Or, perhaps, I just have nothing else to say. (wink)

I have let my webmistress know that she can reclaim this site at any time. But, I thought I’d post one last time to say, in the vein of Bob Hope, “thanks for the memories . . .”

His response, “I’m not perfect, Kathleen. Don’t be silly.”

I replied, “Of course you are. Perfect in your imperfections. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Good faults make a man. Bad faults make him better.”

Now that’s a quote worthy of Oscar, isn’t it? I think he’d be proud of me.

Now, I know just enough about cars to be dangerous, as they tend to say. If there’s an issue with your car starting, it always boils down to two things: no fuel or no fire.

This here was a fuel problem of a great, great, mountainous issue. But, could I two-foot drive it to the dealership? Would I make it?

Nothing like giving it the old college try. So, I drive it down my hill like a stick-shift whore and finally roll it into the service bay of the dealership around 8.

Johnny—the service guy I’ve seen a number of times for oil changes, etc.—looks at my quizically. I say, “I don’t have an appointment; I have an emergency.”

I tell him the story. He says, “Weird.” Pops the hood. Messes around with some hoses. Gets in. Starts it. It dies. He says, “Weird.”

He takes the car and sends me off to work with their little shuttle service. I get a call about 2. He says, “Mice.”

I say, “Eh?”

“Mice. They chewed through a minor fuel hose. Mechanic says they must have been living up in your car for at least a few days.”

Wow. Mice. I haven’t had that sort of issue since living at the farm . . . then, it was somewhat of a normal occurence, actually. Mice. Kittens. Snakes. It’s amazing the menagerie that can live under your hood.

The Farm! I was there just over a week ago.

On the way home from the dealership, I called my stepdad, told him the story. He jokingly said, “I don’t believe it. If you want 90 bucks from me, girl, you’d better bring proof.”

That’s my dad. (wink)

This morning, I felt most sorry for our company receptionist. When I walked in at 8:30, she was already dealing with a couple of floral delivery vans out front. Poor girl. I’ll bet, more than anything, she wanted to call in sick today.

And everyone here is wearing red. It’s like a bloody massacre. I told a friend “I’d think we were all back in high school, but there isn’t any screaming or trenchcoats.”

He said he was proud of me for making such a politically incorrect joke, but not to share it in public, as I’d be “taken out.” And, that’s probably true. I’d go down like a college opinion editor. (Hit the link if you don’t get THAT joke.)

Holy crap, Swift could never write in today’s P.C. environment. “A Modest Proposal” would get him lynched, wouldn’t it?

Anyway, back on the original topic of Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share the letter I wrote to friends for those of you I might only be able to send this blog link to (because sending the letter would “red flag” you to your work IT people as perverted; can’t have that).

 ——————————–

To: All

Subject: Valentine’s Day

There’s one great thing about Valentine’s Day: Underneath the flowers, the candy, and the stuffed gorillas (man, I totally want a stuffed gorilla), it’s all about sex. (wink) So, for those of you that I love—both single and coupled—I thought I’d share a naughty scene from a longer book I’m working on. After all, nothing says “Happy Valentine’s Day” like erotica.

Hope your V-Day brings sex, chocolates . . . or both. Ooo. Or a stuffed gorilla.

Love,
Kathleen

Here’s your naughty story:
The stale light of the open fridge door sets his bare skin aglow—not quite like candle light, more like the frozen food aisle.
 
I patter up behind him and press myself into his back—a simple act. I know he can feel my pert nipples needling into his skin; I can taste how he enjoys the slide of my cool, smooth chest along his spine. Our separate skins warm together on contact.
 
I’ve consumed enough of him to make him lightheaded, confused, to make the connection electric, deep.
 
Then, my hands reach around to caress his chest while I leave quick kisses along his shoulder blade and up the nape of his neck.
 
My hands move lower to trace the sharp bulges of his hip bones before continuing their exploration into the Deep South—to hold him firm, to stroke him. To take his penis between the pads of my index and thumb and draw it, create a pattern, write a symphony along his cock, use the flesh as both libretto and instrument l’éducation . . . his education. My fingers play his body like Wolfgang at the harpsichord, Paganini picking up a violin, Chopin undressing Madame Sand.
 
I use my nails and the light tips of my fingers to draw patterns on his burgeoning flesh. Those patterns burn a tad, but he just doesn’t mind.
 
