Belle Eva Unger

 
 

November's middle - As I am so typically wanting to be wont to do, I want to tell you all about our honeymoon.

But I can't. It's not over. Currently, Walter and I are Mediterraneanizing -- the ocean, the sun, the beach where attire is optional and where we have opted to bathe in both the off and the on, depending on the influence of our Americanized, moral mentality of the Mediterranean moment. Actually, Walter (he is my Walter, not Wally, a boyish name which fails to properly represent his dignified and demure public demeanor) bases his decision of swimming trunks or trunksless on our recent hotel room activities. If no lovemaking has occurred in the past twelve hours, Walter prefers we wear the gear for fear the sight of my nakedness (or that of some other beach loungers, don't think you're fooling me, Walter Cronkletonkite!) will produce in him an embarrassing stiffie.

No big deal, right? Just throw a towel over it and look at something disgusting, like that 300-pound slab of male blubber who's waddling out of the surf in his (blech!) Speedos, until it calms down. Problem is, the sight of Wally (in bed, he is my Wally, not Walter, a refined name which fails to properly represent his ravenous and rambunctious private demeanor) naked and with a hard produces in me a steady stream of let's-get-it-on juice, quantities of which can only be masked when mixed with sunbathing oil, and since the sight of my hand rubbing my inner thighs with oil would only make his stiffie stiffer, well, you can imagine our dilemma.

If we were younger it wouldn't matter. We could simply go multiple rounds in the room until exhausted, and then hit the beach naked and sleep it off. As it is, we are on the cusp, transitioning from our middle ages to our elder, and so, the twelve hour rule is in play. So far, our libidos are cooperatively understanding when it's time to play. Obviously, mine knows that right now I am pecking my laptop's keyboard while sipping a gin and tonic in our hotel room, and so everything is under control. Making matters better, Walter is out somewhere shopping (hopefully to find me a new laptop, because I just drooled on this one and the keys are sticking), so I won't have the temptation of him around for awhile. Why on Earth would I say that makes matters better? Walter, please come home so I can strip Wally naked!! xoxo o-:

Anywhose, since I don't want to serialize our honeymoon until I know the ending, which might lead me to not serialize it at all, as it might be something so special (as it already seems to be shaping up to be) that I want to keep it to myself -- for myself, forever, amen -- I will tell about something that does have a beginning and end: our wedding!

As you know, I typically can only tell you things by typing, and I can typically type to you that nothing about our ceremony was typical. Private yes, typical no, but then, if it's private, who is to know what is and what isn't typical. That's what I'd like to know.

So impatient was Walter to complete our Halloween eve conjoination, he insisted we at least halfway dress the part. In the parlor of Walter's house, with shades drawn, Walter and I, along with his cousin, Red Habershaw, who runs a truck stop over in Peasant Valley, and who at some time or another obtained the credentials to perform marriages so he could accommodate any of his patrons who might need a quickie hookup before resuming their travels to wherever, stood in our underwear while Red reeled off the necessary words. Married us proper with Walter in black satin boxers, me in lacy black panties-bra-garter-stockings combo, and Red in basic white, Fruit of the Loom briefs. Party pooper didn't put on Halloween-colored underwear.

And how do I know the brand of Red's briefs? Well, my hovering hangers-on for the hopefully hot and heavy, because about two minutes later, after Walter embraced me for our we're-hitched kiss, after he swept up my legs and carried me up the stairs in his arms with Red leading the way and opening the door to Walter's bedroom, Red dropped his briefs and I saw them on the floor as Walter walked past them before fracturing our embrace by tossing me atop the bed. The label clearly said Fruit of the Loom. That's how I know.

Had my common sense abandoned me? Logic flown the coop? I barely knew this judge. Knew nothing of his truck-stop-owner cousin, if indeed Red was his cousin. What if Red Habershaw was some escaped or recently-paroled convict who had come back to Meddletonville so he could exact his revenge on the judge who sentenced him? Maybe there were other hoodlums lurking about the house, helping Red in some sort of diabolical, get-even scheme. Or, just a good old-fashioned robbery.

