Swordfish Suite

Where Have You Been, My Blue Eyed Boy

2011-08-18T20:38:00.006-04:00

Gone for eight months---where have I been?
Tax season always intercedes, and for the first third of the year, I am as busy as a one armed paperhanger. I'm not complaining, but I have precious little energy and time for anything else, including blogging.
Then there was the diagnosis of Peyronie's Disease---look it up in Wikipedia, but it's basically a curvature of the penis due to scar tissue internally.
Then factor in Her vaginal infections---if I didn't know better and if I wasn't sure that She was soooo vanilla, I'd think She was having multiple affairs, having sex all over the lot. But we all know that this isn't so.
Now She's dealing with a tear in Her outer lips--of Her pussy. Again, if I wasn't so sure that She was so vanilla, I'd think She was having affairs.
We are once again in drydock, waiting until just after Labor Day. If She were GGG, She would offer up handjobs or blowjobs, but that's not really in Her vocabulary.

And so I've made an assignation with a porn star encountered online...

Spinning The Plates

2011-01-15T10:53:00.003-05:00

I've written about this before, I think, but it always bears repeating.
It's an old story in my house.
When we were growing up, She and I each watched The Ed Sullivan Show, the weekly variety show on TV on Sunday nights. There were several acts that seemed to appear every week or every other week---Topo Gigio, Senor Wences, and the guy that spun the plates. His entire act consisted of spinning plates on stationery sticks, adding more and more plates, rushing frantically from one stick to another, all to the background music of The Sabre Dance By Khachaturian...you know the music, you just might not know the title. As She and I spent our years together, the memory of this act became a metaphor for fierce concentration of positive thoughts about a hoped for outcome.
For the past few years, the Boy has been teaching at a major university in Philadelphia, but always in a non tenured position, having to have his position as a permanent lecturer renewed on an annual basis. And every year he would send out resumes for job applications in his chosen field. This year he got six interviews at the annual academic convention that he attends, and received an invitation for an on campus interview later this month, a major university here in the city, and it would mean that he could remain on the East Coast.
She and I spend all of our outside of work energy spinning the plates, concentrating hard for a positive ending to the situation. We speak during the day at work, and ask each other "are you spinning the plates"?
More to come....

Not Enough #18

2011-01-10T17:42:00.001-05:00

I did my best to smile up at her, transfixed by her glittering eyes and smirky smile, the aroma of her perfume wafting in and out, mixing with her own natural chemistry to create an aroma that took away what little remained of my breath, the smell of her drawing me in. My own tension and apprehension made my heart beat even faster, my throat dry and constricted in response to her approach.

"I'm gonna sit down and join you, OK?", and she did, without waiting for a reply. Our shoulders and arms touched, and I could feel her warmth as it radiated to me. She turned partially sideways so that her mouth was closer to my ear, and started to talk to me. "I've been watching you with your friends since you came in, and now they've left you alone, haven't they? You're a newbie here, and you're not really sure what's going on. You probably saw Mistress Lynx with her two supplicants playing with her titties, and a few other things you probably weren't expecting to see tonight. Would you like me to help you in this place?"

Her mouth had drawn closer still to my ear, and I could feel her warm moist breath as I nodded silently. I knew that she could see me for what I was, lost and alone, the odd man out of the trio, shaken and confused by everything that I was seeing and feeling. "You'll have to trust me. Completely trust me...so tell me, are you willing to trust me?" she said, as she ran her finger around the outside of my ear and down my jawline. She smirked at me yet again, not a smirk of derision, just bemusement perhaps at my predicament.

"Good," she said. Now kiss me to seal the deal, and I'll tell you everything you need to know." She turned my head sideways with the hand that had trailed down to my chin, engaging my lips with her firm mouth, her tongue surprising me by licking back and forth until I opened my mouth, allowing her to push her tongue deep into my mouth, the tip of her tongue doing a maddening dance with mine. I thrust back, and our tongues engaged in her mouth, as I tasted the acrid taste of cocaine dripping down from her nose through her soft palate, that wonderfully forbidden dark taste of naughty and nasty pleasures promised. Her hand continued up the other side of my face, stroking my hair and moving my head back and forth as she gripped tight and pulled me closer to her.

"OK, now let me tell you where you are and how things work."

The New Year

2011-01-03T15:34:00.003-05:00

I've started off my new year with the usual vows to get to the gym more, eat healthier, things like that. But after this morning, perhaps I'll be a bit more diligent in sticking to my regimen. I walked into the gym just after a very pretty woman and her partner/spouse/boyfriend (who can tell at six in the morning). She hung up her coat and walked to the treadmills, keeping on her tight gympants.
She stood and stretched for a minute, getting the earlier morning kinks out. Suddenly she reached behind herself, grabbed the waistband of the tights/pants, and started to take them off. She must have had some sort of brain freeze, or perhaps she just wasn't really awake, because she started to take off her tights and shorts and underwear (if she had any on) all at one time. She rolled them down to just below her ass cheeks and then suddenly realized what she had done, and hastily pulled the boy shorts back up. Embarrassed, she quickly glanced around her to see if anyone had realized what she had done, but just about everyone else was glued to their own screens.
Helluva way to start the year and the day...guess I'll be getting back to the gym more than I might have thought.

Christmas Shopping Part

2010-12-24T08:41:00.000-05:00

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

2010-12-23T09:49:00.000-05:00

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

2010-12-06T14:15:00.003-05:00

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

2010-12-01T17:38:00.002-05:00

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

2010-11-27T09:47:00.003-05:00

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

2010-11-26T08:25:00.002-05:00

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

2010-11-24T13:12:00.003-05:00

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

2010-11-02T09:44:00.004-04:00

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

2010-10-28T13:35:00.002-04:00

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

2010-10-26T15:48:00.003-04:00

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

2010-10-25T15:23:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-20T11:05:00.004-04:00

I absolutely confess to watching entirely too much nighttime television, especially at the beginning of the network season in the fall, when loads of new shows come on and there is a winnowing out process. One of the new shows I've attached to (and which has been granted approval for filming the rest of its season) is The Event, Mondays at 9PM.
One of the starts is Laura Innes, a durable tv actress, and most remembered as the longtime head of the emergency room on ER. In a recent episode, she is being interrogated by the President of the United States. She is seated at a long table, with her hands flat on the table, a fairly uncommon pose or position. A bell went off in my head as she maintained the position, and I realized that the position signified a deeper submission that a prisoner or a suspect would normally present.
It took me a minute or two to realized that the position was one that toy had exhibited on her blog recently, as she sucked off DL during a recent assignation. You can see it on her blog on October 12th, if you just click here and then scroll down here: http://marriedmansfucktoy.blogspot.com/2010_10_01_archive.html
It's a completely submissive posture that toy strikes, no hands, just her mouth servicing her Master, and the similarity to the position that Laura Innes assumed was just too close to be coincidental.

