Christmas Shopping Part

This year, She and I have decided to downscale Christmas gifts for each other, steering away from larger and more expensive items towards smaller things...our relative economies just can't take it, and we've run of out ready cash several times this past year, although for me, the freelance worker, December has meant some windfall earnings. Her salaried income remains constant.
And so, last week, armed with a fistful of twenties, I went out to make several stops in the West Village. My first stop was a soap shop, to buy a fresh cut cake of soap that she likes. The cost was ballpark $8, and I handed the clerk a twenty. I knew it was a twenty because I need that I had no tens available to feed the Metrocard machine. She handed me back two dollars, and when I told her that I had given her a twenty, she replied that I had not, as she had punched in ten dollars as tendered in her cash register. It's one of the older scams going, usually run by cab drivers when they think someone isn't paying attention or is from out of town. I wound up with the ten bucks, but it sure left a bad taste in my mouth.

Next stop was a designer salt and chocolate store---only in New York do we have such things, and in such abundance. Next year, She and I will pass a major milestone, and we're celebrating with a trip to Sicily, and I thought that a small jar of Sicilian salt might be a nice present. The store was chilly, and the clerk wrapped herself in a heavy woolen shawl, holding it closed with one hand. I picked out the right salt, took it up to her at the cash register, and watched as she let go of the shawl. It flopped open to show a nice scoop neck blouse, sagging slightly in the front to reveal wonderful cleavage, with a delightfully ornate chocolate brown bra, ornate lace separating and propping up her breasts. She looked down at her own cleavage, and quickly realized that she was perhaps showing more than she wanted to, and so she made a fruitless attempt to push the top back on her shoulders before giving up, realizing that the only solution was to hold the shawl closed with one hand and complete the transaction with the other, smiling a bit sheepishly as she handed me back my change.

Still Waiting

The day laborers all congregate across the road from the 7 Eleven, patiently waiting for someone to drive past and hire them for a days labor. They're all bundled in heavy hoodies, whatever warm clothing they own, those that own their own tools holding the poles or sticks or belts. One or two periodically duck into the 7 Eleven for a coffee. The Little Girl asks what they're waiting for, and I reply that they're waiting for work, waiting for someone to hire them for a day's labor. As we swing back in the late afternoon, some of the men are still waiting, and the Little Girl looks up at me---"they're still waiting," she says in a sad and mildly mournful voice, understanding that they've waited the whole day for naught, have made no money, and she understands that they will return the next day and wait again.

The Girls

Like everyone else waiting for the subway on a Saturday morning, I occupied myself by checking my blackberry, reading, staring into space while maintaining that blank look, sneaking furtive glances at my fellow passengers. It was then that I first noticed her, seeing her from the back, her blonde hair cascading over her collar and down the back of her winter jacket. She stood close to the edge of the platform, accompanied by another woman with long jet black hair, holding her hand. The brunette stepped in front of the blonde, and kissed her, first gently and then a longer kiss, her lips milking the blonde's lips into her mouth. I could see her tongue thrusting into the blonde's mouth as they kissed, arms down and by their sides. The brunette opened her eyes and caught me watching. She attacked her partner's mouth yet again, her eyes defiantly locked on mine, trapping me in the posture of the watcher, doing what I always get off on, watching.
The train came and they boarded the car in front of mine as I continued to watch through the car door. The blonde sat and her partner stood in front of her, bending at the waist to talk into her ear

This One's for New Yorkers Only

Can anyone explain to me when and why it became cool and fashionable to stand in the subway doors as they open, blocking egress, turning sideways to allow a minimal amount of passengers to get on and off? We were taught to step out of the way, either by moving further into the subway car or by briefly stepping off and then re-entering after the exiting passengers left the car doors. But now it seems de rigeur to stand in the way, back against the door, turning sideways to allow others to slither out.
Definitely not cool.

