Friday, December 7, 2007

Under Christ

A Companion we have found,

A connection we have made.

When the rain comes down,

Our Protection is at hand.

Under the Blood of Christ together we Stand.

"Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken" (Ecclesiastes 4.12)

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

A Forceful Fantasy

I love it when we dance. Even when me and my SugarAnne practice at home in the basement. But tonight's been a great night of "going live". My SugarAnne is looking especially sweet. She's been working out regularly so she's looking svelte and shapely, yet strong and sturdy. She's wearing one of those poofy little "girly shit" skirts that I love so much. "Girly shit" pink, short enough to show her "new" shapely and well exercised legs. I don't have to guess that you can get a peek of her bikini panties when I give her a quick underarm turn in Waltz or dip her in Foxtrot. I saw them myself when she danced with that bastard Leonard. Rumba. But that's another story. Depending on your vantage point you - if you strenuously pursue it - you could catch a quick glimpse of a camel toe in the front. Or you might see them working their way in to the crease of her sweet booty from behind. Her top, white, matches her panties. Spaghetti string, strong enough to hold, accentuate and enhance the beauty of ample breasts. But not so tight as to make artificial the presentation. My SugarAnne don't need no artificial presentation when it comes to her boobs! She has more than enough but not too much. Hmm-hmm-hmm! Beautiful. Damn she looks good! And I'm lusting after her.

It's been one of those nights that we are hitting on all cylinders. We moving with grace. And Grace is moving other people out of our way. We're the king and queen of the dance floor tonight. Our waltz is whispering: "He's gonna take her panties off". Our foxtrot is saying: "SHE'S gonna take her own panties off!" And our Rumba, oh! our Rumba is just all wet! Dripping with: "They're gonna f**k the sh*t out of each other!" We dance. And we sweat. And we dance. I know that later on I'll be able to pick up my SugarAnne's personal "essence" like a predator picks up the scent of his next meal. Damn, she looks good. She is driving me absolutely crazy! And I'm lusting after her.

On the long drive home all I can think about is how I'm gonna satisfy my lust for this woman - take this woman - my woman, my SugarAnne. On the radio the Spice Girls are singing:

I need some love like I never needed love before (Wanna make love to ya baby)
I've had a little love, now I'm back for more
(Gonna make love to ya baby)
Set your spirit free, it's the only way to be
Come a little bit closer baby (Get it on, Get it on)
Tonight is the night that 2 Become 1

All I can think about is putting a crown on this night by exercising the BabyMan's kingly rights to a taste of the queen's sweet "beehive". Oh, the honey that hive must be holding. If you understand what I'm saying – yo.

We get home. "Lock the door", I say sternly. I say it just the right way - with that, that "command voice". This has an effect on my SugarAnne. And I know that in her depths the primal juices will begin to involuntarily stir. As soon as the bolt of the lock hits the jamb of the door I flip her around and pin her my body pressed full against her lusciousness, her body pressed against the door. I let my coat slide down my arms to the floor.

"What are you doing?!" she says looking up at me. She's vulnerable, cute. Her youthful beauty concealing 40 plus trips around the sun. "You've been teasing me all night young lady! Looking so damn good. And now that I've got you home I'm gonna get into those sweet panties". I say it with a purpose that won't be - can't be - denied. I slide her coat off her shoulders exposing the spaghetti. My eyes drool at the cleavage of meatballs too big for any plate to hold. Her coat falls to the floor. I grip her wrists firmly and lift her arms above her head and hold them against the door. I step back, best I can, to take in all of my Sugaranne. Face, with quizzical objection yet body compliant. I can now see all - face, top, skirt - all that's been tantalizing me all night. I catch a hint of my SugarAnne's "fragrance" and place my face gently to the exposed pit of her arm. I give it a predatory sniff. She struggles just a bit but knows - with 10 months of muscle building under my belt - it's futile. It's not my intent to overpower her physically but I can and she knows that I can - and I will if I have to. My intent - my sincerest love driven intent - is to love her deeply: mentally, spiritually, physically. I savor her "cologne". I take it in to intoxication. It lights my wick. It's just a matter of time before my stick of "dynamite" explodes. I desire to taste her saltiness.

I look down at her. Looking through her eyes to her very soul. I know this woman. I love this woman. "You think you're a 'good girl' huh? A 'nice girl', huh?" It's a rhetorical question. "Well 'nice girls' must be made to do 'bad things' - made to do things they think only a 'tramp' would do. Sometimes it's for their own good". Another empty struggle to break free follows the declaration. I assert the firmness of my grip on her lifted arms. She surrenders - momentarily - to her fate. As a consolation for this surrender I release her left wrist. As her arm falls to her side I command: "Lift that skirt up. Let me see those panties". Her hesitation begs a second command. My demeanor yells but my voice, my voice... I do not use my voice to yell. "I SAID", enunciating now, "lift up that skirt and let me see them panties". With reluctant compliance she uses her left hand to jack up the front of her skirt. She holds the hem against her mid-section. I can see the print of the prize - her womanhood - behind the virgin white. I know there's a night of dancing's sweat in those sweet panties. I wanna know what that smells like. I slip my free hand between her warm thighs and let it rest there long enough for my fingers to appropriate the sweet aroma.

