#And eat an indecent amount of pasta

[kurp-stuff]

Ugh i left another lengthy reply under a comment about the assassin's creed shadows announce on youtube. I swear this shit is getting me mad.

[dimbulb0]

The fabric of Jenna’s oversized, overstretched bra rubbed against the edges of your doorjamb as she entered the apartment. She made a point of pushing her way through the opening, letting her breasts bulge and creep through. Her hips made it, but just barely. Another week, or even another day, and maybe those, too, would struggle to make it through. Already, she had outgrown all of her pants. Somehow she hadn’t been arrested for indecent exposure, but you weren’t sure how long that would last.

“Everything is so small now,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “My feet hang off the edge of the bed, nothing fits . . .”

“Having second thoughts?” you asked. Jenna had started on hormone therapy two months ago, had even renewed her prescription in spite of the dramatic and abnormal growth spurts. 

“No, not one!” she said cheerfully. “It’s just weird, is all. The changes take some getting used to.”

“I bet.” You went back to the kitchen to tend to the bubbling pot and sizzling pan on the stove. “Dinner’ll be ready in a few. Make yourself comfortable.”

You heard her heavy footsteps trail into the living room. Those sandals of hers were at least a half-dozen sizes too small, but what else could she wear? She tried borrowing a pair of your sneakers a couple of weeks ago, a pair of expensive size-10 Jordans, and she outgrew them in a day or two. Her feet grew so much that her big toes had almost torn completely through them. She was apologetic, of course, but there was something else. She seemed strangely . . . proud?

Jenna had always wanted to be taller, but she hadn’t predicted how much her second, artificially-induced, puberty would make her breasts grow, too. Each titanic mammary was over a hundred pounds (she had weighed them) and stuck out several feet in front of her. The heavy-duty spandex bra she wore was custom-made, and if she spun too quickly she could hear a stitch or two pop. It seemed impossible that she could carry that much weight around so easily, but seeing her from behind, those strong back muscles working beneath her smooth, pale skin . . .

Smoke rose from the pan in front of you, causing you to curse.

“Everything all right in there?” Jenna called.

“Yeah–almost ready! Just got a bit distracted.”

The dinner was more of a formality, anyway, as Jenna had no doubt already eaten. Her superhuman growth was only eclipsed by her superhuman appetite, and she started going out to eat on her own in addition to the meals you enjoyed together. You didn’t ask too many questions, but she often came home smelling like fast food. Still, she managed to put away two or three times the amount you could eat. You always made extra. Tonight, you made an extra two chicken breasts, plus enough pasta to feed an army.

When everything was ready, you brought it to the dining table. Jenna was already there, practically drooling at the food. God, she really had grown so much recently, even over just the past week. Even sitting, she almost came up to your eye level. The utensils looked like children’s toys in her hands.

After you sat down, you scooped some pasta onto your plate, then did a double-take as Jenna took the rest of the bowl to her side and started eating out of it. That was just the way it was now, though.

“So good! Thank you for cooking, by the way. I know I can’t help out too much in there anymore,” she said. Your kitchen was small, and as it was, she couldn’t even turn around in it without knocking something over.

“My pleasure,” you said, and it truly was. In fact, as strange as her transformation was, it also fascinated you. You had always loved big breasts, and to be able to grope what had to be one of the largest sets on Earth was amazing, of course, but it was more than just that. After the sex–something that had become more frequent and more intense since Jenna had started her treatment–when the two of you laid quietly together in bed, you were in awe of just how big she was becoming. She had long since surpassed you in weight, and that meant she was also much stronger than you. If she rolled the wrong way in her sleep, perhaps, or decided to do something against your will, you couldn’t really fight back. Would she even wake up if you were struggling against her? There was something both frightening and exciting in that.

She ate. And ate. She had warned you about staring at her over dinner, but as you picked at your food, you couldn’t help but steal a glance. The chair beneath her complained but held firm. Although you couldn’t see it, she must have been growing right there in front of you, each bite adding to her bulk, her curves, her mass. Your hardening member pulsed in your pants as you thought about what would happen later than evening in bed. She could completely bury your head in her cleavage now, a fact that amused her greatly. 

She caught you looking at her chest. Sitting up straight, she sighed. “I guess you noticed. I don’t think this bra’ll last me another day. Next one’s going to have to be Kevlar.” She gave you a wink, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t a joke. “See how tight it is?”

You nodded dumbly. “You can always take it off, if you want. It’s just us.”

“Hmm. I like it tight, though, don’t you?”

As if on cue, her bra seemed to grow even tighter, sending a crest of boobflesh bulging over the cups. Millimeter by millimeter, her nipples grew hard beneath the fabric, fighting against the industrial-strength weave of the cloth to make their presence known. How big would they be tonight, those nipples? As big as thumbs? Bigger?

After dinner, you cleaned up the dishes while Jenna relaxed in front of the TV. She turned on a movie. “Hey, babe,” she called to you. “Let’s watch something together. The dishes can wait.”