Not Enough #17

A few spaces opened up on one of the couches, and we crammed ourselves onto one of the divans, Debra sandwiched in between Amalia and me. In a rare and unusual gesture, she held my hand, interlacing her fingers with mine, and I could feel her trembling with fear and trepidation, unsure of where the evening was going and what would be required of her. I looked straight ahead, observing the parade of black leather and vinyl, women in sexy dresses and men wearing tight pants. Debra had that deer-in-the-headlights stare, as Amalia turned sideways and started to whisper into her left ear. The trembling persisted, her fingers remaining intertwined with mine, as Amalia continued to speak to her in a muttered undertone, her lips never stopping in their whispered oration, her eyes widening as she continued without stop.
I leaned forward far enough to enter her field of vision, and asked her what she was telling Debra, and she turned slightly away from Debra's ear to tell me it was none of my fucking business what she was saying, reiterating as always that this was her night with Alice, and that I was just along for the ride, a guest. She reached up to Debra's face and turned her head sideways. "It's time right now," she said, and reached over her lap to separate her hand from mine, taking first her right hand, and then her left, puling her to her feet, leading her away through the crowd of people milling around, taking her to who knows where. I sat in shock, my heart beating in my chest, my throat closed in the fear and apprehension of the moment, frantically trying to figure out where they had disappeared to, when I found my field of vision blocked by a woman in a short black dress, a kind of throwback disco dress left over from the '80s, cut well above the knee and decorated with tiers of fringe, spaghetti straps holding it up, the front cut well down on her breasts, which I could see where unencumbered and floating loose. I looked up to a smiling face framed by a full head of cascading curls, reaching well past her bare shoulders, her moist lips curled upwards in a sort of sassy smile, eyes twinkling in a mischievous manner, her eyes flashing a combination of bemusement and concern.
She leaned over, placing her hand on the back of the divan, and I reflexively looked towards her boobs, which swung free of her body as she bent forward. Her breath was warm and moist as she whispered in my ear.
"Ya look lost here, and just a bit confused...am I right here?" I could only mutely nod my head and continue staring at her boobs, which were barely restrained by her dress.
"Want some help?"

Irish Sports Pages

Now that I'm of a certain age, I read what we used to call the Irish sports pages every day in the New York Times, the hometown newspaper. You'd call them the obituaries. Being the national newspaper of record, the Times features famous people on their obituary pages.
Earlier this week, either Monday or Tuesday, I looked at the obits, and was dismayed to see that all of the people featured were younger than me, and were gone from this earth. And I realized that this was what I had to be thankful for this year.
I'm still here, still doing what I've always done, albeit perhaps a bit more moderated in style and excess. I've outlived my father and his brother, and I'm still doing what I want to do in the style that I want to do it.
Happy Thanksgiving!

Just Talking

I've lived all my life in New York City, and, as I found out last week from the NY Times Style Section, we've all grown up here with varying degrees of a New York accent---losing the letter r as in New Yawk, adjusting vowels as in drinking a morning kawfee, and the list goes on. And so I've become sensitzed to speech patterns from other parts of the United States.
Recently, during a CE tax seminar, I encountered two speech patterns that kind of make me fume---one new and one around for about thirty years or so. The lecturer, a woman from Colorado, exhibited both numerous times during the seminar.
The newest speech aberration is the dropped g at the end of a verb. It probably became popular last year during the last Presidential election campaign, when Sarah Palin started goin' places and seein' things. It seems to me to be a feeble attempt at being one with the common man. She's not the only person I've speak who comes from Alaska, and my sense is that the majority of Alaskans speak properly, or as properly as the rest of the country.
The other speech pattern is upspeak, the nasty habit of a rising inflection in the voice at the end of a sentence, when you aren't sure that you've explained yourself well enough to be understood, or when the speaker thinks the listener doesn't understand what's being said. I'm pretty sure it came from Valley Girl Speak a long time ago.

Neither one of these speech tropisms is attractive, neither one is cute, neither one is intelligent, neither one makes us friends, or friendlier. If you speak this way, think about stopping, and sounding more intelligent

