Modele B

It was purchased in London, long ago enough so that the currency was still "pasayde," as the slang used to go...pounds, shillings, pence, in a second hand shop in Battersea, a long tube ride to what I thought was the edge of the city. It was ridden back to the Marble Arch area, seeming to find its own way through the oddly named streets and lanes of London proper, guarding me from the right hand drive traffic, its gears constantly slipping back to the highest, causing me to jerk unmercifully, straining on the smallest cog. And then it was parked and stowed away for three weeks in Paris, while I shepherded a group of teenagers through Florence and Greece, as it waited for me patiently in the Gare de l'Est of yore.
A Cinelli Modele B, serial #2698. It was a bargain at less than 30 pounds sterling, with a luggage carrier included, handlebar shifters (considered racy at the time), equipped exactly the way I had wanted it to be, despite being a secondhand rose...Campagnolo in the front, Simplex on the back, pale blue, the stuff that dreams are made of. The frame was a bit long for me, but I learned to adjust my sitting position to accommodate the extra length. The frame had, I believed, actually been built by Cinelli himself, in his workshop underneath the track in Milan. I rode it throughout the east coast, from Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard through the Amish country of Pennsylvania, periodically repairing and overhauling it depending on how and when I used it.
And then my kid sister gave me her Bianchi, with racing wheels, sexy pedals, etc., etc., and my beloved Cinelli languished in the basement...the Bianchi was a bit too small for me, but once again I learned to adjust, all the time not really loving it, but appreciating the difference between the sleek Bianchi and my gaspipe Cinelli. The racing tires became too much of a pain to deal with constantly, and so I just stopped riding.
This spring I made the effort to resurrect the love of my life, but my mechanic was kind yet firm in telling me that he would rather break my heart than my pocketbook, that I would need a second mortgage to bring my Big Blue back to life. And so the Cinelli has stayed in the basement, until this weekend, when I will put it out against a traffic sign, unchained, knowing that a local day laborer will claim it, do the best he can to make it operable, and be in possession of a means of conveyance to and from work, whether it be construction or farmwork.
And some day I'll see the Cinelli being ridden on the local roads, and know that it still lives. I'll buy another bike, a brand new bike, one that will serve me well.
But right now, I'm just a bit sad at the decision to let the Cinelli go, one of the few things in my life that predated Her, one of the things that stretched back to when I was young and carefree.

Not Enough

Go back to May22nd, and read it there.

The Ta-Tas

I'm a sucker for big breasts (ok, bad choice of words) and all my friends know it. My friend s knows about it, and rags me all the time when I start to consider women who are less generously endowed. And as I look at my blogroll here, I realize that many of the women have big boobs, I mean really big boobs, the kind of frontage where you wind up looking at their chests when you're talking to them, rather than their faces.
About a year ago I went to lunch with Tess, the Urban Gypsy, and it was all I could do not to jump into her cleavage. And she knew it, I know she did, because every once in a while I'd slip, and I'd wind up talking to her cleavage, catch myself and look up. And she'd just smirk.
I train in the gym every weekday morning, and the woman on the treadmill next to me today didn't have big boobs. But she wasn't wearing a bra either, and it was heavenly to watch her smallish boobs bounce up and down in rhythm to her cadence.
My first serious girlfriend in high school had softball size breasts, and my first serious older woman had boobs that were even bigger, so much more than a handful that I was constantly lost in them, having her sit up and dangle them one by one into my waiting mouth, smothering my with her huge tits, the round aureole being well over 3" across.
Springtime and summer are my favorite times of the year, and not only because I can get to the beach. It's the time when every woman in NYC figures out that she has a set of ta-tas just itching to be on display, and it's time to show skin.
Every woman has figured this out, even Her. She's lately started to sport cleavage, wear the occasional half bra that allows for some bounce. She's still withholding in the time She'll allow me to suck on her nipples, always being the one to stop, to brush my mouth away.
But it's something.

"Oh Lord, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood"

I'm usually fairly precise and direct in both my speech patterns and my thought patterns, and so the following two misunderstandings gave me great smiles:
At dinner on Tuesday, viviane mentioned that she had had a house guest visiting her last weekend to keep her cat company while she was away at Shibaricon. I asked who stayed at her apartment, and she replied, "Midori." I said that I was surprised that she knew the violinist on a personal basis,and then we both laughed, because it wasn't that Midori at all, but this one http://fd-midori.livejournal.com/.
I opened the NY Times business section this morning, and on page 7 (the right hand, more looked at page) was a half page vertical ad, with large copy, that said "She Likes To Watch." You know where my mind went...not that She likes to watch.

Not Enough #9

I hastily threw on a robe, and, with some trepidation, walked down the hallway to the den, where I could see the light escaping from under the closed door. A jumble of mostly black discarded clothing, crowned by a precariously placed scarlet thong, blocked part of the doorway. I moved the pile aside with my foot, and hesitantly turned the doorknob, pushing the door ajar enough to slide through the door.