You came into the living room to see that the lights were off. Jenna sat on the floor in front of the couch, her titanic chest filling her lap. She had moved the coffee table out of the way and spread her legs in the clearing, inviting you in. Only the light of the screen illuminated the room.

You took your spot, leaning back into her pillowy cleavage as she chose a movie. It was some terrible Netflix comedy, but you couldn’t have cared less. She wrapped her arms around your waist and pulled you further into her breasts and closer to her thumping heartbeat. In the dim night, you almost drifted off.

Behind you, you could hear her stomach churning. Over the course of the next half hour, the gurgling grew louder and louder. “Feeling okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, never better. Are you okay there?”

“Best seat in the house,” you said, shifting side-to-side as if to drive home the point. Jenna giggled.

“Careful! This bra is ready to pop, remember?”

And, for the second time tonight, Jenna’s words seemed to be almost prophetic: you could feel the pressure behind you expand as, seemingly, her breasts grew again. You could hear the fabric stretching. Jenna let out a gasp, as though in pain.

“Are you–did you just grow?”

“Mmmph. Maybe. I feel something weird.”

Her grip on you tightened as she shifted and took a deep breath. Nestled as you were between her tits, you couldn’t turn your head to see her face, but to either side of you, you watched in amazement as her legs started to get longer. Inch by inch, they grew closer and closer to the television, while her thighs and calves bulged with burgeoning flesh. Her bones creaked and crackled as she grew bigger. In spurts of growth, you saw her feet first elongate, then widen as she flexed and curled her toes. And finally, as if to prove that your senses were not deceiving you, her bra thwapped and twanged as the hooks in the back finally snapped. Although the cups were still dangling from the straps, nothing stopped you from sinking a bit deeper into her cavernous cleavage, which seemed to swell even faster, now freed from their confines.

“Are you okay?” you asked. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” she admitted. “But it also feels really good, too.”

“You want to go to the bedroom?” You stood up and turned around, looking at her essentially eye-to-eye, despite her sitting on the floor, which stunned you. She was huge! How much could she have grown? Your brain struggled to process just how large she looked.

“Oh, honey, I don’t think you understand,” she said, drawing her legs underneath her. She smiled coyly as she looked into your eyes. Every curve of her massive body seemed to pulsate as she stood up, up, up. Those gigantic breasts rose above your head, despite their disproportionate size, and Jenna’s smiling face leaned down to keep from crashing into the ceiling. “I’m too big for the bedroom now, don’t you think?”

Your heart raced in your chest as she grinned down at you. She was right; she had barely fit through the front door earlier, and she was far, far bigger now. You could smell her sweat and arousal fill the air like a thick fog. “Jenna,” you said cautiously. “What are you gonna do . . .?”

You almost added “. . . to me?” but decided against it. It didn’t matter, though, because she seemed to notice your fear. No, more than notice.

She giggled again, leaning down even further until you could feel her hot breath on your face. “Don’t be afraid. Isn’t this amazing?” She pushed up both of her breasts with her hands, then let them drop. “Hey, you wanna know a secret?”

Her eagerness and nonchalant attitude did little to calm your nerves. You nodded slowly.

“I was bad today,” she said. “Before I came home, I already ate. You knew about that, didn’t you?”

You nodded. What was she getting at?

“But I was REALLY bad today. I ate a lot. Like, from three different places. I was soooo hungry, see. And you didn’t even notice, did you? It’s ‘cause I’ve gotten so big, you can’t even see my belly beneath my boobs. But don’t worry, it’s all gone now.” Jenna patted her expansive midriff, which seemed relatively flat despite her assets elsewhere.

Jenna took a pause in her monologue as she seemed to concentrate on something, long enough of a pause for you to look around you. The Netflix movie was still playing, casting shadows on her white expansive skin. A sense of dread filled you as Jenna’s gigantic form again began to creak and shift. Her panties, already stretched to floss, snapped and fluttered to the floor, having lost the battle to her gargantuan hips. 

She moaned with a blend of pleasure and discomfort. “I even ate dinner here, too. Even though I felt so full, I ate it anyway. Mmm . . . and I’d eat it all again, too.”

She crooned again as another wave of pain coursed through her, and she took a step toward you. Planks of the hardwood floor wrenched themselves loose beneath her tremendous weight. She shot up what must have been another two feet taller in an instant, and every part of her goddess-like body similarly swelled with her. Her breasts swung free, and the remnants of her bra looked laughably small now. She was so bent over that she was almost on all fours, looking like someone navigating through a crawl-space instead of a living room. You backed away.

“But the worst thing I did was in the morning,” Jenna said. “I’m only supposed to take two of those pills, you know.”

Wide-eyed, you slowly shook your head. “You didn’t.”

Her grin grew even wider. “Uh-huh–ugh!--I took a whole bunch. And now . . .”