I Just Don't Get It

There are some things in this world that I just don't get, and some things that I refuse to get.
There's an extraordinary amount of ED advertising on TV. The ads for Viagra are confidence builders, based on "we're guys who know how to get things done" whether it's a boiled over car radiator (does this ever even happen anymore?) or the lack of physical capability to get an erect penis. But what I don't understand are the ads for Cialis. I understand the concept of being ready when the moment changes on a dime in the laundry room, but what I don't get are the two bathtubs---not even the couple in one bathtub. Sex in a bathtub is extremely uncomfortable, sex in separate bathtubs all but impossible. I just don't get it. And ads for Levitra seem to have all but disappeared---what ever happened to that deliciously slutty milf, who talked about making sure her man was ready.
Over time, baseball leagues have morphed from eight teams each to more than I can count, and so the World Series has changed from The October Classic to Halloween and November. And I live in that city which has won more World Series than any other team. What I don't get here is the whole towel thing---I don't see it at either Yankees or Mets games. Is it just that I live in a non-towel city, the only non-towel city, as far as I can figure it. And I understand that it's one way to exhort your team on to nobler thoughts and deeds. Maybe it's just that we don't do that sort of thing here.

One Night Stand

One of the joys of being self-employed in a seasonal profession is that I can take the time to seek out the movie titles that are lurking in the back of my mind. And so it is that this afternoon I'm watching One Night Stand, directed by Mike Figgis. I saw this movie when it came out over ten years ago, so so maybe it's me and the frame of mind that I find myself in, but the amount of sexual tension in the movie is staggering...it's all that I can do to watch the movie in pieces, which is perhaps the downside of re-watching movies after a long time.
Or maybe it's how Figgis deals with sexuality. He's also the director of Leaving Las Vegas, which lent legitimacy to Nicholas Cage (at least for a while) and should have launched Elizabeth Shue (but didn't, really). Other well known films he's directed include Stormy Monday and Internal Affairs.
Check the rest of his oeuvre on imdb.com.
And now, back to our film.

St. Crispin's Day

Yesterday was St. Crispin's Day, a/k/a The Feast of Saint Crispian. Like everything in my life, there's a backstory.

The Battle of Agincourt was fought on that date, when the British, greatly outnumbered and without much cavalry, defeated the French in a decisive battle of whatever was was then being fought. The battle is made immortal in Shakespeare's Henry V, in a speech by Henry on the battlefield, a speech that includes the words "we few, we happy few, we band of brothers." In the most recent cinematic version, the words are spoken by Kenneth Branagh, in a stirring call to arms.

The music, by Patrick Doyle, is exquisite, and it never fails to perk me up when I'm down, or life me higher when I'm up, one of several pieces that always grabs at my heart, like the Mendelssohn Octet. It's so good that it's been hijacked and serves on numerous movie trailers.

The speech can be seen on youtube in any number of different versions, all featuring Branagh, with the music playing behind the famous speech.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OAvmLDkAgAM

Not Enough 16

If you need to catch up, or to remind yourself where I left off in the story of the ebb and flow of my life with Her, click on http://swordfishsuite.blogspot.com/2010/01/not-enough-15.html and perhaps read back in the sequential posts before it.
The taxi pulled up at the back of a nondescript warehouse, with an abandoned loading dock and a wooden door that stretched ten feet high and perhaps fifteen feed wide, with a black wrought iron circular door handle in the middle of the door, waist high. Debra picked up the door handle and dropped it just once, as someone inside opened up a much smaller Judas-gate that allowed us to enter the building. I understood then that she had been here before, and wondered what we were getting into, as we stepped over the door stile and walked into a dimly lit foyer, a bit crowded with about 50-60 people, the men outnumbering the women by almost three to one. I could see that most of the people there wore black, as Debra did, many of the women dressed in ultra-tight clothing, necklines plunging to reveal breasts either encumbered or unencumbered, some skirts slit on the side to reveal thigh highs or full stockings and garter belts. The men were mostly just dressed in black shirts and pants.
We drifted together towards one of the couches arrayed near the walls, acting for the first time in a long time as a couple, each of us hesitant and a bit scared by the new environment. As my eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness, I could make out the people on the couches, some couples sitting side by side, others with the woman sitting on the man's lap. One couch had two men sandwiching a woman, her DVF-style wrap dress opened just a bit between her breasts, each of the men reaching across the fondle a breast, one man having pulled the tit out of the bra, rolling the nipple between his first three fingers. My heart raced and my pulse accelerated, gaping at them and yet not wanting to stare. Debra's breath quickened also, her mouth open slightly, her eyes starting to glaze over.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Amalia approaching, wearing black pants and a silk tunic buttoned to the next, her hair short and combed close to her skull. Debra saw her at the same time, and reflexively assumed the position that she had been taught, her arms behind her back, each hand holding the opposite elbow, her head inclined down as she averted her gaze. I could see that she was further surrendering herself to the moment and to the surrounding before her.
"Ah, you've finally gotten here," she said. "Let me explain how this works. Alice has been here several times before, but always as someone who watched others. Isn't that right, dear?", and Debra was quick to nod her head several times, never once daring to look up. "And tonight that's just what you're going to do---watch. It's what you're really good at, isn't it, what you really like to do, right?
"Alice, on the other hand, has decided to join in and play with us."
And my heart sank, because I knew and I didn't know what that meant.

