On a Dark Desert Highway


Some runs you grind out. Some runs, every single fucking step hurts. Your lungs scream, your quads scream and your entire body says you can’t, even as you keep running. Some runs you make your mileage and your speed and you hate every single goddam agonizing moment.

Some runs are just runs. Some times you start and you finish and you don’t really even notice you ran. Oh, you think. That was 3 miles? Oh. Well then.

Then there are the other runs. The runs that are spectacular, and yes, I know runner’s is similar to getting high off pot and I’m probably killing brain cells. (You might think I need them. You wouldn’t be wrong there).

That’s not the point. On that high, drenched in sweat, my lungs and muscles screaming, I am in love with my body. I am in love with what it can do. I am the most powerful person in the world. My shadow body running alongside me, highlighted in the sun and I am astonished at what I can do. By what I demand of myself.

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air

The instrumental introduction to Hotel California is about a minute long. It always makes me think of a night, almost 20 years ago,  spent having sex.

Look, even all those years ago, decades really, I was the crazy one. Nascent, I suppose, but there was an edge to me. I always wanted to push things just a bit further, go a bit harder.

(Maybe we could just turn the lights on?)


I was the crazy one.

I found myself thinking that, thinking of the edge, 3 and a half miles in, legs screaming, listening to the introduction to Hotel California.

You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave.


The Sting of Missing

He’s the definition of Mr. Right Now. He will be here and gone and that is enough incentive to make me enjoy the now.

I don’t want the fucking hurt of holding on anyway.

He’s the random text – I was just thinking of you . . . Sitting on my face.

He makes me howl with laughter at his filthy limericks. ( I had no idea that many things rhymed with tits). He’s mostly the perfect casual partner. An enjoyable dinner companion and a trashed bed. Never pressure to stay.

I’ll show up at the pub tonight, slightly frazzled and probably late. He’ll kiss me and compliment me.

And then he’ll smack me on the ass. Hard enough to sting and not so hard that anyone around us notices.

Because he flirts. And I miss that he’s flirting. I’m not used to it, I’m fucking bad at it, I’m up to my ass in alligators at work.

The sting will recede a bit. He’ll lean down and whisper in my ear.

That’s for not noticing the flirting. There’s more to come later.  . .  


Little Girl Child


I was standing in the grocery check out line. With my green beans and my eggs and 4 pounds of freaking butter for Sunday dinner. She was across the aisle from me, with her mum and her older brother and her little sister.

Apropos of fucking nothing, she announced that she needed to go on a diet.


You, in your pink striped t-shirt and yellow shorts, flip flops. Eight years old. Your hair brown and fine and fly-away. You tease your brother and pepper your mum with questions. Your strong arms pick up your sister and piggy back her through line. 

Oh little girl child. Nowhere near a woman. Nowhere near even a – young – woman. Little girl – child – this is not your moment and not your milestone. 

When did they do this to you? to me? to us?

When did they make us small, limit us? When did they tell you to change your body, subtly (or not so subtly  . . . ) tell me that I wasn’t ok?

Do you remember that moment?  Do I?


It is summer little girl. And there are sprinklers and summer camps and running through hot air to get a popsicle. Reality is the sun lightening your brown fly away hair, and I bet you get freckles.

There are milestones. They will come. Soon at that. For now, look at your strong arms as you piggy back your sister through the line. Listen to your giggle. It’s infectious. 

You are perfect. Just as you are. 




I always win . . .

The clock maker texted me that we were playing a game that night. What did I want for winning? What was I willing to do if I lost?

I texted him my reward. In the midst of a meeting he came back

and if you lose?
I never lose.

Games with the clock maker are a challenge. He’s a foot taller and twice my weight. He thinks I’m pocket sized. And Cute.

I’d already won my round and my reward without breaking a sweat.

It was his turn.

I was sure that as soon as I settled in with my lips around his cock he’d drop his hands to wrap them in my hair. He usually does.

Except he didn’t.

And I was running out of time.

So I pulled us both backwards on to his bed. And he dropped his hands.

He told me I cheated.

I grinned and told him I won.

Because I always win.



All These Questions. All This Planning.

I’m off hiatus, but I’m doing things a bit differently.

(Ending three NSA relationships, then getting dumped in text will do that for you. March was the shittiest month in a fucking long time. Not doing that again.)

There were so many questions. Which hotel? (Pick one downtown) Did I want to stay the night? (Sure) Was I going into the office the next day (Yes). Was there somewhere we shouldn’t go for dinner first, in case I ran into colleagues with him (I’m discreet but not ashamed of my lifestyle. If I run into someone, it’s fine) Was I ok with not being cuddled while I sleep (Holy fuck yes, don’t touch me while I sleep). Did I want breakfast (breakfast is negotiable. Coffee is not). 

I was mildly complaining to the internet barrister.  My last “relationship” with The Ent had no questions (also no interest) and while this was different, the new guy is charming and really quite focused on making things work for both of us. Still and all, grown up sex is a bit exhausting, what with the bloody planning I was asked to become involved in. While a great dinner, a black cocktail dress, red lipstick and a comfortable hotel bed have much to recommend them, in the midst of a really busy day, a fuck with my back against a brick wall was feeling a bit simpler.

Anyway, my phone was buzzing with questions (he was buying some fruit for a snack, did I want anything?) The internet barrister, in his fucking logical manner responded back:

That’s because teenaged sex wound up with itching and pregnancy scares. Quit complaining. 


