Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.


It took her hours of searching but finally she found it, a sexy scarlet satin corset with black lace trim.  She was thrilled, and  paired it with red skimpy panties and black hose to finish the salacious outfit. 

Excitedly the purchase was made, and early that evening she carefully dressed, donning her black patent heels for the extra touch, then waited anxiously for his return home.  He walked in the door, took off his coat and smiled, then remarked –


“Cute – but you shouldn’t spend your money on that stuff.  You don’t need it.”


They had arranged to meet at one of their regular haunts, a small, intimate out of the way place that served inexpensive but flavorful food.  She hadn’t seen him in several days and couldn’t wait to chat and drink and smile and laugh, then leave together hand in hand.  She arrived to find him already seated, chatting to a waitress.  The girl was young, fresh faced and freshly pretty, with corn colored hair – wearing too much skin.

Shrouded by an odd uncomfortable feeling so strong as to be almost visible, cloaking her like a ill-fitting shawl, she approached him – and the bonny wee waitress.

“Hi – am I late?” she asked, praying her eyes did not reflect her anxious insecurity, hoping for words of comforting reassurance.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he replied, glancing up at her, then shifting his gaze back to the pretty little blonde, added,  “Mindy here has been keeping me company.”


She sat, feeling like an intruder. 

As I think back over the moments in my past, when careless, thoughtless comments traced stinging paper cuts across my heart, or reckless words left sharp pin pricks in their wake, at the time I wondered what I might have done to deserve such a lack of consideration.

But it wasn’t about me.  It was born from that enigmatic, indefinable lack of confidence that some men possess…

Sitting in the first class section of the Air France jumbo jet, they fastened their seat belts in readiness for take-off.  The Parisian flight attendants bustled about, offering drinks and newspapers, the slamming of small galley doors resounding through the cabin.  A tall  attendant leaned forward offering a tray of cocktails, her red-lipsticked mouth breaking into a smile, showing perfect, white even teeth. 


“Why is it that all you french women are so darn attractive?” he asked, grinning his best wicked grin as he removed a glass from the tray.


There is no good response to the paper cuts and pin pricks, but given enough of them, they link, forming a deep painful gash that leaves an ugly scar and is not quickly forgotten.

The only footnote – each was in a vanilla relationship.  Makes one ponder…