Laundry Room Machismo

I'm inspired by recent events (see Alana Noel Voth's recent piece on bullying, which inspired Kristina Wright's piece on Oh Get A Grip!)to post this 'just getting something off my chest' piece I wrote a couple of months ago.

It isn't smart or thoughtful or intellectual. It's a from-the-gut "I don't get it!" rant.

Let me start by saying I don't hate men. I've made it through a fairly ugly separation in which I did not get what I deserved and have been ripped off a number of times by male businessmen. Prior to that I survived years of relationships with men. I live with one now. But - who do so many of them think they are? This?

I guess they think they are the supreme rulers of the planet. Which is, by and large, the truth. But does the fact that we have a male Prime Minister entitle every man to self-righteous jerkdom?

We have a laundry room in my apartment building. Sometimes I chat with the other women doing the laundry, or converse with their little children to give the harried mothers a mini-break. We commiserate about the drudgery of doing laundry. Sometimes we don't talk. We're too busy trying to get through the drudgery. We work in companionable silence.

Every so often a man shows up. Then, the casual camaraderie is broken.

Men don't like doing laundry. Here's an inside tip, guys - neither do women! Laundry is a job that needs to get done. Unlike you, we do laundry for the whole family, not just for ourselves. So we get a good look at a man's dirty clothes and guess what. It's not a pretty sight.

When a man shows up, in my experience, he starts bitching. He's probably in a bad mood because he has to do his laundry, and that's not a job befitting one who is of the same sex as the Prime Minister of Canada.

Last time, it was a fellow with anger issues who tantrummed like a baby because the washers and dryers were on a card system, no longer coin operated. Of course, this had been announced via posted messages in the elevators, but perhaps he missed them, or perhaps he can't read. At any rate, he screamed at me, as if I were his abused wife or worn out mother.

”This is the most fucking ridiculous thing I've ever seen in my life,” he raged. He must've led a very sheltered life.

Like most women, I've encountered guys like this before.
I knew if I responded he'd double his fury. But after a few minutes of his profane screeching, I simply couldn't stand it any longer.

“It's really not that difficult,” I said.

Yes, he exploded, as I'd known he would. I left.

Today, I loaded four washers (of six) with my laundry. It's a busy afternoon. The washers and dryers are in full use.

A man, worse, a young man, came in. He carried a laundry basket with his precious gym shorts and dirty socks in it. Once he discovered there was no washer for him, he turned on me.

“How many washers are you using?” he demanded to know.

”Four,” I replied.

“Don't you think that's selfish?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

Oh boy, that got him good. He started raving at me. “You don't think it's selfish to use ALL the washers and leave NONE for the rest of the people in the building?”

“Snooze, lose,” I replied.

He left in a huff, muttering rudities. The woman using the other two washers and I looked at each other, shrugged, laughed, and continued doing our laundry.

I think perhaps he would've liked it if I'd said, “Oh poor you, just leave your dirty clothes here and I'll do them for you and let you get back to the serious business of running the country.” But I didn't.

I think if bad tempered men knew how silly they look when they start yelling at women in the laundry room, if they knew how little effect their tantrums have on us, they might think twice. Perhaps, after their little pooh pooh fit, when they do their laundry and see the evidence of their fury in their underpants, they'll get the message.

Must go, if I don't get my laundry out of the dryers the moment it's done, I know not what will happen to it. The PM by proxy might seek revenge . . .

photos: sodahead.com
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Eye Candy Monday

I guess this is sexy eye candy, maybe even romantic eye candy, rather than eye candy that'll get you all hot and bothered.

But I think it's really pretty and I still believe in love.

I think this couple is in love.

xoxo Mad

ps - I think this will have to do for this week's eye candy Monday as well.
June 13, 2011.

Kids Suck

I'm not talking about babies, I'm talking about kids. Like, say, from about eleven to - well I wouldn't know, infinity.

Yes yes in the Parents' Handbook I've mentally written it says in CAPS - DO NOT PHONE THEM. THEY MUST PHONE YOU.

