I’m all dolled up a tiny buttercream sundress and a pair of strappy polka dotted  heels that my Santana fella would have positively drooled over.  I’m clinging to the hope that, if I just look like the embodiment of summertime, I can coax the sun to linger in Seattle just a little longer.

I know I’m usually a rainy day girl — nothing like steamy, rain- splattered windows and the scent of lightning-thickened air to ratchet my orgasms up a notch or two — but I’ve been watching the mist delicious soap opera unfold in the neighbors’ back yard and I can’t bear to have it cut off by a late summer drizzle.  Not just yet.

He’s a sissy boy,  that sweet-cheeked blonde next door.  Man, can I spot them a mile away.  And his wife’s a cum-craving slut.  I can spot those, too.   And, from what I can tell, they don’t know about one another.  Yet.

He’s spending his down time mincing around the pool in a pastel parade of two piece bikinis, practicing cocking his hips in full on faggot fashion and adding a delicate, girlish flutter to his walk.

She, on the other hand, has moved waaay beyond practicing her chosen role.  Maybe once upon a time she confined herself to lying in her bedroom, eyes closed, cramming the biggest dildo she could find in her pussy, but now she has this luscious Native American fella doing the honors.   (Sorry, boys.  It can’t always be big black cock all the time.).  Sometimes he likes to plant her up against the wall outside and make her try to muffle her screams against the back of her hand.

I’ve even seen her wearing the same tacky gold lamé bikini her husband seemed to take such delight in a few days later.  It made me wonder if there was a little dried cum-puddle in the crotch scraping up against his balls.
Would he have noticed?

You’ve no idea how tempting it is to bring things to a head, perhaps by sending a charmingly gift-wrapped bikini to him along with a note — appearing to be from her naturally — saying that she knows his naughty little secret and expects him to slip away from work early and come home appropriately adorned.  I can just imagine his panicked dash from driveway to house, a frisson if excitement racing up his spine.

A round of surprises for everyone.

I really can’t be the one to arrange it but, oh, how I’d love to see the big exposition!  And it is coming.  I can feel it.

So I’d be much obliged if the sun could just stick around a little longer so the drama can unfold in the back yard, in full view of my delighted eyes.

I’ll try to write more in the next day or so, including tidbits about the fun I’ve been having with some of you,

I regularly tease this beautiful blonde boy that I date, telling him that he’s a himbo (you know, a boy bimbo).  And it’s true, he really is.  Lord, the stories I could tell you.  He’s lucky he’s so blue-eyed and luscious or he’d be out on his rather fetching behind.  Generally I go for clever fellas, but this one is sooo pretty and sooo talented, that I’ve made an exception.  Yes, occasionally I am that shallow.

Anyway, it’s time to face facts.  He of the dimples and the magically-curved cock isn’t the only himbo in my life.  There’s also one of my dogs.  Come to think of it, that little fucker gets by on his looks, too.  He’s all fluffy long-haired doxie charm, with a dappled coat, mismatched eyes and the perkiest damned tail you’ve ever seen.  But sweet Mary, mother of God (I’m feeling strangely church-y today), is he slow.

Periodically, he’ll amble around the house to see what trouble he can stir up.  Note to Charlie: stay the fuck away from the shoes.  I’m still sore about the pair of orange patent leather kitten heels you took such a shine to last month.  Every now and then he gets a notion that there’s something exciting going down in the bathtub.  He loves to jump in there just to have a little look see.  The problem is, while he is eminently capable of getting in there, he can’t seem to get back out.  Four or five times a day I have to go in there and haul his furry ass out of there.  I’ll hear him raising a ruckus, all indignant yelping and fluffy foot stomping, like maybe *I* lured him into the tub.  I mean, I do a lot of luring, but not with the dog.

Maybe I should safety pin a sprig of mistletoe to my panties.

My neighbors may hate me by now. I have boys on either side and I trust that they enjoy whatever moans or screams penetrate my fairly thick walls — honestly, don’t you wish you lived next door to me? — but I’m not sure how they feel about the Christmas carols.

I have them playing tonight loud enough to wake the dead or certainly any scrooges in the immediate vicinity. For someone who has long since made peace with her damnation, I have an awful lot of Jesusy carols on my playlist.

Oh holy hell, Christmas Card from a Hooker just popped up on itunes. Okay, fast forward. That slipped into the playlist under false pretenses. I love me some Tom Waits but he’s not very holly jolly.

Oooh, perfect! The next song up is Baby, It’s Cold Outside. This is my favorite holiday song of all! I need a dapper man in a fedora to sweet talk me and swing me around the dance floor.

I can’t believe how festive my apartment looks! I just finished decorating and now I’m relaxing with a cup of apple cider. Prudence was supposed to drive up to help me decorate, but she sprained her ankle and I just couldn’t wait any longer. I thought about inviting a man over to at least put the lights on the tree for me, but I decided it might be fun to give the whole self sufficiency thing a whirl, for once.

Well, clearly I just wasn’t designed for a life of self sufficiency. The lights are passable, if a bit twisty. But the star, now that I’m sitting down and looking at it, is seriously askew. Actually, the damn tree looks tipsy.

Eh, fuck it. It’s jaunty.

I have snowflakes and lights on my windows, red mercury beads on the bannister, and a sprig of mistletoe over my bed. I’m looking coquettish in a sparkly pink t-shirt and the kelly green I Love Santa panties my Spy Guy sent me. Somebody better come fuck me before I go on a present bender and rip into all the presents under the tree! And if I do that, a couple of my sweet santas are gonna be very, very angry.

Only you can prevent a Christmas disaster.