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*This* is a sticky post. (Keep comments about the stickiness of *your* post to yourself, please.) It was the first post I wrote on this blog space and it’s a permanent fixture on my home page for two reasons: (1) It clearly outlines my rules (please read them if you haven’t already), and (2) It helps a very specific group of people find me.

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Of a new blog…


Because of my Exodus from the Blogland I formerly called home.  (A.F.F. anyone?  Beuller?  Beuller?  Anyone…?  Beuller…?  Feverpitch60 has left the building…)

So.  Genesis because of Exodus.

Perhaps you were thinking along the line of Leviticus?  Deuteronomy?  Numbers?

Think again.  ;-)

There will be no commandments, but there will indeed be RULES.  And while I can’t promise to stay on topic (sex, love, gardening, pet ownership…one thing leads to another, I’m afraid…and all topics eventually lead back to sex ~ it’s a hazard of being a certain age, I think), I can promise that there will be…erm…language…and photos (if I can figure out how to upload them) and occasional glimpses at my mind, body (yes, I’m an exhibitionist), and soul.  Oh!  And my funny bone.  :)

I’d like to say all are welcome.  But really, you should be over 18.  And you will have to adhere to the rules.

Oh dear, you are thinking, with all this talk of rules…  Is she a (gulp) Domme?

Yes!  (Insert evil laugh and whip-cracking noise here.)

Well, actually…

No.  Not really.  I mean…

Let’s save this discussion for another time, shall we?  ;)  The reason for the rules is more along the lines of preventative maintenance.  I learned the…hard way (heh)…on my previous blog that internet anonymity can sometimes bring out the worst in people.

So without further ado…


1.  I am a PERSON.  Not an OBJECT.  Treat me as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

2.  While I’m usually pretty fun-loving and don’t take things too seriously, I am still a REAL PERSON with REAL FEELINGS.  Treat me as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

3.  While I may talk about sex on this blog, that does not give you the right to treat me like a sex worker.  I am a WOMAN.  I am MARRIED to a REAL PERSON with REAL FEELINGS.  Respect us as such.  (Or you will not be welcome here.)

Also, don’t steal stuff. Creative Commons Attribution License applies. Read that, and this, before you borrow from me.

These rules apply to ALL interactions and exchanges, including but not limited to blog comments and other bitland conversations.  Anyone who feels they cannot follow these rules is free to leave at any time.  Deliberate ignorance of these rules will result in banishment from the Land of Fever.

Mrs. Fever has spoken.

So it has been written; so it shall be done.


He sends me a photo of baby smooth cheeks turned upward by a half-smile from soft seductive lips, and recalling the beard that formerly framed his face, a reminiscence stirs. A memory we have not yet made – tender and sharp, spun from longing and trust – gathers in gossamer strands, forming a clear picture in my mind’s eye.

Soaped skin and blade.

“I think I would like that,” he says.

And I smile, counting the days.


It’ll be a close shave.


When my thighs shake more fiercely than my ragged breaths,

When my nipples ache, dark with the throb of my heartbeat, and my hips are painted with the bruised colors of your fingertip grip,

When my whole body trembles at your touch and I whimper at the whisper of your lips,

When I am spent and sated from the dance of your tongue, the tease of your teeth, the demand of your fingers,

When the wet of your mouth has drenched us both and the slightest shiver of air leaves its traces in goosebumps on my skin,

When I have taken (been given) all the pleasure you think I can,

There is only one thing I need from you, love.

Only one thing (pleasepleaseplease):








Bright flashes of un-illumination spark against the night like memories, and through the cricket serenade I cannot recall what I thought to forget.

Rhapsody in blu(rr)e(d) reminiscence strikes an atonal chord.

[Roads {less} traveled need no light; my feet can find their way in the dark. I know this route by rote heart.]

Some things will always be familiar no matter how stark the change, though the glow – fleetingly lustrous – will forever be obscure.

“You can’t go home again,” said Thomas Wolfe, and it is not the place to which he refers.

I drive down dusty roads under moonlit fog, catching glimpses of my past, flaring against midnight ink.

Nostalgia in noctiluca noir.

It is the witching hour.

And in this moment, I am incandescent.

Kiss Me

Deep and slow, hot and hard, soft and sweet.

Press your lips against my dimples, brush them across my temple.  Feather them over my brow.  Sweep them past my eyelids and feel my lashes tickle your chin.


