Christmas at Petra 2017

 

 

Shooting a promotional video for a major tour company, I found myself in the ancient city of Petra in Jordan on Christmas Day. The tour group I was with hiked to the city but did not want to make the arduous climb up to the Monastery (Ad Deir).  Only Terri, a younger woman about my age, wanted to make the trek up the mountain. The group headed back to the hotel while Terri and I began the long trail up.

We had become quite close during the two previous weeks of the middle east tour. Hiking together and chatting happily, we only met people coming down the trail as the afternoon was quickly slipping away. Terri was fit, smart, and funny. I liked her a lot.

 

We arrived at the Monastery, a giant copy of the “Treasury” building featured in Indiana “Jones and the Last Crusade” with the sun still high. We discovered that six American men were the only persons there. They were part of an Army unit stationed in Jordan that had been given a day pass to visit Petra on this Christmas day. All were enlisted men led by the eldest of them, their platoon sergeant.

 

The men seemed quite pleased to run into us. Truth is, Terri and I looked pretty good that day in brightly decorated pants and Arab shemagh head scarves we found in Egypt. We felt confident flirting a little because the guys were polite, respectful, and eager to talk about their adventures in Jordan. I had a giant chocolate bar in my pack I planned to share with the tour, but decided our new Army friends might enjoy it more. We divided up the chocolate, munched, and marveled at having the amazing Monastery to ourselves.

 

While the guys couldn’t tell us exactly what they were doing in Jordan, they hinted that it was a “just in case” kind of thing for 12 months. They were all buff with giant pistons for arms and shoulders and backs that would normally melt me into a puddle of “oh, hell yes.” It occurred to me I could duck into one of the small caves around the Monastery with any of the guys and give him a little Christmas present. Terri told me later that night she had the same naughty fantasy.

 

As the sun was setting, we all hiked down the cliffs to the main trail and slot canyon that was the entrance and exit to Petra. We laughed as we wished we had the horses Indiana Jones rode in the movie. It took us two hours to get back to the town and parking lot where our vehicles were parked. It was genuinely hard to say good-bye to these soldiers stationed far from home, serving our country, separated from friends and family on Christmas Day.

 

The sergeant was the only married man in the group, so he didn’t get heartfelt and sometimes lingering “Christmas Kisses” from both Terri and me. He did, however, get hugs and sweet pecks on the cheek.

 

Our tour group, waiting at our mini-bus watching us say farewells to the GIs, lost no time playfully harassing us about the guys calling them our “harem of men.” Terri laughed, “Hmmm… three for Sparks and three for me. That’s about right, I think.” I gave her a high five.

I'm Not Bad, I Just Like To Go Slutty Sometimes

October has been a crazy month for me. I was going to wait until after Halloween to post to this blog but friends asked me to embellish a quick blurb I wrote on Facebook regarding a night out with friends.

 

Several film and theatre friends joined Jenny and me in attending a play described as "A visceral blend of classical mythology and real-life stories told by street kids." Being so close to Halloween, it seemed the perfect venue for wearing my “street slut” look. The outfit is simply a super short and tight little red dress, thigh-high fishnet stockings, and a pair of acrylics “fuck me” heels.

 

My outfit earned me many salacious stares and a copped feel or two. Jenny wore a black silk jumpsuit, unbuttoned to her navel, and black strappy heels, so we were, if I say so myself, the sexiest couple in our group. And that is saying quite a lot as all of us were dressed as naughty as we dared as that was the order of the evening.

 

After the play, we dropped by a great little bar in the university area that is totally solar-powered and caters to the astronomy culture, associated science types, and a few geeks as well. It’s a wonderful little place with an open and liberal-minded clientele.

 

Our group made a beeline for our favorite patio table in a corner that is somewhat private, at least more so, than the rest of the tables. We knocked down two pitchers of margaritas in short order and were feeling a little buzz, just enough to make us warm and fuzzy, and flirty.

 

I’m a bit unsure how it happened, but the group decided that I was the “sluttiest” of the night and therefore deserved a good spanking. I think my friends were being generous as most of them know I like a gentle, loving spanking from time to time.