Looking down at her, deep into her eyes, I bring her delightful stink up to my face and run my forefinger under my nose. It might as well smell like molten lava chocolate cake. I take a deep whiff (my wick is burning hotter, faster). "Now take those panties down". Command. She balks at first. Struggles with the subpoena but then resigns herself to the struggle of the one-handed task. She slips three fingers inside the waistband of her panties and running them around from front to back she works her panties down. I stop her when they settle around her thighs, just above the knees.

With her free hand I make her undo my belt buckle and unclasp my pants. As they drop to the floor around my ankles my pickle twitches excitedly against boxer briefs. I grind it against her. I reach around and get a firm grip on that sweet ass and press her femininity against my protruding brief-clad masculinity. I look in her eyes and begin to grind. My hand applies pressure on her butt and I force her to return the grind. She turns her head away. Her free arm, limp, signaling her surrender. I kiss her neck. LIck. I taste the salt of her sweat. Bite. Softly. Nibbling. Sucking. Tasting the hor'dorves - the appetizer - before the main course. A slight gasp escapes her lips announcing that excitement has squeezed through reluctance. She doesn't like being taken. But she likes being taken by me. She trusts me.

I release her behind, grip her shoulder and press down. I meet her resistance with firm encouragement. I can feel her breasts rub against my "thunder" Her panties have slipped down to her calves. She's on her knees face to face with the bulge in my shorts now. I place her hands on my thighs and hold them there with my own. She feels the result of so many leg presses at the gym. I Rumba my hips forward ever so slightly. Her face grazes the swelling behind my briefs. She's uncomfortable - a 'good girl' - a 'lady' not a 'tramp'. But curiosity trumps reluctance and she gives my thighs a squeeze to test of the hardness of rejuvenated muscles. I can sense her fever on the edge of an upward spike. She draws back enough to study a vein that's been threatening to rise on my inner right thigh. She kisses it. Softly, gently, lovingly. Losing herself for a moment her lips move up and down the inner thigh. Enamored with its hardness she "crosses the street" and affords the left thigh the same kingly benefit. I shock her back to the reality of being taken with a command: "Sniff it. Sniff the night of dancing on your man's d**k."

I know my woman. I can think my woman's feelings. And I can feel my woman's thinking: "'Good girls, 'nice girls' don't do this sort of thing. I'm a ''lady, not a tramp'". I place my hand gently on the back of her head meeting resistance with encouragement. I pull her toward me and say, "Sniff it." She takes a weak sniff between my flexed thighs and attempts a retreat. "Nah, you ain't going no where". I press her back to full facial contact. "Sniff it so I can hear you", I demand. It is here I would expect to hear the safe word "aspirin" (which means I'm being too rough) or "Xanax" ('it's time to stop - now!'). Instead she takes a deep long, loud sniff. My d**k reflexes to full attention. When she pulls back I can see "Jerk!" in her eyes. Defiantly she says, "You satisfied - " The last word "a**hole!" goes unspoken. "That's the smell of your man in heat. You're about to be f**ked - and well", I say.
"Know your man, SugarAnne. Know his smell SugarAnne. Know the BabyMan's needs", I advise. "Now take my shorts down and appreciate the ugly beauty of your man's manhood". She snatches my shorts down. "Now kiss it". She hesitates. I apply gentle pressure to the back of her head. I'm thick with excitement. She kisses it tentatively, like a "nice girl" - like a "lady" who is being made to do bad things. She didn't want to, but she wanted to. And for a few moments unrestrained inhibition took over and I can feel her warm, wet mouth slide rhythmically - gently back and forth over the BabyMan's manhood.

Lifting her up to her feet shocks her again to the reality that she is being taken. I could see gravity take her panties the final few inches to her ankles. She steps out of them. Holding both her hands behind her with one of mine, I grab a hand full of her hair with the other. I pull her head back to look up at me. I bite her neck deliciously. An exaggerated wince of pain spills out of her mouth. I pull back to study her face. I lovingly drink in her in with my eyes. I appreciate its features: the way the corner of her eyes naturally turn down with the appearance of puppy dog sadness. Her lips moist with my pleasure. She's beautiful. I lick my lips and lean in. We meet. The hunger is mutual for now. All "good girl" restraint, all "nice girl" reluctance has surrendered to animal passion and deep marital love. Finally, arms still restrained, I guide her to the bedroom and toss her on the bed face down. She knows what I want to see but the "nice girl" can't bring herself to voluntarily comply. So I grab hold of her waist with both hands, pull her to her knees. I press down on the small of her back so that that a** bubbles up to meet me. "Now stick it out. Show me you want me to see it". I can smell the sweet-scented pungency of it. I sniff it like a dog in heat. She wants to pull away - "nice girls" y'know. But I slip my arms over her thighs, circled them back around her hips, gripped both cheeks with my hands and bury my face in between them. I French kiss the deepest darkest most private crevices of her body. She pushes the pastry back toward my face. Hmmmmmm! I about at my wick's end! There's gonna be an explosion tonight!

