wicked and that ain't so easy
"if there were but world enough and time..."

but there isn't.

so......spit it out.
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the desert
Posted:May 25, 2018 8:18 am
Last Updated:May 25, 2018 8:19 am

she stood watching him work on that old bike. bare chested, sweating in the afternoon sun. nothing she hadn't seen a million times. his jeans catching him tight on his thighs when he hunkered down. She could almost taste the salt on his skin. times like this made her breasts ache, fill up with need of him. still, she just stood, eyes savoring the length of him.

He could feel her eyes on him. his cock twitched wishing she’d hurry the hell up. He knew not to turn, just to wait her out. sometimes she'd startle and then the whole thing would be taken by the wind. He stood and pulled his shoulder to stop the stiffening. He smelled three kinds of awful. grabbed a bottle of water and poured it over his head. the sand just ate it like it never was. there was no breeze so the moment stood for the moment. he gulped the rest to soothe his throat.

her breasts on his back, hands around his belly. lips on his neck. she'd be standing on her toes to reach.

his long arms reached behind him pulling her tight to him, find her ass already wet with sweat, sliding over them easily, lifting her off the ground, heading for the barn.

could feel her watching him but didn’t stop working.
Posted:Apr 21, 2018 11:54 am
Last Updated:Apr 21, 2018 11:54 am

“Pity the nation whose people are sheep,
and whose shepherds mislead them.
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars, whose sages are silenced,
and whose bigots haunt the airwaves.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice,
except to praise conquerors and acclaim the bully as hero
and aims to rule the world with force and by torture.
Pity the nation that knows no other language but its own
and no other culture but its own.
Pity the nation whose breath is money
and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed.
Pity the nation — oh, pity the people who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away.
My country, tears of thee, sweet land of liberty.”
― Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Posted:Apr 14, 2018 11:18 am
Last Updated:Apr 23, 2018 12:25 pm
sometimes as the wife of a salesman once said, attention must be paid. i will be doing that and not be doing this for a while.

for those who know me, your energy and your prayers would be appreciated.

for those who only know wickedeasy.....i will catch you on the flip side.

and likely i will be snooping occasionally...

enjoy what i hope is finally spring.


isn't this pretty?
Posted:Apr 11, 2018 12:28 pm
Last Updated:Apr 14, 2018 11:21 am

when some you have read forever, who has given you prose that is so sumptuous you groan at the taste of it....

who manages to not only make you want more but also leaves you extrapolating endless chapters that you want to read.

who has a grasp on international politics and finance that puts most national leaders to shame

i will miss Optiskeptic. i was led to him circuitously and i never missed a single post, not . His writing is extraordinary. i wish you could have known it. he could make you weep.

and he has a lovely bum.

too hard on himself by half. but most of the truly wondrous of the world are.

i love you.
What Lies Beneath Symposium #39
Posted:Apr 2, 2018 11:22 am
Last Updated:Apr 11, 2018 12:46 pm

I’ll be back in three days.


The door closed behind him, the house falling into a stillness that wrapped around her like a soft quilt. She slid across the wooden floors in her socks, clicking off the filtered air, opening the French doors and stepped out on the cool flagstones, air filling her lungs as she breathed deeply for the first time in what seemed like forever. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out the cigarettes she did not have and lit one, inhaling until she choked. Smiling she sat on the stone wall next to the hydrangeas, wafting smoke rings over the sculpted garden, lighting cigarette from cigarette until the moon rose.

Edging back into the darkened room, she slid silently through the rooms into the kitchen. She would not need a glass, there was no need for pretense or formality this evening. Her hand found the bottle, tucked it in under her arm, reached for the basket in the fridge, wandered back to the bedroom. The light from the moon cast a shadowy spotlight through the skylight that stretched across the chaise by the fireplace, redolent from the spruce logs burned last night. Inhaling the scent, she changed into her nightgown, climbing onto the sleigh bed.

She tipped a handful of the goodies from the basket into her palm, crunched, and followed them with a healthy gulp of Jameson. Treasuring the silence, the lack of TV noise, no computers beeping, no phones pinging with calls, she continued her minor feasting until she began to drift noticing that the house still had its own sound, a thrum of sorts or was that in her head. Pulling herself back up, she gobbled the last of the what the basket held, drank greedily, then gave herself with silent satisfaction to the softness of slumber.

It was not until she awoke, and his voice asked, how did you sleep, that she realized she had not succeeded.

Although she could not have seen the flashing lights, she now fully understood what lies beneath. Next time, she would do better.
you better not never tell nobody but God
Posted:Mar 28, 2018 2:37 pm
Last Updated:Apr 5, 2018 1:13 pm

You better not never tell nobody but God.

Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board.

They shoot the white girl first.

Now I believe they will leave me alone.

Opening lines were once my way to decide if I would take a book under my arm and carry it home with me. Over time I decide I was being hasty and expanded to a chapter but I will admit, an opening line is often enough which brings me to my rant for the month of march. Unlike most of the women here who are inundated with emails and requests for sex, I receive relatively few. My profile clearly states I am not looking for a hookup, I have no half naked or seductive pics, and I will not step on another woman’s toes.