Another growth spurt, this one sending her on her hands and knees. She was still a few feet from you, but it felt like only inches. Her growth was no longer smooth or uniform. You watched as her asscheeks expanded at an alarming rate, rising like a moon behind her. As pound after pound of flesh inflated them bigger and bigger, Jenna’s eyes rolled in lewd sexual euphoria. “Oh god,” she moaned, “I can feel it!” Her thighs and legs grew, too, though not quite catching up in size to her mountainous rump. Her latest burst of growth came to a halt just as her asscheeks grazed the ceiling.

The walls vibrated with her panting. You knew you should run, but you had also never seen something so powerfully erotic, either.

“Like what you see?” Jenna said. She grabbed you in one massive hand and pulled you in for a kiss. You closed your eyes and tilted your head, but her lips covered half your face. She let go of you just in time for another one of her deep cries of lust and pain that was loud enough now to rattle your teeth.

“More?” you croaked, not sure anymore whether you wanted it to stop. She was so big already, what would another foot do? Or ten?

“Mmhmm, more!” This time she arched her back, jutting her tits forward into you and bumping you back. Your hands sunk into the wall of flesh, then it pushed you back as her titanic tits ballooned outward. Each sensuous boulder swelled bigger and bigger each time she inhaled, almost as though she were inflating them herself. Her areolae, dark and several feet across, stretched wider and puffed up. Her nipples, which you had earlier thought must have been as long as thumbs, were cylinders too big to even get your mouth around. You reached out to one, unsure of whether to proceed, but the instant your hand touched the firm, rubbery flesh, Jenna grunted with approval. You gave it a long, slow tug in time with Jenna’s breaths, trying to amplify the waves of bliss that she was clearly riding, but also enjoying the strange sensation of feeling Jenna–a part of her, at least–grow even bigger.

And still she grew. As her body became larger, she eventually took to laying on her breasts like pillows. Her legs had nowhere to go, and as they folded and bent beneath her, her knees began to press into the walls of your apartment. Studs in the walls creaked and cracked as her thick thighs, filled with immense power, threatened to bust down the whole building. Jenna didn’t care, and neither did you.

Her growth slowed, then halted. Her head was pressing into the ceiling again in spite of her prone position, and she looked down at you with an erotic intensity that made you eager to jump on top of her colossal body.

“You’re too big to leave through the door, you know,” you said. “And I don’t think the neighbors are going to like seeing the new you as much as I do.”

“Maybe,” she said, her lips curling into a grin, “you go see if you can find that bottle. I can think of a fun way of getting me out of here, can’t you?”

*******

Image made with NovelAI. Prompt: Doorway with a curvy giant woman with gigantic breasts {crawling through}, torn clothing, taut bra, long blonde hair, outside

[wolfstargazer]

Jan 20 - Wild - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 475

Sirius wouldn't be deterred. Once his mind was fixed on something, he would not be dissuaded. This was perhaps one of the more reckless things Remus had allowed himself to be talked into for a while.

But Remus had always had trouble denying Sirius anything. Especially after he'd leant closer, squeezed his arm, just the once, and said the two words that always seemed to work.

"Trust me."

So Remus had, and so it was that on that squally evening he was sat in a tiny Italian off the Charing Cross Road. There was a mural of what Remus assumed were the Tuscan foothills on one wall, red and white checked table cloths, candles in empty Chianti bottles. Puccini played from a tinny stereo. The smell of garlic wafted from the kitchen. A single couple sat, hand in hand, at one of the other tables. But apart from that, the place was empty. Sirius had assured Remus it would be. He'd chosen it carefully.

"It's always dead," Sirius had explained. "But the food is authentic, and we'll have fun."

Remus felt nervous...at the prospect of Sirius being recognised and... The flutter in Remus' stomach and the length of time he had taken to get ready suggested something else...

Ridiculous, Remus thought to himself, pouring a glass of water from the carafe and taking a drink. He wasn't seventeen. Besides, they had crossed the line into intimacy long ago.

Yet when the door to the restaurant tinkled open and Sirius appeared, storm-tossed and wild-eyed, Remus felt a thrill as he crossed the room towards him. Remus saw the way the woman at the table with her partner watched Sirius, and felt - not for the first time - astonishment that Sirius could choose anyone...And he had chosen him.

"This was reckless," Remus said as Sirius sat down. Sirius ordered the wine.

"Perhaps.'

The wine appeared. Remus watched it swirl in the glasses as it was poured.

"Impulsive," Remus pressed, his expression serious but his tone flirtatious.

Sirius tore into the bread from the basket, buttering it generously before taking a bite.

"Oh, absolutely," Sirius said.

Remus watched as Sirius licked the butter from his fingers.

"But this is what you need...what you deserve."

Remus lost the fight against his smile and sighed, undone by Sirius' ability to know exactly what he needed when he so often struggled to know that for himself.

Sirius raised his glass in Remus' direction, leaned in conspiratorily, and said slowly, "So we'll drink an indecent amount of red wine...eat an indecent amount of pasta...and then we'll go home to have an indecent amount of -"

"Ready to order?"

The waiter had appeared. Sirius gave a sharp bark of laughter, and Remus, trying to suppress a mixture of laughter and embarrassment, cleared his throat and said, "I think we need a moment more."

