Music to Mate to

There is some that sets my feet to tap;

A beating bass or drum.

Very little kind of rap –

That really turns my tum.

Some send shivers down my spine,

My loins become a-quiver,

Those melodies that flow in time

Submerge me in their river

Of sensuous mood and poetry,

In sexual voice so clear,

Move heart and mind and soul in me

When loving one is near.

Caressing words stroke down my back,

Their meaning true and fluid,

No fantasies are found to lack,

Imaginations are imbued.

Floating in a sea of love

And lust, for some good measure,

Fingers light as any dove

Seeking others’ pleasure.

Melted in the moment of

Melifluous fantasy,

Music with the one I love

Does wondrous things for me.

 

 

Or is that too much information?

Verbosity.

Is that even a word? Of course it is. I checked it. You don’t seriously think I would use a word that was made up by me?

Definition

I paraphrase.

One who finds it difficult to get to the point without describing everything.

Example:

I met a woman down the street today who was pushing a pram. It was a lovely pram; full of beautiful colours and challenging activities for her offspring.

OK. Maybe not that, exactly. But you get the idea.

For some reason, my husband is not interested in the particulars of a case but insists on knowing the point immediately. As in, ‘What’s the point to this story?’

It pisses me off big time.

OK. I’ve got a boring story to tell. Please let me embellish it so that it sounds as if I have a life.   

Is this a man thing?

Or, maybe, ‘Oh God, I’m boring the arse off the world,’ kinda thing?’

Most women I know like to embellish the finer points of a story and do so in an entertaining and self-effacing sort of way.

They make the boring sound entertaining because they observe the details.

Unfortunately, a lot of men do not appreciate the finer details.

‘Get to the bloody point, woman,’ is what they’re really thinking.

I am horrified at this idea. The very notion that a story worth telling is stunted in its prime.

Except for one teensy, tinsy observation.

I have listened to and continue to listen to, ‘stories from school’, and, let’s face it, if there was ever anything created that was destined to drive you to distraction and bore you to death is the story of, ‘She said’, ‘I said’, ‘She did’ and ‘I did back’.

That aside, you can usually pass muster with your kids. ‘Oh, did she? That’s awful. What did you say?’

Slightly different story going on here with your nearest and dearest.

So, OK, darling , I’m sorry that the point of all my stories is lost in the minutiae. But, I’ve been here all day wiping the crap off of shitty knickers and trying to come up with a menu that suits everyone, so forgive me if I can’t just ‘get to the friggin’ point’. I’m trying to have a conversation here.  Made up, for your information, of all the drips that go into making the drops of life. I beg your pardon for not holding your attention in some riveting account of the day in the life of….. well, you get the idea.

I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

This, by the way, is a very profound observation.

I repeat, I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

As opposed to?

Sometimes, I don’t know.