I give the sweet meat on that booty a few sharp spanks as I rise to enter her doggy-style. "I'm gonna take love from this pu**y like a Klingon (cuz I'd kill for you). And I'm gonna make love to this p**sy like a Spartan (cuz I'd die for you)." I move in to take my reward. Moisture betrays her excitement. I enter, reach over and grab a hand full of hair and tug playfully, turning her head to one side for the hard down stroke, to the other for the slow up stroke. She offered more exaggerated winces of pain but the pure joy of it all demands a response of thrusts of her own. I remove what clothes remain as my mad man Klingon metamorphoses to Spartan. I turn her over onto her back. The '"lady" is a willing participant now. No "tramp" - but a woman in love. Willing and open and ready to receive the Spartan who would sacrifice himself for her if necessary. I tenderly bury my head in her breasts sucking youthfully as I re-entered her. We hold each other close - lovingly close. Tenderly close. We make love, pumping rhythmically. We make love, "rolling" passionately. We make love, grinding feverishly. We merge, masculinity and femininity. We merge mentally. We merge spiritually. In the anticipated explosion we merge flesh to flesh: "2 Become 1".
When we finish she manages to "escape" from under the weight of my body. Spent and worn out she backs away one arm straight out in a crossing guard STOP gesture. The other hand crosses her body covering as much of her "vulnerability" as it can. "You're crazy!" She says. "YOU-ARE-CRAZY!! What has gotten in to you? Stay away from me!". She backs into her bathroom. She's on "good girl" footing again. Her "nice girl" status remains secure and intact. She returns and climbs into my arms - willfully, warmly, thankfully, softly submissive. I hold her close to me. We're connected deeply. I kiss her softy and caress her. I have taken her. This "lady" ain't no "tramp". She is mine and I - hers.
I hit the automatic gate opener. My headlights sweep along the building illuminating the white bricks as we turn into our driveway. Did I break any traffic laws on the way home? I pull into our parking space and give my SugarAnne a soft nudge to jog her from her slumber. It's been a fun night of dancing. I love it when we dance.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

A Man Gotsta Have Some Ballroom

Ballroom dancing, that is. "Permit me to have this dance?" The question unuttered has rendered many a teenage boy a wallflower. And many a grown man too! The answer is either permission granted or permission denied. Permission denied, of course, is rejection. But permission granted is permission to touch; permission to hold; permission to guide; permission to lead. And, oh boy, it's more than permission. It is surrender. It is willful surrender.

And even though the question may come from the man. It is in the answer the decision is made. And that decision is made strictly by the woman. For only the woman can choose to be chosen.

As she rises, her reach answers the dangling question of his outstretched hand. Contact! First, the warmth of fingers touching. But then in a whisper: the heat of the hand. Fully now, the whole hand. He draws her to him: a gentlemanly tug. She slips quite willfully into his grip: a confident sweeping grip which finds its completion over the spaghetti strap of her otherwise bare shoulder blade. A gentle grip. Yet firm enough to provide a masculine contrast to her delicate and feminine hand. It finds rest upon his right shoulder. She belongs to him now. They're connected now – if only by two thin threads. He leads, the recipient of power conveyed through willful surrender. And yet, he's aware, he's keenly aware that any victory won is, in reality, her victory. Yet still, he is also aware that her victory is his very own victory. And they dance. They are one now. Sharing the same space. Sharing a "common center" worthy of their mutual sacrifices.

I know, I know, I know: that's some powerful shit ain't it? It sends a jolt of electricity through your relationship that fuses your souls together and reverberates from the ballroom to the bedroom. Me and my SugarAnne have been bitten by the ballroom bug. You would expect that a chick would have a low resistance to said virus. But listen here dude, ballroom dance is where masculinity meets femininity. And it's all set to music. It brilliantly percolates with relational dynamics. The BabyMan guides my SugarAnne. The BabyMan leads my SugarAnne. In the ballroom the BabyMan "handlz hi' b'niz" with my SugarAnne.
"A man gotsta have some ballroom". Waltz, foxtrot, classic stuff. Good, good stuff. Every man better recognize:

A man who's good with numbers
Is likely good with money;
With a man who glides across the floor
They're never lacking "honey".

But if you have not number one
And she looks at you askance;

Just put a twinkle in your eye
And say, "M'have this dance?"

Guide her gently, lead her firmly
through every step and twirl;

Unto her give all of the glory,

Show her off to all the world.

A "piece of change" is good to have
For some that will suffice;
But if you "trip the light fantastic"
You're on the road to rice.

You just might have a "pretty penny"
And always in her pants;
But she won't let you in her heart
Until you learn to dance.

Guide her gently, lead her firmly
through every step and twirl;

Unto her give all of the glory
Show her off to all the world.

Now, the BabyMan is doing o.k. I mean he is doing aw-right. But look-a-here, I ain't sitting on a pile of it. A little while ago my SugarAnne sprung for a pair of Capezios and I popped some dance lessons. It was fun. But we let it drop. Well it's baaaack!. In the ballroom my broke ass is able to treat my SugarAnne to the MasterCard moments she so richly deserves. And sshhhh – don't tell no-body: my MasterCard ain't got a dime on it!

Ballroom is reinforcing what the BabyMan has already learned about what to do when I get my hands on my SugarAnne. Ballroom dancing confirms Itself. You simply have to do it to understand this: If a man wants to please his woman, a man gotsta have some ballroom.

