May 27th

May 27, 2002

It is 3:00 pm and you are dead but I don't know that yet. Mary calls again, this time begging me to check on you, but I don't want to. I'm afraid you're mad at me, still. I'm afraid you'll yell at me. I'm afraid I'll see the pain and anger in your eyes.

Mary and Jackson are in Pennsylvania, visiting her father. I am in bed, drained from working the overnight shift - a shift that you needed to cover after you fired the regularly scheduled guard for sleeping at his post.

Mark, Lindsay and I were midway through the movie The Others when I got the call that you were late. I half-hazardly threw on forgiving stretch pants and my favorite sweatshirt, grabbed my car keys and a note pad, and rushed out the door. You arrived less than fifteen minutes later.

Fifteen minutes... What if I finished the movie, picked a more suitable outfit, packed a snack, called a replacement other than me, your mother. Would you still be dead?

I could tell even before you got out of your car that you were mad at me - steaming mad. Your white knuckled fists clutched the steering wheel. Your lips were pressed straight. Your bloodshot eyes ignored me.

You yelled so loud I worried someone in this elite, gated community would hear us.

In feirce frustration you took your dinner, your frozen box of Elio's pizza, and pitched it hard. It hit a blooming lilac tree and burst into mosaic chunks of red and yellow.

My gut told me not to let you go, so I held your car keys in my right hand, tucked tightly behind my back.

It didn't take long before my embarrassment overshadowed my instincts, and I released them. Slowly... ever so slowly, I released them. I see, feel, hear it as plainly now as I did then. The weight - the jagged, cool cluster pressed against my palm, and then... slowly, I extended them forward, against my all knowingness.

Arm straight, palm up, I opened my hand, and they were gone. And I will never see you grasp at anything, ever again.

You won't answer your house phone or your cell phone. You won't open your door. It doesn't matter how many times I call or how long I let it ring, or how hard I knock.

And I will forever hate the smell of lilacs.

I don't know how parents cope with the loss of a child. Truly I don't.
If you figure it out, please tell me.  

NO means...

Somewhere between the hours of 2:00 and 4:45 AM, my husband of almost 10 years announced that he was leaving me. When I asked him why, he said, "I don't like the color green."

The rest is pretty fuzzy - something about kitchen tiles and shades of green. But his car is green. Why would he buy a green car if he doesn't like the color green?

I started to cry. I cried so hard that I woke myself up. And then I woke my husband up.

"Are you leaving me?" I asked.
"Yes," he admits.
"When?"
"Around 10:30"

I remember now. He is headed to Philadelphia in the morning. He and a friend are going to a baseball game and he won't be back until late.

Is that what prompted my dream? His day trip to Philadelphia? Or is it Christians dismissal of Anastasia in Chapter 17 of 50 Shades of Grey. It was the last thing I heard before drifting off to sleep (I have the audiobook version, convinced it would cure my insomnia).

I have allowed this ridiculous, poorly written, implausible erotica to take hold of my life.

I consider myself an open minded, adventurous women, but never have I imagined anything as wild as whats going on in the sadomasochistic "red room of pain." It's disturbing and above all, its HOT.

The thought of someone controlling me is sickening. Every time Christian tells Anastasia what to do I cringe. And how do you sign a contract that allows someone to "fuck you hard" without the ground rules of mutual respect and love (as in a marriage contract)?

In the world according to "oh baby Grey" NO does not mean no, NO means "nipple orgasm." 

Remember how I doubted them? Well, to my dismay, nineteen women have come forward claiming that their N spot is sweeter than their G spot.  I'd be quick to dismiss them if I didn't find 90% of them on breastcancer.org. Interestingly, most of them have dense, smaller sized breasts. It's as if breast tissue interferes with your ability to climax.

Many women worry their husband/boyfriend/sex slave will leave them when they lose their breasts. Is that what caused my nightmare?

"My doctors appointment is at 1:30" I remind my husband. "When you get home I'll be bigger!"