Hands Down

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Almost Cut My Hair

This past week, my good friend Viviane asked me out to the Pleasure Salon, as she always does. The Salon is a convocation of likeminded sex positive people that meets the first Wednesday of every month at a bar in NYC called The Happy Ending. Over the last few years, I've gone once or twice, usually with the specific intent of meeting up with sex bloggers that I've been in contact with. Large group social gatherings are usually not my forte, and this one was, I'm sad to say, no exception.
Viviane, who is a heavy hitter in this milieu, introduced me to tons of people who she thought I should know or meet, and my terminal shyness took over once again, as I became a wallflower and watcher, the latter being what I really like to do the most. There was birthday cake for a woman hitting a major milestone, and forty spanks for her from anyone that wanted to participate. And I just watched, content for the most part to be the voyeur once again.
Everyone wears a name tag of sorts with their screen name or blog name or something like that, and Mistress Lynx started to chat me up about my name, a pretty woman with a kind and winning smile. I wound up gassing on ad infinitum about where the name came from (a closely held secret with obscure origins) and realized that most of my references were way past her age group, as I tried to explain to her who Jackie Gleason and Art Carney were, and so I faded back into the wall once again. I did listen to a guy next to me ask a girl if it was the first time there for her, one of the oldest opening lines in the book, but strangely, in that environment perhaps, worked wonderfully well for both of them.
But the whole evening made me realize once again that when I talk to people I have to be more interested in them and what they have to say, and not to talk about what my friend The Lawyer labels his favorite topic, himself, and that it wasn't necessary for me to play match that anecdote with everyone that I spoke with.
Oh, and the title of this post? Comes from a song writen by David Crosby and recorded long long ago by Crosby, Stills and Nash---I almost ended this blog last week, wrote a final post and saved it, planning to edit and post over this weekend. But events have conspired against that, and I'll continue along, perhaps (and hopefully) posting more frequently. I want to go back to telling the story of Not Enough, I want to say things here that can't be said anywhere else, I want to write about my fascinations and obsessions.

The End of The Season-Part Three

We managed to support each other in our effort to reach the street and find a cab, each of us leaning against the other, my right arm around her waist and her left arm over my shoulder, both of us feeling the body warmth that an evening of alcohol had produced. By luck we found a cab in just a few minutes, and I opened the back door and fell into the seat closest to the curb, as she walked around to the driver's side and spoke through his window, telling him where to go. My head rested back against the seat, and I paid no attention at all to where we were headed, content to be led and taken to whatever location she had in mind. She slumped against me, her head lolling over against my shoulder, her breath hot against my chest. She rested a hand high up on my thigh, her fingers making little wave-like movements, and I started to get hard, despite the night of booze.
We stopped in front of a non-descript six floor walkup building, and we continued to walk side by side, as she unlocked the front door. She must have paid the driver at some point, but I was drifting in and out, assuming little responsibility and less control as things progressed. We walked down the hallway, through a door, and down a short flight of stairs. At this point my antenna went up and I started to be a bit concerned. As a born and bred New Yorker, I knew that the only thing you might find in the basement of a walkup building was the boiler, and I felt that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, the "I'm not in control and I don't know where this is going" feeling.
She unlocked the door and pushed me into a tiny dark space, a subterranean studio apartment barely large enough to hold the mattress on the floor. There was a waist high bookcase next to the mattress, and a pullman kitchen against one wall. There was one doorway that I could see, probably for the bathroom, and if there was a closet it wasn't obvious to me.
But the surprise, in this tiny space, was the wall facing the door.

