Tag Archive | love

Boundaries

lafyette

 

This is going to get personal, like, really personal. But that’s what we do here. Chat lightly, things get heavy, we promote a little.

I would categorize this one as a vent, except I’m not angry, and quite frankly, that worries me.

I may or may not have spoken here about boundaries. Specifically boundaries in a relationship. And sure, everyone has their own, whether expressed or unspoken.

Mine, however, have been blatantly expressed in the past, but now I find myself dealing with the same issue.

Specifically, I’m talking boundaries when it comes to being in contact with people other than your spouse/partner.

Where do you draw the line? At texting? At calling? At hanging out?

And to catch you up. The spouse is mine, the contact is via text (as far as I know) and he sort of told me as an afterthought.

The texter is a coworker. Remember those simultaneous dreams he and I had where I dreamed he was having an affair with a coworker and he dreamed I was having an affair with the neighbor? Weird, right? Well, the neighbor moved.

And his coworker, not someone he works closely with or even physically comes in contact with on a daily basis, texted him yesterday to “check on him.”

He’s on vacation. He’s not sick.

He’s simply not at work. And if he’s not at work, then guess what? He’s at home or somewhere with his wife, who would be doing the checking on if need be.

I didn’t say anything at first.

Because I try to be a cool, modern wife, you know. But the thing is, I wear my emotions on my sleeve, and at some point, I started to boil over.

He thinks it’s jealousy. I think it’s boundaries, plain and simple. If I’ve not met, formed any type of friendship with this woman, she does not get to have a part in our marriage that’s exclusive to only him, especially when I was here first.

But, maybe that’s just me.

In the end I gave my opinion and honestly, he seemed sort of sad, like I had taken away a favorite toy or something. He even told me to find a guy to text after I asked how he’d feel if he were in my shoes. WTF, right?

Now, mama didn’t raise no fool. I didn’t come out and say “stop this or else” because if he wanted to stop he would and if I told him to stop and he didn’t want to, guess what? He’d continue, only behind my back which would make it definitely look like something even if it’s nothing.

So what did I do? What any sane woman would do, of course. I friended her on Facebook. I’ve got the bitch on my radar and I’m watching the situation closely. That’s all I’m saying.

 

 

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A French Affair by Lucy Felthouse

french
Sydney Tyler is renting a barn conversion in Northern France, planning to spend the fortnight getting some words down on her novel. Unfortunately, construction work in the other half of the building puts an end to her peace and quiet. Genuinely upset that the builders are going to disturb her, the property’s handsome English owner, Harry Bay, offers to make it up to her. He’s a little flirtatious, and after spotting his wedding ring, Sydney keeps him at arm’s length. Sexy as he is, she has no intention of getting involved with a married man. But when Sydney learns the truth about Harry, will their mutual attraction spur them on to work through their emotional baggage and make this more than just a French affair?

Available from: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/a-french-affair/

*****
Excerpt:

Sydney Tyler jumped so hard that her fingers slammed down onto the laptop’s keyboard and she typed a bunch of gobbledegook.

Kashfkjsdhlfknsdlfvn sdlkch awoeduioh ahdwklc

Gasping, she clutched at her chest as her heart thumped rapidly and painfully. “What the fucking hell was that?” she said to the empty room.

Pushing her chair back from the desk, she stepped over to the window. Peering out into the brilliant sunshine, she saw something on the lawn that she had absolutely not been expecting. Workmen.

She groaned. So much for her peaceful writer’s retreat. She’d planned to get a good chunk of her novel down in the fortnight she was away, and now it looked as though her peace was going to be monumentally shattered by banging, drilling and God knows what else.

Sighing, she gave the windowsill a pathetic thump in her frustration. She might have been pissed off, but she was no vandal. And besides, she didn’t want those noisy buggers in her part of the building fixing things—having them next door was bad enough.

Sydney really could not believe her shitty luck. When she’d booked the cottage in the French village of Monthiers over the phone a couple of months ago, she’d dealt with a fellow Brit called Harry Bay, who she’d suspected was the owner. On arrival, though, a timid French woman had met her and let her into the luxurious barn conversion before handing over the keys and explaining a little bit about the local area. Apparently, in the mornings, someone came along the village streets, selling fresh bread and pastries.

There wasn’t much else to tell, it seemed, as the village had nothing except a church—almost opposite her accommodation—and a tavern. It was also lacking—she’d quickly discovered—a mobile signal. Not even a single bar illuminated her screen. Her phone was now no more than a watch, alarm clock and calendar. If there was an emergency, she was screwed. But on a much lighter note, it was one less distraction. She could just get on with what she was here to do, blissfully undisturbed.