 

Jenny took the lead telling me to stand up, put my hands on the table, and bend over, which I did eagerly, ensuring my tush was pointed away from the main area of the patio. Each person at the table was allowed two or three swats at my partially exposed tush and an inch or two of zettai ryouiki between the tops of my stockings, the hem of my dress, and the flimsy lace of tiny bikini panties. Most spankers were kind, offering mostly gentle swats between a few zingers!

 

Finally, it was Jenny’s turn. She gave me a funny wicked look and pushed my head down a little to emphasize my raised rear end. I think she looked around the patio to make sure no one was paying too much attention (some were, but not overtly) then lifted my dress just enough to pull my panties down a few inches.

 

She laughed out loud as she discovered I was wearing a little red jeweled butt plug. She gave me three quick, hard swats. Still giggling, she thumped my plug a couple of times and pulled my panties up declaring, “Happy Birthday” for the benefit of the onlookers on the patio.

 

I sat down, warmed by the love of understanding good friends, a naughty, public spanking, and a couple of margaritas.

Every Girl Needs a Denim Jacket

After the first week of classes, I'm looking forward to hanging out with the film, TV and theatre folk to celebrate the return to face-to-face classes, plays, and film productions. I want to wear my comfy denim jacket to show off the fact that I worked hard to avoid tan lines this summer.

Welcome back to school everyone!

Jenny

 

At the beginning of my sophomore year at USC, I was asked to welcome and “sponsor” a new freshman entering the Cinematic Arts Program. Her name was Jenny and she was a prodigy, sixteen years old, and the daughter of a prominent film editor in Hollywood. She had been making movies since she was a mere babe and already had her short films screened in prestigious film festivals.

 

She was also the horniest and most sexually active girl/woman I have ever known.

 

I had not seen her since I moved to Arizona, so I looked her up this week during my visit to SoCal. We met for lunch in Huntington Beach, where the National Surf Championships are being held. We figured we’d watch some surfing in the morning, then chow down at a favorite Mexican restaurant.

 

I agreed to meet her in front of the Huntington Surf Shop, across the street from the pier. I’m not sure what I expected at seeing her again, but when she appeared in a playsuit with a neckline that plunged to her lady bits and short shorts that caressed her little tush just so. I was not surprised. What did surprise me was an outrageously beautiful full-color tattoo of a mermaid that covered her chest and ended below her navel. This was a true, bright work of art, not a sloppy, faded street tattoo from some hole-in-the-wall shop. This was Hollywood perfection, albeit, a beta temporary tattoo that looked the real thing.

“Sparky,” she squealed and hugged and kissed me as if we were long-lost lovers. And, well, that is as good a description of us as any.

 

Arm in arm, we strutted down the pier giggling like we did in college and found a place to watch the surfers compete. With the wind blowing, the surfing commentator on giant speakers, airplanes overhead, and the general crowd noise, we had to lean close, face-to-face to converse. She was wearing her signature fragrance, brown sugar, which somehow fit her fragile 5’1” thin – okay, skinny – frame. The surfing was not great as a storm offshore was causing awkward swells and rip currents were mean.

 

We lasted on the pier for maybe an hour before we made our way down Main Street to one of our favorite eateries, Avila’s El Ranchito. It was Tuesday so the Farmer’s Market was converted into a pedestrian area. Colorful stalls of everything from fresh fruit and produce to E-Bikes lined the curbs. In the center of the market, a three-piece band was playing A Whiter Shade of Pale. Jenny, a far bolder exhibitionist than me, became one with the music and began to dance about in wide graceful moves engaging young and old folk with her seductive smile, turns and twists. Her tiny outfit with her high-top sneakers, I think, made people believe she was part of the act. The band and the crowd liked her. She danced to one more tune, Hotel California, earning vigorous applause from passers-by.

 

At Avila’s we shared a Taco Tuesday plate and happy hour margaritas. We sat side-by-side like we almost always did at USC, so we could tickle and tease each other more easily than we could from across a table. And we did just that. It was like no years had passed at all.

 

Jenny's career is ferociously successful. She followed in her mom's footsteps and pursued film editing working for several of the major studios. She is in high demand cutting features as well as mini-series on the streamers. Like everyone in Hollywood, she has a couple of scripts making the rounds too. Hearing about her adventures tweaked something in my brain, and heart, so now I'm thinking about and longing for being back in the "industry" full time. Hmmmm....