Here's the deal: There's at least three basic and constant "crossover" realities in both a classic ballroom dance and say, the relational dance of a man and his woman. The first one is simply this:

It's all gonna take some work.
Relationships are like dancing. They simply don't get better without work. The way I dance in my head is remarkably graceful and nimble. Frankly, it's downright stunning! I'm talking Dancing with the Stars here people! But what's in my head is a stark (and dark) contrast to what occurs on the dance floor with me and my SugarAnne right now. Just like anything, we're getting better with practice. There got to be a lot of practice. There's got to be a lot of work: a lot of blood and sweat and (man! oh! man!) lots of tears. Yes, there will be tears - before we even come close to that Dancing with the Stars vision of grace - if we ever come close at all.

Through work we get use to each other's moves (i.e. moods) and tendencies (i.e. sensitivities). We have to take mental notes of the things that keep us in step and the things that trip us up. And ain't that something that comes through constant exposure to (practice, each other? I'm not talking passive exposure here friend. My SugarAnne has to work at being a BabyMan-ologist. And the BabyMan has a responsibility to become a SugarAnne-ologist. And like all PhDs, the education requires constant work. You gotta get past the B.S. (you know what that is). You gotta get on to the M.S. (that's more of the same). And then you gotta climb over the PhD (that's when the shit is piled higher and deeper). It is a daunting task when viewed as a whole but manageable in small steps. So we dance! We dance when we're together. And we dance, mentally, when we're not together because we carry the constant hope that one day we will be Dancing with the Stars. It may sound like an impossibility today but rather than focus on the hopelessness of never arriving - me and my SugarAnne - we concentrate on the hope in our striving. By the Grace of the Lord we have been at love for over 7 years now. Yep - "at" love. It's active. Working. Me and my SugarAnne. Working. Together. One of my mentors used to tell me: Teamwork makes the dream work. It's gonna take work. But I assure you, we will dance. I tell ya, we are gonna dance! Second,

You're gonna step on toes.
Sometimes dance practice goes pretty well and, well, sometimes it don't. But me and my SugarAnne find that with practice we don't step on each other's toes nearly as much as we used to. And when we do, we're so busy diggin' the dance we simply say, "Excuse me", forgive, and move on. My SugarAnne would be the first to tell ya she's got some fickle feet so you know she don't need nobody stepping on her toes. I'm trying.

We went "live" for the first time last weekend. Our first big event. My SugarAnne was looking too hot y'all! I wanted to fry that bacon right there on-the-spot! Yum-yum! I digress. Going "live" for the first time was not one of those times when things went well. I was stepping all on my poor SugarAnne's toes. If there was a rug, I woulda cut that up too.

I tell ya there's a whole lotta stuff going on on a packed dance floor. The Babyman lost his concentration. I was drawn away by how good this couple is doing and how bad that couple is doing. And trying to avoid bumping into people. Listen, you can make yourself feel good or bad by looking at other couples. But good or bad, however you're making yourself feel, the minute you start worrying about what somebody else is doing, you're gonna start stepping on your woman's toes (literally and figuaratively). Not worrying about about what other couples are doing and concentrating instead on what we're supposed to be doing, well, that's half the battle. Holds true for the ballroom. Holds true for the relationship with my SugarAnne.

When we began tour marital waltz 7 years ago. We stepped on each other's toes every now and then. Frankly, we stepped on each others toes a whole lot! But learning was fun. We were dancing. With marital intimacy. And the music of our marriage was bangin'! Pun intended - I mean that's what we were doing: bangin'! - if you know what I mean. We'd waited almost two years! I took incredible pleasure in leading her into the turns. And I turned my SugarAnne every which way. And my SugarAnne delighted in being turned. With joyful expectation she anticipated being turned this way and that way. We were caught up in the delight of sharing our "centers" -hee-hee. We'd come together for the oneness of it all. As long as our boots were clickin' our hearts were tickin' for each other. And, we were numb to the pain of stepping on each other's toes.

A quick word about making love:
Permission granted, is permission to touch; permission to hold; permission to guide; permission to lead. And when the question "Let's make love" (by word or action) comes from the man, where forth the answer comes is really where the decision is made. And the decision made strictly by the woman. And when permission is granted, it's more than permission. It is surrender. For only she can choose to be taken in the marital way. Regardless of position, unless there is a willful "parting of the waters" so to speak (a distinctly feminine gesture and act of compliance), ain't nothing happening. Everything about making love, from its position (any position) is contingent upon the woman opening herself up to receive the man. Making love can only be accomplished in feminine surrender. Willful feminine surrender.
Close quick word.

