S.M. Johnson's Blog, page 16

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee~ Someone Knew

[image error] It was a fairly average Monday morning here in my house. I left the house early for a doctor appointment. My husband woke IzzyG and badgered her to get ready for school. I don't know if he sent her to the bus or dropped her off on his way to work, but yes... our child went to school today. This is our reality. And our reality tells us that our child's school is a safe place.

Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, CT had standard lock-down practices in place.

Our school doesn't.

And still we send our precious girl to school.

Last night I looked at the pictures and read the short biographies of the murdered children and teachers of Sandy Hook. I looked into their eyes and imagined them as real people, who sing and dance and talk and play. And I cried. And me, who avoids tragedy and violence like the plague, who avoids popular media whenever possible - I vowed that I would keep looking, and keep reading, and keep crying.

And still I send my daughter to school.

Because this is what I know... we cannot predict the violence.

Schools, shopping malls, college campuses, movie theaters, political rallies. Airplanes, subways, walking into a convenience store or walking down the street.

We can't predict the moment a murderer strikes or the venue that he or she chooses.

We cannot be proactive at this moment in time, we can only react.

And whether you love the NRA or hate the NRA or think guns are bad, or good, or at the very least, we have the right to bear arms - it matters not one bit.

The enemy is not the gun-owner, the manufacturer, or even the arms dealer. The enemy is not the government or the NRA.

The real enemy? The true enemy?

Our broken mental health system.

Because here is the message I want to send:

SOMEONE KNEW.

The list is too long and too disheartening for me to re-create here, and, truth be told, I am not real keen on contributing to infamy by listing the names of killers here on my blog. You can go look at a compilation with map and details over at Mother Jones.com. What you will find is that a mix of legal and illegal weapons were used, but what's very clear is that nearly every shooter has a history of mental illness.

So go ahead, ban all the guns you want. It will piss a lot of people off, and in the long run, won't change a fucking thing.

Because SOMEONE KNEW these mass murderers were capable of the acts of violence they committed. Not only did someone know - that someone had very likely asked, begged, even, for help that a broken system could not give.

I read an essay last night titled, "I am Adam Lanza's Mother." Click and read it now. I'll wait here quietly while you go do that.

This is the conversation we need to have in America.

There are people who cannot function safely in society, and for their safety and the safety of others, need to be institutionalized, for life, at government expense.

That's it. The end.

I work in the field of acute mental health. I can name 4 or 5 individuals off the top of my head that I have met, spoken to, and cared for, who are capable of walking into an elementary school and killing children. Killing my child.

These are people driven by the demons of mental illness. In moments of lucidity, they would not want to kill children. But within the realm of psychosis, delusions, paranoia, mania and rage - they are capable of doing it. Sure, some are of lower mental functioning. But many are not, the narcissists and sociopaths, in particular, tend to be of average intelligence and functioning. Believe me, they are capable, and when they are acutely sick, there is no way to predict what they might do.

They don't get convicted for their "petty" violent crimes and threats of terrorism because they are labeled "mentally ill", and the corrections system doesn't offer appropriate treatment options. If they are arrested and charged with anything, it's "disorderly conduct."

And so the doctor begins the "commitment process" - to have these people committed to the supervision of their county for, typically in MN, six months.

Those that have perpetuated violence on us (the healthcare team) and others sometimes get sent to state-run programs for longer-term treatment. And when I say "longer-term", I mean weeks or possibly months. But these people are eventually deemed "healthy enough" for community based living.

Community based living for persons with mental illness is in your neighborhood, folks. Eventually these people with consistent and chronic mental health issues earn privileges and freedom from supervision.

Sometimes committed people have such long and violent histories that no agency or community based program will take them on. They land at their parents' home, or on the street, homeless. Either way, once again, they are in your neighborhood, folks.

And they are able to walk into your school and kill your children.

So what happened to state-run mental institutions, anyway? Well, the nice story is that community based living is more humane and offers a better quality of life than an institution. The less pretty story is that large, permanent or semi-permanent long-term mental health facilities are expensive to run and maintain, and smaller, privately owned community based living agencies shoulder much of that cost, while providing somewhat less comprehensive care.

Hmm... Here are links to a couple interesting articles I found:

History of Psychiatric Hospitals

A fairly comprehensive look at deinstitutionalization in the field of mental health.

        Please pay special attention to the last section, a heading in bold:
                  CMHCs Fail to Fulfill Their Promise


This is where I tell you again: SOMEONE KNEW.

The people who work within the system know that it is broken. The parents, and siblings, spouses, ex-spouses, and friends of persons with consistent and chronic mental illness - these people know that the system is broken.

Our government refuses to view the system as broken, because fixing and maintaining a healthy system will be very, very expensive.
What can we do?
How about a hot-line, maybe run by the Department of Homeland Security, so the People Who Know can call and ask for real help. A number that psych staff can call to say "I believe this person is fully capable of eventually carrying out their threats to society and NEEDS TO BE MONITORED."
The mother of "Michael" in the essay I referenced above could maybe report that her son needs to be monitored BEFORE he steals a gun from the neighbor's house and murders her and her younger children while they sleep.
Wouldn't that be better than wringing our hands afterward and saying such stupid things as "Gosh, if only someone knew..."
Because I'll say it again and again and again: SOMEONE KNEW and could not get help, because the current system is broken and there is no help.
Maybe we need a Federal Psych facility. It could be a nice place, despite seclusion rooms and restraint beds. It could have kind staff and grounds to allow fresh air and sunshine. A swimming pool. Tennis courts. A gymnasium. Art classes and a library and internet access. Hell, make the fucking place a RESORT, for all I care - just keep these people out of society, because they cannot function when mixed in with the rest of us. 
They are not safe and will never be safe. And the violence will continue.
***
A few thoughts on guns and gun control, just to show you that I've been thinking about these conversations, as well.
So what about the hot issue of gun control? What should we do? What can we do?
For starters, lets hold gun owners accountable for the whereabouts of their guns. Require they purchase and register a gun safe. 
FINE them heavily if their gun is used to commit a crime or found otherwise to be out of their control. Or rescind their right to bear arms if they have not managed to keep their guns secure. Let's not forget that with rights come responsibilities.
I never wanted guns in the house. Never, never. But my husband has become something of a gun enthusiast. We have a big, heavy gun safe. Every gun we own is locked up, except for the one my husband has a permit to carry, when circumstance dictates he carry it. We know where all the guns are all the time, and they are not allowed to disappear, and they are not allowed to languish around the house unsecured.
Which isn't to say that someone very motivated couldn't break into the safe, but it wouldn't be easy, and it would take them some time. Oh, and we'd be immediately aware that it had been broken into.
I do think the sale of assault weapons to individuals should be severely restricted, or even banned. My husband, the gun enthusiast, doesn't agree withe me. He said the right to bear arms protects us from our government. I just laughed at him and said, "You with ALL your guns unlocked and loaded would still be no match for a SWAT team with tear gas and flash grenades. Give me a break."
The right to bear arms doesn't necessarily have to mean the right to bear assault rifles with 100 round clips. That is absolutely ludicrous. 
But the truth is, criminals and murderers will always find guns - legally or illegally, so why waste time and money passing laws that create more hassle for the people least likely to use those guns in random killing sprees?
It would be far better to use our resources to identify and secure the dangerous people who have the potential to pull the trigger.
I wish you peace this holiday season.
I have no words of comfort to offer the folks in Newtown, CT - because words just fail. All I can say is that I will continue to look at their beautiful faces and even though I am far away, and cannot truly imagine what you are going through, I am grieving your unfathomable loss.

SM Johnson ~Fuzzy Friday~ Holiday Pets

Photo by Panda Jones. Used with permissionGood morning, Darlings! It's Fuzzy Friday! And the holiday season is most certainly upon us, isn't it?

I still need to shop for the pets. Mr. Colby Cat will get some shaky mice. You know, the cheapie little mice you can buy from the bulk bins at large pet retailers? Yeah, those. Except they must have shaky beads inside or he won't play with them. Because he is... well, Mr. Colby Cat, and if it's not his way, forget about it.

The dog, Jazz, will get some combination of rawhide chews and chase and throw toys. Maybe a new Kong, since the husband ran over the old one with the lawn mower. The Kong was the only dog toy to ever survive more than a few months around here. Jazzy loves to chew, oh yes, she does. I tend to avoid dog toys that have a squeaker inside. I'm not sure if he loves the squeaker or hates it, but the first thing she does with a squeaky toy is destroy it as quickly as possible in order to remove the squeaker. So there's no point, really.

Of course, for ferrets, one doesn't even have to go shopping. Just ball up the wrapping paper and the tissue and toss paper balls at the fuzzy critters then sit back and watch the weasel war dance. Listen to the dook-dook of an excited leaping fuzzy, and the more paper balls the better.

And boxes? Oh good lord, a ferret can have a blast with a box. Especially if you cut big round holes in it and fill it with PAPER BALLS!

And if you have a fuzzy and buy groceries, you KNOW they love a plastic grocery bag almost more than anything. And a plastic grocery bag inside a paper bag? Well, that's like Disney World. (Of course, ferrets playing with plastic bags need to supervised).

Photo by Panda Jones. Used with permissionBut if you like to shop for your fuzzy friend - there are always lots of fun things to buy. Dryer vent tubes, drainage ditch tubes, dangle toys, and that's not even getting into the array of toys designed for ferrets. And of course never forget - the awesomeness of hammocks and other snuggle sacks. Ours always preferred old pillow cases. I'd cut holes in the corners and hammer in grommets, then use shower curtain rings to attach them to the cage sides. Danged if those little buggers didn't figure out how to climb right inside!