And, I haven’t stopped kissing him—instead I run a trail with my lips from that shoulder blade down to the small of his back and back up again, my mouth a lustful little boomerang.
 
He stands there leaning against the open door of the fridge, the cold air hitting his re-aroused body—the door gripped in one hand, the frame in the other, shivering.
 
It’s too much. He cracks like a California fault line, whips around and grabs my San Francisco, pushes his Oakland peninsula against it. The fridge door bangs back against the wall, open and unblinking, the action having tumbled a couple of water bottles from the shelf inside.
 
They roll across the floor in opposite directions. One takes to the West, exploring the formal dining room and coming to rest at the wet bar. The other runs off to the East, bumping up against a leg of the small kitchen table.
 
He grips me tight—cities and suburbs and golden California hills—and backs me up against that flat Death Valley desert of the kitchen table, sending it moving from the force. He rubs his hard, ready cock against my thigh, kissing my neck at the same time.
 
I laugh and say, “Again? My stars.” as he lifts me up to partially lay on the dry wooden surface, my legs dangling over the edge.
 
He fucks quickly, rushed, in a flurry of passionate strokes and immediate, trembling aftershocks. My legs move up to lock his hips and pull him down into my Big Valley faster, harder.
 
I reach out to each side and grip my fingers over the table edges like two vices to hold my body in place under him. He asks questions; he wants answers. He wants to wrap himself in the deep, warm recesses of my voice, lose himself in it the way he is in the deep, warm recess between my thighs. And, there is no doubt that he is lost in that wet, tight flesh—tighter than any he has ever known before: a slim and narrow box canyon of his naughty Lone Ranger fantasies.
 
He reaches the cliff’s peak first, but continues to use his fingers hard and fast against my clit to bring me along behind quickly. I am only a moment before joining him in the flurry of spasms and end strokes that has the kitchen mesa dancing loudly over the linoleum before slamming into the lip of the sink.
 
“That’s going to leave a mark,” I say, breathless, as he collapses a bit to the side and has to grip the table’s edge to keep himself from falling off the desert tower to a dusty death below.
 
We half-stand/half-lay on the corner of the mesa for minutes afterward, quieting our inhalation together and watching each other in the clinical white light of the open refrigerator door.
 
He traces a line on my belly from the Artichoke Capital of the World to Monterrey. Then, he wraps my shivering California loosely in his arms, burying his nose in the warm, clean hair that falls forward from the Redwood forest at the nape of my neck. My right hand and his left intertwine lightly with the backs of fingers in the warm atmosphere between our bodies.
 
“That was—” he begins in a soft whisper. I stop him with a hard kiss, but he is persistent. “What was that?”
 
I kiss him again. I explore his mouth with my tongue—searching for Spanish gold, the fountain of youth, the riches of India—before giving his bottom lip a sharp bite as I pull away.

ML: I’m reading “savage love.”  One reader wrote in with this question: What’s the biggest difference between a gay and a straight marriage? Dan’s answer was: The only really significant difference, SBWTK, is the likelihood of any given husband hearing these 11 magic words: “Honey, it’s been way too long since we had a three-way.”
jinkies1973: I think that’s sexist. I’d say that. But, I’d never get the chance to, because the kind of girl a straight man would marry would be more like dear old Mum. And Mum would never want a three-way. Women get “nailed” for being frigid when they don’t have any real way to escape it in social settings. You are either a “good girl” or a whore.
ML: yes, thats a good point
jinkies1973: Men don’t marry whores. Period.
jinkies1973: Gay men have no such dichotomy in their social settings.
jinkies1973: Therefore, Mr. Savage, you are perpetuating a sexist image of women the same as any straight man.
jinkies1973: Thank you very much.
jinkies1973: (wink)
jinkies1973: I’d marry two bisexual men any day of the week. And there would be three-ways galore.
ML: that’s hot
ML: but you’re probably the exception to the rule
jinkies1973: And that’s what Mr. Savage would say, too.
jinkies1973: I say, “I don’t think I am the exception. I’m simply the one willing to be more vocal about it and take the “slutty” flak.”
jinkies1973: But, if I am the exception, I feel sorry for most women.

In a world where Prez Bush wanted nothing more than our steady and unflagging support, no matter what, Molly Ivins said, “You’re an idiot, and you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

I loved Molly Ivins. Brilliant. Acidic. Salty as a sailor. No nonsense. Practical. Personal. Visceral.

She was an honest liberal who wasn’t insulted by the title, and she was never, ever afraid to speak her mind.