Making love is a fundamental oil for keeping the wheels of the marital dance turning with minimal friction. The oil is good. Ah Yes! The oil is mmm mmm good! And with it we dance - toe "injuries" notwithstanding. And we dance: with pebbles in our shoes. So we dance: on rugs conspicuously lumpy with miscues of our pasts. And yes, we dance: in spite of missteps of our united present. We dance. With love for the Lord, we dance. With love for the dance, we dance. With love for each other, we dance, we dance, we dance!
Oh, we still step on each others toes. We still apologize. We still forgive. We still make love. So true, it is said, "love covers a multitude of sins" (1 Peter 5.8). Finally,

Communication is critical.
There's not very much to say about communication. Everybody knows how important it is. In the ballroom communication rests on a thin thread of contact: my hands. Likely less than 1 per cent of the surface of our bodies come into contact. But that's enough. I hold my SugarAnne's right hand in my left. And in my right, I hold my SugarAnne's left shoulder blade. That's it friends. That's all they wrote on communication in ballroom. My hands are the tools with which I must guide my willfully surrendered SugarAnne through the dance to victory. My left hand guides - every so gently. My right hand leads - firm when necessary.

But the BabyMan is not yet adept at pulling these "strings". So my SugarAnne and I, we're moving through a season where I'll just tell her what the next dance move is. My hands still do the business of guiding and leading. The non verbal cues are still being conveyed and picked up. But because she hears what's coming, she knows what's coming. And she moves. She moves to the command. And if the BabyMan's hands don't match the BabyMan's commands my SugarAnne asserts a suggestion. And well she should. And get this (this is critical): I listen. That's the best way, I think, to learn how to lead my SugarAnne. I have a sincere desire to know what my SugarAnne thinks about the BabyMan's lead. But where the next step leads rests solely in the hands of the BabyMan.

My SugarAnne, she's got kinda a "artsy" side to her. She thinks outside the box. And even in this the early stage of our journey in dance I sense that my SugarAnne is gifted more than the BabyMan for choreography. She simply sees the playing field in a broader more imaginative way than I do. That quality has to be respected. It is to our glory for me to listen. She is free to make suggestions and recommendations (and even insistences) about how she may be better led. Beside, I don't wanna barrell over my SugarAnne. And I definitely don't want to extinguish the essence of her personality or smother her gifts. My SugarAnne's victory is my victory. My contributory responsibility is to enhance her, and present her higher qualities and her beauty to the world through our dance.

Communication ain't no one-way street. Ain't it now? When I listen to her ideas it shows my SugarAnne that I am compassionate and sensitive to her needs. Frankly, I think that's part of cherishing her. Chicks dig being cherish. It also shows her that I have respect and love for her. In turn she grows to trust and respect me more and more (that's admiration - dudes dig that). Before you know it, we'll be dancing without the benefit of words.

We've actually have danced without words a few times. I suggested to my SugarAnne that she close her eyes while I lead her around the dance floor. This takes some trust on her part. After trust, touch becomes the most important thing in communicating which steps we would take as a couple. For a stretch here and there we sensed each other's entire bodies through the thin threads of contact: hands and back. All based on prior communication. We were dancing without words. Moving together in partnership. Enjoying our created "shared centers". We were sensitive to shifts in weight. We moved with the same momentum. We flowed together in a beautiful union of two dancers - becoming one - connecting on the dance floor. (I did see her peak a couple of times on some of the more difficult moves). The whole became greater than the sum of its parts so to speak. We shared a moment, a presence, a responsibility. We found mutual pleasure.

I'm looking for longer stretches of that wonderful feeling. The feeling of being "meshed" body and soul to my SugarAnne: ONE! There's a lot of communication that has to happen between where we are and that Dancing with the Stars vision. Not that we're deficient in it. It's just part of the process in developing trust and respect - in earning trust and respect. And me and My SugarAnne know it's gonna require bringing our whole "being" and "self" to the experience.

We're still stumbling in the ballroom (but getting better with practice). But our marital waltz has moved on to a solid marital foxtrot - with steps, turns and spins. I can't wait until we add the dip! But for now I'll:

Guide her gently, lead her firmly
through every step and twirl;

Unto her goes all of the glory
Show her off to all the world.

We're dancing people. We-are-dancing!

Friday, September 14, 2007

SugarAnne Talks BabyMan, "Girly Shit"

My Babyman is a loving, generous man who deserves so much more than I can give him. I guess I have this “I’m not worthy” complex that I have to try to get over. I think I have a fear of failing, or not hitting the mark in my attempts to become the woman I know he wants me to be. I rarely spend money for my own pleasure or my own physical improvement (make up, beauty salons, girly shit, etc.) I think it took me a while to realize that spending money on myself is more for his pleasure… not mine, and as a result, when I see that “I’m so attracted to you look” on his face, my heart just melts. The fact that he wants to shop for me is exciting! He has a vision of me that I never saw for myself. Beautiful, and feminine. Truthfully, I’ve always been a blue jeans and tee shirt kind of girl, and dressing up and painting my face and nails is a once-in-a-while endeavor that I reserve for anniversaries, weddings and birthday parties. And frankly, I’d rather put $60.00 in the savings account than give it to some overpriced hairdresser. But he’s got a thing for “girly shit,” and now I’m beginning to appreciate the whole concept. Now when I’m in a store, instead of heading for the jeans rack, I start looking at the skirts (he likes what he refers to as” poofy skirts” that are kind of short and flair out). My feet are a bit misshapen and high heels are agony for me, but I am on a constant quest to find those perfect “girly shit” shoes that I think he might like. I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve found immense happiness in his happiness, even if it forms blisters on my feet. I haven’t become comfortable with wearing makeup everyday, (it clogs my pores and stains my clothes) but I’ve found that he’s quite happy with just a little lip color.I love the idea that he’s proud of me when we go out (sometimes). I’ve never been what one might call a beauty, I’ve always seen myself as a bit plain… but when I’m with him I feel like I could grace the cover of Glamour Magazine. Now that is quite an accomplishment on his part. I thank God for him everyday, and I pray that someday I’ll be the woman of his dreams. That will be a long and arduous process.

signed: SugarAnne

Saturday, September 8, 2007

And When We Kissed...FIRE!

