I know that I'm imploding...it's a combination of not posting, not working, not really wanting to go out and do things, just wanting to sit and read, perhaps watch a dvd. I know that it happens periodically during the year, that's it's the normal ebb and flow of my energy, but I never quite know how to break the inward slide. I'm busy, but not doing work, have a full calendar of evening stuff to do, which I would love to ditch (even though I love the things I have to do at night), keep looking forward into the future to book up more things, can't seem to get traction, and the beat goes on.
Next...I was out in California visiting a friend, and we went shopping in the local tourist attraction, something akin to South St. Seaport or Faneuil Hall...I saw a t-shirt that I wanted, bought a large (the size I always wear), and took it home, washed it and put it on this morning...and it's hanging off me...the shoulder seams are way off my shoulder, it's too big.
Next...I hate when I extend an invitation to someone in email, and they don't respond. Tell me yes or tell me no, just don't not tell me anything. Is that supposed to mean no? Is it supposed to me you're not available? Is it supposed to mean you're hiding, or your partner won't let you out on your own, and you're too embarrassed to tell me? Does it mean you don't want to do something?
Enough ranting. Maybe this will get me to move on.
Earworm-Lodi- Creedence Clearwater Revival (or Al Gray, if you're really fortunate).
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
They're Ba-a-a-a-ack
And so, in just one day, spring descends...the trees across the street have fluffy, white blossoms, people are out in shirt sleeves and shorts, and women of all ages have instantly found their strappy tops, their slippy tops, their sheaths, the deep v-necked tanks, their push up shelf bras holding their boobs way up off their chests...warm weather is back, and so are boobs.
My friend that I had dinner with Thursday night thinks that all men are fascinated by boobs, and she's right...it's an instant head snap when a woman with a big chest walks by. Guys just stare. And I think it's because we don't have them...they're the difference between the sexes...at least in clothing. We all sort of look the same in clothing, in jeans and a t shirt, more or less, but put the woman next to you in a strappy top and everybody's staring, discreetly or not.
I love Her boobs, even though they've long ago stopped being the projectiles that they were when we first met. She's not in her 20s, neither am I, and we've had a child in the process of growing older. But I love to touch them, to grab Her from behind and just gently cup them, holding Her pinkish nipples between my first three fingers and rolling them back and forth. I do love to suck on them as well, and She knows this. It makes Her nervous and uneasy for some reason, and I know that She tolerates it without being a turn on for Her.
But it sure is for me.
Earwig-The Fugs Do You Like Boobs A Lot?
My friend that I had dinner with Thursday night thinks that all men are fascinated by boobs, and she's right...it's an instant head snap when a woman with a big chest walks by. Guys just stare. And I think it's because we don't have them...they're the difference between the sexes...at least in clothing. We all sort of look the same in clothing, in jeans and a t shirt, more or less, but put the woman next to you in a strappy top and everybody's staring, discreetly or not.
I love Her boobs, even though they've long ago stopped being the projectiles that they were when we first met. She's not in her 20s, neither am I, and we've had a child in the process of growing older. But I love to touch them, to grab Her from behind and just gently cup them, holding Her pinkish nipples between my first three fingers and rolling them back and forth. I do love to suck on them as well, and She knows this. It makes Her nervous and uneasy for some reason, and I know that She tolerates it without being a turn on for Her.
But it sure is for me.
Earwig-The Fugs Do You Like Boobs A Lot?
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Not Leaving Out The Good Parts
I can write lots of different ways and use lots of different styles, but it's hard for me to write funny. I can be sharp, coy, quickmouth, and I can surely make people laugh face to face, but I can't do it in print. So you'll just have to take my word for it that this whole story was really funny, or perhaps fun for me.
I had bought a new toy about three weeks ago, a larger version of the Aneros called a Progasm...catchy name that. Owing to the crush of tax season and the fact that I don't have the spare time to play with it, it sat in the closet for a while, until one day when I just couldn't look at the screen or any client's grubby papers for a moment longer, and I decided it was time to have some fun for myself. So I went to the closet, where I keep the toys, and took out my new toy, and blanched at the size of it, as I always do with something new. Long story short, as they say in the depths of Brooklyn, it worked out and fit just fine, and I had a great time with it...slightly difficult getting it in, and then of course it didn't want to come out, but it did, and I had that wonderfully full feeling with it.
