Playing With Old Friends-Part I

She was an old friend of my wife, her best friend in high school, and she was in town visiting her parents when we met her, accompanied by her husband. She was much prettier than I remembered, having met her years previous, when she was all bundled up in a winter coat and hat. She had long dark hair, almost black, down below her shoulders, flashing eyes and a wicked come hither smile. Her husband was attractive in a general sort of way, but seemed years younger than she was.

And so when we met them at the local farmers market one Saturday morning, we were quick to invite them over than evening for drinks. It was the beginning of summertime, and the evening light filtering through the trees always made early evening the prettiest time of day. It was a casual invitation, no dressing up, just drinks and catching up on old times for the women, and so we put on soft clothes, clean shorts, and sat down at 5PM with a beer and a smile.

They arrived right on time, and we all sat out on the deck, Gayle wearing an interesting halter top print dress, her cleavage more than obvious, Tom like me wore a simple Lacoste and tan shorts, the uniform of the day. Over the first beers, they told us about their lives in Florida, she still running the cosmetics department of a major department store, he the beverage manager of a prominent club, emphasizing how happy they were down there, how they had a great time all the time, and how they loooved to party.

We love partying was the phrase used, and she looked me straight in the eye when she said it, just in case I had any doubts as to what she meant. My wife is a lovely person, kind, caring, trusting, and extremely naive, and so the repeated phrase and the interchange went right over her head. At about this time the first set of beers ran out, and I went into the kitchen to get more.

As I stood at the kitchen counter rummaging around for the opener, Gayle came up behind me silently, snaked her hand under my shirt and across my chest, quickly grabbing my nipple and squeezing hard. She leaned into me, pressing herself against me, her uncontained breasts pushing hard into my back. "Do I have your attention now?" she asked, barely whispering into my ear, her breath rushing along my earlobe. "What the hell are you doing?" I responded, as quietly as I could. "You know exactly what I'm doing," she replied. "We're not exactly novices at this, you know," she said, "and I've had this feeling about you guys ever since we saw you this morning." I hardly knew what to say, and said nothing, and so she pulled hard on my nipple yet again, as I stood there, obviously not moving away. "Tom's about to bring your lovely wife into the kitchen to help us out...what do you think she'll see?" And with that, I heard the screen door open and saw the two of them standing there, outlined in the open doorway.

Blog-Post Confidential

I'm surprised that there isn't more chatter in the numerous blogs that I read about the article in the NY Times Magazine section this past Sunday, the title of which I've purloined and used as the title of this post. It's a true confessional article by a woman who used to write for Gawker, but could well serve as a model for any blogger, especially any sexblogger, who shares intimate personal details and might be guilty of oversharing. And we've all done that, and continue to do it at times.
It talks "about how a single blog post can capture a moment of extreme feeling, but that reading an accumulated series of posts will sometimes revel another, more complete story."
But perhaps I'm just being New York centric---Gawker is relatively meaningless outside the confines of Manhattan, but perhaps the bloggers life experience is indeed meaningful.

Friday Night Fights

Back in the infancy of television, boxing appeared almost every night, and the Friday Night Fights, sponsored by Gillette razors, were the high point of the week.
Perhaps not so for She and I---we never learned to argue, we never learned to settle differences, she always agreeing (like a good middle child), I always forcing my feelings and opinions (like a very older brother). And like many adults, we are too spent by the rigors and turmoil of the day to have meaningful discussions at the end of the day, content to somehow make it through dinner and then slowly and gently shut down with the boob tube. And so now we have arguments every single weekend, we have disagreements every Saturday or Sunday, we have hours of gut wrenching baring of the soul every weekend...you said this, I felt that, you never do this, why can't you just do that...and if goes on and on.
I found out, from the shrink, that I don't even have the requisite tools to have arguments, that I never watched my parents have arguments, and so for the last six months I've tried to learn to argue, to learn to listen rather than speak all the time, and to stop enabling the ever shrinking cirle that we're inhabiting. I've had to try to find a way to give her enough self to express some ideas without always agreeing and capitulating.
And so now I look forward to the weekdays, when I can be alone in the office, as much as I used to look forward to the weekends. The fights are bloody, knockdown and dragout, hurtful and hurting, and I'm eager to see Monday morning come and take them away.

