Warning: Sentimental and Sappy with EOW On My Mind

This is going to be posted in my blog section because it has a lot of walking down memory lane. I’m tired but don’t know how to quit. Quitting leaves you with too much time inside of your own skull. The memories that are there are about people you have loved, those who loved you but you didn’t understand, and those you never could stand. These last kind of people never die and they just keep winning at Lotto. The kind of people who create shit storms and never seem to get any of it on them.

Well, fuck them. That’s the last you will hear about them here.

Now, about the good people.

Cats.

They are the best people on the planet. They love you, or don’t, solely because of some standards they have set for themselves. Those standards change. Frequently. Depending on what they can get you to do for them at the time. Once they get what they want, they go back to plopping their fuzzy little asses down in front of you so you can see that they are ignoring you.

You can’t “own” a cat. You are their staff. Whether they like it or not. If they could run a can opener and change their own cat litter, you wouldn’t be needed. Water? There’s the toilet bowl. Those are the hard-case cats.

There are those who are glad that you are their staff. They like you. Even when both of you are freaking out about weird shit. Rub their belly, scratch them behind their ears, and listen while they purr their thoughts out to you, and you feel their peace.

Women.

You women, don’t read anything into the order in which I am writing about this random shit in my head. Or at least give me a head start.

Women are complicated as fuck critters. Very high maintenance. They weigh every fucking word you say. They even give meanings you never intended to those words you spoke. Try to explain? You’re fucked. It’s just how that shit works.

Except, sisters.

Those critters are so fucking smug in knowing that they could have killed you a thousand times but didn’t. So, you owe them your life for their not killing you. They actually believe this shit. They are your best friend and your worst enemy. At the same time. Without changing gears.

You could be in a knock-down-drag-out-to-the-death battle with her, but let someone who doesn’t love you like they do chime in that she is totally right about your being a worthless POS, and all of a sudden, she’s into their ass rearranging ever major organ they were ever issued.

However, there are some sisters, both women, read into that all you want, I’m fucking toast anyway, who are related but don’t relate. Then they really do hate each other. If they do relate, then bonds between sisters, sister-to-sister, are unbreakable. Especially if they have a dumb fuck brother they had to deal with and save him from himself all of his life.

You think they will be here forever and grow old with you.

Then they aren’t. Just, aren’t. Life rolls on, and that sister that you counted on, consciously or unconsciously, to be there until the end, leaves first.

When you grew up and left home, to maybe go to the world-of-shit, you scared the fuck out of her. It never occurred to you that what you did meant so much to her. That she would worry about your sorry ass. She did though. She watched you go through life all fucking clueless and seem to just get lucky with everything. She would watch in awe as you blundered through life and managed to live, somehow. It never occurred to you that she gave a shit. She did. Big time.

None of your girlfriends or wives were every good enough for you. How could you be so fucking blind? She would give you the impression she was watching a trainwreck, you, and no matter how she tried, she was there for your dumb-as-fuck ass.

Then they are gone. Just like that. You are old enough, or just old, and you see how much they really did care for you. You can’t tell them how you feel, and how much they were appreciated. No one would understand.

No one, except the sister. To a sister who loved her sister, the death of that sister opened up her eyes and made her realize just how much she meant to her. She would want to know if anyone else on the planet, not related and expected to love her sister, realized just how wonderful the sister she lost was?

They catch wind that some dumb ass may have a clue about how wonderful her sister was. Hell, the dumb fuck even wrote about her sister. She had heard that he wrote disgusting and vile perverted things she was sure her sister would never, ever, do. She hunted his raggedy ass down.

Her and her sister invented “No Shit No Sugar” and did everything but patent that shit or copyright it. I got the feeling she wasn’t here to kill my raggedy ass.

“You wrote about what you two did?” in a tone that was kind of a question, a little or a lot of disbelief, with just a smidge of admiration, and maybe, just maybe, a whiff of “wow,” in there. “I know you!”

