Not Enough-Part II

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


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"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

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

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

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

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

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"

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