Almost Cut My Hair

2010-10-09T11:39:00.004-04:00

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

2010-08-26T13:11:00.007-04:00

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

2010-07-25T10:55:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-29T11:12:00.000-04:00

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

2010-05-01T16:54:00.000-04:00

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

2010-04-26T16:07:00.004-04:00

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

2010-03-22T17:00:00.002-04:00

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

2010-02-02T16:06:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-25T15:52:00.001-05:00

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

2010-01-24T10:47:00.000-05:00

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.

Not Enough #14

2009-12-30T17:08:00.001-05:00

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."

The Bad News

2009-12-28T09:34:00.002-05:00

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.

Is The Economy Improving on Main Street?

2009-12-15T15:49:00.002-05:00

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 scene...how 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.

A Misstep by Her

2009-12-07T14:19:00.002-05:00

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.

SSS

2009-11-30T16:48:00.005-05:00

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.

Interlude: The Real Amalia

2009-11-17T13:59:00.001-05:00

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.

Not Enough #13

2009-11-06T14:20:00.002-05:00

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.

MIA

2009-11-03T09:48:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-03T09:35:00.001-05:00

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.

spelling

2009-09-23T13:00:00.000-04:00

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.

Not Enough #12

2009-09-22T17:30:00.001-04:00

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.

Civility

2009-09-18T12:58:00.001-04:00

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.

Was I Supposed To Look---redux

2009-09-14T15:36:00.002-04:00

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.

Go Back To Whever You Came From

2009-09-04T10:56:00.003-04:00

For better and for worse, the summer is coming to an end...it'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.

Paying Rent

2009-08-31T09:23:00.003-04:00

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."
BULLSEYE!!

The Comeback

2009-08-28T12:29:00.004-04:00

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.

The Light Changes

2009-08-27T14:00:00.002-04:00

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.
Sigh....

The Boy And His Book

2009-08-11T17:58:00.001-04:00

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.

Exit Music

2009-08-09T10:55:00.000-04:00

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

Not Enough #11

2009-08-04T17:30:00.000-04:00

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.

HB2ME

2009-07-23T17:29:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-23T17:08:00.003-04:00

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 not...trust 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.

Activia....Activia???

2009-07-23T16:56:00.002-04:00

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

The Object of Lust

2009-07-19T09:31:00.003-04:00

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.

Shortchanged #2

2009-07-16T09:39:00.003-04:00

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 change...cash 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.

Not Enough #10

2009-06-30T14:45:00.007-04:00

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

2009-06-30T14:44:00.005-04:00

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

2009-06-30T14:20:00.003-04:00

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.

Not Enough

2009-06-17T14:52:00.001-04:00

Go back to May22nd, and read it there.

The Ta-Tas

2009-06-15T15:03:00.002-04:00

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.

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

2009-05-28T09:08:00.002-04:00

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 http://fd-midori.livejournal.com/.
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.

Not Enough #9

2009-05-22T14:14:00.012-04:00

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

2009-05-22T14:14:00.008-04:00

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 www.thesexcarnival.com 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.

Synchronicity and Magic Moments

2009-05-12T20:47:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-12T20:46:00.003-04:00

Not Enough #8

2009-04-29T15:56:00.016-04:00

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.

Encouragement

2009-04-22T15:13:00.005-04:00

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.

Random Thoughts #6

2009-04-16T13:58:00.005-04:00

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.

The Other Marilyn

2009-04-14T15:02:00.005-04:00

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.

Not Enough #7

2009-04-11T13:40:00.008-04:00

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.

The Public Library

2009-04-02T14:22:00.004-04:00

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 amazon.com 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.

Not Enough #6

2009-03-25T01:48:00.011-04:00

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.

Not Enough #5

2009-03-18T07:40:00.004-04:00

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.

20K

2009-03-17T16:06:00.005-04:00

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

Always On My Mind

2009-03-11T00:32:00.002-04:00

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 while...it 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.

Not Enough #4

2009-03-02T19:33:00.007-05:00

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....

Where Have You Been?

2009-02-27T17:29:00.004-05:00

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.

The Answer, Not The Solution

2009-01-29T15:13:00.003-05:00

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 blogger.com 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.

Trouble in Paradise???

2009-01-27T20:00:00.002-05:00

For some reason unknown, and totally unexplained and unexplainable to me, all of the blogger.com 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??

Not Enough#3

2009-01-18T14:02:00.013-05:00

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?"

Not Enough-Part II

2009-01-12T15:13:00.005-05:00

If you haven't read Part I yet, just scroll back and take a look. Continuity counts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *.

"You want to what?" I yelped, in spite of myself, my stunned surprise getting the better of me.
"I want to take a lover," she repeated. "I'm telling you now, because I didn't want to sneak around and make this terminally sordid, the cheating wife and the cuckold husband. It won't be anybody either of us knows, that would just make it sleazy and cheap, and I think this is going to be difficult enough for each of us, for both of us."
I could see that her face was flushed, her white winter skin turned pink by the thoughts she was having, the thoughts of extramarital sex, the illicitness of it heating her up and exciting her. I put the arch of my foot between her denim covered thighs, feeling the heat emanating from her pussy, touching that extra bit of dampness when she got aroused, the jeans themselves sliding up just a little bit with the give of the extra fabric in her crotch. She smiled a far away smile as I pushed that extra bit harder, her eyes narrowing, her cheshire cat smile spreading as she made a tiny groan.
"You slut. You've been thinking about this forever, haven't you...and you've gotten all wet just talking about it." She could only smile in agreement as I rocked my foot back and forth against her damp jeans, her lips parting as her breathing quickened.
"Would you like to see? I could show you just how excited I am, just how wet I am, just how much of a slut I'm becoming. I could open my jeans and show you just how much pussy juice is soaking through my panties, how its making my thighs shine as it leaks out of my little undies. Would you like that?"
And she knew that I would, as she played to my love of hearing her talking dirty, as she played to my secret pleasure, being the watcher. "Show me," I croaked, my breath caught in my throat, my airway constricting as it always did as I became aroused and hard. "Show me."