Oh yeah….i’m also 68 which is damn near 70 which is daunting except apparently for men under 35 who for some reason find it appealing. Go figure.

On the rare occasion I have sent an email, I ask questions which necessitate a reply. My opening line while not as glorious as the ones above ranges from disturbed, retiree seeking solace to masochistic pain slut in need of sadist. My replies are few. i am open to suggestions

I figure I need to find that person willing to see humor in the crone who still needs to get off. We all need a little nookie, right? So why do old men with saggy bottoms/balls get it more than old women with elongated titties? Not saying mine are elongated just stereotyping. Mine are so damn perky. All those towers of pain really helped.

Okay, i really am getting to the point. Sex is sexist. And ageist. Did I spell that wrong but take out the e and it looks really really wrong. Y’all know what I’m trying for anyway. Women live longer then men and despite rumors to the contrary, we really do like shtupping. All that madonna whore stuff is just you men wanting the cake and eating it too, or was it pie……..never mind. Although pie makes more sense when you think about it. All the juices, yanno?

Largest sales of sex toys? elderly women. HA! You should see the ads in AARP, curl your hair.

Okay, I made that up. but it could be true. I buy a LOT. So if you can deal with a little under arm flap KNOWING that you will get a great home cooked meal from an indulgent lover who has years of experience (nudge, nudge, wink, wink)….

And remember, once she takes out those dentures……….sweet JAYSUS.

Okay – no one get their knickers in a twist. I’m just having a bit of fun at my own expense. And no, I don’t have dentures, although I might consider getting them if it’s a deal breaker.
cost of doing business
Posted:Mar 26, 2018 11:45 am
Last Updated:Mar 31, 2018 2:27 pm
A small red pickup, with a rusted out bed covered in plywood stained dark in spots by lord only knows what sat on the asphalt by the fence. It sat there near every day for a good many weeks. No one seemed to notice it, just another truck in truck country. The fence surrounded the building inside which was of brick with windows that seemed to throw the sun back at you. Square, nothing fancy, just a brick building but what it held was precious beyond measure.

That very morning while she was walking to that very building, she thought someday I will never have to do this ever again, it made her smile knowing that in time this would not be a part of her life anymore, that her life would swing out from here to become something else, something that would be more than this brick building, more than hours of restlessness, than days of waiting.

Warehoused within, room after room…

She smelled it, first, like caps and copper.

The sounds came later, soft almost, like she was far away. It wasn’t until he swung out into the corridor that she reacted. Warmth ran down her leg.

She smiled bigger than the sun in August, running forward, dropping her books, her hands flung out to the sides. His eyes caught hers, silence filled the hallway. He lifted her, spun her round and round.

It’ll hurt, he whispered.

She nodded.

He fired into her leg, she screamed, sprawling on the floor at his feet.

He ran.

She pulled herself into a classroom, saw the bodies, wept for the dead.

Revolution has a price.

It would be a good 5 minutes before the truck blew.
Spring - Symposium, oops, i almost missed it.
Posted:Mar 22, 2018 3:05 pm
Last Updated:Apr 11, 2018 1:41 pm

Spring am sprung
the grass is riz
i wonder where
the boidies is?

i've hoid it said
the boid is on the wing
but that's absoid
becuz the wing is on da boid

this is a poem that my DDS used to spout to us as small children to keep our minds occupied while he drilled our teeth without novacaine.. we were poor and could not pay for the the pleasure of relatively painless dentistry so we clutched the chair arms instead while he sang ditties and the sour small of rot filled the air..

there are so many rites of spring as a child, the easter outfit, April vacation, the first day of fishing season, a trip to see relatives on the farms. One Mother's day we even had a blizzard. All the flowering trees were shivering in a mantle of white until morning when the sun freed them and the snow melted down by mid afternoon. it was a stunning sight.

Spring for me is a time of stretching out, of mild distemper, slight headaches, longing, an itch to travel or maybe just to be someone else for a while. I wonder if all the growing doesn't put that need into us like it does into the land as it softens and allows things to break on through. I have never had a problem with the winter and it's captive nature.....solitude is my friend. Bursting open, now that's the season that feels most like edge play to me. pushing my boundaries, making me want to bite instead of nibble...smiles.

