Okay, so, I was cleaning the bathroom (yes, really) when I noticed the well-worn edge of a "periodical" peeking from beneath the claw-footed tub where some man had hidden it.
Ladies, I felt a mix of anger and the devilish "boys will be boys" (enough of that) as I tapped my foot, pursed my lips, thought about the understanding we have in this house that the human body is to be respected.
Sitting down on the (closed) toilet, I reached for the magazine s*omeon*e had tucked away in hopes of rendezvous later. 'This is what we've come to?' I thought. Things change--eyes rove, but in my own house, the palace, in nearly clear sight of his majestic throne!?
Child, I was stunned! The cover was so bold that even I had to look. And, boy howdy, did I come to understand the catch phrase from those swank old commercials: I read it for the articles. Articles, indeed.
Page after page of melons the likes of which no proper lady has ever seen. Some so large it took two men to hold them. Blue ribbon beauties.
Articles so clever that honey and nectar turned the pollination practices of bees to enticing come hither draw to a garden more glorious than Eden, where fruits so decadent that they must be forbidden dangled seduction, globes of succulent hope.
I felt my pulse race, rise of heat at my neck, the flushing wish of possibility as knowledge from those sacred trees rushed through me. Shouldn't I be giving him, my Adam, everything he wants, whatever he could possibly desire?
Imaginings of our harvest elicited tingling kineticism in me as I rose to find him, go to him, whisper, "We can do this--Anything you want" in his ear.
Ohhh. Oh. Ohhhh, goodness.
There it was!
And I nearly crashed, my legs having fallen asleep as I'd read every dirty secret he'd contemplated for the last month.
He'll find me here soon, when he comes for this, but I'm engrossed now, and I don't plan to share this or any other copy of PERMACULTURE ACTIVIST today.