There is indeed a point to this story. Fast forward five days, and all of a sudden, I'm having some pain when I pee, like real pain...and so I wait a day or two, and then Saturday morning go to the doctor...remember this is New York, you can do anything at any time, if you're willing to pay for it. My normal doctor isn't in, of course, but there's this nice woman doctor holding down the fort, and so I tell her my tale of woe. She draws a few conclusions, has me pee (painfully) in a cup in the next room, and decides that even though the urine is clear, there's a touch of blood in it (she tests it with some chemical strip). She writes a script for cipro, and sends me on my way...doesn't look at the body part in question, let alone touch it. And I realize that she's embarassed, at the very most, and shy at the very least. I catch the feeling from her, and hold back the vital information.
Fast forward to today, Wednesday, I'm five days into the cipro, no improvement, and so I go back to the doctor and see a nice young doctor, who says he needs to do a visual, a touchy feelie, and probe my prostate as well. Ah, now we're getting somewhere. And so I start to tell him how I think I got the painful peeing syndrome, that nothing goes into my penis, but things certainly do go into other parts of me. And I'm really laying the whole story on the line, and he's wide eyed, he's a doctor but this is all new to him, people stick things up there to "heighten sexual pleasure" as he puts it. And now he's really enjoying the conversation, I can see that he wants to talk about it some more, and so we do, although he doesn't get the graphic details, just the basic understanding of what gets done and why. But he's digging it. I've made his day, I can see that.
He sends me off with a referral to see a urologist, with a probable test that I will only describe for the real masochists and pain whores out there, so close your eyes if this freaks you out. The test consists of running a fibre optic tube of some sort into my penis to see if there's a blockage or some sort of physical damage. OK, you can look now. We finish the chat, and we shake hands, he wishes me good luck, and asks me to let him know what the final outcome is. And I can see that he can't wait to head back to the staff lounge and retell this tale. I visit this practice to have blood taken every three months, and I can't wait to see how I'm treated the next time.
Earwigs-Handle Me With Care by the Traveling Wilburys, Misty by Errol Garner
I had bought a new toy about three weeks ago, a larger version of the Aneros called a Progasm...catchy name that. Owing to the crush of tax season and the fact that I don't have the spare time to play with it, it sat in the closet for a while, until one day when I just couldn't look at the screen or any client's grubby papers for a moment longer, and I decided it was time to have some fun for myself. So I went to the closet, where I keep the toys, and took out my new toy, and blanched at the size of it, as I always do with something new. Long story short, as they say in the depths of Brooklyn, it worked out and fit just fine, and I had a great time with it...slightly difficult getting it in, and then of course it didn't want to come out, but it did, and I had that wonderfully full feeling with it.
There is indeed a point to this story. Fast forward five days, and all of a sudden, I'm having some pain when I pee, like real pain...and so I wait a day or two, and then Saturday morning go to the doctor...remember this is New York, you can do anything at any time, if you're willing to pay for it. My normal doctor isn't in, of course, but there's this nice woman doctor holding down the fort, and so I tell her my tale of woe. She draws a few conclusions, has me pee (painfully) in a cup in the next room, and decides that even though the urine is clear, there's a touch of blood in it (she tests it with some chemical strip). She writes a script for cipro, and sends me on my way...doesn't look at the body part in question, let alone touch it. And I realize that she's embarassed, at the very most, and shy at the very least. I catch the feeling from her, and hold back the vital information.
Fast forward to today, Wednesday, I'm five days into the cipro, no improvement, and so I go back to the doctor and see a nice young doctor, who says he needs to do a visual, a touchy feelie, and probe my prostate as well. Ah, now we're getting somewhere. And so I start to tell him how I think I got the painful peeing syndrome, that nothing goes into my penis, but things certainly do go into other parts of me. And I'm really laying the whole story on the line, and he's wide eyed, he's a doctor but this is all new to him, people stick things up there to "heighten sexual pleasure" as he puts it. And now he's really enjoying the conversation, I can see that he wants to talk about it some more, and so we do, although he doesn't get the graphic details, just the basic understanding of what gets done and why. But he's digging it. I've made his day, I can see that.
He sends me off with a referral to see a urologist, with a probable test that I will only describe for the real masochists and pain whores out there, so close your eyes if this freaks you out. The test consists of running a fibre optic tube of some sort into my penis to see if there's a blockage or some sort of physical damage. OK, you can look now. We finish the chat, and we shake hands, he wishes me good luck, and asks me to let him know what the final outcome is. And I can see that he can't wait to head back to the staff lounge and retell this tale. I visit this practice to have blood taken every three months, and I can't wait to see how I'm treated the next time.
