"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?"
Monday, November 17, 2008
TMI Tuesday
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
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
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
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
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Lady Heather
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
TMI Tuesday
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
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
Monday, November 3, 2008
Don't Be A Lanavat
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.
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.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Calendar
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.
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.
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