Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Not Enough #14

As Alice continued to shake her head no and beg for some sort of intermission, Amalia's eyes opened wide and her nostrils flared, anger erupting from deep within her. "No? No?!?!? You tepid little slut, there is no NO for you. You do what I tell you when I tell you to do it." And I watched as Amalia's left hand grabbed Alice's hair and pulled back, forcing her to stand tall, then taller, forcing Alice's feet to scrabble on the carpet for traction, bending Alice's head back over her shoulder, compelling her to stand up straight, as her right arm slid up from its position of support until it travelled up to Alice's neck, and reached around to grasp her own left shoulder. Her left hand snaked down and dug itself into Alice's wet slit, her fingers curling sideways to cover as much of her slit as possible, moving slowly at first. Her right knee slid forward under Alice's butt, forcing Alice to open her legs and almost to "present" her vagina to me.

Amalia turned her head to the left, her lips buried in Alice's right ear, tonguing the delicate lobes and canals of her outer ear even as she tightened her arm and constricted the airflow, drawing tighter and tighter around Alice's neck. Alice's eyes opened wider in shock and fear, her speechless acknowledgment of the total loss of control and total surrender that she was feeling. I still remained frozen, sinking deeper on my haunches, my cock erect and bobbing before me, precum oozing once again from my slit.

Amalia's lips began to move slightly, and I strained to hear what she murmurred in Alice's ear, as her voice shrank to a whisper. The breath noises that Alice had been making disappeared, and she paid total attention to the voice in her ear, as if her very life depended on it, and perhaps it did. "You...Don't...Say...No...To...Me! This isn't a game, certainly not for you. You have no choices here, no options." And she hiked Alice's body higher off the ground, tightening her grip, forcing Alice to fight for every breath as her face became redder and redder. "This isn't about you, or what you want. Do you understand? Do...You...Understand?" And Alice shook her head in agreement, struggling to make a positive sound, whispering a "yes".

Amalia released her hold on Alice's neck, and went back to support her by putting an arm across her chest at armpit level, her left hand still strumming madly at Alice's cunt for a moment or two, then removing all support as Alice tumbled to the ground.

"Jerk him off, and this time make sure he cums in your hand."

Monday, December 28, 2009

The Bad News

About a month ago, I posted something about Her older sister and her medical difficulties, thinking that She and I had the full picture and understood what the problems were.
We were ever so wrong, and it has made the holiday season difficult for both Her and for me. As it turns out, Her sister has Alzheimer's, a particularly tragic diagnosis inasmuch as Her sister is a brilliant scientist and mathematician who works for the National Institute of Health in DC, and is the thing that she dreaded most in all of the numerous possibilities of illnesses. She'll be treated at Johns Hopkins, evidently the best place for Alzheimer's patients, and is scheduled for a full diagnostic panel on Thursday, to determine the extent and progress of the disease. The outcome can never be good, only less bad. We also know that it is somewhat hereditary, and having a sibling with the disease makes Her more prone than otherwise.
As much as I dislike the sister and the way she treated Her, I can't help but feel heartbroken at what I know will be an ever progressing downward slide , a cruel and heartless way to end one's life.
It's made posting about anything else in my personal life somewhat probmatic, but I will be back soon, or soon enough.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Is The Economy Improving on Main Street?

Sometimes, the best indicators of how much the economy is improving aren't the numbers and pecentages coming out of Washington, but rather then tenor of the local the local mom and pop stores are doing.
The corner restaurant down the block from me was hit hard by the economic downturn, and one of the ways they tried to stimulate business was a BYOB policy---seven days a week, bring your own wine, no corkage fees. At the end of the summer, they dialed back the policy to Monday through Thursday, and I recently noticed that this inducement was only available Monday and Tuesday.
A smaller glimmer of hope perhaps.

Monday, December 7, 2009

A Misstep by Her

Two operative facts here:
1) She and I have made great strides in general during the last six months, and in communicating specifically.
2) We are grandparents, and have been for more than five years, first a granddaughter who is quick, bright, beautiful, a girl who understood sarcasm before she was three, and is sharp with people without being cruel. She can be called The Beauty, because she is. And then there's The Boy, born in February, always quick to smile, talking a mile a minute, trying hard to say words and express his thoughts. God help us when he gets started, because he truly has a lot to say.
In October, I travelled to the high country in Ecuador, trekking up and down dormant and not so dormant volcanoes. I brought back presents for The Beauty and for The Boy, more things for her than for him---a purse, some volcanic rocks, hand knit gloves, a peasant blouse. For the Boy, just a pair of yellow gloves, also hand knit. And I was supposed to give them yesterday, during a visit.
She went into the gift bag, and removed the peasant blouse, because it didn't have a hem at the bottom, and the gloves, because they were yellow and meant for a girl. She told me this less than 15 minutes before they all arrived, and said she did it so that I wouldn't embarrass myself.
Rather than start the battle royale which is now brewing, I capitulated, and gave them what was left in the bag. There was no room or time for discussion yesterday.
This was a terrible thing that she did, bad in its concept, bad in its timing, bad in its overall effect. It diminished the presents and diminished me, whether anybody knew it or not yesterday afternoon. It was the worst thing she could have done, and it was done in the worst possible way, short of taking the gifts away after I gave them.
This will undo much of the goodwill and understanding that we've developed over the last year, no matter what discussions we have tonight and what resolution comes out.
This is bad, very bad, very very bad.

Monday, November 30, 2009


She and I watch a fair amount of television---no reality shows, mostly police procedurals and medical soap operas of the evening variety. Invariably, on a medical show, a surgical candidate goes south with heart stoppage, the OR staff zotzes the patient once or twice, after someone declaims "Patient in V-Tach", and another voice declaims "Normal sinus rhythm." And that's what this post is about.
As I've said from time to time, She is the middle sister of three, a child of an alchoholic father and an abused mother. Her older sister, known to us as The Wicked Witch of The West, was the valedictorian in high school, the cheerleader, the "everything" that She wasn't, She who went out with motorcycle gangs from Polishtown and belched out load at the dinner table. And so She bore the brunt of all the disapproval from the entire family, especially from Her older sister.
Fast forward to the present, where Her sister no longer speaks to her, because She has the audacity to speak with her nephew (known as The Golden Boy, son of the Witch) after mother and son had quarrelled. On a visit to her house about a year ago by both sisters, even the youngest could see who mean and abusive the older was.And so for the last eight months, She and I have had woefully little information about her, except to know that she hadn't been feeling well and was undergoing some tests (her husband, aka Peter Pan, divulges nothing ).
Last Tuesday, before Thanksgiving (to which we had invited the entire family, and to which she never even responded), we found out that she had suffered a seizure, was unconscious for five minutes, was hospitalized, and "not doing well", in some local third rate medical center. Initial test revealed no stroke, no Alzheimer's, no senility, in short nothing to indicate why she had passed out---oh, and did I mention that within the last month, while in traffic on the Capitol Beltway, she had stopped her car in a daze and just wandered off?
Friday, it was relayed to us that she was suffering from Sick Sinus Syndrome, a condition where not enough oxygen is pumped from the heart to the brain, resulting in all the erratic behavior. And so, we are left to wonder, which have gone on for almost a year, a result of this medical issue, or is she just as mean and vindictive as she's been her entire life?
Stay tuned.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Interlude: The Real Amalia

Longer ago than I care to remember, there was a real Amalia. It was during a time when young people still believed in gurus and avatars, when there was always someone cooler or hipper than you were, someone to be followed and studied, learned from. And so it was with Amalia...I had just met Her, and Amalia worked in the same research lab that She did, a seductive and manipulative woman, mysterious in her ways and connections, seemingly disdainful of us and our relationship, until we included her.
For almost a year, she dominated us and every aspect of our lives, holding us entirely and completely in her thrall. We totally surrendered ourselves to her domination and direction, I trying hard to fit such a dominant woman into a life that now included Her, and She becoming ever more submissive, forgetting how to think for Herself and how to make Her own decisions. We saw Amalia separately and as a couple, always deferring to her wisdom and judgements, gradually at first and then more and more, allowing her to control almost all aspects of our lives.
We were told how and where to live and love, given specific directions on how to experiment sexually with each other, what buttons to push and what avenues to explore. We were a compliant and complicit couple, She the middle daughter of an alcoholic father and an abused mother, always obedient, I besotted with Her and overwhelmed by the strength of Amalia.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Not Enough #13

I stood poised in the doorway, knowing that crossing the threshold and re-entering the room was more than just a physical manifestation, and that once I went back into the room I went back into the vortex we all three had entered...Debra stood with her hands at her sides, her shoulders slumped down, her eyes downcast, a vacant stare on her face, looking every inch a defeated ragdoll, lost yet again in her own faraway world. Amalia now stood behind her, hands raised to Debra's breasts, gripping Debra's nipples between the thumb and middle finger of each hand, rolling the nipples back and forth between the fingers until they became stiff. She lifted each breast by the nipple, and I could see the fluttering of Debra's heart, Debra who was now no longer Debra, but who was morphing into Alice, a new person created by Amalia.

