A number of times in my life, during personally traumatic times, I’ve experienced the impulse to climb under large  pieces of furniture for emotional comfort.

When I was in college and overwhelmed by homework and tests and the panic and paralysis I felt about writing, I was once in a lecture hall and couldn’t restrain myself from climbing under a bank of theater-style seats.  Luckily, I was early to class and no one else was there.

Later, when I was in the process of moving out of the apartment I shared with Husband Number One, and overcome with the weight of my first marital failure, I used to climb under my desk at work to comfort myself.  I locked my office door so that no one would discover me.

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Maybe this impulse to climb under large items of furniture originates from a lifetime lived in earthquake country.  I can remember earthquake drills as early as the first grade.  A bell would ring and our entire class of five- and six-year olds calmly scooted back our chairs and curled up into little balls under our desks, our arms wrapped around our heads to protect our little brains.

So you see I learned very early the lesson that when the earth is shaking beneath you, when your dearest possessions are flying across the room and breaking into a million pieces, when the couch that used to be in that corner is now on the other side of the room in that other corner, you climb under something sturdy.  And that is precisely what I do.

When I am feeling all at sea, I climb under a bank of chairs… a desk… or sometimes a nice, big, sturdy man.

♥

I didn’t realize how at sea I was feeling today, until I looked around and found that I was crouched under my desk at work.  This was a weird one.  In the past, I’d contemplated the climbing under furniture for long, painful stretches before actually succumbing.  In other instances I would first try to talk myself out of it.  I would resist.

This time, I found myself looking out from under my desk before I had even quite realized I wanted to crawl under.  I’m going to go ahead and consider that personal progress.

What, you may wonder, is happening with me that’s got me climbing under my desk?  Oh, you know, the Horny Housewife usual: Things got weird and creepy with my thirty-year old boyfriend of three months.  Let’s call him Peter. (We’ve never had a Peter before, have we?)  So I went back to constant, addictive, electronic communication with Donny (whom I’m still madly in love with, despite the fact thate he lives with his girlfriend) and so last night, in a boozy effort to forget them both, I got into a sexy and honest exchange with Detective Kurt.  Then today I got into a fight with my ex-husband, who decided not to bring my son to school today because he felt like sleeping in, and then I crawled right under my desk.  That sums it up.

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Why am I telling you all this?  I’m not sure.  I felt like sharing.  Actually, I felt like my head was going to explode, and the last time I felt like that was about three years ago when I started this blog.

Also, I’d had a very nice e-mail from someone on the other side of the world named Edward, who kind of reminded me that I used to do this.

So we’ll try it out again.  It’s cheaper than therapy.

♥

Remember today, when I was underneath my desk?  (I know, we’re all a lot older than we were in 2008, but you can remember just a few paragraphs ago, can’t you?) When I was under my desk I texted GOC.  He is one of my best friends now, and one of the only people in the world I would reach out to under such odd circumstances.  He was there for me, of course.

Just now he texted me before he went to bed to make sure I was all right.  ”I tried it under my desk,” he said.  ”It was nice.”

It’s good to have friends.

HH/Mora

Mora/The Horny Housewife/The Horny Mora is in beautiful Hawaii this week.    The person I’m here with (not a love interest) wasn’t feeling well today, so I set out on a beach-front horseback riding excursion by myself. 

When the handsome Hawaiian cowboy at the ranch realized I was alone, he looked at me and said “So you’re Lonesome Dove, huh?”

“Not lonesome,” I answered.  I thought about it for just a second, then added, ”Just Dove.”

He laughed a kind of a tired, macho laugh, which I found attractive because he was older and tall and, let’s face it, he had that sexy cowboy thing working for him.

But all during the ride, I found myself pondering this question as I moseyed: Can one will one’s self not to be lonely? 

When I told the handsome Hawaiian cowboy that I wasn’t lonely, was I describing a true characteristic of my mental condition, or was I making an assertion which wasn’t quite true?  And, if my claim wasn’t true, would it be possible to wish it into verity? 