The arrival of workmen was incredibly irritating. Her temporary landlord hadn’t mentioned there’d be anyone working next door. If he had, she wouldn’t have booked the place—the quiet and idyllic location were the whole reason for choosing this property, this area. Even though there was no way he could have known she was there to work, common courtesy would dictate that he told her. Perhaps he was just interested in taking her money and didn’t give a damn about whether she had a satisfactory stay or not. There was nothing to be done about it now, unfortunately. She’d paid for the fortnight, and she was buggered if she was going to cut and run, pissing that money down the drain. She’d just have to find a way around the disturbance, and console herself that she could leave a snarky write up on a review site when she got home.

Finding out the builders’ working hours would be a good start—she could attempt to write around them then. Or perhaps she could make use of the headphones she’d stuffed into her case, without ever thinking they’d get used. Some loud rock music would drown out the din from next door and hopefully allow her to work. It was worth a try. She hoped they were only doing a small job that would only take a couple of days, but deep down she knew they weren’t. They were renovating the whole place so it was as beautiful as the half she was in.

She was just about to go in search of the aforementioned headphones when one of the men pottering around on the lush back garden stepped away from the others. Standing in a shaft of sunlight, he pulled his arms high above his head and stretched, dragging up his t-shirt to reveal a lean stomach with a fine line of dark hair leading enticingly into the waistband of his jeans.

Oh yum, she thought, perhaps having builders next door wouldn’t be so bad after all. Especially if they all looked like him. She continued to watch as the man dropped his arms to his sides and watched the others. His dark hair was overlong and stuck out at crazy angles, as though he’d been running his fingers through it. She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes from this distance, but she could make out enough detail of his features to see that he was handsome. Gorgeous, actually. Close up he could be much less attractive, but from her upstairs window, the view was pretty fine.

Just then, he glanced across at her side of the long barn, which was divided into two holiday cottages. He caught sight of her standing there, and his face dropped. He looked back at the builders, then returned his gaze to her again. Pointing at the group of noisy men, he slapped his forehead with his other hand. Finally, he pointed at his chest, then up at her. He was indicating he wanted to come in. She paused, then nodded. Common sense told her she shouldn’t be letting a strange man into her temporary home, but then, there were several large, bulky men milling around, so if they were a dodgy sort, she and the locked door would have no chance against them, especially with no means of calling for assistance. She could scream, of course, but she doubted anyone would come. The walls of the building were extremely thick—though sadly, no match for banging and drilling—the nearest house was a little way down the road, and by day, the village was all but deserted. There was only one business that she knew of—the tavern—so the other inhabitants would have to go elsewhere to work. To nearby Chateau-Thierry, perhaps, or even further afield.

She’d just have to hope that the handsome man—probably the head honcho of their group—was also a decent one. Presumably they were a reputable company, as they’d been hired by the British owners, who were usually more wary of cowboy builders, and given the horror stories and dedicated TV programmes back home, it was understandable.

Before she got even halfway down the stairs, a knock came at the door. Okay, so he was polite enough to knock, that was good. She moved a little faster, careful not to trip in her flip flops and go hurtling downwards. Once she was safely on the ground floor, she twisted the key in the door and opened it.

*****

Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over seventy publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and 2013, and Best Women’s Erotica 2013. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies. She owns Erotica For All, and is book editor for Cliterati. Find out more at Lucy Felthouse Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9

Who’s Your…Valentine?

bemine

I don’t have any formal or particular thing I intended to post, but being that it’s the (so-called) day for lovers and all, I felt compelled to say…something.

So, I’m alive and haven’t drifted into the abyss…yay!

I’ve been receiving steady submissions for my Can’t Get Enough call, and acknowledging, filing and printing those for reading have been consuming a lot of my time. So, I’m busy, but happily busy. I tell you, even though I’ve gotten lucky enough to be at the other end of this thing, I still find myself sitting here with stars in my eyes as I read words that make me smile, laugh, cry and swoon, and they’re all for me. Okay, maybe not me personally and specifically, but… humor me.

This anthology in progress is coming along better than I ever could have imagined. The thought of narrowing all of these awesome submissions down to twenty or so is daunting and I don’t quite know how I’ll handle the rejection letter side of it (thinking back on all the mommy-type “this hurts me more than it hurts you” phrases) because all I want, all I’ve ever wanted is to be encouraging and lift fellow writers up. But…we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

For now, my little gift to you to say I’m sorry I’ve been so inconsistent and to wish you well on this smooch-y day, here’s a little snippet of…okay…I’ll say it, my favorite story of mine of all time. It’s called Strings and it’s an unorthodox little love story that appeared in Alison Tyler’s A is for Amour published through Cleis Press some five or so years ago:

Her eyes fluttered open at just after three a.m. Her body was limp, her head heavy with sleep.

