The Zaftig Chronicles

There are a lot of things I enjoy late: Sleeping in late, being fashionably late, late for work (well sometimes).  However, there is one thing I hate to be late for -- at least at this time in my life -- and that's the proverbial aunt Flo. As dreadful as a visit from her may be, she is a welcoming reminder that my choice for birth control is fucking working. Sure she brings cramps and the occasional bitchiness, but she only stays a few days, unleashes her wrath for my not giving her any nieces and nephews to babysit, and departs, threatening to stay on my ass for at least another thirty years. Flo was expected to visit around Monday, but it's now Wednesday and she has yet to show her pretty little red-head. She's rarely late. I can't help but wonder -- IF SHE WILL EVER SHOW! Okay, the above paragraph was cute and metaphorical, but trust me, I am not taking this thing too lightly. I have to be cute right now in order to take the seriousness out of the situation; for my

Home at last! I love being with family this time of year, but coming to the home I've made for myself is the best thing in the world. I don't care that I have to unpack or that I have to pay bills or make an appointment with the dentist or even that I have to clean my apartment. I look forward to doing these things, because it's me; it's what I do. So while I enjoy spending time with aunts, uncles, and yes...even cousins and eating the food of my childhood, it's still doesn't compare to the feeling of turning the key in your own door and flicking on the lights you pay for every month.  Jan was miserable. He missed Henry terribly, and since Henry is not out to his family, Jan didn't get to invite Henry's family to their home, where he swears he can set a table that would make Martha Stewart cry. I know this is true because I've seen Jan at his best when it comes to making things all pretty. So in the hotel room, Jan unloaded his transferred-from-VHS-t

I can't imagine spending the holidays without my family or without having turkey, mashed potatoes, and roasted pears.   But people like Diana can chuck the family thing and serve Chinese food for Thanksgiving. "Kung Pao chicken is a perfectly fine substitute for dry turkey," she said last year. "While you're fighting with your cousins over who has a better life, I'm spooning extra peanuts on my plate." It's true: my cousins and I have issues, but a cozy New England dinner makes up for everything. The smells alone permeating the air is almost enough.  I'm thankful to receive big hugs from women who smell like perfume and stuffing.  I'm thankful for the chance to pry the wine bottle from my grandfather's hand when he stutters and starts the conspiracy theories. I'm thankful that I will have Jan with me.  I'm thankful that I don't have to eat Chinese food alone or even make Thanksgiving dinner.  I'm thankful I can afford to g

So where did I leave off? Oh, yeah, the whole squirting thing. Turns out I'm the first woman he's ever been with who could do that. He had lots of questions -- "What does it feel like? Does it feel like a regular orgasm? How'd you first know you could do that?"  I answered respectively: "It feels amazing. It's almost hard to describe but the best way I can describe it is releasing of pressure. It feels like I'm releasing pressure in my vagina. It feels like I have to urinate at first, but then it heightens to a sexual feeling, and all I want to do is push "A regular orgasm feels more like contractions, squirting feels more like pressure. Squirting is more intense, but on a different level -- the intensity is in the release. When I push out, the release is what feels so effing good. It's all about the release. When I have a regular orgasm (clitoral), I can feel it all over my body. It's a lovely feeling. More romantic, sensual. Squirting f

We finally had sex. Real sex. The kind that leaves you sleepy, exhausted, and tingly throughout the night. I showed up to his apartment, carrying Elexa freshening cloths and condoms. I came ready to go on an adventure, the adventure he promised me.  An adventure it was.    The sex lasted hours. We started at 7 P.M., and ended (by falling asleep in front of his fire place) at around midnight. He tapped into every sexual zone -- toe sucking, massage, and even restraining me while he had his way with me (really loved that!). I was thoroughly orgasmed! Absolutely NO NEED to frake .  He was fascinated by my ability to squirt. He even stopped mid-thrust to examine the liquid. "It's not pee," I said. He looked at me as though I'd insulted him. "I don't care if it is. What does it feel like?" I urged him to continue thrusting and I would describe the process as it happens.  But you'll have to wait to read the rest, I've got a ton of laundry to do. I j

