All right, I generally don’t clutter up this place with recipes, but this one is stunning. I’ve never tasted anything like it, and it must be tried. It must.

Lime Cilantro Chicken Soup

2 tbs olive oil
2 cloves garlic
1 onion, diced
2 tbs chili powder
2 chicken breasts, diced to finger-nail size
2 c corn
1 bunch cilantro
4 c chicken broth
1 can diced tomato
1/2 c lime juice, give or take
sour cream to taste

Heat the oil and toss in the onion and garlic. In about three minutes the onions are soft; add the chili powder and stir it up, wait about another two minutes. Add the chicken breasts and wait, you guessed it, about two minutes.

Tie off about half the bunch of cilantro with a string, staple, whatever is handy, and throw the bundle into the pot. Weigh the cilantro down with the corn and tomatoes, and bring the mixture to a boil. Cover, drop heat to simmer, and let it cook for ten minutes. Spend the time chopping the rest of the cilantro.

Remove the cilantro bundle, throw in the chopped cilantro, and add about 1/2 c of lime juice or an entire plastic lime full of juice. Heat back up to scalding and serve.

Elapsed time, about 40 minutes. It serves up well with a dollop of sour cream in the middle, some corn bread on the side, Buffy on the telly, and snugglies. Mmmmm. And it has the approval of at least two redheads.

Last night I was home and Lothario came home with AJ, a very nice thing that hasn’t happened in my presence for a while. I was pleased. Lothario had a nice time harassing me as the absentee roommate, wondering aloud what I was doing with my time and smirking to indicate he thought it to be, ah, physically intimate. Given Bridgette’s need for her private life to stay private, I did not confirm or deny.

AJ, on the other hand, just out and asked. When I stated that I’m not talking about it, to anyone, even Lothario, she continued to push. And push. And then made noise that indicated she already knows who, what, and how much. Well. It isn’t brain surgery, exactly, to work the equation: I’m only home when Bridgette’s at work.

I mean, duh.

In related news, Zelda dropped me an email last night:

“Subj: your girlfriend
I saw you with her yesterday. It was kinda hard
I just thought that I would tell ya incase I get wierd
zelda”

I’ve spoken with Bridgette, told her that I fully expect that she’ll do as she sees fit if Zelda does Zelda things, and that I like that and wouldn’t change it, but ask a favor. The favor: please tell me that Zelda is being Zelda-ish as soon as possible because I’d like to quash it early and hard. I have specifically stated to Zelda that I do not wish to mix her and my private life, and if she violates that I intend to be quite unyieldingly stern, bordering on harsh. If she has issues with this, she needs to take to a different person, a shrink, someone. Not me. Not Bridgette. Not the kids.

We’ll see.

As an interesting twist, it is entirely possible that Zelda saw me with Ally, not Bridgette. That would be a reason that Zelda did not mention Bridgette by name; she doesn’t know Ally.

My little brother, who has been in warm-up status in Texas in preparation for shipping to Iraq, has received stand-down orders, and will return home to be a National Guardsman again on the 12th of May.

I cannot begin to convey how pleased I am, nor the myriad flavors of that pleasure, that he is not to see a third war zone. Two was enough. He’s almost grown up; I’d like to keep him for a while.

So. I went into this weekend intending to:

1. Relax
2. Breathe
3. Slow down
4. Not focus on climax
5. Shift focus to the penultimate pleasures

And the results were immediate. Very immediate.

Friday night produced 3.5 consecutive hours of whoopie, then two hours of sleep with semi-conscious caresses that reproduced consciousness and another hour of whoopie. Then food and another hour. Then we went all through Saturday until evening, and made do with only an hour, then five hours of sleep and another hour. Sunday had us apart for several hours, but the evening was pleasant and resulted in food-laden stupor that put us to sleep for an hour…followed by unconscious caresses and then 2.5 hours.

Ten hours out of the last 60. Bridgette’s legs and hips hurt and shake. My back is a bit tight. Both of us are sore, both of us are tired, tired, tired, although she’s been free to sleep today and may be fine now.

Wow.

I’m learning –fast– to talk, to focus, to do this and that, to read Bridgette better (and she’s already easy to read).

In other facets, we are saying things like “I think I’ll keep you” and “I’ll miss you,” things that are sort of scary for Bridgette to say. I am optimistic on this whole “friends with benefits”/lovers dichotomy working out well.