But now for the real jist of this message: There are a host of dangers to our fuzzy friends that come with the holidays. Tinsel, curling ribbon, string, those tiny rubber bands that hold small parts of toys inside the box...

Small rubber pieces and stringy things should not be swallowed by ferrets, because just as their bodies are long and lean and skinny, so are there intestines, and chunks of rubber can cause an intestinal blockage, and string can tangle their intestines in terrible ways. Either of these can result in expensive surgeries or even be fatal to our little friends, which makes for an unhappy holiday.

So as you open gifts, and especially the packages inside the wrapping, the safest thing is to keep the furry ones out of the way during the excitement. The next safest idea is to throw dangerous objects away as you go, so there aren't any sneaky rubber bands left hiding in the shag carpet for the carpet sharks to eat.
Photo by Panda Jones. Used with permission.
It goes without saying that it is a bad idea to buy a ferret AS a gift for some poor unsuspecting soul who might not want a ferret, or might not be able to change their lifestyle to accommodate a ferret's care, right? Okay, right. Just checking. Cuz, you know, the little buggers are cute as hell, but do tend to be a high maintenance pet, and I would never suggest someone embark on the adventure of living with ferrets without first doing some research.



Have a great Holiday! Fuzzy Friday will be on vacation next week - look for this topic to resume on December 28th.

Pssssst! Remember to check your ferret's favorite hiding place - he might have stolen some of the presents that were under the tree. Especially if any of them happen to smell like raisins or Craisins.

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee ~ New Story Excerpt

Good morning, Darlings, and welcome to Thursday Morning Coffee!

Alas, I have to work early, early this morning, so I can ditch early to watch my kid perform in the school program - ahh, the talent, the crowds, the parking five miles away - such bliss does the Holiday bring.

Have I mentioned that I hate Christmas? Perhaps I mentioned it last year. Yeppers, I am sorry to report that I have a very Grinch-like attitude about the season. I don'd sent cards. I haven't decorated or put the tree up. I HAVE made Spritz cookies and shopped, oh yes, indeedy - I don't mind that part so much. Don't panic - the tree will get put up, oh, sometime during the coming weekend, perhaps, provided I talk myself into vacuuming up the dog hair.

And then I will go to work. This is my lucky year - I'm scheduled to work day shift on December 20th, and the evening shift from December 21st right through to December 25th. So I won't even have the weekend to spend with my family. (I don't hate my family, by the way - I just hate the frenzy of the season and how it is impossible to spend enough time anywhere to make anyone happy).

December 26th the tree will come down and get packed away until the week before Christmas NEXT year.

And don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the tree - just... well, our house is what you might call "lived in" - and the addition of Christmas decorations just seems to turn "lived in" into "total chaos."

Anyway, enough of my Bah, Humbuggery...

I'm working on a new and exciting thing I call... (drum roll, please).... Het Porn.

Yes, my friends, I am writing an erotica book wherein one protagonist is male and the other is FEMALE. I know this is a stretch for me, but as a female married to a male for oh, about twenty years now, I think I can handle it.

So what inspired this, anyway? (As I'm sure you are asking).

Well, definitely not Fifty Shades of Grey. There are no antique books, no helicopter rides, no crazy rich millionaires. Oh, yeah, there aren't any virgins in the story, either. Or college students. It was a little bit inspired by something else that I read, although I couldn't tell you the title or the author for the life of me. I was intrigued by the "snowed in" concept.

So, without further ado, meet Piper Matthews and Ian Graff...