How many times does a man hear that? Today is the first saline injection into my new tissue expanders. The saline stretches the skin and muscle, eventually allowing room for implants.

It's been two months since my double mastectomy, two weeks since my revision surgery, and I'm finally starting to feel good, normal, happy, spry, and thanks to 50 Shades of Grey, sexual.

When I look in the mirror, I like what I see. My new, little mounds are adorable and now that I've had revision surgery, they are perfectly positioned. From here on in, all of my reconstruction decisions are exciting ones. First, how big do I want my foobs to be (full B?) and then, how will I adorn them - nipples or imbedded jewels, tattoo's that mimic areola or detailed works of art?

My scars reflect my courage. My courage inspires personal growth. And with that growth comes a more confident, more resilient, a more radiant me.

So what if it's too late for me to have a nipple orgasm. It's time to explore other erogenous zones, and number one on my list is my brain.

A Friends classic:

Top Seven Female Erogenous Zones according to Monica

xoOHBaby where'd I put my

brown braided riding crop, MonkeyME

And while you're at it...
Blame it on Grey

"Sorry Mom, I forgot to send you a Mothers Day card, I was busy shopping for a brown braided riding crop."


"Yes, I know its way past midnight, but I want to listen to Chapter 18 one, more, glorious, oh baby time."


"Tell me again why there is a 5 year wait to lease a black Audi R8 coupe, TT, sedan, spyder?"


"I know you just had a baby, but please don't say, "Oh baby!"


"Red room" has taken on a whole different meaning!

xo,MonkeyMe

Oriole Update

The Oriole that sings for me has been a very busy bird. 

 If he can accomplish that much in a week, surely I can get some writing done. 

Wishing you all a wonderful, productive week!

xoMonkeyME

50 Shades of Gummy Bears

It's the first Wednesday of the month. And as a timid member of The Insecure Writer's Group, that means it's time to honor the flaws, fears, and pitfalls of being a Green Gummy Bear (aka insecure writer). As always, thanks to Alex J. Cavanaugh for rounding us up.

I must admit, I was pretty proud of myself after I completed The Mystery Behind Room 408 - my first short story in a very, very long. I even got the idea that since I can't figure out how to write a book, I would compile some of my favorite short stories and turn them into a book.

But then I got sidetracked when I started listening to the audio version of 50 Shades of Grey.

Do not misunderstand me, this is NOT, by any stretch of the imagination, a well written book. This New York Times Best Selling Novel is at best, Hustler without pictures, and yet, I can't stop listening to it.

In my defense, I started it as a way to help me sleep. I have a strange habit of waking up in the middle of the night. Somewhere between the hours of 2 and 4 AM, my mind turns on and all my thoughts intensify. Now, instead of focusing on my night sweats, I listen to a 21 year old woman squeal about her infatuation with a 27 year old superficial, super successful, super sexy, sadomasochistic asshole.

Without spoiling it for anyone thinking about reading it, you are teased for seven chapters before anything reaches the boiling point.  And what happens in chapter eight, is so RIDICULOUS, that I've taken it upon myself to start an investigation of sorts. Yes, I realize this book is FICTION, but the concept of a virgin having her first orgasm during nipple stimulation is ludicrous!

Or is it? 

Dear Sexually Active Readers,

Have any of you have ever had an orgasm due to nipple stimulations? I am not asking if nipple stimulation helped you reach an orgasm - that is a given. But can nipple stimulation alone swell you into climax?

I initially thought of this as a question for women only and then I thought, what the hell, maybe I should include men.

And...just for fun, is anyone under the impression that their nipple fondling has given someone an orgasm?

And, is anyone willing to admit that they've faked a nipple orgasm?

Extra credit given to anyone (man or woman) who tries to achieve an orgasm by nipple stimulation.

All participants will receive a green gummy bear to nibble on, fondle, and devour. 

And if you need help with that nipple thing, 
maybe, call this guy...

xOh, yes, Yes, YES, MonkeyME