Had I not seen enough movies to warn me of the evils men can do? Did I think I was a tough enough broad to take on two men if they be plotting evil against me? Had I not already been burned once before by a man from the trucking industry? Or, perhaps I had been so deprived of meaningful human touch for so long, after years of incarceration followed by a few more of piddling around town with no clear goal in mind, that I no longer cared what man or what men ravaged me, whatever their purpose might be.

Oh, contrare, my titillated victims of the tease, I very much cared what man ravaged me. My freshly-made husband, Walter, had me bamboozled, and my instincts told me all was good. I've seen enough bad in my heretofore mostly fucked up life, and any fears I had of Walter's intentions involving Red were but fleeting thoughts. Notions to be disregarded and discarded, as I sprawled myself and gave them control. Two men bracketed me. Open bracket: a rugged, rough-handed tough guy; close bracket: an intelligent, gentle-stroking sophisticate, and they piece by piece removed each article of my clothing.

Two men of complete contrasts completely enveloped me, each one melting me with his unique style of lovemaking. I was caressed and manipulated by fingers and hands, scratchy and soft. Kissed and breathed upon with exhales of cool mint and hot whiskey. One tongue summer-sweat slimed me; the other spring-water cooled me, and as they wrangled and writhed over me and around me, it no longer mattered which man brought me which sensation. I had no preference for which man entered my V and which entered my O, because each man became one man. My everything man. The enlightened man of my darkest dreams. The depraved man of my most romantic fantasies. The man who would love me until it hurt. The man who would demand I hurt him in order to earn his love. The man who would prop me up, open the door, kick my ass and force me through.

I have found my man. He has found me, and our adventure has just begun. What role Red will play when we return stateside remains a mystery. Until then, here's an impressionistic picture of him on the balcony of his living quarters at the Red Habershaw Truck Stop, with the I-7 & 211 Highway behind him.

 

 

Chicken wire on the railing is a nice touch. Do you suppose he's afraid of falling through the cracks? Okay, no more typing. This keyboard is seriously messed up, so, until I get a new laptop, ta! xoxo

 

 

Skidding into the (U.S.) November holiday

Our travel plans hit a major bump in the road, but after many delays at many checkpoints, and with nothing but complaint-free cooperation from us, we arrived at our hotel in the enlightened city mid-week. Makeshift memorials were seemingly everywhere. Impossible to avoid, and who would want to? At one such place near the concert hall, an iron railing anchors brilliantly-colored flowers, brightly-shining trinkets representing any and all faiths and hopes, and handwritten posters displaying thoughtfully-composed words of sorrow, inspiration, or defiance. This is where Walter and I made some new friends.

His wife speaks English and French. My husband speaks French and English, and so the introductory conversation flowed smoothly. Eventually, however, the wife and my husband grew tired of translating for their spouses, which forced her husband and me to communicate with one another via googly eyes and ooh-la-ouie giggles. Yes, yes, we understood our language quite well, thank you. So did our spouses after two hours of strolling, followed by a leisurely lunch on the outside sidewalk side of a cafe, where we gave no concern to possibilities of violent interruption.

 

Go ahead, little bitches, shoot us if you dare.
We're in lust. We're in love, and we do not care.

 

Now, I'm not saying the partner-exchanging tryst upon our hotel room's king size mattress -- expressions of the words limited, expressions of the loins abundant -- was nothing to type home about (thank you for my new laptop, Walter! xoxo :-).) I cannot deny that the subsequent invitation to a next-evening dinner at their place, followed by recreation atop their mattress involving three-on-ones and all-out-anythings-and-anybodies with no hang-ups about man touching male body or woman touching female is a tantalizing tale to tell, but I must leave space for the final days of our Gallic experience.