(working title) Snowbound with Ian Graff


Piper couldn't believe her rotten luck, being sent practically to the Boundary Waters in northern Minnesota on December twenty-sixth. "Don't forget your snow shoes," her boss quipped, as he handed her a travel voucher.
"Nice," she said, and "Thanks," giving him a scowl intended to communicate her complete and utter lack of sincerity.
This is how it went down: She was the most junior assistant with the literary agency that represented Ian Graff.
The publisher – a big one – called a week before Christmas to demand Graff's latest manuscript, which was already three months overdue. But the agency didn't have it.
Piper was standing in the doorway when Mr. Halstead, her boss, was explaining to Graff's editor that Graff wasn't returning phone calls, emails, or even Facebook pleas.
"I know what's going on," Halstead said into the telephone. "The manuscript is sitting in a desk drawer, finished, and Graff is sitting on it drinking whiskey and convincing himself it's awful."
"What if it really is awful?" Piper asked Mr. Halstead, once he'd hung up the phone.
"Aren't you supposed to read the authors we represent?" Halstead asked.
"Yes," she said.
"And have you?" he asked.
"Of course," she replied. "As many as possible."
"Are Ian Graff's books ever awful?"
Piper blushed. Graff's books were shocking and strangely erotic, but no, never awful.
Mr. Halstead saw the answer in her face.
"Well, there you go. It won't be awful. And the big 5-star publisher just settled the matter – we're to send our most junior assistant to collect the manuscript. In person."
"But sir," Piper started to argue, "that would be – "
"You," he said, with an emphatic nod.
"Wouldn't his editor, someone who has rapport with him, would be a better choice?"
Halstead laughed. "Graff hates his editor. Says the little fucker ruins every book he edits. I'll book you a flight right after Christmas. And a car."
And here she was, standing at the car rental kiosk at the airport in Duluth, MN, programming Graff's address into her phone's map application while the infant male on the other side of the counter searched his computer for her reservation.
She was staring at the long miles of straight on the digital map when the kid's soft chuckle caught her attention.
"What?" she asked, but he only chuffed out more of his strange laugh while clicking keys.
"What?" she asked again, louder. Maybe if she ripped the ring right out of his nose, he'd pay attention and answer her.
"Oh," he said. "Well. You've reserved a sub-compact. And you're going where again?"
"Past Ely. Past everywhere, to a place that will surely be hell."
"But colder," he pointed out.
"Definitely colder," she agreed.
"Well, here's the deal. We're supposed to get a foot of snow this evening, heck, maybe more than that. The cute little Corsica you reserved? It's never going to make it."
"What? No. There can't be that much snow." She looked around for a window, wondering if a hotel might be a better idea than a rental car.
"There could be that much. Probably more, up past Ely. But if you get going quick, at least it'll be at your tail the whole way."
"What will be?"
"The storm." He tapped at his keyboard again, then smiled. "Here we go. I've got a nice 4-wheel drive sport utility for you. That should do it."
Not ten minutes later, Piper sat baffled behind the wheel of a vehicle three times larger than anything she'd ever driven. California girls have no need of snow monsters with huge tires.
The counter kid told her to push in the 4WD button and leave it pushed in until she dropped the truck off again. She stared at the console until she found what button he'd been talking about, then started the truck and activated four wheel drive.
She drove out of the covered parking lot, and into what might almost be daylight, except for heavy gray clouds, and big fluffy snowflakes that melted gently on her windshield. Well that wasn't too bad. Her phone GPS gave her three right turns, and then a couple hundred miles straight, so how hard could it be? All she really had to do was keep the truck on the road.
Which she managed to do for one hundred and ninety miles, despite the fact that the snow started coming down faster, and the wind picked up and swirled it around. She still had plenty of time to ruminate about whether breaking up with Bryce Howard had really been all that great of an idea. If she'd have made up with him, surely he'd be the one driving, while she sat contentedly in the passenger seat reading a book.
She felt a little sad when she thought of Bryce, and a little guilty. The reasons for the break up were hard to pin down. Sometimes she wondered if it was just her lack of creativity that led her to end the relationship, the fact that she had no idea what to get him for Christmas. They'd been dating for almost two years, and somehow she felt pressured to find the perfect gift that proved how well she knew him. Four times she'd gone shopping, determined to find something, and all four times she'd failed. 
Intellectually, she wanted to wow him. Trouble was, emotionally she didn't even care all that much. He was into football, and basketball, and sometimes hockey. Last year she'd bought him a gift subscription to Sports Illustrated. This year, all she could find to give him was goodbye.
Obviously something was missing on her part of the relationship. And during the break up conversation, Bryce told her exactly what it was. "You have no passion," he'd told her. "You're distant and emotionally closed, and yeah, it frustrates me, so you're probably right – we're not meant to be together. I hope you find your passion, Piper."
At least he hadn't called her frigid. She'd made it a point to offer him sex several times a week, partly because she knew men needed that, but also because she knew frequent sex was an important element of a healthy relationship. And really, she didn't mind it – their coupling wasn't terrible. She only made "to do" lists in her head about half of the time; the other half she made sure she slipped deeply into a fantasy and had an orgasm. Sometimes the fantasy was awfully close to a scene from one of Graff's books, but she didn't want to think about that too deeply.
The worst part was that Bryce forgave her for the break up, that he seemed to hold no animosity toward her, and even called her on Christmas night – last night – to ask if she was doing okay. She almost asked him to come with her to collect Graff's manuscript, but she was still angry that he'd accepted the break up so easily. The thought of being trapped in a car with him for several hours left her feeling… well, cold.
She laughed at herself. She knew Bryce was a little bit on target with his assessment, and yes, the truth does hurt.
It was full-on dark when the GPS instructed her to take a left turn. She hit the brakes and cranked the wheel, but somehow the truck kept going straight.
She had no idea what to do. It was like the moment she hit the brakes, the truck suddenly became possessed by demons determined to shove her, headlight-first, into a the snow bank. The ass-end of the truck swung around so she was heading back the direction she'd come from, only now in the wrong lane.
Luckily she'd been driving so carefully that two other trucks had been held up behind her for the last however many miles, and they both stopped to help.
One man got behind the wheel of piper's truck and somehow coaxed it back onto the road, the other dispensed advice, pretending with great skill that he wasn't laughing at her. "Slow sown before turning, and keep your foot off the brake pedal. Never, ever slam on the brakes. The snow will get you every damn time."
Piper memorized those words because her GPS showed no less than five more turns.
Once the vehicle was facing onward, she climbed back behind the wheel.
She didn't see another car for miles, nor did she see a gas station, a restaurant, or a bait shop. And the radio was coming in crackly. She played tree-field-tree until the snow-filled gusting wind nearly blew her off the road, and then she ended up slowing to a crawling 20 miles per hour. Great. It was going to take her just as long to drive the last twenty miles as it had taken to drive the first two hundred.
The wind was the worst part. The snow almost seemed to brighten the world, and she was able to keep the road in the headlights as long as she went slow. But the wind blew the snow into swirling tornadoes in front of her, and there were long moments that felt like driving completely blind.
She hadn't seen another car since her foray into the snow bank, and found she was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her fingers were stiff. If she went off the road now, she could be stuck for hours. Days, even.Thank God the highway department marked upcoming crossroads with yellow signs. She'd have never seen the turn otherwise.
The roads got narrower and went further into the woods every time she turned.
"I'm coming, grandmother," she laughed to herself. "And hoping to avoid the big bad wolf."
This was absolutely awful, like some kind of surreal nightmare. Who would have ever put Piper out in a storm driving a truck? She longed for her hyper-responsive-if-vintage 82 Corvette. Dolly wouldn't let a little snow get in the way of speed.
The GPS directed her through two more turns, and then she was looking for a fire number. She had to stop driving forward for long enough to Google images of 'MN fire numbers', because she had no idea what she was looking for. Google showed her a small red numbered sign, almost like a license plate, but smaller. A number, not even a full address.
She tried to memorize the number, which was a good thing, because within five minutes her phone announced, "Attempting to connect to network," and it kept making the same announcement every two minutes until she turned it off.
The storm howled around the truck, making swooshing and whistling noises. The windshield wipers were working hard to keep the windshield free of ice and snow, but every once in a while a frozen chuck got trapped by the wiper blades, and left a streak right across her field of vision on every back swipe. At one point she'd opened her window and hung her head out, watching for fire numbers, wondering if it wouldn't have been smarter to hunker down in a hotel room by the airport.
A red sign appeared with the correct sequence of numbers. She cranked the wheel without slowing down, and the truck cooperated by sliding into the turn, then sliding down a hill. And it kept sliding, off what was supposedly the driveway, between two trees, past another tree, and into a clearing, until yet another tree leapt into view and stopped the vehicle with a gentle crunch.
Oh, thank God.
A house that looked like a giant log cabin appeared  just a few yards in front of the headlights.
Popular belief has it that those who live in the wilderness don't want be bothered. Piper suspected this was 100% true of Mr. Graff, because who the hell would live way the hell out here otherwise?
She switched off the engine and basked in her successful arrival for a few minutes, listening to the relieved tick-tick of the cooling engine. She took a deep breath, leaned back in the seat, and closed her eyes. She could almost take a nap right here, but her bladder was threatening to burst, so she pushed open the truck door and stepped out into the storm.
The cute and quirky heel of her designer boot promptly slid out from under her and she found herself sitting on the ground, half underneath the truck, admiring the taste of fresh, fluffy snow. It looked like white cotton candy, and the air smelled familiar, like her childhood. Wood stoves, and icicles, the tang of fall, the inevitability of winter. A slush puppy consolation prize.
She squeezed a handful snow into a ball. It was crisp and squeaked like Styrofoam.
It was also really cold, and she remembered why she'd moved to California. The brand new winter coat that perfectly complimented the red tones of her chestnut hair was obviously designed for fashion, not warmth, and sitting in the snow wasn't helping her bladder.
She got to her feet, sludged carefully through the snow to what looked like the front door, and looked for the door bell.
She pulled open the storm door, then had to grip onto it because the wind threatened to rip it out of her hands, maybe right off the house altogether.
A sign on the inside door read, "No bell. Don't knock. Go away."
Nice. That was welcoming.
She knocked.
And waited.
And knocked again.
And waited some more.
She finally pounded on the door as hard as her cold hands would allow.
It cracked open. "What do you want?"
"Mr. Graff? Sir, the agency sent me –"
"Go away."
The door closed.
Oh for God's sake.
She pounded again, and yelled, "Mr. Graff. Please."
The door cracked open again. "You shouldn't be out driving tonight. There's a terrible storm going on, if you hadn't noticed."
She stamped her feet and pressed against the door, managing to wedge it open a full four inches. "Oh, I've noticed."
"In that case, you should leave before you get stranded."
"Too late," she said. "I don't think I'll get my truck out of your yard tonight."
The door opened wide enough for him to stick his whole head out. "Are you an idiot? Why'd you leave the driveway?"
"I didn't leave the driveway on purpose. Can I please use your bathroom? I've been driving for hours."
He turned his eyes on her, and they were so angry that she almost let go of the storm door. Almost.She'd had him in her head as an old curmudgeon, probably in his sixties, maybe even seventy-five, an image that became more cemented the further she drove into the wilderness. She was a terrible judge of ages, but he was certainly no older than forty, maybe younger.
His hair was sticking up in all directions, kind of wild, and his eyes were a piercing blue, framed by dark lashes that matched the rings around his irises.
Piper was startled. No one had ever said he was good looking. The picture of him on the jackets of his books showed his profile in front of a keyboard, the glow from the computer monitor casting his face in shadow.
"Who are you again?" he asked.
"Piper Matthews, from Halstead Agency."
He snorted. "Fucking Halstead. I don't answer his calls so he sends a minion, hmm?"
"Can we talk about this after I use the bathroom?"
"I don't like people in my house."
"Obviously, or you'd live somewhere more convenient."
He sighed, and ran a hand through his crazy hair. "All right. You can come in for five minutes."
The door opened enough for her to slide into a tiled foyer. When she let go of the storm door, the wind grabbed it and it flew to the limits of his hinges and stopped with a loud crack.
"Nice. Ruin my yard and then break my door. I knew I should have put a gate at the end of the driveway."
"I am so sorry," she started to say, but he waved her off. "The bathroom is down the hall, first door on the right."
She bent to unzip her boots. "Don't worry about your boots," he said. "It'll just slow you from leaving."
She settled for wiping them on the unwelcome mat, and bolted down the hall, her heels clicking sharply against the tile.
The log cabin was unexpectedly modern inside. The entry and hall had high ceilings, two-toned walls in coffee colors divided by a chair rail, and a hanging light fixture in some kind of contemporary art design. From the look of the outside, Piper would have expected more naturalist décor, antlers or something. But no.
The bathroom was perfectly modern, as well, and she was infinitely grateful he hadn't sent her to the back forty to look for an outhouse.
She felt much more able to face him after that.
He was still standing in the foyer when she came out of the bathroom. She walked toward him, heels clicking.
"Is that what you consider snow boots?" he asked.
She looked down at her feet. The suede of her boots was dark with moisture, and they were probably ruined. "They're boots. I live in California. I certainly didn't expect to drive into a storm of epic proportions."
"Two minutes."
"What?" she asked, puzzled.
"You have two minutes. So talk fast."
He couldn't kick her back out into the storm, could he? He wouldn't. "Halstead sent me to pick up your manuscript. It's late, and the publisher is going nuts."
He snorted. "Oh, whatever. They love having something to bitch and moan about. Tell them to pull something from the slush pile to publish. It'd have to be better than the trash that you're calling a manuscript."
"Mr. Graff, you have a contractual obligation, and –"
"Fuck my obligation. The manuscript is a piece of shit. I have to rewrite the whole thing."
"I'm sure that's not true –" she tried again, but again his voice shot through her words.
"You're sure of what? What the hell do you know, anyway, junior assistant?"
She raised her hands into the air, a gesture of helplessness, or maybe supplication. "Okay, okay, I don't know anything. Please. Just give me a draft or something, and I'll be on my way."
"Didn't you hear me? Not fit for public consumption. Now, get the hell out of my house."
He yanked the door open, and made as if to shove her out into the snow.
She caught the door frame, before he could push open the storm door. She could hardly see the truck from here, although she knew it was only a few steps away. "Are you kidding? I can't go driving away in this weather."
"You managed to get here, didn't you? I don't see what the difference is."
"It took me hours to get here. And, if you didn't notice, my truck is parked in your front yard. How am I going to get it back onto the road?"
"I certainly don't know. Sounds like a personal problem."