Eliot: April is the cruelest month

eec: ...when the world is mudlucious

springtime is love time and vive sweet love

Larkin: The trees are coming into leaf, like something almost being said

and i remember this line but not who wrote it "March is out of breath"

PS> Smartass used the term 'pity bdsm' in a recent post.and i saw myself at 85 or so being flogged and all my saggy skin rippling. may i just say....this to me was not upsetting but a guarantee. Not that i'd be filming it but i surely hope the flogger would not be taking it easy on me. i may be in the winter of my life but my mind is still in mid summer.
missed a lot
Posted:Mar 16, 2018 11:53 am
Last Updated:Mar 31, 2018 2:22 pm

since when did a TV series run from Oct to November, take a hiatus over the holidays and then end in March? is that normal? add in the two weeks off the the Olympics and it was barely a season.


seems like less is just less. and now the regular stations are showing more and more reality TV than anything else. music shows, game shows, survivor, bachelors, chelfs, wtf.

amc has some new stuff, syfy, OWN. seems like the big 3 have lost their footing. hell, might as well just sell to Gordon Ramsey............he's on every week, all year.

i have a Roku so i'm grooving on old stuff and the Netflix and amazon series. i finally watched the Sopranos. not bad. and the Wire - way good.

i need suggestions - what did you watch that was killer that i can find on my Roku?
if you had to choose
Posted:Mar 3, 2018 11:33 am
Last Updated:Mar 26, 2018 1:33 pm

say you only had 10 minutes.

and you had a partner who was willing for you to make the choice. okay, better, a partner who was not just willing but equally turned on by all three options.

yeah okay - a bit of a fantasy but not really because in my case, i love all three and can easily get off with all three so bite me.

as a man with a woody, do you fuck:

her mouth, her pussy, or her ass?

curious minds want to know

images do not seem to want to stick here so see the comment
for now.........
Posted:Feb 24, 2018 10:03 am
Last Updated:Feb 28, 2018 3:31 pm

In the smallest of spaces, in the darkest of corners, in the silence, she crouches. It would be fine to be here really if only she could stop remembering that there was more than here. She wishes desperately for when all she knew was here.

Once in the passing of time she saw what she now remembers is light. Then it seemed not like a thing but a lack of what she knew. It had terrified her with its sharpness, its acuity but so briefly had it stayed that she had no sense of what she’d seen as real or imagined.

Still, it began the before. Now it is not enough that a day is gone, that a night passes, that the door opens, closes times three, that the ceiling pours water on the fifth night like the skies have opened on a summer storm. Now here is not everything.

It had been easier to be only here, she had been quieter inside. but now, now she was more. More was painful in every way, in her body it cried out for the water before the water was coming, for the food before she was hungry. She’d tried to find here but it is gone. The harder she looks for it the further away it moves.

More brings pieces that don’t fit. pictures that cause pain, she stands finding nothing holds her down, she travels the darkness learning every inch. Words come tumbling back naming her discoveries.

Again, it rains. again, it rains. Four rains pass for a month.

Once when she fed, she threw the bowl against the wall. It bounced, she cried.

On the fifth day when it rains, she will try again to find out where the water falls the heaviest.

For now, she crouches in the smallest of spaces, the darkest of corners, in silence.
valentines in the garden of good and evil
Posted:Feb 14, 2018 11:20 am
Last Updated:Feb 27, 2018 9:35 am

In the beginning, he treated her with a certain deference, opening doors, helping her with her coat. As time passed, so did these signs of kindness, respect. He would always check to make sure she made it home safely from work. Now days would pass without a call. She knew that her position had altered but had little idea what had precipitated the change. When he called and asked if she would meet him for dinner on a Tuesday, she hesitated. It was difficult for her to arrange her week nights to accommodate evening engagements. Her silence was a bit too long.

"I am not asking, chere. I need you to meet me at 7:00. I will expect you there."

The call cut off, leaving her without recourse. She would meet him, there was nothing else to do. As she planned, she allowed herself to wonder if this was the last time she would see him, if this meeting was simply a formality. She took care with preparation, dressing simply but with an eye for detail, knowing what he preferred. Her hair was perfection, so rarely the case and she smiled a bit that for once it had allowed her to win. Makeup that appeared to not be there at all, an aubergine shawl over a black dress that fell to her calf, a small guarantee held in her garter, nothing in her hands.

She stood by the maître d’s station, her head raised, arms to her sides. Recognizing her, he led her to the table in the corner, beckoning a waiter who moved off quietly. Within a few minutes she had a glass of sauvignon blanc in front of her to run her fingers over restlessly though she never raised it to her lips. Time passes in odd ways when waiting. Sometimes in fits and starts, other times it seems to stand quite still only later do you realize that a piece has gone missing without notice. Tonight, an endless string of seconds, dripping water on a tin plate, inexorable, endless, her nerves pulling tighter with each plink.

When his hand slipped onto her shoulder, she nearly flinched. His dark eyes opened wide then shuttered. She rarely showed any sign of overt emotion in public. The waiter arrived promptly with his drink, hesitated, left.

“You must be wondering what is happening.”

Tilting her head, she simply watched his face for clues, her face receptive. It is difficult to be a vessel, no? To be the one who waits to be filled, the one who loves more. And yet the one who knows more, to be the one who can see it all.

“please, before you say anything, I have something I must tell you”

The waiter returned with more drinks, blinis, caviar.

As he vanished yet again, she stood, went to his side. Whispered in his ear.

His head flew back, eyes searching hers. Truth is always so disconcerting. As she took her seat, he downed his drink, she reached for a blini, suddenly hungry.

His hand dropped to the bag. She watched as he reached inside. Her hand slid up to her thigh.

He placed a tiny box on the table. His laughter was deep. She stared at him.

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