Me And The Night And The Music #2

2009-01-12T14:49:00.004-05:00

It's always been an ability that I had, reaching far past the appreciation of the melody and the harmony, the chords and inner structures. It's a knack, a talent that I was born with, and one that I've nurtured and developed over the decades. I take it for granted, and it's only when I'm reminded of it that I realize how truly special it is.

I hear the totality of music much differently, much more complexly than most people. I hear three or four different elements at once---the melody for sure, it's what the music rides ahead on...the bass line, the bottom, the foundation, the part that I've been singing for years and years and years 'til it's ingrained in my soul...the middle, not just the rock and roll chords, but the stretched harmonies, the flatted sixths, the diminished sevenths, the halftones scraping against one another in their quest for resolution. I feel these notes viscerally, the tonalities moving within my body, the dominants and subdominants always pulling towards their tonic resolutions, the suspensions hanging before resolving home.

And as I look back over this post, I realize how ineffectual I've been in expressing myself, how utterly unclear all of what I've written has been.

And I know that you, dear reader, have absolutely no fucking idea what I've been trying to say, not through any fault of your own, but rather at the causation of my inability to write about sound.

Earwig---Counting Crows, Einstein on the Beach

Just A Few Random Thoughts #5

2009-01-08T09:11:00.010-05:00

My friends know that I fall in love constantly, and I may even have talked about that here...I see a woman in the street, on the subway, in a store, and my heartbeat alters itself, I get that soft mushy feeling inside, and for just a minute I'm in another world with whomever I've just seen. Sometimes it happens in real life, sometimes in make believe, this feeling of "I'm gone-ness". It happened about three weeks ago, when I finally had a cable box/DVR installed, and stumbled past a '70s movie called The Vanishing Point. I watched only about the last fifteen minutes, and truth be told the movie was moderately unintelligible, coming in almost at the end. But I fell in love with an actress named Gilda Texter, who, according to Netflix, has only one other credit to her name. She played a nudist/hippy/girlfriend who rode a motorcycle naked through the desert, with a perfect allover tan and these tiny breasts. My blogger friends know that I'm drawn to big breasted women as a rule, dangerous lilly or elle anguisette, tess the urban gypsy, jane not plain, being just a few, and so the rush of feeling for a mini breasted woman took me by surprise. I've gotten the movie out of the library, and watched her sequence several times...still in love.

At one point I was considering a post about women in their 40s discovering or rediscovering their sex drive, and I asked Lynsey, who had been public about this at one time, if she would mind my discussing it, and her, in the post. She had no objection, but "reminded" me that Oprah had done a show on this within the last three months or so, and it really wasn't breaking news. But what floors me here are the women I know, or whose blogs I read regularly, who are in this position, but whose husbands/partners don't have enough sex with them. My very good friend S periodically complains about this, Jane Not Plain does as well, Tess has been public about her need to go outside her marriage, Slut No Bounds has done the same and is open and honest about it with her husband. It's such a surprising revelation for me...I thought all men were eternally in quest of more sex.
Everybody checks out everybody else in the gym during workouts on the treadmill, the stairmaster, various machines...men check out men, women check out women, men check out women, women check out men, everybody checks themself out...you get the picture. This morning I had a 30 something woman next to me wearing gray spandex tights. She had a great butt, but for the life of me I couldn't see any panty line...either she wasn't wearing any underwear or she was wearing a thong. The image of a thin piece of fabric nestled deep within her cheeks was more than I could deal with, and so I sort of burst out laughing, and she gave me that New York frown/face scrunch. I so don't understand women's underwear...I love the thong look as much as anyone, but it would seem that wearing one in the gym would be sooo uncomfortable. Perhaps someone could enlighten me.....
See Kristin Scott Thomas in the movie I've Loved You So Long...if it comes to your neighborhood...heartrending, gut wrenching, brilliantly acted by all the players, reminiscent of French films in the '60s and '70s...yes it will be just as good on dvd.

Earwig-LHR-Poppity Pop

One of The Seven Deadly Sins

2008-12-31T14:34:00.003-05:00

There's no excuse, really, no excuse at all---my friend says that there can be reasons, but there are no excuses.
Sloth, the inability to find one's way to complete one's tasks---and I've ignored my poor blog.
Not out of lack of something to say...I ALWAYS have something to say, but sometimes I show an inability to say things...that's what the shrink says...it's like the line in Cool Hand Luke "a failure to communicate."
But I'm back at it, and I do have a lot to say...and it will show as the New Year progresses. I want to write about the dating website I joined, continue the tale of Not Enough, hopefully have more new adventures, depart for another high altitude trek and live to tell about it (Annapurna), sing with the NY Phil in June, and experience things I don't even know about just yet.
Thank you to those precious few bloggers who've added me to the blogrolls this year...the newest ones I'm reading (and enjoying) are Bareback Girl, Slut No Bounds, Pandora's Box.
Be safe, happy and healthy in the coming year, dear reader. If we have that, we can all survive the economy, Bernie Madoff, and all the other bad things that come down the pike.