A few weeks back I went shopping - on the 'net - for lingerie. There's no "girly shit" like lingerie is there? Not the risque stuff. But the modest, feminine, demure, "girly shit" stuff. I bought four different outfits - two white, two black. "Baby Dolls" they're called. The "baby doll" thing works for my SugarAnne. It's feminine. It's woman. It's "girly shit". Therefore, it works for me too. So I tuck one of those "babys" deep in the back of my SugarAnne's closet - waiting for the weekend.

Weekend: I'm waiting for the right moment - the right moment to lead my SugarAnne to my little secret in her closet.

We're having a particularly good day that Sunday. I guess the Lord was on my side because that morning church went like clockwork. His Grace continued in the afternoon because ballro
om dance class was a load of fun. We were encouraged and excited about how quickly we picked up the steps we'd learned last year. After a short drive in search of a restaurant and a long walk through a street fair (and some silent - and excitement inducing - "girly shit" window shopping by the BabyMan), we settled for lunch at a fine Mexican establishment in the high-rent district of town.

Maybe I think my SugarAnne is a babydoll, I don't know. But I was mentally dressing and undressing and dressing her again in some of those outfits and ensembles, and dresses and skirts I had "shopped" for. And by the time we sat down for lunch I was "mad" excited about all the "girly shit" stuff I wanted to add to the other "girly shit" stuff she already had in her closetory inventory. Well, the subject came up over lunch (that's where I officially coined and defined the up till then only in my mind phrase "girly shit"). My SugarAnne could see and hear - probably for the first time - how excited I am about her - especially when she wears "girly shit". My mind kept slipping back to the stash in my SugarAnne's closet. Get this. So she says (and quite sincerely), "I'll wear anything you want". I'm thinking: "Gadzooks! I've hit the mother lode!" My mind flashes to the little "babydoll" surprise I had planted in my SugarAnne's closet a few days before.

So, I ever so coooooool-y take a sip of margarita. And with a recipe comprised of a cup of Denzel smooth, a ladle of McConnaghay tenderness and a tablespoon of Terrence Howard seriousness, I lean over. On the way to their destination my eyes sweep the table: past my own enchiladas, beyond the pre-lunch chips and salsa and up the effervescence of Corona in her glass. Beyond the lip of the glass instinct demanded my eyes take an imperceptible rest to momentarily immerse themselves in the fullness of my SugarAnne's most feminine feature. Maybe there was a slight chill in the air (if you know what I mean).

The BabyMan looked straight into her eyes - right through to her heart - and this is what cooked up:

"I bought you something."
"You did?!"
"Yep. Four things really."
"Last week. I ordered it online. Lingerie. Baby doll. "Girly shit".
"I can't wait to see!".
"Ohhhh! Me either!"

You could see the steam rising. I mean, the moment was Providential poetry. Here: a not so quick "flashback" to explain what I mean by steam. Then I'll close out the story.

In a lot of respects I am a traditionalist. And so is my SugarAnne. We have both had our internal struggles regarding the roles of men and women in society and marriage. And our struggles – due to societal pressures – have caused us quite a bit of trouble.

That part of the BabyMan which desires to be distinctly male, manly and masculine has always been met with society’s pressure to be soft and gentle and tender. I can be all of those things – and have been – and even enjoy being them. The problem is that the assertive, aggressive problem-solving part of me, that is, the real and true me – has no place to express itself when problems arise in our marriage. It seems that I couldn’t get my SugarAnne to comply with my requests – no matter how many times, or how gently, or how sweetly, or how lovingly I made a particular request - until I raised my voice!

My SugarAnne would then feel bad for forgetting and the BabyMan would then feel bad for yelling. We would both hibernate until we could effectively and emotionally sweep the unsolved issue under the rug. Sometimes we would be "gone" for a day or more. This facilitated low-level and growing resentment. She was an expert at walking over the lumps in the rug – seemingly without feeling a thing. And my emotional feet were sensitive. I couldn’t take a single step without feeling the slightest discomfort from unsolved pebbles.

The part of my SugarAnne which desires to be distinctly female, womanly and feminine has been met with the same kind of pressure for independence and aggressiveness (as opposed to assertiveness: which I consider an excellent trait). The societal imposition can cause confusion and loss of self-esteem. And too many a time my SugarAnne wondered out loud quite seriously, “Why do you love me?” And the BabyMan wondered equally (though silently), "How do I love you?"