Time passed ever so quickly until the afternoon wore into the evening and we found ourselves walking along the beach at sunset. Jenny had driven all the way from LA, so had the foresight to book a room because she was sure lunch would lead to dinner and dinner would lead to spending the night together. Jenny always was clever.

 

I was not surprised that the room Jenny had reserved had a small, two-person Jacuzzi tub. We were salty all over from being in the sun much of the day and sandy from our walk, so the tub became our first priority. We sank into the hot water, turned up the jets, and took turns washing each other – you know, feeling each other up – all over with shampoo, soap, and smiles. Afterward, we bundled up in big, soft terrycloth robes provided by the hotel.

 

We weren’t very hungry, so we just ordered a pizza for dinner from ZeroZero39 Pizza (when in Huntington Beach, a must). Jenny decided to dash down the street for a bottle of wine, yes wearing the robe, while I called my mom letting her know I wouldn’t be home. This also gave me some time to think about how I felt about seeing Jenny again.

 

Remember, Jenny was just sixteen years old when I was her “sponsor” at USC. I was only nineteen yet had already developed a particular affinity for girls younger than myself. With Jenny’s hyperactive libido and my desire for teens, we were a match made in nubile nirvana. We simply loved loving each other. We weren’t “in love” or a couple or even an “item” to use a term of the day. Between classes, productions, projects, other girlfriends or boyfriends, or other life stuff that kept us busy, when we had time to be together, we played. Oh my, how we played!

 

Remembering Jenny then and how we played, made me laugh out loud, shiver, and get all goose-bumpy. I wallowed in the feeling.

 

There was banging on the door. I noticed Jenny’s room key was on the table by the door, so assumed she had forgotten it because it was too soon for the pizza delivery. I hopped up and dropped my robe to greet her buck naked. Okay, I know, you saw this coming I am sure, but, yes, it was the pizza guy. Honest. It was a true cliché. I’ve greeted pizza delivery guys naked on purpose, on dares, but never by accident. He laughed and told me I was the second one this week. Go figure. 

 

As I said, Jenny is clever. She bought wine with a screw cap because we didn’t have a corkscrew. We munched pizza in our pristine white robes on the little balcony of the room that looked out over the PCH and the beach.

 

It wasn’t long before we were entwined this way and that and head over heels taking advantage of almost every inch of the California King bed. We’d been down this highway before and knew every road sign and bump in the road of each other’s bodies. Jenny kissed me like no other person in the world. Her tongue was magic, with the light touch of a butterfly and the motion of an ocean swell. I remembered it delightfully as she rediscovered me and my body. Her mouth drifted to my breasts where she did a little lick, nibble, and tiny bite thing that has always made me shiver. She used her slender hands and gentle fingers to slide into my curves, crevices, and orifices with remembered practice. After all the years we have been playmates, this seemed, again, like one of the very first times, new and naughty.

 

I found myself remembering a night only a few weeks after we met. We were exploring the merits of female 69 when Jenny asked simply, almost in a little girl voice, “May I put my finger in your butt?” I laughed, completely taken aback, but was amused at the question. “Sure!”

 

I had dabbled in some ass play before but did not become a fan until Jenny made it playful, funny, and fun. And she was only sixteen then. Over the years she refined the art and this night she was more astonishing than ever.

 

Finally, both of us exhausted from the day and over-the-moon orgasms, we were drifting off to sleep when Jenny whispered, “When I finish the editing project I am working on, may I visit you in Tucson?”

 

“Of course, darling.”

Little Girls

 

Last night I attended The Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach, California. It’s a fascinating show where performers and artists recreate works of art blending live performers with intricate set stage settings. When combined with a live orchestra and narration, the productions are thoroughly entertaining.

Before the performance, I was walking through the shopping and restaurant area of Laguna showing off a bit in a tiny, crocheted boho top. It’s soft, with a small shelf bra sewn in that makes my little boobies bounce in a rhythm of bounce-jiggle/bounce-jiggle with each step. The top usually garners a bit of attention and sly glances.