"Plug that thing in and hold it against her clit...let's see just how long it takes her to cum." And so I extended the long cord to the nearest outlet and knelt in front of Alice's vagina, the dyed blue hairs now drenched in fluid, her cuntlips now engorged and slick with her arousal. I held the head of the vibrator flush up against her, moving it around in little circles, trying to match the rotation of the hips in front of me. Alice now exhaled deeply, and emitted a slight moan, the tempo of her breathing increasing, her mouth open and her tongue working itself back and forth across her lower lip, her discreet little noises now cascading on top of one another in rhythm to the circling of the vibrator, the wetness now starting to shine at the tops of her thighs.

"Please, she asked..."Please what?" "Please, can I cum, just a little?"

There was only silence for long seconds, ten seconds, fifteen seconds, as the vibrator hummed away and as Alice sank deeper into her own arousal...then finally, "Cum right now, little girl," and I watched as waves of contractions rippled through her belly, her chest and shoulders shrugging several times quickly, then she sagged back against Amalia.

She had always told me that when she came, the sensations immediately afterward were too intense to bear, and she needed to separate. But I could see the evil smile on Amalia's lips, as she looked me straight in the eye.

"Make her cum again," she said, and Alice just tried to moan her dissent and disapproval.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


And in the time I was trekking, two of my favorite blogs seem to have disappeared---Jane Not Plain and Thursday's Child.
Any clues as to where they went??? The former is just gone, the latter temporarily unavailable.

A Little Travelling Music, Ray

I haven't posted in almost a month...much of my disposable energy has gone to being stressed about being hounded by a disgruntled client who threatens, on a daily basis, to sue me for malpractice and take me before the state boards. Couple that with the angst involved in getting ready to travel and it has been all I can do to keep my head above water.

Tomorrow I leave for two weeks trekking in the volcano region outside of Quito, Ecuador, travelling without Her but with an organized group, almost all of whom will be younger than me, and will look upon me with mixture of curiosity at the old guy trying to keep up and amazement at the fact that I'm sooo much cooler than an old guy should be. The trek means two weeks of relative quiet, minimal ambient noise, time for reflection and regeneration, and just getting high (altitude-wise).

Say a prayer for me, as these trips always have some element of danger. I plan to be back just after Halloween.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * *
OK, I meant to post the above just before I left, but the franticness of departure meant that it stayed as a draft, at least until now.
I'm back after two weeks at serious altitude (when I departed, I looked up at the screen in the airplane that tracks altitude, distance, etc., and wondered how the plane could climb so fast, only to remember that I was starting at about 8500 feet.) The trek was harder than I had planned on, and I submitted only about half the volcanoes, although I did get good altitude on all of them, including Chimborazo, which is the highest mountain on the planet, despite being only about 20,000 feet, owing to the curvature of the earth. I made nice new friends, mostly Brits, had lots of personal thoughts and relative quiet for two weeks.
One interesting thing musically...I didn't take an ipod and so had no music other than what was stuck in my head. And so, when I've come back and started up the ipod again for the gym, it's as though everything was in HD. I'm hearing things in the music that I never heard before, and with greater clarity. I've retained some of the benefits of being at altitude for two weeks, and can manage better on the treadmill and stairmaster.
I've thought a lot about postings for here over the two weeks, and just need to find the time to write...when you're self-employed, nobody does the work for you when you're away from the office, and so catchup has been a bitch.
The next trip is with Her, either to Barcelona/Bilbao or Tunisia/Paris. My next trek is not until 2011, but I'm looking at the NYC Marathon again, after an absence of 15 years.
And can someone explain to me why Jackson Browne is soooooo stuck in my head, Here Come Those Tears, The Pretender, In The Shape Of A Heart.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009


I know that the combined effects of spellcheck and of a growing population where English is not the primary language have caused spelling to become a lost art. I think that it always used to be that sign painters knew how to spell, but the DIY world has also caused this skill set to erode.
Witness the following orthographical missteps:
The florist on the corner sells panzys, marry golds, and for the fall something he views as cock's comb.
The local nail salon now features a special from Monday through Wednesday---manicure and padacure for $35.
The local lumberyard/woodworking store lists, among their products a quantity of sadles for sale, and I'm thinking they meant saddles for your door/threshhold.
And yes, I did just run spellcheck before posting, jic.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Not Enough #12

And so I watched and waited, knowing that the night would only get darker and more violent as we all three slid down a slippery slope. We all remained motionless, Debra wide-eyed in the wake of being slapped across the face, I gazing down at my softening cock and the small pool of cum on the floor, Amalia grinning the churlish grin, ever the Cheshire cat standing between two dumbstruck statues. And then she reached up, her left hand entwined in Debra's hair, gripping it hard, then obviously harder, as Debra gasped at the new level of discomfort. Amalia pulled the handful of hair close to her mouth, bringing Debra's head along with it at an awkward angle, causing her to tip to the side and quickly become off balance.

She whispered into Debra's ear, "Clean him up," a short command, as her left hand continued to travel downward toward the floor, now dragging Debra with her, crouching almost to the ground and planting Debra's chin right on the floor. I could see and sense her discomfort and pain, her neck bent almost straight back, and tried to adjust my kneeling posture to accommodate her mouth as it formed that familiar ring around the very head of my cock. I could feel her suckle on it like a nursing child, her head trapped in its clumsy location by Amalia's tight grip on her hair. She was allowed to pull her head back slightly, leaving her little pink tongue protruding from between her lips. "Alice, Fuck the slit of his cock with your tongue, and clean him inside as well as outside" was the next command, and Debra strove to comply, rolling up the sides of her tongue to make it as narrow as possible, trying to cram the tip inside the head of my cock.

Amalia looked up at me, the grin starting to become a sneer. "Why don't you go to the bedroom and bring back the vibrator? It's time for someone else to cum." And I stood there dumbfounded yet again, because she didn't own a vibrator. "Didn't know she had one, did you? Tell him where you hide the Wand." And, armed with the knowledge of Debra's secret hiding place, and the shame and embarrassment of not knowing that she had been masturbating herself to the orgasms that we weren't sharing, I made my way to the bedroom to retrieve the toy.

Friday, September 18, 2009


We read the NY Times over the quick breakfast that we share together, She gets the front, I get the business/sports, we kick the Arts back and forth. And so this morning, when She stuck the front of the paper over my cereal, folded to the editorial page (which I only read if She finds something She thinks I should read) I left the business travel and moved on to the editorial about Serena.

Everyone should read this editorial and learn from it...learn how not to behave, learn how not to make amends, learn how to point their children in the exact opposite direction. The phrases that jumped out at me in block caps included I WAS IN THE MOMENT (as an excuse for not remembering what she said), I'M MOVING ON (as a way of leaving the event behind her) and I JUST WANT TO GIVE HER A GREAT OLD HUG (as if that would make everything as it was). In a sport that prides itself in its civility, where the audience is told to be quiet and they obey, in a sport where there is absolute silence during serving, the image of a player raging at an official and threatening to shove a tennis ball down her fucking throat (good lip reader that I am) is unconscionable. And to learn that whatever additional punishment against her may be mitigated due to fear of loss of television viewership is deplorable.

The outburst during President Obama's speech last week initiated this past week of uncivility, and the Congressman who blurted out the comment about lying should be punished as severely as possible. There doesn't need to be any reference to the race card here, as President Carter posited. This was just misbehavior and disrespect of an individual and his office.

And then there's Kanye West's bizarre stepping on poor Taylor Swift's toes, in his inability to understand why someone else's choice of music might be different, let alone better, than his.

