The Tongue is Mightier Than the Pen  

The Tongue is Mightier Than the Pen  
 
     We are at “Where Ya At Pizzeria” where New Orleans sophistication turns countrified. Jane says, “Folks, I’m exhausted and need my rest. John, I have something to talk to you about. Let’s go home.”  
     Brandy says, “Is everything ok between you two? I hope my gabbing didn’t wear you out.”
     Jane kisses Brandy on her cheek. “No worries my friend. Someday I’ll tell you about the squirrel in our attic. It took weeks for him to leave, drove me crazy. But we’ll save that for another time.”
     Brandy tells Jane, “Don’t work him too hard when he cleans the attic. That squirrel might show up and make him wet his pants. More work for you.”
     Jane says to Brandy, “You are our comedian. What would we do without you?”
     Jane takes my hand and leads me out of the restaurant.
     I say, “Brandy can talk your ear off. Just how many times can I listen to her story about how the hedgehog ruined her yard?”
     Jane walks with me to our car and pokes me. “Brandy was cute, wasn’t she? Do you realize you were looking at Brandy more than me? I think your complaining about Brandy’s mouth is a diversion.” Our party disbands into separate cars to rev our engines out into the night.
      “Come on darling. She just brought back memories of a girl I knew in my youth. I was reminiscing that is all.”
     “Let’s be quiet. I need to process this.” Ours is an uneasy silence.   
     Once we get back to our house and open the door, Jane escorts me down the hall and ushers me into the living room. “Now follow me and I’ll sit on the couch. Why don’t you sit on the chair?”
     “Honey, you can’t hold it against me that my baby blues wander into forbidden places. That’s called being a man.”
     “What if our friend Brandy came over to visit and you got turned on? A man can’t hide that in those tight jeans. Imagine my embarrassment. Of course, she wouldn’t say anything, but I would be mortified, as should you. In a staring contest, Brandy the Medusa would turn your Cyclops to stone.” She smiles and draws lazy circles on my chest.
     “You know me better than I know myself.”
      “As much as my sex has been treated with condescension, there are times when I’m glad I’m a woman.”
     “Your feminism is the sugar in my tea.”
     “Good ole iced tea coming up, with a twist of lemon for that tangy flavor you love. You like your women tart just like your Lipton I do declare.”
     “The sugar in your tea sets even the ice on fire,” I say.
     “Oh John, it is my soft side which endears you to me. Tell me do you have a bucket list? You are a big healthy hunk of a man. But your cholesterol is through the roof. Your EKGs are normal, thankfully, but is there anything you really desire? We can’t go on vacation because of our student loans. Yet I’ll do anything you want. Just ask me.”  
     “I can’t ask you to do it.”  
     “John, it’s me your wife! You can ask me to do anything.”
     “But would you feel comfortable doing it?”
     “Do I have to use sexual interrogation on you?  You’re hiding something.”
     “Oh honey, every man has dreams. You’re probably feeling that from me.”
     She replies, “As a representative of my sex, it shall be my labor of love to extend the courtesy to men which they have so generously bestowed on women for centuries. It will be my privilege to open doors for you so that you may precede me.”
     “I grew up opening doors for women. But I am open to role reversal and not just with the door opening.”
     “Oh, you tease. You want to role play in bed. Don’t you? You want me to be dominant for a change. Well, I’d love too! Why didn’t you ask before? I’ve never felt this liberated before.”
     “I guess I didn’t know how you’d take it. But now your man is feeling beside himself with joy.”
      “Actually I feel empowered by the prospect of taking a dominant role with you. We’ve hardly talked about my needs as a woman. This has been on my mind a lot lately. Turning the tables would be good for both of us.”
     “You know getting a playful spanking gives an endorphin release similar to aerobic exercise which is good for my cardiovascular system,” I proclaim.  
    “Well, then I shall administer them to you for the sake of your health. But they shall be accompanied by my words to reinforce certain lessons I have I mind for you, such as Thou shalt not eat donuts behind my back. Fast food is only permitted once a month under my supervision to assure that you don’t overdo it. Think of it as a teaching exercise where the stick is my hand which in turn becomes the carrot one and the same in a Zen way.”
     “Your tongue is mightier than the pen. The persuasion a scholar accomplishes with an essay pales in comparison to the compulsion of a wife’s words,” I say.
     “The key to a dominatrix session is that the domme calls the shots. If it was up to you then it wouldn’t really be putting me in charge. So my first order of business is not to let you die of arteriosclerosis. I’ll stuff you so full of antioxidants and healthy foods you’ll live to be over a hundred. I can bring home tofu and sauté it up in a wok, but you’re the man of the house,” she says with a smile.
     The next morning finds us dining on toast and jam at the kitchen table. “Well, you’re due for derriere therapy.”
     “Honey, if my heart kicks while making love to you I’ll consider myself a lucky man.”
     “Such defeatist talk makes Mistress Jane very mad.” She says, “Just this once John, trust me. Now lay across my lap.” I comply and she strokes my hair with tender compassion.
     Her hands feel like heaven on my supple derriere as she kneads my hunger. I arch against the urgency of her touch. She pats my twin moons. With a finger, she strokes my tush cleft until I am as still as a butterfly sunning on a leaf.
     She commands, “Stay still.”
     Suddenly her hands fall like warm milk upon my tush until I breathe to the rhythm. The mere rub of her priestess’ hands turns my derriere into summer heat with only a light slap and tickle. Bliss finds its voice in my breath chant. Her hands upon me are hot ice and magical sizzling snow.
     We sit back on the couch with her head nestled in the crook of my shoulder. She asks me, “What was it like?”
     I reply, “It was like dropping acid at a Grateful Dead concert.”
     She says, “Well I don’t have any LSD on hand, but for being a good boy by taking your licks you get a pint of Cherry Garcia.”
     “Nothing tops your touch, not even ice cream,” I say with puppy eyes.
     “I can see how much you enjoyed it. Gawd, your dong is the size of a Baboon’s. I’ll just tuck that back into your undies. Are we comfy? We’ll pull up those bottoms for good measure.” I nod.
     “A shower is in order,” I say and she leads me towards the bathroom off from our master bedroom. Inside, we strip off our clothes and get into the shower. She scrubs my blushing bottom with a sponge.
     “Would you like some aloe lotion on your behind? Hold on to that chair. Over there by the sink and bring it in. Bend over sweetie. Now I’m going to stand behind you. Stick your butt out. You probably had in mind something with a bit more of a sting. Sorry but the love pats were all I could muster.”  
     “You made me feel eighteen again.”
     “Me too! Being a guerrilla fetishist is my calling in life. I haven’t had this much fun since scaring off a purse snatcher by chanting, ‘redrum redrum.’”