He spit the last two words right into her face, and she caught the distinct odor of liquor on his breath."Are you always this mean, or just when you're drunk?"
He straightened his back to stand at his full height, a full foot taller than her five feet and two inches, and a gleam flickered into his eyes. "I'm usually meaner. Fortunately, you've arrived unannounced on a good day, and have a chance to escape..." His voice trailed away as he stared into her eyes for a second, then very obviously let his gaze fall to her feet and travel up the length of her body, with a slow deliberateness that made his just looking feel like a touch, and made her feel as if her clothes had fallen away. When his inspection again reached her eyes, he added one more word: "…unmolested."
Piper suddenly remembered a scene from his last book. The park ranger, after he'd tracked and found the city-slicker who'd been lost in the woods for days. The way he'd a peeled off her wet clothes back at the ranger station, piece by piece until she was naked and starting to be afraid. And then he'd wrapped her in a sleeping bag in front of the fireplace, crawled in with her, and soaked her in a warm, wet heat that had nothing to do with the fire.
She felt her face go hot. God. Why think about that now? The book was a best-seller, sure, but a bit too graphic for Piper's taste.
She grabbed the edge of the inner door and wrenched it out of his grasp, pulling it toward her, then stepping out of the way as it slammed shut. She leaned her back against the brushed and painted steel. "I'm not leaving without the manuscript."
He stared at her. "You manipulative little wench."
She gave him her best and very sweetest smile. "Possibly. So. Do you have a guest room, or a couch, or a piece of floor you can show me, so I can get out of these wet pants and go to sleep?"
"I'll get you out of those wet pants."
"Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Graff. I don’t do drunks."
His head reared back as if she'd actually slapped him, but his eyes glittered again, and he laughed. "Oh, you don't, do you? Ah, well, that's a shame." They glared at one another for several heartbeats, and he was the one that capitulated. "Fine. You can stay the night. But in the morning we're going to wrestle your truck back on to the road, and you can be on your way."
"With the manuscript," she said, trying to suppress her smile.
"With a kick in the ass," he answered, eyes narrowed with ferocity.
But Piper could see a smile playing around the edges of his lips.
He'd sent her to the truck for her bag, and though she'd been reluctant to go outside, worried it was a trick and he wouldn't let her back in again, he assured her that he was a man of his word. Either way, a night spent in the truck wouldn't be pleasant, but it wouldn't kill her, either.
When she opened the back door of the SUV to grab her suitcase, the wind caught hold of it and yanked it so far open that the hinges groaned their protest with a sickening creak. She reached blindly into the interior. Purse – check. She slung the strap over her shoulder. Suitcase – check. She had to set the suitcase in the snow at her feet because she needed both hands to first pull, and then push the truck door to get it closed again.
As she struggled back toward the front door of the log cabin, ice particles swirled around her head, the cold shards stung her cheeks. She revised her earlier thought. A night out here without heat might actually kill a person.
"Wow, it's nasty out there," she sighed when she reached the relative safety of the foyer.
Graff just looked at her.
Even drunk, he was so self-possessed – standing there completely still without visible emotion – that it was almost creepy. People shift from foot to foot, fidget with their hands, whistle… but he watched her as if she were an interesting specimen.
"Would you prefer the guest room, or a 'piece of floor', as you so eloquently put it?"
There was something wicked in his expression, almost a dare, and she paused, repeating the words, trying to figure out why giving her a choice was so distinctly amusing to him.
As if the answer weren't completely obvious.
"Guest room, if it's not too much trouble," she answered.
"No trouble. Just a bit of a pity, because the other could have been so much fun."
She didn't even want to know, so she didn't ask, just followed him past the bathroom she'd used and around the corner to the right. It was a lot of hallway for what, from the outside, had looked like a moderate-sized house.
The guest room was the first door on the right around the corner. It was orderly and had the same coffee colored walls as the foyer. Her toes happily sank into deep rich carpeting as she noted a full-sized bed, a nightstand complete with a reading lamp, and a small desk aligned perfectly beneath two framed sepia-toned photographs.
Her eyes widened as she looked at them more closely.
Each was a nude woman entwined with some kind of smooth rope.
One was in repose, possibly on a bed; the other seated in a simple, ladder-backed chair.The ropes wound around their upper arms, and around their necks to an elaborate knot in the hollow of their throats. From there the ropes split, dividing their breasts, and coming together again in a sort of coil around their torsos, before another split between their legs and more coils around thighs, calves and ankles. The women's eyes were soft, lips parted as if they were panting with arousal.
Piper's eyes couldn't stop tracing the pattern of rope, and the fact that it was wrapped around their necks caused the back of her own neck to prickle.
"Shibari," Ian said, and his breath was hot and way too close to her ear. Piper jumped, and he was standing so close that her feet got tangled amongst his until she lost her balance and fell into him with a startled cry.
His hands caught her around the waist and kept her from falling, his fingers splayed along her rib-cage, thumbs resting just beneath her breasts.
"I've got you, no worries," he said, and she could see crinkles of humor around his eyes.
She flicked her eyes toward the photos, and back to him, and he noticed. Oh, he definitely noticed. The humor disappeared and a more serious look took over. "We'll probably be snowed in for days, you know," he said. "Shibari is a lovely way to pass the time."
Piper had no idea what he was talking about. She pulled away from him, gently, and he let her go.
She pulled open a narrow, vented door and wasn't surprised to find a closet. She set her suitcase inside, just to have something to do. "What is Shibari?" she asked, as she maneuvered the case onto its side and unzipped it, lifting the lid to give her clothing some air.
"Intricate rope bondage." She could hear amusement in his voice. "Painstaking, time-consuming, and therefore photographed for posterity. Or purely for personal enjoyment."
A flash of memory came to her, probably another scene from one of his dirty books. Not the one with the park ranger and the hiker, but a different one… an urban setting. Something, something… with sushi, or rice paper wrapped egg rolls, a challenge, and the white rope.
The woman – what had been the issue there? Claustrophobia, maybe? Or a terror of not being in control?
Piper couldn't remember. But she did remember that the woman struggled at first, hating the tight ropes around her body. And while she fought, she was at his mercy, legs spread and tied to the bed frame, his fingers touching her most intimate flesh. She'd cried and shuddered and quivered… and then – surrendered.
And did he debase her then, defile her?
No, he did not.
He fed her sweet wine from his own lips, brushed his fingers over her skin, and described to her the many ways he found her utterly beautiful.
Piper turned away from the closet and looked at the photographs again. Both women had dark hair. One was thin, with an almost concave navel, her pubis smooth and waxed. The ropes held her labia apart, clitoris in full view, swollen with arousal.
The other had a fuller body, large breasts and wide hips, black curly hair hiding her nether parts.
"Which do you prefer?" Piper asked, and immediately wished she hadn't, because maybe it sounded like she was seeking his reassurance, comparing herself, although she didn't look a bit like either of them. And she didn't want to have him thinking that she wished she did.
"Each has her charms," he said, and then, "Redheads have charm as well, although their stubborn temperaments can be exhausting." He grinned at her. "They have a bit of the devil in them, you know."
She wanted to stamp her foot, or throw something at him, but that would prove him right, so she merely raised her eyebrows. "A bit arrogant, are we?" she said.
He certainly had a lot of personality, now that his grumpy side had settled down.
He shrugged and turned toward the doorway. "Is it arrogance or confidence? Maybe I’m just that good." He winked at her and went out the door.
Bastard, she thought, but then almost laughed.
There was a door set into the wall a couple feet to the right of the pictures, and Piper opened it to see the same bathroom she'd begged to use earlier.
Her slacks were wet up to the knee, and the bed looked like heaven. She was having a rousing debate with herself about pajamas versus clean clothes, when her stomach gave an audible rumble. She shucked the wet pants and slid into jeans and a loose, comfortable green top.
She looked best in green.
Ugh. Where did that thought come from? Surely Ian Graff didn't care what she looked like. And she shouldn’t care if he did. She was only here for the manuscript. In fact, Halstead gave her the impression that if she didn't have the manuscript when she returned, she might not have a job.
If Ian Graff wasn't going to give it to her, she would have to steal it.
She almost groaned. Really? Was she capable of that level of deception?
Her stomach complained of hunger again. Okay, she'd revisit that question later. Next question: wander around looking for the kitchen and something to eat, or trudge out into the raging blizzard and get snacks from the truck?
Since she'd just put on dry pants, the kitchen was a lot more appealing.
Piper hoped Mr. Graff had taken his drunken ass to bed. That would be good.
She opened her bedroom door and peeked out. All was quiet and dark, except for small square blue lights that were plugged into outlets every ten feet or so along the baseboards of the hallway, providing enough light to find her way. She tip-toed down the hall toward the foyer, then past it. The first door she encountered was to her left. It was painted a dark shade of gray. She opened it to find a set of stairs leading to the lower level. She shuddered and closed it softly. She didn't like basements. Cobwebs, spiders, slithery centipedes, sewer covers, and leaky hot water heaters. No thank you.
The hallway ended in an arched entrance rather than a doorway, and there she found a very pleasant kitchen with a butcher block island, a breakfast nook, and… Ian Graff.
He was stirring something in a pot on the stove, and it smelled heavenly.
"I suppose you're wandering around my house because you're hungry," he said.
Piper had stopped moving the moment she'd seen him. Was he going to be friendly now, or go back to being the rude ass he'd been in the foyer?
"It was a long, stressful drive," she said. "Especially for a city girl. But, hey, I think I have some beef jerky in my truck." She turned to leave, suddenly feeling skittish and off-balance.
"Oh, knock off the shy girl act," he said. "As if I'm going to buy into that after you bullied your way into my house."
Piper didn't know whether to laugh or blush. So instead of either, she shrugged, and said, "It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it."
"What, break into my house and violate my privacy?"
"No, collect your shitty manuscript."
He threw back his head and laughed, and something funny happened in the lower part of Piper's stomach.
Hunger pains, surely.
He opened a cupboard door and took down two bowls. Opened a drawer and removed two spoons. When he turned to set them on the center island, his mouth had a tightened smile, like a smirk, and he said, "Yes."
"Yes, you'll give me the manuscript?"
"Not the shitty manuscript. What I said about redheads."
Piper rolled her eyes. "Whatever."
Ian Graff tipped the pot from the stove over each bowl. "I wonder if you'd work so hard to prove me right if I hadn't mentioned it?"
"It's cliché," Piper said. "Redheads and their fiery personalities and their stubbornness. And it's more brown than red."
"Clichés tend to be based on some kind of truth. That's how they become clichés."
"But you're a writer. You should know to avoid them."
"I should know to avoid a lot of things," he said, as he picked up the bowls and carried them to a small table in the breakfast nook. "But I don't."
"Why not?" she asked, settling herself onto a plain wooden ladder-backed chair.
An image of the Shibari girl tied to the chair flashed behind her eyes, and she felt her shoulders tense. Don't look, she told herself. It's not the same chair. It can't be. That would be… what? Unsanitary? Crude?
"Avoidance is clinical, cowardly," he said, setting napkins, crackers, butter, and bread in between their bowls. "Messy is more fun."
Piper stared at him. Was this the same man who almost made her sleep in the truck in a blizzard? It didn't seem possible. Maybe there were two Ian Graff's – this one, and an evil twin, and they were going to switch back and forth just to fuck with her. "Funny, you didn't seem to care for messy when I first knocked on your door."
"You've grown on me since then."
It was Piper's turn to laugh. "That's bullshit, and you know it."
"Okay," he agreed. "It's bullshit. Maybe I'm just less drunk now and more able to put on my 'nice' face."  He sat down across from her and picked up his spoon.
"So now you're faking it?"
He shrugged. "I checked the weather channel. This storm isn't blowing over any time soon, so I guess you'll find out."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she buttered a slice of bread, then tasted the soup.
It was good. So good she nearly moaned, with a hearty, meaty flavor, a hint of garlic, and what tasted like home-grown carrots, beans and peas. "Bless your black heart for feeding me," she said, and closed her eyes to savor it.
The breakfast nook was made up of three glass walls, and the effect was interesting, a safe cozy feeling of being warm and dry in the middle of a raging storm. The wind howled around the corner of the house, fierce enough that every few minutes the glass seemed to shudder. The snow hit the glass like small beads, tap-tapping and reminding her that it felt like tiny fingers slapping her cheeks.
"It feels crazy sitting here, comfortable and dry, in the middle of the storm."
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"I don't know. Scratch that, yes, I do like it. I'm not sure I've ever seen a blizzard this up-close before.""We could have sat in the den, in front of the fireplace, all cozy-cozy and insulated."
Piper shook her head. "No, this is wild, and it feels fitting, somehow. The soup is amazing, by the way. Did you make it?"
He smiled down at his bowl. No arrogant smirk this time, no laugh. Then he shook his head. "I write," he said. "Cooking for one is not how I want to spend my time."
"So this is store bought? Wow, tell me the name brand, so I can have it shipped to my apartment in bulk."
Now he did laugh, a sort of chuckle. "I have a deal with a local caterer. She cooks, packages, and delivers. I don't think she'd deliver to California, unless she needed a vacation."
"There's a 'local' somewhere around here? Like, maybe I could have found a hotel?"
"Down the road a bit," he said. "But I hear their soup's not very good."
Piper giggled. He was kind of funny. "How long is the storm supposed to last?"
"We're supposed to get ten to twelve inches tonight, although I think we've got that much already, and then sixteen starting tomorrow afternoon, and continuing through the night."
"Great. Leave it to me to drive right into the storm of the season. Good thing the rental place advised against the Corsica."
"Halstead rented you a Corsica? To drive up here in the winter?" Graff's eyebrows were raised, his eyes wide open for a second, then shuttered into a scowl. "I knew he was an asshole."
He washed the dishes by hand, dried them, and put them away, with an economy of movement born of long habit. And then he walked her to her room.
"I wouldn't have expected such chivalry from the Grumpy Gus that answered the door."
He flashed her a look she couldn't interpret, there, then gone in an instant, and muttered, "Redheads."
She nudged him with her shoulder. "Don't go around making judgments. It's not polite."
"Same to you. It's not chivalry. Just making sure you don't get lost and go wandering into my private spaces. I don't like people in my house."
"Ah. Which rooms should I avoid?"
"All of them."
"Nice." She thought she saw another smirk playing around his mouth. "Seriously?"
"Oh fine. You can have the guest room, the guest bath, and the kitchen. If you cook, you can especially have the kitchen, although you won't find much to work with."
He was serious, and Piper almost laughed out loud. There was no way she was going to limit herself to three rooms. And she wasn't going to cook for him, either.
"What about the cozy den, with the fireplace?"
She could almost see the dismay on his face, but his recovery was quick. "Fine. I'll show you the den tomorrow. Maybe you'll find something to read."
"A manuscript would be great," she said, and watched his face tighten with annoyance.
"Enough. I already told you that's not happening."
He stalked away from her doorway, calling a gruff "Goodnight" over his shoulder.