All in all, a sad week for civility and manners and decorum.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Was I Supposed To Look---redux

A while back, I posed the question as to whether I was supposed to look at the bodies of women as they moved back and forth in the gym...the women in black tights, bright colored leotards over the tights, crotch bound with tiny bright colored strings caught between their buttcheeks., whether women with deep cleavage and exposed boobs wanted to be ogled and checked out and admired.
And the response was a resounding YES!!
And so I was shocked this morning, as I was walking down the street to my garage. A woman approached me, still dressed for summer despite the cool weather in the NYC morning. She had on a blouse with a very deep V, her boobs were large, propped up, and jiggled as she walked towards me.
And I looked, first at her tits and then at her face.
And she mouthed the words "Fuck You," as she walked by.
Did I miss something here? Was I not supposed to stare and admire what was on display? Was the display meant for someone, but not for me? Was I rude for looking even though she was generous in her showing herself off?
Sometimes I'm soooo confused.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Go Back To Whever You Came From

For better and for worse, the summer is coming to an's cooler, drier, the light has changed.
One of the people I sit on the beach with day after day is P, a staunch Republican from a family of Democrats, the anomaly who nobody ever understood, a states rights, me first guy. His attitude about the South American day laborers who have populated our community for the past several years is to just deport them all, and send them back to where they came from, and that this is one way to fix the health care system. I try to remind him that it is those very people who do all the work that nobody else wants to do, the lawn mowing and landscaping, the butt end hod carrying in the construction work, the dishwashers in the restaurants.
But this post isn't about him, or them.
We walk everywhere in New York City, and this morning, while waiting for the light to turn green on a side street, I watched as an SUV lumbered through the intersection, just slowly enough to keep the sedan behind it from making the light. The sedan drive leaned his head out the window, and screamed out "Go back to Boston", and I turned to see the plate on the SUV, which of course was from Massachusetts. And then I turned back to the sedan, to see just where he came from, and lo and behold, a Jersey driver, notoriously the worst. And it was all I could do to restrain myself, as I laughed to myself, from hollering out to him to go back to New Jersey.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Paying Rent

She has long been bullied and abused by Her older sister, a cold distant person who hides behind the supposed mask of her bipolar disorder...the manifestations of which are an inability to edit her comments and criticisms, her need to be always right, and the fact that she views anyone not agreeing with her and her behavior as being "disloyal" to her.
We had dinner last night with Gayle and her husband, Gayle of the Playing With Old Friends posts of last July and August. Despite past histories and alienations, She and Gayle has become good friends yet again, trading on a history that goes back to grade school, the knowledge of one another that transcends the need for explanation and backstory.
And so, last night, as She related the tale of her older sister and her mean spirited treatment, Gayle reminded her that she has been treating Her this way since they were children, and had treated Gayle the same way. And then she capsulized what I have been saying for years:
"Forget her. She's been taking up space in your mind for years and not paying rent."

Friday, August 28, 2009

The Comeback

I've been in a bad place the last few weeks. I've been threatened professionally and it's caused me to shut down every which way...I haven't been working, haven't been reaching out to friends and colleagues for help, She and I have moved the gearshift to neutral, I've been in avoidance with almost everything because I wasn't dealing with my professional difficulties.
I still haven't resolved the situation, but at least I've taken a step or two forward, and instead of napping in the afternoons, I'm back to working, even on the projects I didn't want to know about. I sang Wednesday evening for the first time since the end of June, and was able to hold my own (no wicked pun intended, you filthy minded folk), at least until my voice gave out in the last half hour.

Perhaps I really was ready for summer to be over. It breaks my heart in some way, but perhaps it's time for "back to school", which is another whole post.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

The Light Changes

I've never hidden the fact that I'm a slut for the beach, and will do anything to get there...well, almost anything. I've spoken of how God looked after me when I first met Her, as she grew up in a seaside town, no summer camps, no enrichment programs, just go to the beach and come home for dinner. And how God looked after me when Her mother passed, and we went shopping for a house of our own, steering us away from from the house with too much land for us to use and toward a home on a quiet side street that was, as they say in the nursery tale, "just right."
And so, sitting on the beach weekend after weekend, and vacation after vacation, I've made some acquaintances, not serious friends, just folks to stand at the edge of the surf and while away the hours, admiring the surf and the break of the wave and the ever changing collection of "inventory" the ocean brings in with every wave and movement.
Jack is a good 10 years older than me, with a full shock of white hair and the endless patience for a day at the beach. He retired years ago before he was 55, the beneficiary of a buyout package at some major insurance company. He invested wisely, and has never looked back. A few years ago, as we stood at the edge of the surf, he remarked that the summer was over, and I asked him how he could say that, as it was only the first week in August. He turned to me and explained how the light had changed as it hit the water. The sun was positioned differently in the sky. It wasn't bad, just different.
And although I agreed with him at the time, I never truly understood the change in the light.
Until yesterday.
Granted that it IS the end of August. But yesterday was a typical summer day in New York City, much the same as we had all last week, close to or up to 90, heavy humidity, a stay inside air conditioner day. But as I went out to the post office, I was struck by how different the light was from the week before, how much lighter and thinner it was (poor words to describe the quality of light, but I'm a musician, not and artist). Even at that relatively high temperature, I could see the end of summer just around the corner, and with it the end of short pants, flip flops, the openness of having nothing to do, the return to prime time television. In spite of the fact that boobs abound and the streets are rife with the cleavage that hot weather brings, it's only a matter of time until we're all covered from head to foot, wrapped in jackets and coats, longing for the return of the lazy hazy days of summer, which I will miss this year more than ever, even as I recognize that this summer has been difficult for me on so many fronts.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The Boy And His Book

Three months ago I posted about one of those wonderful days when everything went just right...the day The Boy participated in the commencement exercises from grad school. Yesterday his bound dissertation arrived in the mail, and I opened it to the acknowledgment section, where he recognized everyone that helped him along the long hard road to completion.
But this needs a bit of a backstory first.
We had always read books to him, bedtime stories, books during the day, books at night, from the time he had been able to concentrate on what he was hearing. The first nighttime book was Good Night Moon, with laminated pages for those lunging hands. As the years went on, the books became more sophisticated, but always age appropriate. Anyway, we were standing on the subway platform sometime during the Christmas season, going shopping somewhere for presents. He was 4 years two months old, and as we waited for the downtown train, he asked me "What does 'come home to red' mean?". And I asked him where he was getting the question from, and he pointed across the station. On the uptown side was a billboard for Johnny Walker Red. And I knew that at a very early age, he knew how to read, and had been doing it for some time, asking me the question only because he didn't understand the billboard.
The acknowledgment thanks everyone that ever walked in shoe leather, but here's the part I liked best, and I quote:
"My parents...always encouraged me to read and think about whatever my interests and passions led me towards, even (and perhaps especially) when those interests and passions included the back of the cereal box or the billboards in the subway station. That faith and support underlies this project in more ways than one."
That's my Boy, thanking me in the privatest way that he knew, harking back to the very beginning.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Exit Music

Back in the day, I worked for Bill Graham in New York City...not Billy Graham, but Bill Graham the rock impresario of the '60s. He was and remains a guiding force for me, someone who always knew the difference between good and evil, always recognized the the right way to do something, and he could elicit your opinion in such a way as to make you think you were a trusted advisor. And you were.

He produced weekly rock concerts, Friday and Saturday nights, 8PM and 11:30, three acts to every show, uncanny quality at every turn, week in and week out. The jobs were at an escalating level, from usher to ticket taker to box office.

I was teaching school all the time I worked for him, and so getting up and getting psyched every Friday and Saturday night after a full work week required effort. Part of getting dressed and ready for the show was my exit music. It was Gimme Some Lovin' by The Spencer Davis Group, fronted by Stevie Winwood.

Five years later, with seemingly no professional experience, I found myself on the road with Alice Cooper and Suzi Quattro, working as the tour accountant and assistant costume manager. Suzi opened the show, and then the roadies did the set change. There was house music during the set change, usually Supertramp or Average White Band. But we always knew when the change was finished by the start of Elton John's The Bitch Is Back, our signal to finish laying out the dancers costumes and find our places onstage.