But sometimes I have a little time to stretch out and sip a diet gingerale and I think, hey, I wonder how so and so (22 and loves me) is doing. Or else, hey, I wonder if so and so (20 - "I love you but you drive me crazy") is doing. And I make the mistake of placing the call.

When you call them they are always busy. Always. They might talk to you for a minute or two but in the background you can hear their thumbs working away at text messaging, or their computer keys being hit, or whatever goddam gadget they've got going this week. And whatever you say to them the response is the same. "What?"

A kid never hears a parent the first time. That's in THEIR handbook.

Since the 'little one' has strep throat (I discovered yesterday) she won't talk to me. I called today to see if she's feeling better. "Yes." "Oh I'm so glad honey. So you saw the doctor and got something for it?" "Yes. I can't talk now I have to go back to sleep." Understandable.

The other one is at Anime North. This is the highlight of her life. I know this fact but I thought maybe a little call? "Hi honey!" "I'm busy." "Well, I know, but are you having fun?" "Yes, I'm busy having fun. Goodbye."

Okay, fair enough, who wants to talk to their mother when they're at Animé North?

I should count my blessings. Neither of them told me to "Fuck off" and they don't do a lot of drugs or have a lot of sexual partners. They're both in college or university. They're great, actually, they just suck when it comes to me. Is that normal? I think it might be.

Bah. I think I'll go find Felix and pester him. He'll listen to me. He says he enjoys my 'chatter.' I choose to take that as English talk for 'intelligent conversation.'

Ta!

ps - I needed a new post, and this is it. Another time, perhaps we'll talk about how kids feel about having an erotica author as a mother . . . "luv the trophy Mom, can I take it to show and tell?"

Erotic Awards 2011 Story Teller of the Year

Yes folks, Madeline Moore is Storyteller of the year. I just found out so I feel weird. Here's a picture of my trophy.

Hand made in Bali, in case you were wondering how such a delightful thing comes to be. It will look lovely in my trophy case (formerly known as the bookshelf.)

Thank you Erotic Awards 2011 judges! Thank you for representing me, Kristina Lloyd! Thank you Logical Lust publisher Jim Brown and editor Jolie du Pre, for The Cougar Book, in which my story "Get Up! Stand Up!" was published.

I think a taste of the story is in order. It takes place in Quebec. Annie is a physiotherapist who has just convinced a young protester to come down from a tree that will be demolished the next day. Her plan was to get him walking and send him home but the chemistry between them is irresistible. This is near the beginning of the story, when she has just arrived home with a filthy, limping (but legal!) young man:

The story is that when Cher laid eyes on Rob the bagel boy she said, “Have him washed and brought to my tent.” I knew that was what I was doing but I was still pretending my motives were pure.

“Straighten your legs,” I ordered when I was back in the bathroom. “Yum Yum,” sang my body in response to the sight of him stretched out in my tub. “Young, young, yum, yum.” I averted my eyes.

“Can’t. It hurts.”

“Do your best. Now flex your toes. Can you feel it in your calves?”

“Sorta.”

“Do five flex and relax reps. Ready? One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Relax.”

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“Merci. Again. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And relax.”

“Will I walk again?”

“Yes.”

“Will I play the piano?”

I laughed. “No.”

“I’m clean now,” he said. “Get in.”

“You think?” I looked at him. His cock waved a solid, friendly hello. The sight of that majestic hard on struck me dumb.

We exchanged a long look. Mine said, “I’m almost fifty, cheri,” and his said, “De rien.”

So I dropped my button-through dress. I was wearing a black satin push up bra and thong (sixty year old men love a thong on any woman’s body, even a perimenopausal one) and lacy stay-ups that were riddled with runs from my trip into the forest.

“Oo la la,” said Guy. His cock got bigger; the head got thicker and started turning purple.

Desire hit my crotch so hard it hurt, like a cramp in my clit.

“I haven’t even touched you,” I whispered. I was awestruck. Honestly I hadn’t seen a cock that big and hard and blatantly horny since I quit trolling the gay porn sites. As for the real thing?
Years, baby.

“You have a beautiful voice,” he said. “And a bootylicious body.” He licked his lips.