SM Johnson ~ Fuzzy Friday ~ clipping toenails

Photo by Panda Jones, used with permissionYeah, yeah, laugh at me if you want to, but I am obsessed with animal toenails.

With the exception of the current dog, I have always managed to accomplish toenail maintenance all by myself.

The current dog is 65 pounds of boxer/rottweiler mix, however, and she thinks toenail clipping time is playtime, and she has way too many knees and elbows, and a head like a brick, and I've been injured every time I've attempted to clip her nails myself. So SHE goes to the groomer every 3 months. Which works out okay, because that's right about the time she becomes unbearably stinky, so I have them give her a bath at the same time. Yep, that one I send to the professionals.

I even manage to clip the toenails of Colby Cat, a.k.a I hate you all and believe me, that is plenty challenging. I had to get really creative with that one, let me tell you. Colby Cat a.k.a People Suck hates being picked up, manipulated, and held down with a very wiggly, scratchy, stabby passion. But we've got a system. Our system is called, "Pinning." Have you ever heard of "pinning the cat" ? No, I hadn't, either.

But out of sheer desperation and moments before ordering a "cat bag" from Jeffers pet catalog, I did a google search on how to clip a cat's nails, and I discovered Pinning. It's the only way I have managed to trim the nails of my non-compliant kitty.

Pinning is an English (and I mean the country of England) term for attaching 4 - 6 clothes pins along a cat's neck in order to make him calm and docile so you can clip his nails. Seriously. It's like a clothes pin mohawk. Just line the pins up down the back of his head, starting pretty much near the base of the  skull and going down in a line along the back of the neck. And wha-la, you can push you cat over and clip all his toenails with a people nail clipper, turned sideways.

Well, the first time I was able to clip ALL his toenails. These days he's onto me and my wily ways, so I have to hide the pins and the clipper. And once I get him pinned, I still have to pretty much hold him down -  and sometimes I only get 5 nails trimmed in one session - but before I discovered "Pinning" I not able to trim even one toenail.

And let's be clear - the sound of a cat's toenails getting caught in my new rug, or on my new bed comforter, or scratching the carpet on the stairs - gives me the heebie-jeebies and makes me want to call the vet and get hi de-clawed. Which I really don't believe in.

(photo - these guys look like they're waiting for treats. Hmm, who wants a raisin?)

Photo by Panda Jones, used with permissionBut trimming ferret toenails? Let me tell you, if you gather the right tools and take the right approach, it's a breeze.

I may have mentioned we had business of FIVE ferrets. We did nail trimming every 1 - 2 weeks, and it would take about 15 minutes to trim all 20 toenails. Not too shabby, especially considering carpet sharks are very, very wiggly. And non-compliant, although not nearly as gruesomely non-compliant as Mr. Cat a.k.a I hate strangers even more then I hate the people who live here. Back in the day when our zoo keepers were city employees, I told them about this method. I think they were grateful.



Okay, so what should you have on hand when you want to trim a ferrets toenails?


Three things you need:

1. A towel to put over your lap

2. Simple human nail clippers. Small ones are fine.

3. Ferretone or Linatone Skin and Coat supplement (Ferrets love both of them)


1) Lay the towel on your lap, 2) Grab a ferret. 3) Put a line of ferretone on the ferret's belly (he will immediately start licking his belly and his focus will stay on his belly until every trace of ferretone is gone).  4) Grab the clippers, turn them sideways (to prevent the toenails from splitting) and clip away.

If you have additional ferrets, repeat steps 2 - 4 as necessary.

Happy ferrets. Happy mommy. Happy Friday, darlings!



Image stolen from Tumblr

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee ~ What I read

Good morning, darlings!

My Kindle has about 100 books on it waiting to be read, and my Amazon wish list has about 100 more. So this morning I thought I would share with ya'all how I find all these books.

Other than the "Amazon recommends" lists, most of the books I buy or add to my wish list come from book review blogs. There's nothing cooler than finding reviewers who seem to like what I like in books. And I really love finding reviewers who DISLIKE the same things as I. They tell me what to avoid. But overall, book reviewers go a long way toward helping me decide what to read.

I'm not saying the review blogs I follow are the same ones everyone should follow - I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love to drive traffic to these particular blogs, mainly because I enjoy each of them - but your taste often won't be my taste.

If you want help choosing your next read, I urge you to find some book blogs. The best way to do this, I think, is to look for positive reviews for a book you really liked, and see if any of those reviews were written by a book blogger. It's at least one way to find reviewer-bloggers with who share your taste in books. Then you can sit back and let them blaze the trail.

