IN WHICH I EXPERIENCE LOVE AMONG THE RUINS.
Alexandros grabbed me by the hand and hurried me away from the scene of the carnage. His old restaurant friend would be dealing with any fallout, Zorba being a relative.
We sped off into the night. The testosterone-amping incident had raised the voltage on our libidos, equally, intensifying our hot Mars/Venus opposition and deliciously goosing the sexual magnetism between us to a mind — and other — blowing level.
(The saga of Aydan continues with the next post.)
IN WHICH I CONSIDER THE IMPORTANCE OF YOU BEING YOUR OWN BIGGEST FAN.
February 14th, Valentine’s Day — the day we celebrate love — don’t forget, dear reader, the great love of your life is, in fact, you. You simply can’t love others unless you’ve given that love first to yourself.
Consider the flight attendant’s instructions prior to takeoff: If the oxygen mask drops, first affix yours, then that of your child. This seems almost counter-intuitive to a loving parent; however, using common sense, what good are you to your loved one if you’re not, yourself, one hundred percent?
Similarly, when you have a full pitcher of water, you are able to share, and generously. When you are filled to the brim with self-love, you have an abundance of love to give abundantly to others.
Society has trained us to expect certain Hallmark hallmarks for holidays, and Valentine’s Day is no exception. The “shoulds” around Valentine’s Day involve being wined and dined, and receiving such staples as love notes, roses, chocolates, jewelry, and sexy lingerie. I, Mrs. Hot, intend to celebrate myself exactly so.
I’ll start the day with drawing a large heart on my bathroom mirror with my Chanel Pirate Red lipstick, and writing inside it, “I love you!” I’ll have the vase ready for the red roses I ordered for myself, and after lovingly arranging them, I’ll dress in a drop-dead chic ensemble and take myself to lunch at my favorite French restaurant, the most elegant and pretty in New York, La Grenouille.
I’ll have a massage, manicure and pedicure, then after, shop for chocolate truffles at Jacques Torres, buy something slinky at La Perla and treat myself to a glittery trinket — it need not be Cartier — but it must be divinely frivolous and indulgent. Then, I’ll take time to do something I love, but seldom have enough time for. In my case, that might be taking a bellydance class, then a long soak in a fragrant tub, and curling up to read a classic novel.
Others’ idea of self-love and indulgence will be totally different. But whatever that is, it’s all good. Even if the budget only allows for a Big Mac, Hershey’s bar, and a splurge at K-Mart, on this day there’s neither (unnecessary) work, nor dieting, nor deprivation of any kind.
I’m spoiling and celebrating my hot self: my uniqueness, my fabulousness, my femininity, my body, my sensuality, my worthiness to be loved. Whatever comes, then, as a Valentine salute from those Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Loves in my life, is simply the icing on the red velvet cake that is ME.
Because, whether those men come through or not, this Goddess has the hottest date ever, scheduled — a Three-Way between Me, Myself and I.
Yours truly,
IN WHICH I’M SMASHED, AND I MAKE SURE SOME PLATES ARE, TOO.
Zorba took my hand and led me onto the dance floor. I had no idea what to do, but three other Greek men appeared to help me. With hands on each other’s shoulders, they formed a line and invited me to get in the middle, where I just followed their simple grapevine steps and bends. READ MORE
IN WHICH THERE WILL BE TENTACLES OF ONE KIND OR ANOTHER.
After our initial taxi dance, Alexandros and I hadn’t gone any further. I didn’t see him the first couple days — he had to spend time with his family. I did my own sightseeing, including a review of the local talent. Since I go for all things Mediterranean, I was enjoying the hot feast, and looked forward to sampling it all — and not just the food.
IN WHICH WE’RE GOING TO ENJOY AN EARLY SPRING.
When Apollo had left me at the airport, mere seconds later I’d begun writing the next chapter of my vacation in Greece.
My new conquest, smokin’ hot Alexandros — who my girls had generously introduced me to in the security line — chatted with me extensively while we waited to board the plane, another delayed one (I must admit, I’m beginning to enjoy flight delays …). He was an archaeologist and a professor from Crete who taught in Athens, while supervising digs on a couple islands. He’d come home for vacation. READ MORE
IN WHICH MY DROPPED DRAWERS DRAW SOME DROPPED JAWS.
Apollo thought it was funny I cared so much about getting my underwear back. But I, Mrs. Hot, am just a tad superstitious, and these were among my luckiest lingerie. The hot pink next to my skin seemed to effortlessly attract other things hot, possibly pink and, moreover, hard, to that same area. And this last time I’d worn them, I’d attracted a helicopter invasion! READ MORE
IN WHICH CAUTION — AND OTHER THINGS, ARE THROWN TO THE WIND.
Apparently, the helicopter had strayed from its assignment over the protests at the Greek parliament building, in another part of Athens. But now here it was, suddenly upon Apollo and me — naked and banging on an outdoor terrace “lunge” chair. READ MORE
IN WHICH I MYSELF BECOME THE TOURIST TRAP.
As we lay under the stars, heartthrob, thirty-eight-year-old Apollo had been busy making a five digit contribution to my donations box, and making me greedy for more. All of a sudden he said commandingly, his black eyes flashing, “I want these panties off. I want your dress off. Everything off NOW.” READ MORE
IN WHICH I DETERMINE LUNGE CHAIRS TO BE THE BEST OUTDOOR FURNITURE EVER.
I cancelled my hotel and stayed in Athens with Apollo for a few days of sightseeing and other, more hot ‘n’ horizontal pleasures — no chrome faucets digging into my lower back, this time, but in a big, comfy bed — while he did his business from his big marble office near Syntagma Square. The garden terrace of his sprawling penthouse apartment had a perfect view of the Acropolis. READ MORE
IN WHICH I SEND IN THE REINFORCEMENTS.
There’s never a time to turn over a new leaf like the New Year. But I purposely waited to post on this annual opportunity the second week into it. Because if you are human, most likely by now, all or some of your resolutions have already gone the way of eight-track tapes, video stores and MySpace. Never a better time, then, to call in the cavalry in the guise of me, your ever-optimistic and encouraging cheerleader, Mrs.Hot.
I'm a gorgeous goddess of a certain age who transformed from shot to hot, a feminist playa refusing to go into the sunset without a Mojito in one hand and a tumescent, throbbing ... well, you know what I mean ... in the other. Because sixty IS the new forty or even thirty I will not be dying with my boots on, but with my Jimmy Choo stilettos, thank you very much. I, a sexually liberated woman, stand defiantly against ageism and sexism, adamantly asserting not only is it possible to maintain and even enhance our sexual allure as we ripen, we women have the same right as men to romp in the hay with playmates decades younger.