And I’m very, very pleased that I’m not nonfunctioning sexually. Boy, am I not nonfunctioning.

Sore though.
Sample dialogue after dinner:

Bridgette: *yawn*
Mnarra: Supergirl has a full tummy and is sleepy now. Kryptonite in the chicken. I am a nefarious evil genius, and you have fallen into my cunning plan.

[they repair off to bed. sleep things are done, which results in spooning and caressing and then more]

B: I thought we were going to sleep.
M: Evil genius, remember? Under my power and all that.
B: [moan] Are you going to torture me?
M: [moves hands. She moans] For hours.

[Things go for about an hour]

B: [panting] There’s something you should know.
M: [smug smile, moving on and in and around] Mm?
B: [flips Mnarra onto his back, hands clasped against the bed] The kryptonite has worn off.
M: [grinning broadly] Foiled again. Do the heroes torture?
B: What do you think? [nibble -- bite]
M: [inarticulate]

Good weekend. I want more. It’s been at least eight hours since the last time.

Pleasant weekend. Gardened. Made pixie playground, complete with two shrubberies and a path, a cheerful buddha seated along the path amongst the miniature palms and the lilliputian fuschia and about six other pin-prick sized flowers, and placed it in the dining room. Much giggling. Cooked, ate, climbed hills, consorted with my offspring, and babysat Ed after his latest marathon.

A good weekend. I did no writing; I left that to ‘Deen, who is picking up the karmic slack in fine fashion.

I have been considering the ways of yoni and lingham, and how best to enjoy their dance. Things have been going swimmingly, I have no complaints, Bridgette has been flushed and relaxed, obviously things are acceptable, at least in this, the first flush of contact. But I have noticed something disquieting; where I never used to, I have an, ah, endurance issue. Not a dramatic one, but noticeable. Nothing that prevents things from moving to fruition, but I don’t want mere orgasm. I want plurals. I want an hour of balance on the brink. I want, in fact, to have my blood pressure siesmically throbbing through me until movement is needless, just riding the pulse of contraction and release drags both she and I up the sensory peak again and again.

Hey, a man is only as good as his goals.

My first thought was lack of sleep was my major obstacle(as I was in severe rest deprivation when we began), but since then I am coming (snicker) to think other thoughts.

There are some things one can do to test for, ah, uncontrollable eruptive tendancies, and the easiest is to drink much water and then, in the course of micturation, stop the flow dead several times. The more quickly the flow is stopped, and with the least supportive movement from buttocks, abdomen, and thighs, the more likely that the muscles that can help control expulsion of fluids (ahem) are in good shape. Incidentally, tone and strength in these muscles greatly increases the likelihood for extended or multiple orgasm.

No problem. The tools are present and in good order. So what the hell?

I reviewed the past week, closely. I considered what we’ve been doing, what I haven’t done before –

–ah. I have a lover that is rather different from my ex-wife. She is fit, sightly, communicates readily about intimate issues, is vocal and mobile and did I mention fit? Let’s concentrate on fit for a moment. Entering Zelda was very like entering a bowl of oatmeal; there was warmth and moisture, but beyond contact with the mucous membranes, not much in the way of pressure or texture. I have had little basis for comparison, so this slipped by me for years without notice. This week, I’ve had enough opportunity to observe that, with Bridgette, I can feel ridges of muscle inside as I pass them, and the guage and strength of her is like entering a clenched fist, gloved in velvet and soaked in honey.

(Pardon me while I break for a moment to gaze into the distance, mouth slightly open, breath moving my shoulders up and down deeply.)

Okay. So I’m basically covering terrain that I am not accustomed to, and having heightened reactions because of that. I am a virgin for sexually fit, openly erotic women. I can cope with that, I think; I would think it to be a training issue.

I’ve just finished reading up on some tantric disciplines that might be useful, specifically breathing, concentrating on giving instead of the rapid thrust of taking, and perhaps some variation in direction of movement, that is, in-out-repeat is especially conducive to ejaculation, where side-wise and circular movements are less so.

And, well. I keep finding myself, after an hour or so of slow, heated building, suddenly overwhelmed with the desparate need to have hands, face, groin, neck, all engaged at one time, no coordination, and the sudden falter in step kicks me out of consciousness and I’m lost to the spinal impetus of thrust and spend…and once that road is stepped on, however briefly, the journey to that end is begun, whither one will or no.

So. Add “maintain consciousness of movement and attention” to the list. Why do I never undertake things with just one action item?