Each of these songs sits on my ipod, and my heart involuntarily beats a little faster each time one of them comes on. Old habits die very hard sometimes

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Not Enough #11

Debra moved her feet further apart, forcing herself to come into a modified squat, her arms dangling at her sides, her cunt mostly bald and fully exposed, quickly obeying the command given to her, her shoulders still slumped in some sort of abject surrender, never once raising her head to look either one of us in the eye. "Now you, Sir Lancelot, lick." And I settled down onto my haunches, moving almost as quickly as Debra had, my will to do anything else seemingly taken away from me. I found that her legs were spread wide enough so that I could just fit my shoulders between her knees. It was an difficult stance for her to maintain, and yet she didn't protest the awkward posture.
I moved my head closer to her pussy, forming my lips into a ring, as I located her clit and ever so gently began to vibrate it by moving my tongue in and out against it, eagerly finding the sensitive area and knowing that I found it by the soft groan that escaped her lips. The woman, who I now know as Amalia, stood up, the sheet falling away from her breasts, her nipples puffy in excitement, the tips erect. She still wore a pair of sheer boypants, her dark pubes showing through against the whisper thin black nylon, a small stain of wetness showing that she was joining us in being aroused by what she was creating.
She came around the bed, standing beside us, watching, inspecting, making certain that I was licking Debra off adroitly, Debra now beginning to buck her hips back and forth as she gave into to my tongue. I abandoned the licking and just started to suck her clit, now wildly erect, standing up like a tiny cock, Debra now moaning in rhythm to her hip thrusts, stirred on by my random licking as her hips receded and pushed forward, almost fucking my mouth with her clit, my own cock now wildly erect as well, drooling with precum as I joined Debra in being lost to the surrender.
Amalia reached over and took her left nipple between her thumb and first two fingers, squeezing hard and pulling downward, forcing Debra to bend forward at the waist, making her moan with the sudden sharp pain. "You're not to cum until I tell you you can. You understand that, don't you?" she hissed into Debra's ear, barely loud enough for me to hear. Her question elicited no response, Debra being too far gone in her own private lust, the pain at her nipple just driving her further forward into her own personal playground of sensation. Neither one of us was conscious of her movement, as she stood behind me.
Until Amalia slapped her hard across the face, causing her to rock to one side, her palm and fingers almost imprinted on Debra's left cheek. "You don't cum unless I tell you to cum. Your orgasms belong to me."
And I suddenly understood that I didn't know if she was talking to me or to Debra or to both of us, but I was in big trouble, as I felt my cock jerk once or twice, my sperm spilling gently on the floor.

Thursday, July 23, 2009


My blog is two years old today, and as always I thank the few and faithful who read my posts. I thank the readers who no longer post, the commenters, the nice selectors who occasionally pick a post of mine for wider dissemination in fleshbot or some other location. Thank you for your patience, thank you for your understanding, thank you for your continued visits.
Oh shit, just thanks.

The Curse Of Being An Accountant or Shortchanged #3

The chronic curse of being an accountant is that you remember all sequenced numbers---old phone numbers, license plates, house numbers, ID numbers...sometimes you don't remember what or who the numbers belong to or why they're important. But they all stay with you. I once had occasion to call someone who I hadn't spoken with in at least forty years, and the only way I could get past his secretary and prove my legitimacy was to run his old phone number for him.

A more specific curse comes at the end of dinner out with friends, after cocktails and several bottles of wine, when the bill comes and it has to be divided three or four ways, and they always look to me for a dollar amount, and I'm three sheets to the wind. But hey, I'm the accountant.

Yesterday I went into the retail section of one of my favorite restaurants to buy some food for dinner. I ordered a piece of chicken al mattone, rigatoni primavera, a loaf of bread, cookies...OK, remember this is New York---the bill came to almost 50 bucks (it did suffice for two meals for She and I). The chicken and the pasta are taxable here, the bread and cookies me, I know it's arcane, but that's sales tax in the Big Apple, and the bread was $7 and the cookies $12 (remember, it's New York). My point is that I was charged too much.

And once again, I should have said something and did not.


Every male reading this blog knows that there are things about women that men just don't know, and we NEVER find those things out. There's an upside to being of either sex---men think with their dicks first and foremost, but also perform extraordinary feats of strength and endurance. Women sometimes tend to get cranky every 28 days, but can cum ad infinitum and they tend to be better cooks and bakers than men do (tend to, not an absolute rule). Men tend to be open books, women have secrets that men never find out about. We never ever ever get clued in, and perhaps that's alright...nobody needs to know everything.
Last night, while watching tv, an ad for Dannon Activia came out, emceed by Jamie Lee Curtis, and it's part of a current ad campaign that I've seen, mock interviews with women of all ages. The idea behind the product is that it helps you to your normal regularity, and that if you eat Activia, you won't be constipated. The ads only feature women.
Did I miss something here? Is this a women only problem? Is it associated with menstruation? Do women wait and not go to the bathroom when they need to?
Can someone help me out here? I'm truly mystified.

Earworm-The Swingle Singers, A Capella Mozart

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The Object of Lust

I can see her weekends at the beach, and perhaps for the entire month of August. She always arrives with a deep tan, the exact antithesis of everything that turns me on. She is tall, close to six feet tall, and well muscled, always wearing a string bikini that reveals far more than it covers. She has the small breasts of an athlete, and has occasionally mentioned that she either trains or participates in triathlons. She is definitely built for speed and not for comfort. Her mouth is large and wide, and she has thicker lips. Her voice is loud and boisterous and deep, her language full of "fuck this" and "screw him". She is tattooed and may well be pierced in places I can't see. She has the intellectual sophistication of a teenager and cannot seemingly carry on a conversation for more than a few minutes. She is not young by any means, the single mother of three children mostly ignored, at least at the beach when I see her. We've never exchanged anything more than passing greetings for the last I don't know how many years.
She is the object of my lust summer after summer, the one that I watch from behind the dark glasses.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Shortchanged #2

Back in the day, when dinosaurs did indeed roam the earth, if you worked as a cashier in a retail location of any sort, you needed to know how to make registers didn't yet have the option of punching in the amount tendered. Whether it was a grocery store, gas station, coffee shop, you needed to be able to ring up the sale and mentally do the arithmetic to make change if necessary.

All this changed many years ago, when McDonald's became one of the first chains to put in cash registers that had the +/- feature that enabled salespeople to just hit the button and calculate the change, thereby insuring that neither the store nor the customer was shortchanged.

I have a few clients that pay me in cash rather than by check, and so sometimes I'll make purchases using actual greenbacks. Twice in the last few weeks I've received less change that I was supposed to get, coincidentally each time from a butcher, different stores each time. Each time it was a difference in coins, receiving 25 cents instead of 75 cents, or something like that. The amounts aren't large, but I'm wondering if, each time, it was a conscious mistake, just carelessness, or something else.

And each time I said nothing...I wonder what that says about me in these situations.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Not Enough #10

I was mute, my gaze riveted on Debra's now flame colored pubes, as she parted her legs, putting her right hand on her pubic bone just above the remaining hairs. I could see her push down hard, causing her cuntlips to separate and forcing her clit to stand up even taller than it was before. She was shiny with the wetness of arousal, and the sight of her made my breath come faster, my throat constricting slightly in the excitement of seeing her present herself to me on the command of another. My cock jumped involuntarily, fully extended, and I could see the precum begin to ooze from the slit.
"Do you like it?" she asked again, and it suddenly seemed terribly important for me to give the right answer in the right way. Barely able to speak from the excitement I was feeling, I nodded my head once or twice, barely whispering my assent.
"Spread your knees wider...make room for him. He's going to lick you dry, aren't you?"

Shortchanged 1

I can remember the very first time I realized it was happening, the meaningful short measurement...I was buying lumber almost twenty years ago to put a couple of shelves into a pantry closet in an apartment that we had just moved into...I went to the local lumber yard and gave in my measurements and the cutter spent about ten minutes explaining to me how all of the large sheets ALWAYS come short in one dimension, but I really was getting the square footage that I ordered.
Then, years ago, on a trip to Anguilla, we discovered Vic's Popcorn in large bags, which have shrunk from 8 ounces to 5.5 to 4.5, the paper outer sack remaining the same size, the inner foil sleeve always becoming smaller and smaller.
The next time it happened when I noticed was when the price of coffee spiked several years ago, and a can of coffee, always one pound, suddenly held only 14 ounces. Then a pint of ice cream only contained 14 ounces, although the cost was the same. Haagan Dasz (sp??)tried to soften the blow locally, running specials so that the buyers might not notice in the ecstasy of cost savings.
During the past week, She finally found just the right shade of blue to paint the last small bedroom, and purchase a gallon...except it wasn't a full gallon, just 3 quarts and 14/16s, not the full four quarts.
I'm not stupid, I understand just what's happening. But it doesn't make me feel any better about it.