Our sexy married couple made us a proposal, "Take us with you out of town."

Details of the deal: stock up on groceries, pile into our rental car and drive about forty miles (65 km) east of the city, where our wife's father lives on a farm. We can stay one night or two, dump them at the train station for their return to the city while we continue our journey eastward. Walter and I accepted the deal.

Her father's property is just enough for him, one house and three outbuildings on a self-sustaining sixty acres. He grows vegetables. Goats and sheep graze the fields. Chickens are cooped. The land owned by his ancestors once encompassed over 1000 acres and produced cattle raised for slaughter and profits, but since his wife died six years ago he has sold off tracts, bit by bit, to ever-encroaching developers. And made a shitload of money doing so!

She told of this as we rode in the car, while all the while my perverted mind had me wondering how she would finagle arrangements so we could have sex without the old man knowing. Then, I even more pervertedly wondered if the old man might join us for a fivesome, which seemed remarkably feasible once we met him. Seventy-something. Leathery skin. White hair with still plenty on top of his head and covering a frame short, stout, and hard-muscled. I saw his furry forearms, and his chest hairs curling out over his top-two-buttons-open shirt, and yeah, I woulda done him. And I'll betcha he could be right there for me for as long as I need, if I give chase. o-:

Dear Lord, whether it's with or without the tense changes, please teach me how to properly use my man-obsessive wings after I've finally wormed my way out of my preacher-man-suppressive cocoon.

His name is Edgar. He, like his daughter, speaks English, although not nearly so fluid as she so she helped him from time to time. He said he had not seen so much military activity since the Nazis took over. He was about four years old then. Only he, his mother, his four grandparents and two aunts stayed at the farm at that time. One of his uncles was killed on the battlefield during the invasion. Another was reported as missing in action. Later rumored to have joined the resistance movement, but never returned to the farm and was assumed to be dead. Edgar's father escaped with the British evacuation at Dunkirk, but died three years later as a participant of the Allied invasion of Sicily.

Edgar said that the Germans never caused him or others on the farm very much trouble. After their initial inspection of the property, an occasional confiscation of livestock was about the only times he can remember them interfering at all. As a boy, their presence made him angry. Why had they come? Why were they not satisfied with their own country? Why did they make his papa and uncles go away?

Not until twenty years later, during the Viet Nam conflict, did Edgar begin to consider his questions from the perspective of the enemy.

The Germans wanted what they felt was taken from them. Wanted to give France and Britain a taste of their own medicine. Of course, Hitler and the Nazis took the revenge factor to unacceptable levels of insane proportions, but Edgar feels the source of today's problems are similar.

The Sunnis want their country back. That's all. Saddam Hussein, a Sunni, was killed and his country given to the Shiites. "Give Iraq back to the Sunnis," Edgar says. "They are the nucleus of ISIS. Give them back their country. Let their tribes fight it out to decide which Sunni will be ruler. We don't care. Just put the Sunnis back in control of Iraq and the balance will be restored. Sunni majority keeps Shiite in check in one country. Shiite majority keeps Sunni under control in bordering country, and so on from one to another. Every domino stands independent and conflicts no longer our concern. The first President Bush knew that. He chased Saddam out of Kuwait as should have been done, as should have been done with Hitler when he invaded Czechoslovakia, but he let Saddam keep Iraq. Dominoes stand. Balance intact.

Second Bush not so smart. Balance of power knocked out of whack, and so Sunnis strike at all those who stole their country. Give it back to them, so they can live happily in their century of mental development and we can live undisturbed in ours.

That is the opinion of a man who has seen war up close and personal. Could be the irrational logic of a grief-stricken-by-recent-events man. Or, could be that if one were to think on it awhile, one might conclude that Edgar's theory makes a lot of sense.

I'm leaving it with you because it is Sunday night and we must take our Parisian husband and wife to the train station for their return trip home, while Walter and I have been asked by Edgar to stay with him one more night. Our drive to Germany begins tomorrow, and our Thanksgiving will take place there. TA!

