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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.

Girls With Guitars

At the end of the movie 10 Things I Hate About You (which is a rather adorable modernized version of Shakespeare’s The Taming of The Shrew), the two main characters reconcile when Patrick (played by Heath Ledger, rest in peace) gifts Kat (Julia Stiles) a Fender Strat.

"Why should I live up to other people's expectations instead of my own?" asks Kat.   INDEED.

“Why should I live up to other people’s expectations instead of my own?” asks Kat.

She accepts the gift with aplomb but tells him, “You can’t just buy me a guitar every time you screw up, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says.  “But then there’s always drums and bass and even maybe one day a tambourine.”

Well, at least the scriptwriters were intelligent enough to be realistic with their audience. The man will fuck up.  Again.  It’s a fact of life. Acknowledging it – with a dose of indulgent humor from the “shrew” – makes the character of the “shrew tamer” much more lickable.

Err…  Likable, I mean.



I was remembering that scene while scrolling through some of my favorite saved musical selections on YouTube, because the female-fronted band Letters To Cleo featured heavily in the movie, and it’s their cover of Cheap Trick’s I Want You To Want Me that accompanies the reconciliation kiss in the final scene.  Bad ReputationWith the opening scene of 10 Things featuring another female rocker – Joan Jett’s unmistakable vocals on Bad Reputation – I got to thinking about how rare it is to find such a feminine-centric soundtrack. Besides Kay Hanley (lead singer of Letters to Cleo) and Joan Jett, the movie also highlights female talents such as the bands Save Ferris and The Cardigans and soloists Jessica Riddle and Joan Armatrading.  The official soundtrack, however, is Jett-less. Which I find vastly annoying. Because without female artists like Joan Jett (and Ann and Nancy Wilson and Pat Benetar, to name a few) to pave the rocky road (pun intended) in decades past, the female artists whose work is represented on the soundtrack may well have never have had the chance for their voice to be heard.

The music industry (all genres) has always been male dominated, and Women Who Rock are few and far between.

*shaking fist*

Where art thou, femme rockers?

Oh, sure, there are female vocalists.  These days, they are pretty little studio-glammed, auto-tuned Miss Muffets who are considered “old” at age 30 and “fat” if their dress size is any higher than a 4.  (You don’t always have to be who they want you to be, you know says Kat in 10 Things.  I wish more women – regardless of their occupations – would recognize that simple fact.)  But what ever happened to girls with guitars?

My husband and I have differing opinions on why rock & rollers are a dying breed (he is admittedly qualified to argue the point), and even moreso on why there are so few females who sell music as opposed to selling sex (or rather, selling a sexualized version of their physical self).  It is a debate that would take eons to resolve, but one thing we agree on is this:  Success is born of opportunity, grit, talent, and drive.  You must have plenty of each and be willing to take the right risk(s) at the right time(s) if you are going to Make It. Running from rejection does not a star make.

“Don’t let anyone,” says Heath Ledger in 10 Things, ever make you feel like you don’t deserve what you want.”

Joan Jett made a career out of that stance, not allowing gender expectations or anyone else’s idea of What She Should Do get in the way of her dreams.  She talks about her first and only guitar lesson in an interview:

I walked in and said, “Teach me how to play rock ‘n’ roll.”  And the guy brought out sheet music and tried to teach me  On Top of Old Smoky.  That was the last lesson I ever took.  Being told that girls can’t play rock ‘n’ roll – I mean, even as a kid, it was so illogical to me – it’s like, what do you mean?  That girls can’t master the instruments?  I’m in school with girls playing cello and violin and Beethoven and Bach.  You don’t mean they can’t master the instrument.  What you mean is they’re not allowed, socially – it’s a societal thing.  You’re not allowed to play rock ‘n’ roll because rock ‘n’ roll means you’re covering Sticky Fingers. Rock ‘n’ roll means Whole Lotta Love.  You go listen to these songs and albums again and realize how dirty they sound, how much sex is dripping from them.  And that kind of stuff is very threatening.

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Runaways 1975

The Runaways lineup in late ’75 included Jackie Fox. Other bass guitarists over the years included Micki Steele, Peggy Foster, Vicki Blue, and Laurie McAllister.