“Oh?” said the guy who may be getting his ass handed to him.

“She worked for you a long time ago,” she was putting the pieces together.

“We worked, TOGETHER,” I corrected her. She’s not going to kill me without getting her shit straight.

“She said you were her boss at the end,” she, Sally, aka @TrinaStarr’s Mom, aka @Dahiana’s Aunt Sally, emphasized what she knew to be the truth.

“No one ever ‘bossed’ @Lora_C,” I told her in a tone of, you-should-know-this-shit-because-she-was-your-sister.

She cocked her head a little to the side and gave me a slight, really fucking slight, grin that turned up the corner of her mouth just like Lora’s did. Even that little, slight, squint with the eyes. It must be a family thing. DD does it, too. I haven’t talked to Trina that much to know that about her and her facial expressions. I suspect that it is a family thing.

Then that throaty little half-chuckle.

Silence.

She’s dialing in my range.

Even ran her hand through the side of her hair like Lora.

She’s not sure what to say or how to follow up, or even how to start, a conversation.

I have the right to remain silent.

I’m guhnna.

Finally, ages later, “You were expecting me,” but mostly as a question but not really a statement that it came out sounding like.

“Not really,” I told her.

“You’re not surprised,” she cocked her head a little, like Lora used to do. Again, she was making an observation.

Yep, I’m bracketed and the dope is on the guns.

Silence, or maybe just quiet.

“Did you love her?” Direct fire.

“Yes,” almost as fast as she had asked.

I didn’t have to think about it. It caught her off guard, but not really. That told me something, so it was my turn to ask a question.

“How much have you read?” I asked her but she knew it was coming.

“There’s a lot,” she said softly and thoughtfully. “It’s not what I expected and neither was she and neither are you.”

“What about her not being what you, ‘expected’,” and, if you understand, it wasn’t really a question as much as it was a warning. Sister or no sister.

Body language. It says a lot. A fuck ton. With Sally, it was subtle, but not really. She was reading my reaction, too.

What we said to each other without saying anything out loud in those fractions of seconds was this, @Lora_C meant the world to us. She was the best of us and if we understood and respected this about her, then at least we agree on one thing and there is an understanding, that at least, we saw her as the beautiful human being that she was to us. Whether she was a sister and friend or a friend and lover.

We loved @Lora_C. 🌹

.

Unless it involves underage kids, or non-consensual actions, this zity.biz is not just a place to write fuck stories, or what our kink is or is not. It’s not about writing about our prowess with the opposite sex. It’s not just about the mechanics or physical interactions between people. Not about how hard you can thrust into her pussy, or whether you have your shit together in BDSM, or if you are morally right or wrong when it comes down to something between two consenting adults who want something with each other out of a mutual need or desire.

You sure can be right or wrong, and there are some that may call you out on it. The techniques are there and can be learned. There are websites with “HOW TO” for just about anything. Technical manuals. Some people get off on reading the clinical procedures and more power to them.

Clinical. Nothing really personal about clinical. It’s straightforward, procedural, and not a lot of care about the human part of the equation. Clinical doesn’t do it for me.

It’s the personal story behind the “how to fuck” or “how to suck” and how it makes the two people feel exploring it with each other. Even if it makes someone else cringe or have that need to scream out, “Just a fucking minute!” Maybe you should do it in a PM or DM and not out in the open. People will read about how what happened makes someone feel, and makes them see what needs improved or not, but it is about the human element. Not a fucking concept that can be read about in a clinical manual.

For me, zity.biz isn’t about learning from a clinical manual. I want to hear from the person how it makes them feel, and what they were thinking and feeling. The human story.

I want the human story.

.

Sally wanted that, too. So, I will be putting more of the stories I think she will like into here. That way she won’t have to join, OH PLEASE DON’T JOIN, to have somewhere I can cut and paste these for her to read.