Let me tell you - these people amaze me. I love to read, and have been a bookworm all of my life, and I do make an effort to write reviews that I post on Amazon and Goodreads, but I've got nothing on these folks. Even when I love a book, I'm don't always have the ability to communicate what I loved about ir in a coherent way.

Oh, sure, I can WRITE a book - but writing about a book in a critical but positive (because I don't usually take the time to write reviews of books I hate) way leaves me finger-tied (versus tongue-tied). I find myself writing things like, "I really, really liked this book."

So here are the book bloggers that I follow, the people who are to blame for the 100 books waiting on my Kindle:  (I'll be adding icons, buttons, or banner URL's, pending permission from the individual bloggers).

Dear Author - A romance review blog for readers by readers














I Like These Books - Reviews of YA books, multiple genres


Kimba the "caffeinated Book Reviewer" - Where the coffee is always hot and the reviews honest.


Fangs, Wands & Fairy Dust - The paranormal in fiction, film and popular culture considered from an adult POV.

Wicked Li'l Pixie - Reviewing paranormal romance and urban fantasy.

Big Al's Books & Pals - Reviews and more from the world of the Kindle. (Focus on Indie authors)

SM Johnson ~Fuzzy Friday ~ The Cat

Well, huzzah! Happy November 30! I completed NaNoWriMo with 53,711 words! That's a pretty good chunk of the first draft of Three in the Dungeon, isn't it?

I started a Goodreads discussion under my book Out of the Dungeon tonight - asking readers what they'd like to see in book 3. Not like specifics - more like... do you care about Vanessa's point of view at all? Do you want to hang out with Dare and Zach a bit? So if you've read Above the Dungeon and Out of the Dungeon and have thoughts about which characters you'd like featured in book 3, head over to Goodreads, search Out of the Dungeon, and scroll down. Toward the bottom of the page you should see a discusison link. Feel free to join in!

I finally got to personally meet two of the three zoo ferrets. Yay! They are all females, and all fairly squirmy, which I think is pretty normal. They're like, "Hey! Hi! How are you? Okay, I said Hi, now put me down, let me run, let me explore. What? You just want to hold me? Ack, you're no fun!"

Just as an FYI - there is an indoor room where they get to romp and play in the winter, as well as an outdoor play area for that purpose in the summer. And there are particular docents who are attached to the fuzzy ones and make an effort to give them out-of-cage time. I plan to be one of those docents as soon as I'm considered trained enough to be trustworthy - (insert self-deprecating smile here).

I met Aurora, a DEW (dark-eyed-white), and she is the most personable of the three. I also met Lila, a light sable - friendly enough, but dang, girl - you need your claws clipped. My trainer told me Lila's nails are always exceptionally sharp. Perhaps I will check with the keeper and see if she knows the ferretone-nail-clipping trick. The third petite little girl is a sable a tiny bit darker than Lila - named Hazel, and I guess she is the one that cannot resist a little nibble-nibble-chomp action, so she gets handled the least. I didn't hold her or anything yet, but she's definitely on my list of "must work with" animals.

I had some very "bitey" ferrets in my day, and my track record for eradicating that behavior was pretty darn good. In fact, I took in a silver ferret that the owners were going to kill because he bit them down to the bone every chance he got.. and well... he never bit me hard enough to break the skin.

Anyway. I am working on finding a source for ferret pictures, so I can dazzle you with cuteness on Friday. Not having a business of ferrets since the digital camera age has left me with a shortage of photos. So in the mean time...

Let's talk about The Cat. (It's Friday and he's Fuzzy, so I think I can get away with that. Well, actually, it's MY blog, so of course I can get away with it. I can do whatever I want). But I digress...

The Cat came to live with us after the husband noticed a mouse observing him using the toilet. Apparently, this is one of those situations where all witnesses must die or something, because he sure got hell-bent on killing that mouse. (I know, nice, right?) He set traps. He baited traps. He checked traps. He re-baited the empty ones.

He threatened some nonsense about getting glue traps, but I think I mentioned something about if I found a glue trap in this house, the next time my husband saw one it would be attached to his unmentionables. (Yes, I think glue traps are inordinately cruel)

And then he told IzzyG that if she gave the babysitter no trouble while we were on vacation, she could get a cat when we got home.

Dun-dun-dun-dunnnnnnnn.

I have always been allergic to cats, and now a cat sleeps in my bed. Yay. Rah-rah, ain't life grand?

I don't suppose The Cat is much kinder than a glue trap, but I'm not having the whole nature versus glue factory discussion again, so never mind.

The Cat seemed to love us at the shelter. But when we brought him home, it became apparent that he loved the shelter and really just wanted us to pet him a little, then go home without him.

So he was angry and freaked out, and spent a couple of weeks in the closet. He was not at all grateful for being adopted, even though he was the cat that had been at the shelter for the longest amount of time. He was big, and he was orange, and he had claws. We figured he'd survive the dog.

I am, of course, his favorite person in the world, primarily because I am allergic. Oh, and maybe because I feed him most of the time.

What this means is that I quickly learned that The Cat requires me to sleep with one arm outside the covers, palm up, so he can rest his tired little noggin inside my hand. It is very sweet. And not altogether physically comfortable. But we adjust. Because believe me - the CAT is not going to adjust to anything the CAT does not want to adjust to. Got it? Good.

Anyway. What I most wanted to say about The Cat is that he is like a curmudgeonly old bachelor - if things are not exactly to his specifications, he absolutely cannot relax.

If I try to ignore The Cat at, in favor of getting some sleep, say - He will bitch and whine and poke me with his claws, until he drives me bleep-bleep crazy. ... Or the cat will alternatively hide in the closet and make me anxious that his bladder is blocked again and the fix will cost another $600.

The good news is that The Cat has survived the dog. He's also an excellent mouser, a fact that I can attest to because of the three mouse carcasses I found in the bedroom, the one I found in the garage, and numerous others scattered around the driveway on the few occasions that the shady little bugger has managed to sneak outside.

My whole point here is this: You must adjust to The Cat's ways, because The Cat will not adjust to yours. And that's that. Stop arguing. It's a waste of energy.

Happy Friday, darlings, hope you have a great weekend!

PS - stay tuned... photographer Panda Jones has graciously given me permission to share some photos of her ferrets on Fuzzy Friday - and they are beau-oooo-tiful. So come over on Friday and check them out. You can check out Panda Jones on Facebook here, and if you live in the Seattle area maybe even hire her to take YOUR picture. (subliminal whisper... do it do it do it do it...)

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee ~ Stuff I would do

Good morning, and welcome to Thursday Morning Coffee!

Our house has been like the sick bay of an old Star Trek television episode. Actually, I barely remember what the sick bay looks like, so I don't know why I said that except it sounds somewhat more humorous than my actual feelings about the topic.

Because I'm a dunderhead, I stare at IzzyG in groggy-eyed bewilderment in the middle of one sleepless night after another wondering how long this can go on.

The answer is, apparently, FOREVER. Or at least until I remember she has asthma and procure for her a "red zone" inhaler. Duh.

And of course, I get sick, too.

So after 11 (child) and 7 (me) days being sick, we finally visit the Urgent Care center - where she gets a new inhaler - that it turns out she's allergic to - and I get diagnosed with Pink Eye.

Oh, life is grand, isn't it?

At this moment, I am not feeling too bad, except that my ribs are aching and I have a pulled muscle in my shoulder blade region from all my excruciating hours of hacking my lungs out last night. Ugh. It is a dry, very useless, wracking cough that makes me wet myself attractively and nearly pass out from lack of oxygen. Yes, darlings, I will admit to living the life of high glamour.

Despite living in the sick house of near-death-by-upper-respiratory-infection for the past two weeks, I actually managed to hit my NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words - yesterday. Whew. I'm not sure I've ever finished early before.

I will say - it wasn't stressful at all. It was mostly a matter of using my writing time productively - i.e. I only got lost on YouTube once, and I only stalked Anne Rice's FB page once (I'm not even going to tell you what I stumbled upon that involves frozen balloons and male body parts - and you should be grateful).

So I have captured my writer-bug again, and for that, I am grateful.

But on the days that I was quivering at death's door, I had an opportunity to do things that I assume non-writers do on a regular basis: Watch movies and read books.

I watched The Man in the Iron Mask. Twice. Because I love it so much. It has fancy duds. It has loyalty, and code. It has suffering, betrayal, and redemption. And, as a bonus, it has extra-super-melodramatic dialogue that is perfect for the film.

Aramis: When we were young men and we saw injustice, we fought it.

D'Artagnan: Now we know that some problems cannot be solved with a sword.
Athos: And some cannot be solved without one.

~

D'Artagnan: You cannot ask me to betray my king. I have sworn an oath.

Athos: When a king is dishonorable, you are removed from your oath of honor.

D'Artagnan: An oath is an oath precisely because it cannot be removed.

Athos: Why do you follow him, D'Artagnan? Why? What we fought for is greater than king or rank or reward! What do you fight for now?

D'Artagnan: I fight for the belief that every man can be better, even Louis.

~

Athos: What gives you the right to judge me, to play God with the lives of others? Is it because you're so much holier than everyone else?

Aramis: Well yes, there is that. But also because I'm more intelligent than anybody else.

Watch the trailer for more awesome lines from the script. And as an additional treat, the trailer is narrated by the movie voice guy. Or maybe Pablo Franscisco, who does such a great impersonation of movie voice guy that sometimes he gets hired for it.
{{{{Ahhhhh, happy sigh.}}}}}
 Let's see... I also watched Madascar 3 (...afro circus, afro circus, polka dot polka dot polka dot... afro!)