Modele B

It was purchased in London, long ago enough so that the currency was still "pasayde," as the slang used to go...pounds, shillings, pence, in a second hand shop in Battersea, a long tube ride to what I thought was the edge of the city. It was ridden back to the Marble Arch area, seeming to find its own way through the oddly named streets and lanes of London proper, guarding me from the right hand drive traffic, its gears constantly slipping back to the highest, causing me to jerk unmercifully, straining on the smallest cog. And then it was parked and stowed away for three weeks in Paris, while I shepherded a group of teenagers through Florence and Greece, as it waited for me patiently in the Gare de l'Est of yore.
A Cinelli Modele B, serial #2698. It was a bargain at less than 30 pounds sterling, with a luggage carrier included, handlebar shifters (considered racy at the time), equipped exactly the way I had wanted it to be, despite being a secondhand rose...Campagnolo in the front, Simplex on the back, pale blue, the stuff that dreams are made of. The frame was a bit long for me, but I learned to adjust my sitting position to accommodate the extra length. The frame had, I believed, actually been built by Cinelli himself, in his workshop underneath the track in Milan. I rode it throughout the east coast, from Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard through the Amish country of Pennsylvania, periodically repairing and overhauling it depending on how and when I used it.
And then my kid sister gave me her Bianchi, with racing wheels, sexy pedals, etc., etc., and my beloved Cinelli languished in the basement...the Bianchi was a bit too small for me, but once again I learned to adjust, all the time not really loving it, but appreciating the difference between the sleek Bianchi and my gaspipe Cinelli. The racing tires became too much of a pain to deal with constantly, and so I just stopped riding.
This spring I made the effort to resurrect the love of my life, but my mechanic was kind yet firm in telling me that he would rather break my heart than my pocketbook, that I would need a second mortgage to bring my Big Blue back to life. And so the Cinelli has stayed in the basement, until this weekend, when I will put it out against a traffic sign, unchained, knowing that a local day laborer will claim it, do the best he can to make it operable, and be in possession of a means of conveyance to and from work, whether it be construction or farmwork.
And some day I'll see the Cinelli being ridden on the local roads, and know that it still lives. I'll buy another bike, a brand new bike, one that will serve me well.
But right now, I'm just a bit sad at the decision to let the Cinelli go, one of the few things in my life that predated Her, one of the things that stretched back to when I was young and carefree.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Not Enough

Go back to May22nd, and read it there.

Monday, June 15, 2009

The Ta-Tas

I'm a sucker for big breasts (ok, bad choice of words) and all my friends know it. My friend s knows about it, and rags me all the time when I start to consider women who are less generously endowed. And as I look at my blogroll here, I realize that many of the women have big boobs, I mean really big boobs, the kind of frontage where you wind up looking at their chests when you're talking to them, rather than their faces.
About a year ago I went to lunch with Tess, the Urban Gypsy, and it was all I could do not to jump into her cleavage. And she knew it, I know she did, because every once in a while I'd slip, and I'd wind up talking to her cleavage, catch myself and look up. And she'd just smirk.
I train in the gym every weekday morning, and the woman on the treadmill next to me today didn't have big boobs. But she wasn't wearing a bra either, and it was heavenly to watch her smallish boobs bounce up and down in rhythm to her cadence.
My first serious girlfriend in high school had softball size breasts, and my first serious older woman had boobs that were even bigger, so much more than a handful that I was constantly lost in them, having her sit up and dangle them one by one into my waiting mouth, smothering my with her huge tits, the round aureole being well over 3" across.
Springtime and summer are my favorite times of the year, and not only because I can get to the beach. It's the time when every woman in NYC figures out that she has a set of ta-tas just itching to be on display, and it's time to show skin.
Every woman has figured this out, even Her. She's lately started to sport cleavage, wear the occasional half bra that allows for some bounce. She's still withholding in the time She'll allow me to suck on her nipples, always being the one to stop, to brush my mouth away.
But it's something.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

"Oh Lord, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood"

I'm usually fairly precise and direct in both my speech patterns and my thought patterns, and so the following two misunderstandings gave me great smiles:
At dinner on Tuesday, viviane mentioned that she had had a house guest visiting her last weekend to keep her cat company while she was away at Shibaricon. I asked who stayed at her apartment, and she replied, "Midori." I said that I was surprised that she knew the violinist on a personal basis,and then we both laughed, because it wasn't that Midori at all, but this one
I opened the NY Times business section this morning, and on page 7 (the right hand, more looked at page) was a half page vertical ad, with large copy, that said "She Likes To Watch." You know where my mind went...not that She likes to watch.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Not Enough #9

I hastily threw on a robe, and, with some trepidation, walked down the hallway to the den, where I could see the light escaping from under the closed door. A jumble of mostly black discarded clothing, crowned by a precariously placed scarlet thong, blocked part of the doorway. I moved the pile aside with my foot, and hesitantly turned the doorknob, pushing the door ajar enough to slide through the door.

The convertible couch was open, covered with sheets that appeared yellow in the subdued light. As I scanned the room, I could see Her standing beside the bed totally naked, her shoulders slumped, her head down and her gaze downcast, her hands together in front of her pussy, the posture forcing up breasts together and up. In the bed, between the sheets, was a woman I had never seen before in my life...short brown hair framing a round small face, wire rimmed glasses covering squinting eyes, her attitude and demeanor calm and unruffled, the top sheet covering her breasts and held in place by her arms, which were place over the sheet. I could see the outlines of her smallish breasts, her dark nipples erect in the cool night air.

"Hi sport, we were wondering if you were going to join us, weren't we?" she asked, and to my surprise received no response from Her. "Weren't we, Alice? she asked again pointedly, and her face took on a predatory leer, as she sat up straighter, reaching across to grab Her nipple and twisting it, eliciting a quick moan. "Her name's not Alice, it's Debra," I replied.

"Let me explain something to you. Tonight is Wednesday night, it's my night, it's her night to please me. Her job tonight is to do whatever it takes to please me, and to please me in any way I see fit, whether it involves pleasure, pain, shame...whatever it takes to make me happy. Sometimes I make her make me cum, sometimes I want to watch her cum, sometimes I beat her with a belt until her ass is bright red, and then I go to work on the rest of her body. And if I decide that her name is Alice on Wednesday night, her name is Alice. Isn't that right, Alice?", and Debra could only nod her head once, not being able to pick up her eyes and meet my gaze.

I could feel the erotic tension in the room, this strange woman being able to control her every move and motion. Despite myself, I was aroused by the whole situation, and felt myself become erect, my cock peeking through the folds of the robe. Her eyes dropped down to my crotch and narrowed perceptibly, as the robe opened slightly.

"Ah, the dynamic changes here, doesn't it?", she asked, as she smiled the predatory smile yet again. "You like this, don't you? You like knowing that she belongs to me, and I can make her do any fucking thing I want. Show him what you did for me tonight, what you hoped would please me, what you'd hoped I might like. Put your fucking hands down, you silly little girl, show him your cunt and what you did to it...for me."

With what seemed like a shiver, her hands fell to her sides, and I could see that most of her pubic hair was gone. What little there was left of it was dyed a bright fire engine red. Debra finally looked up at me, a mixture of embarassment and shame in her eyes.

"Open your legs, and let him take a good look...did you think he was never going to see your pussy again? Is that why you were trying to hide it? From him?" And I could see that she was wet from the sheer excitement and shame, all the talk of the state of her pussy only serving to inflame her in some way.

"Do you like it?", the woman asked.

The Girlfriend Question

In addition to the other various stops and hesitancies in Her life, She has become more and more reluctant to go to plays and concerts that I want to go to. We live in New York City, and truth be told, it's one of reasons I love living here...the endless supply of cultural opportunities. As my vistas have grown and widened, Hers have become more narrow and selective. She goes out to work every day, I work at home every day. We used to go to events together all the time, and then I would be resentful when She didn't enjoy the event. I didn't enjoy things as much just going by myself, but still wanted to attend many more events than She did.
I live in the same city as viviane, whose blog is well known and should be required daily reading for all of us. In truth, I've told how viviane and I have known each other for almost ten years, although not in the blogging context. She has become a better friend than before, and a great source of counsel and comfort. If you read both our blogs, tell her, because she won't read mine, as she knows most of the players, and it feels way too personal for her.
And so viviane became my "date," paying her own way at dinner and whatever event we managed to agree on, and there are many...Broadway plays, opera, off Broadway plays, Wooster Group, you name it and she's up for it...the perfect companion. We had agreed long ago that we were going to remain just good friends.
And so you could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather, when She asked me if viviane was my girlfriend. The response was a quick No, she's my date for all the things that You don't want to do in the evenings. And the conversation ended there. But it gave me great pause to wonder if She thinks I might be seeing other women, or want to see other women, or if other women might be interested in me...was She jealous of viviane? or threatened? The question didn't come from nowhere, that's for sure. She's thinking of something....
viviane thinks it's all just laughable, as we're like a pair of old shoes, comfortable with each other, gossipping over cheap dinners and going home separately on separate subways.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Synchronicity and Magic Moments

This past Wednesday was one of those magic days, those special moments, where for a short enough time, the worries of everyday life away, and the hyper specialness of the day comes forward and overwhelms all.
The Boy graduated, and received his PhD., and in one of those rare envelopes of time and space, everything was right and nothing was wrong. From the opening chimes of the academic processional, the University Wind Band playing William Walton's Crown Imperiale, the honorary degrees, the speakers, that soaring moment when he was "robed" and received the two colored cowl, the ice cream cones after, it was all tick tock like a clock.
Dinner out that evening was attended by the Little Girl as well, her first "fancy" restaurant replete with Shirley Temples, fancy bread, just enough room in the dessert compartment, all of it exactly as it should have been.
There are grave rumblings in Her side of the family, other parents estranged from their children, child playing against child, pitting sister against sister, backbiting emails in the second and third person, the same old he said she said. And it makes all of the past Wednesday all the more crystal clear in its purity and joy.
We get few days like this, when the sun is shining and all is right in the world, and the knowledge of that scarcity makes it all the more potent and powerful.

