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Life, Redheads, Frozen Waffles, And 80-Year-Old Cock Blocks…

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Not a skirt. A Kilt.

Hey kids, it’s been a while.

Blogs don’t seem to be as popular as they once were. I blame Facebook. I’m sure there are others out there who would blame Obama, but not me. I got a nice note from him just the other day telling me all about how much he used to really enjoy my blog posts and that he wished I would start blogging again.

Okay… Not really. But I’m still not blaming Obama. The man had nothing to do with it. Zuckerberg, however… him and his damnable social network… but, like always, I digress.

So, anyway… Life takes turns. Sometimes at 90 MPH, in the rain, at night, with only one headlight stuck on high beam in a torrential storm. You know, the kind of turn that has you grabbing for the “OH SHIT!” handle while simultaneously clenching your sphincter so as to not have an upholstery cleaning bill on your hands. Now, this is not to say that these “Oh shit, what the fuck, are you fucking serious!?” moments are all bad. Sometimes they are, yes, but other times they are good, and on some occasions they are beyond good.

Well, I had one of those a while back. Those of you who follow me on the aforementioned Zuckerberg Mind Sucking Social Experiment are probably already well aware of it – if not, you’re about to be.

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Mine…

In a nutshell, I – and Evil Kat – became accidentally polyamorous.

If you don’t know what that means, well, here’s the dictionary definition of polyamory:  noun 1. the philosophy or state of being in love or romantically involved with more than one person at the same time.

Now, for clarification this is NOT the same thing as an open marriage. For further clarification this is also NOT something we sought – nor are we seeking to expand our triad, nor would we be seeking this had it not happened. It was literally a case of “shit happens.” Really GOOD shit in this case, but unexpected, un-sought, and “Oh Shit” nonetheless.

Now, that said, the story of how it happened is long, involved, very innocent, a lot romantic, and a comedy of not so much errors as just “shit happening.” However, that’s not what this particular blog is about. This blog is about waffles and 80-year-old cock blocks.

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Evil Kat – Hotter than the salsa she is holding.

“So, why mention it at all?” you ask.

Easy. So the waffle story makes sense and I don’t get inundated with emails wanting to know what happened to EK, because nothing happened to her. We are still happily married – together now for almost 30 years – and crazier about one another than we were in the beginning (probably because after 30 years we’ve gotten all of the bullshit out of the way i.e. EK has me trained.) At some point in the future I will have to get around to blogging the story of how EK and Murv became EK and Murv and Dru, but not today.

And so, about those waffles…

Earlier this year I was in Florida. Not a big surprise seeing as how I travel a lot so that I can sign books and all that jazz (believe me, it’s nowhere near as glamorous as you think.) At any rate, the other redhead in my life… hell… I guess SHE needs a nickname, too… Let’s call her Wicked Dru/WD for now… anyway, WD currently lives in Florida (though she will be moving up to Missouri soon.) What with her being in Florida, and me being in Florida, and being in the same city, and attending the same festival, well… you get the idea. So there’s your setup – EK was manning the fort back here in MO, and WD and I were attending a festival and living out of a tent for a week.

Now, there’s something you need to know about her Wily Wickedness The Dru – when she sets up a camp, she sets up a camp. By that, I mean there’s a cook tent and everything. Why? Because she feeds everyone who comes by. She’s like the ultimate social hostess with the mostest at a fest. Her camp is literally THE place to be for all the fun, great conversations, singing, impromptu bardic circles, drinks, and killer chow. I kid you not. I know this from experience. Prior to becoming involved with her EK and I were frequent fliers at her camp at FPG whenever we attended, because, as I said, it was THE place to be.

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Two smokin’ hot redheads, one me. My what a lucky bastard am I…

Now that we have THAT established, back to the story.