Not Enough-Part I

2008-12-26T11:40:00.005-05:00

We had survived the holiday season, She and I, getting through Christmas at Her loudmouth sister's, survived the early morning phone call from the Wicked Witch of The West sister, who spent our precious time gushing about her wonderful Christmas Eve, and excoriating Her about everything else, knowing full well that She would be on her best behavior (as the middle child, the appeaser, the gratifier, the go-between) and would be sure to not rock the boat...they were all daughters of the same parents after all, all ACOA, each assuming the specified role long ago proscribed by years of family misadventures.
We lay at opposite ends of the long couch, our legs intertwined, each of us occasionally shifting from one hip to the other, squirming to find a more comfortable position, each of us struggling to catch up on newspapers and magazines that had fallen by the wayside during the Christmas season, the unread events and editorials of the past ten days on the floor before us, each of us with a mug of coffee close at hand. We were smug in the knowledge that we had survived another holiday season, the onslaught of retail adventures and wholesale giftgiving put behind us. We had escaped again together.

Or so I thought.

We had been together for more than ten years at the time, and had long ago stopped talking about sex during sex, both of us feeling that there was some element of traffic directing in specific instructions, and so we had taken to discussing whatever happened in bed at some time the next day, or the day after, sort of like a post game show if we had been playing some sport. The comments often came out of nowhere, no preamble, out of the clear blue, and the listener often had to take a moment to shift gears, the wheels spinning before gaining traction.
"It's not enough for me," she said, and I struggled to understand what she meant, as my heart dropped in my chest. "It's nice, but it's not enough. I'm not lost in it, I'm not abandoning myself to the sex, I'm not disappearing into it. I'm watching as though I were a third person in the room, apart from the two of us, watching the mechanics of it from another place in the bedroom."
I was dumbstruck, unable to say a word, shamed and embarrassed by the knowledge that I was doing my job but not completing her. I had no response, knowing by the way she phrased her words that there was no chance or opportunity for me to find a solution and fix the problem. She was presenting everything as a fait accompli.
"There's passion and intimacy, but there's no lust. I miss the lust. I truly ache for it. I lust for the lust," she said, flashing me an smile that conveyed both sadness and desire at the same time, her eyes narrowing with determination and blatant horniness.

"I want to take a lover."

TMI Tuesday

2008-12-01T15:49:00.005-05:00

1. What are your turn-ons?
a good listener, politeness and civility, good deeds done w/o recognition or the desire for same, the sound of silence in a conversation.
2. What are your turn-offs? bad breath, rudeness, being cheated by design, being ignored
3. Not counting your turn-ons, what's the best trait a person can have?
the ability to be truly interested in others
4. Not counting your turn-offs, what's the worst trait a person can have?
being self-centered to the exclusion of anything else
5. What's your biggest pet peeve?
the use of the phrase NO PROBLEM coming from a service person, like a waiter or counterstaff...of course it's not problem...IT'S YOUR JOB.
Bonus (as in optional):Describe your best and worst experience.

Much too broad...one of the best was the day I realized the Boy could read, and that he'd learned to do it intuitively and on his own...one of the worst was the day She found out that there were others...

"We're An American Band"

2008-12-01T12:56:00.002-05:00

I am an accountant by profession, getting my start by being a tour accountant for various rock bands, back in the day before many of you, dear readers, were born. The thing to remember about touring with a rock band is that everything you've ever heard or imagined is true. If you think about the movie Almost Famous, you'll have some inkling as to what goes on.
This story is deadly true, and took place in the mid '70s, and I was out on the road with Alice Cooper. We were doing a spate of concerts for MidSouth Productions, and we blew through Memphis, Mobile, Jackson Miss, and then we pulled into Little Rock. I headed for the hotel to sort out my accounting and count the money, the crew went to the venue to set up, the musicians took naps and relaxed. When I get to the hall around 6PM, one of my roadie friends asks me if Connie has gotten to me yet, and I ask him Connie Who?? He says, "You know the song by Grand Funk Railroad...sweet sweet Connie's doing her act, she has the whole band and that's a natural fact," and it dawns on me...the song is about a groupie, a groupie whose aim isn't so high, the one who does the crew.
Now, all my guys know that I'm married, they've met Her, we're all good friends in spite and in addition to my being the straight guy, and yet the road manager hooks me up with Connie. I tell him it's really not my style, he tells me that I'll upset her, disappoint her, she prides herself on getting to EVERYONE. And so I wind up in Alice's dressing room, with my tongue down her throat, to start with, her hands all over me, and then she drops to her knees as if poleaxed, opens my zipper with her clenched teeth, pulls out my cocks and starts to go to work...and after a few minutes, I realize that her breath is tickling my stomach, and it's because she's swallowed me whole, and is breathing heavily through her flared nostrils...she's facing me and deepthroating me ever so efficiently...now She can do this, but usually only in a 69 position. But Connie, sweet Connie, has engulfed me and is mashing her nose into my pubic hair for all she's worth. And despite it all, I don't cum in her throat, but wind up fucking her standing up, and cum deep inside her. Yes, I know, unprotected sex, but this all took place during the only era when you couldn't die from having sex...post syphilis, pre AIDS.
The stranger part is that she travelled with us for a couple of weeks, met Her along the way, told Her how cute I was, and She never once imagined that my cock had been deep inside numerous parts of this seemingly nice girl.
Well, she was a nice girl, just a slut in the process.

