Musings in the Dark: January 2011


Selfish Bitch? I Don’t Think So!

This is an amended reply to a discussion thread on

When asked if I have children, my answer is, “I don’t want to have kids.”  Typically, the response to my response is, “You’ll change your mind.”

Let me be clear about this:  I have no desire to be a mother. I love the freedom of being single and kid-free. I love being able to do anything and everything I want without having to put others first. I love being free I have done my part and served my time caring for others and I do not feel that I have to devote the rest of my life (and any parent who tells you that you only have to put 18 years into raising a child is full of shit) to taking care of anyone else other than me. I don't give a fuck how that makes me sound.  Plenty of people—women, usually—will call me selfish for my refusal to reproduce.  I don’t think so.  I call it being responsible.

The people who are quick to tell me that I'll change my mind, or that a "good man" will make me want a family, are typically mothers who are unhappy and regret having children. The whole subtext about the "good man" changing my mind annoys the shit out of me. Like he matters in the grand scheme of things. Fatherhood isn't motherhood, and there ain’t a man alive who can talk me into carrying a child and going through hours of grueling labor while his ass sits back and waits for the result. Fuck that.

I happen to believe that women who know themselves and live their lives on their own terms scares other women. Perhaps it's because we find our security in other places and not in the anchor of motherhood.  That having kids isn't the pretty the media makes it out to be. From my viewpoint, motherhood is a messy, expensive, tiresome and thankless job.  I’m sure a lot of women will disagree with this assessment and call me selfish for not wanting to extend myself in that direction.  But I don’t think so.  I call it a smart decision.

A lot of the ladies I know who are mothers have lost their womanhood in the midst of motherhood. It's like they've forgotten that they were women first. They're scared to acknowledge it because they're afraid others may believe that they aren't good mothers. Some think that they'll become women again when the kids are grown. But as I've always been told, "if you don't use it, you'll lose it." Now that scares me.  When it comes to retaining my womanhood, you best believe I’m selfish.

I don't want to be a mother and I won't change my mind about it. Every woman is not meant to become a parent, and this world would be a far better place if they realize it. It pisses me off when other women try to force that shoe on my foot, as if they think I’m not an adult and can’t make my own decisions.  As if I don’t know what I want.  I ought to know that better than anybody.  


Female Necessities


What five items are absolutely essential components of your wardrobe?  These should be items that are always in your closet or on your vanity.  Are there one or two items that are the same across the board for all women?  Or is each list singular and unique?

Here’s my list:
1.       1. Hoop earrings.  I try not to leave the house without them, and if I do, I keep extra in my purse, in the car and in my desk drawer at work. 
     2.  Eye makeup.  My eyes are my best feature, and so I want to emphasize them as much as possible.  Black matte with plum and silver accents is my favorite look.
    3. Blue jeans.  A good pair of jeans can be worn with anything.
    4. Black suit.  Need I say more?
    5. Good pair of black shoes (heels, for me).

What’s your list?  Share it with me!


Teaser: "Sheila & K'avir"

