FIFTY SHADES OF URBAN
My female goddess awakened as Jim tickled me down there with an ostrich feather. I chewed my lips as he salaciously cocked his head to the side and rocked his groin upward. "Holy crap," I gasped, about to reach my eleventh orgasm of the day. Jim stroked his humongous male organ with a riding crop while he slowly tied my ankles to my elbows with his silver necktie, my favorite necktie, the one that always made me gasp, but first he freed my breasts from the restraint of my bra. He made me repeat our safe word: fiddledeedee, as he ran his hand over my sex. His manhood pushed against my belly and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. His ginormous tool bobbed as he strode to the playroom cabinet where he kept his toys. He made a low primal growl as he inhaled sharply. Yes, he did both things simultaneously. "Jump down. Turn around. Pick a bale of cotton," he commanded. I gasped at his words, my insides liquefying. He was about to push me over the brink once more when he slipped a Delta airlines eye mask over my face. "Lie upside down on the nightstand," he ordered.
"That's a little tricky, Jim," I answered in a hoarse whisper. "I'm kind of tied up right now," I purred.
"Do you want me to spank you?" he hissed, his breathing labored.
"Yes, yes." I begged and murmured. A moment later I heard him open a drawer. I sensed him behind me.
"So you want it rough?" he breathed.
"Yes, oh yes!" my female parts moaned.
His erection trailed across my back as he growled, "Do you know how hot you are right now, Wifely?"
WIFELY??!! My building orgasm, the twelfth of the day, came to a screeching halt.
Can you tell I've been reading Fifty Shades of Grey? Are you wondering why? A paperback copy from Woodbury Library sits on our living room coffee table and I wonder why myself. The plot is terrible, the characters are two-dimensional. The term inner goddess is used fifty-eight times and someone murmurs one hundred-ninety-nine times. Some people see a story about a man who was abused at a young age and a woman trying to free him from his demons; a man who is afraid to love and a woman trying to show him how, as they mend the broken parts of each other. Some people are disturbed by the materialism and feel that if you take away the kinky stuff, it's just another Harlequin Romance. It's been suggested that the book's focus on a BDSM relationship appeals to a woman's desire to be dominated. Could women love the book because it shows a man doing all the right things in bed - without having to be asked?
Jim and I - the real Jim, the one who doesn't own a riding crop but does have a humongous male organ - were in the shower yesterday afternoon. He kind of half-heartedly slathered shampoo around on my head with one hand and washed his face with the other hand. As shampoo lather dribbled down my shoulders, I turned to him and said, "You know, this isn't how that Christian Grey guy washes hair."
"Who's Christian Grey?" he asked as he soaped us up.
"The Fifty Shades of Grey guy," I said.
"Why, how's he do it?" Jim asked phlegmatically (EL James isn't the only one with a thesaurus!).
"Oh, he kinds of holds the woman's face in his hands, peers into her eyes, acts like he doesn't even realize she's naked and totally concentrates on gently washing her hair with some exotic jasmine shampoo," I explained.
"You beguile me, Wifely," Jim said (no, he didn't) as he held my face in his hands, peered lovingly into my eyes and slipped his fingers into my nostrils (yes, he did). This is my Christian Grey. He doesn't buy lingerie or send me erotic texts. Actually, his last text consisted of one word: Great. He's never heard of Manolo Blahnik's, doesn't have an Audi R8 Spider or a helicopter We don't have red paint on our playroom walls, he doesn't lavish me with praise and we don't own nipple clamps.
In five days, we'll celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary. My stomach still flutters when he comes home from work and he's the first person I call with good, or bad, news. He doesn't try to control me, yet his is the advice I most value. When I wake up in the middle of the night he's always worked his way over to my side of the bed. He never panics. He never flirts with other women. He's always believed in me, even when I haven't believed in myself. He's a man of honor and integrity. He doesn't hold my hand in public, but he's been at my side for the last thirty years. He loves me with his actions, not with butt plugs, handcuffs or words. Last night when I told him how much I loved him, he said, "Alright." It is alright and I'd marry him all over again.
November 23, 2012
I blog at 'Peep Into My Life'