Hot Girl-on-Girl Action

So I found the tap, but I couldn’t see the bottom of the well of horniness. (And man, was it dark down there!) The hormones hit me like a waterfall, but it wasn’t really an overnight sensation. I couldn’t pretend I was living without a body for four years.

On the YWBB I have recently heard the term, “skin hunger.” Maybe it’s a natural part of attachment parenting; at any rate it is biological and it works. (Did you know that sandbox and bathtub are in the "sensual play" category?) My daughter and I were on each other all the time, it seemed, day and night. It was one thing that comforted us.

We had finally weaned a few months after Gavin died, when I tried to recreate Gavin and his mother’s autumn beach vacation without him. Most of the trip was a mess, except my ugly scheme worked: My mother kept Short Stack in her room for three consecutive sleepovers. Back home on the fourth morning my little one begged me for "booboo" and met repeated sad but firm refusals.

Enraged, my girl clenched her body up and shook a tiny finger at me: “You! Poop!! Mommy, you POOP!” A bit shocked, I thought, “Huh! That’s a new word.”

At around a year after our loss we had adjusted, night by night, to sleeping in separate beds, in our own rooms. My own room… what a weird idea. I was moving toward “single.” (And the bed was a “full.” All the goddamn words were wrong!)

But there was still a ton of touching between my daughter and me. As the only two who were always there for each other, I was her cuddler, horseplayer, wrestler; arm grabber, fork holder, holy lap. She was still very interested in my bosom; I was fondled multiple times every day, sometimes in public. I had a girl jumping on me, treating me as a slide, a swing, and a jungle gym.

The action satisfied my girl, but did nothing for my needs (except for the occasional hour when it allowed me to remain horizontal).

And I cherished endless sweet little kisses and loving hugs among the bruises and tossing. A favorite memory of this time is the morning when Short Stack, waking, pulled my hair back from my face and said, gazing with tilted face, “Mommy, you tow pooty!!!”

So while the onslaught of adult feelings seemed to come out of nowhere, I couldn’t have lived so long without some strokes. It would have killed me, I felt. And one thing I knew was that I did not want another death happening anywhere near me.

After all, isn’t it Eros* that gives life?


* I know it is cheap to cite Wikipedia but these first two paragraphs contain such wonderful detail that tells so many other stories about death, sex, and creation that, while I can’t justify writing poetry for this present context, I also can’t stand to leave these roots out entirely. [Can I just pay some kind of “bad blogging” fine and go home now?]


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