What This Girl Needs
What this girl needs is to conviently forget the 15 research papers, 5 sets of response papers, 15 self evaluation essays, and 50 final exams in her office. And then to lose the only key to the office for the entire weekend.
She needs to leave the office, right now, and go up town and take a long nap with her cat.
Only when she opens the door to take the nap, mysteriously, her lover (whose identity is unknown-even to me) is waiting inside . He pushes her up against the wall and before she has a chance to tell him about all the work she has to, the terrible day she's had, how much she needs to sleep, he forces kisses upon her until she can't think of using her mouth for anything else but kissing him in back. He then rips off her clothes, not all of her clothes mind you, but just the ones that get in the way, leaves her rent panties on the floor, and carries her to the bed to ravish her, several times, over the next five hours.
And when I say ravish, I'm not talking about just sex. I'm taking about the kind of sex that prevents you from walking properly for about five days. The type of sex where the rhythm of your lover's hips becomes such a constant that you can feel for days afterwards, like having been on a boat feeling the motion of the water even after you are on land. I'm talking about the kind of sex that prevents from even thinking in full sentences.
And then I would need a long bath-with rose gel de bain from l'occitane-and a glass of wine. And after that a long massage because all of that sex would have left my muscles sore.
And then to fall asleep feeling him naked curled around me knowing that he will wait until I get up before he goes to get us coffee, good coffee, the way I like it-sweet and light-and kiss me even with my jackson pollock painting hair.
What I am going to get, however, is 50 final exams and 22 response papers to read this afternoon. I am going to go home tired with maybe enough time for a brief nap before I go to ballroom dancing. I am going to ballroom dance with my teacher who is leaving me at the end of the month. And then I will go home and fall asleep as I always do-alone with my cat at the end of the bed.
And I will wake up t0morrow to a mountain of student reading.
And I'm worried I won't be able to get a lover in Paris, and I have to get a lover. I do. I've been chaste for a while now. I know I haven't written about it and it's probably more than you care to know at this point, but I haven't had sex since May. And I haven't had satisfying sex since March. I mean, really. I am one of those people who needs sex to run. How the hell can you expect me get the mail in the morning without the promise sex somewhere in my day? And it's Paris, it's the city of love so I need a lover damn it. A lover with an accent. And I'm not going to be picky. I'm going to grab the first cute bellboy when I land-you know just to start with-to make sure I'm not out of practice.

10 Sentences
I have to preface this post with "I am a jackass." I was surfing blogs and came across one that challenged readers to write a story in 10 sentences. So I accepted the challenge, but forgot where to give credit. So I am a jackass. But here is my attempt at a story in ten sentences.
"According to the NYC census bureau there are 4,134,613 women in NYC alone" Vladislav thought as he crossed 85th street, a lovely gazelle like girl with an ass grazing ruffled skirt walking the other way. He watched a group of young men, who clearly shared the shame oral surgeon hustle by on their way to some bar, some game, some several hours glued to beer and quickly forgotten passes. "They might think some of those women are for them," he thought looking down, showing his submission to their alpha dog barking laughs, "but they are all mine for what right thinking woman would give herself to the likes of such illiterate troglodytes? Such a violation of the natural order can not be countenanced."
He had accumulated through the years a memory for poems and plays, snippets of letters (from the Marquis de Sade to his first wife) , and historic rumors (Queen Margot was a nymphomaniac, Robespierre slept with a copy of Rousseau's On the Origins of Civil Society under his pillow, Ibsen wrote with a picture of the delusional Strindberg on his desk), and he knew how to talk about such things in a way that allowed him to flaunt the purr of his Russian accent.
And he had a tan.
A girl, his intended victim, the first woman he was willing to think of as worthy of the effort of a pass, sat on her cement front stoop her fingers curled around a highlighter and a pen reading "The Birth of Tragedy" by Friedrich Nietzsche. He began his famous shy intellectual looking out from under his shaggy brown hair shuffle.
As he approached the stoop, about to open with some amusing chastisement about how lovely young ladies shouldn't be wasting time reading the rantings of deceased syphilitic philosophers on such a summer night with the trees in bloom and a light breeze in the air, a young man with a backwards baseball cap, his plaid boxers peaking above his low hanging jeans, raised the girl to her feet and kissed her.
As the two kissed on the front stoop, text discarded, the soft cover beginning to warp from misuse, Vladislav continued towards the six train trying to distract himself from the disconsolate thought of going home to an apartment furnished only with a futon and back rent notices by remembering the Latin name for the genus and phyla of each tree on the block .

All Time Low
We aren't going to talk about all the OTHER things going wrong in my life. No. We aren't going to even mention them briefly. We are going to say that we are very upset to find that currently Bunniblog is at an all time visitor low. In fact, I am logging less views per day now than when I didn't post for six weeks.
Things To Establish Before You Get Married
My friend Caffeinatrix and I had drinks on Friday night. As we were sitting in the window of Archer's, our favorite always completely empty so you can get a seat even though it doesn't matter because we sit with our legs dangling out the window seat like Huck Finn bar, Caffeinatrix proceeded to relate the following story of wacky marital hijinx to me.
"My husband comes home last weekend from consulting in Pennsylvania and announces that he is depressed because 'He doesn't have enough direction in his life.' He has decided to address this issue by volunteering from the Republic National Convention. I don't know what direction he thought he needed in his life, but if he actually followed the plan the only direction he would be headed in is that of a divorce lawyer. He knows who he married, and you would think that this might be something you should bring up to a woman oh say BEFORE SHE MARRIES YOU. So I started to talk to him about why he suddenly thought now he should volunteer for the Republican Convention. And he starts talking about Bush and about national security and how ok ok so he doesn't have such a good record on a lot of things but well the whole national security thing is very important. So I start talking to him about reproductive rights, and I tell him it doesn't matter if you have national security if you have women who don't have the right to make decisions over their own bodies. We argue and argue and finally he says 'Well, you're letting one little issue eclipse an entire election.'"
And at this point, even I knew that C's husband had gone in the direction of Greek Tragedy: he had set into motion a series of irrevocable changes that would bring about a swift reversal of fortune.
Historically C has been a champion of women's rights. She has worked in rape counseling and abortion counseling. She knows first hand about how influential that "little" issue can be not just on the life of the woman, but on the lives of those around her. It is, as C pointed out, "not just a woman's issue."
"Finally I get him to see that it's not just a woman's issue, and he agrees not to volunteer for the Republican National Convention. And sure enough that night he snuggles all up and he wants to have sex and I say no. He asks me why not. I tell him 'Listen as long as reproductive rights aren't guaranteed in this country, it is not safe enough for me to have sex with you. I love you honey, but I'm not willing to take that risk.' Well that didn't go over to well so to console him I patted him on the shoulder and said, 'Hey, at least you have national security."
The Perfect Man
My friend Nutreena was reminiscing this weekend about her French boyfriends. Over key lime martinis, she told me about "Patrice" the gorgeous French chocolate factory owner. Now if that isn't the perfect man, I don't know who is: a gorgeous French man with an unlimited supply of quality chocolate. If I don't come back, it is because I have found his younger brother and we have eloped to the French country side to a chocolate bunny farm.

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