Jett – who was (finally!) inducted to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year – got her start in music as a guitarist and vocalist for the band The Runaways, which she established together with drummer Sandy West.  The all-girl rock band was active from 1975-1980 and featured the talents of Lita Ford, Micki Steele (who later went on to walk like an Egyptian; the bass guitar position seemed impossible to fill for any length of time), and Cherie Currie, who were all teenagers when they started. Things were not all sunshine and roses for the band (um, helloooteenagers, I tell you!), and eventually they parted ways.

After the dissolution of The Runaways and subsequently being turned down by 23 record labels for a solo album, Jett established Blackheart Records with songwriter Kenny Laguna.  It was a move without precedent.  (Blackheart Records is, to date, the oldest indie label in the United States.)  Joan Jett and The Blackhearts went on to succeed with a string of top 40 hits, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Because she went after her dreams.

Was it easy?  No.

Nothing worth having is ever easy.

“You’ve got to fight for what you believe in,” Jett told Rolling Stone magazine.  “If you don’t try, you’ll always wonder and that’s a horrible way to live.”

I, for one, am glad she tried.  And she never stopped trying.

Because I love rock and roll.

And because…

Well, let’s just say that girls with guitars strike a chord with me.


You can expect to hear more on this topic in the future.

Do you love rock & roll?
Which women rock you?

Scientific Observation{s}: The Convalescing Male

Upon study, I have drawn the conclusion that The Convalescing Male (TCM) has much in common with The Pregnant Female (TPF) in terms of general attitude and behavior.

Bouts of excessive tiredness punctuate periods of relentless obsessiveness in both creatures, and it is wise to approach such beasts with extreme caution (and possibly a large stick).

Feeding them is dangerous business, as they are likely to bite the hand that is feeding them rather than munch the food itself.

They are good-natured except when they are snarling, and if they have concocted some hare-brained scheme for Getting Something Done, it is best to consign yourself to Doing It For Them, as there is no getting around the fact that they have no compunction about injuring themselves in the process of Reaching Their Goal.  Be prepared to rearrange furniture, deep clean the most spotless of rooms, and delouse apple trees of tent caterpillars in the name of Keeping The Peace.

It is advisable to give TCMs a wide berth.  Especially if it’s been more than 24 hours since they last showered.

No sudden movements.

Remind them of their manners (please and thank you, anyone?) at your own risk.

Do not expect anything they say to make an ounce of sense.

Don’t argue.  Just smile and nod.  And when they are placated, go about your business exactly as you please.

A word of caution, should you encounter a TCM in the future:  TCMs, like TPFs, appear to be mostly harmless…

Except they are insane.


He is propped against the pillows, slightly elevated, breathing shallowly to minimize the pain.  The rail of the bed digs into my thigh, but I stay, perched in place, to watch and wait.

We are clasped, loosely holding one another’s forearms instead of holding hands, so has not to disturb his I.V.  I am wrapped in my favorite Eeyore sweatshirt to ward off the chills that come unbidden, despite the fact that it’s not cold.  My breaths timing with his, I keep silent vigil, watching and waiting amidst the beeps and drips.  The hrrrrsht-hrrrrsht flow of oxygen becomes the bass, the beat around which the cacophonous symphony of hospital sounds is woven.  His eyes flutter behind twitching lids in counterpoint rhythm to the melody he is stroking against the inside of my arm.  Rough fingertips caress the fabric of my sweatshirt for several minutes and then abruptly stop.

He opens his eyes and studies me with brief lucidity, a puzzled expression on his brow.

This is all I need, this brief moment of clarity.  He will not remember it in the morning, but he needs to know – before he goes to sleep for the night – what has happened.  It has been a long 18 hours and while (selfishly) I want to sleep, I want much more for him to be able to sleep.  In peace.

I open my mouth to explain why he’s here, to explain what’s happened, to tell him that something simple became a bit complicated, to reassure him that everything is okay . . .

But before a single word can escape my mouth, he interrupts me.

With puzzled expression still in place and a goofy grin on his face, he starts stroking my arm again and asks the most pressing question on his mind.