I stripped off my bra and panties and stepped into the tub, positioning one foot on each side of his slender boy hips. Then I simply lowered myself onto that magnificent member. I didn’t even spread my labia with my fingers, instead letting the heat-seeking head of his dick shove them aside to find my seriously aching hole.

“Christ,” I muttered as it stretched happily to accommodate him.

Water hit the back of my head and poured over us both.

“Oui,” (Wah) he said. He sighed like an old man, long and slow, and closed his eyes.

I kept mine open, watching the guileless grin that spread across his face as I slipped down another inch onto him, and another, until he was fully inside of me, encased by the hot satin walls of my cunt. My lips and clit nestled in his straight black pubic hair.

He humped up.

I gasped like a girl.

He did it again. Again. Again.

I started trembling all over. Usually I need a little help to make it all the way to euphoria, by which I mean wine as well as foreplay, but not this time. I was about to start howling and even the sight of my belly wrinkling between my navel and my pubic hair didn’t phase me.

“Fuck it,” I hissed. I leaned forward a little, so the head of his cock rubbed my g-spot.

His eyes opened. “Cool,” he said. He cupped my breasts, thumbing my nipples.

“How long can you fuck like this?”

He shrugged. “Forever, if you like.” He humped up again.

I made a strangled little noise.

Guy let his right hand trail down between my breasts, over my belly, to my mound. Again, his touch was gentle. He used his thumb to make lazy little circles around and over my clit. “Or we can come now and then come again later and then come again later and…”

“Uh huh.” I was nodding in slavish agreement. I shifted to a kneel.

Guy guided my head to his. Our mouths met in a sloppy kiss, sloppy because we were eager and the shower made it hard to breathe, not sloppy because he was inexperienced or demanding. He pressed my head to his skinny chest and he fucked and fingered me until I really did start howling and shaking and grinding and coming like I hadn’t had an orgasm in years. I was scared I might squeeze him right out of me with the force of my clenching contractions, but he was as solid as ever inside me.

“Stop!” I tried to wriggle free. “I can’t stand it!”

“Sure you can, cheri,” he murmured. He just kept on going, fingering and fucking me as if I hadn’t just come, until I did it again, as hard and long as the first time.

I lay plastered against his chest, half-delirious with delight. “You come!”

“I did,” he said.

“So quiet,” I marvelled. “And gentle. And patient.”

“I have to be these things,” he replied.

I climbed off him and out of the tub with as much grace as I could muster. Then I helped him out and wrapped him in a bath sheet. We were both a little unsteady.

“Why?”

“Hmm?” He leaned on me. He looked exhausted.

I leaned back. “Why do you have to be quiet and gentle and patient?”

He looked at me with the sad eyes of a weary warrior. “I think it’s going to take a long time to save the planet.”



xoxo Madeline

Eye Candy Monday

There's less than a week to go until the Erotic 2011 Awards will take place. As you may know, I am a finalist in the Awards. After the Awards Ceremony, there'll be what sounds like one helluva party, called Night of the Senses.

This is a charity award, for a group called Outsiders which welcomes people with physical and social disabilities to join their club, make new friends and, if they wish, find partners.

I'm nominated in the "Story Tellers" category. My story, "Get Up! Stand Up!" is in The Cougar Book, edited by Jolie du Pre and published by Logical Lust.

The story is about a perimenopausal woman who talks an environmentalist out of a tree and into her bed. Annie, a physiotherapist, wasn't planning to have sex with him, she just planned to get the poor kid walking again, maybe buy him a burger and a bus ticket home. But -

Annie describes him like so:

Long dark hair, lanky body all scrunched up. A wistful face, as the young so often have, pale, unlined, sharp cheek bones and a soft, sensuous mouth. Big baby blues, baby.

Something like this, I imagine:

Who could resist? Not my heroine, Annie. And so to bed for some red hot never stop fuck me till I die sex.

Keep your fingers crossed for me!

xoxo Madeline Moore

ps - This is a picture of Jesse McCartney, about whom I know nothing except that he's 24 years old and so adorable I wouldn't blame any older woman if she decided, "Screw it I'm gonna fuck this young man." Would you?