Earworm-Grand Funk Railroad We're An American Band

Just A Few Random Thoughts #4

2008-11-26T11:43:00.003-05:00

I've long been fascinated with tales of Hollywood back in the day, specifically harking back to the 30s and 40s, when Hollywood was a wide open town ruled by a crooked and corrupt police force. I've devoured most of James Ellroy's books, loved Hollywood Confidential, have The Changeling on my shortlist for this weekend, have been in love with Louise Brooks (one generation earlier, back in the silent era), thought Devil in A Blue Dress and Black Dahlia were great fun, and am about to start a bio of Tallulah Bankhead, an "I don't give a damn what you think" girl. If you know of any other movie or book that fits into this category and is worth pursuing, please let me know.
I'm starting to work on a sex and intimacy survey that comes from Thurday's Child, who runs a wonderful blog http://www.sexnshoes.com/ and who will be happy to include you in if you ask her. I've always felt that introspection is important to keeping your balance in a tippy world, and this survey asks lots of nice questions that will probably help me stay on track, or get back on track, or just understand why I've jumped the tracks. OK, enough of that metaphor. From what I can understand, the thought here is to learn about oneself, and to help Thursday's Child figure herself out...both worthwhile pursuits.
I've just finished reading desire by Susan Cheever, daughter of the late John Cheever. I thought it would be similar to the book a few years ago by a retired prima ballerina from ABT who revealed herself as the queen of anal sex, a tell all book with lots of juicy details, but it was none of those. She discusses at great length her sex addiction, how she views sex addiction historically and in numerous other ways, what lies ahead for her, similarities and differences to other addictions, lots of other stuff. It's a well written book, albeit with a few too many references about where lunch or dinner or drinks took place, and slim enough to be read in a day or so, perhaps over the long holiday weekend.
My thanks go out to those that had or held a positive thought for me concerning my audition. As always, it was much more benign that I would have thought, and I'm happy to report that I passed, and will be appearing with the NY Philharmonic next June for 7 performances during the month---yeah, me and about 200-300 others on stage, but still exciting.
The upcoming Thanksgiving holiday is a time to give thanks, so please take that time. Be thankful for friends either in the flesh or online, for family near and far, for loved ones past and present, for those that care about you and that you care about. Be thankful for the things you have, and truly examine what those things are, be they small or cosmic, and truly appreciate them.
I'm on the away team this holiday, and so it's unclear whether I'll have the freedom to get online for a few days. Travel safely if you're on the road, hold your loved ones near and dear.

TMI Tuesday #162

2008-11-25T17:50:00.002-05:00

1. What is your favorite Thanksgiving food?
the cranberry sauce, the kind with the raw crans and minced up orange.

2. You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence. Which one will it be?
two bands from back in the day---iron butterfly (ina gadda da vida) or vanilla fudge

3. You seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Holy crap, a hundred bucks! How are you gonna spend it?
I'm with lilly here, just fritter it away, although new toys might be a possibility

4. What is your favorite curse word?
again, siding with lilly, the F word---just sooooooo expressive, can be used in almost any context, except a religious service

5. Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-traveling phone booth. You can go anytime in the PAST. What time are you traveling to and what are you going to do when you get there?
Again, a back in the day answer...I had to opportunity to move to SFO in the days of the Haight, and passed it up.

Bonus (as in optional):You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what's even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What's it gonna be?
I'd opt for speed and becoming Flash

The Kid Stays In The Game

2008-11-22T11:34:00.003-05:00

My good friend viviane recently used the phrase "pick up guy", and I harkened back to that moniker last night. I was never a pick up guy, never the one with the smooth line and the calculated come ons. I could always make small talk and still can, but I never had the rap and patter down pat.
She and I went out to the Blue Note to see Ivan Lins and the NY Voices. He's a wonderful Brazilian singer/composer, and they are such capable and innovative singers that they left me wondering how they find their notes and lines, and I've been listening to jazz singing groups since Lambert, Henricks and Ross.
The tables at the Blue Note cost $45 per person/cover and are reservable...and the seats at the bar are only $25 but alas not reservable, and so I went ahead, way early, arriving at 6:15 for an 8PM show, only to find that some seats were already gone, and so I sat way at the end of the curved bar, and was quick to notice two women sitting just past the curve. And we made eye contact right away, the prettier woman's gaze direct and unabashed. I ordered a Jameson and soda from the bartender, remarking to him that it was a shame that She was coming later, the two women were soooo attractive and obviously on the prowl. I was quick to notice that they conversed in French, Parisian French at that, and seemed to understand little English, as I had to translate several remarks from the bartender to them.
There were several back and forths with the prettier one, much eye contact, serious non-verbal flirting, and the doorman even floats by, saying to me what a shame it is that She's coming, because I'm already sitting there involved with a very pretty lady. Finally, they ask me when the show starts, and I reply "A huit heures, plus ou moin", meaning eight o'clock. It becomes obvious that they had no idea they'd be holding down the bar for another hour, and so after a brief conversation, they get up to leave, the prettier one throwing one last smile at me.
Nothing happened, but it's always nice to know that someone might be interested in picking me up.

Higher and Higher

2008-11-20T09:11:00.002-05:00

The preface to this post is that I've outlived my father, his brother, one male cousin on my father's side. My father had his first heart attack at 47, as did his brother, as did two of my three male cousins. So you can see that my father's side of the family is fraught with health issues.
In 2001, I realized that I had a significant birthday coming up, and decided that I wanted to do something meaningful to reaffirm the fact that I was still alive, and was planning to stay alive and active and healthy for a very long time. I decided to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. Well, not climb, because Uhuru, as it is known to the local Masai, requires no technical climbing to get to the summit, no ropes, no ice axes, no pitons, just the physical strength and the mental toughness to walk uphill for days on end. I traveled with an organized tour, shared a tent with the only other CPA on the mountain, earned the sobriquet Babu (a term of respect and endearment, meaning Grandpa), became the poky puppy early on, and summitted, reaching the roof of Africa after untold difficulties and superhuman efforts. I framed my certificate proudly, and look at it every day as I sit down to work.
I applaud the efforts and achievements of Anne Curry and her team in reaching 15,700 feet. She's right when she says that they were on the hill at the wrong time of the year...perhaps broadcast journalism required her to do make this journey live, and not film ahead and put it in the can for later broadcast. Even with days for acclimitization added into the mix, it's frighteningly difficult, no doubt about it.
What I don't understand is why none of her crew took any medication to combat the altitude sickness. This isn't one of those purist discussions, like climbing Everest without oxygen. Everybody that I've ever known has taken medication to combat the effects of the altitude on cranial pressure, whether it's Diamox(which was originally invented as a kidney medication) or some other substance. Even some of our less experienced Masai porters took pills as we climbed above 16,000 feet.
I only tuned in to the climb the last few days, so perhaps I missed the explanation of non-medicating which might have been given earlier in the series. Can anyone enlighten me as to whether a conscious decision was made, and discussed on air, as to why not taking the medication was the option chosen?

Client Relations Part III

2008-11-17T15:08:00.006-05:00

"Please, don't make me beg."