His voice was laced with grogginess. “Won’t you stay? Tomorrow’s Sunday and we don’t have to do anything but relax. It’ll be nice.”

His grip on her wrist was firm. She looked back at him, his eyes half-closed, his lips curved into a smile. He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, waiting for her answer.

She stood up and went about the business of dressing and gathering her things. She looked back at him when she was done, at the innocent hopefulness in his eyes.

And for a moment, just for a moment she considered it, allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to walk around his apartment barefoot, to fix him breakfast and clean his dishes, to lean against his shoulder on the couch as he watched ESPN.

She thought of telling him yes, that the idea sounded quite nice, But she knew that if she stayed, if she spent the rest of the night laying in his arms, if she woke up with him the next morning, it would change things, there would be no turning back. So, instead she leaned down, held her face close to his, and kissed him.
He closed his eyes and his lips relaxed against hers. Her tongue tickled the roof of his mouth, brushed quickly across his teeth.

It was enough to silence him, to push the idea far, far away, if only for the moment.
The moment passed quickly, so quickly in fact that she couldn’t be sure he was ever awake, or even if she was.
Maybe she had dreamed it all, because just like that he was asleep again and snoring softly, laying there like always, unaware that she was even in the room.

She picked up the pen and pulled out a fresh piece of paper. She thought of what she should say now. It was always something cute and witty, something he could wake up to and smile at and toss aside without much thought.
Yet, somehow what she wanted to say now didn’t sound cute or witty.

What she wanted to say weighed heavy on her chest. The words rose up like floodwaters, spilling into her throat, pouring into her mouth. She wrote them slowly, carefully, imagining the look on his face as he read them, wondering if he would smile, if his mouth would fall open in shock.

The words were strings pushing her forward and pulling her back. But as the minutes passed and her sanity found its way back, she pushed them down again, forced them to settle in her chest.

She scratched through the letters and ripped the paper to shreds. She balled it up threw it in the trash. It would have been foolish to say the words, to even write them. Besides, it was safer for them both if she didn’t.

It was quiet outside now, hard to tell there had even been a storm except for the droplets of rain that ran down the window.

She gathered the rest of her belongings in a hurry, rushing, because if she rushed, she could be out the door. If she hurried she could be inside her car and halfway home before the sun peeked over the horizon, and awakened the city.

“…and when have I ever wanted to talk about it?”

The line is one of my favorites from Samantha in the Sex and the City movie.  I know, I’m all typical, but I keep thinking about it as I’m pushing life issues as far as possible from my mind and concentrating on my writing.  After finishing up a story just this morning, that makes four fresh, new short story submissions within the last three weeks.

And I haven’t been fretting over them or checking my email every five seconds.  I’m just writing them, sending them away and then working on the next project.  How many times have I said that writing is therapeutic for me?  And I’m not even the writer who takes the real life bad guy, put him in the story and kill him off.  No, I’ve been writing happy things and these things have, in turn, been making me happy.

Somebody has to have a happy ending, it may as well be my characters, eh?

The Christmas shopping is slow going, but that’s because (thankfully) the children aren’t asking for much this year.  They’re getting older now and are more excited at the thought of spending time with family which I’m supremely thankful for because I truly hate the gifting part of the Christmas holiday.  I won’t hop on that soapbox, though.

But yes, writing, loving it, sleeping well and feeling more at peace than I have in a long, long while.

Boundaries

I’ve been out of sorts lately, which really seems and sounds weird because I’m out of sorts most of the time.  It’s been more so, though, over the past few days because I have unresolved feelings about a home life situation. 

It’s had me thinking a lot about boundaries and respect and, really, proper protocol as it pertains to certain situation.  My husband, and apparently a handful of other people, don’t share my views on boundaries, respect and proper behavior, and lately I’ve been wondering if I’m in the minority with my opinions, or if this simply is the type of people I’ve gotten involved with, been spending my time around.

There are not many people in my life that I consider friends, therefore, there aren’t many people in my life besides family.  I have my oldest friend whom I’ve known for over twenty years, another friend I’ve known for almost as long, but who I feel closer to because we’re like minded in a lot of ways.  There is also a woman who is older than me whom I feel I can talk to about anything, who doesn’t have a judgmental bone in her body, and whom, over the years I’ve found to have had similar experiences as me, therefore she can shed light on a lot of the things I present her with in conversation or play devil’s advocate, back up what I’m saying, or whatever the situation calls for.