She died this week after a long battle with breast cancer, and the world of journalism is worse off for that. There isn’t an equal liberal voice out there. Al Franken is just too smirk-y. And, Garrison Keeler is too, too sweet.

You can check out Molly’s last editorial here.

Some of my favorite Molly Ivins quotes:

The first rule of holes: when you’re in one, stop digging. (About the Iraq War.)

*****

You can’t ignore politics, no matter how much you’d like to.

*****

What stuns me most about contemporary politics is not even that the system has been so badly corrupted by money. It is that so few people get the connection between their lives and what the bozos do in Washington and our state capitols.

*****

During a recent panel on the numerous failures of American journalism, I proposed that almost all stories about government should begin: “Look out! They’re about to smack you around again!”

*****

I am not anti-gun. I’m pro-knife. Consider the merits of the knife. In the first place, you have to catch up with someone in order to stab him. A general substitution of knives for guns would promote physical fitness. We’d turn into a whole nation of great runners. Plus, knives don’t ricochet. And people are seldom killed while cleaning their knives.

*****

You want moral leadership? Try the clergy. It’s their job.

*****

The problem with those who choose received Authority over fact and logic is how they choose which part of Authority to obey. The Bible famously contradicts itself at many points (I have never understood why any Christian would choose the Old Testament over the New), and the Koran can be read as a wonderfully compassionate and humanistic document. Which suggests that the problem of fundamentalism lies not with authority, but with ourselves.

*****

There is one area in which I think Paglia and I would agree that politically correct feminism has produced a noticeable inequity. Nowadays, when a woman behaves in a hysterical and disagreeable fashion, we say, “Poor dear, it’s probably PMS.” Whereas, if a man behaves in a hysterical and disagreeable fashion, we say, “What an asshole.” Let me leap to correct this unfairness by saying of Paglia, Sheesh, what an asshole.

*****

As they say around the Texas Legislature, if you can’t drink their whiskey, screw their women, take their money, and vote against ‘em anyway, you don’t belong in office.

*****

Good night, Molly, and thanks.

Once again, the Bush man has no concept of the average American household. Middle class and working class families aren’t out joyriding around town in their SUVs. I don’t know if the Admin. realized it, but gas prices have been hella high in the last few years. Most families go to work, go to the grocery store, take the kids to school and go home. They are not out burning their gas for fun and frivolities. They can’t afford it.

And, even if they wanted to take a personal responsibility and cut that consumption further—cut it until it hurts—most American cities DON’T have adequate public transportation to offset that. Here in Tulsa, the bus system is minimal, and there is no subway, train or taxi system to speak of. Without public infrastructure to take up the slack of a reduction in personal driving, how is the average American supposed to carry out the Prez’s wishes? Walk the 20 miles to work? In a town without adequate sidewalks or pedestrian crossings, like Tulsa? Tulsa is a town built for cars, as most American towns are: spread out, flat, distant, without public infrastructure.

Now, as a representative democracy—although, granted, not a DIRECT one, in the case of presidential elections—we are, to quote Honest Abe, “of the people, by the people, for the people.”

Therefore, I’d like the Bush Admin. to cover my 20% gas reduction. Take one for the team and all that—especially since I’ve been taking one for the team by paying for that damn war I don’t believe it. It’s George’s turn.

George, here are some suggestions:

1.) No more vacations in Air Force One. For business purposes ONLY. Diplomatic missions, etc. No weekly visits to the ranch, no trips to Graceland for fun and frolic with Japanese Prime Ministers, and NO campaign tour stops to stump for Republican candidates. (This goes for Dick, too.)

2.) Stop filling up that portable generator that runs Dick’s mechanical heart. The military has solar cloth, convert Dick to solar power.

3.) Take away the twins’ convertibles. They are fairly attractive college coeds. They can grab a ride home from the bar. No worries.

4.)  Cut your enormous parade of an entourage by 20%. So, about 2 of your 10 fleet vehicles. Have the Secret Service guys sit on each other’s laps, or pile up in the limo with you and Laura. You two can stop making out back there for awhile. Practice some restraint.

5.) And, finally, to quote my friend Randy: “Stop gasing up those Humvees to go and kill the brown people.”

 There you go, George. Practical suggestions to cut gas consumption.