She pulled one end of the tie of the dress, and it slowly slid part of the way open, the two uneven sides of the dress parting as she cocked one hip slightly higher than the other and tried to twist her lips into a crooked enough smile, her dark eyes flashing their lively message out at me. What precious little she wore under the dress could've fit into a coffee cup with room to spare...a pair of panties that didn't seem to begin anywhere, a tiny triangle of white silk covering the area where her thighs met her torso, suspended from her slim hips by what seemed like fishing line colored white, the lines making tiny indentations in her white skin...a quarter cup bra holding up her sweet looking breasts, her nipples surprisingly dark, peeking out from behind narrow white lace shells, the tips erect and pushing forward, almost bruised looking in their arousal.

She paused for a moment, perhaps feeling some small sense of modesty or embarassment, because she raised her right arm up and across her breasts, cupping the left one but effectively hiding them both from view, her other hand rising slightly to the cleft between her legs, and I could see her middle finger depressing the tiny bit of silk between her lips, the fabric all but disappearing. Her smile changed and faded, replaced by a different sort of grin, a cat that ate the canary grin, the cheshire cat grin, the only one corner of her mouth grin, her eyes squinting closed just a bit in concentration and determination. She tried hard to pout out her lower lip, and ran her tongue across both lips making them wet and shiny.

"Can we work something out? Isn't there something we can do?"

TMI Tuesday

2008-11-17T15:07:00.001-05:00

1. When did you last use your cellular telephone as a flashlight? I never have, but She used hers to open the front door this past summer, in the dark, both of us way too inebriated to remember that the lock is installed upside down.

2. On a scale from 1-10, how comfy are you being naked? 8-9, not embarrassed by my body, just sometimes lost without my glasses.

3. What is the longest you've ever been celibate after having lost your virginity? close to a year in college...things just weren't working out.

4. Have you ever had sex in a car? No, born and raised in NYC, one of the oldest people you'll ever know that learned to drive.

5. When did you last use food or drink as medication? within the last month, when I had to put up with family issues, Hers not mine, and it meant listening to tales of mental cruelty and abuse.

Bonus: Name three words that:
a) get you excited-beach
b) make you squirm-honesty
c) make you laugh-nothing here, i'm a very random laugher

Me And The Night And The Music

2008-11-17T14:39:00.013-05:00

So, I've tried to write this post more times than I care to think about, each time coming up slightly short or slightly out of tune, feeling as though I was singing the wrong words to the song, feeling the hesitation of 4 against 3, knowing that chords have been left hanging with their 7ths or 9ths reaching out for some sort of resolution. The true story of me and the night and the music is a lifelong story, one told in proper prospective, with intense periods of involvement, a constant background soundtrack, the never ending feeling that any teenager has in the incomplete movie of his life, in which he is always the star and always the focus of attention. I've started from when I was two years old going forward, from today looking back over time, from any number of midpoints blossoming out in all directions...not a single start has found its way to completion in any meaningful or satisfactory way.

There's some much to say and tell, and I'm only a lowly blogger...my skills at wordsmithing and storytelling are suspect, my capabilities sometimes falling below even what I might deem adequate for the purpose at hand, and so I constantly start and delete the story of me and the night and the music. Perhaps the only way to get through the story is to just jump in and start telling it, and see where it goes. The process sounds comfortable, soft, friendly, forgiving of errors in style or content, accepting what is proferred, allowing me to get where I want to, to get to where I need to get to.

And so I shall---jump right in. I hate auditions, I lose focus, I lose attachment to the real world and seem to be operating on autopilot. I have sung pieces in the wrong language, omitted the last page of the sheet music for the accompanist (who politely left me hanging in an unresolved cadence), started sightsinging on the wrong note and floundered through a whole piece without hitting many correct notes, gone to the wrong room at the wrong time, shown up for auditions where I wasn't qualified to audition, you name it and I've done it. And yet, I've managed to pass every audition I've ever sung. I know it's partially because men in any chorus are desirable, partially because I really do have a good voice (jesus, such ego!),and partially because although I may screw up mightily, I never actually overstep myself and try out for a chorus I'm not reasonably sure of getting into. I'm a second bass, and can sing down to a low D comfortably, and up to an F above middle C without making dogs howl in the moonlight.

Next Monday I audition for a new chorus, a chorus that will do eight major performances in NYC next June, and as always, I'm petrified with fear. No prepared music is required, only a voice test, a follow instructions test, and the dreaded sightsinging requirement. I can learn the music, follow the conductor, show up at every rehearsal prepared, but I just don't sightread that well, and I'm hoping, praying, beseeching the almighty, that I can dazzle them with footwork and blind them with prestidigitation, once again passing the audition and giving me somewhere to go on Monday nights so that I won't have to keep company with David Caruso any longer.

Please, please, please, pray for me.

Earworm-Miles Davis, Porgy and Bess

Lady Heather

2008-11-06T10:38:00.004-05:00

Tonight marks the return of Lady Heather to CSI...it's probably the only hint of the bdsm world on network TV. Melinda Clarke, who is always wonderful at playing sluts and fallen women, has always worked so well at capturing the domme side of relationships. Granted that you have to read between the lines sometimes---there's only so much that will get past the censors, and what gets shown here is, for the most part, only the mental and psychological side of the relationship.
But it's a chance to say "ah, I get it. That's me," regardless of which side of the relationship you're on.
And if you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, cbs.com has a sort of highlights catchup reel running on their website, just to put things in place.
CBS Network 9-10PM.

TMI Tuesday

2008-11-04T13:02:00.003-05:00

1. Have you ever had a moving violation? An auto accident? That was your fault?
Never an accident, but got my very first speeding ticket in December 2007
2. Have you ever voted? How old was your were you the first time you voted?
I was 21 when I first voted...the rules were different back in the day
3. Are you glad this election cycle is over?
The cycle is endless, the process endlessly fascinating.
4. Do you have guilty pleasure? What is it (or are they)?
Porn for sure, shoot em up movies, the juacqueline carey novels among many
5. What is the most embarrassing thing you have done recently?
Told my shrink that she didn't really know the whole truth
Bonus: How much impact has the Wall Street and general economic wilt had on you?
Probably a lot going forward..as a CPA everything always affects me on a delayed basis

Don't Be A Lanavat

2008-11-03T11:55:00.002-05:00

Early on my parents impressed upon me the importance of voting, of making a choice, taking a stand, adopting a position. I went into the voting booth with my stay-at-home mother every election day, and watched as she made her choices...I wasn't allowed to pull the levers, but I could come in and watch the process.
And so I impress upon my small readership the importance and necessity of voting. I know who I would encourage you to vote for, but it's sooo important to be part of the process.
IF YOU DON'T VOTE, YOU FORFEIT THE RIGHT TO COMPLAIN UNTIL THE NEXT ELECTION!!
And many many bonus points to anyone who can tell me what a lanavat is.