Earwigs-Handle Me With Care by the Traveling Wilburys, Misty by Errol Garner
Monday, April 7, 2008
It can't be the way I pick the books, being of such disparate natures, but I keep finding more and more depraved scenes in seemingly literate books...this time it's in The Silver Swan, a mystery by Benjamin Black, a/k/a John Banville, a Booker prize winner. The book alternates between the present and flashbacks to a dead woman's life, the latter of which became more and more debauched. The woman referenced is looking at a pornographic photo of another woman. Here's the quote:
"The feeling she had was that feeling, hot all over and at the same time somehow cold, that she would have when she woke a s a child in the cot-bed in her parents' bedroom, and realized that she was wetting herself, wetting herself and horrified to be doing it and yet unable to stop for the shameful pleasure it have her. And she was not able to stop now, either, not able not to open her eyes and turn the picture and look at it again. She was disgusted with herself, yet excited, too, in a horrible way that made her think she should be ashamed, though she was not, not really."
And we've all had that feeling, that terrible sinking feeling, that I'm doing something or seeing something naughty, and it's sooooo good, it feels so good, and I don't care if it's wrong, but if it is, how could it make me feel so good, so aroused, so hot.
"The feeling she had was that feeling, hot all over and at the same time somehow cold, that she would have when she woke a s a child in the cot-bed in her parents' bedroom, and realized that she was wetting herself, wetting herself and horrified to be doing it and yet unable to stop for the shameful pleasure it have her. And she was not able to stop now, either, not able not to open her eyes and turn the picture and look at it again. She was disgusted with herself, yet excited, too, in a horrible way that made her think she should be ashamed, though she was not, not really."
And we've all had that feeling, that terrible sinking feeling, that I'm doing something or seeing something naughty, and it's sooooo good, it feels so good, and I don't care if it's wrong, but if it is, how could it make me feel so good, so aroused, so hot.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
De Profundis
We all watch porn, or we all have at one time or another. Different things turn on different people, but we all watch, or have watched, at one time or another...it might be women I know who get so turned on by two men going at it, men or women watching two women or two men, men watching women getting every orifice plugged by a penis, reaching out for more, or so they would have you think. Even She gets turned on by watching intercourse and oral sex in commercial films.
There was a time when I watched amateur porn almost exclusively, most of it coming from either Homegrown Video, which was truly amateurish both in content and in production level, and Odyssey Group, which seemed to be equally divided between semi high-polished and truly joyful couples or groups just getting it on before the camera. But every once in a while, the darker element came out...in my mind it was always a woman in way over her head, unable to cope either physically or emotionally with what she was doing on camera, and a look of utter despair and regret would cross the woman's face.
There's a fiction book out by Charles Bock, a first novel, called Beautiful Children, that takes place in Las Vegas, and is sort of a nouvelle Less Than Zero. There are about five different plot lines going throughout the book, all braided together in the last thirty pages. One plot line features a pole dancer, and the reader follows her through her descent into porn films, another plot line is about a runaway, still another about the runaway's parents. About 2/3 of the way through the novel, there is a description of the look, that look, that faraway look, that I'm lost and don't know how to get home look, the despair, the oh please let this be over, as the father of the runaway sits and watches porn in his office.
The entire novel is well written, but this one passage, this one or two pages, is brilliant, and should be read.
Earworm-Philip Glass, Soundtrack to The Hours
There was a time when I watched amateur porn almost exclusively, most of it coming from either Homegrown Video, which was truly amateurish both in content and in production level, and Odyssey Group, which seemed to be equally divided between semi high-polished and truly joyful couples or groups just getting it on before the camera. But every once in a while, the darker element came out...in my mind it was always a woman in way over her head, unable to cope either physically or emotionally with what she was doing on camera, and a look of utter despair and regret would cross the woman's face.
There's a fiction book out by Charles Bock, a first novel, called Beautiful Children, that takes place in Las Vegas, and is sort of a nouvelle Less Than Zero. There are about five different plot lines going throughout the book, all braided together in the last thirty pages. One plot line features a pole dancer, and the reader follows her through her descent into porn films, another plot line is about a runaway, still another about the runaway's parents. About 2/3 of the way through the novel, there is a description of the look, that look, that faraway look, that I'm lost and don't know how to get home look, the despair, the oh please let this be over, as the father of the runaway sits and watches porn in his office.
The entire novel is well written, but this one passage, this one or two pages, is brilliant, and should be read.
Earworm-Philip Glass, Soundtrack to The Hours
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