ME: I am looking for a simple thing—good conversation, good companionship, good sex. It seems that too many of my peers and friends are so intent on “getting married” and finding “the one” that they have lost the joy of just spending time enjoying someone’s company. I am not a girl looking for a brass ring . . . or a gold one, for that matter. And, I’m tired of relationships with commitment and assumptions built in like shelves in a library.
 
I just want to enjoy someone and have him enjoy me.

HIM: You don’t ask for much!  So in what order do you like your friendship to evolve, companionship, conversation, or sex (inwhich order?).  Also, do you have another pic, you’re not looking into the camera.
 
What am I looking for? I’m really not sure… I am sure I will know it when I find it.  I know that is too vague so I will try a little harder.  I think I am looking for a friend, preferably a friend with benefits, no committments, just friends. 
 
Let me know what your thinking.

ME: I’ve actually been thinking about this since yesterday afternoon, and, while I would love a simple relationship with no assumptions, it seems that you already have a few assumptions built in. Yours are “friends only” assumptions. And, that honesty is a good thing. I’m glad you told me. Don’t get me wrong. But, to answer honesty with honesty, I already have a couple of those. I already have a few boys, whom I’m sure would label me a “friend with benefits.” They come over once every couple of weeks or once a month. We have sex. They go home. This is not a slot I personally need filled. (And, I don’t actually consider us “friends.” Friends talk and enjoy each other outside of sex.)
 
I guess I’m looking for a companion, a step up from the booty call of a “friend with benefits.” It’s not that I am looking for a relationship, but, honestly, I don’t want to be handicapped against the potential before I even get in the game.
 
I’d like to have dinner, talk, go to the movies. Now, I’m not expecting commitment, but I’d rather not rule it out from the get-go either. The “friends only” assumption, to me, is the equally-stringent flipside of the “I need to get married” assumption. One person in the relationship has an agenda that doesn’t benefit or really take into account the developing emotions of the other.
 
So, unfortunately, it looks like we aren’t on the same page with what we want. That’s OK. It happens all the time. If I didn’t already have a couple of booty call boys, I’d probably take you up on the offer. But, again, I guess I often wonder why there isn’t a stage between booty call and girlfriend. We seem to have erased that somewhere over the years.
 
Richard, you’re an affable guy. I don’t think you’ll have any problems finding what you’re looking for quite soon. I wish you luck there, and I apologize for leading you down a path that may have been misleading. I just recently had the epiphany—last night, actually—that perhaps the reason I need three or four boys for regular booty call is that I’m not getting the companionship I’m looking for. I get plenty of sex. Perhaps I need to change my focus.
 
I’ll ruminate on that more.

HIM: You are very well spoken and I appreciate your consideration.  I think you are correct in identifiying the void between booty call and marriage material.  I am equally certain that I do not have any idea how to accomplish it either.  Do not apologize, you did not mis-lead me, we were just fishing at night, we have no idea where the fish are and no idea where the line we cast will land.
 
Good Luck. Richard.

She knows no one—either in reality or her fantasy—who loves her unconditionally. Her mother requires a “little nurse.” Her stepfather requires her to be silent, forgotten, a shadow. Her friend, the house servant, requires her to keep a secret. Even those fairies and creatures of the underground world require her to complete tasks and prove herself. She can only be loved if she makes the right choices, if she is the perfect little girl that the person she desires love from requires.

Life is often like this, unfortunately. And, I’m not just talking the scary depths of “love” like the violent “you ain’t takin’ my man” crap on “Jerry Springer.” If I’m not the “right” version of femininity for boys, I don’t get to be loved. If you don’t love the Jesus, he won’t love you.

Conditions on love are everywhere.

So, if we follow the rules, we are loved. If we do what you like, what you want, what you think is right or good or appropriate, then we will be loved. And, if we don’t? If we take a different path. If what we want isn’t what you want? Will we be hated? Will we be shot down—in an example of an extreme case—like that Turkish writer whose teenage assasin has no regrets because the writer, in his mind, “tainted” the pure image of Turkey?

Is love merely a reflection of whether my ego matches what yours would choose and hate only the concept that what I feel in my soul disagrees with what you feel in yours?

Are both love and hate merely reflections of our own selfish desires? If you don’t love me, will I still love you, like I claimed? I’d like to think so. I’d try to, but, I’ll admit, it’s hard. No one wants to embrace the cold flesh of a statue. We all want a warm reflection of ourselves, a mirror of our love.

We all want a return on our investment.