And I ALSO watched, half-heartedly, The Three Stooges.

I mentioned that I read books, right? Oh yes, indeedy, I did.

I read Finding Zach by Rowan Speedwell. It was an angst-filled book, and I was obsessed with it until I finished reading. I'm a sucker for a kidnap story. Here's the blurb:

For five years, Zach Tyler, son of one of the world’s richest software moguls, was held hostage, tortured, and abused. When he is rescued at last from the Venezuelan jungle, he is physically and psychologically shattered, but he slowly begins to rebuild the life he should have had before an innocent kiss sent him into hell. 

His childhood best friend David has lived those years with overwhelming guilt and grief. Every relationship David has tried has fallen apart because of his feelings for a boy he thought dead. When Zach is rescued, David is overjoyed—and then crushed when Zach shuts him out. 

Two years later, David returns home, and he and Zach must come to terms with the rift between them, what they feel for each other, and what their future could hold. But Zach has secrets, and one of them might well destroy their fragile love.

I also read a free preview of Poison Princess by Kresley Cole. I was just as obsessed with this one. Unfortunately, I ran into a glitch. The free preview gave me something like the first 22 chapters - and I, being the dunderhead that I've been lately, didn't realize that it wasn't the whole book. So when I ran out of book abruptly, I was like, "Gah? WTF?" and when I went to Amazon to buy "the rest" of the book, I discovered that Simon and Schuster wanted a WHOPPING $9.99 for "the rest of the story."
Say what? You're going to give me over half the book, and then charge me $10 for the last few chapters? Well, guess what I have to say to Simon and Schuster about that? Fuck you, that's what. You greedy bastards.
I mean, don't get me wrong - the story was unfolding quite nicely, and I was very intrigued with the role of the Tarot, and I loved, loved, loved the Cajun swamp character, Jackson, and his Cajun French and swamp-speak and all... but still.
I generally will not pay more than 5.99 for an ebook, for reasons I've discussed here and here in the past.
Anywhoo. Now I keep an eye on my library and wait.
Let's see... I know there were some other things I read...
Ooh! The Vampire Queen's Servant by Joey W. Hill. I must have found it on sale or something, because I'm pretty sure I would not have paid $7.99 for an unknown author's erotica. But it was actually damn hot. DAMN not. Unfortunately, this is book 1 in a series that actually seems to become more and more expensive - from $9.99 to $12.99 -I mean, I know that well-written pussy-juicing erotica is hard to find - but ack! $12.99 for a kindle file? I don't think so.
But Jacob is hot. And the fact that being submissive is really hard for him is extra hot. I don't know why, I guess I'm just dirty-minded that way.
I also ready Joey W. Hill's Board Resolution - not terribly realistic, kind of a high-fantasy, fuck-for-hours sort of thing - but yeah, that was hot, too.
So I guess I'd recommend Joey W. Hill as an erotica writer - if you're willing to pay the big bucks.
All right, that's all I've got for now. I was going to do a whole list of Holiday things I'd do if I wasn't a writer - like bake Christmas cookies, make ice lanterns, put Christmas lights on the house (I'll be lucky if I even get the tree up before Dec. 20), send out Christmas cards, get my shopping done early...
But I am a writer. Which means I'll be doing the last minute Christmas scramble, as usual.
Have a great weekend, darlings!
~SM

SM Johnson ~Fuzzy Friday~ 5 reasons ferrets are wonderful pets

Welcome to the new Fuzzy Friday topic. Since last time I talked about why ferrets make terrible pets, now I'm going to tell you the rest of the story - some reasons a ferret will steal your heart.

Please note: Videos are from YouTube, I do not own or claim to own them. If you enjoy them, please feel free to like, comment, or subscribe and give praise to the owners, who are not me.

1. Ferrets are crepuscular. Yeah, that's an odd word, isn't it?

WTF is crepuscular, you say? It means that they are most active at dusk and dawn, and content to sleep fourteen to eighteen hours of twenty-four.

It means that ferrets are great pets for people who work and/or go to school. One can get up and let the ferrets out to play while one has coffee and gets ready for the day, then cage them up nice and safe and without one iota of guilt while you go do the daily stuff that you do. Because they'll be pretty happy to snooze until you come home. And when you do come home, they'll be all bouncy and perky and ready to play again. And then when you're ready to go to bed, you can cage them up all safe again, sleep, and repeat.

Even cooler is that for ferrets, the dusk/dawn thing isn't set in stone. I found that my ferrets readily adjusted to my schedule, even when my "dawn" was 10 am, and my "dusk" was midnight.


2. Ferret owners are a little bit nuts. Okay, maybe more than a little bit.

Which means you'll fit right in. They're also really fun people. And here's the thing - remember in the "6 reasons why ferrets make terrible pets" post when I said that ferrets are high maintenance? Oh, I didn't mention that? Well, the parts where I mentioned ferrets are destructive and that many household items are dangerous to ferrets - what I meant was, ferrets are high maintenance.

But AFTER you get the house ferret-proofed and learn how to protect whatever it is of yours that your ferret particularly wants to destroy or steal, and then learn how to protect your particular ferret from whichever ways it continually tries to kill itself in your particular house... it all gets a bit easier. Unless you move or get a new ferret, in which case the ferret proofing things starts all over again.

Like maybe you've had two ferrets for a year or so, and those two ferrets were never, not even once, interested in the toilet or the toilet lid. But then you do this really insane thing, called getting a craving for a new ferrets, and THAT one is obsessed with the toilet and is absolutely determined to push up the lid, climb inside, then get trapped in there and drown. And the new ferret, of course, teaches your old ferrets this new trick, so now every time you lift the lid of the toilet, you're half afraid of finding a drowned fuzzy in there. A new ferret owner will resort to duct tape. An experienced will quickly make a trip to Babies-backwardsR-US or Amazon.com or something like that, and purchase toilet lid locks.

The point is, ferret owners are, even if purely by necessity, very creative-minded and solution-oriented people. Even if they didn't used to be. And they'll never wave their hand in front of their nose and complain that you smell like a weasel.


3. Ferrets are funny.

Really, really funny. They do this adorable movement called the ferret dance, or the weasel war dance. They shake their heads back and forth, mouths open, wiggle their bodies from side to side, and sort of bounce on their toes. Sometimes they make a soft clucking sound, called "dooking." Honestly? They look rather fierce.

After we bought Smokey from the pet store, we brought her back to our motel. When we let her out of the cat carrier, she did this crazy ferret war dance, dancing backward, forward, and sideways until she danced right off the bed. It made me laugh until my sides ached. And yet - I was slightly afraid to pick her up. "Do you think she'll bite?" I asked my husband, feeling a little bit silly that I was a little afraid to touch her. After all, twenty minutes prior, at the pet shop, she'd climbed up my sweater up to my shoulder and nosed through my hair.

My husband knew she was just being energetic, though, and scooped her up off the floor and put her back onto the bed. The next time she danced off the bed, she landed on a hefty bag filled with laundry, and then she danced even more madly.

The next thing she did was wrestle with my husband's pack of smokes until she got it open, and then took off with one and hit it somewhere. And that, my friends, is how Smokey got her name.

Here's a Wiki link to ferret behavior.

Check out this example of the weasel war dance: You'll even see this ferret perform the "speed bump" position a few seconds in, when she lays down flat and rests for a second and a half.





4. Ferrets are entertaining. Really, really entertaining.



A ferret will steal your heart. And your socks. And your shoes. And anything made of rubber. And anything you really don't want them to steal. They are little hoarders, and some of the things they choose to hide are surprising. Mine once hid a potato under the couch - and I'm not even going to mention the smell that helped me to discover it under there. Why is this fun? Well, because when you steal their stuff back, they will frantically work to get it back and hide it away again. Plus sometimes, if an object is too big for them to carry in their mouths, they'll tuck it against their belly and "hump it backwards" to where they need to go. Hysterical.




5. Ferrets are cute. Really, really cute. 

I know, you got distracted by the videos, and then the suggestions or related videos that come up in a grid after you watch one video, and then there's the teaser ribbon down the right hand side of your screen, and suddenly you realize it's been 3 hours since you first started reading this post, and it's past your bed time or you really need to get some work done at work, and geez, SM, thanks for the time suck. Gah!

Aren't they just cute, though? I mean, those furry little faces!

Go, watch more videos. You know you want to.

Have specific questions about ferrets? Leave a question in the comments and I'll turn it into a Fuzzy Friday topic.

Peace out.

~SM

SM Johnson ~Thursday Morning Coffee ~ Thanksgiving!

Happy Thursday - and happy Thanksgiving. I hope ya'all eat good food and please don't forget to take a moment to be thankful for the good things in your life.

If you can spare a few dollars, this is a great time of year to donate to a charity close to your heart. This fall I have donated to NaNoWriMo, and the Lake Superior Zoo, which is my local zoo, that suffered devastating losses from the crazy flooding we had in June. Still on my list this season is to donate some dollars to water.org, to help a village in an impoverished country obtain a clean, accessible water source.

I can't afford to donate big dollar amounts, but I decided I CAN donate a few of the dollars I consider disposable income - dollars I spend on books or music or toys that I buy for IzzyG for no reason other than she's my only daughter and I can afford it. See what I mean? I'm not taking these dollars out of the household budget - although maybe I cook an extra meal at home that week instead of eating out, or visit my library instead of loading my Kindle.