All he asked for was a simple blow job, and I blew it. He asked me to do one simple job, and I blew it. Literally! I'm on my knees, bobbing on his hardness; my mouth feels like it's ready to have an orgasm. I'm moaning and going to town, it's feeling better to me than it's probably feeling to him.  Then a knock on my office door: "Zaftig, are you sick?" *Paula* asked.  PANIC.  PANIC!  Shuffling quickly, pants zipping, shirt tucking, mouth wiping. "I'm fine, my stomach's a little queasy."  He looked so deflated. "Well, you blew that."  "Meaning the job?" I asked. "You can't be quiet? I'm quiet when I blow you."  "First of all, we shouldn't be doing this at work."  He shushed me. "You blew the job, embrace it." I embraced it. But I missed a deadline for a report I was doing; so technically, I blew two jobs today.

While still on this whole sensibility thing, I headed to Menard's, and purchased a sunflower shower head. It's truly beautiful and sensible. I've already tested it out with some sudsy raspberry sorbet body wash . It was like taking a shower under a waterfall.  What's so sensible about purchasing an oversized shower head, you ask? Well, it's sensible to take care of myself and to make myself feel good. And you know I love me some shower . So investing in a beautiful shower head is truly a sensible thing.  I like this sensibility stuff.   In other news: I'm taking Jan to New Hampshire for Thanksgiving. New Hampshire is where my maternal grandparents live, and where I have spent all my Thanksgivings since birth. Jan's excited -- he wants to make meatballs and some dumplings. I'm sure the family is looking forward to munching on something other than the traditional offerings.  I've already booked the tickets. Besides, I need someone to help me make fun

I decided that going grocery shopping was more important than buying a pair of shoes. I'm being sensible. Because, really, it's the right thing to do.  Having a fridge with nothing inside of it but a sip of orange juice and a two eggs is not sensible. Time is my issue -- I end up spending my free time shopping for shoes and products ; when it's time to shop for sustenance, I have to rush into Jewel's, grab orange juice, candy, and a few boxes of Healthy Choice to feel like I haven't totally neglected things. That's groceries for me lately.  I need good imported olive oil, garlic bulbs, red onions, fresh basil, and firm beefsteak tomatoes. I need pasta in many shapes; broccoli that I can roast with kosher salt and olive oil; I need lemons and avocados and pears. I need cheeses and cream to make casseroles. I need ground beef to make homemade Salisbury steaks. Italian breadcrumbs. I need potatoes to roast or mash. I need to open my fridge and see color. "A fr

So I've downloaded the song  The Way We Were . It's currently on replay, and it's really turning me into an emotional wreck. I need to stop listening to this song.  I'm literally turning into myself, and thinking about how lonely I feel. I think I want someone to come into my office and give me a long hug and make me feel safe. Someone? Okay, I want Steven to do the honors...even if he has to limp in to do so.  I've got a major meeting at 3:30, and I don't need to be in this state! I want to run over to the noodle shop and get some spicy broccoli lo mein, because that's the only thing my mouth wants. My tongue wants to play with the texture of the noodles.  So it's the laughter - We will remember,... I'm refusing to let myself have memories, because then I'd have to be admitted somewhere for having a breakdown.  Fuck, this song is painful. I have to stop .  Must get control.  Oh, hell just one more play.

You should have seen me: a complete wreck: crying, mascara running, tissues flooding the floor of my bedroom. I was in my work clothes, ready to start the day, when I made the mistake of hitting the On Demand button and realizing that The Way We Were was a choice.  I chose.  I chose!  I watched. I cried. I longed. I worshiped. I learned. It was my first time seeing the movie, and it was worth going in late to work. Do yourself a favor, watch the film. It was Sex and City before Sex and the City .