[merulanoir]

21 Questions!

I was tagged by @apollomystarisburning and @sickgaywhitewolf, thank you! <3

Rules: Answer 21 questions and then tag 21 people you want to get to know better.

Nickname: Meru

Zodiac: Taurus (and bc I’m fancy that way, my moon sign is Aries)

Height: 1,8m or 5′10″

Last movie I saw: Wonder Woman (holy fuckkk it was good)

Last thing I Googled: Winter tires (my old ones were pretty bald so I had to buy new ones.)

Favourite musician: At the moment, Florence + The Machine, MIKA, and Hozier

Song stuck in my head: Affirmation by Savage Garden and Rio by MIKA

Other blogs: I have Twitter and Pillowfort, do they count? :D

Do I get asks: I do and I love them! (And Tungler is still eating some of them, apparently.)

Blogs following: 353

Amount of sleep: 7ish on weekdays, 10+ on weekends.

Lucky number: Whichever I have scribbled onto my hand (I take work notes about machine blueprints on permanent marker and then my supervisor makes fun of me.)

What I’m wearing: A t-shirt, sweats, and pink plaid slippers.

Dream job: I like my current gig! I’d love to be a part-time writer at some point, too.

Dream trip: Dublin. ;D

Favorite food: Sushi! Pasta! Pizza with an indecent amount of pesto and mozzarella!

Play any instruments: Nope, never have.

Languages: English, Finnish, Swedish, French. I plan to continue learning Russian at some point.

Favorite songs: At the moment, Torn In Two by Breaking Benjamin, Promiseland by MIKA, and Helismaa by Samuli Putro

Random fact: My favorite piece of jewelry is an anatomical heart pendant.

Describe yourself as aesthetic things: To quote Bobby from Queer Eye, high-end queer. :D Or maybe just queer, that’s the only consistent thing about my style.

I’ll tag... @andordean @namesonboats @oichealainn @ofeliathemoth @kreepykittyreturns @arkhaniel @bucketofbarnes @nevertrustanoracle @chupacabrasmustdie <3

[lezliefaithwade]

Faith, Hope & Charity

At Vatican City, I overheard two American tourists with distinctly southern dialects discussing the beggars asking tourists for change.

“You’d think they would do something about it,” the man said to the woman, who nodded in agreement while admiring her recently purchased crucifix.

Visitors waiting for their designated museum times can sit in the square or stroll through any one of a dozen souvenir shops that sell religious artifacts for exorbitant amounts of money. Things that generally sell on Kijiji or Amazon for next to nothing are priced three or four times higher in the square. And these tourists beside me had opted to give their money to thieves in suites rather than beggars in rags. Interesting. I have to assume they were religious; hence, why the crucifix? True, it could have been a gift for someone else, but even so, it seemed so biblical, me sitting at the Vatican beside two reasonably well-dressed people who were loudly condemning the poor.

I’m not against people with a belief. I’ve known some incredibly kind Christians and some indecent ones too. I’ve dated Jews, Greek Orthodox, Coptics, atheists, and agnostics. Sometimes I meet people who tell me they’re spiritual, and I take that to mean that they believe in a higher power but not an organized religion. The thing about organized religion is how desperate they are to recruit you. I’ve made the mistake a few times of accompanying a friend or boyfriend to their church or temple of choice only to be cross-examined at “friendship hour” afterwards.

“Don’t forget to sign the registry” “Be sure to leave your e-mail?” “How did you like the service?” “

I’m always so tempted to say, “I didn’t like the service at all. I thought the little speech in the middle was boring as hell. In the theatre, you’d never be able to get away with so little effort.” In fact, during a few of those boring lectures, I’ve actually wondered what it would be like to review them. Can a person be a homily critic?

Last Sunday at St. Thomas Episcopalian, Reverend Porter spoke on the story of the Good Samaritan in what can only be described as a futile effort to instill any empathy whatsoever. His monotone delivery showed no sign of excitement or interest in the very subject of which he spoke, and his overuse of gesticulation could be better served as choirmaster. I highly recommend any churchgoer avoid this Liturgical season until Easter, when things will hopefully become a bit livelier.

I’ve often made the mistake of expecting more from those who claim to believe. After all, the general consensus (and I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here) is that someone who follows the word of God is most likely going to practice kindness, love, compassion, forgiveness, and understanding.  It’s like a person who boasts of being a great chef and then serves you store-bought pasta with a lumpy Béchamel. “I don’t wish to offend,” you might say, “But do you really expect me to swallow this crap?” If Catholic school taught me anything, it was how rarely one saw the word of God put into practice. Not that everyone was mean, but the “Do unto others…” doctrine wasn’t generously applied. Sadly, more often than not, I’ve often been disappointed by those who claim to be followers of Christ. I think, if Jesus were around today, He’d be disappointed too. Sometimes I imagine Christ with a Twitter account and millions of followers towards whom He’d constantly have to correct in a never-ending stream of tweets like:

“I cannot be held responsible for everything the prophets said,” or “I didn’t even know Leviticus.”