Well, just as I was about to become resigned to the fact that this was the way it was going to be for the rest of my life (I convinced myself that most if not all marriages are probably this way), when the BabyMan remembered something. My SugarAnne had asked me to slap her bottom about a year ago (y'know during one of them there private marital moments y'see). It excited her. But when I did it, it ran hard against the grain of everything that I had been taught at home and in society. I was pretty uncomfortable with it. I love my SugarAnne and I didn’t want her to lose herself under some heavy handed stuff like spanking - cuz that's what it wuz: spanking.
Result: the spanking thing was more nerve wracking than exciting for me. It seemed to me that it would be emotionally injurious to her. was quite intriguing. Particularly the masculine/feminine dynamic of it.

Fast forward a few months.
So one day, as it were, out of the clear blue sky, we're sitting in the den.
"Stand right here" (the BabyMan's command voice). Shocked at the tone she stood next to me as I sat on the sofa.
"Take you pants down to here" (point above the knee, the purpose almost clear).
Firmly: "Take them panties down too" (pointing to her thighs).
Gently: "Come here. Lay across my lap" (a gentle two hand pat on my thighs to show her where). There was compliance through excitement.

Could the BabyMan love, cherish, respect and lead my SugarAnne (the male, manly, masculine charge I needed) and yet still give her the female, womanly, feminine charge she needed through a barehand over the knee spanking? We found the answer to be YES!; the paradox to be amazing; the result abounding in relational resolution and marital fire (uh...I was HOT!)

But it wasn’t just her behind that was exposed. It was also her heart wasn't it? I mean, there is an incredible amount of trust flowing in this situation isn't there? The BabyMan is honored with the degree of trust my SugarAnne has in me. And I consider it the greatest gift that a woman could give to her man and a worthy endeavor for a man to earn of a woman. And that’s exactly what I told my SugarAnne.

And as I gently caressed her exposed ‘heart’ I let her know how much I love her. I let her know how much I cherish her. I let her know how much having her heart in this way was a privilege. I let her know that I would protect this deep exposure of her inner being with my life, for my life. I told my SugarAnne that it has brought out the man in the BabyMan. And that my desire is to protect the woman in her. And I meant it. And I still mean it - every word of it.

After warming her up with a few soft taps, I proceeded to assert authority as leader and lover: head of our household. My SugarAnne was “under new management”. To my surprise she said, “'Under new management'? I like that!” When I was done she turned to face me and gave me the biggest, warmest, most connecting hug we had shared in a long, long time. And when we kissed? FIRE! The rest of that night is history a blind man can see!

That day I began to adore and cherish and respect my SugarAnne's femininity all the more. I fell in love with my SugarAnne in a new and different way. And she - as well as myself - began to appreciate the BabyMan's own masculinity. Prior to having this outlet for my natural masculine assertiveness, I would have been ticked off about every little thing. The pebbles that went under the rug prior to this aren’t really pebbles anymore! They just don’t seem as big as they used to. They are not even spank-worthy! The BabyMan cherishes and values my SugarAnne's freedom. And my SugarAnne respects and submits to the BabyMan's authority.
End of aside.

So as I was saying:
That's the kind of steam that was rising in me in this moment of Providential poetry.

After lunch we sauntered back to the car window shopping along the way. We stopped at a store or two to look at "girly shit". We confirmed "girly shit" of some of the girly-girls we passed along the way. For me every step was steaming with anticipation. The BabyMan had plans for my SugarAnne when we got home.

"Lock the door”, I said with a firm gentleness (my command voice). That done, my SugarAnne made a jet stream to the closet and put on the babydoll "girly shit". With equivalent speed the BabyMan hit the showers. We knew: today masculinity would firmly meet femininity. The Babyman was gonna apply his loving hand to my SugarAnne's exposed "heart".

We would enjoy a solid afternoon of dynamic masculine/feminine connection. An afternoon buzzing with steamy marital excitement. And we would tap into the deep well of love to which the Hand of Providence has guided us. Problems? What Problems? Cuz when we kissed...oooooooo-wooo...FIRE!

Signed: the BabyMan

Saturday, September 1, 2007

"Girly Shit"

It’s my job to know the woman God has given to me. But I’m only allowed to know her at the rate she desires to be known. My desire to know her begs for satisfaction right here right now. But getting to know her is a lifetime endeavor.

One of the ways I'm trying to get to know my SugarAnne - and myself as well - is through clothes shopping for her. Most men hate to shop. I admit, I am like most men. But lately I've taken to window shopping - on the 'net - for blouses, skirts and dresses for my SugarAnne.

The other day
I managed to find a dress for my SugarAnne (see picture). I ordered it last week. I can't wait til it gets here. I can't wait to see her in it! It celebrates womanhood; it bleeds femininity, it's modest. Yet, it shouts (and I say this with great affection): this is "girly shit"!

I just love it when my SugarAnne puts on "girly shit" stuff. It kind of brings out a dance of romance in me. Listen, I'd draw her close. She'd follow my lead. I'd put my arms around her - her chest firmly pressed against my own. Next, I'd spin her out in a brisk bolero turn; her dress would fan in the manufactured breeze. The tilt of her head would offer a hint of styling to the move displaying her feminine charm. That turn (my presentation of her) would say, "Look world! Look how beautiful and lovely and feminine she is! LOOK HOW DOGGONE GORGEOUS SHE IS!" But with the swiftness of a matador's cape I'd punctuate my statement by drawing her close again - as if to say, "You can look world! But - oh noooo! - you can't touch. She is given to ME - by God and herself. Given to love, to protect, to guide, to cherish. And that's what I'm gonna do. "MINE! world. MINE!MINE!MINE!" That's what that "girly shit" does to me.

