I buy these yesterday with the intention of getting off during or after working on my short story (a second’s already formed in my head); alas, sexy yoga and a prolonged bout of singing fail to release the RDA of hormones needed to make my girly bits throb.

There they sit on my dresser, the package unopened, with me gazing at them longingly each time I walk by. Will I ever gaze at a man with this longing? Not the desperate kind directed at a package of batteries. A coy, cock-tease longing across the dining table that promises to deliver but not just yet.

So tonight G treats Mom and me to dinner at MFVJ. Excellent food, company, and live jazz music. They perform “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” for me, but it’s a sultry (how else can it be sung?) “Killing Me Softly” that sparks blood pulsing down low. Then I start envisioning the other story: I’m performing Hermione’s trial scene monologue (the first of two) from Winter’s Tale.

Her husband, King Leontes, accuses her of adultery with his best friend, King Polixenes without a shred of evidence. The damning thought simply occurs and grows stronger within, overpowering reason. Throughout the play, Hermione remains steadfast, the very picture of a faithful, loving woman of grace (oft-repeated in reference to her).

Recently (including tonight), I wonder how to stage it so that she sounds sincere and baffled by the King’s behavior, while an “invisible” Polixenes undresses and makes love to her–much to her delight. And that sets off the throbbing bits sensation.

Trust me, having my mom here trumps getting off. Still, what I wouldn’t give for a second bedroom tonight.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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