People who have no religious beliefs whatsoever can also be surprisingly horrible. I’m always slightly taken aback when they denounce religion taking the stance that this makes them somehow better than everyone else. I’m easily tricked into thinking they are, then let down when they behave just as badly. These are the people who fight for climate control while driving an SUV. They’re firmly against bullying, then bully you when you disagree with them. I kind of subscribe to the whole: Let he without sin cast the first stone. As advice goes, it’s pretty good.

My belief system runs somewhere between Spiritual Deism with a side of Christianity and a strong desire to be Jewish.  My Jewish boyfriend for seven years reminded me of what it meant to be part of a family, something I always wanted.  I looked forward to Friday Shabbat dinners where we’d gather over brisket and discuss important issues like the colour of the car Bernie was going to buy.

“It’s red.” He’d nonchalantly say while savouring the dinner.

“Red?” his Mother would announce. Fork down, dinner halted. “You’re not a red car sort of guy.”

“What does that mean?” Bernie would ask, oblivious to where this was going.

“You’re a blue car or a gold car-- not red. You’re brother here; he’s a red car driver. Mr. Flashy. Mr. Look-at-Me. But you…you’re definitely not red.”

“I can be flashy!”

“Never!”

“Sure, I can.”

“Not going to happen.”

“There are plenty of times when I’ve been flashy.”

“Name one?”

“Aunt Zelda’s birthday party?”

“Aunt Zelda’s birthday party? What are you talking about?”

“I did that impersonation of Lenny Bruce.”

“Oy vey. Shut up and eat your brisket. And tomorrow, change the colour of your car.”

My first husband’s father, Ezzat, was completely the opposite. A proud Egyptian, he’d grill me over dinner with questions like, “Do I or do I not ALWAYS ask you about your father?” to which I’d cautiously reply, “Well…I wouldn’t say always.” The next thing I knew, I was being called a liar, and he’d refuse to cross the threshold of my home. Once, while I was still suffering from dry sockets after having my wisdom teeth removed, he blended lamb, lentils and carrots together in what can only be described as vomit. It was a lovely gesture, but he was deeply offended when I couldn’t drink/eat it. I offended him a lot. Looking back on old journals, it strikes me now that no fiancé in the history of the world was more disliked. At night I’d pray, “Dear God, what have I done to make everyone hate me?” And all I heard back was, “Who’s everyone?”

Christian or not, it isn’t easy being a good person. When people run a stop sign, then give me the finger when I honk, I’m apoplectic, ruminating all day on what an asshole they are. If someone cheats me or slights me or makes me the subject of a lie, I brood and stew, giving away too much power to those who wish to hurt me. I aspire to be most like my father, who was always kind and courteous. Walking down the street in his later years, he would say hello to everyone and mean it. He was genuinely interested in people. I was grateful that he didn’t seem to notice women blanch when he called them “dear” or, after exchanging pleasantries, would leave someone with a “God bless you.” As his dementia grew worse, he appeared to become more and more beatific. Whether playing monopoly or eating a sandwich, he relished every moment accepting his fate with grace. As I sat beside his hospital bed and watched him pass from this world to the next, I believed he was embraced by something.

I think about my friends who have been oppressed yet still find the ability to forgive, celebrating at Baptist churches with a kind of joy I rarely see anywhere. I have learned a lot from my Black friends, and colleagues about what it means to be, if not Christian, then Christian like. I’m humbled by the love I’ve received when I probably didn’t deserve it.  

Hollywood would have you believe that Christians are either assholes or saints, and regardless of which category you fall into, you’ll suffer in the end. The assholes are hoisted on their own petard, and the saints are martyred.  I have a famous writer friend in L.A. who once said to me, “It was easier to come out as gay than Christian in Los Angeles.”

When I was seven, I saw the movie Song of Bernadette based on the true story of a young girl visited by the Virgin Mary. As a result of her miraculous visitations, Bernadette is rewarded with tuberculosis of the bone, suffers terrible pain and eventually dies—all while being persecuted by a nun who is jealous of her visions. At seven, I put two and two together. If that’s what happens to you when you’re humble and devout, then count me out. The last thing I wanted was for God or Mary or Angels to appear before me. And it wasn’t just Bernadette. Saint Afra, Saint Aggripina, Saint Basilissa, Saint Cecilia, Saint Dymphna, Saint Eurosia, Saint Susanna, Saint Juthwara, Saint Noyala, and Saint Winifred were all decapitated for their faith. To make matters worse, Faith was my middle name. What was my Mother thinking when she saddled me with a Christian moniker?  From what I could tell, since the basis of sainthood appeared to be suffering under horrible circumstances, I was eager to abandon the idea of being good altogether.  As long as I had a little larceny in me, I could stave off being burned at the stake or decapitated.  When misbehaving, my Mother would ask, “Why are you so bad?” And I would answer, “So I don’t become a saint.” I could see no situation in which becoming pious was worth it.