The convertible couch was open, covered with sheets that appeared yellow in the subdued light. As I scanned the room, I could see Her standing beside the bed totally naked, her shoulders slumped, her head down and her gaze downcast, her hands together in front of her pussy, the posture forcing up breasts together and up. In the bed, between the sheets, was a woman I had never seen before in my life...short brown hair framing a round small face, wire rimmed glasses covering squinting eyes, her attitude and demeanor calm and unruffled, the top sheet covering her breasts and held in place by her arms, which were place over the sheet. I could see the outlines of her smallish breasts, her dark nipples erect in the cool night air.

"Hi sport, we were wondering if you were going to join us, weren't we?" she asked, and to my surprise received no response from Her. "Weren't we, Alice? she asked again pointedly, and her face took on a predatory leer, as she sat up straighter, reaching across to grab Her nipple and twisting it, eliciting a quick moan. "Her name's not Alice, it's Debra," I replied.

"Let me explain something to you. Tonight is Wednesday night, it's my night, it's her night to please me. Her job tonight is to do whatever it takes to please me, and to please me in any way I see fit, whether it involves pleasure, pain, shame...whatever it takes to make me happy. Sometimes I make her make me cum, sometimes I want to watch her cum, sometimes I beat her with a belt until her ass is bright red, and then I go to work on the rest of her body. And if I decide that her name is Alice on Wednesday night, her name is Alice. Isn't that right, Alice?", and Debra could only nod her head once, not being able to pick up her eyes and meet my gaze.

I could feel the erotic tension in the room, this strange woman being able to control her every move and motion. Despite myself, I was aroused by the whole situation, and felt myself become erect, my cock peeking through the folds of the robe. Her eyes dropped down to my crotch and narrowed perceptibly, as the robe opened slightly.

"Ah, the dynamic changes here, doesn't it?", she asked, as she smiled the predatory smile yet again. "You like this, don't you? You like knowing that she belongs to me, and I can make her do any fucking thing I want. Show him what you did for me tonight, what you hoped would please me, what you'd hoped I might like. Put your fucking hands down, you silly little girl, show him your cunt and what you did to it...for me."

With what seemed like a shiver, her hands fell to her sides, and I could see that most of her pubic hair was gone. What little there was left of it was dyed a bright fire engine red. Debra finally looked up at me, a mixture of embarassment and shame in her eyes.

"Open your legs, and let him take a good look...did you think he was never going to see your pussy again? Is that why you were trying to hide it? From him?" And I could see that she was wet from the sheer excitement and shame, all the talk of the state of her pussy only serving to inflame her in some way.

"Do you like it?", the woman asked.

The Girlfriend Question

In addition to the other various stops and hesitancies in Her life, She has become more and more reluctant to go to plays and concerts that I want to go to. We live in New York City, and truth be told, it's one of reasons I love living here...the endless supply of cultural opportunities. As my vistas have grown and widened, Hers have become more narrow and selective. She goes out to work every day, I work at home every day. We used to go to events together all the time, and then I would be resentful when She didn't enjoy the event. I didn't enjoy things as much just going by myself, but still wanted to attend many more events than She did.
I live in the same city as viviane, whose blog www.thesexcarnival.com is well known and should be required daily reading for all of us. In truth, I've told how viviane and I have known each other for almost ten years, although not in the blogging context. She has become a better friend than before, and a great source of counsel and comfort. If you read both our blogs, tell her, because she won't read mine, as she knows most of the players, and it feels way too personal for her.
And so viviane became my "date," paying her own way at dinner and whatever event we managed to agree on, and there are many...Broadway plays, opera, off Broadway plays, Wooster Group, you name it and she's up for it...the perfect companion. We had agreed long ago that we were going to remain just good friends.
And so you could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather, when She asked me if viviane was my girlfriend. The response was a quick No, she's my date for all the things that You don't want to do in the evenings. And the conversation ended there. But it gave me great pause to wonder if She thinks I might be seeing other women, or want to see other women, or if other women might be interested in me...was She jealous of viviane? or threatened? The question didn't come from nowhere, that's for sure. She's thinking of something....
viviane thinks it's all just laughable, as we're like a pair of old shoes, comfortable with each other, gossipping over cheap dinners and going home separately on separate subways.

Synchronicity and Magic Moments

This past Wednesday was one of those magic days, those special moments, where for a short enough time, the worries of everyday life away, and the hyper specialness of the day comes forward and overwhelms all.
The Boy graduated, and received his PhD., and in one of those rare envelopes of time and space, everything was right and nothing was wrong. From the opening chimes of the academic processional, the University Wind Band playing William Walton's Crown Imperiale, the honorary degrees, the speakers, that soaring moment when he was "robed" and received the two colored cowl, the ice cream cones after, it was all tick tock like a clock.
Dinner out that evening was attended by the Little Girl as well, her first "fancy" restaurant replete with Shirley Temples, fancy bread, just enough room in the dessert compartment, all of it exactly as it should have been.
There are grave rumblings in Her side of the family, other parents estranged from their children, child playing against child, pitting sister against sister, backbiting emails in the second and third person, the same old he said she said. And it makes all of the past Wednesday all the more crystal clear in its purity and joy.
We get few days like this, when the sun is shining and all is right in the world, and the knowledge of that scarcity makes it all the more potent and powerful.