“Hon…” he begins.


I am prepared with succinct answers to any question he may ask about the hows and whys, and I wait expectantly while he gathers his thoughts.

But his train of inquiry is on a different track.

“Hon,” he begins again with purpose, clearly needing needing an answer to A Very Important Question. “Hon, were you always this soft, or is it because I’m high?”

There Is A Lesson Here

Chastity is taken to extremes among Buddhist monks in Burma and Thailand, specifically in that monks (male) are not supposed to interact with women in any physical way (because women are unclean – there are basically signs outside temples that translate to “if you are a woman, keep your bloody snatch away from here”), and so even a handshake is considered taboo.  Monks will remove themselves from the path of a woman who is approaching them and step into the street to avoid running into one on a sidewalk. Eye contact is discouraged.  This is not chivalry; it is chastity, and – as in the majority of religions across the globe – this ‘women are tainted’ attitude is perpetuated culturally.

We can get into the misogyny of religiosity and cultural perpetuation of inequality another time, but for now, consider that background information, and consider the following parable in the light of all dogmatically-held views (i.e., “You’re not really __________ unless you __________.  -OR-  “You have to __________ to do __________ The Right Way).  And we all have them (think:  sex, kink, marriage, child-rearing, anything medical, relationships, writing, managing, etc), and/or have given/received chastisement as the result of them, whether we want to admit it or not.

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(paraphrased from the original translation)

Two monks were traveling together.  They walked through a forest and came upon a woman who was standing by a stream.  The woman was afraid to cross, and begged the monks to help her.

The first monk, afraid to touch the woman because she would make him unclean, clung to his chastity vow and avoided the woman entirely.  He did not go near her, and would not even look at her.  He waded across the stream and went on his way.

The second monk, who had taken the same vows as the first, approached the woman without hesitation.  Seeing her distress, he picked her up and carried her in his arms across the water.  After setting her safely on the opposite bank, he hurried on to join his companion.

The two monks walked together through the forest for several hours longer, not speaking.  Eventually the first monk turned on the second in indignation, demanding to know, “How could you do such a thing?  It is unclean!  We are not to even look at a woman, let alone touch one!  How could you have carried her in your arms like that?  It is against our precepts!”

The second monk looked the first in the eye, shrugged, and replied:  “I carried that woman for twenty paces.  You have been carrying her for ten miles.”

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I read that story (within a story) in a book I finished recently, and I suspect I will carry it with me for far longer than ten miles.



Because the Him He Was fit the Me I Used To Be like an interlocking puzzle piece, and when he said “You’re a wonderful person” he meant it.  He still does.

Because when I looked into his eyes, I saw a reflection of myself in the mirror to his soul, and I was not afraid of the darkness.  I never am, when he’s beside me.

Because he told me what he believed and the quiet calm that overtook his presence has remained ever since I said, “And I believe…”  And he believes in me.

Because when the unthinkable became probable, he did not falter.

Because he was brave enough to say YES.

Because I asked him.

Because he demonstrated his love consistently, in the small things, every day.  He still does.

Because instead of burying his passion in the minutiae, he chose to build it up in singular moments, tiny and strange, to construct a love that is bigger than any grand gesture alone could convey.

Because his grandest gesture continues to be the most selfless thing anyone has ever done for me.

Because in other ways he does not know how to be selfless.

Because he does not grasp the divergence in concept between ‘fair’ and ‘equal’.  Because before me, there was no one to show him the meaning of either.

Because in him I found the family that we each lacked alone.

Because he encourages me.

Because he is unsure.

Because he is endearing in his imperfections.

Because he believes I am beautiful, always.

Because he is beautiful to me.  Inside and out.

Because his demons do not scare me.

Because he chases mine from the night.

Because his hand in mine was enough to know he was mine.  It still is.  As is he.

Because it was unexpected.

Because I said, “Will you…” and his face lit up like the 4th of July.

Because I wanted him.  And I still do.

Because he was my confidante.

Because he was my lover.

Because he was my friend.

And if all that does not answer the Why?, then there is simply this:

Because he is the choice I continue to make, every day, even after all these years.

Because no one else comes close.