plotting it out in my mind.
searching the web for the right vintage photo.
seeing the May pole dance as an inspired method of bondage.
you position me against the pole's long shaft
back against the phallic center
hands tied behind the giant rod.
you've assembled a team of kinky bloggers.
ribbons in hand, they weave their way around the pole,
binding me in a multi-colored prison,
my vague-eyed face peeping up above the basket-woven chain.
their work done, they feast on grapes,
on chocolate and apples and wine,
then wander off in two's and three's
passing the night in the deep greenwood
leaving me bound in the meadow at dusk
laughing at what is to come.
there's a reason it's called BELTane...
poor helpless kitten...
except i'm not a kitten.
i'm an aging cat.
and sooner or later the enchantment will fall
and the truth will be revealed.
in my head i'm 37.
there's that question:
if you didn't know how old you were,
how old would you say you are?
and for a while i've said 37.
even before meeting the philosopher
who is, in fact, 37.
here i was tonight, scurrying to get ready for bed. washing up the dishes so i could head for the bedroom and remove my clothes and climb into bed to write my May Day post since, as you may remember, i must be naked to blog. i go to the sink. i turn on the hot water to run until it is warm. i pull on my yellow rubber gloves.
and i make the mistake of letting my eyes alight on the skin of my arm above the end of the glove.
little tiny wrinkles.
my arm looks OLD!!!
my skin keeps getting OLDER!!!!!
my hair may still be naturally red - hell, it's maybe even a little brighter than the philosopher's. but there are these tiny little wrinkles on the inside of my arm, just below my elbow, and by the time he finishes the Damn Dissertation and allows himself to see me again i'll be a wrinkled old crone and he'll take one look and say "BLECH!"
kinda hard to keep the fantasies going then...
not to mention reality...
ok, maybe it's just hormones.
and maybe it's that May Day down here turned out damp and rainy.
just as well i'm no longer a Morris dancer
hauling myself out of bed to dance up the dawn.
(actually, it was pretty cold and grey when we did that at Aberystwyth Castle. but it was still pretty amazing.)
> > > > > > > >
and at this point in my writing, the philosopher called.
and he laughed at my fears.
and turned them into a scene.
he loves to take advantage of my neuroses.
such a creative, sadistic, loving and evil master he is.
and i should stop worrying that he will discard me for an unblemished model.
i'm such a lucky kitten.
Happy May Day, you all.
and to quote Rudyard Kipling:
Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,
Or he would call it a sin;
But we have been out in the woods all night,
A-conjuring Summer in!