August 11, 2014
Welcome, one and all that.
Whether you're a devotee who puts the "fan" in "fantabulous" or just turning on - er, tuning in - to the Can't Get Enough blog tour, you're just in time for "Under His Watch," an excerpt from Rachel Kramer Bussel's contribution to the anthology.
I'd say I’m lucky—if I believed in luck. What I believe in is making your own luck, seeking out not a soul mate who will fulfill your every whim, but someone who will make you not only a better person, but a more fully realized version of yourself. In short, someone who will make you feel lucky every time you look at him, hear his name, think about him, touch him, someone who will make you dizzy with desire and thanking God whether you believe in a deity or not that you found him and he found you.
That's what I have in my Leonard. Leonard is nothing like the dashing playboy types I'd been with before I met him. Leonard was fifty-one, a self-made millionaire content to let the younger men and women he'd hired run his software company while he worked on his house, played elaborate games online, studied art and traveled on occasion. I was a stay-up-all-night, thirty-four-year-old bartender, more concerned with where I was going to party that night than my investment portfolio or settling down.
We were opposites on paper, but the minute we met, I felt something in me shift, from my head to my toes, down deep in my soul, my marrow, and I knew we were destined to be together.
I didn't care about the age difference, or the fact that, at six feet tall, I tower over him by four inches, without heels. I cared that when he looked at me in that way he did when he approached me shyly at a friend’s cocktail party, I felt his gaze heat up my entire body. He was sweet and polite, no games, no lines, just appreciative as he poured me a flute of champagne. I felt that heat even as I knocked back my drink, leaned down and whispered in his ear that if he was up for it, I knew a cozy little closet were I'd f*ck his brains out. He wasn't drinking, but he sputtered in shock, not used to women like me. For the record, he didn’t take me up on it just then—by now, we've f*cked in plenty of closets, but that night he simply let me do my thing, mingle and flirt and flit around the crowd, until it was time for him to help me with my coat, share a cab and a sensuous, deep kiss in the backseat and get my phone number.
Well, that's enough - the f*ck stops here.
To get it going again, get yourself a copy of Can't Get Enough.
It's a collection of prurient perfection.
Curiouser and curiouser,