As I walked, casually dodging other oncoming pedestrians, I noticed a cute freckled redhead coming towards me wearing a similar top. I laughed because her boobs were small like mine and bounced as much or more in the same rhythm. She saw me too, in an instant of recognition, and began laughing too. As we approached each other, we both slowed, staring at each other's tits, grinning.

Close now, we stopped. She looked me in the eyes and popped her hand up for a high five, which I immediately returned. We stood there for a moment before she said, matter-of-factly, “nice tits.”

I didn’t think or even glance around as people strode past us, as I lifted my top briefly, flashing my girls for her to see. She didn’t hesitate. She returned the favor and flashed her little boobs. Much to my delight, her nipples were pierced with delicate gold rings.

We both stood there, for a mere second with wide smiles, before she continued on her way, strutting happily away.

My date looked at me, shook her head, took my hand, and walked with me to the theatre.

In Facebook Jail for Meme Two Years Ago

 Yes, Facebook put me in jail for three days because I shared a memory post from almost two years ago. It was okay then, but now much later, it is not?

"...I feel like I should wear a hat."

 

My new pixie cut!

"Sometimes the shit comes down so heavy I feel like I should wear a hat."                        - Ned Racine in "Body Heat"

I feel that way lately. From COVID to inflation, to voting rights, to a woman's right to choose (thanks a lot, "Extreme Court), to climate change, to the "big lie" and the willfully ignorant far right, to the war in Ukraine, I've had it. So easy it would be to turn my brain off, teach my classes on autopilot, and spend my nights dancing at Curves Cabaret or cruising the bar at the historic Hacienda del Sol.

But, I won't give up, or give in, or shrug off the hell of today's utterly polarized and dysfunctional state. I'll keep hitting myself over my head with the hammer of hope that we'll fix the mess our country has become because it will feel so good when I finally get to stop. Yes, I am one of those hard-core optimists who join groups, attend rallies, and contribute to Democrats when I can. I subscribe to the notion that the mainstream GOP has become evil and must be exorcised or put to death.

So I have to balance my life as best I can. For everything that drags my mind and heart down towards the heavy wet blanket of depression, I have to find options that are equal to and opposite the negatives.

So, I am weaving a hat against the rain of shit. Here is how I am doing it.

I jog or walk at least 3 miles after rolling out of bed, early, before the summer heat makes this impossible. Then I shower and listen to music on my waterproof smart speaker. Often, I raise my spirits by singing at the top of my lungs while enjoying the feminine benefits of a powerful shower massage. Next, instead of dressing and reading the newspaper or listening to NPR, I putter about the kitchen naked fixing a light breakfast and mixing sweet ice coffees. If I have the time, I read a few pages of whatever book I am reading with a second coffee.

With exercise, a shower, an orgasm, breakfast, and coffee, I am ready to get dressed and face the day. If the day is one where I work from home, I toss on my home uniform: tank or t-shirt and light cotton shorts (no underwear necessary), and flip-flops. I'd go barefoot, but we do have scorpions about this time of year. If I am going to campus, running errands, or will otherwise be in public, I put on real clothes that are normally appropriate. If I am feeling naughty (my shy exhibitionist way) I will dress to tease: mini skirt or dress, short shorts, open or see-through top, strappy, sexy sandals. Either at home or out, wearing outfits that make me smile, make me feel sexy, or even aroused, contribute to my "hat."

Essentially, I avoid the negative and tend to things that make me happy before I go anywhere near the news of the day. Once I've had a halcyon morning ignoring the current day-to-day hell, I can glance at the newspaper or online news, but not cable. The exception recently has been the January 6th Committee hearings. I allowed myself to watch that.

If I find myself growing negative or angry, I try to change gears and do something that fights the good fight as I mentioned above, supporting a group, a movement, or a candidate that can make things better.

Yes, I watch the evening news. Ugh. I know it is usually negative, but sometimes, there is good news. With luck, I've experienced enough "good" during the day to offset nightly news.

Evenings, when I am not at home alone reading or enjoying a movie, I spend with people of like mind, those friends or lovers who swim, dine, listen to music, watch movies, go to the theatre, a concert, or even dance! All of these activities make my heart happy and quite often allow me to show off, be naughty, and even be a bit promiscuous.

It's all part of weaving the "hat."