The Calendar

2008-11-01T10:00:00.003-04:00

I've long held that despite the fact that we're all adults, we all live on an academic calendar, from September through the summer...the calendar hanging on the wall in the kitchen and use to notate various events, is just formatted incorrectly, and Her filofax, which runs on the academic year, is the one we all live by.
I used to live by a slightly more skewed calendar years ago. I used to be a serious runner, a marathon runner, a train 6 days a week runner, someone who ran 12 months of the year, staying indoors only when the temperature dipped to single digits. I had started running while I was studying for the CPA exam, listening to review tapes on my walkman---it was a really long time ago, picking up the idea of mens sana in corpore sana for an ancient episode of the TV show The Paper Chase. I ran every morning in Central Park (lucky that way), awoke every morning at 5:51 AM (don't ask, please), and was able to complete a lap of the park (which teeters on 10K), be home to clean up and breakfast, and still manage to get to work by 9. I wasn't particularly fast, just persistent. I would focus on a fall marathon every year, running NY in the odd numbered years, and travelling to other cities in the even numbered ones---DC, Montreal, Newport among others.
And so this time of the year, the first weekend in November, which is when the marathon settled here after clashes with daylight savings time (don't ask, again) and Jewish holidays is somewhat sad and bittersweet. I miss the excitement of the foreign runners clogging the park during the week before the race, the Italian restaurants being stuffed to the gills the Friday and Saturday nights before the race, the getting up ever so early to take the ferry and catch my reserved cab across Staten Island, the millions of people waiting in the streets to applaud and encourage me, the occaisional stroke of good luck in finding a runner like the blonde haired woman in Montreal, who ran at exactly my pace for 22 miles, and was sad when I faded and we couldn't finish together. This was long before the marathon became an anybody can enter and walk the course event, when the participants were all runners and not tourists just sightseeing the city. I miss what I used to tell the Boy was "the gathering of eagles".
But I'll be out there tomorrow morning, which promises to be a brilliant day, cheering for the elite runners, and then staying to cheer of the citizens of the road, the people just happy to finish and meet or beat their own personal goals. They're all still my heroes.

Client Relations Part II

2008-10-20T17:02:00.011-04:00

She had always been pretty in a black Irish sort of way, always sort of flirty one day and serious the next, trying to be grownup and little girlish at the same time, being serious one minute and childlike the next, and so I wasn't quite sure which version of her was coming to see me. Sometimes she would be dressed in a business suit, and then the next time it would be bib overalls and pigtails. I had always dealt with her in the same businesslike manner, regardless of who showed up, and so, when the doorbell rang, I hastened to answer it.

She stood in the doorway clad in a vintage DVF wraparound dress, white with a shamrock green print, wearing high heels and stockings. Her dark hair fell just to her shoulders, the peekaboo bangs partially obscuring her eyes. She had a trenchcoat incongruously thrown over one shoulder, and some sort of expensive handbag held in her other hand. She flashed me a smile that didn't extend up past her mouth, her eyes retaining a vaguely haunted look, as she brushed past me on her way to the living room, where she tossed the trenchcoat on one of the wing chairs and sat down in the corner of the couch.

I began the conversation by reiterating what I had told her on the phone, that I liked her and thought she was a very nice person, but that I really couldn't extend myself out for a third year without some sort of payment plan or something more concrete than her best intentions. And I watched as her eyes softened and her mouth lost its smile, her lower lip pouting out. She stood up and began to pace back and forth, the heels clicketting loudly on the parquet floor, as she started in on a long tale of mishaps and misdeeds, of jobs that didn't pay her at the end of the week, dead end commission jobs in the garment center, her voice becoming softer and softer as she spun out her tale of woe.

"Please," she said, "don't make me beg."

Me and The Internet

2008-10-15T15:15:00.015-04:00

I have just a few lingering complaints about the internet and how it works:

---We all visit websites that are by invitation only, and I'm always thankful to bloggers that invite me in, and take me along when they travel from address to address...many readers here will also visit toy, joy shared, slut no bounds, dirty little details, to name but a few that I read regularly, and I truly am thankful for the invites...my question is this---why, when I sign in each time and check the box that says remember me, do I have to sign in the next time, why doesn't the remember me part stick?

---I'm pretty sure I'm in the minority here, but my feeling is if a blog is out there in public, I find it offputting when some of the postings become private/by invitation only. I'm not talking about the type of blog that was written up in the NYT several months ago, and read by thousands daily. I'm referring to a relatively, as far as I can see, small or medium sized readership, the story of four people, two couples, in what I read is a polyamorous relationship...if it's just for the four of them, why is it public to begin with?

---I can't remember if I ranted about this before, but it's still irking me big time. We all look at youporn, redtube, any number of other sites, just because we want to get off on what we see. A week or so ago, I stumbled across a three minute clip from a porn flick that I had seen about 5-7 years ago, called Crack Whores Of The Tenderloin, produced locally by someone here in NYC, one of the best things I'd ever seen. BUT NO CREDIT GIVEN!!! Be honest, give kudos where they are due, and don't steal from other people w/o some sort of disclaimer.

That's enought crankiness about the internet...my change to gmail is coming soon...or soon enough.

