Vespertine Erotica

Don’t know about you, but I’m mentally exhausted by the recent circus-like American politics. I mean, isn’t it enough that we already have ridiculous amounts of regular tension in our individual modern lives on a day to day basis without all these end of the world as we know it scenarios being politically co-opted and CNN’ed to death and shoved down our throats every minute of every day?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making light of the U.S. (or world, for that matter) situation or trying to claim that’s it not as bad as it seems. I’ll even go so far to say that, as a species, I think we’re probably totally fucked – even if CNN will never broadcast that particular report.

But, Armageddon or not, I have a blog to run here. So, though it won’t bail out Wall Street or stop global warming, here’s my little contribution toward a break in the madness, my little moment of kinky Zen*… and I swear, it’s all true.

So, the other night, there I am, with all this world angst roiling away in the background of my insulated little reality where I’m sitting at my desk trying to get some very detailed and deadline driven work done. And if that’s not enough pressure, I’m trying to get this work done while also trying to manage wave after wave of hot flashes.

And, of course, I can’t be one of those lucky women who experiences mild or even “typical” hot flashes that come and go somewhat manageably, like a simple natural occurrence of New Age-y aging (re: “just think of it as a power surge, honey, proof that you’re becoming a wise crone, blah, blah, blah.”). [insert eye roll here]

No. I get to be one of the women who gets to have these seriously debilitating episodes that include vision disturbances, dangerous dizziness (as in, I’ve fallen down because of it), difficulty with swallowing, breathing, putting more than two syllables together correctly, and generally remaining conscious and sane.

My hot flashes are not even hot, for christ’s sake. They’re scary, ice-cold whole-body tsunamis of just plain awfulness. They piss me off in a big way. But they piss me off most of all when I’m trying to work.

And particularly when I’m working under a deadline and dealing with a potentially devastating world financial crisis, these more-than-just-hot flashes make me dangerously, outrageously ENRAGED. They make want to just annihilate something, anything, everything. And God forbid that anyone should actually speak to me right at that point because that poor person would have just unwittingly identified my nearest and most convenient target.

So, the other night, just as I’m cresting the peak of one of these moments of unbearable flashy-ness, my husband decides to walk in the room and begin a general tirade about the economy, Sarah Palin’s laughable interview with Katie Couric, and John McCain’s grandstanding holier-than-thou announcement that’s he’s “suspending” his campaign.**

Then, barely taking another breath, he careens with righteously geeky anger directly into a rant about how his day has been nothing but crucial mp3 files not loading, computer programs crashing, someone stealing his stapler, just one fucking malfunction after another, etc.

Finally, he notices my eerie silence, my flushed face and wild she-bitch eyes, and he stops ranting. Abruptly. He knows what’s going on with my vascular system right then. He knows I am being remotely-controlled by renegade hormones. And, even more deadly, is the fact that I know he knows.

For what seems like an eternity, we stare at each other like that, like the US and Russia during the cold war, across the ocean of our stubbornness, both of us daring the other to prove who’s situation is more worthy of screaming about, silently placing our bets on which of us is going to spit first, on which of us is goin’ down.

And then, totally, deviously straight faced, he says it: “Niagara Falls.”

Niagara Falls!***

The whole situation snaps. And the scene jerks into slow motion, for just one perfectly timed moment, like in a good action movie.

Slowly, I turn… inch by inch… step by step…

And BAM, just like that, we jerk out of slow motion again and I spin in my chair and reach out to deftly hook the fingers of one hand into the waistband of his jeans while I make a vicious grab for his cock with the other. But he’s too fast for me (but only because, remember, I’m at a menopausally-induced disadvantage).

So, before I can fully execute my famous grab-the-man-by-the-pants maneuver, he gets a too secure grasp in my hair and pulls me to the floor where I end up on all fours, at which point he immediately yanks my pants down over my ass and throws one leg over me so he can straddle me and hold me there.

Both of us are laughing stupidly now as I’m bucking up under him to try and get him off of me before he can get in that first ringing-loud smack on the plumpest part of my ass cheek. But alas [insert tone of fake disappointment here], he’s too strong for me.

So, while I’m laughingyellingmoaning and scratching at the hardwood floor under my desk, he begins… slap, smack, THWACK, with his bare hand. One ass cheek then the other… slap, smack, THWACK… and repeat, and repeat, and repeat…

until he hits that perfectly spankalicious rhythm that makes the whole room go languidly warm,

and I begin to give in and arch my back so I’m no longer trying to get my ass away from his hand, but closer toward it,

and his hand begins to sting and his thighs begin to shake from holding my wriggling body captive between them,

and the hot flashes stop,

and the lost stapler no longer matters,

and the failing world economy and out of control media and grandstanding puppet politicians have been put back in their rightful place in the larger scheme of things.

Eventually, there is much falling upon on each other and several and varied forms of pleasurable groping and giggling, groaning and sighing.

And though it will never appear on CNN, the story here is just as important as any other – that two people have found a way to live through one more day without having to resort to killing each other over shit they can’t do anything about.

Also never to be reported on CNN is the truth that no matter how dire the circumstance, comedy and kink will always save the day… and incidentally, that spanking is a highly protected secret cure for “atypical” hot flashes.

Hey, maybe the McCain/Palin and Obama/Biden teams should have an Ultimate Smack Down Spank Match! It wouldn’t solve the financial crisis, but it would certainly be an atypical cure for what ails this presidential race, and definitely more interesting to watch than any debate. However, in all fairness, the question-asking, time-keeping, rule-enforcing, Muthafuckin’ Dungeon Master of this event should be, could only be, the provocatively leather pantsuited HRC2012.

So there it is, kids. Your moment of kinky Zen. Or, the no-cost way to manage menopause,
personal stress, and global mayhem right from the safety and privacy of your own home.

Carry on.

.

*In homage to Your Moment of Zen, from the Daily Show and Jon Stewart, who has my vote for president, by the way.
** And David Letterman, who has my other vote (since I write under a pseudonym, I get two).
***And Larry, Moe, and Curly, who also have three more of my votes for president, posthumously, of course (ok, the truth is that I get to vote as many times as I want because I’m from Chicago).