I’ve said all that to say, I don’t have male friends.  I’m friendly with male co-workers, but I couldn’t tick one off that I’d ask marital/man advice from, or ask for anything more than a dime to complete my fifty cents for a soda.  I used to have male friends.  Some of my closest friends were male.  This came to a halt when I got into a serious relationship.  Most of it was that it seemed inappropriate to me, being that these men weren’t friends/friendly with my significant other, and part of it was that I was involved with someone with insecurity, trust and jealously issues.

My spouse has a female friend who is friendly with me, who we invite to our home and both talk to.  However, when, if she needs something, it seems that he is her “go to” person.  And when I say “go to,” I mean she goes directly to him.  Even if she’s seen and talked to me all day.  She has borrowed money from “him” and most recently, needed to borrow a vehicle from “him.”  Forget all about the fact that it’s the family’s money and it’s the family’s vehicle.  I mean, who am I supposed to be…the barefoot housewife who cooks, cleans and doesn’t dare handle any of the household affairs?  That’s her life, not mine.

It seem(ed) all sorts of inappropriate to me, but being that we obviously have different views on this subject, he doesn’t see it that way.  The thing that bothers me is not that she needs/wants these things, but that she is married, and he is married, and she doesn’t feel it necessary to address me or at least address me first.  I joke with my spouse that he’s her other husband and she’s his other wife, when actually, I want these inappropriate behaviors to cease.

I can’t imagine any situation where I would feel the need to ask for something from another man who is not my relative, and especially a married one, even if he is a relative.  It would feel disrespectful to my marriage, and I would feel like I was disregarding my spouse.  So, there it is isn’t it?  I feel disrespected and disregarded, but more than that appauled and alarmed that she doesn’t know the protocol when asking a favor from a FAMILY.  But, I’m realizing the more I think about it, that it may be more her issue than mine.  People only do what they know to do.

But that’s just me.  And I may very well be in the minority, but it’s the way I feel.  I, of course, will be weaving this into a story somehow. Probably something BDSM-y where someone gets punished.  You know, resolution and way I can get it.

Romance vs. Reality

At some point yesterday I tweeted that I was writing a mushy, lovey-dovey blog post.  And I was.  In fact it’s all set to go.  I was going to post it here on this blog on this day, because it would be all so fitting…

…because today, I have been married four years.

Over the past few days I’ve been thinking of the many ways in which I could say that:

Four years ago, I married the love of my life…

It’s been four, beautiful, magical years and I look forward to many more…

And it went on and on.  I wrote a terrible, terrible poem last night and a handwritten love letter.  It was hours away from our anniversary, and that’s what I was supposed to be doing, right? Anniverseries = bliss = romance… right?

I know that’s not always the case, but sometimes I forget.  I tend to think that reality will sometimes step aside for romance, but no matter what day it is, a marriage is still a marriage and sometimes it sucks ass.

So…I’ve purged enough.  And I’ll keep my shiny, happy blog post for a shinier, happier day, whenever that may be.

But hey, I did get some diamonds, and diamonds are forever, they say.

Every Day I’m Thankful…

…for my children, husband, dog, turtle, extended family (even the ones who get on my nerves) and friends I’ve met in the craziest ways (I met one of my besties via Twitter over a year ago) and editors who continue to publish me and even take the time to mentor and encourage me and readers who like my stuff enough to reach out and even those who read and enjoy my stories and I never know anything about it.

But…I’ve got a feeling that today, I’m supposed to be especially mushy about it 😉 so…

I am especially thankful this year and on this day for two children, who I struggled even at my young age to conceive and to carry, who continue to thrive despite numerous challenges, a daughter who, even with ASD, asks for hug after hug and kiss after kiss and comes into my room to tell me she loves me about one hundred times a day.  I am especially thankful for a son who is standing next to me right now reading from a Batman Comic Book after having not spoken a word until he was two years old.

I am thankful for a family physician who, after numerous hospital and specialist visits, had the experience and foresight to test me for Lyme Disease when he out of everyone else recognized the symptoms, when I was ready to just shoot myself to end the misery.  And on that note, I am thankfuly for a boss who left work to come and take me on one of those hospital trips.

I am thankful for a mom to argue with but also have beers and laugh with, a husband who knows and excepts all my flaws.  I am eternally thankful for the ability to continue to do what I love after all these years.

I am certainly thankful for the opportunity to edit my first anthology and to keep coming up with new ideas.

I am thankful, I am, everyday, and always.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Love, Tenille