Sick Of It All

2008-10-14T11:50:00.002-04:00

Fellow blogger, business clients, family and friends, all have chided me over the years for still using AOL---and they all know that I'm the last of the Luddites, loathe to change and wary of anything different, let alone new and unknown. I come from the generation that thinks if it ain't broke, don't fix it.
But all that's going to change, and hopefully by the end of the year---here's why, in two concise paragraphs:
---I finished some work for a client last week, at an fee that was agreed upon in email some six months ago. But when I couldn't access that particular email, because AOL eats its children after about a month, unless you specifically designate it as something to be archived. And fortunately the client was honest and was able to pull up HIS gmail and "remind" me what we had agreed upon.
---The desktop computer I use for work was purchased about 5 months ago, and when my computer guy installed it and transferred everything over, he installed the British version of AOL, which comes with a very sexy voice, British pop ups, a specific screen to close out of email, etc., etc. Something has changed, not by me for sure, and AOL has started to sign itself on periodically, using whatever account was the last one used...it's sort of like Skynet and the Terminators, with the machine thinking for itself.
Both excellent reasons to forsake AOL and move to gmail, which will happen before the end of the year. Please come along with me, and be kind enough to answer questions as I post them here.
Because I still am the Luddite, and loathe to change towards what I don't know.

Client Relations Part I

2008-10-07T13:06:00.008-04:00

I've worked from home as a tax accountant for quite a while now. It affords me the liberty and luxury of working in jeans or sweats, unless I have to go out to a corporate client, and it allows me to make my own hours, which is of course good and bad. During tax season I wind up working twenty hour days, during the summer I can get to the beach more often than not. My referrals are all word of mouth, and I'm sometimes astonished at the number of trusting young women who will call and make an appointment to come to my "office", having just me me on the phone. Over the years I've had young magazine writers among my clientele, and they've passed my name down to other writers as they've moved on to other endeavors. Sometimes they graduate to being editors, sometimes they decide to be freelance writers, sometimes they just get fired.

Geraldine had come to me three years ago, having just lost her job at a beauty magazine. I did her tax return with the understanding that she might need a little time to pay me for my efforts, and so when the end of the year came around, I understood that she had hit a rougher patch than she had anticipated. I met with her in March to do her taxes again, and she told me a long and sad story of barely making ends meet, living from hand to mouth, and so I did her tax return for a second year, and waited once again to no avail, as the end of the year came and I still hadn't received any sort of payment for my work. How does the saying go---fool me once, shame on you...fool me twice, shame on me, And so I wrote off what she owed me, and chalked it up to my bad judgment and her bad personality. The bills weren't large, and I frankly just felt annoyed that I had misjudged the situation.

And so, imagine my surprise when my caller ID lit up with her name last March...what chutzpah, I thought. And yet I answered the phone, and had a long conversation with her about her responsibilities, how I needed to make mortgage payments and put gas in my car, etc., etc., and how I really really couldn't get involved with her for a third year with no prospect of getting paid anything for my efforts. She pleaded and begged, promising that if I would see her, she would bring something to get the process started. And so, against my better judgment yet again, we made an appointment for the following week.

Test Driving #2

2008-09-29T15:24:00.003-04:00

Over a year ago, I wrote about the difficulties and problems in buying toys without having tried them. Sometimes they just don't work, sometimes they are pleasurable but just don't hit you in the right spot or the right way, sometimes they suck...and they ain't cheap!!!

At some point, I had gone to my local branch of Babeland to buy multiple packets of lubes, so that She and I could try them out and find just the right one. She's so blocked that Her response to it all is "just go and buy the KY", and then her OB/GYN told her that Astroglide is the absolute best.

Let me be perfectly clear about this---Astroglide was absolutely horrible for us...we both thought it became tacky, sticky, non lubricating and more of a pain in the ass in general as we used it. So we threw it out, and went back to the sample packets, trying to find just the right one. And then we tried something European called Pur.

At the risk of being repetitive, let me be perfectly clear about this---Pur was absolutely horrible for me. The lube part of it was wonderful, great to the touch, very lubricating and easy to work with. But the clean up part is absolutely horrible...this stuff doesn't wash off, even after two soap ups and rinses. It just doesn't wash off...and I had to resort to drying it off with a towel. The toys themselves, both hard plastic and softer, will never be the same...they've been washed several times, and I will be boiling them tomorrow in a last ditch attempt to rescue them for any eternity of greasiness (and yes, I know you should always boil the hard plastic toys, it's just that these only go into me!!).

Caveat emptor.

The Other Blue Eyes

2008-09-29T10:08:00.007-04:00

I live in New York City, at the very fringes of a neighborhood where mogul, captains of industry, Hollywood stars, and masters of conspicuous consumption also reside. And like all New Yorkers, when I see someone famous I tend to look at them once, and then studiously ignore them, respecting their privacy, and understanding that even though they're famous, in their own hometown they deserve to live a normal life.

Longer ago than I care to remember, She and I had taken her mother out to a neighborhood coffee shop, a diner with European asperations, for lunch. It was the middle of December, and her mother had come to the city for Christmas shopping. We were seated at a corner table, and I took no notice of the couple that was seated next to us. The waitress came over to take our order, and then turned to the table next to us. And then I heard that voice.

"Would you have anything as daring as iced tea?", the gentleman to my left asked, in a voice that I had heard hundreds of times, and I did the involuntary head snap to see just who it was. And I fell deep inside his incredible blue eyes...it was Paul Newman, having lunch with a friend. His smile was brilliant, the crinkles around his eyes magnifying his charm, and in an instant I was transported back to all the movies I had seen him in. And then, like a good New Yorker, I turned back, respecting his privacy, allowing him to have his lunch in peace the same way that I was having mine.

It was the first of many times I was to see him in the nabe and in the city...sometimes he was just strolling down 5th Avenue, sometimes he was shopping in the local Korean deli, trying to get the owner to stock more of his pasta sauces, sometimes he would smile or wink, giving the index finger on the side of his nose sign from The Sting, sometimes he just rushed by, hurrying on an errand. I saw him occasionally at the theater, growing visibly older and slightly more fragile looking and rickety, once talking to himself and referring to himself as Pops. I saw him at a Chantecleer concert in a church in Connecticut, visibly not wanting to be there as much I didn't want to either, but beholden, either to the church or his wife, owing the time and paying his dues.

His good work and his good works will live long into the future, and should serve as a model for others, both in show business and not.

And the Lad bears his name, because I realized at the naming time that all the Pauls I knew were the nicest people.