1.) The “I triple dog dare you” approach never works. If the first thing out of your mouth (or your fingers, if you’re e-mailing or IMing a girl) is “women who say they just want sex are never real, so prove to me you are,” you’re not getting any ass. Women aren’t men. We don’t have the penis-attached competition chromosome. If we’re looking for sex, we’re not out to PROVE to you we’re looking for sex. We’re not looking to answer a challenge, win the race, take one for the team, become the symbol or boost your ego. And all of that sounds like way too much damn work before we even get to the actual sex part. Start this way, and you’ll never get any.

2.) Don’t send a picture of your penis without prompting. Unless it’s made of chocolate, that’s really not going to get us pumped with the desire to devour instantly. And, such an act has a serious stink of pure desperation, like you’ve been sitting around at the computer masturbating and just waiting to find some random vagina to send that picture to. Acting like a panting, rutting puppy isn’t attractive. We may want to see the penis, but a picture of the mug would be nice first. Thank you.

3.) Talk. If you want to set yourself apart from the 5,000 other men who are ALSO after booty call and possess a willing penis, try charm. Try personality. Try talking about the weather, politics, books, pop culture, life, art, love, insecurities. Tell a joke. Make a comment on today’s fashion. Give an opinion about “American Idol.” It will make you different than the other “I want to, do you” boys. She’ll remember you. And, in a bonus step to getting you some ass, she might not delete you instantly because she thinks you’re a stalker, a rapist, a virgin or just plain frighteningly desperate. Like dating a girl, acting a bit interested but not overwhelmingly so, will go a long, long way to getting you snuggled down in her sheets.

4.) Act interested in more than her boob size. (Again, this is tangentially related to #3.) Ask what she does for a living, what she likes to do in her free time. Even if you don’t remember anything but her boob size, play the game, man. Do the dance. Yes, I know, booty calls aren’t dates in your mind. But, to women, they are “McDates”—tiny little slices of the real thing. And, if you want us to be relaxed and willing, you’re going to have to feign interest beyond the three major sex orifices. In other words: Pretend to like her, moron.

5a.) Get a “look.” If you’re going to the bar looking to get laid, here’s the checklist: bathe; comb your hair; wear deodorant; pick a shirt that BUTTONS and doesn’t have stains, tears or bleach spots; try wearing the “good” jeans you normally reserve for church and weddings or, dare I say it, slacks. Make an effort to appear attractive to the opposite sex—and, if you hear nothing else, please hear this—absolutely, positively NO BALL CAPS. Here’s the simple rule: If you look good, women notice. (Remember, we’re the ones watching those fashion shows on cable TV.) No woman has ever been attracted to a man because of his college team headwear, but a woman has been attracted by a tailored cut of a good suit jacket. Trust me on this.

5b.) The online advice. If a woman requests a photo, don’t send the webshot of you in your P.J.s with that lovely angle that looks up your nose. Be selective in what you send. Try for an attractive, groomed picture and not one that makes you look like you live in your parents’ basement spending your freetime playing “Grand Theft Auto.”

Follow this advice and you will get laid. If you’d like a return event with this woman and a possible semi-regular slot, I suggest not falling into these categories that won’t EVER get you a “come on back now, you hear”:

A.) The “Indy Pit Stop” booty call. You’re in. You’re out. Less than 10 minutes flat. We don’t want to be THIS close to hooker material without actually getting paid, darling.

B.) The “Sorry, I haven’t done this in a long time” booty call. You’re in. You’re shot. You don’t offer to help her once you’re done. You apologize, but it doesn’t occur to you to reciprocate in a way other than “tab a in slot b.” We didn’t look for booty call just to help YOU out. We’d like an orgasm, too. Thank you.

C.) The “I couldn’t make it, but I didn’t call” missed booty call. It’s self explanatory. She won’t be waiting for you again.

D.) The “wow, my girlfriend would never do THAT” booty call. There is a fine line between appreciation and giving us the urge to call your girlfriend and let her know what you are REALLY like and how much you are screwing her over right now. Screaming at us that we’re NOT GIRLFRIEND MATERIAL over and over and over isn’t going to help your bid to return—unless you’re looking to get a ballpeen hammer to the back of the skull.

Follow these, and you might actually have some luck in the field. If you need further advice on the subject, send your questions to: bangbang.girl@yahoo.com. It will be like my little advice column for the sex-starved and the sex-stupid. And, maybe I’ll share a few here online, like a naughty “Dear Abby.”