The Summer So Far

I have spent more time in doctors offices in the last two months than I have in the last several years, more time prone with diagnosed and undiagnosed illnesses and syndromes and symptoms than I ever thought possible. I've had aches, pains, lethargy, inability to concentrate on anything meaningful. As a self-employed professional, it's all meant precious little services being performed in May and June, which has led to relative poverty in June and July. I've missed payments to be made for the first time in my adult life, through a combination of inattentiveness and a lack of cash.
I've had serious chest congestion brought on by adult onset allergies, which put me on powerful steroids (no, not that kind) and an inhaler, which I'm still using periodically. I spent the beginning of July with temps up to 103.5 (inside my body, not outside on the street lol), with such violent shivering and quaking that She thought it was The Exorcist demon inhabiting my body. In the process, I've ruined a pillow and wound up sleeping by myself for over a week, until I began to heal---the ultimate diagnosis was bacterial, cured by Cipro, which I had kept in the medicine cabinet left over from my most recent climbing trip to Ecuador.
My ultimate diagnosis, as the germs stopped moving around my body, was prostatitis, and in the process of visiting the urologist (and yes, I was among the youngest patients there) I was diagnosed with Peyronie's Disease, which is really a syndrome/symptom and not a Disease. And I'll leave it up to all you good souls to look it up on WebMd.
There has been little thinking about sex, even less sex, and almost no good sex...but that's all changing this week, as She and I are on vacation and will spend the time almost exclusively with each other. And I'm finally back to thinking about lust in a meaningful way.
Speaking of lust, try to catch a movie with Tilda Swinton called "I Am Love," if it comes to your local movie theatre. I thought it was about a middle aged woman caught in a stultifying marriage who meets and falls for a man half her age, the friend of her adult son. I saw it with Her, and She didn't understand why the younger man would fall for the older woman. But see it for yourself and think about what you think.
I'M BACK, yet again

The End of The Season-Part Two

We sat side by side, in profile, trading quips and bon mots, buying each other drinks for quite some time, little realizing that the groups we had each come in with had both dwindled down to just a few people, and then just disappeared, all of our friends having long since called it a night. At some point, by mutual agreement, we decided to move to the bar, and continued trading drinks back and forth, each of us with a pile of bills in front of our respective drinks. The continued consumption of hard liquor took its toll quickly once we moved to the barstools, and we moved closer to each other, leaning into each other, perched on our outside elbows, shoulders side by side, body warmth travelling back and forth. I could feel my lips getting numb, always a sure sign for me that I was getting drunker than drunk, and I began to have a bit of difficulty focusing on what she was saying.
Suddenly, she reached behind to the back of my head, and pulled my face closer to hers. I offered no resistance, and we posed in that position for just few seconds. I could feel her warm breath as we sat with mouths no more than an inch or two apart. Her breath reeked of all the booze she had consumed during the night, although I'm sure that I didn't smell a whole lot different. She tilted her face to the left and mashed her lips against mine, forcefully pushing her tongue into my mouth, aggressively attacking my lips and tongue, softly biting my tongue and lips, then harder, then hard. I moaned softly, almost more of an exhale, something only she could hear, remaining stationery, hands at my sides, compliant, my mouth open, sucking her tongue deeper, asking for more. She brought her other hand to the side of my face, gently caressing the area just below my jaw.
"We're done here," she said. "It's time to move on." And I knew this for what it was, taking it not as a suggestion but as a command. I worked hard to get off my stool, now feeling the full force of all I had to drink, the room less than stationery, my legs and focus in general somewhat questionable, but my intent pinpointed on doing what I had been told to do. I followed her to the door of the bar, hoping that we could find a taxi somewhere, not sure where we were going or what we were going to do once we got there.