Sugasm #165

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #166? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s PicksBlame it on the al-al al-al al-al-co-hol“My legs were now spread and he was in between them.”
Dinner and a Show“Before it disappeared completely, I gave it a twist at the base, causing it to vibrate.”
Sugarbutch Star: Matt (part two) - All Five Senses“She takes her lipstick out of her bag and uncaps it, twists it up and paints her mouth subtly, softly.”
Mr. Sugasm HimselfAdieu ErosBlog?
Sugasm EditorSex Work And Honesty: Relationship Status
Editor’s ChoiceA Long Slow Seduction Continued…
More SugasmJoin the Sugasm
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Thoughts on Sex and RelationshipsThe Asshole Standing Next To YouSharp Shooter
NSFW Pics, Videos & AudioDivini Rae Sexy Pictures - High QualityDunesJana JordanLaissez-faire (HNT)Secretary is whipped by their bosses
Erotic Writing and ExperiencesBack Home TonightThe Best Friend (part 2)Camera Shy 3Drive Me CrazyNot Enough #8Her Favorite Positions - Part TwoLove BitesThe ‘N’ Word - a short story…The Rossebuurt Gap Year: With BenefitsSkinSpiteStrokin’You Give Me Fever
Sex HumorLesbian Sex Coffee Analogy
BDSM & FetishAt Your ServicePornographic statueSpanked on their delightful bare bottoms
Sex News, Reviews, and InterviewsLelo EllaMe and my UniramNew Study Challenges Masturbation NumbersTop Five Tuesday - FemDoms
Sex AdviceFirsts
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Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Not Enough #8

And with that late night foray into forcible pleasure we moved further away from the relationship we used to have, drifting away from each other in different directions, she seeming to work harder and harder at looking like some seaside slut on the prowl, as I compensated by making my world smaller and smaller, trying hard to exclude what didn't fit comfortably into the framework that she presented for me.
The sex we had together no longer had any element of lovemaking in it at all, but rather became a series of random encounters marked only by the spirit of opportunity that presented itself in passing periodically. We tacitly agreed, after that late night adventure, to use each other when and as the urge presented itself, in whatever room of the apartment and at whatever time the feeling struck, with few or no holds barred. Early in the morning, after I knew she had been out late carousing, I would reach across the bed to suckle her breasts, and she would lift her tanktop and roll over on her side facing me, allowing me to suck away to my hearts content, all the time barely waking up, periodically changing the angle she lying on, making me change from nipple to nipple without so much as coming to full awareness, her hand as always snaking down between her legs to play with herself just as I did, each of us masturbating away in our own private fantasy world.
We would pass each other on a Saturday afternoon while making lunch in the kitchen, and I put my hands on her shoulders, forcing her down to her knees as I unbuttoned my jeans. She took the zipper in her teeth and pulled down, reaching between my legs with both hands to pull down my underwear and then took my cock deep in her mouth, her hands now resting on her thighs as she started a different kind of blow job. A hand came up to brush aside her hair from her face in an imitative movement, and I could see that she had been watching some porn star in action. She worked hard to get more and more of my cock into her mouth, beginning to fuck her mouth with my cock, now reaching between my legs again to clutch each buttock and pull me deeper, her saliva thickening as she gave up more and more of her throat, the tears of effort now dripping from her eyes, the mucous flowing from her nose as she abandoned herself to raping her throat with my cock, truly making the blow job about her and not for one minute about me. When I spasmed and came, she choked down as much of the cum as she could, taking her mouth off my cock so that the last few spurts flew across her face, her head flopping down from the effort, the cum dripping down her chin.
At times when she wasn't out late drinking with her girlfriends, she would spend an incredibly long time in the bathroom, only to enter the bedroom, climb up on the bed on all fours and mutely present me with a wide open view of her anus, her tiny rosebud hole already lubed up and stretched wide open. She had never been a huge fan of anal sex, but now it seemed to be par for the course, so to speak. She would reach behind her with both hands, pulling her butt cheeks wide open, clenching and unclenching her asshole, posing like the slut that she was becoming, inviting me in. And I always succumbed to her teasing, my cock becoming hard in an instant as I would move forward and put the head quickly in, always eliciting her guttural moan. We were no longer being nice and kind to one another, just using each other for the physical sensations we could garner, and so I would ram forward the entire length of my cock, getting the heartfelt moan as she buried her head in the pillow and I began to move my hips back and forth. Instantly her hand reached between her thighs and started to scrub away at her clit, first rubbing away with a flat hand and then curving her fingers and strumming away. It was yet another movement she had learned from her furtive porno viewing habits, and I wondered where she was watching the porn, and with whom. I invariably came quickly when I fucked her asshole, the friction and pressure and general sluttiness of it being more than I could handle. I would pull out and leave her kneeling there, the cum and lube now leaking out, as she held the pose for just a minute longer than was necessary.
And so we continued, each using the other in the search for base gratification, until the night when I was awakened by the sound of multiple voices from the den.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


I've listened to the Metropolitan Opera on Saturday afternoons since I was in college. At times I pay attention and sometimes it's just background music for something else. I've never studied the music, never learned the plots, always just listened and enjoyed. Two Saturdays ago, the opera was Siegfried by Richard Wagner, and during one of the lengthy intermissions, several extremely well known singers, Rene Fleming among them, came on and talked about the encouragement that they received as winners of the Metropolitan Opera Auditions.

This post is just a thank you to the people at fleshbot, who three times this year have selected something I've written to include in one of the postings. It's nice, no it's wonderful to be recognized for something you do, and being picked to be featured makes my heart soar. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I' m not really a numbers slut, and if I'm lucky I may gain one or two permanent readers for my periodic musings, but the recognition factor makes my heart soar like a hawk, as Chief Dan George said in the movie Little Big Man.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Random Thoughts #6

As a CPA, the last month or so has been hell on wheels, and as almost every fellow professional is agreeing, the worst tax season in memory. It's the economy, stupid we've all said. And so frequently, the only time I've gotten out of the house is to either go to the post office to mail stuff off, to go to the bank to deposit my hard earned fees, or to the gym, if I could force myself out of bed in the morning to start the day off right. I decided that I would make a project out of listening to everything on my 4 gb Ipod, from #1 to #837, perhaps not in their entireties, but certainly touching on everything. The music goes everywhere, from 15th century polyphony to Ali and AJ, Mozart to Miles, Spanky and Our Gang to Junkie XXL. And along the way I rediscovered music that made me smile out loud, and forced me to play the track over and over and over, like Mr. Blue Skies by ELO, Gotta Get Up by Harry Nilsson, and numerous others.
Another byproduct of tax season was that I had little time for sex, often working until almost two in the morning, often getting up at six to continue or to escape to the gym. And it wasn't that bad really, because She had a wicked infection (the name of which I can't remember), which put Her in dry dock until Her vagina could repair itself (it turned out that She hadn't been to the OBGYN in over 1 1/2 years, but this is truly another story for another time). She's healed, I've rediscovered my libido, and so over the weekend, we rediscovered sex, sixtynining for almost 45 minutes until She decided that She'd had enough and decided to cum. The best part is that Her vaginal repair means that the way She tastes and smells is back to how it used to be, and so I walked around with Her aroma stuck in my nose all day Monday.
Which leads to talk about aromas---a few weeks ago I rediscovered the motherlode of all Indian/Middle Eastern grocery stores here in NYC, an emporium called Kalystyans...great sandwiches for cheap, every packaged food imaginable, fresh halvah custom cut. One of the things I bought was their own private blend of assorted dried fruit, to discover that the smell, the aroma, the pungent nose tease makes me swoon and makes my heart beat faster, almost as if it were a sexual smell. It is by far the strangest phenomenon that I've experienced in many a moon, and wonder if anyone else out there has ever had such a strong sexual reaction to a non sexual smell. Tell me about it, please.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The Other Marilyn

Marilyn Chambers died yesterday. One of the original porn stars, along with Linda Lovelace and Georgina Spelvin, she made porn films in the early '70s, back when everything didn't go, there was no anal sex or fisting (at least on the East Coast), and pornos actually had plots, however minimal. Her notoriety came from a commercial sketch of her that was used on the Ivory Snow box, at least until the soap company found out what else their model was doing.