Who struts down an uneven street in stiletto heels, during her lunch break, carrying a bag of fresh kettle corn, hot chocolate, and today's paper to a man who'd just informed her that he hasn't showered in three days?  Hmm. If you guessed me, then you're wrong.  Try Diana . "He's starting to piss me off," she shouted over the phone this afternoon.  "Okay, forget your emotions, you had kettle corn and hot chocolate?" I asked. "What's with French men? They think women are at their fucking disposal." "What's wrong with bringing your man some goodies?"  "Nothing! But If I bring him goodies, he better give me some fucking goodies, too." "And that would be?"   A long silence...  "A shopping spree at Nordstrom or at least good head. Definitely not his stinky ass lying in a hotel room, speaking French to who knows who on his cellular, and motioning for me to put everything on the coffee table. What am

I just got home. I spent most of the night in the emergency room.  Don't worry, it's not me who got hurt. Actually, it's Steven. He sprained his ankle. His foot missed the curb, and down he went. "Oh, I'm down," was his first response. He sounded so cute. I promptly made fun of him: "I'm wearing four inch heels and you can't even get over a little curb in flats?" He kindly informed me that men DO NOT refer to their shoes as flats, and then he grabbed his ankle.  Uh-Oh. He tried to get up and start walking, but the wince he made let me know that he needed to head to the ER. So I drove him. Once we were inside and he filled out the necessary paperwork, he made me promise to stay with him. "Stop being a baby," I said, "it's just a little sprain."  I stayed. He was discharged around midnight, and I had the pleasure of helping him into his condo. (Thank God for doormen). It was a sight: a 5'6" woman hauling a 6'

I'm meeting Steven for a late lunch. He wants to discuss "where things between us are heading." I thought I could answer his question by reminding him of our most recent encounter . Basically, a sexual relationship. I know at least that could work. Honestly, I'm afraid of going any further than that.  I want to, but I'm not sure I can deal with a relationship with someone I work with. A person who I'd see every day, 9:30-5:30 and then more . There would be awkward moments, knowing looks, and I'd have to make sure to wear pretty underwear all the time, because I'd never know when he will want a quickie before the 10:15 meeting. Oy . Are these silly reasons? Of course they are . All excuses are silly. Still, I'm back at that whole instincts thing . My instincts tell me, and loudly, THIS WON'T WORK! But he wants this to materialize beyond giving me head and one stroke fucks. He says he wants to wash my hair and rub expensive cream on my legs. &quo

Yesterday, I took the train to work, and on my way there, my handbag was not zipped up and spilled out onto the train's floor. Pantyliners, gum, hairspray, lipstick, and hand cream littered the gross rubbery floor. "Oh, God!" I shouted, embarrassed. A barrage of friendly strangers proceeded to help me pick up pieces of my daily life. "Thank you, thank you," was on the turntable. It was strange because I felt like mere thank yous weren't enough. This kind act by people who I don't know from Adam overwhelmed me. If one of them had asked for a kidney at that moment, I might have considered it. Seriously. When I got to work, I thought about how people seem to be much nicer to strangers than to the people we know and love. I know the whole pay it forward thing is an ideal way to lead your life, but it should also apply to our loved ones. We don't pay it forward enough to the people who count. I don't do it enough. So on my way home, I gave up my seat

This time of year I start revealing things to myself. Things like how I am ready to begin a new relationship or how I need to make home for myself.  I need more bubble baths and less showers.  I need aromatherapy candles and cinnamon in my cupboard. I need to boil nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon this Thanksgiving to remind me of my childhood Thanksgivings.  I need more hugs and kisses and less inanimate objects that stare back at me coldly. I need more discovery and less surprises. Does that make sense? I wanted roasted pears last night because they remind me of holidays spent with loved ones who smile warmly and share vintage stories that make me laugh and cry simultaneously. I didn't make them because the whole balsamic thing scares me (I'm not good at reducing, ha). Instead, I dug through icky, sticky taffy candy left from the Halloween party. Candy for dinner? It ain't home.  Last night I wanted home: roasted pears; cheddar mashed potatoes; Jean Nate shower gel, bubble g