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.