Her best known commercial film was entitled Behind The Green Door, and although I may not have known it then, opened the way for me to understanding submission and its lure.

But her reputation was carried forward by the films she made of shows at the O'Farrell Theatre in San Francisco, where no holds barred sex shows were had, for a price. Most of these films never made it to DVD, and their grainy reproductions decreased in quality as the years went one. She exhibited a certain joyousness in performing, her lithe body often performing seemingly undoable tasks, and she seemed to be smiling all the time as she did them. My favorite was an anal fisting scene while standing on her head. Seriously.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The other Marilyn's death puts me in mind of a surreal experience I had with Her. She and I have been together for longer than most of you, dear readers, have been alive, long before there was an internet where sex and porn were openly distributed commodities. To watch porn, we had to go to seedy theatres with seats with minimal cushioning and threadbare carpets, with poor projection systems and unknown smells. The movies were of questionable quality, and usually frequented by men only, each one sitting alone, usually with a coat over his lap. Ya get the picture.
All this changed for about a year in the early '70s, when Deep Throat first opened. Somehow the suit and dress crowd got a hold of this one, and it became "alright" for civilians to visit the local porn theatre. In New York, it was the World 49th Street, where lines stretched down the block to watch Linda Lovelace mash her nose into Harry Reems's pubic hair, swallowing his cock aaalll the way down her throat. And so She and I went one Friday night, and in truth it was a little boring, a little slow, but cute and quaint. When we came out there were a couple hundred people of the uptown variety waiting patiently on line for the next show.
But here's the surreal part. As She and I were walking down the stairs into the subway, two really tough looking guys are coming up. I'm born and bred here, and know how not to look someone in the eye and antagonize them, and so I take here hand and continue descending the stairs. One guy walks up right in front of Her, puts both hands on her breasts, and starts to feel her up. We alone on the stairs with these two guys, I'm half their size, and one guy is feeling Her up.
I put my hand on his arm, a categorical no-no, and say to him, "Hey man, that's my wife," and he turns to me and says,"Oh, sorry," takes his hands away, and continues up the stairs, like feeling Her up was a normal thing to do if She weren't my wife.
Ya can't make this stuff up.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Not Enough #7

I continued to wait for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, watching her become more overtly sexual on a daily basis. She had taken to idly caressing her sex as we lay in bed reading before going to sleep, her fingers absentmindedly reaching down between her legs to stroke back and forth as she read, dreamily causing herself to become more aroused. We had long ago stopped making love, but still had sex when she was in the mood, which was more often than not these days.
It all changed one Thursday night, when she came home late once again, long after I had given up waiting up for her. I understood that she was out with her friends on the prowl, drinking to excess and relearning the art of flirting. I was dead asleep, lost in my own private dreams, when she came in, overloaded once again with alchohol, thrashing around again while undressing and getting into bed, banging into furniture and making enough noise to wake the dead. She crept into the space that I had left for her, kneeling on the bed, pushing my shoulder once, then again, harder, until I woke up, half in this world and half in dreamland.
"Wake up, dammit...wake up!!" She pushed again on my shoulder, until I rolled over onto my back, trying hard to clear my mind and open my eyes long enough to look at her. "I'm asleep, leave me alone and go to sleep yourself. Your night is over." "It's over when I say it's over...not when you tell me," she replied, anger and frustration creeping into her voice. All of a sudden, she crawled up on the bed and straddled my chest causing my arms to spread wide.
"You're always so boring and vanilla, so ordinary, so run-of-the-mill. And right now I'm soooo fucking horny." She looked down at me with increasing anger, her eyes squinting in the darkness of the room. I could feel her skin against mine, the heat of her body cascading down on me as she knelt across my chest, her sex warmer still, the dampness just touching me. I could smell the sharp acrid odor of her pussy, the days accumulation of juices and perspiration and pee all still lingering on her cunt. She put her hands on either side of my head and forced me to look her in the eye. "Eat me, for chrissake. Eat me right now," she hissed at me, and I shook my head no. "Now, dammit, right now," and I shook my head no again.
"Don't you fucking tell me no. You'll do it right now," she said, and she scuttled forward so that her knees were high in my armpits, leaning her full weight against them to pin my arms high above my head on the bed. She put one hand behind my head and tried to elevate my mouth to her wetness, and when I resisted, she grabbed a handful of hair with one hand and pulled hard, then harder, until my mouth was hard against her sex.
"Now lick, make me cum," and when I didn't open my mouth, she reached behind her like a bullrider in the rodeo and grabbed my cock, yanking it towards herself until I gave and and started to eat her out, taking long slow swipes between her lips, finding her clit easily, rolling my tongue around the elevated stub until it stood up higher and harder. She finally let go of my cock, grabbing my hair with both hands and directing my mouth back and forth along her slit, her juices now flowing freely. In spite of myself I became hard, as she increased her rhythm, now moaning in time to the movements of my mouth. With a sudden surge she came, and I eagerly lapped up the juices.
She fell off me, coming to rest on the bed, asleep almost instantly, as I jerked off next to her, cumming in one massive burst, semen coursing across my stomach and part of the way up my chest.
The other shoe had started to drop, and we had definitely turned a corner.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Public Library

I've been a big fan of the library ever since I was a child. We would do every Saturday as a child. It was always a magic place, with its own smell and feel, a place where I could always find a book that would transport me. I took the Boy, for the first time, when he was less than a month old, knowing full well that he couldn't really see the library for what it was, but knowing also that he could learn its smell and sound, and would return to it as he got older. He repaid me by getting a PhD in Modern American Literature.
I've read two books lately that are worth passing on, one quite new, and the other written in 1967, seemingly not translated from the German until 2000. Both came from the New York Public Library, a source of great joy and treasures, and as I recently found, a bastion of civil liberties as well. I know this because when I tried to go back in my reading history to find a book whose title I had misplaced, I was told that the NYPL doesn't track reader histories, inasmuch as revealing what a person has been reading might be revealing information that they don't want shared...and I believe them.
The new book is the one I can't remember the title of. It's non-fiction, and I thought the title was The Edge of Desire, only to check to find out I was mistaken. The book is in four different sections, each one devoted to the story of a sexual deviant of some sort---one an extreme foot fetishist, one a man sexually aroused by women with truncated legs or missing legs, the third a child lover and worshipper, the last a female sadist. I found the last particularly breathtaking, and discussed it with my friend viviane, who has met the woman.
The older book was titled Dark Spring, the autobiographical novel of an artists companion, model, mistress who was deep into the bdsm world, and who ultimately committed suicide, much as she had written about her character in the novel.
Both are fascinating reads, and I would recommend them highly.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Not Enough #6

I continued to watch and observe her evolution in both her appearance and her demeanor. Her hair, which had been cut to shoulder length in a utilitarian manner now hung down to the middle of her back, the glossy chestnut brown now streaked with lighter tints and hues, longer curls appearing in what once was her line straight coif. Her forehead, the high brow which gave her face almost a madonna-ish look was suddenly hidden behind peekaboo bangs, her eyes disguised and partially hidden. Makeup went on much heavier, causing her to look like she was going out for the night when in reality she was just going to work...much more eye shadow and eye liner, lipstick and lipliner going brighter one day, much darker the next, contrasting with each other. I notice a second earring in her left ear only.

She started to have more nights out with her girlfriends, stopping for drinks and more on Thursdays, then Wednesdays and Thursdays, sometimes coming home well past the time that Jay Leno had put me to sleep. She would reek of alchohol, and I would wake up in the morning to her liquored breath, her clothes strewn all over the bedroom. She would always wake up in the morning to have breakfast with me, but sometimes it seemed like I was sitting opposite an out of control adolescent rather than the woman I had been with for such a long time.

And then there was the sex.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Not Enough #5

And so I watched and waited, as she slowly began to evolve and change.

The first thing to change was her underwear, as she seemed to subscribe to the philosophy that less is more. The fleshtone bras and panties became a thing of the past, overtaken by an endless parade of those little striped shopping bags from Victoria's Secret, with an occasional foray to the local branch of Agent Provocateur. Colors became the order of the day. The briefs disappeared under a cascade of scarlet thongs and pretty colored boypants, sometimes sheer, sometimes lace. Bras were only half cups or less, her breasts pushed up and now more jiggly as she walked, less constrained by fabric, the random quarter cup almost leaving her nipples wide out in the open.