Is a state of non-loneliness anything like beliveing in fairies?  If I wish hard enough and clap my hands loudly enough, can I save Tinkerbell’s life? 

 I believe in you, Tinkerbell.  Do you believe in me?

♥Mora

In this Tiffany Brooch, a golden bird perches on a spectacular aquamarine. 18k gold with an emerald-cut aquamarine and round brilliant diamonds in platinum.

Ex-boyfriend Donny and I had stopped all communication for about a month, but then, over the past couple of days, we started e-mailing again, kind of like we used to: all day in a steady stream.  It’s no surprise, but it led, once again, to my fantasizing about him and us and him loving me.  I recognize how futile that is.  Donny never loved me.  He is never going to love me.  It’s just not something he has to offer.  Why can’t my brain accept that?  It’s pointless pining. 

It’s like I need to brush my teeth, so I go into The Gap.  I say to the woman behind the counter: “Do you have any toothpaste?”

She says, “No.  We don’t sell toothpaste here,” and then I just wander through the aisles, oohing and ahhing and wishing I could clean my teeth with a pair of blue denim capris.

I like Donny’s store so much.  I love just hanging around in there.  I like the way it feels: comfortable and calm.  I like to be seen there, and I like to see myself there. 

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Breakfast at Tiffany’s is one of my favorite movies.  Go to 7 min, 20 seconds here:

Holly: Poor old Cat.  Poor slob.  Poor slob without a name.  The way I look at it, I don’t have the right to give him one.  We don’t belong to each other; we just took up by the river one day.  I don’t even want to own anything until I can find a place where me and things go together.  I’m not sure where that is, but I know what it’s like.  It’s like Tiffany’s

Fred: Tiffany’s?  You mean the jewelry store?

Holly:  That’s right.  I’m crazy about Tiffany’s…Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it.  Nothing very bad could ever happen to you at Tiffany’s.  If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s then…then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name. 

♥

I guess I’m looking for a real-life relationship that makes me feel like Tiffany’s, but a Tiffany’s that stocks toothpaste. 

♥Mora

Detective Curt just left my house…my bed…my lips…  Great…great…great…

m

Upon the occasion of their twelfth sexual conquest, Mora’s heart, brain, and vagina reflect upon sex, love, loneliness, the disappearance of nervousness, and various and sundry reprecussions of an even dozen. 

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Heart was all in.  As you know, she is ridiculously enthusiastic and optimistic in such matters.  Brain thought it might be a good idea.  She approves of Goc, just as Constance does.  Vagina was on the fence (probably straddling it… humping it…), but she’ll try anything once.   You know her.

All agreed we should move forward, and the decision didn’t arise out of some rushed, desperate midnight conclave, of the sort which had resolved to sleep with Donny on that sad, sad night last last October.  The vote for sex also wasn’t the result of the kind of  starving, hedonistic Afternoon Delight Caucus which had first, eagerly, gratefully, opted to have sex with Detective Curt on that memorable day in December, 2007.  

No.  It was a carefully considered question.  All parties made their arguments.  All points of view were heard and considered.  All repercussions and ramifications carefully thought through.  Everyone had her turn at the podium and all all were in accord.   So we fucked him. 

♥

We lay back on the couch, Goc on top of us, caressing our breasts, grinding his penis against our hips, and slipping his fingers back and forth between the fairly wet lips of our freshly waxed pussy.  And it was just fine.  Really nice, in fact.  

Goc understands Heart’s yearning for love, Brain’s need for stimulation, and Vagina’s yen for excitement.  He gave a little kung fu bow to each of the girls.  They batted their eyelashes and bowed back, mostly so he would notice and appreciate their butt, and then they suggested all parties progress into the bedroom.  So they did. 

