Next time I'm in a funk--

force some Pearl Jam on me, would you?
Ok, ok, so that was just PMS in the form of severe blog apathy, so my Eddie wouldn't have made much difference, but whatever.
Listening to pearl jam with or without dirty dirty thoughts always makes for a good time.

It feels like spring here...
It's starting to be warm and not cold, sunny and not rainy--
yes those are all separate things.
I'm sure we'll have plenty more winter, but once the spring days start getting trickled through them it becomes much more palatable.

Today I feel full of possibilities and dreams.
I also feel a little bit...sexy.
I feel like diving naked into a deep lake, on a dark night--
one of those damp summer nights, so dark and almost-rainy that it's not really hot anymore,
but still causes a restlessness to surge up from within,
to spread through me and cause me to press down on the gas pedal harder than usual,
to laugh louder and longer than I did at the same joke yesterday,
and to take every dare that's thrown my way,
or left casually on my creaky wooden doorstep.
It's not night here, but I feel myself a part of the night I'm describing--
from memory, or from somewhere in the future, I know not.
I am lunging up those steps.
Steps grey with weeds pushing their way around from the sides and up through the middle,
splinters in the handrail if you're not careful.
Breathlessly landing at the top of the steps,
nearly tripping over a dare in the form of bottle of cheap wine with a scribbled note folded under it.
Start this, I'll be there soon xo
Wondering who left it; feeling a prickle of curiousity and anticipation skittering through the spaces between my skin and my bones.
Screen door popping into place behind me, shoes walked out of, left on the braided rug my grandmother made for me.
I can picture myself in that house, a house I've never been in, a house I've never seen;
it feels like a memory.
It was a symbol to me, like many other things during those crazy summers home--
trying to make sense of my happy, sheltered past and my uncertain, passionate present.
Finding my way, pressing forward, knowing that the things I wanted most would not be found by a quick glance over my shoulder--or even by turning around and running.
I knew that the best of life was still ahead, and that the best of me was down this new path.
So I saw people who were natural, who had never been anything but free--to my limited perception, at least--
and I made them my ideals.
I remember the day I told her about the beautiful drunken boy who slurringly invited me home, and danced with his shirt off in that smokey place, to the well-practiced sound of that incredible band--
she asked if it was her boyfriend, then laughed and said, "he would never."
She said his name, described him.
My hangover suddenly felt worse as I lied to this sweet girl and told her that she was right...
I hated that moment.
I walked to the sunset with a different boy that night, and wished...
wished that he wasn't visiting from Boston, that I wasn't bound for Utah.
Wished that I was ready to stop running wildly through the night...
But I wasn't ready for that.
I would have never been ready for it, if I hadn't met my husband.
I loved the highs and lows of the chase, the capture, the release.
I loved driving too fast and that moment when I realized the power a woman has over men.

You.
I want to be in your lap, stradling you while we kiss
deeply
wetly
hungrily
fiercely
softly,
and I want to feel your response growing and rub against it with a moan.
I want your hands to go under my skirt--
one hand ripping my panties aside as you slip a finger deep inside
causing my neck to arch back.
you bury your face in my exposed cleavage, one hand roughly removing the fabric obstacles to your mouth on nature's perfect combination of large and soft with small and hard.
Let's wave a magic wand and see your pants flung against some far wall--
feeling you fill me, my face comes back to yours, shakily devouring your kisses as I rise and fall, hands pulling your head to mine, unnecessarily, yet so urgently.
My moans build from softly vocalized exhales to jagged and panting sounds as we race down the home stretch--
collapsing against you, it's a photo finish.

Wow, I should listen to Pearl Jam more often.
Woot!