The first time K’avir Velimir laid eyes on Sheila Stephens was shortly after her unplanned arrival on board the starship Vega.  The starship had just left SPACEnter Arcturus-12 on the planet Canutus and Sheila was in the mess hall, picking at a plate of food.  The ship’s chief medical officer, Richard Keller, sat in front of her, eating and talking animatedly.  Sheila was clearly not interested in conversing with the doctor and she looked very sad.
            Prince Hasani was in the mess hall, wooing a willing lieutenant from Engineering.  K’avir stood about four feet away, his back against a bulkhead, ever vigilant but his eyes on the beautiful woman across the room.  Sheila’s emotions were powerful: hurt, anger, pain, disgust, and shock and they rolled off her in waves.  K’avir studied her, taking in every detail of her appearance.  She was tall and her skin was the color of the bronze sand beaches near his home on Alvelar.  She had large, deep-set brown eyes and a shapely mouth with a full lower lip.  Her hair was fascinating; she wore it secured against her head and the strands were thick and twisted.  K’avir wanted to see what her hair looked like when it was loose.  He thought Sheila was easily the most beautiful woman on board the Vega, and Captain Matheson was not a man who recruited unattractive females to serve on board his starship.
            K’avir never sought her out, but knew her schedule.  She worked twelve-hour days in Medical Bay as Dr. Keller’s second, but everyone knew that Dr. Stephens was a far superior surgeon to her drunken, careless supervisor.  She had a gift for healing and a wonderful bedside manner that the crew quickly came to appreciate to the point that the women on the starship dealt with her exclusively.
            They officially met one late night in the gym.  Sheila, furious at her circumstances, took her rage out on the punching bag in the exercise room.  She had no form or technique, just pummeled the heavy bag until her fists hurt and her knuckles ached.  It helped her to sleep, even if only for three hours a night.   She never allowed her sore hands to take away from her dedication to her craft, for she loved being a physician and welcomed the opportunity to work in a large, fully-equipped medical facility.  Arcturus-12 was a tiny buttfuck of an outpost on the pimple-like planet of Canutus and its medical wing was sorely lacking.   Such could not be said of the Vega, one of the Alliance’s prized stellar-class diplomatic starships.  Anything Sheila wanted or needed, she could get.
            She had heard of K’avir and saw him every now and then in the corridors, always with the flirtatious Prince Hasani, the ambassador from Alvelar.  K’avir was the prince’s personal guard and he was never sick, so she never saw him in Medical Bay.  He rarely ate, so she never saw him in the mess hall.  So when he showed up in the exercise room one late night, she was surprised.  She didn’t see him right off; she was so into her punching.  It was when he walked by her and uttered a simple tip, “Keep one fist up to block and the other cocked to swing,” that she realized she wasn’t alone.  He did not stay in the room; just walked through it.  Sheila unconsciously took his advice.
            A couple of days later, K’avir walked through the gym again and offered up another tip:  “Square your shoulders and stagger your feet.” Again, she incorporated the tip and found that the new stance gave her more leverage.  If he noticed her bruises, he never said anything about it.  Soon, she was looking forward to hearing his advice.  There were never any more words than what he offered in the way of fighting tips.   He told her the best way for her to crouch, how to stick and to move, how to bob and weave, and even recommended that she start using the speed bag in addition to the heavy bag.   K’avir told her to start learning how to kick and use her knees on the heavy bag and suggested she start studying appropriate boxing techniques.  Sheila, ever angry at her situation, absorbed his advice and it started paying off.   She was learning how to fight back.  She was not going to let that bastard kill her.


Teaser: "Corruption"

