Exit Music

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

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

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

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

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

Not Enough #11

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

HB2ME

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

The Curse Of Being An Accountant or Shortchanged #3

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

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

Yesterday I went into the retail section of one of my favorite restaurants to buy some food for dinner. I ordered a piece of chicken al mattone, rigatoni primavera, a loaf of bread, cookies...OK, remember this is New York---the bill came to almost 50 bucks (it did suffice for two meals for She and I). The chicken and the pasta are taxable here, the bread and cookies 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???

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

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

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.