Let me feel the graze of your teeth, the gentle murmur at the base of my throat, the urgent nip at my lobes.

Learn the creases and valleys of my complexion; the scar in my eyebrow, the freckle at the end of my nose, the laugh lines at the corners of my eyes are yours to explore.



Touch my lips with your fingertips.  Run your fingers through my hair.  Stroke the back of your hand over my cheek.  Tilt my head, meet my gaze, hold my face…

And taste.



The temperature is climbing already this morning, in a hurry to reach its high.  Smotch is outside being a Good Steward Of The Land, and I am…  Not.

I sit on the couch under the cool caress of the ceiling fan, reveling in the touch of the breeze along tingling skin.  I hear the hitched breath sigh of the screen door opening and barely glance at the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood, focusing only on preventing myself from overheating.

My husband is a reptile.  He’s perfectly content in 100 degree heat.

I am not.

It has to be over 95°F for him to even consider taking his shirt off, yet he is panting despite the “balmy” 88 degree surroundings.  Warm from exertion, the fine sweat on his brow belies a state of antagonized befuddlement.

Something is wrong, I think distractedly, only to be interrupted from my thoughts by his urgent summons.

“Hon?” he inquires to get my attention, confused concern infusing his intonation.

I can tell from the cadence of his voice and the impatient movements of his limbs disturbing the atmosphere that yes, indeed:  Something Is Wrong.  But it’s all I can do to slit my eyes open against the sweltering air and not glare.  “Mmmm?” is my only response.

He takes a deep breath.  “Hon…” he starts with exasperation.

Oh, good grief.

I sit up more straightly against the cushions and breathe slowly, raising a sardonic brow as I give him my full attention.  This must be important.  {‘Important’ is relative; terminal crisis or minor nuisance?  Tomayto, Tomahta.}  Did the deer get the rest of the lettuce plants?, I wonder.  Or perhaps that little brown bunny finally ate the huge pickle that we haven’t picked.

Oh, dear.  He’s running his hands through his hair.  Never a good sign.  Maybe something really is wrong.  Something a normal person (i.e., a person who is NOT Master Gardener McSmotch) would consider ‘wrong’, that is.

“Out with it,” I say.  Whatever it is, it can’t be all that bad.  And getting worked up over anything on a hot day is, quite frankly, something Other People do.  SO not my thing.

He sighs.

Then, gesticulating in a way that would make any Italian mother proud:

“Hon, I can’t get my hose to squirt!”




. . . Looooong bewildered pause . . .




“Uhmmm…  I’ve heard you can see a doctor for that…”


I have words, miniscule and humongous, hiding in closets and hanging from ceilings in the maze corridors of my mind.  I pull them out and dust them off, like lost treasures from an antique attic, admiring their structure with nostalgic remembrance before tucking them back inside the overflowing locked chests from which they were removed.  Words like dodecahedron and Constantinople, limpet and wastrel; words full of tongue on teeth and bite on lips.  Words that feel far too good in one’s mouth to share indiscriminately.


They roust me in the night like restless lovers seeking comfortable positions, nestling in together against their neuron blankets, cozily settling back into sleep even while keeping me awake.  Words with sharp edges and lean lines, lush curves and pillowed flesh.


They wander sometimes, my woolly flock of verbiage, and I attempt to shepherd them back – at least to the very tip of my tongue – so as not to lose them to the wolves of ether. (It doesn’t always work.  A bleating vocabulary is bound to be devoured by fiercer language, or – at the very least – strand itself on cliffs of ineptitude once in a while.)

Occasionally a word arrives at the last minute, breathless from running rebelliously about, and shows up in the nick of time for answering Important Questions with an exclamation point.


They are my constant companions, my linguistic menagerie.  Palaver and chatter and prattle and clack, confabulation and conversation and colloquy and communion, repartee, observation, plaudits and tête-à-tête…  I pet and cosset and groom and herd the hairy multitude into some semblance of obedience.  (Even as I acknowledge that no tiger can truly be tamed and that elephants have a place in some rooms.)

But sometimes…

Sometimes their acquiescence is as yielding as a deep-rooted weed, stubbornly entrenched in the fertile soil of my imagination.  And, like me, they endure flood and drought, heat and freeze; they wilt and crisp and are torn from the clay in which they are so comfortably ensconced, but they will germinate again in the driest firmament.


“Semantics,” they say.

Ah, but ‘they’ don’t understand.




I have words.