She really wanted to fuck that young man, for he was an absolute babe and completely fuckable.  That he was probably twenty years her junior mattered not one bit; he wouldn’t be the first tenderoni she fucked and he would not be the last.  She liked them young; liked their strong hard bodies, liked their exuberance, liked everything about a younger man.  Dick control was an issue at times and she was loathe to let them give her head, but never let it be said that Mahogany couldn’t teach a tenderoni how to fuck.  An older man could do nothing for her except point her in the direction of his son.  Mahogany didn’t give a shit; she liked what she liked and she didn’t care what anybody thought about her sexual preferences.  She was grown.
The young man in question was the mail clerk.  He was friendly; at least he was to her.  He didn’t speak much other than to greet people; just dropped off the mail and kept on pushing the cart.  Even though Mahogany had a secretary, the kid always poked his head in to speak to her whenever her door was open.  Mahogany got to where she made sure her door was ajar whenever it was time for him to deliver the mail.  He was ridiculously prompt and his five-second visit tended to be the highlight of her day.  He was Japanese and he was beautiful in the way a young man could be; bronzed skin, well-built, dark almond-shaped eyes, silky black hair that he wore in a neat ponytail, and a pair of lips that she had imagined more than once against her clit, in spite of her reservations to the contrary.  He was neat and dressed well; he wasn’t inclined to wear excessively saggy clothes (it was against company policy, at any rate).  And his ears were oh-so-cute!  He smelled good; it was a scent she could not name, but it was sexy as hell.  On him, that was.  Mahogany didn’t think it would work as well on another man.
Oh, but she wanted to fuck him.  Mahogany didn’t know how she would get into a situation where she could entice him to her house and give him the night of his life.  It was the lure to the Venus flytrap that was problematic.  They did not run in the same circles.  The mailroom closed at 3:30 and Mahogany didn’t leave work until late most evenings.  She had no idea if she would ever see him in a place where she could get her considerable clutches into him.  It was playing hell with her sexual tension; it had been a while since she had a nice young tenderoni in her bed.  Once she figured out who he was, he would be a perfect little toy for her to play with for a few hours.  And then she would get rid of him.  That was her way.
Mahogany loved to read and tried to hit the bookstore three or four times a month.  She had an eBook reader on her phone, but she liked the idea of a book: the actual weight of the story, the snap of the cover, the smell of the paper and the words on the page.  It was against her religion to work at home unless absolutely necessary, so she read a lot on the weekends.  But oftentimes, her book trips were exercises in frustration, for most of the African-American section (that there was an actual “section” was another irritant) consisted of hood lit, and she was not a fan of hood lit.  She enjoyed a variety of subject matter and while she had no problems reading anything by anyone, she liked stories that featured people of color as protagonists, especially women, but quality reading on that was scarce at times.
Mahogany stood on one foot, absently turning the page of a novel and biting her lip when she heard, “Do you need some help?”
She snapped out of her reverie and looked up.  The book slid out of her hands and hit the floor with a loud WHAP!  The novel, a 500-page behemoth by her favorite author, landed on her foot.  She sported red open-toed stilettos and nearly swore when the book crashed into her toe. 
“Ow!” she cried.  Fuck, she thought.  It was him.  The tenderoni from the mail room.  His nametag read JORDAN and she could not believe he was standing right next to her, neat as a pin in khakis and a dark blue shirt.  The shirt was loose enough that she could not discern any specific chest musculature, but his arms hinted at marvelous goodies underneath the clothes.  She should have been focusing on her throbbing toe, but Jordan, the babe of her current fantasy, had her complete attention.
He looked at her and knelt to retrieve the book.  “Are you all right?”
Mahogany winced as she stared down at him.  He was looking at her feet and she sighed; her next breath was a squeak.  She mustered enough spit to speak.
“Good,” he said.  “Nice shoes.”  He stood up, holding her book and smiled.  “How may I assist you?”
Even his teeth were gorgeous.  Lord have mercy.  She so wanted to fuck him. 
“I was looking for…”  She averted her eyes for a moment, still trying to get her head around the fact that her prey was in the vicinity and she could not pounce.  He caught her completely unawares and that was unwise for a predator.  “I was hoping to find something decent to read.”
“What do you like?”
“Umm, well…I wanted to get some quality fiction from the Black section,” she made a tsking sound, “but it seems to be in short supply today.  Or maybe my standards are just a bit too high to get caught up in Tynesha’s difficult decision of choosing between her thuggish baby’s daddy and the drug dealer who gives her multiple-O’s.”
He laughed.  “I understand.”
“So,” Mahogany said, trying to get her bearings. “When did you start working here?  Am I to understand that you won’t be delivering my mail anymore?”  She prayed that wasn’t the case.
“Not at all.  This is a part-time gig.  And I’ve been working here for a couple of months.”
“Oh.  So you’re holding down two jobs.”
“Pays the bills,” he said, reaching past her to pick up a book.  The nearness of him combined with his distinctive scent made her head swim and she inhaled. 