Maybe I'll only find her fashion likes and dislikes by shopping for
"girly shit".
But my hope is to get to know my SugarAnne even deeper. At any rate, let "girly shit" enhance the woman in her, bring out the man in me and open up a whole new world of life, love and deep satisfaction for both me and my SugarAnne.

Signed: the BabyMan

Friday, August 17, 2007

Celebrate You

I'm no stranger to your gentle reminders
That the world does not revolve around me
But no sooner have you spoken the words
Then your love comes once again to surround me
And every time I look in your eyes
I see the reflections of myself
But this time I want to look deeper
And see you and nobody else

So, tell me what you think, and tell me what you feel
I want to hear the thunder I'm so quick to steal
Listen to the dreams you're dreaming and celebrate you
Let me show you what a treasure you are
A priceless gift from heaven to this thankful heart
I want to take this lifetime to celebrate you
I want to celebrate you

I have heard you say so many times
How you're sorry you're not everything you should be
So let me tell you this one more time
There's no way you could be any more precious to me
But I know that lovely flowers and phrases
Are not what you need the most from me
You're longing for someone to listen
And that's what I want to learn how to be

I want to share your laughter
And I want to share your tears
We're gonna share this life together
And I'm gonna celebrate you
Celebrate you

"Celebrate You"
Steven Curtis Chapman
Album: Signs of Life

Signed: the BabyMan

Saturday, August 11, 2007

BabyMan's Commitment to My SugarAnne

We took our vows, my Sugaranne and me, 7 years ago. It seems like yesterday – even though we tease each other that each year sometimes seems like ten. I didn’t give it a second thought when the pastor said to me right before the wedding ceremony, “You can leave now if you don’t wanna do this. Nobody’s gonna fault you if you do. I’ll walk right out of here with you if you want me to.” Huh?! I thought. I mean, what th-?! “Arent’ you supposed to be trying to get me to the altar – not away from the altar?”

I guess he knew he was gonna say some pretty tough stuff in his wedding homily. Things that would be hard to live up to. Things that would require the Grace of God Almighty because I – well, both of us for that matter – just don’t have the capacity as mere humans to live them out. They were simple things, the things he said. But they were not easy things, the things he said.

So I’m standing at the altar of the finest little chapel that you ever did see. I’m in the presence of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. (I wasn’t looking so bad myself - wink). We’re facing outward toward a great cloud of about 150 witnesses. And friend, I’ll never forget what I heard that day. I heard something flowing with such profundity that it will take a lifetime to drain it out of my mind. It would take a lifetime to get it right. I guess it’s supposed to be that way though, huh?
The reality is: it takes Eternal Life to get it right. Otherwise there is no hope.

I don’t remember his exact words but they amounted to this:

“Your first responsibility in this marriage is to God;
Your second responsibility is to the institution of marriage;
Your third and final responsibility is to each other.”

Isn’t that strikingly simple? Marriage happens before God – and man, to each other – for each other, doesn’t it? Then doesn’t it make sense that priority of responsibility and importance would fall in just that order? Frankly, I don’t like being second and I don’t like being last either. Every fiber of my being desires to be first! Desires to be someone’s priority. That’s why I say it takes a lifetime to get this thing right. I mean this particular order of priority is not fashionable these days is it? These days first is “me”. Then it’s “me”. Next comes “me”. Then you - maybe. Then marriage. Then God – if he comes in handy that is.

So I made a commitment to the all-seeing, all-knowing, everywhere all the time God (I had actually givein my life to Jesus some 6 years before); a commitment to the great institution of marriage; and a commitment to my SugarAnne. Like I said, that was some seventy – uh, oh, I mean seven – years ago.

With that commitment came the promise to Communicate, Respect and Trust. Communication facilitates Respect. And Communication with Respect facilitates Trust. Time has bore this to be true. I made a promise to Love and Cherish and yes – to Sacrifice. We Sacrifice only for that which we Love. And we love only that which we Cherish. This has been true since eternity before time began. And it will be true in eternity after time ends.

The pastor quoted the Bible:
“Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her” (Ephesians 5.25).

How incredible is that huh? How incredible a Sacrifice is that?! Man, I desire to Cherish my SugarAnne in the same way: just like Christ cherished me.

He went on:
“In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself” (Ephesians 5.28).

Now I know I dig me. I mean, I love myself! I love me some me! Who doesn’t dig themselves? That’s why I say it takes a lifetime. Is there anyway to love somebody the way we love ourselves without being taken for a complete fool? That’s where Trust comes in. Trusting God. And Trusting my SugarAnne. It still takes a lifetime though. And by the Grace of God I’m getting better at it.

He said some stuff to her about Submission. But I was distracted by the whole “dying for her” thing. That’s some spooky shit. I’ll let her worry about the Submission. My job is to lead by example. My job is to Communicate, Respect and Trust. My job is to Love, Cherish and Sacrifice. And I’m Committed to my SugarAnne to do just that – for my life, with my life.

Signed: the BabyMan