Blame
29 January, 2000
Blame it on the red wine.
Debbie's happy. She's bopping around in the living room, channel hopping, listening to music. "There was black gospel music on earlier Mike, it was so cool!"
Blame it on the wet, windy night, beating showers of rain against the windows.
Debbie's in love. She came in earlier, as I was working, and kissed me on the lips. And once again. Full, soft, luscious kisses. I tasted traces of red wine as she murmured, "you're wonderful."
Blame on the lateness of the hour and how much work we've been doing all day.
Debbie's pleased. She saw what I'd been doing, a mock-up for a potential client, building on ideas we'd been thinking on all day. "I'd hire you to do our site", she said, "except I think it's called nepotism."
Blame it, hell, blame it on the moon we can't see, or the look in my eyes, or the stirring we both feel.
Debbie's aroused. She thrust her hips out at me, and rubbed up against me, and traced a line across my face with her finger.
Sometimes blame is a good thing …