 

 

Remember November

I am thankful for men who love awakening to something soft. A plump marshmallow, therapeutically soothing to the touch and erotically arousing to the squeeze.

I am also thankful to be the luckiest broad in the world. I mean, just look at the pictures. From the neck up I look like a tin can that's been tied to a bumper and taken for a long ride, but from the shoulders down, apparently, I've got what it takes to be consistently taken into the arms of two men and touched and squeezed and poked and licked and very romantically kissed for four nights and four mornings and counting. Guess you could say our itinerary has changed. Sorry, Germany, but we are still in France. Lost in the menage. Entranced by our host and third wheel, the wonderfully wolfy farmer, Edgar, of whom my predictions regarding his stamina were grossly underexaggerated. o-:)

I am blessed to have found a husband who created for himself (and in turn, me) a financial status that allows choices. He has saved and planned for a trip such as this for many years. Prepared an adventure involving extreme flexibility. Schedules and destinations have been cancelled, altered, rescheduled, cancelled and altered again, because of people we have met as we travel. Did you notice I'm sharing no photos? Walter and I are no typical tourists. Have no interest in getting up close and personal with other tourists. Avoid running from museum to cathedral to tower, trying to keep up with tour guides whose only purpose is to cram as much as possible into an eight-hour whirlwind of the well-known.

Walter and I saw the standard Paris fare from afar, opting instead to breathe the air where we stood. We wanted to sense the pain, sadness, puzzlement and anger of the city's people, and we wanted to absorb their determination to remain what they are. Parisians. Citizens of the city of lights, where hatred's darkness will neither consume nor conform them.

No matter where we've gone, our flexibility has allowed us to get up close and personal with local folks, rather than sites. What better way to learn of a culture than through conversations upon a mattress? Whispers during afterglow from sex. Gabbing while lounging in between sex. And, of course, plain talk when forced off the mattress to perform the routine, like eating and bathing.

I must say that with this Edgar character the in between times have been few and far between. Six years a widower, his goal must be to unleash six years of deprivation in six days. All upon me! Ooh, Edgar, you animal. Give me your pain. And hurry up. Tomorrow is Saturday. Your daughter and son-in-law will be arriving for their weekly visit, so Walter and I will be gone. Like we should have been four days ago.

No need testing your daughter's level of tolerance should she discover that, ever since we dropped her at the train station, her father and my husband have been boinking me like jack hammers.

Well, my west-side-of-the-pond wonderers, I don't know where we're going next. All I know is those two men are once again beckoning me, and I am not one to deny them their marshmallow. TA!

 

 

Beginning of the gifting

Walter and I had no discussion of it at the time, but after Edgar's first climax is probably when we figured that nothing we could do following our visit with Edgar could climax Edgar's many climaxes, and so we came home. Sorry, Germany. Walter and I and our voracious sexual appetites will peek under your lederhosen some other time.

Since my release from prison, I have received several queries (undoubtedly from folks who listened to Jasper's audios telling the Belle Eva tale) regarding my first husband, Harold. Well, my revelers in the romantic, you will rah-rah in knowing that Harold remained loyal to me until the final three years of my incarceration. Visited me every visiting Sunday at the prison until he physically was no longer able to do so.

You see, because Harold was so slavishly devoted to me, once I was taken from him to serve my sentence he poured all of his energy into his diner. Kept his mind occupied by working nearly every hour the place was open, which is most likely the reason he had a stroke. This gave his family the opening they needed to finagle the stricken Harold into signing documents that changed the beneficiary list of his will, moving me from the pinnacle where he intended me to be to the foul stinking latrine from which his relations claimed I had risen.

Harold passed about one year prior to my release, and my inheritance was the wedding ring I gave him. Nothing more ) -: Isn't that sad, my revelers in the reconditioned romance? But then, what good is a tale of romance if you haven't been tragically traumatized first?