“You smell so good,” she murmured, and then closed her eyes in mortification.  She was usually so much smoother than this.  First, a bruised toe and second, a total loss of cool.  She was definitely not her usual, suave, sexy self.
“Thank you,” he said.  “It’s patchouli.  And maybe you’ll like this.  It’s one of my personal favorites.”  He put the book in her hands.  She glanced down at it, barely able to read the title.
“Anything else I can help you with?” Jordan asked, not shy about staring her down.  Mahogany didn’t notice his casual perusal of her and it took her a moment to answer.
“Um, yes, I mean no, uh….”  She put a hand against her face.  “It’s just a surprise to see you here…Jordan.”
“Not for me,” he said.  “I see you here all the time, Ms. Carroll.”
“You know my name?”
“Of course I do.  Who in that place doesn’t?”
“Oh, it’s that bad?”  She had a rep for being a hard-ass, but it came with the job and the money.
“I personally don’t think so, but a lot of my colleagues would disagree.”  He looked her over once more. 
Mahogany shrugged.  “Oh well.  I’m there to stay, so they’ll get over it.”  She held the book with both hands and took another breath.  “Do you have any horror or sci-fi recommendations?”
 He smiled at her again.  “Follow me.”
She did so, walking around a number of crammed shelves, trying not to stare at his shoulders or his backside.  Jordan never wore anything fitting; no boy his age did, so she could not discern anything about his ass.  It didn’t matter; she had the feeling it was as firm and as tight as the rest of him.  In a matter of moments, he had two more books for her.  Mahogany didn’t bother reading the titles, but it didn’t matter because she was going to purchase them.
“I think you’ll like these, Miss Carroll.  It is Miss, right?”
She held up her hand.  “It most certainly is.”  Marriage sounded like a horrific nightmare and she wasn’t about to conform to any man’s standard for a wife.  She liked to fuck, and if she understood her friends and colleagues correctly, married people didn’t fuck.  That was not a lifestyle she was interested in.  Besides, she wanted it made clear that she was available.  “I’m a single diva, Jordan.”  She still didn’t look at the books.
“Aren’t you going to read the titles?”
“No,” she said.  “I trust you.”
“Okay,” he said.  He smiled again and took the books she held.  “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll carry these to the counter for you.”
She wondered if he was as attentive to all of his customers but it seemed as if he read her mind.  “I don’t usually provide such personal service, but I know who you are.”
Mahogany stifled a groan and closed her eyes again.  Dirty, nasty, freaky thoughts permeated her brain.  He could service the hell out of her if she could figure out a way to get him into her flytrap.  She took a moment to get herself together and then followed him to the counter.  Jordan was waiting for her and she smiled at him.  The clerk behind the counter smiled at him too, but he appeared not to notice.  His eyes were trained on Mahogany.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” he said and then flicked his eyes to the book on the top of the pile.  Then he walked away.  Mahogany watched him go, smiling, and then turned to the clerk, who was also watching Jordan retreat to the back of the store.  The clerk, probably no more than nineteen, ogled him as if he were her future husband.  Clearly, the girl liked the young man.
The clerk looked at Mahogany, blushing.  Then she leaned forward, as if sharing a secret.  “He is so sexy,” she said.  “I have been trying to get with him for almost two months.”
Mahogany replied with a nod of her head and smirked as she looked at the clerk.  “He is a cutie,” she said.  But the look on her face was clear:  Stay on the porch, young pup, because you can’t run with a big dog.  The girl was way out of her league.  She was no match for a grown woman on a mission. 
It was sometime later on that day before she actually got around to looking at the books he chose for her, and to her surprise, a hastily scribbled note was stuck between the pages of the book she dropped on her foot.
I want to have dinner with you, it read.
Mahogany closed her eyes and shivered with pleasure.    She was going to enjoy the hell out of the rest of her day.  She didn’t know when Jordan had slipped the note inside the book, but it did not matter.  He had made the first move and that was all she needed.  She could do the rest.  Mahogany was moist with anticipation; she was finally going to be able to fuck that delectable young man.


Definition of a Woman

What does it mean to be a woman?  I don’t mean the biological or physical aspect, but everything else.  What do we women possess that separates us from men?  I’ve read countless articles, stories and research that suggest that it is our emotions and ability to nurture and love which sets us apart from the male gender.  Some would go so far to suggest that it is our ability to create life which makes us unique. 

I don’t discount the aforementioned, but I think that it goes further and deeper than that.  The women I know who are wives and mothers ultimately come to realize that within the confines of being a wife and a mother, the woman gets lost.  Life gets in the way and the woman within a wife and mother suffocates.

Which leads me to the next question.  What do we women possess that separates us from wives and mothers? As a woman, I do have my own ideas as to what defines me.  However, I’m neither a wife nor a mother, so I cannot answer this aspect of the question.  But I am interested in knowing what other women think, be they wives and/or mothers.  What defines a woman?