The End of the Season-Part I

I'm a CPA, and back before I opened up my own practice I worked for a medium sized accounting firm in midtown. During tax season, we were required to put in long hours and sacrifice weekends to get the work done on time, with 12 hour days being the norm, and Saturday disappearing to the onslaught of work. Our firm made it a practice to finish a day or two before April 15th, sending the clerical staff to the post office to mail out the extensions and sending the accountants out to dinner and to get drunk, usually at some bar close by where we could all sit together and bitch at one another and commisserate about all the time sacrificed to put money into the partners' pockets.
We started early that evening, around 7 or so, the ties loosened or lost, sleeves rolled up and jackets disappeared. The wait staff was told to keep 'em coming, and it wasn't long before my Irish whiskey and soda count climbed over five. We sat at a round table, back to back with other round tables full of large groups. I'm normally a quiet guy, a counterpuncher in conversations rather than a loudmouth, my comments being mostly quick asides and sharp rejoinders to the ongoing conversation.
And so it was close to ten before I noticed her, the woman sitting with her back to me who kept looking in my direction, trying to get a clear view of my face. She wasn't my type at all, a round pie face with short brown hair, sallow colored skin, a small underbite. She wore an old-fashioned leotard top with the traditional scoop neck, and her breasts were pushed up by a half bra into what being perky, the tops showing out of the leotard and the outline of the half bra was clearly visible. The look was completed by a pair of lowrider jeans with a 2 inch zipper, the jeans struggling to cover the high cut of the leotard on her hips.
We finally managed to catch each others attention, and I raised my eyebrows in the universal "what's up" greeting. She pivoted slightly so that she was facing me sideways, and commented on my sarcastic wit and caustic comments. I was drunk enough at that point to tell her to mind her own fucking business, but she said it so nicely and with such a come hither smile that I also turned sideways to continue the conversation, offering to buy her a drink as I turned.

Cheek By Jowl-A Rant

I live in New York City, and have lived here basically all my life, and I've grown up with all the inherent baggage that comes with that, the New York accent (which I struggle to defeat), the New York quickmouth, the ability to drive in city traffic and not be panic stricken, the concept of that small area of private space that we all carry and that nobody enters, the knowledge that I live and have always lived in what I think of as the city of finalists. We understand the concept of "lead, follow, or get out of the way."
Lately though, I'm not so sure.
I am dismayed by the number of private conversations to which I have become an unwitting and unintended party. I use a cellphone as much as the next person, but try to keep my voice down or cut calls short when I'm on the subway or the bus. But I know so much more about people's lives than I ever wanted to, whether they're talking to their parents, their children, their lovers or spouses, their employees or employers. And I'm so not interested in the details of your lives, your pithy evaluation of your date over the weekend, the argument you're having with someone else, the way you're tearing someone a new one because they didn't finish some task you set for them. It goes on in elevators, on the street as I walk, in the bathroom, in every conceivable location---I'M NOT INTERESTED IN YOUR PRIVATE LIFE, DON'T INCLUDE ME IN IT.
We also have our own pedestrian version of driving while texting---texting while walking down a crowded city sidewalk. It's not as life threatening as blackberry use while driving, but it's equally dangerous, as a multitude of citizens now walk down the street with their heads down and their thumbs a-flashing. GUYS, IT'S THE SAME AS DRIVING AND TEXTING, LITERALLY TAKING YOUR LIFE (AND MINE) INTO YOUR OWN HANDS---HEADS UP!!!
And don't get me started on the people who seem to think that they're centurion sentries, and stand in the subway doors and don't move as the doors open, only tilt their bodies somewhat sideways to allow others to squeeze on and off.
But enough ranting and raving. I'm back to posting, and I DO have stories to tell.

Still Here

I have barely posted at all in this year, and to a large degree it's because my life has been in emotional turmoil and freefall. Professionally the first four months of the year are always total lunacy, and all of the complications therein are exacerbated by difficulties with Her. We move together and then farther apart, like an accordion, each side independant of the other, and it's drained me emotionally to the point that I have precious little energy for anything except work.
I'm trying to get back to writing more than once a month...the ongoing story of Not Enough was too close to home bear, and it brought out so many of the problems that we're dealing with now. But I am determined to rejoin the blogosphere, as my friend viviane puts it, and would caution all those that wrote me off to just be patient, just a little while longer.