Back in the Vatican museum, I stood beneath the Sistine Chapel ceiling with hordes of other tourists feeling a bit like I was in purgatory waiting for judgment. Guards constantly chastised us to be quiet as we craned our necks to catch a glimpse of God. “There’s so much nudity,” I heard someone say, “God doesn’t look like that.” I was tempted to say, “It’s not a photograph. It’s an interpretation.” But I wisely kept my mouth shut. As I stared at the Delphic Sibyl, I remembered the legend: …born between man and goddess, daughter of sea monsters and an immortal nymph; she became a wandering voice that brought to the ears of men tidings of the future wrapped in dark riddles. It sounds like Sibyl might be pretty busy these days. Finally herded outside, most of the people around me had already put Michelangelo’s frescos out of mind. It was just one more thing to cross off their bucket list. Instead, their attention was now on the line-up at the Vatican pizzeria where for 10 Euros you could have a slice with cheese. 2 more Euros, and you could have water add an extra Euro and you could have it blessed.

As my time to visit St. Peter’s Basilica drew near, I lined up like a good little pilgrim to enter the “Holy Door” and passed into the atrium. I didn’t feel the presence of God there, just tourists who couldn’t resist a good selfie in front of the Pieta. Michelangelo’s sculpture masterpiece conveys the sorrow of the Virgin Mary, her right hand clutching her dead son while her left-hand falls limp at her side, resigned. I was contemplating the gesture when the woman beside me asked her friend,

“What do you suppose it means?”.

“Maybe she dropped her cellphone,” her companion quipped, and they laughed. It echoed shrilly through the chamber like hyenas. I sometimes feel the same way about women as I do about Christians. I expect them to be better and disappointed when they aren’t. I’m sure they feel the same way about me.

[jghouse-asia-pacific]

New Post has been published on https://www.jg-house.com/2020/11/11/eternal-goodbye-rome/

Eternal Goodbye: Rome

Esby looked away just for a moment from the streams of cars with the image of her face appearing before his eyes. The digital watch strapped to his left wrist showed 7:15, its round face illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun. He had 30 minutes. The road to Fiumicino, the international airport on the outskirts of Rome, would be jammed.

The garbage on the streets was piling up. He had heard about the chaos of Rome, in fact, before he had moved to the Italian capital three months earlier. His colleagues in other European capitals were fond of using a different nickname for the Eternal City: Cairo North. But now the disorder was overwhelming.

Esby fought the impulse to kneel on the sidewalk next to a clump of weeds and an empty bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water at the edge of Via Cristoforo Colombo. It was the busiest thoroughfare in Rome. He could feel the presence of the Roman drivers, only inches away from him, as they navigated their motorbikes or slightly larger cars along the streams of traffic flowing in both directions as far as the eye could see.

None of it made sense to Esby. He laughed, looking up at the sky. Life now with Julienne was different than it had been. He would see her again soon, although how soon depended on when he arrived at the airport. Only fifteen minutes before, Esby barely could remain calm in his chair as he sat at his desk at the back of the editorial team’s office holding the receiver of the telephone to his ear and listened to the dispatcher speaking in local dialect.

“A taxi,” she had said, “will arrive for you in twenty minutes.”

All week Esby had been waiting to hear those words. He was, without a doubt, excited to see Julienne. To his colleagues and also to himself, he freely admitted the fact. But at the same time, he was feeling, he realized, increasingly anxious. Rome, in many respects, was a beautiful city, despite the growing mounds of garbage. However, most of all, it was stressful. Romans, often aggressively and dramatically, seemed to pursue conflict and tension; he, in contrast, required a certain amount of peace and harmony. In Rome, he barely could get by on his own. How could he look after Julienne, prone to self-doubt and insecurity?

The sky above the highway still displayed its lighter shades of blue. To the east it revealed darker shades of purple and even streaks of black to signal the approaching night. As Esby’s eyes moved, shifting his view from the blue expanse above back down to the grey streets and buildings of the city below, his glance fell on a small green sports utility vehicle.

People on the Street

Esby watched as the vehicle detached itself from a stream of cars and pulled to the side of the wide boulevard. It came to a halt directly in front of him. Esby recognized the driver. Carlo Medrone, a production manager in Esby’s company, sat behind the steering wheel of the compact SUV. The middle-aged corpulent man rolled down the window on the passenger door.

“Ciao, bello!” Carlo shouted.

The words resonated in Esby’s head. Loud, aggressive, familiar. Esby bent his torso slightly from its upright position to make eye contact with the driver, but instead his gaze was captured and directed downward to the floor in front of the passenger seat. In the next moment, Esby’s glance shifted back upward again, detaching itself from the images of naked women in lewd poses on plain covers of various magazines on the floor and, then, fastening on Carlo’s face. As quickly as Esby had felt in the previous moment a wave of embarrassment, he now felt a sudden and genuine confusion.

The Roman’s face was impassive, almost innocent.

Then Esby recalled that Carlo’s long-time boss, a Frenchman named Daniel, had published a series of pornographic titles for many years, although he had attempted to hide their existence from Esby and his compatriots who now worked for Daniel’s newest magazines, including the latest one about buying and selling art, where Esby was managing editor.