The kissing was good.  The caressing was really good: not all sensitive and overly gentle, yet also not exclusively corporal.  We could tell he was happy to be there with us.  We could tell this was important to him.  Maybe a little too important. 

♥

Goc’s penis wouldn’t cooperate.  After we got to the bedroom, it only became kind of semi-hard.  Hard enough to get a condom on, hard enough for insertion, but not hard enough to really make an impression, if you know what I mean. 

He told us that in the two years since he’d been divorced, this had never before happened.  We  believed him, perhaps because it was true, or perhaps because he linked it to a flattering compliment, which was that he liked us a little too much and it all felt a little too important.   

He had definitely seemed nervous that first night we kissed, but the kissing was smooth and assured this time.  We hope now the sex will follow suit: nervous and uncertain the fist time; all the kinks ironed out the second. 

We like him a lot, but we have our concerns about a lack of spark.  We don’t want to bite his neck and crawl away while he writhes in agony, as we did with Valentine Dave.  That was terribly painful for all concerned, and we must avoid a repeat performance. 

♥♥♥

My lifetime total of sexual partners is now twelve.  Twelve penises in my pussy is what it literally means.  But what else? 

Twelve men I’ve kissed.  Twelve men who’ve seen me naked.  Twelve men whose penises I’ve manipulated.  And a partridge in a pear tree. 

Here’s something: I am no longer nervous before having sex with a man for the first time.  I’ve teed up with Tiger Woods.  I’ve golfed a few rounds with Jack Nicklaus.  I’ve shared a drink on the nineteenth hole with Ben Hogan.  I’m a sex pro.  (That’s not quite what I meant…) 

Part of me is relieved the nervousness is all gone, but part of me is sad about it, too: the innocence has vanished; the novelty is diminished; and the sex is a bit depreciated.  I guess it’s not only eggs that come cheaper by the dozen. 

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I just got off the phone with Goc.  At the very end of our conversation, he said “Bye, Darlin’.” 

“Goodnight, Goc,” I said. 

“Goodnight Mora.”

It gave me such a warm, loved feeling to hear him speak my name. 

“I really liked it when you said my name just before we hung up.” I e-mailed him almost immediately. 

“I like to say your name, Mora.” he e-mailed right back. 

And nothing at all about that exchange felt cheap. 

♥ Mora 

Detective Curt cancelled our date late last night.  Duty called.  He telephoned me to apologize and I was in bed when I answered the phone.  I hadn’t heard his voice in so long, and it was so nice and masculine and gentle and he called me sweetheart, which always makes me melt.  (He knows what he is doing.)

Goc already had plans tonight, so I went to the movies alone.    With no man medication to distract me, I thought some about Donny.   I felt kind of sad all day. 

I’m almost finished with my play.  I’m glad I’m writing again.  I need it.

Mora

Detective Curt and I have a date tomorrow night.  That’s right, good ole Detective Curt.  Picture the Marlboro man, but with a gun and a badge. 

I know the sex will be great; it always was.  But for some reason, I keep imagining the moment when I’ll open my door and see him standing there on my porch.   I’ll smile.  He’ll come in.  I’ll close the door and turn around.  He’ll push me up against the closed door and kiss me.  We  will be ravenous. 

I’m feeling ravanously horny lately.  It’s been more than two weeks since Donny and I broke up, and slightly longer since I’ve had sex.  I’m not used to that anymore.  And, if I’m feeling this way now, no wonder I was out-of-my-mind randy when I was married and not having sex for stretches of six months or more.  No wonder. 

I’m also just looking forward to seeing Curt again.  I’ve missed him.  We are new old friends. 

Will he be the way I remember him?  Will I be the way he remembers me?  I know I’ve changed inside.  Will he notice that I’m a different person?  I don’t know.  Again, though, I come back to the concept that it doesn’t matter if he notices.  I’ve changed, and this is what I am committed to:

• I will be honest.
• I will be relaxed.
• I will enjoy myself. 