Language

About a year ago I started subscribing to PublicDisgrace.com, where women are "bound, stripped and punished in public." The website comes from kink.com, and I find the submission absolutely breathtaking, especially the shoots done in The Armory in San Francisco. The women run the gamut from thin almost emaciated women with their ribs peeking out to buxom and blowsy blondes with size D or DD breasts. Sometime the women are rank amateurs, in way over their heads, and sometime they're porn actresses who are either earning some spare change or working off some particular fantasy they have. The description of the website is accurate, and they are flogged, face fucked, abused in every way imaginable. They are suspended, choked and smothered, seemingly forced to cum over and over again with a massive vibrator or dildo, they squirt and continue to squirt throughtout the shoot.
I've worked with a trainer at my local gym for many years, switching off as they come and go, employed in an itinerant profession. My latest trainer had me on my hands and knees, lifting an arm forward and pushing the opposing leg backwards, telling me to hold the position.
And so you can well imagine how, when she said "Arch your back!!" I burst into laughter and collapsed on the mat...it was the same phrase, spoken in the same way, that was used on the website to remind the women to stick out their butts, and make their mouths ready for someone's cock.

Not Enough #15

The endless night finally ended, just as the sun started to peek over the horizon and light the early morning. And it was that night that we understood our obedience to Amalia, our need to do her bidding and perform in the manner she commanded us.We spoke no words to one another, exchanged no looks or glances to decide how to obey...that night we only acquiesced.

Over the next two weeks we continued our pattern of non-communication, never daring to speak of the night with Amalia. We also continued to harshly and aggressively use each other for sex whenever the urge or occasion arose. I would force her to her knees and fuck her mouth angrily, causing her nose to run and her eyes to weep uncontrollably, her throat battered by my cock until she would almost vomit from the stress. When I came in her mouth, she would stand up and kiss me hard, pushing the cum and the bilious saliva onto my tongue. She would reciprocate by pushing her pussy onto my mouth, grabbing my hair and masturbating herself with my mouth in rhythm to the thrusting of her hips, pushing me behind her to tongue her asshole, pushing my fingers deep inside her as she strummed her clit with her fingers, causing herself to spurt on the hardwood floor, wiping it up with her hand and licking her fingers clean. We no longer bothered with intercourse, preferring the impersonality that the quick hit and run oral sex seemed to give us.

She still gave one night a week over to Amalia, and so for the two weeks after we understood our positions with Amalia, Debra would disappear for the night, returning as Alice well past midnight, reeking of alcohol, her clothes in partial disarray, damp from unknown exertions, exhausted. By the third week, she came home from work and told me that Amalia told her to bring me along that evening, and so I watched as Debra changed her clothes, squirming into a tight black tube skirt that cupped her ass, fishnet stockings, impossibly high heels that I had never seen her wear before, a half bra that pushed her breasts up so that they were practically falling out of the strappy black top that completed the outfit. A long black trench coat completed the outfit, and we quickly went downstairs to find a taxi.

She leaned forward to give the driver our destination, and I gazed out the window as we started to drive towards a neighborhood that we never frequented, somewhere far downtown in the rougher part of the city. She turned sideways and leaned up against me hard, her breasts stabbing me in the arm. Her lips rested on my ear, as she whispered, "Put your hand up my skirt and see how wet I am already."

That's when I found out that she was wearing the open crotch fishnets, and hadn't put on any panties. And I knew it was going to be a very long night.

The Not So Bad News

For the longest time, She ran a major surgical unit in one of the better hospitals in New York City, and over the years we became inured to the vagaries of the medical world, the O/R mistakes, the misdiagnoses, the misbehaving patients, the misbehaving doctors and staff, the whole nine yards.
And yet it still shocks us when the doctors trip and fall, revealing themselves to be absolutely human and less than perfect. Her sister was diagnosed two or three weeks ago with Alzheimer's, and was scheduled to go for additional testing on December 31st. And so the phone call that we received on New Year's Day was, if anything, more bizarre than seemingly possible.
The diagnosis of Alzheimer's was yet another medical mistake. Her sister, who has been taking numerous medications for a bipolar disorder was, in fact, misdiagnosed many years ago, and should not have been taking the drugs she was taking. All of her craziness stems, it seems, from being over-medicated, and for the past weeks she has been withdrawing gradually from all the medications.
I'm happy for Her, and happy for Her sister as well, but much of the questions about her behavior the last few years remain...the drugs exacerbate the symptoms, not the personality, and if she's a nasty and caustic bitch, will she remain the same? If it were me, I would be a whole new person, ecstatic over being given a second life.
So the votes are still out.