Her jeans became tighter and lower cut, the kind with the two inch zipper or shorter, the waistband riding low on her generous hips, little or no thought being given to whether her tops even came close to meeting her jeans, her panties randomly peeking out above the jeans, although she did try to keep pushing them down with her fingers while pulling up the waist in some strange attempt at modesty. Tops for the most part remained the same, although the tinier bras often left little to the imagination, her boobs moving as she walked. the occasional skirt was tighter, cupping her ass, and shorter, as is often the fashion.

She no longer wore the flowery summer scent that had been a trademark for years, now preferring the aggressive thrust of patchouli, the dark musky aroma strangely evocative of a different person entirely.

And so I bided my time, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009


Sometime over the weekend my counter thingy broke through the 20,000, and my sweet little blog achieved another milestone in its stop and start career. The number of visits have been helped along by being selected for Fleshbot twice in the last year or so, but the bulk of the hits come from individual readers and visitors, to whom I am eternally grateful.

Thank you for reading whatever I put up on the blog. Thank you to the recidivists, thank you to the sightseers who come over from fleshbot, thank you all.

Thanks to Her, who provides so much (but not all) of the material, thanks to S and Q who both try to help me conquer my technical inabilities, thanks to viviane who told me to start a blog to end out what I couldn't say out loud, thanks to engrailed who was patient with a dunce in oh so many ways.

Earwig-Always by Stephan Grapelli

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Always On My Mind

We all think about sex, some of us more than others...She always looks at me as if wondering how She got the defective model, the one with the itch that never seems to get scratched enough. And suddenly, one day last week, I knew that I had too much of sex on the brain, and needed to think about things in other ways. Two examples:
I've been working with a trainer once a week for a quite a helps me condition properly for altitude work, keeps me on a baseline during my busy season. And because she pushes me harder than I'm sometime comfortable at 7 in the morning, I usually grab a Clif Bar or Power Bar Gel Shot before I leave for the gym. And so I walked down the street and tore open the packet with my teeth, squeezing the gel into my mouth by pulling the packet through my teeth. And all of a sudden, it hit me...this is what it feels like when someone cums in your mouth.

Later that same day, I was riding the subway downtown to see a client. The train was crowded, and an attractive woman leaned against the door, holding her coffee and a bag with a muffin in one hand, tearing off pieces of the muffin with her fingertips and putting them into her mouth...ordinary behavior, nothing unusual. And then I see that she's putting her entire hand into her mouth, holding the muffin pieces, until she's inserted her five fingers between her second and third joints on her fingers, and I'm thinking, this woman had the most gigantic mouth...assuming she has some feel for oral sex, she must give great head, her mouth is sooo large.

And that's when I knew that I really really needed to think about other things.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Not Enough #4

I stood up abruptly, not taking the time to tuck my cock back into my jeans, and walked the few steps down to her end of the long low couch. She paused for a moment, dropping out of her playtime as I leaned forward slightly, my flexed knees hitting the couch cushion, my right hand reaching forward ever so slowly towards her crotch, which still glistened with her wetness. Her hand strayed up towards my dangling cock, her littlest finger extended forward towards my slit, her unpainted nail slipping into the slit now wet with precum.
My fingers now reached her pussy, and I rubbed her moistened lips together, causing more and more friction on her clit, and she put her hand over mine, adjusting the rhythm and pressure slightly from moment to moment. Without warning I let go of her pussy lips, and plunged my two middle fingers into her slit, quickly reaching for the spot just behind her pubic bone where that spongy g spot area resided, giving her quick come hither flexes with my fingers. And I watched her start to lose it, drift far away, her mouth wide open as she continue to move her fingers back and forth furiously, her pale face now flushed with the eros of excitement, her breath shortening to panting. Her pussy walls started to flex, once, twice, thrice, as she froze in a rictus of pleasure, her two hands now moving together up and down, pushing her clit towards the mound below my thumb as she came, and I watched her as she did, and then waited for the orgasm to be over.
"Now me, you slut," I said, smiling down at her, my fingers now entwined in her hair, as I dragged her mouth up to my cock, forcing as much of it into her waiting mouth as I could in one shot, now fucking my cock with her mouth, forcing more and more of it into her mouth and down her throat, until I couldn't wait any longer, and came with several quick jerks, her mouth filling fast as she tried to swallow and clear her airway.
We had both cum within moments of each other, and we paused to catch our breaths. I knelt down further to kiss her mouth, tasting my own cum on her breath as she panted one or two last times.
"This doesn't change anything," she said. "It's still not enough for me, and I want someone else, I want something more."
And I knew that this part of the journey was indeed just beginning....

Friday, February 27, 2009

Where Have You Been?

In the almost month since I've posted, believe it or not, I've been here...reading other blogs, occaisionally commenting, emailing a few "missing" bloggers. I have been crushed by work, and bullied by a problematic client who managed to put me in a position professionally that I neither wanted to nor deserved to be in, and it's taken me most of the month to understand why I let that happen.
I also lost my "voice" for a while and didn't very much like what I was saying or how I was saying it. I looked back to when I first started blogging and realized that I sounded very different now, and I didn't necessarily like the new sound...and so I needed to think back to how I used to think, and to try to re-establish that level and quality again.
I thank my good friend S for her patience and understanding, for being the ear that heard it all, so that the all didn't have to wind up here for public consumption. She knows the street goes both ways.
And now, without further ado...I'm back (yet again) and will try to post when I have something to say or a story to tell. I've been itching to finish "Not Enough" and have started several times, but I think I'm on the right track now.
But let's see.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Answer, Not The Solution

Thanks to the folks that a) read my blog consistently and b) were kind enough to comment and try to help. One of my biggest problems in life is asking for help, and you all made it all so easy.
The answer to the problem of access blogs with the "content warning" seems to lie within the AOL jursidiction, at least for me. If I try to access those blogs by connecting through AOL, I sure can't get in. If I connect through IE (S taught me that, lol), it works like a charm.
I'm just lazy, because AOL has this cute drop down menu that holds all my frequently visited blogs, and I can't find the same menu when I go in through IE.
I know, I know...grow up and throw AOL under a bus...I'm working up to it.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Trouble in Paradise???

For some reason unknown, and totally unexplained and unexplainable to me, all of the with the "warnings" have been locked, or are inaccessible. Clicking on the yes button only recycles you back to the same screen...all except Mrs. Kelly's Playground. Joyshared, dirtylittlemommasboy, barebackgirl and others all seems to be closed.
Anybody have any clues??

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Not Enough#3

And with that she smiled her crocodile smile yet again, her eyelids half lowered, as she bridged her pelvis up in the air, reaching at the waistband of her jeans, opening the buttton and lowering the oh so short zipper, pushing the jeans down until they bunched just below her knees. My hands mirrored her initial movements, opening the buttons on my jeans and spreading them open, reaching into my underwear to pull out my cock which was now more hard than soft.

My eyes locked onto hers, and yet struggled to split their time between her eyes and her crotch."You can see how hot I've gotten, just telling you about this," she said matter-of-factly, her excitement betrayed by the rapid rise and fall of her chest and the dampness of her panties, the small swatch of satin now darkened at the very juncture of the thighs. "Take a look, take a long look at how wet I've gotten imagining a different dick inside me," she added, as she pulled the thin waist of the panties upwards, pulling the fabric inside her slit, her other hand reaching around her hip and underneath her to pull the remaining slack out of the fabric, stretching it thinner than thin until it was bunched in a single line up and down, the now plump lips of her pussy spreading on either side of the cloth.

She began to slide it back and forth, masturbating herself languidly in the late afternoon sun. I did the same, absentmindedly reaching down for my now erect cock which now had started to leak percum juice at a furious rate. We had played this game before, watching each other pleasure themselves in the daytime, gaining something somewhat lurid and sinful about masturbating in the daytime in the sunshine in each others eyesight. We stopped for a minute, catching each others eye, each holding up slick fingertips, smiling at the other in our guilty pleasuring of ourselves.

I waited, and watched as she started to lose herself to the feeling of her fingers, forsaking the bunched fabric between her legs, her right hand diving inside her panties scratching ever faster at her clit and peehole, her fingers all in a line touching as much of the flesh between her lips as she could manage, the left hand reaching further around to finger herself, putting one then two fingers inside. She was constricted by the jeans and by the back of the couch, and she struggled with her left hand, seeming not to be able to reach around herself far enough to touch herself in just the right place inside herself.

She frowned, and then looked up at me with her little girl pout, her lower lip jutting forward. "Can't you help me? Please?"