At this particular festival we had a pair of revered attendees. A couple who, both in their 80’s, are elders in the Pagan community, and I don’t just mean chronologically. I mean they are wise folks who counsel the community and have given more to it than they have ever asked in return. So, when Dru was made aware of their attendance and that they weren’t set up with a meal plan, she stepped up to the plate (no pun intended, but I’ll take it anyway) and made sure they were fed. Hence, the waffles…

You see, waffles and bacon were the favored breakfast food of these elders, therefore frozen waffles and bacon were purchased by our Camp-n-Cook mates John and Karen, and we took turns making sure these icons of the community received sustenance whenever they needed or desired.

I know… Pretty boring so far… Well, now it gets interesting.

For various reasons, not the least of which were those involving me working my ass off around Dru’s house to repair broken sinks, septic tank caps, a ton of other things, as well as recovering a long neglected lawn from an encroaching Florida jungle (there’s another long story there in and of itself) sheer exhaustion had prevented WD and I from having any…ummm…uhhh… “slap ‘n’ tickle” time for several days.

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Also Mine…

Yes, children, we may be in our 50’s but our parts still work, and we have a hell of a lot of experience using them.

Anywho, suffice it to say, since until WD gets moved up to Missouri we don’t get to spend much time in physical proximity to one another we try to make the most of it when we are, and being sexually active adults we were both sort of Jonesing for a bit of action, if you get my drift. So, along came the morning of the fifth day of NO slap ‘n’ tickle. We’d already gone a full four days, and WD was bound and determined that we weren’t going to let it officially become five. She had already cleaned up and was wandering about the early morning campsite in a robe with a rather hot bit of lingerie beneath (when she camps she pulls out all the stops) and had already informed everyone that when I returned from the shower our tent was to remain undisturbed until such time as we reappeared. Being she is a redhead, everyone pretty much understood that she would kill them otherwise.

And so, I returned. We started toward the tent, anticipating a wild romp, or as the wordplay joke says, “f*cking in tents” sex. No more had we started to round the corner of our nylon and aluminum pole abode that Karen’s voice rang out:

“Murv, Dru, here comes [Pagan Elder] and I have a workshop to do in five minutes!”

WD wheeled around, fire in her eyes and said, “Fuck.”

“That’s the plan,” was what I WANTED to say, but one doesn’t joke with a redhead at a time like this.

We turned around and headed back to the cook tent just in time for said elder to arrive. I instantly fired up the Coleman stove and began slinging frozen waffles and pre-cooked bacon into it as fast as I could, all while WD made sure the honoree had something to drink and checked to see if he wanted one or two waffles, how many strips of bacon, etc.

frozen-waffle-taste-test_612Now, I’m here to tell you, finishing up partially cooked bacon and toasting a couple of frozen waffles really doesn’t take all that long and it’s really not that hard – unless you have a tiny, hot, seething, nuclear-tipped redhead pacing behind you and grumbling about being ridiculously horny and not at all pleased about being interrupted. Then, well, it turns into a painfully long ordeal where you are sort of in fear for your life, and if not your life perhaps your modesty as she continues under her breath about just getting it on right now and damn the torpedoes.

As if I needed to make a long story even longer, the waffles and bacon were eventually served. and the elder in question was quite grateful and gracious, thanking us effusively as always. Of course, he had ordered dine in, not take out, so we sat with him while he told us stories in between bites, all the while Dru’s size five tapped an annoyed rhythm on the sand.

Now, the story would almost have ended there (except for the good part, but I don’t blog those sorts of details), were it not for the fact that one of our camp mates, seeing me standing there with a spatula in hand as I cleaned up from the impromptu breakfast rush called out, “Hey, Murv, if you are making bacon I’ll take some.”

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WD spun around. Her hair stood on end (remember, it’s red and she has a lot of it) and green fire shot out of her eyes (they’re green, too). In a measured, guttural tone a demonic voice shot out of her face and announced, “No. You will NOT have any bacon. If you want any fucking bacon you can fucking cook it yourself.”

And, as I said, the rest of the story is not for public consumption, suffice it to say, we made it to the tent and nobody bothered us. Not a soul. And, what’s more, nobody took their life into their hands when we eventually came back out to join them. No comments, no jokes, not a peep other than, “Oh, hey. How’s it going.”

More to come…

Murv

2016 M. R. Sellars