Point taken.

Planning was worth it.

Hiatus over.


I fucked up a presentation today. By fucked up I mean that someone asked me a question about numbers and I didn’t have an answer and gave a rambling, incoherent dumb-assed answer. I looked like an idiot.

I was an idiot.

I am never – ever – an idiot.

Being an idiot is not actually an option in my line of work.

And that, if you were fucking wondering, is why I was drinking Irish scotch – out of a plastic cup – in my bosses office at 1:30 pm.

Some weeks ago I told a (fomer?) partner that it didn’t feel like I was doing “this” right.

“This” defined as any sort of relationship.

I have ended four (maybe?) relationships in the last 3 weeks.

So. I’m not doing relationships right.

I’m fucking up at work.

The Wicked Wednesday prompt was for Zombies this week. And I’m not thinking about erotica, about sex even.

I’m thinking about how zombies are not alive but still animated. How they have the characteristics of being alive, but aren’t.

And I’m thinking of a simple question about numbers and my inability to answer.

And four ended relationships.

And a whole lot of trying to decide what’s dead and what isn’t.


I think I’m going to be on it for a bit.

Beach Towel Dreams

It was a dream. A Sunday morning dream. Well. Monday for him.

He was on a beach and I was on shore. He waved at me. My head was shaded by an enormous sun hat and I was laying on a beach towel.

And he waved.

That’s all.

I said – here – that I wasn’t in love with him. And I wasn’t.

And I was.

In a way that defies description. Beige sweaters and all this time thinking and I still don’t know.

It’s been 3 months – maybe a bit less – since I told him to never contact me again. Your romance novelists would have been proud of me. It was big and grand and epic and I took all the blame and let him off scot free.

So that I could be free.

It worked, as it turns out.

Or his gaze turned elsewhere. I don’t know.

I would say that we ripped the heart of out of each other, but that’s not quite true. He ripped the heart of out me. I just kept on trying to love him enough.

I don’t miss the ripping. I don’t miss the terrible things he told me about me, the direct hits that left me gasping.

But him. There was a good part or 2, and I miss that. I miss the best of him.

Watching him stand in the sunshine, the water at his back, waving at me.

Songs Come to Life

WickedwednesdayI doubt this makes it any better, but it’s not a Mexican standoff. The Steady would have to be involved. Or me. I’m not, for the record, getting involved.

So said Mr. Bowtie, when I told him that I had refused to dump myself, the guy wasn’t dumping me, the relationship was over and I didn’t know what to call it.

The Very Lovely Barrister suggested schragrimstirn. It combines ‘indirect’ and ‘end’ and it’s German, so you get the a profound sense of hopelessness and anger while you say it.

My best friend just said “you call it about time. This wasn’t working.”

I don’t know. I’m eating Ben and Jerry’s ice cream at 11:30 in the morning, crying while I type an interim report. Wondering if I can drink red wine now or if I have to wait until 4.

I’m ok. Well buttressed. I am sad but it’s not the end of the world. The ice cream is from his last bout of bad behaviour, my best friend was partly right – it was time. He has occupied so much of my thoughts and I have occupied too little of his.

We went to a Blue Rodeo concert he and I, a few weeks ago. One of my favourite bands, and one that he liked as well. As I try and cast about for what to call this, I think of one of my favourite songs. We can call it thus –

And we both look back on it
It’s just bad timing that’s all

Blue Rodeo, Bad Timing, 5 Days in July, 1993

I appreciate that the rules of the prompt were to pick a random song on your music list. I did do this, and you can read it tomorrow.
It’s just that bad timing happened to strike today.


Red Tide

Here’s the thing. They aren’t bad now, but as a young woman I had fucking miserable periods. Huddled  over a hot water bottle, taking ibuprofen like it’s candy. They would disappear for long periods of time, forced to emerge when medical professionals screeched at me about health.

Now it’s the passing of time. Another 4-ish weeks. Some months, when I was much younger, a sigh of relief that I wasn’t pregnant. Some months, in the middle of failed fertility treatment, it was heart break. Some months it was just a “huh, that time again?” I’ve had  a period for 25 years now. I’m used to it. I’ve made my peace with it.

I had a date. At the ripe old age of 37, I don’t mind sex on my period.  If I know you and I’m comfortable, I’ll warn you and tell you that I’m fine with it if you are,  but if you want to postpone that’s fine.


I thought it was fine. I thought it was preference. I don’t much like facial hair, he doesn’t like sex with blood.

Until be took me up on my option to postpone.

I was fucking furious.

I didn’t think of it as a feminist issue.

At 37 I’m a lot more peaceful in my body. Also more strident.

Seeking Soles

I was going to write a story about this guy in the elevator at work. He has great oxfords. A few pairs. I like a nice pair of dress shoes. I’ll look down at his shoes and up at the rest of him while I’m riding the elevator. We smile at each other.

The best are the sleek oxfords in a nice contrasting brown that stands out from his suit. They have maroon coloured laces – enough to tell me that he pays attention to the little things.

So, I was going to write something about that.


I’ll look at the shoes and the suit.

I’m not going home with them. I’m sorry.

I’m not looking for refined. Polished. Stylish.

I’m craving something a bit more rough. A bit more grit and a lot less slip.

I’ll wear the suit and the heels.

You can wear the work boots.