When Esby had moved to Europe 15 months earlier to take on the role of editor, he had struggled to adapt to a new life, both inside and outside the office of the young magazine. Then, a year after he had arrived in Brussels, where he and the rest of the editorial staff initially were based, he was forced to pick up his possessions and move to Rome, where his bosses in New York and their close friend and Roman partner, Daniel, had decided to take advantage of lower labor costs and publish all magazines.

“Where are you going?” Carlo asked, speaking in his native Romanesco with its long, indecent drawl. “Do you want a ride?” Esby felt a different emotion then. Was it disdain?

“I’m going to the airport, capo,” Esby replied, pronouncing carefully the words in the Italian he had been learning to speak, although he had studied the language at the university in California for three years because of some vague, romantic notions he had long since buried along with other, painful memories. Esby doubted the older man would want to drive him such a long distance. Fiumicino occupied a grassy plot of land 25 kilometers west of Rome.

Young Woman

“Well, we’ll see each other tomorrow at the office. Ciao,” Carlo said.

Carlo shifted his corpulence in the seat, looked over his left shoulder, and waited a few moments. Then he shot his car forward. The car moved away from Esby, and he watched as it attached itself once again to the stream of cars flowing, he thought, with more urgency among the dim shadows of evening.

Esby knew, at that moment, his life would never be the same, no matter the direction of his relationship with Julienne or the success or failure of his magazine, which currently was headed toward bankruptcy. He knew he had to keep trying out new ideas and new projects. He couldn’t go back to where he started. In California, there was nothing for him, except demons he was trying to escape.

  ***

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Then came a shriek. It happened again.

Esby opened his eyes. Laughter, he realized, had come from the corridor just beyond the door to his hotel room. He was awake now. A third shriek of laughter reached his ears, this time accompanied by the sound of rapid, but not heavy, footsteps on a carpeted floor. It was a small girl, or perhaps boy, Esby decided, running down the corridor. Then he heard the sound of a door opening and closing.

“The child is inside a room now,” he said to himself. He pictured the doors, all painted a dark red, to at least ten rooms along the light brown-carpeted hallway on the 5th floor of Hotel La Rovere, just off Piazza della Rovere.

A silence ensued. Esby looked to his right at the blue numbers of the digital readout covering the face of the clock on the nightstand.

“It’s almost 10:15,” he whispered. But the morning, the first part of Saturday, the day before Easter, had passed by entirely.

“Was breakfast still being served in the restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel? If the dining room downstairs was closed, could he find a small market or café nearby where he could order a quick meal?”

“There isn’t much time,” he whispered again.

Diners

Esby raised his torso a foot off the bed, propping himself on his elbows, and looked to his left. He saw the body lying next to him, completely enclosed in a white sheet and black comforter with red stitching. Julienne, still asleep, lay on her side facing the window, the window now hidden behind a thick, green curtain overlooking the narrow, cobblestone street below. A narrow band of sunlight breaking through the point at which the two parts of the curtain came together lit up a corresponding patch of brown carpet lying between the window and Julienne’s side of the bed.

Esby stood up from his side of the bed and moved toward the bathroom next to the front door.

The moment Esby closed the door of the bathroom and turned on the light above the blue-tiled sink, scenes from the previous night came flooding back.

The airport, on a Friday night leading into Easter week-end, barely could contain the surging crowds, large numbers of travelers who either were departing for other cities or were arriving in Rome. Small units, meanwhile, of traditional, brightly costumed carabinieri or more solemn, black-uniformed military personnel roamed the congested spaces of the terminal, moving their eyes from side to side.

Esby recalled rushing through the terminal, thinking he was one hour late and expecting to find Julienne sitting on a hard, metal seat, fuming, ready to voice displeasure. But, then, he recalled, after carving a path through the crowds and reaching a designated waiting room, he had lingered for one-and-a-half hours, pacing back and forth on the hard linoleum floor until seeing at last on a monitor above his head an update indicating Julienne’s plane—Virgin Express flight 2717—had landed in Rome.

The plane had departed Brussels much later than planned. Why hadn’t Julienne called? Maybe the plane been trapped on the tarmac, unexpectedly, and Julienne couldn’t call because her cell phone didn’t have a signal inside the cabin? Maybe she had forgotten her phone?

It was almost midnight, Esby remembered, when Julienne appeared in the baggage-claim area, walking quickly and assuredly on five-inch heels pulling a small suitcase on wheels. He had wanted to take her back to the city center and check into the hotel room he had reserved. But, immediately, he realized he couldn’t.

“Let’s go find a restaurant and eat some pizza or pasta,” Julienne said upon approaching him, flashing her trademark smile and kissing him. Then she transferred the handle of her suitcase from her left hand to his right hand. “I’m hungry,” she added.

Julienne never explained either the reason the plane arrived in Rome late or why she had not called. Her phone, he noticed, was inside her purse. It was another mysterious misconnection. Something always seemed to go wrong, or she changed plans with no explanation.