Oh, by the way... Instead of a coffee cup this week, I'm showing you a picture of me with my (so far) favorite snake. (Nice segue hmm? What do you think?)

Why yes, I do have a favorite snake. He is a ball python named Damien, and he can be seen at the Lake Superior Zoo. Damien is 23 years old, which is somewhat average for a captive ball python, and he's been an education animal at the zoo for many years.

Last Sunday while volunteering at the zoo, a thirty-something woman touched Damien. She has always been  afraid of snakes, and said she'd never touched a snake in her life. It made me feel good, and from what I could tell, she felt GREAT. That is one of the most fun things about being a zoo docent - offering people positive animal experiences that they might otherwise not have. Several weeks ago, it was a man in his fifties who was convinced to touch a snake for the first time. Again, that snake was Damien. He's a very docile snake, calm and sweet, and very used to being handled by trained docents.

In this next picture, Damien was quite interested in exploring my face. My daughter took the picture just as I was readjusting my hold. See my hand in the foreground? I was lifting it to move Damien's head away from my face. Because although I adore Damien, and I was not afraid that he would bite me, proper zoo handling is to keep the animal's head away from my face, and the faces of visitors. It's just safer that way. To quote a experienced docent, an animal's back has never bitten anyone.

An interesting thing about snakes... when you're holding them, they don't ever really stop moving. Even if they're moving slowly, they're still moving, and you have to readjust your arms quite frequently. And Damien is heavy - a half an hour holding him is long enough. Probably long enough for him, as well, because by the end of a half hour, a coil of his boy was locked so tightly around my wrist that I was unable to slide my hand free (he was very likely sucking up my body heat). But Damien's so cool that I just set him and my arm into his exhibit, and he released me to go find his favorite corner.

How does a docent convince someone to touch a snake for the first time? Well. It's not that hard. I just tell them exactly what Damien's skin feels like - a shiny basketball. Or a basketball that's been wiped with armor-all - you know, that weird stuff you clean the inside of your car with? Yeah, that. Snakes are shiny, not slimy. People are often surprised about that. They also (well, Damien, at least) don't slither or slide so much as move with a series of muscle contractions, or at least that's what it feels like when holding one coiled around one's arms.

Next segue...

I feel fairly confident that I will make the NaNo goal of 50,000 words in November. Yay! I am really happy, because it's been a really no-go autumn for writing - as you all know by the lack of content on the blog - but the best part is that it really hasn't been a huge struggle. The main reason I decided to attempt NaNo this year was because I knew my story muscles needed some working out. Dungeon 3 is shaping up nicely - and generally when I sit down to write, either at the computer or with a pen and paper - the words flow as if I'm channeling a tale that's just been sitting there waiting for me to sit still long enough to tune into the station.

This is an awesome feeling, and one that I forget so easily. The more you write, the more you have to write.

I know this. But then I forget.

Now that I've proven to myself that if I "show up" (words of Stephen King, I'm pretty sure) the words will be there, I'm thinking I need to set my monthly goals a bit higher - say, somewhere around ten thousand words a week. I've already set a goal to publish Dungeon 3 before the end of Febraury 2013, so not only am I going to set a weekly word count goal, I'm also going to set a 3 months from draft to published work goal. And out of that, a goal of 3 - 4 books per year.

As for the blog... well, I'm not sure what kind of content format I'm going to try next, but I'll definitely be here regularly. Thursday Morning Coffee will continue to be random chattiness without promised rhyme or reason. I'm going to keep on with Fuzzy Friday's Ferret posts for a while, just because I love those critters the best. And, of course, I shall be resuming the serial, A Year of Sundays and continuing it until the draft is complete. I would also like to continue to comment on pop culture, and introduce a series - maybe monthly - on Mindfulness, and living in the moment. Yeah, I know - sort of an eclectic mix. I would like to be quirky and cool, but I'm afraid I just tend to be random and weird. And not even random in a cool way.

But it's okay, because I'm good enough, and I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. Well, at least they pretend to.

Have a great Thursday, darlings!

And come visit me on Friday to read my 6 reasons ferrets make awesome pets.

~SM

SM Johnson ~ naughty excerpt from NaNoWriMo

How about an excerpt from Dungeon 3? Still need a title. Hmm... Three in the Dungeon... ?

I titled these books a bit awkwardly, didn't I? Guess that one's all on me. Drat.
Ahem. Anyway. I said naughty excerpt, right?
The following is a rough, raw draft. So forgive me in advance. Rated ADULT. Contains sexual situations involving men. 
They arrived considerably early, and once they were seated, Roman sprang his command on Jason.
"Jason. I want you to slide off your chair and stay under the table. As if you weren't even here."
Jason flashed Roman one of his cute, shocked looks, and asked, "Are you serious?"
Jeff, sitting there at the table, caught his breath, held it, his eyes on Roman, his mind taking him back to a time when he'd be the one so ordered. And when he could breathe again, Jeff said, "I don't think he's kidding."
And Jason tried to form more words, but Roman directed a glare in his direction, and Jason took a sip of his water, swallowed it with some difficulty, and then he did exactly what Roman ordered, and Roman felt Jason's warmth leaning against his shins, and though he maybe even felt Jason trembling.
Jeff grinned across the table at Roman and said, "Damn, you are such an evil bastard."
And Roman grinned back, and said, "Yeah, but you know he likes it."
Then they chatted about whatever – the baby, Jeff's latest book, how the construction was coming along – until the host brought Roman's potential clients to the table. And when the waitress came to take their drink orders, she paused, and visibly counted the people at the table, and then asked, "Wasn't there one more?"
Roman threw her a wink and said, "There was, but he had slip out of sight and take care of some things."
The waitress felt the power of the wink, and Roman could tell she wished she understood what, exactly, the joke was.
Maybe Roman would let her in on it, later.
He could still feel Jason, against his legs, a hand clammy with nerves sliding up Roman's pant leg to caress the back of his calf.
The four of them sipped their drinks, and talked for a little while about nothing, until the waitress came to take their meal orders.
Over salad and miniature loaves of warm bread, Roman slipped his hand under the table cloth and stroked Jason's hair, then pulled Jason's face tight into his crotch, and pressed forward with his hips, trying to send Jason a message.
But Jason must have been so filled with apprehension, that although he might have received the message loud and clear, couldn't believe Roman meant him to do such a thing.
Roman asked the woman, "What, exactly, are you looking for? An experience with me? A play date in which I take control of you, while your husband watches?"
The woman blushed, and her response was somewhat stammered, as she tried to explain what she wanted. "Well. I… well. Yeah, I think so. But I'd like my husband to learn how to do that."
Roman gestured with the fork in his hand, to distract anyone from noticing that his other hand was still under the table, deftly unbuttoning his pants to give Jason a nudge in the right direction. "You want me to dominate you, and through visual aid, so to speak, teach him how to be dominant?"
"Yeah," she answered, relief on her face. "That pretty much covers it."
Roman nodded, but he was really be thinking how lame that would be. "The thing is, it's not fun if it's too choreographed, you know? If it's scripted. I think you should hire me for a night – with the understanding that I would dominate both of you. I mean, if you want your husband to learn dominance, then he really needs to experience submission."
He almost sighed out loud as Jason's hands made quick work of the zipper and he felt his cock spring free. And it was only a second later that he felt Jason's lips close around him.
"I'm really not submissive," the husband said, and Roman almost laughed. All the husbands tried to say that, but he was here, wasn't he, and surely it wasn't his own idea.
"Really? Then you're as interested in hiring me as your wife is?"
"Um. Well. Not really," the man said.
Roman tried to offer a sympathetic smile. "This stuff is weird, I know. Even as much as it's fascinating, it's ultimately really weird. Especially until and unless you make it a regular part of your life. But it will give you a hard on like…" he blew a warm, stuttered breath out through puffed cheeks, ostensibly to demonstrate, but in truth because he had to, because Jason's mouth was doing something stellar to his prick under the table. "… like no other. I promise."
Roman turned his eyes to Jeff, trying to communicate what Jason was up to, and Jeff wiggled in his chair. Roman let his eyes widen, and saw Jeff's widen, as well, and knew Jeff was imagining, probably with great accuracy, what Jason was doing, maybe even remembering the feel of Roman's cock in his own mouth.
Roman felt like the most powerful man in the world at that moment.
"Jeff lived as my slave for quite a few years. I brought him as my reference, to tell you first hand that I'm honest, that I won't hurt either of you – well, not in any way that you don't want – and that I'm safe."
The man said, "I thought you were bringing two references," and he raised his eyebrows as if to imply that Roman's word was already suspect.
"Oh, I did," Roman said. "The other one is under the table with his mouth on my cock."
As if in coordination to the married man's shock, Jason reacted with some shock of his own, and Roman's announcement was punctuated by the crack of Jason's head against the tabletop.
Roman grinned.
Jeff rolled his eyes and laughed a little bit.
The wife blushed.
The husband's facial expression was frozen. Still shocked.
"Look at me," Roman said to the man, and when the husband met his eyes, Roman added, "don't break eye contact. I think you're extremely nervous that I might ask you to do something sexual with me. So, to allay your nerves, I'll ask it right now. I want you to look into my eyes as I come."
Without looking away from the husband, Roman tapped his fingers on the top of the table, and said, very quietly. "Step it up, boy. Take me all the way."
He let the husband see the arousal in his eyes, felt his pupils flare as the world fell away and all he was aware of was the husband's steady eye contact and Jason's mouth on his dick. He felt his lips part, and his breath quicken, and…