Earworm-Travelling Wilburys, Handle Me With Care

Movies at Home & Sex and the City

On any number of occasions, including at least once in this blog, I've said that one of my greatest pleasures is going to the movies...sitting in a dark room and having somebody tell me a story. When the storyteller is very good at his job, the time passes ever so quickly. Long movies are over in the twinkling of an eye, and I've had a transcendent experience. For a couple of hours, I've gone far away, and it's almost as if I've lived as someone else. And it makes no difference if I'm watching a thriller, a romantic movie, a sword and sandal epic, period pieces, science fiction, they all take me away.
And so I truly don't understand why people don't go to the movies...I have friends, as does She, who never ever ever go to the movies. They watch dvds at home on large screens, 62" screens, with stereo surround sound, and they're at home, and they're wearing their pajamas or their bathrobes. But it's not the same, at least not for me.
We have the cable necessary to get reception in the city, but we don't currently have any premium channels---no HBO, no Showtime, no Cinemax, no Starz. We had HBO once upon a time, and we tried to watch SATC, Sopranos, other things. We think we must have been in a bad patch for all of them, because we didn't think they were any better than network offerings, just different shows. We gave it up after about six months, and never looked back. When there's something we think we missed, Six Feet Under, Rome, The Tudors, Netflix is happy to send them to us, and we watch them over the summer, instead of reality shows.
And so I've never "gotten" SATC. Is it not for guys? Is there something I'm missing? What's the draw here? I thought the characters were sort of cartoonish and predictable. Is the point that the women can talk just like men? Are they today's woman? Are they the trailblazers for women everywhere?
I'm serious about not understanding this show. Can anyone, male or female, help me out here?

Watching You Watching Me

I've confessed long ago that I enjoy watching, enjoy being the spectator, watching other people in the throes of ecstatic sex. Does it come from watching too much porn in all its varieties? Possibly, but for me there is an utter fascination in watching the illicit, the forbidden, that goes way past the enjoyment of watching smut on screen. (As an aside, She and I just finished re-watching Murder One on dvd, a brilliant legal procedural that was on tv for only two seasons, and successful for only one, the good season starring Daniel Benzali, Dylan Baker, Jason Gedrick, Patricia Clarkson, and the villian Stanley Tucci, playing the Devil incarnate. In the very last episode, as he's dying, he confesses to having videotaped the crime in question, and watching it over and over, a sexual liason gone very bad. Hm...)

There are times when I'm crouched between her legs on the bed, her knees spread as wide as she can, her legs opened much wider than a 90 degree angle, my tongue buried deep within her, and as I reach up to pull hard on her nipples (which she likes, but only when I'm going down on her), I look up and become the third person in the room, watching her as she lies totally inert, battleing mightily to cum, hands reaching to her groin to spread herself even wider open. And I watch her expression as she struggles to get there, her mouth open and her eyes scrunched way shut, my fingers deep inside her openings, my tongue and lips finding newer and newer patterns.
We've talked about how I've grown fatigued with always being in charge, always making the sexual decisions, and last night we started to turn the tables, as we lay head to feet on the bed, she pushing my hands away, losing patience with the struggle for satisfaction, starting to move towards me, hoping to climb on and ride me until one of us came. But I stopped her, guiding her hand back to my very lubed cock, taking her other hand and putting it down lower toward my butt, forcing it so that the first two fingers pointed forward and then moving it towards my opening. She continued to stroke away, moving her partially fisted hand forward so that the two fingers entered, and then started to move that hand back and forth in opposition to the masturbating hand, then together, then opposed.

And I was gone, gone in a second, and I felt heavy breathing and then soft moans coming from my throat. She continued, continued, and at one point, I opened my eyes just a little, just a bit, squeezed shut as they were, and saw her. She was watching me, her eyes open, not wide open, just looking, just seeing me gone, clinically observing, becoming for once the watcher rather than the watched, the doer rather than the done.
Progress.

Earworm---Englishman in NY, Sting

Falling In Love

My friends, those that don't read this blog, know that I fall in love all the time...I tell them so when I do, and I tell them all the time.

Two days ago I fell in love with a woman sitting in the cello section of an orchestra.

Today, I re-fell in love with Madeleine Stowe. She first hit my radar years ago in a movie called Blink, and today it was the movie Last Of The Mohicans. She's not the greatest actress, and often appears rather flat when speaking her lines. She's also in that group of actresses that seem to appear nude when it's not necessarily called for, along with Melanie Griffith of old and Kate Winslet of old.

She takes my breath away, and I'm head over heels...don't know why.

Earworm-She's A Beauty, The Tubes