***

#Europe, #Italy, #LifeCulture #Beauty, #Culture, #Love, #Rome

[shiroe-is-my-baby]

Late Night Brownies

Summary: Two married dorks drink a little too much and decide to bake at an indecent hour.

Character: Shiroe

W: self-insert, fluff

“No, babe, I think you’re supposed to put two cups.”

Leaning against the counter tap, I watched with a humorous grin as the man in front of me dumped the correct ingredients into the bowl. I winked, seeing Shiroe tap his fingers on top of the cook book I pulled out just a few minutes earlier. This was all my drunken idea for us to bake together. I had a few glasses of wine at the time, and I just wanted to do something fun. Baking had always been an idea that I’d toss up in the air. But we never really did it until tonight. Right after lots of drinking at three in the morning.

Shiroe’s eyes met my own, a smile tugging at he corners of his lips. He watched me sip the glass in my hands, savoring the last bit of wine I had left. “I thought we were supposed to be doing this together?” He asked, raising an eyebrow cutely. Running my tongue across my lips, I tasted the reminance of wine and smacked them with a loud pop. His eyes wandered my face, trailing down to my lips and back up.

I noticed that, Shiroe-bae.

I definitely noticed that.

Setting down my glass, I pushed off the counter and sauntered over to him. I playfully bumped my hip against his own, lifting my hand up to cup his cheek. My lips barely brushed against his own, seeing the way he automatically melted underneath my gaze. Our soft breaths was the only thing that could be heard for a couple small, heavy seconds.

“Your breath smells like wine,” He said, with a soft chuckle.

“It’s intoxicating, isn’t it?”

“Everything about you is intoxicating.”

I shuddered at those words, feeling the static rushing through my veins. Shiroe’s smug smile surfaced as he shifted back a bit, quickly turning the tables on me. This is why we can’t ever do anything this late at night. Especially after he and I had a couple drinks. I’ve definitely had a substantial amount more, but Shiroe had to be just a little tipsy.

He turned his attention back to the page, trying to figure out how to make these damn brownies. I laughed a little bit at his focused face, leaning over his shoulder to check out the next step. “I think you gotta mix it now,” I said, resting my chin and hands on his shoulder. Shiroe nodded in agreement, readjusting his glasses.

“You want me to do it?”

“Yeah. My hands are a bit shaky.”

“Go get something to eat while I finish this up.”

“Yes, Master Shiroe. Whatever you say,” I said, bowing slightly.

He rolled his eyes, but still had a smile on his face. He watched me trot over to the fridge, reaching in to grab a container of leftovers I had. It wasn’t anything fancy. Just some pasta I made yesterday. “Don’t judge me,” I said, scurrying over to heat it up. Shiroe chuckled at me again, eyes trailing me over.

The smell of delicious pasta and brownies was like a dream. I couldn’t wait to devour into both, but we still had to put them in the oven. While the pasta was reheated, I turned around to watch Shiroe mix the bowl and it was absolutely adorable. I couldn’t help but grin at the thoughts roaming my mind.

“You look adorable,” I said with a giggle, my arms over my shoulder, “Like a cute little housewife.”

“Thanks? Although, I doubt I’d make a good housewife.”

“You’re right. Your cooking is absolutely terrible.”

“I don’t have to know how to cook to be a good housewife.”

We both laughed, mine a little louder and harder. “You right, brah. You right,” I said in the thickest ‘bro-accent’ I could. Shiroe’s eyebrow lifted, an inward laugh choking in the back of his throat. The look on his face was definitely one for the books. The kind of look that I only see from him when I’m being a complete idiot.

“How much have you had to drink?” He asked in between laughs.

“Oh, just… a few glasses… maybe.”

“Well,” He said, setting down the bowl, “I think you’re cut off for the night.”

I pouted, hearing the loud beeping behind me to signal my food was done. Spinning on my heels, I felt my mouth watering at the thought of devouring my delicious pasta. It would taste just as good the second time. It always does. Taking out the bowl, I charged over to a seat and practically began stuffing my face.

Shiroe leaned over the table to see what else he needed to do, his eyes finding my own. The smile that formed next made my heart skip a few beats. I had a string of pasta between my lips, quickly swallowing the remnants of my food. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but Shiroe still kept that ridiculous smile on his face.

I loved that smile.

The smile of love and contentment.

“What’re you looking at, dork?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just my beautiful wife.”

My cheeks turned brighter and brighter until I felt like I was about to explode. It could have been the booze, but I was sure it was his dorky comment. I blinked, licking my lips and hanging my head over my bowl.

“Just go back to your baking,” I mumbled.

“Yes ma'am.”

He winked, and my entire body felt like it was about to shut down. How is he this cute? How has he not killed me yet with his cuteness? And how has it been so long and his cuteness still affects me like this? Shiroe smiled a little bigger and more triumphant, and I couldn’t help but smile in return.

Even when it’s at 3 A.M. I’m still completely entranced by him. I hope that we can have many more of these late nights together. Because I wouldn’t trade any of these for the whole world.