Now that I have taken you on the trip of trial and tribulation, I can jovially justify my juxtaposition of Harold against Walter. Harold worshiped me from a position of groveling. I could have drained his bank account, stomped on his head and he still would have loved me. No questions. No protests. Walter worships me from a position of superiority. He expects me to do better. Intends to elevate me above himself. Insists I devote my time to observing for purpose of fictionalizing, rather than gossiply chronicling. Most of all, he wants me to cast out my definitions of myself, so I can write forethought free as either Jardonn or Jasper or Belle Eva or any combination of the three. Or, perhaps, one... and for Christ sakes, try to curb the online backgammon. {}-:

The Christmas season is here, but my first gift came in October when Judge Crokletonkite sentenced me to a lifetime of confinement with him. Since then, I have been showered with gifts, from wedding night to honeymoon to our return home, where I was greeted by Walter's cousin, Red, who was hanging out in our basement.

 

Come slither hither... cover my pole... give me your glide and I'll fill up your hole.

 

In our basement, I am in charge, and that wooly-worm pole covering didn't stay long on his long. What took place down there has not only inspired me to begin my next story, of which the rough drafts of the first chapters will be posted here, but also, and you can consider this a "burst my bourbon balls" kind of but also, that picture of Red got my brain storming on the designing of a covering for a book, sansa title.

 

 

Sansa delay, this message-to-you page should have a link to the beginning rd (rough draft) chapter around mid-December. This could be the final ta for a long time to come.. so, TA-TA! xoxo.

 

 

December 14th - Chapter 1 is posted.

 

 

Jan's last legs: - Well, I suppose it's a tad late to say happy new year. The diapers are off, tinsel dragged down and lights extinguished. Hell, we're down to the final four teams on the road to Super Bowl 50, so 2016 is well underway.

Did you make any resolutions? Me neither, but I did learn a thing or two about writing... or, to be more precise, reading. Rough drafts are not for the public. Rough drafts should only be read by the author and his or her editor. After all, who would have interest in reading sections which might or might not end up in the book? And why would anyone want to read a story littered with illogical tense changes, discrepencies in dates, names, and places, and worst of all, wongly-spelled wurds?

Nobody. Numbers (or lack of them) do not lie, so I will post no more of Underusa (another item which probably will change before book sees pub -- the title). Besides, now that I've privately reached the end of the tale, I can't wait to start editing. Some of these chapters are begging me every waking and sleeping hour for attention. So, what I've posted here will stay until the end of January, and then I'll replace it with an oldie I recently found on a floppy disc. Yes, I've kept all of mine, and yes, I still have means to read what's on them. Antiquated me and my antiquated ways must maintain antiquated equipment to preserve my antiquated shit. Mmm... me smells like old people.

Meanwhile, my old husband and I are on the road two days per week and in Meddletonville five. The two are when we travel to Peasant Valley so Walter can preside over the hearings there. My function (other than pleasuring my man anytime he wants) is to sit amongst the plebians and shorthandedly jot down details of each case. Purpose? After he retires I will biograph him, and the quirkiest of quirky, bizarrest of bizarre cases will be prominently detailed in the book. Chronicling the wackily weird and their problems is Walter's marketing ploy for bringing attention to his published bio. As if the picture of his make-me-randy face wouldn't do the trick.

As for Red, we do not see him when we go to Peasant Valley. He said it would make him nervous. Okay for him to make us nervous by driving to where we live, but heaven forbid we should put a kink in his home lifestyle. In the end, however, all is well. Rather than putting a kink in his home life, we put a kink in his back by tying him up to our bed posts or flat bench or incline/decline bench or overhead beam or himself. o-:

Making him squeal while hogtied. Our new weekend past time... before or after the NFL playoffs.

This is Friday. Red will be rolling in here 'round eight. We three will be rolling 'round by nine.

TA! xoxo

 

 

 

 

 

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