I’ve come a long way, baby, and I can’t wait to enjoy the view. 

♥Mora

Things are becoming  more intense with Goc (Games of Chance).  We e-mail back and forth all day while we’re working.  He says sweet things to me that make my heart flutter,  like “I have to tell you, it makes me happy to see an e-mail from you. Happens every time.”  

Today, I sent him a joke which he read out of context and misunderstood to mean I wasn’t serious about him.  He wrote me that his  “heart jumped in [his] throat a bit.”  He addresses me as “Hey, Gorgeous,” and we talk on the phone almost every night, usually for over an hour.

At the same time, I’m on a dating website.  There are some serious contenders there, including a boyfriend/girlfriend couple who are looking for a submissive third.  I am not even kidding.  I’m seriously considering them.  They seem nice.  (Am I crazy?)

Here’s another layer in my wild love parfait: I e-mailed Detective Curt tonight.  He’s been hot and heavy after me lately, sending me porn and writing me delicious, sexy e-mails.  As you know, I never quite got him out of my system.  And now, I’m free to cut myself a piece of peanut butter pie.  Yum. 

Still, though, I’m feeling myself bonding to Goc.  Do I really like him so much, or is this another case of drug seeking by a serious addict of man medication?  I really couldn’t tell you.  In fact, looking back on last few years, I would be hard pressed to tell you which men I really loved and which I was using to self medicate. 

I just don’t trust myself anymore when it comes to men, which is why today I’ve found myself wishing that I could engage some kind of Guardian for my heart.  Someone to say “no, no, little girl,” or “yes, this one is all right,” or, “Stop fantasizing!  He’s not interested!”  (Yes, there’s one of those, too.)   

If I could, I really would give my heart over to Mr. Freeze or Constance or Therapeutic Ramblings  for three to six months to manage.  I just don’t trust myself with it.   And everyone knows the one thing you need to make love work is  trust.

♥ Mora

I went out on a date tonight with Games of Chance.  (I’ll name him Goc.)   At the very end, we kissed and kind of lightly made out on his green-brown bachelor couch.  I don’t know. 

Donny and I just broke up on Tuesday night.  It had been eight months we’d gone out together.  He was my first legit relationship in years.  It was good for me.  He was sweet and smart and thoughtful.  And gorgeous.  He was gorgeous.  His gorgeousness never got old for me.  I was so physically comfortable with him and it felt right in his arms and in his presence.  But he didn’t love me and he was never  going to.  I gave up comfort and good sex with Donny for a long shot at love.  With someone.  Someday. 

So Goc had his considerable arms around me and he was kissing me, and at first it as way too slow, because we just didn’t have enough sexual tension to pull off kissing that slowly.  Not like it had been with Sergeant Shane.  But it improved.  So Goc is kissing me, but I couldn’t help thinking about Donny.  His really nice face kept popping into my head while my lips were brushing Goc’s and my tongue was in Goc’s mouth.  And I felt a little guilty, like I was cheating on Donny. 

Then, I got angry.  “Fuck him,” I thought.  “He never loved me.  I was all there for him.  Everything a man should want.  And he never loved me.  He just didn’t.  Fuck him.  I’m going to have fun with Goc.”  But I didn’t quite enjoy it.  I was a little too sad.  

“I want to take you into the other room,” Goc said to me.  I knew he didn’t mean the kitchen, and I flashed back to that first terrible night with Donny.  “No,” I said.  I’m not a sex machine anymore.  Horny Housewife was the sex kitten.  Mora is a cat. 

 ♥

There’s something wrong with the battery in the smoke detector in my bedroom.  It keeps chirping, but it’s hard-wired, so I’m not sure what to do.  I’ll call my alarm company tomorrow, but how am I going to sleep tonight?  It’s so chirpy and chipper and loud.  It’s telling me to do something.  Telling me I need something.  Keeping me from resting.  Telling me there’s more, but not how to get it.  How am I ever going to sleep?

Mora