Monday, July 31

Wonderful Fabulous

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Please welcome AndyT13 to Musical Monday.
He is best described by four of my favorite S words:
Sailor, Singer, Song Writer and Slave.

Wonderful Fabulous

I feel his heat pushing in on me as his strong hands caress my body. His voice is thick as he whispers my name, his lips pressing against my neck, he begins to sing the words he wrote for me.

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I am overcome by my need for him. Overwhelmed by the passion only his voice can stir in me. My knees shake slightly with the building tension. Butterflies play in my stomach and I am overwhelmed by the intoxication that his kisses bring. The fluttering slips deeper into me, turning into a heat that threatens to burst into flame if left unquenched.

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Welcome to Music Monday Sweetheart!

You can check out more about Andy's music here.

Thursday, July 27

HNT - Leather Boots

Over on MENAGE A TROIS the girls and I have been having an on-going discussion. It's about choices. So we are going to leave it up to you.

Which do you prefer?

The thigh-high black leather boots?
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or the white gogo boots?
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Let us know what you think!

Then go see the man who started HNT Osbasso!

Happy HNT everyone!

Friday, July 21

Happy Birthday Geisha

    If I could say the things I feel, it wouldn't be the same
    Some things are not spoken of, some things have no name
    Though the words come hard to me, I'll say them just for you
    For this is something rare for me this feeling is so new
    You see I love the way you love me
    I love the way you smile at me
    I love the way we live this life we're in
    I don't believe in magic but I do believe in you
    And when you say you believe in me
    there's so much magic I can do

    Birthday Song Lyrics
    ~~Don McLean

    Sometimes there is a connection between women that forms quickly. It is not easily understood other than a feeling that perhaps you were friends in a past life. I love finding that connection.

    I feel that in finding one another, the women of Menage a Trois have found that thing that women strive for. Like-minded sisterhood. Unconditional love. And the joy of being able to share ourselves, openly, willingly and lovingly.

    The Geisha's birthday was on the 20th which, of course, was a day designated for other purposes here on Menage a Trois. However we did not want to miss this opportunity to send her our love and well wishes across the miles.

    We love you Nina!
    Happy Birthday!

    Tricia and SD

    Sunday, July 16


    Today I ran errands. It took me into the deeper parts of the city, the places I have only visited rarely as there is not much left there for visiting. This city is huge and confusing at times, what with streets that run only one way, you must travel a bit here to get your bearings. There is something of joy here in the hustle and bustle and the rejuvenation that has been occurring. Men in smart suits, carrying briefcases and with cell phones permanently attached to their ears, have decided that urban renewal is a must if this city is to redeem itself and become once more like the grand lady she once was. I do believe these are the great grand sons of the very men who raised her after Sherman burned her to the ground.

    It is said that Sherman never razed Savannah because the people there were so kind, friendly and hospitable to the soldiers burning their way to the sea. That, though they hated being so generous to the Yankees, they loved their city more. And so the sacrifice was made and the city was saved. I'm not an historian, but that's what I have heard . Being a Yankee myself I tend to wonder if that is just a bit of Southern folklore designed to attract more tourists? Probably thought up by the carpet baggers to help sell their product. Nothing like good old Yankee ingenuity in marketing. And, of course, 25,000 bales of cotton didn't hurt either.

    And so I drove those streets, some brick, others only one step above dust and made my way through the darker parts of the city, the ones those fine men in their smart suits have not yet begun to face-lift for posterity. And I saw the old houses, still magnificent in their debilitated glory and was reminded of the dignity and pride that Scarlet exuded after the burning of Atlanta in 'Gone with The Wind'.

    You just can't keep a southern belle down.

    Thursday, July 13

    HNT - Memory Lane

    Girls With Guns
    Doing promotion for Tommy Shaw's 'Girls With Guns'.

    I have decided to take a walk down memory lane for this HNT.
    Here are some of the folks my mother worked with when I was growing up.
    Please do not laugh at the evolution of my hair.
    I mean it!
    Stop laughing!

    Gene Simmons (before Kiss removed their make-up)



    And a special guest appearance by Jeff and Nina working the soundboard for Type O Negative.
    Type O Negative

    Happy HNT!
    See the man, Osbasso.

    Monday, July 10


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    Like beautiful bodies of the dead, who had not grown old
    and they shut them with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,
    with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet --
    that is how desires look that have passed
    without fulfillment; without one of them having achieved
    a night of sensual delight, or a moonlit morn.

    Desires ~~Constantine Cavafy

    The sun was shining down hard on the day we buried him. The heat had risen after many days of cool and we stood under sweltering sun, a throng of people dressed in black, brows moist, eyes damp. We moved in closer under the green awning that protected his coffin from the elements. We, his huddled masses, hands held tightly as if to anchor ourselves as we spoke on his behalf, telling the stories of the ways he had touched our lives.

    Then the reading of the 23rd Psalm
    THE LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
    He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
    he leadeth me beside still waters.

    He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in paths of righteousness
    for his name's sake.

    Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
    I will fear no evil; for thou art with me;
    thy rod and thy staff they comfort me...

    Afterwards we wandered, friends and family, straying away and returning back to him once more. We drifted into one another, touching, arms and hands grasping for tenacious hold, only momentarily, before moving on again. There was something calming in this meandering amongst loved ones, some reassurance that we were not alone.

    Do we fear this shutting away of a loved one? Did we truly lose him when he was interred? I know that we should mourn for ourselves, that we are the ones left behind, the ones who are left in this dark place and he has left us and is better for it. I understand, and yet, it is so hard to approve of this departure.

    Life is a cycle, I understand this well. We are born of Earth and return to it eventually, so that others who come after us can be nourished by the same, and yet I am reminded of the angry words of Edna St. Vincent Millay once again. The words of anger at loss. Words that have fallen from my lips at the shutting of the human light.

    Words that make me ache when I read them.
    They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
    Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
    More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

    There is no rose nor apple tree, for all of their beauty and medicinal properties, that can replace your light in the eyes of those who loved you. Those who depended on you, not only for their physical sustenance, but for the sustenance of their very souls.

    Last night I sat and talked to my neighbor who had lost her husband to a massive heart attack and she said she had stood outside and cursed the flowers that he had planted in their garden, that she had yelled and railed at him for planting them. That he left this reminder there for her, that she would see them bloom every spring and realize how empty her life was without him. And she cursed those blooms, opening so fragilely in their newborn resurrection. That they had the nerve to poke their tender buds up out of the ground when their master and gardener had gone under Earth himself. How dare they? How dare they rise after his demise. Did they have no respect for her loss.

    And she broke down. She cried and held me to her. My shirt balled in her fists as she wailed in furious heartbreak.

    I asked her if she wanted me to dig her garden and let her replant it with new flowers, some that would not make her hurt so bad when she saw them every year and she cried No! That's all I have of him now. Damn him for leaving me. Damn him for planting those stupid beautiful flowers. I hate them all.

    Life is like the mighty oak and we are no more than leaves. We are born and, when the time comes, we must whither and fall, nourishing the buds to come and making room on those branches for new growth, new life. Our own tenuous vibrancy faded, we bow and retreat to the vigor of youth, knowing our place as we do. Even now as we are still hale and vibrant, we have accepted that this is the way of it. We will do our duty and turn to dust, and we can only hope that we can do it with grace and dignity, leaving those who are left behind without guilt and with as little pain as possible.

    In the meantime I have been forced to think of Legacy. About what it is I want to carry on after me.

    Jeff Buckley

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    Wednesday, July 5

    The Spoils of War

    Cleopatra - The Spoils of War
    I follow in shadow, my eyes averted from the light.

    No rope binds me now, my hands have been given willingly. I follow in silence, my wrists need no tether. No ropes to bind. Not of red, the color of the blood upon my knees, from crawling in pitiful sublimation. Nor of blue steel, the color of eyes that watch and stare without mercy at the carnage upon the field.

    In battle the spoils go to the victor, and what would the conqueror ask of me? To kneel and acquiesce? To take my own blade and, with all of the dignity left that I can muster, to throw myself upon its silver shaft and thus end it all? Broken. Destroyed. No more than a mere ghost amongst the wreckage.

    Do I take the blade from you, when you lack courage to thrust it in yourself? Do I smile at you and thrust it into my own breast, as Arria did when her husband's resolve faltered. Do I show you how it should be done? Do I plunge it inside my own heart, and hand it back to you with a smile, saying, "Paetus, it does not hurt. It is what you are about to do that hurts."

    I do wonder what Cleopatra was feeling as she pulled into the harbor at Tarsus, her sails full of perfume; a glimpse of thigh that suggested something far from the war that was on her mind. Did she see the futility of battling? Did she see her own certain defeat at the hands of a man more powerful than she could ever have imagined? And, in seeing this, did she feel the need to conquer? In the ways that a woman needs to conquer?

    What did she feel as Antony slid between her thighs? What desire in this bold new lover, the conqueror of her own empire? All the power of lover and foe? Did she feel the powers of Phoenicia, Mesopotamia, Thebes, Syria, Assyria... Egypt... in the touch of his hand? Did she desire him thusly, as her conqueror? Or was this just some trick of the mind? That, although her defeat was imminent, she could still hold some power over this foe? Some ability to sway him, even if only by the pull of flesh, the passion of battle.

    Did he realize that he was breaking the last Pharoah of Egypt? Destroying all that came before her?

    What did she see when she gazed upon his face?
    Is it the same face that every woman sees in her victor?
    My lover, my enemy.
    Ruthless, conniving and ever deceitful in his irresistable charm.

    And did he sincerely believe that she would betray him? That she could betray him? The woman who took up arms to battle by his side?

    Yes. He did. And brought them both down in his vengeance.

    As we all do eventually.
    Ruin perfection.
    Ruin what could have been the perfect love affair.
    We are doomed.

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