was his master.

Then he made a move she never expected. He grabbed the thick shaft of the main head, separated it from the nozzle and … changed the attachment! He clicked the small brush on and let the vacuum tickle and suck its way across the furniture.

When he switched the vacuum off, her eyes were glistening and her breathing was heavy. She was so caught up in the thrill of the occasion she almost forgot where she was. She licked her parted lips and heard herself saying, “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop. Give me more.”

He came back with the mop and she very nearly screamed in ecstasy as a tsunami of pleasure undulated through her entire body.

The heady excitement of watching as he plunged the mop into the wide-open mouth of the bucket; diving into its unceasing wetness time after time, then slipping and sliding the wet head across the slick, glossy tiles was more than she could take. Sure, he’d done the dishes before, but this was a whole new side to him. He worked with such passion and purpose. Every inch of that floor got his full attention and it glowed.

When he finished he looked as if he’d just emerged from a pool – dewy, sleek, and sexy. He smelled musky and manly and his chiselled face beamed.

“Had enough yet?” he asked her.

She shook her head. How could she ever get enough of this? She was so close to complete and utter satisfaction, but she wasn’t there yet.

“Just one more thing,” she begged.

She was the master yet she followed him around like an obedient puppy as he caressed the soft cloth and dusted every surface in every room. He lovingly handled every knick-knack and every ornament. He moved things, dusted underneath them and replaced them. He held everything with such tenderness and care as he wiped away every shade of dust, old and new.

His strong hands held that dust cloth as if he were holding a cloth made of the finest silk and she watched fascinated as his long fingers danced around each object as he twisted and turned and polished them until they shone. The heat in her body rose many more degrees as she considered the talent in his hands.

When he was finished, everything sparkled like a precious gem. The house looked amazing. He untied her hands and ran his hard-working ones through her hair, playfully tugging it at the nape. She sighed softly. He kissed her moist mouth then placed his full lips close to her ear and whispered, “Later, I’ll cook you dinner.”

With a rush of ecstatic joy and a moan of pure, unadulterated pleasure, she collapsed into his bulging arms. The satisfaction was complete.


Nice to meet you :)

Greetings fellow bloggers and readers,

I’m adding my voice to the world wide web. Sometimes I’m gonna rave on about stuff that drives me mad. Sometimes I’m gonna be full of love and light and all the joys of the Universe and sometimes I’m gonna share pieces of my writing. Mostly I’ll try and keep things short, sharp and shiny because people are busy. So, having said that, I’ll blog off now and return another day.

Chat soon. Bye.